Hollywood, 1949.

"You're out of line, soldier."
"You know what I think of your line."
"Is that insubordination I'm hearing, private?"
"I didn't hear any orders given, so no...sir."
"Drop and give me..."
"The time? Oh-Nine-Hundred, give or take."
The officer crimsons as the other lights a cigarette.
He'll smoke four in a row with ease if the air is right.
"You'll live to regret that."
The smoke blown in his face is the only response given.
That face turns a brighter red than the tip of that cigarette.
"They break men like you at Leavenworth. Men far better."
"Slow down, sarge. Who said anything about a vacation?"
"You seem to have mistaken my rank. Count the stripes, private!"
"It was a figure of speech. Lighten up. These rolled ones don't last."
He stomps the cigarette out.
The level playing field presents itself so they seize the opportunity.
Both men remove their shirts, hats, anything with ingsignia.
They step aside and turn their backs on the others on the set.
Golf tones are used. Nothing above a whisper.
The director shouts French obscenities as he flips through the script.
Neither of them will work in that town again, he swears it.
"She told you, didn't she?"
"Yeah. Can you blame her?"
"Never."
"Finish the scene. Give them their ten-dollars-worth."
"You always were the truer artist."
"Don't you think the world knows that?"
"Come on, enough already. Ride it out, improvise if you have to."
They reapply their uniforms out of contractual obligation.
It's hard to remember whose line it is.
The private steps on the butt again and sneers to cue his friend.
"The only thing lightening around here will be your paycheck."
"Court-martial? Don't threaten me with a good time."
"Take this man away. He's a liability."
The private fixes his hands at his hips, his elbows pointed outward.
Two guards hook those loops and drag him out of sight.
He pops a grin and winks as his boot heels slide away.
"Anyone else want ten years of hard time?"
A resounding "No, sir!" comes from the ranks.
At least the extras stuck to the plan.
The wind picks up and the cigarette butt starts to smolder.
It's the first miracle of the morning.