"TY-LER!!  Tyler, it is you!"  The seargent-major advanced with grim anticipation.  Tyler sighed inwardly, but stood rigidly at attention.  "Third time this week, Tyler.  If this is your attempt to get out of the army, forget it.  There are still ten sacks of potatoes to be peeled.  Do those, plus the rest of the other twenty sacks you didn't finish last KP stint, and I'll consider a court-martial.  Dismiss!"

Tyler saluted and walked stiffly away, leaving the seargent-major to deal with the other hapless offender.  Chris took the opportunity to slip away after his friend.  He found him at last leaning up against one of the Vietnam jungle's leafier trees, his sleeves rolled up, carefully oiling his gun.  If it hadn't been for the dark scowl ingrained on his features, nothing might have been wrong.

Chris shook his head and eased himself down to the damp ground.

"Okay.  What is it?"

"Hmm?"

"Damnit, Ham, in the two years I've known you, you've invented more ways to get off KP than I've had hot dinners.  C'mon - give.  And don't tell me it's your masochistic streak."

Tyler sighed, looked up from his gun and met Chris's earnest gaze.

"I can handle it, okay?"

Chris grunted, but did not press the matter.  He respected Tyler privacy, one of the main reasons Tyler had ever let Chris into his life.  Chris rubbed at his cheek, feeling the beginnings of a second chin there.  He decided he'd better grow a beard.

There seemed to be no reason for Tyler's increasing irritability.  Nothing had happened in the past two weeks that had been in the least bit out of the ordinary, except perhaps the mail strike back home holding up their regular deliveries.  Chris knew that Tyler received a parcel every week or so, but baulked at the thought of his partner falling to pieces over a bit of mail..  He glanced sideways at the taciturn figure, still absorbed in the ritual of gun-cleaning.  It couldn't be.  He frowned.  But the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed.  Tyler was show the classic symptoms of withdrawal.  He knew it wasn't drugs, because none could get through the censored mail.  A whole string of possibilities presented themselves: coffee, real coffee?  Cigarettes?  It could be anything, but Chris was loathe to press it with Tyler.  His main concern was not so much blatant curiosity (although he wasn't above it), but a deep worry that Tyler irritability would eventually lead to carelessness in the field, and the last thing he wanted was a dead partner... or a dead partner's partner for that matter.
 

Two days later, the mail was finally delivered and Chris's suspicions were confirmed when Tyler's temperament improved proportionally.  He suffered KP more philosophically and was even given to a short joke or two about his love affair with the humble potato.

Chris was about to drop the whole matter, secure in the knowledge that Tyler was himself once more, but the nagging curiosity got the better of him.  One night, after a particularly successful drinking contest, Chris stole into the NCO's bunks feeling unusually light-headed and suppressing the urge to giggle.  He quickly found what he was looking for: a plain, brown-wrapped package addressed to "Pvt. C.H. Tyler, c/- 23rd Division, US Army, Vietnam".  The label was typed, and gave no clue as to the sender's identity.  A giggle slipped out and Chris glanced around guiltily, but he'd come this far and wasn't about to chicken out now.  As he eased the wrapping open, a slip of paper fell out from the end where it had been hastily torn open.  He picked up the slip and in the semi-darkness read: "McPherson's Quality Confectionery - we specialize in Rock Candy!".

Chris stared down at the parcel which now revealed a box of colourful candy, back at the wrapper and burst into totally uncontrollable cackles.

When he left the tent, not nearly as surreptitiously as he'd entered, he was still grinning from ear to ear and could be heard to break into the occasional chuckle.  Most people put it down to alcohol poisoning.

The next day, as they were ordered on patrol, Chris, who never seemed to suffer from hangovers (much to the disgust of those challenging him to drinking bouts), pushed his way to the front of the column and slapped Tyler heartily between the shoulder blades, causing the smaller man to jolt forward and bite down on something that went 'crunch'.  Chris grinned into his partner's glare.

"C'mon, Ham.  Let's go get us some Commies.  I'll take point."

"Damnit, Chris," he muttered, "I like to suck' em."
 
 

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