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“LLLLLINKS! LINKS! LINKS ZO DRY VEER!” Luz goose-stepped his way across the barracks floor while his comrades fell over on their beds laughing. It didn’t help that they’d come back to the camp after a few drinks out on the town, nor did Luz’s gun-grease Hitler mustache painted on his upper lip. “LINKS! LINKS! BROT-VOORST UND BEER!”
“Stop it, George!” gasped Muck. “I’m gonna bust a nut!”
Luz halted, clicked his heels together, and threw his hand into the air. “SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! PLEASE KOMM UND STAY AVILE!”
Perconte rolled off his bed and crashed to the floor, bawling.
Sergeant Lipton heard the laughter three barracks down and decided to poke his head in to see what was so darn funny. He was greeted to the sight of several of his fellow noncoms guffawing at George Luz, with a pillow stuffed under his shirt, imitating Adolf Hitler in the throes of birthing Hermann Göring’s Nazi love-child.
Lipton stepped in. “What in heaven’s name is going on in here?”
All laughter ceased and Luz sat up, straight-faced and serious.
Lipton squinted. “What’s that on your face?”
“Camouflage, sir,” said Luz, not missing a beat. “Just practicing our, uh, application technique.”