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Colonel Derry is not a subtle man, and his motives are not hard for Rainy to grasp: he had obviously been hoping to wash out all the females. This is no longer basic training—basic training is almost impossible to wash out of since the army is quite keen to fill uniforms. But this is an elite school, and eliminating the weak is a legitimate part of its role. In fact, as Rainy knows very well, of the initial forty in the school, three women and five men have already been reassigned.
Rainy approves of every one of those reassignments so far. She shares the desire to graduate only the most capable. And when it comes to capable, Rainy Schulterman stands out, trading first place back and forth with Sergeant Andy Sprinter—Andy Sprinter who stands six feet three inches tall and could toss Rainy Schulterman in the air like a drum major’s baton.
Rainy holds her attention stance. Colonel Derry is willing her to break attention. He is willing her to speak out of turn. But she stands there with her arms at her side, back stiff, chin up, eyes level, barely breathing.
I can stand here all day if that’s the game you want to play, Colonel.
“At ease.”
The change from full attention to at ease is slight. Proper but minimal. She will not show relief.
“Private First Class Schulterman, what do you think of this school?”
“I think it makes a vital contribution to the war effort, sir.” The smart, safe answer. “Sir” is replaced with “you jackass,” but only in her mind.
“And are you content with the course of study?” He’s seated so he can’t bounce on the balls of his feet, but he can jerk his head forward for emphasis.
A fractional hesitation. Then, “Sir, my opinion is that I must trust in the wisdom and integrity of my superiors and assume that this school is the very best facility of its kind anywhere, sir.”
Rainy thinks, He despises me.
“PFC Schulterman, your scores are . . . acceptable. This does not alter my opinion that your proper role is at home working in a defense industry and raising children.”
You forgot baking cakes, you ancient, irrelevant windbag.
“And to be perfectly frank, your people are not known for their warrior spirit. Oh, I’ll give you your Maccabees, but what has the Jew done since those ancient times? Your people are tailors and fruit sellers, lawyers and accountants. I daresay you cannot think of a single Jew military hero.”
“Brevet Brigadier General Frederick Knefler, sir, promoted for conspicuous courage in leading the charge on Missionary Ridge in the Battle of Chattanooga, sir.”
That was probably too much, Rainy realizes as soon as the words are out of her mouth. It is seldom a good idea to appear to be better informed or more intelligent than one’s superior officer.
But Colonel Derry just curls his lip and says, “Brevet only. It is a temporary rank, no doubt assigned in the heat of emotion following a battle. It was an emotional age.”
Rainy is just wise enough to nod and say, “As you say, Colonel.”
Derry blows out a great sigh and with obvious reluctance says, “However, according to the regulations, you are entitled to that which I am giving you today.”
“Sir?”
He takes off his spectacles, lays them on the desk, shakes his head slightly side to side, and in a mournful tone says, “You are hereby promoted to the rank of sergeant.”
He would have shown no greater regret if he’d been announcing that the war was lost.
“Thank you, sir,” Rainy says, and manages, just barely, to suppress a grin. She’s been one of the lowest-ranking soldiers in the school, and now she is a peer. A sergeant.
“Is that all you have to say, Sergeant Schulterman?”
“Sir, I will do my best to honor the uniform, the stripes, my unit, and my commander. Sir.”
Rainy maintains a straight face until she nears the female quarters she shares with seven of the remaining women. The room is mostly empty—the colonel has deliberately scheduled the encounter during noon chow so as to deprive her of a meal—but Sergeant Amalia Peterson is there, polishing her boots.
Rainy drops to her bunk, kicks her feet up on the adjoining bench, and says, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any spare stripes and a needle and thread?”
Peterson looks up from her work, sighs mournfully, and says, “Now you’ll really be hard to take, Schulterman.”
“Yes, I will,” Rainy says, feeling quite pleased.
Peterson is in her late twenties, a grown woman with a husband she’s divorcing, a college degree in anthropology, and the most luscious auburn hair Rainy has ever seen, though it is cut short. Peterson was offered a commission upon enlisting, owing to her college education, but she declined on the grounds that her father had been an enlisted man, his father had been an enlisted man, his father in turn had been an enlisted man who died in the Civil War after someone shot him in the eye, and unless and until her father dies, she was not going to dishonor the family by becoming an officer.
