Naturally, the first question that went through Armstrong's mind was, "If a girl doesn't put out, can we arrest her for failure to cooperate?"

"Sure, Grimes," said the major who was getting the troops up to speed on the new policy. "Then you can arrest yourself for fraternizing."

"Ah, hell, sir," Armstrong said. "I knew there was a snatch-uh, a catch-to it."

"Thank you, Karl Engels," the major said dryly. "Can we go on?" Armstrong nodded, grinning. Karl was his favorite Engels Brother. He'd even talked about growing a long blue beard and joining the comedy troupe himself.

Maybe the people who joined the boycott figured they were safe because they weren't doing anything violent. The failure-to-cooperate order was announced over bullhorns and posted in notices nailed to every telegraph pole in the towns where boycotters were trying to show their displeasure.

As soon as somebody said he wouldn't sell a soldier something after that, the offender disappeared. "Where you taking old Ernie?" a local asked Armstrong when he was one of the men who arrested the man who ran the Hugo diner.

"To a camp," Armstrong answered.

"A camp? Jesus God!" The local went pale.

Armstrong laughed a nasty laugh. "What? You think we're gonna do to him like you did to your niggers? That'd be pretty goddamn funny, wouldn't it?"

"No," the local said faintly.

"Well, I don't think we'll waste his sorry ass-this time," Armstrong said. "But you bastards need to get something through your heads. You fuck with us, you lose. You hear me?" When the Alabaman didn't answer fast enough to suit him, he aimed his rifle at the man's face. "You hear me?"

"Oh, yeah." The local nodded. He was old and wrinkled himself, but he was game. "I hear you real good."

"You better, Charlie, 'cause I'm not bullshitting you." Armstrong lowered the weapon.

And the boycott collapsed even faster than it had grown. Some of the men and women who got arrested came back to Hugo. Others stayed disappeared. Armstrong didn't know what happened to them. His best guess was that they were in prison camps somewhere. But he couldn't prove that the United States weren't killing them the way the Confederate States had killed Negroes. Neither could the locals. It made them uncommonly thoughtful.

"See?" Squidface said. "This is how it's supposed to work. We keep these bastards on their toes, they can't do unto us."

"I guess," Armstrong said.

The next day, a land mine ten miles away blew a truck full of U.S. soldiers to kingdom come. U.S. authorities methodically took hostages, and shot them when the fellow who'd planted the mine didn't come forward. Rumor said that one of the soldiers who'd done firing-squad duty shot himself right afterwards.

"Some guys just can't stand the gaff," was Squidface's verdict.

"I guess," Armstrong said. "But I don't like firing-squad duty myself. I feel like a goose just walked over my grave."

That was the wrong thing to say around Squidface, who goosed him. The wrestling match they got into was more serious-more ferocious, anyhow-than most soldierly horseplay. Squidface eyed a shiner in a steel mirror. "You really do have this shit on your mind," he said.

Armstrong rubbed bruised ribs. "I fuckin' told you so. How come you don't listen when I tell you something?"

"'Cause I'd have to waste too much time sifting through the horseshit," Squidface answered, which almost started another round.

But Armstrong decided his ribs were sore enough already. "They let soldiers vote, who'd you vote for?" he asked.

"Dewey," Squidface answered at once. "He's got a chickenshit mustache, but the Dems wouldn't've been asleep at the switch the way the Socialists were when Featherston jumped on our ass. How about you?"

"Yeah, I guess," Armstrong agreed. "I bet the Socialists'd pull us out of here faster, though."

"Just on account of you think like a short-timer doesn't make you one," Squidface said. Armstrong sighed and nodded. Wasn't that the truth?

XVII

H ey, Chester!" Captain Hubert Rhodes called. "C'mere a minute."

"What's up, sir?" Chester Martin asked.

"Got something from the War Department that might apply to you," the company commander answered. "You're over fifty, right?"

"Yes, sir," Martin answered. "And some of the shit I've been through, I feel like I'm over ninety."

"Well, I can understand that." Rhodes took a piece of paper out of his tunic pocket. He was in his early thirties, at the most-he didn't need to put on glasses before he read something. "Says here the Army is accepting discharge applications from noncoms over fifty who aren't career military. That's you, right?"

"Yes, sir," Chester said again. "Jesus! Have I got that straight? They'll turn me loose if I ask 'em to?"

"That's what it says. See for yourself." Rhodes held out the paper.

Chester's current reading specs had cost him half a buck at a local drugstore. He'd lost track of how many pairs of reading glasses he'd broken since reupping. These weren't great, but they were better than nothing. He read the order, wading through the Army bureaucratese. It said what Captain Rhodes said it said, all right. "Where do I get this Form 565 it talks about?" he asked. "Or is the catch that they haven't printed any copies of it, so I'm screwed regardless?"

Rhodes laughed, for all the world as if the Army would never pull a stunt like that. But then, like a magician with a top hat, he pulled out a rabbit-or rather, a Form 565. "Came with the bulletin. I wish I could talk you into sticking around, but I know I'd be wasting my breath."

"'Fraid so, sir. I got shot once in each war. Nobody can say I didn't do my bit. I have a wife and a life back in L.A. I want to get back while I've still got some time left." Chester looked at the form. "I've got to get my immediate superior's signature, huh? Well, Lieutenant Lavochkin won't be sorry to see me go-I've cramped his style ever since he got here."

"Good thing somebody did, at least a bit," Rhodes said. Both men laughed, more than a little uneasily. Chester didn't want to think about the massacre he'd been part of. Officially, Rhodes didn't know about that. But what he knew officially and what he knew were different beasts. He went on, "If Boris gives you any trouble, send him to me. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it, believe me," Chester said. "I'm gonna hunt him up right now. Sooner I get everything squared away, happier I'll be."

"All right." Rhodes stuck out his hand. "It's been a pleasure serving with you, and that's the God's truth."

"Thanks," Chester repeated as they shook. "And back at you. The lieutenant…" He shrugged. No, he wouldn't be sorry to say good-bye to the lieutenant.

He found Boris Lavochkin right where he thought he would: on the battered main street of Cheraw, South Carolina. Lavochkin carried a captured automatic Tredegar and looked extremely ready to use it. By the way he eyed Chester as the veteran noncom approached, he might not have minded using it on him. Lavochkin didn't like getting his style cramped.

Chester pretended not to notice. "Talk to you a second, sir?"

"You're doing it," Lavochkin answered, and lit a cigarette. He didn't offer Chester one, and Chester wasn't sure he would have taken it if Lavochkin had.

"Right," Chester said tightly. He explained about the War Department ukase, and about Form 565. "So all I need is your signature, sir, and pretty soon I'll be out of your hair for good."

"You're bugging out?" Boris Lavochkin didn't bother hiding his scorn.

"Sir, I've put in more combat time than you have," Martin answered. "Like I told Captain Rhodes, I've got a life outside the Army, and I aim to live it. I've seen as much of this shit as I ever want to, by God."