Chapter 3 - The Weight of Brass
Reese straightened up so fast his elbow clipped his water cup. It wobbled, slopped a puddle across the Formica, and settled.
"First Sergeant," Reese said, coming to a parade rest so rigid his spine looked ready to snap. "Nothing, First Sergeant. Just... checking credentials. Visitor in the hall."
Master Sergeant Holloway didn't look at Reese. He looked at the floor, where the water was dripping. Then he looked at Reese's untidy sleeve. Then, slowly, his dark eyes moved down to where I was sitting with my hands folded in my lap.
The big man froze.
The irritation on Holloway’s face did not turn into anger. It turned into something that looked terribly like terror, followed immediately by absolute reverence.
He took his cover off his head—a breach of regulations inside a mess hall that would have gotten a private three days of kitchen duty—and held it in both hands against his stomach.
"Miss Quinn?" he said.
The room, which had been silent, somehow became entirely vacuum-sealed. You could not hear a fork. You could not hear the ice machines humming in the back.
"Hello, Thomas," I said mildly. "The chili is a little heavy on the cumin today, but the cornbread is almost as good as your mother used to make."
Holloway let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. He shot a look at Reese that could have melted the front bumper off a Humvee.
"Sergeant Reese," Holloway said, his voice dropping into an octave that made the plates rattle on the nearby racks. "Did you just address this lady?"
"I... First Sergeant, she didn't have her pass visible, and she was wearing the crest—"
"Did you speak to her?" Holloway stepped forward. He did not yell. He didn't have to. "Did you lean over her table while she was eating her meal?"
Reese’s mouth opened and closed. "I was maintaining standards, First Sergeant. Battalion policy on unauthorized—"
"Sergeant," Holloway interrupted, leaning down until his nose was approximately two inches from the younger man's ear. "Do you know who that woman is?"
"She said... her name is Braddock."
"That woman," Holloway said, each syllable landing like an iron spike into frozen dirt, "was sewing boys from this division back together when your daddy was still wetting his diapers. That woman walked into Firebase Ripcord when the third battalion was cut off, and she stayed through seventy-two hours of mortar barrages because the medical officer took a round through both lungs on hour two."
Reese blinked. The red in his cheeks was gone now, replaced by an ugly, mottled white.
"She doesn't need a pass to sit in this room," Holloway continued, his voice rising just enough to reach every single ear at all seventy tables. "She has a lifetime dispensation signed by General Westmoreland and countersigned by every commanding general of the 101st Airborne since 1969. If she wants to come in here and eat chili, we set the table with real silver. If she wants to burn this building to the ground, you go outside and fetch her a can of gasoline. Do you understand me, Sergeant?"
"Yes, First Sergeant," Reese choked out.
"Now," Holloway said, standing tall again. "You are going to apologize to Miss Quinn. And then you are going to go to the company office, and you are going to tell Captain Hayes that you require twenty-four hours of extra duty cleaning the grease traps behind the ovens."
"Wait, Thomas," I said, picking up my napkin and dabbing at my lips.
Holloway turned back to me, the fury washing out of his face, replaced again by that careful, gentle deference. "Ma'am?"
"Don't give him the grease traps," I said. "Grease traps don't teach a boy anything except how to smell bad on a Friday night."
I looked up at Reese. He wouldn't meet my eyes now. He was staring at a spot on the wall three inches above my white hair, his neck stiff, his hands clenched behind his back until the knuckles were white.
"Sergeant Reese," I said. "Where are you from?"
His eyes flickered down, surprised. "Dyersburg, ma'am. Tennessee."
My heart did a small, strange turn in my ribs. A familiar knot tightened in my throat, cold and sharp as wire.
"Dyersburg," I repeated softly. "Near the river."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Sit down, Sergeant."
May you like
"Ma'am?"
"I didn't stutter. Pull out that orange plastic chair and sit down. Thomas, bring this boy a bowl of chili. And bring him a glass of water. He looks like he’s about to faint, and I hate having to listen to grown men hit the linoleum."
