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“That would be very nice,” Orlovsky said.
“Would you tell the cook that, please, Sergeant Clark?”
“Yes, sir,” Clark boomed, and marched out of the room.
“I suppose that happens in the Red Army, too,” Cronley said.
“What?”
“That senior sergeants like Clark, who have held their rank for some time, develop soft hands. I mean, so that when they are called on to perform some manual labor of the type they were accustomed to perform when they were privates, they’re not up to it. Those hands must really be painful.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, we’ve learned our lesson. The next time we dig your grave, we’ll be good Boy Scouts.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Boy Scouts is an American organization that one joins at age nine, as a Cub Scout, and remains in, generally, until the age of eighteen, or until the Scout discovers the female sex. Whichever comes first. Roasting marshmallows over an open fire is great fun, but for an eighteen-year-old it can’t compare with exploration of the female anatomy.”
Orlovsky shook his head in disbelief again.
“How did I get on that subject?” Cronley asked rhetorically. “Oh! I started out to say that the motto of the Boy Scouts is Be Prepared. That’s what I meant when I said the next time we dig your grave, we’ll be good Boy Scouts. By that I mean, we’ll be prepared. The gravediggers will have gloves to protect their hands.”
Orlovsky didn’t reply.
“Do you remember the first time you went on a successful exploratory mission like that, Konstantin? Perhaps with the young lady who eventually became Mrs. Orlovsky and the mother of your children?”
“You do not actually expect me to answer a question like that!”
“I wasn’t asking for the details, Konstantin. I’m an officer and a gentleman. That would be like asking a fellow officer and gentleman what exactly he did on his honeymoon, and how often he did it. Bad form. All I was asking was if you remembered.”
Orlovsky failed in his attempt not to smile.
“Captain Cronley, you are very good. If I did not know who you are, and what you are trying to accomplish, I would believe that you were an amiable lunatic.”
“I remember my honeymoon well. Probably because it happened so recently and was so brief. Do you remember yours? Or was it so long ago that you’ve forgotten? Or maybe not all that pleasant?”
Orlovsky’s face tightened. He looked at Cronley in cold anger.
“Dunwiddie, I seem to have offended the major, wouldn’t you say?”
“From the look on his face, sir, I would say that you have. I don’t think he likes being reminded of his honeymoon. Or, for that matter, his wife. Or his children.”
Orlovsky turned his coldly angry face to Dunwiddie.
“Well, Konstantin,” Cronley went on, “since I’ve offended you—unintentionally, of course, I just didn’t think that anyone would want to forget his honeymoon—let’s see if we can find something safe to talk about.”
“Please do,” Orlovsky said, meeting his eyes.
“But what? How about this? Do they have Boy Scouts in Russia? And presuming they do have Boy Scouts, were you one? Is that a safe enough subject for an amiable pre-dinner conversation between us?”
“At one time, there were Boy Scouts in Russia.”
“I didn’t know that,” Dunwiddie said. “Really? Or do you mean there was a Communist version of the Boy Scouts?”
“Both,” Orlovsky said. “Before the revolution there were Boy Scouts, on the British pattern. My father was one. So was the Czarevich Alexei, as a matter of fact.”
“The who?” Tiny asked.
