Officer- type thinking, McCoy decided. You had to keep your eyes on the bastards all the time, or they would think of something smart like this.

The remaining ferry was going to require three trips to transport all of the vehicles, so it was going to be at least an hour, probably closer to an hour and a half, before they were all across the river, which was at least four miles across at that point.

McCoy went to Lieutenant Macklin and told him he thought it would probably be a good idea if he took one of the cars, two Marine trucks, and one missionary truck on the first trip. Two of the three remaining trucks could cross on the second trip. And the remaining truck, the pickup/wrecker, and the other car could cross on the third… if that was all right with Lieutenant Macklin.

There was a nice little restaurant in Chen-chiang on the far shore, and McCoy could see no reason to remain on the near shore hungry, while there was a commissioned officer and gentleman (two, if you counted Sessions) available to supervise the loading of the rear echelon.

And if he was just a little lucky, he'd be able to overhear a conversation (or perhaps even join in one) in the restaurant that might tell him something about Japanese activity farther up the road.

Lieutenant Macklin thought that was as good a way to do it as any.

"Sergeant Zimmerman can handle it by himself, sir," McCoy said, "if you'd rather cross with the first load."

"I'll bring up the rear, McCoy," Lieutenant Macklin said, as McCoy had been eighty percent sure he would. "You and Sergeant Zimmerman go over and see what you can do to get the men something to eat."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Might as well let Zimmerman feed his face first, too. McCoy liked Zimmerman. He was a placid, quiet German who had found a home in the Corps, started a family with a Chinese girl, and did not resent McCoy's unofficial-if unmistakable-authority on the convoys the way some other senior noncoms did.

Ernie had some kind of rice bowl going on the Peking trips, McCoy was sure, but whatever it was, he did it quietly. And he didn't get fall-down drunk in a whorehouse as soon as there was the chance. Ernie understood Chinese, too, although for some strange reason, he pretended he didn't.

He was also faster on the pickup than you'd expect. For instance, he caught on right away to what McCoy wanted when McCoy suggested that he eat at a different restaurant from the big one McCoy was going to. Ernie would pick up whatever he could learn about any Japanese activity farther up the road while he sipped slowly on a beer. Too bad Lieutenant Macklin wasn't as sharp, McCoy thought.

The other two drivers McCoy took on the first ferry were PFCs, and they were on their best behavior because making the trips got them out from under the harassment of the motor pool. McCoy gave them his ritual "one beer, no more, or I'll have your ass" speech, confident that he'd be obeyed.

When Ernie came into the big restaurant (six tables, plus a low counter), McCoy was gnawing on a nearly crystallized piece of duck skin. Ernie took off his wide-brimmed campaign hat, gave it several violent shakes to knock the water loose from the rain cover; and then looked for and found McCoy.

Ernie was a man of few words: "The other Studebaker car's on the ferry."

McCoy nodded, and Ernie left. McCoy shoved the rest of the crisp duck skin in his mouth, daintily dipped his fingers into a bowl of warm water, dried them, and reached for his hat. He put it on at the prescribed angle, twisted his head around to seat the leather strap against the back of his head, and started out of the restaurant.

Then he changed his mind.

Fuck him. So Macklin and/or Sessions sees me eating and having a beer, so what?

He gave the proprietor a large bill and told him he would be back for his change after he'd returned the empty beer bottle and the napkin he was taking with him.

Then he walked quickly to the ferry, keeping himself (more importantly, the campaign hat) out of the rain as much as possible.

He didn't know why Lieutenant Macklin had decided to come in the second car rather than the third ferry trip, but it didn't matter: It was a to-be-expected thing for an officer- any officer-to do. No matter what an enlisted man decided, it could be improved upon by any officer. That's why they were officers.

McCoy paid little attention to the Studebaker until it was off the ferry and, with its wheels slipping and skidding, had made it up the road from the ferry slip. Then he stepped out from beneath the overhang of a building where he had been sheltered from the rain, went into the middle of the road, and made more or the less official Corps hand signals to tell Lieutenant Macklin where the car should be parked.

But Macklin wasn't driving the Studebaker. The lady missionary, Ol' No Underpants, Perfume on the Teats herself, was at the wheel. And she was alone.

What the hell's going on?

McCoy reclaimed the beer bottle he had been prepared to discard for either of the officers and walked nimbly-avoiding puddles where possible-to where Ol' No Underpants had parked.

She saw him coming and opened the door for him as he approached. The way she leaned over the seat to reach the door, he could see down her dress, down where she'd wiped perfume between her teats.

"I hope I'm not interfering with anything, Corporal McCoy," she said. "Lieutenant Macklin said it would be all right if I came now."

"Yes, ma'am," McCoy said.

"I also thought," she said, "that since there was no restaurant on that side, maybe there would be one on this one. I'm hungry."

"Yes, ma'am," McCoy said. "There's a restaurant here."

"Could you take me there?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I've got an umbrella," she said, and reached into the backseat for it. He noticed that her breasts got in the way.

When she had it, she handed it to him.

"No, ma'am," McCoy said. "Thank you just the same."

"You mean you'd get wet?"

"I mean that Marines don't use umbrellas," McCoy said.

"It's against the rules, you mean?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't you ever break the rules, Corporal?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he said.

"Everybody breaks them sometime," she said. "And this seems to be a good time for you to break this one."

He thought that sounded a little strange coming from a missionary, but decided to share the umbrella with her. There was no one here to see him who counted, and it was raining steadily.

Accepting the umbrella from her, McCoy got out of the car, opened the umbrella, and walked around to the driver's side. She slid out of the Studebaker, stepped under the umbrella, closed the door, and then took his arm. Her arm pressed against his, and he could feel the heaviness of her breast.

He marched with her back to the restaurant, shifting course to avoid the larger puddles.

The eyes of the proprietor widened without embarrassment when he saw the woman. Blond hair simply fascinated Orientals.

He came to the table for their order.

"What do you recommend?" she asked.

"I had the duck," McCoy said, almost blurted, "the way they fix it in Peking. I don't like the duck much, but the skin's first rate."

"Then I'll have that," she said. "Are you going to have anything?"

"I've had mine, thank you," McCoy said.

"Not even another beer?"

"I told the men they could have one beer," McCoy said. "It wouldn't be right if I had two."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

"Why?" he asked, surprised.

"Because I would like a beer," she said. "But I can't have one. My husband doesn't like me to drink."

"What you mean is, you could have had a sip of mine?"

She nodded her head conspiratorially.

There was something perversely pleasant in frustrating the morality of a missionary, McCoy thought. He told the proprietor to put a bottle of beer in a tea pot and to bring the lady a cup to go with it.