"Jawohl," agreed Meyer.

"Certainly, sir. He understands Standard, he just can't speak it fluently."

"All right. Where did you two pick up those face scars? Heidelberg?"

"Nein—no, sir. Konigsberg."

"Same thing." Zim had picked up his baton after fighting Breekinridge; he twirled it and asked, "Perhaps you would each like to borrow one of these?"

"It would not be fair to you, sir," Heinrich answered carefully. "Bare hands, if you please."

"Suit yourself. Though I might fool you. Konigsberg, eh? Rules?"

"How can there be rules, sir, with three?"

"An interesting point. Well, let's agree that if eyes are gouged out they must be handed back when it's over. And tell your Korpsbruder that I'm ready now. Start when you like." Zim tossed his baton away; someone caught it.

"You joke, sir. We will not gouge eyes."

"No eye gouging, agreed. ‘Fire when ready, Gridley.' "

"Please?"

"Come on and fight! Or get back into ranks!"

Now I am not sure that I saw it happen this way; I may have learned part of it later, in training. But here is what I think happened: The two moved out on each side of our company commander until they had him completely flanked but well out of contact. From this position there is a choice of four basic moves for the man working alone, moves that take advantage of his own mobility and of the superior co-ordination of one man as compared with two—Sergeant Zim says (correctly) that any group is weaker than a man alone unless they are perfectly trained to work together. For example, Zim could have feinted at one of them, bounced fast to the other with a disabler, such as a broken kneecap then finished off the first at his leisure.

Instead he let them attack. Meyer came at him fast, intending to body check and knock him to the ground, I think, while Heinrich would follow through from above, maybe with his boots. That's the way it appeared to start.

And here's what I think I saw. Meyer never reached him with that body check. Sergeant Zim whirled to face him, while kicking out and getting Heinrich in the belly -- and then Meyer was sailing through the air, his lunge helped along with a hearty assist from Zim.

But all I am sure of is that the fight started and then there were two German boys sleeping peacefully, almost end to end, one face down and one face up, and Zim was standing over them, not even breathing hard. "Jones," he said. "No, Jones left, didn't he? Mahmud! Let's have the water bucket, then stick them back into their sockets. Who's got my toothpick?"

A few moments later the two were conscious, wet, and back in ranks. Zim looked at us and inquired gently, "Anybody else? Or shall we get on with setting-up exercises?"

I didn't expect anybody else and I doubt if he did. But from down on the left flank, where the shorties hung out, a boy stepped out of ranks, came front and center. Zim looked down at him. "Just you? Or do you want to pick a partner?"

"Just myself, sir."

"As you say. Name?"

"Shujumi, sir."

Zim's eyes widened. "Any relation to Colonel Shujumi?"

"I have the honor to be his son, sir."

"Ah so! Well! Black Belt?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"I'm glad you qualified that. Well, Shujumi, are we going to use contest rules, or shall I send for the ambulance?"

"As you wish, sir. But I think, if I may be permitted an opinion, that contest rules would be more prudent."

"I don't know just how you mean that, but I agree." Zim tossed his badge of authority aside, then, so help me, they backed off, faced each other, and bowed.

After that they circled around each other in a half crouch, making tentative passes with their hands, and looking like a couple of roosters.

Suddenly they touched—and the little chap was down on the ground and Sergeant Zim was flying through the air over his head. But he didn't land with the dull, breath-paralyzing thud that Meyer had; he lit rolling and was on his feet as fast as Shujumi was and facing him. "Banzai!" Zim yelled and grinned.

"Arigato," Shujumi answered and grinned back.

They touched again almost without a pause and I thought the Sergeant was going to fly again. He didn't; he slithered straight in, there was a confusion of arms and legs and when the motion slowed down you could see that Zim was tucking Shujumi's left foot in his right ear—a poor fit.

Shujumi slapped the ground with a free hand; Zim let him up at once.

They again bowed to each other.

"Another fall, sir?"

"Sorry. We've got work to do. Some other time, eh? For fun... and honor. Perhaps I should have told you; your honorable father trained me."

"So I had already surmised, sir. Another time it is."

Zim slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Back in ranks, soldier. C'pnee!"

Then, for twenty minutes, we went through calisthenics that left me as dripping hot as I had been shivering cold. Zim led it himself, doing it all with us and shouting the count. He hadn't been mussed that I could see; he wasn't breathing hard as we finished. He never led the exercises after that morning (we never saw him again before breakfast; rank hath its privileges), but he did that morning, and when it was over and we were all bushed, he led us at a trot to the mess tent, shouting at us the whole way to "Step it up! On the bounce! You're dragging your tails!"

We always trotted everywhere at Camp Arthur Currie. I never did find out who Currie was, but he must have been a trackman.

Breckinridge was already in the mess tent, with a cast on his wrist but thumb and fingers showing. I heard him say, "Naw, just a greenstick fractchuh—ah've played a whole quahtuh with wuss. But you wait -- ah'll fix him."

I had my doubts. Shujumi, maybe—but not that big ape. He simply didn't know when he was outclassed. I disliked Zim from the first moment I laid eyes on him. But he had style.

Breakfast was all right—all the meals were all right; there was none of that nonsense some boarding schools have of making your life miserable at the table. If you wanted to slump down and shovel it in with both hands, nobody bothered you -- which was good, as meals were practically the only time somebody wasn't riding you. The menu for breakfast wasn't anything like what I had been used to at home and the civilians that waited on us slapped the food around in a fashion that would have made Mother grow pale and leave for her room—but it was hot and it was plentiful and the cooking was okay if plain. I ate about four times what I normally do and washed it down with mug after mug of coffee with cream and lots of sugar—I would have eaten a shark without stopping to skin him.

Jenkins showed up with Corporal Bronski behind him as I was starting on seconds. They stopped for a moment at a table where Zim was eating alone, then Jenkins slumped onto a vacant stool by mine. He looked mighty seedy-pale, exhausted, and his breath rasping. I said, "Here, let me pour you some coffee."

He shook his head.

"You better eat," I insisted. "Some scrambled eggs -- they'll go down easily."

"Can't eat. Oh, that dirty, dirty so-and-so." He began cussing out Zim in a low, almost expressionless monotone. "All I asked him was to let me go lie down and skip breakfast. Bronski wouldn't let me—said I had to see the company commander. So I did and I told him I was sick, I told him. He just felt my cheek and counted my pulse and told me sick call was nine o'clock. Wouldn't let me go back to my tent. Oh, that rat! I'll catch him on a dark night, I will."

I spooned out some eggs for him anyway and poured coffee. Presently he began to eat. Sergeant Zim got up to leave while most of us were still eating, and stopped by our table. "Jenkins."

"Uh? Yes, sir."

"At oh-nine-hundred muster for sick call and see the doctor."

Jenkins' jaw muscles twitched. He answered slowly, "I don't need any pills—sir. I'll get by."