Details were a joke. In the army a detail is a group of soldiers chosen for a special assignment. The group is usually small and the nature of the assignment is not something you would want to volunteer for. One morning I had been chosen and four of us were told to report to Bravo Company's headquarters. A Captain greeted us. He led us down a corridor, took us into an office and said, "I want all this moved to the room across the hall. Come, I'll show you."

The Captain led us into a bare room. Nothing but a light fixture. "Lieutenant Lewes was shipped out so I'm going to move the CO's office into here. The next junior officer will have to take mine. Man, this room is so much bigger and here I've got a better view. I'm sick of having a window and nothing to look at but a parking lot. I'm going up to HQ to request permission and have the Major sign off on the paperwork, just a formality that's got to be completed. But you may as well start now. I should be back in thirty minutes."

With four of us, the office chairs and file cabinets were easy. The desk was another matter. It was old, solid oak and huge, built when the Cavalry was still mounted on horses. It was the kind of desk that commanded attention and placement in the center of the room. Installing a desk like this against a wall would be an insult to the integrity of its mass. This desk had graduated from four solid legs to six, two extra legs in the middle to support the span and weight of it. This desk was more than a desk, it was a bridge and an imposing bridge at that. The four of us would no doubt have trouble with it; stubborn was the word that came to mind to describe it. Once we got into the work of it, the expletives would follow.

We pulled out the drawers and maneuvered it towards the door.

"Let's tip 'er up on end, boys, if we expect to get it through the door," Private Crawdaddy said. Crawsell was his name, but everyone called him Crawdaddy. We tipped the desk up and over to the door frame. Crawdaddy and Private Meul or Mule as we called him, stood back, outside the office while Private Bama and I raised the desk on end.

"Look, put these three legs through the door first," Bama said. "Then angle the desk... Shit. It's just too wide."

I assessed the situation. "Let's take the top off. That will give us at least another two inches," I said.

"Just what we need, a friggin' engineer that can think this through for us," Crawdaddy joked. "If we're going to do that, we got to

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