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George Luz was an incredible mimic. He could listen to a man’s voice once and immediately throw it back with near-perfect accuracy. While entertaining, this talent got him into trouble with the officers and senior NCOs. Nothing too serious, but one night he found out just how deep trouble could be.
It was past lights-out at Camp Mackall, and Luz was raiding the supply closet of the mess in search of more canned fruit. Perco was outside keeping watch, but something must have gone wrong because Luz suddenly heard Lieutenant Nixon’s voice cut through the dark: “Is that you, Dick?”
Luz immediately dropped his tone and adopted Lieutenant Winters’ relaxed Pennsylvanian lilt. “Hey, Nix.”
He heard Nixon walk toward him and murmur, “You’re early.”
Early? Jesus Christ, thought Luz, stepping back. “When am I ever late?”
Nixon chuckled. “Good point. C’mere.”
“You c’mere,” Luz insisted, wondering if he could knock a man unconscious with a can of diced pineapple.
Suddenly a tall, lean body had pinned Luz against the stove. Nixon’s warm, boozy breath poured over him. “Feisty tonight, huh? I like that . . .”
And Luz nearly screamed in horror when he felt Lieutenant Nixon’s erection gently prod into his stomach.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Luz yelped in Winters’ voice.
Nixon abruptly stepped back. “You swore.”
“There’s a first time for everything, right?”
He could hear Nixon smirking. “You ain’t kiddin’, baby.”
And suddenly Lieutenant Nixon’s mouth was slobbering all over Sergeant Luz’s forehead. It didn’t last long, thank Christ. Nixon retreated, and Luz knew his cover was blown.
“When did you get so short, Dick?”
Time to go, thought Luz. And he threw his knee into Nixon’s crotch and bolted, trailing cans of fruit into the night.
After that, George Luz could never look Lewis Nixon in the face again.