"We'll be leaving tomorrow," Captain Rotterdam reported, swanning into the hospital room and pausing as he caught sight of Dietrich with the book in her hands. "Studying?"
"I would not consider this studying," she replied, closing the book with a faintly racing heart. It was an absurd book but wildly entertaining and easily the best one that Nurse Nolan had brought her. "I do not think the adventures of a train robber and the marshall sent to collar them would be a good indication of ranching."
"No, I suppose not." Captain Rotterdam tilted his head to the side, "where did you get the book?"
"I gave it to her!" Nurse Nolan exclaimed cheerfully, swaying past the captain and the guards with her lunch. "You're leaving?" She glanced at Rotterdam and then at Dietrich, who nodded. "Gosh, you've been my favorite patient. How far are you into the Robber's Delight?"
"I have only just begun," she said, knowing that she would not be able to finish it before they left tomorrow.
"Well, I suppose you can keep it." Nurse Nolan said, ignoring Rotterdam completely. "It's a great book, and I really think you should finish it. Earnest Rush is such a fun author."
"It's dime store nonsense," Captain Rotterdam sighed, but he didn't look inclined to take the book.
"Thank you, Nurse Nolan," Dietrich said slowly, and as soon as the woman had left, the other captain dropped slowly into the seat beside her bed.
"Well, Captain Dietrich, we've got everything squared away, and you're due for the ranch in a few days. You'll be escorted by yours truly and a few guards. I trust."
"I know how to behave," she replied sourly, not entirely relishing the idea of travelling across the United States under heavy guard and still injured.
"Right," Captain Rotterdam sighed slowly, "you'll be just fine." It was less about Dietrich escaping and more about people attacking her. This wasn't too much of a problem; with the four guards, including Rotterdam, they made a peculiar sight as they loaded onto a train in the nearby town, and Dietrich was given a glimpse of the enormity of America.
The hills and mountains of New York state melted into the flat, nearly endless stretches of flat land that was only interesting because she had never been here before. Dietrich was absorbed with watching the landscape go by, watching snippets and glimpses of towns and people. The whole country hadn't faced the total destruction from the Great War, and none of the fighting touched it, giving the entire country a bizarre glow.
It was so normal . Rationing existed, the war was at the forefront of everyone's mind, but it wasn't like the towns and cities that Dietrich had been in over the years. Living in occupied territory, occupying new territory, and Americans really did smile too much.
"Captain," the surly guard nearest to the door looked miserable with being cooped up in the compartment. Rotterdam was gone further up the train, and the other guards were sleeping in preparation for his shift. The man's accent was bizarre, and he hadn't said more than a word since they'd boarded the train, and his resentment was visible on his face. If it was because he was one prison guard duty or because he was in close proximity to the enemy, she wasn't sure. He was well-disciplined despite his attitude and had taken to sitting in silence.
"Private?"
"There is an observation car," he said slowly, "and an observation deck on the back of the train."
"I see," she mused, the windows offered ample view, but there was something thrilling about seeing the whole country without the view of barbed wires, guards, and guns. Using her cane to push herself up, she waited for the first guard, who was jumpy and terrified, to leap into the corridor and proceed her down the hall. She followed and ignored the passengers' curious and sometimes frightened glances as they moved down the train through an observation car where Rotterdam looked up from his files. He said nothing, and Dietrich didn't bother to acknowledge him until she reached the observation deck to find it abandoned.
The air was sweet, rich, and utterly fascinating, the brushes growing alongside the train tracks whipped by, and it was so strange and so familiar that she took a long, slow lungful of the fresh air and settled back in her chair.
Her injury limited her mobility, but it wasn't the first time she had been stabbed, and she knew the routine for recovery. Which, despite being on the younger side of 30, she was willing to walk with the came Dr. Pierce had foisted upon her. She felt old in a way she hadn't since the achingly miserable days after her capture.
She was so far from home. Farther than she had ever been, across an ocean and crossing an enormous continent and each shake and roll of the train, she was getting further from home. North Africa had been a different continent and a different world altogether, but somehow America felt even more foreign.
The two privates were quiet until, as the sun was beginning to set, one said. "Is this what officers do all day? Sit here and do nothing." He sounded unhappy with standing in the relatively dropping chill of the temperature, but America at night was just as curious as America during the day. The sunset over an expanse of trees and field was captivating.
