Laundry at Twelve Hundred Hours

photography by lilalena

We strung out raggedly into our files, not unlike the unfortunate lines of washing left hanging from our barrack windows - still sordid and worn from days in the field, despite the luxury of a good soaping upon our return in the morning. A little soiled, with creases and smells in exactly the wrong places, we clung damply onto consciousness, courtesy of the last disinterested perambulation of tropical rain and a full night's deprivation of sleep.

There is a call to attention - the ranks stiffen, reluctantly, like sets of drying uniforms under the unforgiving sun. A man goes limp, and drops from the line.

This is attended to with indifference by Relevant Personnel; the inspection continues.

The men are hung high and dry.

[fin]

----
flash-fiction in six sentences

*edit: trust Derrick to uncover my efforts at innuendo.