This story is © Arne Sommer 1998/2000/2002.
Beeing a mercenary has it's fair share of occupational hassles, infested manoeuvres beeing one of them.
'See the world', the recruiting officer had said. He hadn't mentioned the rest; 'shoot at it, and get the hell out of there before it shoots back at you'.
I was sitting in a bar somewhere in Africa, drinking my way to executive status with the barman, when a soldier in a similarly non-descript uniform as my own aquired my attention.
'Do you mind if I join you?'
I gave a careless motion with the left hand, mindfull of the glass in the other one.
We chatted about everything, but something nagged me. It finally came back; he had said that he was with the light brigade, but we didn't have one. Perhaps the other lot had one, and he had gotten lost?
'Which army?', I inquired.
'The army of God.'
An empty whisky bottle and politeness don't quite mix. 'Oh, another fanatic?' I didn't know of any religious implications in this particular conflict, but one never knows.
That narrowed it down quite a bit, and left a single - and stupid - solution.
'The Salvation Army, then?' I said with heavy irony.
'No. The real thing.'
And he was gone.