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.
After class she is called to Captain Herkemeier’s office.
“Sergeant Schulterman, reporting as ordered.”
Herkemeier comes around the desk to shake her hand. “Congratulations on the stripes, Schulterman.”
“Sir, I have a suspicion that I owe these to you.”
“You have a suspicious mind, Sergeant,” he says. “Take a seat.”
She does, and in unconscious imitation of him, tugs at the crease in her uniform pants to keep it straight and sharp.
“I’ll get right to it. There’s a critical need for German translators in the field.”
“In what field, sir?”
He doesn’t answer directly. “We’ve spent the last year in America training, preparing, manufacturing. We’ve killed a few Japs, but we haven’t so much as laid a finger on the Krauts. That’s about to end.”
Rainy’s smile is slow and predatory. “I’m pleased to hear it, sir.”
Herkemeier nods. “Schulterman, you’re a damned good student. Should you complete this course, you’ll graduate either fi
rst or second, and at that point there will be two options open to you: you can either attend officer candidate school and be commissioned a second lieutenant, probably find yourself as an S2 at the battalion level in a stateside or rear unit that doesn’t need a damned S2, and by the end of the war be wearing captain’s bars. Or you can remain in enlisted rank and most likely end up staying stateside in a vital staff job. Or maybe teaching others like yourself.”
“Sir, I sense the suggestion of a third option.”
He nods and looks dubious. “Yes. As I said, the need for translators is acute. You could ship out at your present rank to a line company and—”
“I’ll take that road, sir.”
“Would you mind very much if I finished what I was saying?”
“No, sir.”
“Those would be your options, all other things being equal. But frankly there’s a problem with you going to officer school. A troubling fact has come to my attention. It is of no concern to me, and I have not forwarded this piece of information up the chain of command. But it could, if it became more widely known, abort your career in army intelligence.”
Rainy is baffled. She frowns, searching her memory, trying to figure out what Herkemeier can possibly be referring to.
“Rainy, what does your father do for a living?”
“My father, sir? He delivers milk in New York City.”
“Yes, he does,” Herkemeier says. “He is also a numbers runner for the Genovese crime organization.”