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“They’re not going to kick you out now,” Jenou says, and gives her friend a hug before holding her out at arm’s length to look her up and down. “Well, there you go, honey. You are a legal adult.”

“Clearly we need a beer to celebrate,” Cat says. “How the hell do we find it, that’s the question.”

“Down that alley over on the right,” Beebee says, which earns him curious looks from his companions. He shrugs. “I noticed some GIs coming out. They looked like they’d been drinking.”

Cat slaps him on his narrow shoulder, earning a wince, and says, “We may have use for you after all, young Bassingthwaite. Lead on!”

The tavern is a low-ceilinged, dimly lit place with a short and narrow door providing the only light. Had there been artificial light it likely would not have penetrated the thick blue cigarette smoke that swirls and hovers and is parted by the squad’s entry into the room. At least twenty GIs are crammed in so tightly that the two small round tables have become de facto stools.

Rio has been in British pubs, and those could be raucous at times—she has sidestepped more than one drunken brawl between American GIs and British Tommies. Or between American GIs and American sailors. Or between white GIs and black GIs. Or . . . Well, fit, energetic young men far from their families had a tendency to get into trouble, especially when drunk. But the tone of this place is subtly different. Here there is more weariness on the one hand and on the other hand a more desperate edge to the braying laughter. There are silent, sullen drinkers and loud, lit-up, electrified drinkers who are all raw nerve.

Rio checks shoulder patches and the condition of uniforms and the look in men’s eyes and knows these are not rear-echelon soldiers but men who had been in the fight.

There are a number of long looks plus the inevitable catcalls and lewd propositions as Rio, Jenou, Jillion, and Cat, with their male escort Beebee, walk in. The more civilized men offer to buy them drinks; others offer to give them a baby so they can muster out and go home.

The four women have very different ways of dealing with this. Jenou smiles and in a loud, welcoming voice says, “I’ll decide who buys me a drink, and it ain’t you, short stuff. I want handsome and I want rich. If you’re rich enough, I’ll give a pass on the handsome.”

This confuses most of the men and leaves them temporarily stalled, unsure how to proceed. They might be veterans, these men, but few are over twenty-five and none of them are suave or sophisticated with women.

Cat Preeling has a different approach. When a rowdy, red-faced buck sergeant comes up demanding a dance—despite the absence of music or room to dance—Cat says, “Aw, fug that. Pull up and tell me a war story, Sarge.” In five minutes Cat has a gaggle of men around her, all competing to come up with the best story, or failing that then the most extravagant complaint about the army. And of course Cat is giving back as good as she gets.

Jillion is the lost lamb, clinging nervously beside Rio, glancing toward every new sound. Rio manages to push her way up to the bar—actually a section of perforated steel resting at a noticeable angle on a sawhorse and a chest of drawers. The man behind the bar glares at her with naked hostility as she says, “A beer, please, and one for my buddy here.”

The barman ignores her. So Rio pulls the knife and scabbard from her belt and lays it on the bar, examining her recent purchase. She draws the blade, holds it up to the smoky light, and runs her finger carefully along both sharpened edges.

The beers appear, and the knife is put away.

“I wish I could do that,” Jillion says ruefully.

“It’s all bluff,” Rio says. “But don’t tell anyone.” She avoids smiling because she knows her grin, which is slow to arrive but dazzling when it does appear, makes her look even younger than her current just-barely eighteen years.

“I’ve only ever tasted beer once,” Jillion says. “I didn’t like it then. But now I like anything wet.” She offers Rio a cigarette, which Rio declines, then lights one for herself.

She’s a fussy person, Jillion, with quick, small movements and an air of alertness that makes Rio think of a squirrel hiding its nuts. She has none of the physical robustness that Rio, Jenou, and Cat all share, and Rio wonders, not for the first time, how Jillion made it through basic training. She can’t picture this nervous squirrel running five miles in full gear, though to be fair she’s always kept up with the rest of the squad. Not much of a fighter, maybe, and a bit of a goldbrick, but there are others in the platoon as useless. Or almost as useless.

“So, what’s your story, Magr

aff?” Rio asks, partly from curiosity, more just to have an excuse to shut out the noise around her.

“Me?” It comes out almost as a squeak. “Well . . .” She has to think about it while hunching her shoulders around her drink as if afraid it will be snatched out of her hands. “I’m from a place called Chapel Hill in North Carolina. It’s where the university is.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Small town really, I guess. My father works in a print shop. I was figuring to go to work there maybe someday.”

“What does he print?”

“Oh, you know, flyers and church bulletins and diner menus and such. But they do some artwork sometimes and well, I kind of, uh . . .”

“You like art?”

Jillion nods and looks away as if admitting something shameful.

“I see you drawing sometimes in that notebook you have.”

“It passes the time.”

“What do you draw?” Rio asks, and now she’s actually interested. The closest she’s come to knowing anyone with artistic interests is Strand, who enjoys taking pictures. Her hand moves involuntarily to the inner pocket where she keeps her photographs and letters.