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“Sergeant Warner, sir,” Tedworth furnished as he handed Dunwiddie the baseball bat. Dunwiddie rested it against the table.
“. . . Right. Sergeant Warner. I don’t know why I always forget his name. Unlike most mess sergeants, he’s one hell of a cook. Anyway, Konstantin, I told Sergeant Warner to bring you what Chauncey and I are having. Orange juice, ham and eggs, and waffles. I hope that’s all right with you.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Konstantin?” Dunwiddie asked. “Get your feet off the cold floor?”
Orlovsky took his seat, with his hands folded in his lap.
Dunwiddie offered Orlovsky his pack of Chesterfield cigarettes.
Orlovsky shook his head, and then said, “No, thank you.”
It was the first he had spoken.
Nothing more was said by anyone until Sergeant Warner, who was wearing cook’s whites, including an enormous floppy white hat, came into the room, carrying a large tray holding plates covered with upside-down plates. Sergeant Lewis followed him carrying a steaming coffeepot.
“Just put it on the table,” Dunwiddie ordered. “We’ll take it from there.”
Dunwiddie picked up the coffeepot and poured from it.
“I take mine black,” Dunwiddie said. “How about you, Konstantin?”
“Black is fine, thank you.”
Cronley removed the upside-down plate over his plate and looked appreciatively at what was to be his breakfast.
“Dig in, Konstantin,” he suggested, “before it gets cold.”
Orlovsky removed the plate over his breakfast and picked up a fork.
“Do they have waffles in Russia?” Cronley asked.
“We have something like what this appears to be.”
“Your wife serves them like this, with maple syrup?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you put maple syrup on them?”
“I don’t know what maple syrup is.”
Dunwiddie moved a small white pitcher across the table.
“Maple syrup,” he said. “It’s sweet. Spread butter on your waffle and then pour a little syrup on it.”
Curiosity took over.
“What is it?”
“They drill holes in maple trees,” Cronley explained. “They stick taps in the holes to collect the maple sap in buckets, then boil that down.”
“And this is the real stuff, genuine Vermont maple syrup,” Dunwiddie went on. “The best kind. My mother sends it to me.”
“You’re from Vermont?” Orlovsky asked.
Cronley’s and Dunwiddie’s eyes met for a moment.
We’ve got him talking!
