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The Army didn't exactly know how to train doctors to be soldiers. Oliver Harmon Jones, board-qualified neurosurgeon and extremely reluctant officer, had figured the three weeks of basic training he had been told was compulsory before he went overseas was going to be as bad - but there were limits on how bad it could be, because it was also clear that nothing but proven physical unfitness was going to make the army let go of a board-qualified surgeon eligible for being called up for military service.
Jones had got through pre-med on a football scholarship, though he'd switched to track and field as soon as he got to Columbia. The white football coach at Columbia had not been happy about that, and Jones had learned to ignore him. He was not supposed to ignore the sergeants, but keeping a steady smile on his face while a burly white man shouted at him was nearly as effective with sergeants as it had been with Coach Gordon.
What Jones had not expected, though he realised he should have, was that he'd be the only black doctor. This wasn't obvious immediately, as the doctors were getting shoved or led from one room to the next, in clusters, with career sergeants and corporals issuing semi-respectful orders to the confused crowd of newly-fledged captains, but when the twenty-odd doctors were all sitting down at two long tables in the canteen, there were nineteen-odd white faces, and there was Jones.
The only other black man in the canteen was a corporal who was serving food under direction from the white sergeant. Jones eyed him as he held out his mess tray, and the black corporal eyed him back and dolloped meatloaf and greens and potatoes on his tray exactly the same as he did to the white doctors lining up before and after him.
A white man with the clusters that Jones had learned this morning meant "Major", came in while they were eating. Some of the doctors started to get up. The white man waved them back. "At ease," he said, in a friendly voice. "You've got an hour for lunch. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. I've just got your room assignments. When you're done eating, go show this slip to the supply sergeant." He went round the table, Everyone got a slip of paper with a room number on it.
The white doctor sitting next to Jones glanced down at the slip of paper for Jones, then at his own, then at his neighbour's. Then he got up, peered at the slips of paper across the table, too, and went to the Major. "Hey," he said.
"You call me 'Sir,' captain," the Major said.
"Sir. Hey, how come the black guy rates a single and we all have to double up?"
Oh.
Jones looked down at the slip of paper. He looked up again, and saw the major, and the white doctor who'd protested his having a single, and all the white doctors at the table, all staring at him.
"Permission to state the extremely fucking obvious, sir?" Jones said. He was looking directly at the major. "I get to room alone because all you white guys got BO, and you'd keep me awake."
At the other end of the table, someone laughed.
The major didn't even smile. He said to Jones, "Permission denied. Another crack like that and you'll be on report, Jones." He added, to the white doctor, "Room assignments are not your concern, Captain."
"Hey," a voice said, from the other end of the table. "Hey. Your Majorness."
"You call me 'sir,' Captain," the major said.
"Sir." The man rose to his feet, and waved in a way that didn't even pretend to look like a salute. "Can I share with Doctor Jones? Sir?"
"You want to share with Jones?" The Major stared. "Name?"
"Pierce, Benjamin Franklin," the man said, and Jones knew him: a tall scrawny Mainer from a backwoods land-grant college. Pierce had been trying as hard to get on the football team at Columbia as Jones had been working hard to stay out of it.
"Fine," the major said, after a moment. He walked over and grabbed Pierce's room slip, then came over to Jones and held out his hand. "Give me your room slip, Jones." He glanced at it, wrote the room number on it onto Pierce's slip, and added his initials. "No one gets to trade room assignments without my authorisation," he said, flatly. "So don't get any smart ideas."
Pierce took back his room slip, and smiled: a wide and cheerful smile. "What would a mere doctor be doing with smart ideas?" He looked down at Jones, and held out his hand.
Jones stood up, discovering to his pleasure that he was two inches taller than Pierce and three inches taller than the Major. He shook hands with Pierce, and managed the best salute he could at the major. "Okay, Pierce, let's go check out our room."
"Hawkeye," said Pierce, wandering out after him. "I remember you from Columbia. You're Spearchucker."
The guys on the track and field team had taken to calling Jones that after they'd seen how far he could throw a javelin. Jones hadn't argued. But he hadn't expected it from Pierce.
"How come you want to share with me?" Jones asked.
"I was trying to make conversation with the doctor on the right and he was telling me about the Red Menace. I was trying to make conversation with the doctor on my left and he was telling me all about how much money he's losing in private practice every day he's made to be here. If I had to share a room for three weeks with either of them I'd go nuts. Married?"
"No," Jones said.
"Play poker?"
"No," Jones said.
"Drink?"
"Thanks."
The supply sergeant was white. He issued their room supplies without more than a few suspicious looks, to which Pierce grinned wildly and Jones kept a steady smile on his face.
The room was smaller than your average motel room, and the beds were short enough that Jones figured his feet would hang off the end. He had never shared a room with a white guy before.
Pierce was holding out a liquor flask.
"What's that?"
"Gin," Pierce said. He uncapped it, took a swig. "Scotch," he corrected himself, and held out the flask to Jones.
"You fruitcake, don't you remember what they said about drinking on base?" There was a licensed officer's club, and they weren't allowed in. They were expected to do their three weeks basic sober.
"What do you think they're going to do," Pierce asked. "Draft us into the army and send us to Korea?"
"Look," Jones said, more or less patiently. "There are going to be good and bad assignments. Are you board-qualified or did they get you out of residency?"
"Double board-qualified, general and thoracic surgery," Pierce said.
"Right. You are headed for a nice clean military hospital in Tokyo. I am headed for a battalion aid station on the front lines. Unless I convince the army that I am twice as good as any white surgeon. "
"You're a board-qualified surgeon too," Pierce said, sounding more serious. "Neurosurgery, right? Why would they waste you in battalion aid?"
There was a short silence as they stared at each other.
"I am not going to fuck up," Jones said. He pointed at the liquor flask. "And you can fuck things up for yourself but you are not going to fuck them up for me. Flash that around and I'm going to kick you out ."
Pierce blinked. He looked as if he were actually considering this.
"Okay," he said, after a moment. "Okay, fine." He went into the bathroom. After a moment, Jones heard the commode flush. Pierce came back out again, waving the empty flask. "All gone, Okay, no poker, no drinking. What do you do for fun?"
"Sex," Jones said.
Pierce beamed.