. . .
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 out 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 increasing train’s 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.”
“You’re an officer in enlisted country. The conductor brought you to that specific compartment. You ignored the others and focused on me. You have no luggage. The conductor hung a Full sign as soon as you came in. So, if I may speak freely . . .”
He waves his cigarette by way of permission.
“You were either a very indifferent masher, or you were FBI or Army Intelligence checking me out.”
He nods, sticks the smoke into his mouth, and extends his hand. She shakes it formally.
“You know how to keep your mouth shut,” he says. “That’s good.” One last drag and he flicks the butt out over the track. “That’s very good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So, the military intelligence school for you, eh?”
“Sir, either you know where I’m heading, or you don’t.”
“Huh. All right then, PFC Schulterman. Carry on.”
He leaves her there, and by the time she makes it back to the compartment the Full sign is gone and her seat has been lost to fresh bodies.
Rainy is irritated at losing her seat. And sinfully proud of having successfully run this gantlet.
I’m going to like this game.
The next day, showered, her hair as under control as it ever is, her uniform as neat as she can make it, Rainy joins the first class of recruits in the history of the Military Intelligence Training School to number females among its complement. Twenty-seven males and fourteen females jump from their steel chairs as a gaggle of officers enter and take the stage.
Rainy is not surprised to see the erstwhile Lieutenant Janus—Captain Herkemeier—standing behind and to one side of the colonel who commands the school.
For about two minutes Rainy feels the pride of standing alongside other enlisted personnel chosen for their intelligence, discretion, judgment, and skill at languages. Colonel Derry, a small man with a thin mustache and thick glasses, throws a very big bucket of cold water on that emotion.
“The Supreme Court, in its infinite wisdom, has decreed that we must . . .” Here Colonel Derry searches for the right word and ends up spitting it out like a piece of bad meat. “. . . accept . . . Have decreed that we must accept females into this training facility.” Maybe he is naturally pop-eyed, or maybe the lenses of his spectacles make his eyes appear ready to pop like overfilled water balloons, but most likely, Rainy believes, he is actually enraged. His voice is certainly tense and high-strung. And he bounces on the balls of his feet with each word he emphasizes. It creates an odd sort of show since his choices of emphasis seem almost random.
“I have been ordered to thus accept females, and I carry out my orders. But as long as I am in command of this facility, I will exercise my discretion to the maximum, to ensure that the natural order of the sexes ”—that phrase comes with three rapid bounces—“a natural order that has decreed that woman shall bear children and tend the hearth, while men shoulder the harsher burdens of life’s vicissitudes . . .” He loses his way for a moment, but finds it quickly enough. “Females will be accorded all the courtesies of their rank, and woe to any male who treats them ill. But woe as well to any female who forgets her place or fails to exhibit the virtues of her sex! ”
Throughout this Captain Jon Herkemeier stares straight ahead, neither nodding nor shaking his head.
There are suppressed snickers from some of the male soldiers. Rainy can hardly blame them. Virtues of their sex is a phrase almost designed for deliberate misinterpretation.
Rainy doesn’t look around—one does not look around when a colonel is speaking—but within her peripheral vision are two other females, neither looking pleased.
“In short,” Colonel Derry concludes, “I expect each of you to pay the closest attention to your instructors. I expect your fullest devotion to the task at hand. This is no easy course of study, and if any of you male soldiers think you’re going to avoid service overseas, I can tell you that you are likely to be disappointed. The ladies will surely stay safe, but for you men, your lives and the lives of other soldiers may well depend on the techniques and skills you learn here.”
In one five-minute speech, Colonel Derry crushes any hope Rainy has that she will be treated fairly.
Is