Front Lines by Michael Grant

insignia of rank yet adorns their uniforms.
    â€œYou sure that’s a girl? Don’t look like no girl. Looks like a . . .” And there his verbal abilities fail him, and he trains unfocused eyes on Rainy before slumping back, unconscious.
    A conductor is pushing his way down the jammed and noisy corridor, leading a male officer. He reaches the door to the compartment, holds it open, accepts a tip, and, as he closes the compartment door, slides down the roll-up blind.
    Rainy watches the officer, a first lieutenant. The lieutenant watches her right back, takes in the three drunks and the civilian woman, and sits opposite Rainy.
    The two more-conscious soldiers immediately attempt to straighten themselves up, adjusting caps and in one case making a valiant but doomed attempt to align buttons with their proper holes.
    It is unusual, to say the least, to have an officer sitting here in the cheap seats. Maybe the train is overloaded. But no, this officer was guided here.
    â€œLieutenant,” Rainy says, and nods. Protocol does not call for saluting in this situation.
    The lieutenant makes a show of reading the name tag on her uniform. “Schulterman, is it?”
    â€œPFC Rainy Schulterman, sir,” Rainy acknowledges.
    He smiles. It’s not a leer, nor is it a friendly smile. It’s a practiced smile. He’s carrying only a briefcase, no duffel. His boots are shined; his uniform is crisp. He’s perhaps twenty-five, with watery-blue eyes behind glasses, blond hair, scrubbed pink skin, thin lips and shoulders. He’s a crease-checker, one of those men who reach compulsively to pinch the crease in his trousers, making sure it stays straight, that it stands tall above the thigh before being flattened by the pressure of the kneecap.
    â€œWhere you headed, PFC?”
    â€œSouth, sir.”
    â€œJust south?” Again, the practiced smile. “That covers a lot of ground.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He considers this, and the train jerks as the big steel wheels engage. The platform and its waving, weeping population slide away, made to look like a dreamscape by the wreaths of steam.
    â€œGirl like you, I guess you’re headed to Fort Ritchie, right?” He waits a beat for an answer and gets nothing. “It’s all right, Private, we’re on the same side.” He laughs confidentially. “I swear I won’t tell a soul.” He makes the sign of the cross over his heart.
    â€œIs that where you’re heading, Lieutenant?”
    He pretends not to hear.
    The passed-out drunk is sliding as the train moves, feet beneath the seat, knees extending, back slipping; he’ll be on the floor as soon as they hit a turn.
    The officer pulls a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He taps one halfway out and offers it to Rainy.
    â€œNo thank you, sir.”
    â€œDon’t smoke?”
    â€œIt seems a bit . . . close . . . in here,” Rainy ventures.
    â€œDo you mind if I . . .” He holds a cigarette hovering near his lips.
    â€œNot at all, sir,” she says. She does mind, but she’s not going to chide a military intelligence officer. That is ofcourse what he is, she has no doubt of that, despite the lack of any revealing insignia.
    He lights his cigarette and blows a blue cloud. “What do you think of all this, if you don’t mind my asking, Private?”
    â€œAll what, sir?”
    He shrugs and waves the cigarette in an arc encompassing the compartment and perhaps more. “Must be strange, being a girl and all.”
    â€œNo, sir. I’ve been a girl my whole life.”
    It’s the kind of response that walks right up to the line of being a smart-ass answer. The lieutenant’s grin is quick and genuine this time. “Yeah, I guess it’s not so bad for some girls. You might meet a nice fellow.”
    Rainy doesn’t answer.
    â€œYou’re not so talkative, are you, Private?”
    Rainy manages a tight smile,