And beyond the rotisserie, the soldiers had made camp. Lanterns had been hung, and the platoon seemed to be finishing dinner.
Reverend General Zanzinger spotted us and waved us over.
"Hungry?" Zanzinger said — smiling, we thought. "The Lord provides!"
"We’re fine," Hattie replied, as the two of us scanned the rows of dining soldiers, desperately searching, now, for signs of the missing hood-ornament man.
"Thank you, no," said I. "Awfully kind of you to offer."
"Nonsense!" the reverend general barked. "Corporal! Plates for our guests! Stack ’em high!" Then he turned back to Hattie and me, and again, we thought, smiled. "Cold night."
"Sure is," Hattie replied, as the young, proud corporal approached with two plates of sad, stringy flesh, roasted black.
We stared at the charred remains and fell silent. I reached into my back pocket, found two clean rags and handed one to Hattie; we raised them to our eyes and mouths and looked for a way out.
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