Free Blackbone by George Simpson, Neal Burger

Aberdeen, South Dakota, Corporal Strann was getting impatient. He wanted to see the Missouri River. His daddy had always said it was a hell of a sight. “If you’re ever traveling west on the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul & Pacific,” he had said, “don’t be caught napping when she crosses the Missouri. The river’s five miles wide at that point and the grandest sight you’ll ever see. When she passes Mobridge, get out on the platform and soak it up.”
    It was night, though. Shouldn’t matter much. Lots of moonlight.
    Kirst was staring at him with the blankest eyes Strann had ever seen, even for a kraut. Ever since leaving New York, Kirst had been a zombie, hardly acknowledging when he was spoken to. Next to him, the other MP, Kalmus, was asleep, dead to the world. Strann growled to himself.
    Fuck this detail. Thought you were a real smart sonofabitch, getting out of the infantry to become an MP. Well look what it gets you. Three days’ duty transporting a kraut across country to a prison camp in Montana, for Christ’s sake. A kraut You used to kill krauts.
    Strann ran a hand over his grimy face and felt the harsh stubble. He sniffed his armpit. God, he reeked.
    Can’t even take a slower watching this lousy kraut And Kalmus does nothing but sleep all the time. Hope he wakes before Mobridge.
    Strann considered kicking Kalmus awake and blaming it on Kirst. Then maybe there would be some sparks. He glanced over to be sure Kirst was still handcuffed to the seat.
    Christ, I wish he’d close his eyes or at least stop looking at me.
    Strann cupped his balls. “Hey, kraut, want to see something cute?”
    Kirst’s head rolled with the motion of the train.
    The clickety rhythm must have him in a trance. Some guys are like that. Bet the bastard stares at me all the way to White Sulphur Springs.
    Strann unzipped his fly and hauled out his penis. He winked at Kirst. “Hey, kraut? Ever seen Yankee cock before? Hey, I’ve fucked a lot of kraut girls with this, and the kraut guys with my gun. You know the difference? One is for shooting—the other’s for fun.”
    No reaction.
    Strann’s smile faded. He put his penis away. “Know how many Germans I’ve killed? Nine. That’s right, kraut. North Africa, with PattOn. Right there in the goddamned desert, I killed nine of you fuckers. And what have you been doing? Sneaking around the Atlantic in a fucking U-boat. They’re gonna love you at Blackbone, kraut. They’re MPs like me. They’re gonna cut your goddamned balls off and put ‘em in your soup. Krautball soup! What do you think of that? Huh? Hey—you might at least blink!” Strann snapped his fingers under Kirst’s eyes. “Lemme know you’re alive!”
    Something gleamed briefly in Kirst’s eye.
    Strann missed it. He thought he saw a flicker of interest, but then it went right back to that cold stare. Strann growled again, then he kicked Kalmus.
    Fifteen minutes later, the porter came by to make up the berths. While Kalmus held the muzzle of his .45 to Kirst’s chin, Strann unlocked the cuffs. Then he pushed the German down on the bunk, handcuffed him again, and threw a blanket over him.
    Kirst never took his eyes off Strann. He never spoke either.
    “I’ll take the first watch,” said Kalmus.
    “Like shit you will,” Strann replied. “Park your ass in that upper berth. I’m going out for a smoke.”
    “Okay, okay.” Kalmus had learned not to argue with Strann. He hoisted himself into the upper berth and watched Strann walk up the aisle.
    Strann opened the vestibule door and was struck by the cold wind, the racketing noise, and the back and forth motion of connecting cars. He released the door and it shot closed, leaving him in the open vestibule. He hauled out his Camels and cupped his hands to light one. When he looked up, the train was passing through Mobridge.
    The Missouri River was less than four miles away.
     
    Blackness stirred inside Rolf Kirst. It flowed through his organs, sluggishly