"Captured officers," she said, peering back at the young man. He was short, young, and looked bored. "Would you prefer an escape attempt?" The private glanced between her cane, the passing scenery and then seemed to remember the fact that four guards and an officer had been assigned to oversee her transfer.
"No, ma'am," he replied sullenly and seemed to retreat inward, only for the door to open, and Captain Rotterdam stuck his head out. He seemed pleased, and she finally took her attention from the passing landscape.
"Captain," he said, tipping his hat in her direction, "care to join me for dinner?"
"Join you?" She raised an eyebrow. She was an enemy officer and a prisoner, and the POW armband she wore was obvious to anyone if the four guards and the other officer were not.
"Sure," Rotterdam jerked his head at the guards, "boys, go take a break." When they moved further into the train, she stood slowly and faced the captain with a frown.
"You seem so certain."
"Well," Rotterdam said, with the easy, friendly smile he'd displayed the entire time she'd known him. "You've shown that three of your own officers are no trouble, so two privates and a captain should certainly cause no trouble if you really wanted to give us trouble. I'm counting on the fact that you might be wanting a good meal."
He was half correct. She did want something decent to eat, and she wasn't sure that American train food was going to whet her appetite for the finer was a pragmatic soldier, a front-line commander who hardly shied away from danger, but she was also a lady and a Dietrich.
The dining car was one she hadn't made it to yet, and she was surprised to find it tastefully decorated in a thoroughly American style, but it was still first-class. "Ah?" She limped along, wincing as the motion pulled at her surgery scar and took the seat that Rotterdam pulled out for her. "How peculiar." She stared out the window, ignoring the curious glances from the other couples and families on the train. A few hostile, but most of them were curious, and she glanced up at the tall, tired woman who appeared at their table with a notepad.
"What's your poison?" She asked, visibly disinterested in both of them, which was so much like the waitresses and waiters that Dietrich had met the world over that she had to smile.
"Just a beer for me," Rotterdam said and glanced at Dietrich. "Captain?"
"Is Kentucky bourbon available?" The waitress's eyes lifted from her notepad, ticking over her face and then to the armband. She looked confused, but when Rotterdam waved her off, she shrugged.
"How do you know about Kentucky bourbon?" Rotterdam asked curiously as the waitress wrote down her order without confirming it. Dietrich blinked a few times and didn't bother answering, and when the drinks made it to their table, she savored the first sip with a sigh and leaned back in her chair to get comfortable. It had been a long time since she'd had a decent drink, and after capturing a bottle meant for Private Pettigrew, she had spoiled for any other liquor. Beer was too weak, and whiskey was too sharp. And, given her status as a prisoner, she wasn't going to be covering the bill for dinner.
It was often that she could drink at the expense of the US government, and she was relishing the opportunity.
"Huh," Rotterdam grinned, and he sipped his beer with a grin. "You are one the strangest people I've ever met, Captain."
"I suppose you have not met many people then," she replied, thinking back to the Rat Patrol and the ever-present insanity they heralded.
"Maybe that's it," he didn't look convinced. "But you are strange. How do you know Kentucky bourbon? I didn't think it was popular in Germany."
"It isn't," she wondered if he was going to let it drop or if he was going to make an issue of it. "I came into possession of a bottle some time ago and found it to my liking."
"Came into possession?" He asked, his words tilting around as he angled for more information.
"Classified," she thought back to the terrified courier they'd captured, along with an entire unit's worth of mail.
"Fair enough," he seemed to have already guessed what the situation was. "Fair enough."
"American beer only reminds me of how much I miss German beer."
"Huh," he was staring at her over the rim of his glass. He was a desk officer, and while he had training, he had never faced combat. His skills, such as Dietrich could see them, were in clerical duties and talking to people. He was very good with people, and he knew how to calm even the worst of tempers between prisoners, guards, and officers. "I guess it's been a long time since you've been home."
"It will be longer before I return," she said, eyeing the waitress who bent close to the man as he gestured for her ear. For a moment, the woman's eyes flickered over to her and then back to the table. She nodded and retreated, and the captain stared levelly at the man. "What did you order?" She asked, and he shrugged.
"When you're done eating, remember to pay your compliments to the chef," he said, and Dietrich's eyebrows rose despite herself. She didn't want her food sabotaged, but it would take delicate words to convince a chef not to ruin it. What had he said?
