“Beat that.” CW strutted past, shooting bullets from his eyes instead of his rifle. A boastful grin accompanied the arrogant remark.
Arno ignored him and pictured drilling the bullseye. When his turn arrived, he clicked the trigger and fired, nailing the mark each time until his final attempt when someone sneezed. The bullet careened haywire.
“You choked.” CW’s voice, hushed and deadly, pierced when Arno filed past to reach the end of the line for another attempt.
The rain started as a whisper, pitter-pattering on his campaign hat, with the wide brim sheltering his face. Soon, a downpour pelted the ground, stirring up a fresh, earthy fragrance.
Without sparing CW a second glance, Arno stewed in silence, more due to his failed marksmanship than the man’s taunt. Still, you choked defined his performance. If a mere sneeze interrupted his concentration, how would he manage a hundred whizzing bullets on the battlefield?
Later that afternoon, on the tail end of a half-day leave, Arno and Karl occupied a corner booth at a Des Moines diner on Dodge’s outskirts. The day’s specials featured a draft, scant leg room, and high-backed seats. Grease and freshly ground coffee blended with smoke and onions to clutter the air. A cloudy sky hovered beyond a smudged window.
The joint crawled with soldiers. Karl stabbed a bite of his second piece of pie with a bent fork. His idea of a three-course meal was apple pie, cherry pie, and coconut cream, heavy on the filling. “Is Hattie Waltz courting Barrett Jordane?”
Arno choked on his sip of coffee and knocked over his cup, leaving a mess on his uniform and across the tabletop. The two sopped the brown liquid stream until their napkins dripped.
“Best wash your shirt before the next inspection.” Karl cupped a hand around his ear. “What do I hear?” He stared into the distance over Arno’s shoulder as if listening for a voice. “Yep, it’s the sergeant, chewing you out again.”
A waitress paused by their table, sporting a lopsided uniform cap and dark shadows under her eyes. A portion of the day’s menu clung to her apron. “Besides more napkins, what else can I get you, boys?” She flashed a sassy smile while tugging a couple of cloths from her apron pocket.
Karl wriggled his eyebrows. “What are my choices?”
From nearby, a brusque voice grumbled like a thunderstorm. “What’s a man gotta do for service around this joint?”
The waitress ignored the bark and reached for a squatty menu stationed between the wall and a vase of shriveled flowers. “If you want choices, I suggest you read this.”
Karl drummed fingers against his chin. “How about warming my coffee, unless you’d rather warm me?”
“Not tonight, soldier. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” She splashed thick coffee into their cups before plodding toward her next customer.
Arno held his laughter. “I think she implied you’re a minnow.”
“It’s called the art of flirtation,” Karl said around a mouthful of pie. “I was practicing, sharpening my skills.”
“How flattering.”
“Shut up.”
Arno raised his hands in surrender.
“Hattie ever write you back?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s been weeks.”
“Why don’t you skip to your point.” Until a couple of days ago, Arno had expected to hear from Hattie. Then he’d overheard Jordane tell someone she still wrote him twice a week. Since then, his hope had dried up and peeled away.
Karl spread his new napkin on the tabletop, folded it in half, then quarters, until it failed to obey his design and flopped open. “She’s a looker, ain’t she? And that voice of hers. Mercy.”
During Hattie’s visit to boot camp, he’d have bet the last dollar in his pocket she fancied him. Obviously, he didn’t know her after all.
“Jordane carries her photograph around, shows it to purt near everyone,” Karl said.
“Good for him.”
“What about his recent promotion?”
“He earned it.” Arno disliked Jordane more with each passing day. Why had Hattie chosen the Louisianan over him? Was he envious of Jordane’s military advancement? Without question, but not the soldier’s method of achieving success.
“Meaning he’s a bootlicker?”
Arno’s acquaintanceship with Jordane amounted to diddly squat, but he knew a back-scratcher when he saw one. Jordane had once squealed when a fellow soldier broke curfew. More than once, the man had trailed after the upper brass like a mangy mutt, and he’d overheard Jordane say, I’ll do whatever it takes to get ahead.
Hattie deserved better, same as the army.
“He and Hyland are pals now.” Karl shoved his cup aside. “You won’t believe what I heard this morning.”
On any given day, a hundred rumors whirled throughout camp, everything from the night’s film title to who caught the dickens for insubordination. Giant-sized holes riddled most tales, yet a slim few held kernels of truth.
Arno shrugged.
“I met this new arrival from Burlington. Nice guy. He knows Hyland from back home.”
“Lucky him.” Arno tapped his spoon on the rim of his cup.
“Nope. This fella told me Hyland once spent a lengthy stint in the hoosegow.”
“For what?” The possibilities were endless.
“Assault.”
Arno set down the spoon. That night Hyland had boasted about beating the neighbor man, the one who’d paid an inopportune call, had that led to his arrest?
“Two nights ago, he flipped over a table at the Y. and threatened a soldier with a broken bottle.”
“You saw it?” Although Karl tended to exaggerate, especially with a dull story, Arno leaned toward believing his buddy this time.
“I did. CW raised the fuss. He’d lost a chunk of money at cards. I do that all the time—lose money, not threaten people. Someone should have hauled him out by his ear if you ask me.”
Arno dug into his pocket, tossed a few coins onto the table. “Let’s beat it back to camp. I need to study for our next exam. I’m on KP duty tonight.”
“You used to be a barrel of laughs, Kreger. What happened?”
Arno retrieved his hat before turning toward the narrow aisle, nearly slamming into CW’s chest.
“Why was you two dragging my name through the dirt?” CW swayed as he blinked blurry eyes at Arno. Alcohol clung to the man’s breath, something stronger than rhubarb wine. “I heard you. Sound like a pair of hoity-toity church ladies.”
“Why don’t you tell us about your jail time then,” Karl said, curling his fingers into fists. “Give it to us straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Is that what you want, me to give it to you?” CW braced one hand on the back of a chair and then inched his chunky face closer to Karl’s. “You picking a fight with me, little man?”
Although Karl barely reached Arno and CW’s shoulders, that hadn’t ever stopped him from swinging a fist at an insult. Arno shoved Karl back. “He’s not worth the trouble.”
“And you, Kreger, you can’t shoot worth naught. You’re not as smart as you think you is neither.” CW bumped his hip against the table and teetered.