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“A colored officer?”

Green heaves himself up. “Yep. Unfortunately he figures he needs to win the war all by himself. Whatever color, an officer’s an officer.”

He offers his hand and helps Frangie to her feet.

“Well, I hear there’s a war on,” Walter says.

“That’s the rumor,” Frangie says.

For a long, awkward moment they look at each other, and then with a frustrated snort Walter walks away to intercept his lieutenant.

The tank battalion forms up and begins to rattle toward the draw. Rosemary Manning pulls up in the jeep. Deacon is perched on the back, legs dangling.

“You get more two-inch compresses?” Frangie asks.

Manning is a cheerful beanpole, one of those people who through no fault of their own make one think of a fish. Her eyes bulge from a narrow face. “Got it all, Doc.”

Frangie swings herself into the passenger seat, twists and surveys her goods as Manning steers in the tracks of the tanks.

White soldiers line the draw, many asleep hunched over, some playing cards or rereading old letters. Frangie is used to hearing at least a few slurs and insults, but these soldiers are exhausted and shaken up, and anyway, it doesn’t take a foot soldier long to develop a deep appreciation for any tank with a big white American star, regardless of who is driving it.

Then someone does call out, “Hey, Marr!”

It’s Rio’s friend, Jenou Castain. She’s leaning against a piece of broken concrete and writing in a tattered journal.

Frangie waves. “How you doing?”

“Time of my life,” Jenou calls back.

Frangie laughs, and they drive on.

“Who’s that white girl?” Manning asks.

“Friend of a friend,” Frangie says.

Manning glances at her. “You got white friends?”

“One or two.”

“On account of you being a medic and all.”

“Nah, I met her best friend, Richlin, when we were at basic side by side.” She smiles. “We hid in a tree from a wild boar.”

Manning clearly finds this hard to believe. “You must be from the north.”

“Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

“Tulsa! Well, I’ll be.” Manning frequently says “I’ll be,” but she has yet to say what she’ll be. “You fixing to be a nurse after the war, Doc?” There’s a distinct tone of disbelief.

Frangie is not in the mood to have anyone tell her she can’t be a doctor. It might be a pipe dream, but it’s part of what keeps her going. She deflects. “How about you?”

“Me?” Manning sighs and shifts gears with a grinding sound. “I haven’t thought about it. I suppose I’ll get married, have maybe three . . . no, four . . . little ones.”

“Are you engaged?”

Manning laughs as if this is the funniest question ever. She laughs till tears fill her eyes and she’s in danger of driving off the side of the road they have now reached. Finally she says, “Me, engaged?” She shifts gears and the transmission sounds like it’s full of gravel. “No. No, no, no. Not yet. Maybe never. I’d like to be, but boys don’t like girls taller than them. See, that’s your advantage, Doc, if you don’t mind me saying so. There aren’t many menfolk shorter than you.”

“True enough,” Frangie allows, and thinks of Walter who has a few inches on her, but would have to tilt his head back to make eye contact with Manning.