"So you're gonna kiss her?" Pulley sneered. "Why don't you throttle the gal? Why don't you beat her up? Or haven't you got the guts?"
Bolgar turned the anger on him. "Watch yourself, Sergeant!"
"Pulling rank?" It was a jeer.
"Shut up!"
Pulley swung his boots to the bed. "Okay, pal," he chuckled. "Have it your own way. You're asking for the same amount of trouble—whether you kiss her or kill her—"
"I'm going to kiss her," Bolgar said vacantly, dabbing at his face with a grimy cloth. "I'm going to wait for her by the mess hall. She comes out of quarters on Barton Street every night around ten o'clock. She cuts across the square, over to Pitcher Street. It's pretty deserted there, that time. I'm gonna jump out and—"
"Operation kiss," Bolgar laughed, toying with the medal on his chest. "The last victory of the war...."
Bolgar slipped into his coat. The unbleached cloth was shabby and threadbare, but the buttons were still bright and gleaming. The insignia of the 505th Army caught the light in the room brazenly, the iron hand clutching forked lightning. He had medals, too, and they jangled as he buttoned the coat up to its tight collar. At least, he thought, his medals were worn where they belonged.
"My!" Pulley said mockingly. "You look pretty, Lieutenant."
"Where's my cap?"