Lying around doing nothing with nobody to yell at him for it felt strange, almost unnatural. Not worrying about snipers or machine guns felt even stranger. He got plenty of chow-not wonderful chow, but better than the canned stuff he’d been eating most of the time. He got all the cigarettes he wanted, even if they were U.S. barge scrapings instead of Confederate tobacco.

And the nurses were…nurses. Women. Some of them were tough old battleaxes who’d been taking care of people since the Great War. Others, though, were young and cute and friendly. Armstrong hoped some of them would prove more than friendly. Guys who’d been there a while told stories about nurses who helped soldiers recuperate by hopping into bed with them. But soldiers always told stories about women. Armstrong didn’t see anything like that, no matter how much he wished he would.

Even so, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around women who didn’t want to blow his brains out. It reminded him there was a bigger world out there than the one that involved storming the next apartment building full of Mormons or Canucks.

So did reading newspapers and listening to the wireless. Oh, they were full of things like the reconquest of Bermuda and the U.S. drive aimed at Chattanooga. But that wasn’t all. They didn’t go on about the war twenty-four hours a day. There were stories about crime and scandal and films and a lady in Schenectady who’d had quadruplets.

That one impressed the nurses more than it did Armstrong. “Men!” one of them sniffed when she found out Armstrong didn’t get it. “Can you imagine trying to take care of four little tiny babies all at once? Can you imagine trying to take care of four two-year-olds all at once? My God!” She rolled her eyes.

Armstrong couldn’t imagine anything like that. But, since Susan was young and cute instead of being a battleaxe, he did his best. “Bad?” he asked.

“My God!” she repeated. “My kids are almost two years apart, and they still drive me nuts. But four of them doing the same things, making the same messes, getting into the same trouble all at the same time? I hope she’s got lots of people helping her, that’s all I can tell you.”

She wore a wedding ring. Armstrong hadn’t even noticed before. Damn, he thought. “Where’s your husband stationed?” he asked.

“He’s in west Texas right now,” Susan answered. “He’s been lucky so far.” She reached out and knocked on the nightstand by his iron-framed cot. “But when I see what can happen to you guys…” She grimaced.

“I’m getting better,” said Armstrong, not the least self-centered young man around. But then he realized that might need something more with it. He did his best: “Most of us are getting better.”

He won a smile from the nurse. “I know,” she said. “But I still worry. How can I help it?”

“I guess you can’t, but it doesn’t do you any good,” Armstrong said. “It doesn’t do your husband any good, either. What’s his name, anyway?” He didn’t give a rat’s ass what the guy’s name was, but asking might make Susan like him better, and who could say where that would take him?

Her smile got bigger-she did appreciate the question. “He’s Jerry,” she said. “He’s so sweet…” Her face went all mushy. If she’d looked at Armstrong that way, he would have been in business. Since she was thinking about Jerry instead, he just lay there and smiled himself and nodded. He didn’t hope the guy would stop an antibarrel round with his face, but he didn’t exactly love him, either.

He watched Susan’s perky behind as she went to check on the wounded man in the next bed. He wasn’t the only recovering soldier watching her. The guys in this ward were wounded, yeah, but they were a long way from dead.

That afternoon, Susan bustled up to him with a different kind of smile on her face. She was pleased for him. “You’ve got visitors,” she announced, then turned and said, “You can come in now.”

In walked his father and mother. His mother gave him a big hug and a kiss. His father squeezed his hand hard and said, “I’m proud of you, son.”

“What? For getting shot?” Armstrong said. “I’m not proud of that. It was just bad luck.”

“No, not for getting shot.” Merle Grimes’ left hand stayed on the head of his cane. “For being brave enough to fight in the front line, and for doing it well.”

His old man had done his fighting a generation earlier, and he must have forgotten how things worked. You didn’t go to the front line because you were brave. You went there because some slob with stars on his shoulder straps decided your regiment could do a particular job-or maybe because you drew the short straw. And if you didn’t go forward when the other guys did, the Army made sure you caught hell. If you did go forward, you had a chance of coming through, anyway.

“You’re going to be all right,” his mother said. “The nurse told us so.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Armstrong said. “I probably won’t even have a limp.” They were talking about putting him back on duty once he healed up, so he figured the chances he’d be able to walk straight were pretty fair.

“That’s good,” Edna Grimes said. “Not that it would be the end of the world,” she added hastily, looking at her husband.

“I understood what you meant,” Merle Grimes said. “I’m not ashamed of my limp or anything-I earned it honestly. But I wouldn’t be sorry if I didn’t have it.”

“Thanks for coming, both of you. You didn’t have to do anything like this,” Armstrong said.

“Oh, yes, we did,” his mother and father said together.

“Who’s taking care of Annie?” he asked. His little sister was getting big these days; she didn’t need as much care as she would have a few years earlier.

“Your Aunt Clara has her,” his mother answered. “She says she hopes you get better soon-Clara does, I mean. So does Annie, of course.”

“That’s nice,” Armstrong said, as politely as he could. He didn’t like his aunt, and it was mutual. Clara was his mom’s half sister, and only a couple of years older than he was. They hadn’t been able to stand each other ever since they were little kids. He was surprised Clara didn’t hope he’d got his dick shot off.

His mother always tried to pretend things weren’t as bad as they really were. His father, who didn’t, chuckled. “She doesn’t want to see you dead, Armstrong,” he said. “Not unless she does it herself, anyway.”

“Merle!” By her tone, Edna Grimes would make Dad pay for that, no matter how true it was.

“Oh, come on, Edna. I was joking,” he said. At the same time, though, he tipped Armstrong a wink. He wasn’t joking a bit, but he didn’t feel like fighting with his wife. He looked at the bandages on Armstrong’s leg. “How did it happen?”

“We were pushing north toward Winnipeg. The Canucks had a strongpoint in a farmhouse,” Armstrong answered. “I was one of the guys moving up, and the damn machine gun got me. Bad luck, that’s all, like I said before.” He paused. “How did you get wounded, Dad?” He’d never felt able to ask before. Now they both belonged to the same fraternity. He’d had himself a.30-caliber initiation.

“It was a trench raid,” Merle Grimes answered without the slightest hesitation. “We used to pull them all the time, to grab a few prisoners and see what the guys on the other side were up to. The front didn’t move then the way it does nowadays. We got in, we threw some grenades around, we caught some Confederates, and we were on our way back when some son of a bitch-excuse me, Edna-nailed me from behind. Stinky Morris and Herm Cassin got me back to our side of the line, and it was off to an aid station after that. It hurt like a…Well, it hurt like anything.”

“Yeah. I found out about that. For the first little bit, it was just like somebody knocked me down. But not for long.” Armstrong shook his head. “No, not for long.” He didn’t want to remember that, so he asked, “How are things back in D.C.?”