"All right men, take a break," Sgt. Evans said. He had the responsibility of getting what the men called "that damn chicken coop" moved off the truck and onto its new foundation by three o'clock. It was a clumsy half barracks and he had only a few men to do the job. But the men he had were all big guys, most of them, in fact, worked out at the base gym-he'd picked them for that reason, but he didn't want to kill them either. He figured they needed a ten minute break, even if it was getting late.

Pete walked over to where Dick was squatting and took a cigarette from the pack held out to him. They'd been laboring at moving the barracks for two hours and the cigarette eased the first few minutes free of strain. It also helped ease the stubborn twinge of anger that both of them felt about the job. They were moving the "damn coop" so the colonel could have a dressing cabin next to the gulf on a secluded strip of beach far out at one corner of the vast military reservation not far from Panama, Florida.

The deserted beaches of the northern coast of Florida are recklessly beautiful: a vast paradise of shifting dunes and stark driftwood. To stand alone in the midst of this mysterious beauty gazing across the spectacular sand rising and falling and then plunging into the seas may haunt you, make you want to rise with the dunes, then roll and plunge naked and free into the sea.

Pete had been gazing out across the stretch of dune and wood and water and had become lost in thought. His cigarette had gone out. Dick cupped a lighted match in one hand and as he held it, Pete guided the flame toward the cigarette. Their hands touched and the slightest pulsation suggested that they were thinking the same thing.

"Come on Sarge, let's get this thing moved," Pete yelled impatiently, as he gave one last drag at the weed.

By three the job was finished and by four peace-time soldiering was finished for the day. Back at the base Pete and Dick, weary from the heavy, sweaty work, could think of only one thing: to get cleaned up. They headed for their bunks, picked up razors and towels and started for the head. Suddenly Dick put his hand out to stop Pete. "I've thought of a great idea! Instead of cleaning up here and going into town with the other guys, why don't we borrow a jeep and head back to the gulf where we took that coop this morning?" The idea struck Pete as if it had been his own for he wheeled around to stow away the razor and pull on a pair of fatigue pants.

At four-thirty Pete and Dick were right back where they'd spent most of the day, but now it was deserted. Behind them lay a screen of hundreds of acres of pine and scrub oak. The rest of the camp had headed in the other direction to Panama. They were alone. Alone with a surrealistic fantasy of water and sand. Sun-made heat still reflected from each tiny crystal. The sand seemed to invite them to nuzzle into its warm bed. Pete looked toward Dick who apparently had received the same invitation for he was grinning while he unbuttoned his shirt. In a minute they belonged with the land and the seascape: naked as the sand, vast as the sky, muscles rippling like the waves. They arched up on their toes and fell flat on the beach. Warm sand shifted to accommodate every curve of muscle, clinging affectionately to their clean bodies. Pete flexed his buttocks and dug in deeper, plunging into the warm womb of sand.

Pete was built like a dancer but more massively. He was blond. The close cropped hair came far down the wide neck and there the body line veered straight out to form a spectacular shoulder width. The spinal column was almost like a river as layers of muscle formed a thick bank of strength on each side of the back. Small hips and buttocks achieved the grace of a dancer, while powerful back

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