In from the Field

This is a follow up to the previous work. I’ve done it in a modified prose-poem format.
In From the Field

In from the field the dust and sweat covered platoon of foot soldiers came. Everyone knew but the sergeant shouted anyway,-No one showers or eats until those rifles are cleaned.- The thirty six laughed, shouted and made good natured insults, while stripping and cleaning the metal weapons. The smell of gun oil was heavy in the warm air. And then it happened. He couldn't get the M-1 apart. Parts had been removed in the wrong order. Advice came from all directions. Finally there was only one thing to do: He knocked on the sergeant's door. In that strange language that lower ranks use to superiors, he explained the problem. A flood, swift and deep and wide, of words, not nice ones, some of which he knew blasted out. The sergeant finally made it right. Then another blast;
-You strip and assemble this weapon 30 times tonight, but first go to supper. I can't take meals from you.-
And it was done.

It happened that night, a company party. Beer, music, pizza and men in olive drab and combat boots, rocking and rolling and jitterbugging and singing and playful tussling.

But exhausted instead he fell in his bunk and slept, until he was wakened by the sergeant.
With his arm over the private's shoulder, -Don't you want to go to the party?- -I'd rather sleep- -But you buddies miss you.-
-I'll make it up to them, I'd rather sleep.-
-But it bad for platoon morale.-
-I'd rather sleep.-
-Would you go as a favor to me?-
A moment's hesitation
-Ok, I'll go.-