Arrival at CHARLIE’s FOB

Rooster fished into his satchel while the conversation started, seeing a need he could fix. Morale was important, and food was the quickest cure. He took a flameless heating pack, a bit of foil, and a tube of heat resistant M&Ms. His clean tin cup, non-dairy creamer, two sugars. He fashioned a trencher from the foil, placed it over the tin cup filled it with several M&Ms. Activated the heat packet witha few drops of water, placed it on top of the M&Ms, passing the remainder of the M&Ms counter clockwise. He wrapped the foil around the heat pack leaving a spout for the melted chocolate to pool.

As the heat pack melted the M&Ms, he reached for Ana's coffee, poured it into the milk chocolate mix and stirred it vigorously for her before pushing it back in front of her.

Fishing out a tin can he placed it in the center of the table and punched it open. Somewhat a party trick, tin was a feeble metal, Rooster effortlessly punched his thumb through it - practiced moves, he had done this before. It was of Russian make, and contained very sweet smelling condensed milk. Then closing his satchel he stood, having already eaten everything on his tray and headed over to get whatever else Cookie would serve him. Leaving the condensed milk within everyone's reach.

Jason left unencumbered by gear, save for his Yarborough, which he didn't ever separate himself from, ever. He didn't comment on the others either leaving behind more or less of their gear, though he did wonder how the more civilian-oriented would feel with Simmons continuing to carry even in Mess.

Once in Mess, he deferred to others getting food, first, with the exception of making a beeline for coffee. Coffee was a helpful fuel to keep him going on, so he welcomed coffee. The rest could wait while the others got their food, first. Once it came back around to him, he grabbed a tray and loaded it up with a healthy helping of a little of everything.

Jason was curious about hearing the answers to Summons' questions about where each and everyone came from, though in part with the civilians he had worked with in the course of his time in country he knew a lot of the stories that lead them to intermingle with Uncle Sam, or...Papa Ivan for that matter. The stories about castaway soldiers were often the same, too; hell, he was one, too.

Once he was finished in Mess, he encountered Simmons again, but with a query. It hung in the air for a moment.

"Do you mean the premises or the people?" Black asked tentatively. He rubbed his chin, which was due for a shave. "The premises; are unspectacular, but make for a home away from home suitable enough; I think it's above my pay grade to comment whether strategically if it's situated well at this point in the...war." Black paused, on the mention of war.

The war, the front, came back. There were ebbs and lulls, but it came back to haunt Black even amidst such utter devastation the war already caused, it was still gasping for more destruction.

"The people, I wouldn't hold the most recent engagement against them; that was out of their hands. I think they are dedicated enough to the fight, but also, all the same, they'd like for things to come to a close and get to whatever is left of home."

Wolfe nodded in appreciation to Thrace, "Well little bit of selfishness too. Things had a tendency to...disappear sometimes in my previous station. Maybe Charlie doesn't have that same problem but we're new here so I figure it pays to be cautious. Truth is, when it hits the fan I want to make sure Rooster's covering me with Hillary there." He smiled as he joined the others for chow, his own rifle slung over his shoulder.

The SFC took no prisoners when it came to chow, piling his tray with all there was and mounting a strong and efficient attack. True recon, he listened to the conversations around him through all distraction. MacDonald's was a familiar tale unfortunately but he seemed to still be here for the fight. "Can't imagine that fight," Caleb shakes his head, "Any of us who've been here for a while have been in fire fights, tough fights, but some are tougher than others. Glad you're here with us now."

Anastasia's nonchalant mention of her boat trip just made him more interested, "You sail here alone or part of a group?"

Wolfe smiled but made no immediate comment on Rooster's impromptu mocha.

During the return walk, Wolfe doesn't respond immediately when Simmons inquires about the base. Once Black shares his thoughts Caleb adds, "We'll learn more over next couple of days, see if there's any concern with the competency of leadership and what morale's like. Not sure how long we'll be here before we hit the field."

"I fled as part of a small group," Anastasia says looking up from her breakfast, "when Sevastopol fell to the Russians it was like when the city fell to the Nazis. Russian units everywhere burning and looting, destroying the city block by block as they came. We did what we could to slow them down before fleeing South and West to Kozacha bay."

She grins "Alexi said there was a submarine there and we could escape just like the they did during the last great war." Anastasia laughs and snorts, "There was no submarine, there was however a small sailing boat from the first great war named Mila. The Black Sea fleet was all at the bottom of the ocean and so we figure this was better than staying behind and dying."

At Anastasia’s question, Simmons looked down at his tray like the answer was sitting there in the gravy.

"It’s a simple poor person’s way of stretching cornmeal and supplementing the morning meal."

He cut another piece of egg through the gravy and grits, then kept eating while he spoke.

"Gravy made from the grease of the meat, with flour to thicken it, adds calories. Keeps a person moving when there isn’t much else to work with."

Simmons lifted his coffee, took a swallow, and made no attempt to defend the quality of it.

"Most good American food comes from poor people anyway. Folks making something filling out of what they had."

He said it matter-of-factly, without pride or apology, then glanced toward MacDonald as the Canadian answered. Simmons’ expression shifted just slightly. Not pity. Recognition.

"Third PPCLI and First PWRR."

He nodded once, slow.

"Good units. Hard units. I’m sorry they got cut down like that, and I’m sorry you had to find your way here after losing track of your people."

Simmons let that sit for a breath, then added with the same steady tone.

"But Wolfe’s right. Glad you made it here. Whatever road brought you in, you’re sitting at the table now."

He went back to eating, fast as before, but his eyes kept moving. When McCain started building his improvised chocolate-and-coffee repair job for Anastasia’s cup, Simmons watched over the rim of his mug. The look on his face was plain enough: disapproval, not anger. A Staff Sergeant’s look. The kind that said I see what you’re doing, and we’ll discuss it later.

He did not dress Rooster down in front of the table. Not there. Not while the Marine was trying to help, however badly he was reading the room. Simmons only gave McCain that flat, measuring look, then returned his attention to the others as Anastasia spoke about Sevastopol, Kozacha Bay, and a boat named Mila.

Simmons listened without interrupting. When she finished, he gave a small nod.

"Sounds like somebody made the right call taking the old boat over waiting around for a submarine that wasn’t there."

---------- outside the 3rd Platoon Hooch-------

When Black answered Simmons’ question about the combat outpost, Simmons listened with his arms relaxed and the M16A2 still under control in his left hand. At the distinction between premises and people, he gave a short, approving grunt.

"Fair answer."

He looked back toward the walls, fighitng positions, and the rough shape of Charlie Company’s defenses.

"Premises are what they are. People here will tell us more than the sandbags do. The will to keep going or if they are not"

A second grunt followed Wolfe’s addition.

Simmons glanced once toward the door, then back to Wolfe and Black.

"We’ll know soon enough."