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The sharp, jerking movement comes as they clear the station and accelerate, and sure enough the passed-out drunk slides toward the floor. Rainy leans forward and lays a hard tap with the edge of her hand on his knee. He jerks awake just long enough to curl himself sideways and avoid sliding all the way.
The civilian woman does not approve of any of this. The other two privates are leaning into each other, having the kind of very intense conversations men sometimes have when inebriated. The topic appears to be a friend who’s been rated unfit for service, 4F, and whether or not he’s a wolf who will be going after their girls ten seconds after the train is out of the station. Also, beer. And something to do with some jackass sergeant who . . .
They suddenly recall that there’s an officer present and fall silent.
“May I ask what attracted you to supply and logistics, sir?” And again the question is absolutely respectful and cheeky at the same time.
“Mostly the logistics,” he says solemnly. He’s beginning to suspect she’s playing with him.
“Yes, sir. I’ve never been entirely clear on what that involves.”
He does not offer to enlighten her. “You from here in New York City?”
“Well, that’s where I caught this train, sir.”
“Family?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mother? Father?”
“One of each, sir.”
“I don’t suppose they’re happy seeing you dragged into this stupid, pointless war, eh?”
“I wasn’t aware that the war was stupid. Or pointless.”
A long drag on the cigarette. A crease check. “Well, it’s not our war, is it? Why should we be fighting to save Britain from the Germans? Let alone the Russians, those Bolshevik, Commie bastards. Tell me, Private: why should we be fighting for a dying colonial empire and a dangerous totalitarian state?”
Rainy takes a moment to consider the correct answer. “Because that’s what the chain of command has ordered us to do, sir.”
Check. And mate.
He sees it now. He sighs. “I’m going to see if I can get some fresh air. You’re right, it’s rather close in here. Join me, PFC Schulterman.”
It’s not a request. Rainy stands up and follows him into the still-jammed corridor. She spots the Full sign the conductor has hung on their not-really-full compartment. The lieutenant leads her to the end of the car, just a few feet, and onto a rickety, noisy gallery between rattling cars. The platform is not two feet deep. It’s cold out, and a whole lot colder with the forty-mile-an-hour wind generated by the train’s increasing speed.
“You can cut the crap now, PFC.” He has to raise his voice over the clatter of steel wheels and steel coupling.
“Sir. One of two things must happen now, respectfully.”
He tilts his head. “Oh?”
“Sir, either you show me identification stating that you are with army intelligence, or I will have no choice but to report you to the first officer I find. You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“Ha!” He’s both delighted with, and abashed by, her answer. “How long did it take you?”
“Sir, your ID, please.”
His mouth hangs open for a second, then with a genuine grin that takes five years off his face so he looks like an adolescent playing dress-up, he reaches inside his tunic and hands her a cardboard identity card.
His name is not Lieutenant Janus, it’s Captain Jon Herkemeier. And he is army intelligence.
“Well done, PFC Schulterman.” He puts the ID away and reveals that in addition to being a crease-checker, he’s a lapel tugger. Fidgety and fastidious. “And now answer my question: how long did it take?”
“No time at all, sir.”
“Ah.”
