There was a retired General who served in Dubya Dubya Duece and retired to Fort Stockton shortly after The Big One was dropped and victory declared. He always said it was just so he could die near a fort, but folks speculated a woman probably had something to do with it. He spent a lot of evenings in the Lucky Lady Lounge, where the locals would buy him drinks just to hear him tell stories of his exploits from his time overseas. 

He’d been more heavily decorated than the display window at Ben Franklin’s at Christmas, but the thing on his chest that really got people’s attention was the tattoo of Washington crossing the Delaware. It went from arm pit to arm pit, Adam’s apple to navel. He kept the thick grey hair on his chest trimmed so it appeared to be clouds and waves and ol’ George guiding his troops to greatness through it all, while the flag unfurled behind him. Lesser men were known to weep the first time they saw it.

A lot of the stories the General told involved the ’45 Dodge WC53 he’d been given use of near the end of the conflict. He used to say that truck was the only thing that came close to being as tough as he was.

One of his favorites was telling about the time he’d driven the Dodge over to the Officer’s Club to have a few Scotch and waters with the boys at the end of a long day. He was only a couple drinks in when a comely young nurse walked over his way. She was as buxom as she was forward, pulling up a stool next to him and making only minimal small talk before suggesting they go back to his tent and butter the biscuit.

“I’m flattered,” he told her, “but at my age it might not be all you’d hoped for.”

“Looks to me like you’re a pretty fine specimen. I like my chances,” she replied.

With that he walked her out to the Dodge, opened the passenger side door of the olive drab beast and guided her curvaceous carcass into the cavernous cabin. He couldn’t help but notice the seams on the back of her nylons were as straight as the creases in his own uniform, making her even more attractive.

She slid over close to him as he cranked up the 230 cubic inch L-head Six and put it in gear. “Just how long has it been since you’ve done the deed?” she inquired.

“He looked up towards the ceiling. “About 1935, I guess.” he confessed.

“Well I’m sure it will all come back to you,” she replied, stroking his shaved bald head. He didn’t care much what he ran over with the massive military truck, getting to the tent as quickly as he could and pulling right up to the door in order to be discrete.

What followed was the most incredible night of passion the young nurse had ever experienced, oscillating the unmentionables repeatedly. After a cigarette and a nightcap, he walked her back to the 3/4 ton Dodge to return her to the Nurse’s Tent. “General, that was incredible. You haven’t forgotten a thing since 1935!”

“Well, I should hope not,” he told her glancing down at his watch. “It’s only 23:40 now.”