Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(33)
“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.
Amalia jerks her head. “Foot locker. Second layer, wrapped up in a sock.”
Rainy rouses out the stripes and the needle and thread and gets to work on a clean uniform blouse.
“Did the colonel suffer a stroke when he informed you?”
“The colonel’s attitude is not for me to discuss,” Rainy says in a tone that leaves very little doubt as to her true opinion of Colonel Derry.
“Uh-huh,” Amalia drawls. She is a westerner who grew up in a house that was still partly made of sod on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. Her husband had sunk progressively into drunkenness, which had escalated to slaps and then to punches during the years of their unhappy marriage. War is Amalia’s escape from that unwise marriage, and she has Rainy’s same determination to make it, though her motives are very different.
Two other women enter laughing, see what Rainy’s doing, and retreat sullenly to the far end of the room, which is not very far. The female quarters hold five double bunk beds, not all in use.
Each soldier is allowed to place one photograph on the wall by her bunk. That is the one personal touch allowed. Most of the women have pictures of boyfriends or parents. Rainy feels that is indiscreet and has simply tacked up a TIME magazine cover showing General Dwight D. Eisenhower framed by US and UK flags.
No sooner has Rainy finished sewing and changed into her newly admirable uniform than they have to rush to make afternoon class, which is in aerial photography, a complicated, painstaking, detail-oriented grind that Rainy enjoys. They are shown a series of photographs of an unidentified airfield somewhere in Occupied France—the same field at four different times. Rainy notes the planes on the ground, notes changes from one shot to the next, and correctly posits that a double rank of German dive bombers are actually plywood dummies placed there to fool prying eyes and draw the attentions of Allied bombers away from actual targets.