that she hoped exactly the opposite.
Chapter 9
Corporal Kalmus was still shaken when he reported to Gilman after delivering Kirst
“What the hell was he shooting at?” Gilman asked.
“I don’t know, sir. The engineer thought it might have been somebody bumming a ride or an escaped convict. Corporal Strann claims it was a German soldier, but we didn’t find a trace of returned fire.” Kalmus shrugged. Even he didn’t believe it.
“Where is Strann now?”
“Shipped back from Bismarck, North Dakota, sir. Relieved of this detail.”
“Was the prisoner involved?”
“Oh no, sir. He was handcuffed to his bunk when it happened. In fact he was dead asleep through the whole thing. Didn’t even wake up when the shooting started. But then he was like that all the way from New York, sir. Real quiet, didn’t talk, hardly looked at us. Kinda spooky.”
Gilman went to the window and looked out at the camp. It was bleak and chilly outside. Dark clouds were gathering over Blackbone Mountain. Maybe snow tomorrow. The Germans had another volleyball game going. They were big on volleyball. Despite the chill, some were stripped down to long underwear and boots, a few were shirtless....
Kalmus was still at parade rest when Gilman turned back. “Well, I don’t see anything in this that relates to the prisoner,” said Gilman. “Do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. Go down the hall and make your report to Lieutenant Blish, head of our MP detachment. Then go to the mess hut and take a meal in the kitchen. When you’re done, report to the adjutant. He’ll have you driven back to the station at White Sulphur Springs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What you do with your story beyond that is between you and your commanding officer. But I wouldn’t like it circulated in this camp. Get me?” Kalmus nodded. “Blish will forward your report. Now, where is the prisoner?”
Kirst was sitting in a tiny room with a single barred window, relaxed and staring into space. An MP stationed himself at the door, gripping the butt of his sidearm, but he didn’t impress Kirst. Gilman half expected him to jump up, salute, and introduce himself, but Kirst stayed right where he was. Gilman pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. Kirst’s eyes traveled around and fixed disinterestedly on the American officer.
“I’m Major Gilman.”
Kirst gave the outstretched hand an empty look. Then he shuddered, life surged into his eyes, and he looked around in panic, as if just discovering where he was. Gilman watched, puzzled. Maybe Kalmus was right, thought Gilman, and Kirst had slept through the whole cross-country ride.
Kirst’s hand tentatively gripped Gilman’s. “Kirst,” he said. “Leutnant Rolf Kirst.”
“Sprechen Sie English?”
Kirst thought it over, then shook his head. “Nein.”
“Too bad.” Gilman studied him again. He looked like a little lost boy, frightened, wondering where his momma was and why she had left him. Gilman thought about getting Borden up here to interrogate him, but that was against regulations. All the necessary interrogating had been handled back East, otherwise Kirst wouldn’t even be here yet. And, according to the reports, they had gotten nothing out of him. Gilman finally decided there was only one thing he could do—send him through the usual way, but keep an eye on him.
“Process him,” Gilman told the MP, then walked out.
The flash going off made Kirst flinch. Immediately the warmth inside him became agitated and coursed rapidly through his body. An undulating pain followed in its wake, so intense he wanted to cry out but couldn’t. Through the pain he was dimly aware that the photographer, a buttery-lipped sergeant named Loats, was unhappy with the results. He changed bulbs, fumbled with a new plate, and grumbled to the officer sitting nearby. Kirst tried to remember his name... Gordon... Warden... Borden! The doctor. Kirst had already been through
Chapter 9
Corporal Kalmus was still shaken when he reported to Gilman after delivering Kirst
“What the hell was he shooting at?” Gilman asked.
“I don’t know, sir. The engineer thought it might have been somebody bumming a ride or an escaped convict. Corporal Strann claims it was a German soldier, but we didn’t find a trace of returned fire.” Kalmus shrugged. Even he didn’t believe it.
“Where is Strann now?”
“Shipped back from Bismarck, North Dakota, sir. Relieved of this detail.”
“Was the prisoner involved?”
“Oh no, sir. He was handcuffed to his bunk when it happened. In fact he was dead asleep through the whole thing. Didn’t even wake up when the shooting started. But then he was like that all the way from New York, sir. Real quiet, didn’t talk, hardly looked at us. Kinda spooky.”
Gilman went to the window and looked out at the camp. It was bleak and chilly outside. Dark clouds were gathering over Blackbone Mountain. Maybe snow tomorrow. The Germans had another volleyball game going. They were big on volleyball. Despite the chill, some were stripped down to long underwear and boots, a few were shirtless....
Kalmus was still at parade rest when Gilman turned back. “Well, I don’t see anything in this that relates to the prisoner,” said Gilman. “Do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. Go down the hall and make your report to Lieutenant Blish, head of our MP detachment. Then go to the mess hut and take a meal in the kitchen. When you’re done, report to the adjutant. He’ll have you driven back to the station at White Sulphur Springs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What you do with your story beyond that is between you and your commanding officer. But I wouldn’t like it circulated in this camp. Get me?” Kalmus nodded. “Blish will forward your report. Now, where is the prisoner?”
Kirst was sitting in a tiny room with a single barred window, relaxed and staring into space. An MP stationed himself at the door, gripping the butt of his sidearm, but he didn’t impress Kirst. Gilman half expected him to jump up, salute, and introduce himself, but Kirst stayed right where he was. Gilman pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. Kirst’s eyes traveled around and fixed disinterestedly on the American officer.
“I’m Major Gilman.”
Kirst gave the outstretched hand an empty look. Then he shuddered, life surged into his eyes, and he looked around in panic, as if just discovering where he was. Gilman watched, puzzled. Maybe Kalmus was right, thought Gilman, and Kirst had slept through the whole cross-country ride.
Kirst’s hand tentatively gripped Gilman’s. “Kirst,” he said. “Leutnant Rolf Kirst.”
“Sprechen Sie English?”
Kirst thought it over, then shook his head. “Nein.”
“Too bad.” Gilman studied him again. He looked like a little lost boy, frightened, wondering where his momma was and why she had left him. Gilman thought about getting Borden up here to interrogate him, but that was against regulations. All the necessary interrogating had been handled back East, otherwise Kirst wouldn’t even be here yet. And, according to the reports, they had gotten nothing out of him. Gilman finally decided there was only one thing he could do—send him through the usual way, but keep an eye on him.
“Process him,” Gilman told the MP, then walked out.
The flash going off made Kirst flinch. Immediately the warmth inside him became agitated and coursed rapidly through his body. An undulating pain followed in its wake, so intense he wanted to cry out but couldn’t. Through the pain he was dimly aware that the photographer, a buttery-lipped sergeant named Loats, was unhappy with the results. He changed bulbs, fumbled with a new plate, and grumbled to the officer sitting nearby. Kirst tried to remember his name... Gordon... Warden... Borden! The doctor. Kirst had already been through
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