It came soon enough, and she eyed the offered food with interest and heavily concealed excitement. It looked like food, not prison food, not rations, and not the nonsense she'd eaten in the desert. It was unfamiliar, but it smelled delicious and untampered with.
"Rationing," Captain Rotterdam explained with an uncomfortable shrug as if the fare in front of her wasn't some of the best she had seen in a while. "Err used to be better while travelling. You know."
Given that she had stolen and hoarded American rations, given how disgusting the Italian rations of tinned spaghetti were and how their rations had become both inedible and scarce, she simply responded with a shrug before setting her napkin across her lap and began to eat.
By the time her plate was cleared, Captain Rotterdam had hardly cleared through even a quarter of his plate, and as she set her fork and knife back down, his eyebrows rose impressively high, and he nodded.
"That is how I can tell you have never been to a battlefield," she said slowly, savoring her drink and leaning back to watch the man eat.
"I suppose you pick up different habits," Rotterdam paused. "Did you at least taste any of it?"
"I did," she said; she'd eaten quickly but not that quickly.
Rotterdam made a small noise of understanding and returned placidly to his food. He was, from what Dietrich remembered, exceptionally good at getting information out of people. None of the hamfisted techniques she'd seen her own interrogators use, but through simple conversation and usually loosening tongues with decent drinks and food. She doubted that any of the other officers of the camp had noticed, only seeing Rotterdam as a friendly, if bland aide who was possibly a little too friendly. Waiting in the commandant's outer office and accepting a random cup of tea from his aide had probably gotten more information out of her fellow prisoners than any enhanced interrogation technique.
She used the same technique herself while in the desert, but it was harder to do when many enemies considered you to be the face of the enemy and treated with justified suspicion. It had never worked on Sergeant Troy, who had just seemed amused the first time she'd tried it. Private Pettigrew could go an entire engagement without saying more than it took to repeat his name, rank, and serial number. Moffit would speak, but getting him to talk was impossible. Hitchcock was her go-to if she ever captured a Rat but had an irritating habit of ending up in the hospital.
"What more does your commander want?" She asked, and Rotterdam frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"What more does your commander want?" She repeated.
"I'm not sure that I'm picking up what you're putting down," he said, still looking at his plate. "We're eating. Well, I'm eating, and you're staring at me."
It was interesting how he pretended. In the beginning, before encountering the Rat Patrol, she had been view Americans through a singular lens. Assuming that they were friendly if a bit stupid and unbearably honest. The English in the desert had had an idiotic habit of underestimating her, which had suited her just fine, a habit that was sharply kicked almost a soon as Captain Boggs entered the desert and she faced down the Rat Patrol for the first time. The sheer number of duplicitous tricks that she'd encountered from the supposedly 'honest' Americans had prepared her well for the future. Acting seemed to be a talent found in the best officers on either side.
"Ignorance doesn't suit you," she told him instead of explaining what she'd observed. "Even falsified."
"You know, your English is impressive." He lifted his eyes from his plate, "better than most, even native-born speakers."
"Thank you."
"That had to annoy someone in the desert. How good is your American accent?"
"I don't have one?"
"Really?"
"I am an officer and a gentleman. I cannot lie," she lied, and as confused as he was over her word choice, he didn't look convinced. She could affect a decent American accent, and she could do it well enough to infiltrate bases and relay false messages through the radio transmissions.
"Uh, huh," he didn't look convinced, which spoke well of his ability to tease out the truth. "Right. Given the stories I've heard."
"Certainly, an officer would know better than to listen to such rumors," she asked, wondering if it was worth the effort to seem coy or even a little bit girlish.
"Rumors usually have a bit of truth about them," Rotterdam shrugged. "Now, I do have a question for you."
"Oh?" She pondered her drink and wondered if it was worth it to down the last of it.
"Would you care to play chess?" He asked, and she paused.
"Chess?"
"You know the rules, don't you?" She favored him with a flat, unimpressed stare. "Right, of course, you do. You're an officer and a gentleman."
"I could accept a chess match," she said, and her breath hitched painfully as her side began to ache. "Perhaps...later."
"My apologies, captain. Your injury must be giving you trouble. You've probably overexerted yourself."
"Bah," she hissed, waving him off.
"We can play chess after we transfer out of Chicago," Captain Rotterdam offered. "You should rest until we reach Union Station."