"Yeah, well, everybody says that, you know? But it gets depressing, seeing all the KIAs and MIAs...."
"I know," said Lucas softly. "My list of friends keeps getting shorter."
There was an awkward pause. Bobby finally broke the silence, anxiously trying to change the subject.
"How in hell did you come up with Green 44? You had a code choice? You look okay, but—"
"I never exercised my option after I got wounded in the Crimea," Lucas said. "I decided to hold off until the time was right."
"But why did you go for a code choice instead of bonus Plus Time?"
"If you had a choice between a lousy hour of bonus time and friendship time, what would you choose?" Lucas said.
"Well, since you put it that way, I guess I'd opt for spending a hitch together with a friend. But I'd still cry about the bonus."
"So you pick up another wound."
"Thanks, but if I can, I'll pass. I've been lucky so far, knock on wood." He glanced around. "You see any wood anywhere?"
Lucas grinned. "Tap on some plastic and cross your fingers."
He turned to see his squire pulling up on a dolly with his gear all packed. He had left word where he could be found so that he wouldn't have to wait around to meet whomever it would turn out to be. It was one of the few advantages of being a non-com. You could get an enlisted man to draw your supplies. In this case, the enlisted man was part of the supplies, since he would be going along as Priest's orderly.
Lucas Priest's squire was a whipcord thin young corporal named Hooker. It came as a surprise to him that he was not expected to call Lucas "sir" or "Mr. Priest." Where they were going, the term was probably going to be "milord," but Lucas tried to avoid military protocol as much as possible. He passed Hooker a cup of coffee. The corporal cracked the seal on it and the cup began to steam. They woke up Finn Delaney. It took some doing. Delaney was a surly lifer who was built like a gorilla. He immediately got into Priest's good graces by offering him a Diehard. Lucas pulled one out and rubbed it along the side of the pack, igniting it.
"Code Green, Forty Fowar, Code Green, Forty-Fowar, report to Seven Yellow, Grid Six Hundred, Seven Yellow, Grid Six Hundred."
"Well, that's us," said Lucas, taking several quick drags on the cigarette before stubbing it out with his boot. It would probably be a long time before he had another one, assuming he made it back alive.
* * * *
The chronoplate left Lucas feeling slightly vertiginous, as it always did. He had never been able to get used to it, but his reaction was less severe than Hooker's.
"Didn't anyone tell you not to eat anything within two hours of clocking out?'' he said.
Hooker looked puzzled for a moment, then got the joke. It was rare for the army to leave anyone waiting around at a departure station for much more than an hour. So long as a soldier was in Plus Time, the clock was ticking away. If a soldier was in Minus Time and had ample warning of a clock out, there might be two hours during which he could refrain from eating, but the pickup squads rarely gave anyone that much notice. They liked to cut it close.
"I think the last time I ate was a couple of thousand years ago," said Hooker, grinning weakly. "I could've saved myself the trouble. I didn't even get a chance to digest anything."
"Welcome to 12th century England, gentlemen," said the referee.
Lucas was surprised. Very surprised. It was not unusual to run across observers in the field, but what sort of hitch required the presence of a ref in Minus Time?
"Questions can wait a while, gentlemen," said the ref, a soft-spoken, professorial sort. "First things first. Mr. Hooker, you'll be pleased to know that we have third mess laid on for you and that you'll have the opportunity to digest your meal this time. If you'll follow me, please?"
Hooker and Delaney began to pick up the gear, but the ref told them to leave it. "It will be taken care of," he said. They glanced at each other, shrugged, then followed Priest and Johnson.
"We must be the last ones through," said Bobby. "Everybody else must already be at mess. With our luck, all we'll get is table scraps."
But such was not the case. They trudged a short distance to a prefabricated hut where they were served venison, kidney pie, roast pheasant, squab and potatoes cooked in an open fire so that their skin was black and crackly. They drank a truly potent ale. It was one of the best meals Lucas Priest had eaten since he had joined the service. That made him worry.
The referee sat with them, but did not eat and except for the orderlies who served them, no one else was present.
"Excuse me, sir," said Johnson, "where is everybody?"
"There is no one else, Mr. Johnson," said the ref.
"You mean that there are only four of us on this hitch?"