Nine at night and the rain has been on the pass since noon. The command post is a stone coaching inn with the windows taped and one lamp over the map table, and there is water in a bucket under the leak in the corridor because nobody has had time to fix it.
You have been her advisor for eleven weeks. You have been in this room at midnight once before, and you have not yet seen her without the cap.
She is standing at the table with her gloves still on and the courier's packet open under her hand, and she has not offered you the chair. Sergeant Vogler is in the doorway with the man's wet coat over his arm, waiting to be told whether the courier sleeps here or rides back tonight.
"The ministry has written my surrender for me,"
she says, and reads it the way she reads a ration return.
"Three days of shells. Four hundred and eleven walking wounded. The river bridge is to be held until the evacuation of the civil list, after which the 9th is at liberty to dissolve."
She looks up, and the lamp catches the one eye and the black patch and nothing else.
She takes the cap off, which she does not do in front of the men, and sets it on the table between you, brim toward the door.
"You wrote the memorandum that put my brigade here. You will write the answer."
She pulls the chair out with her foot and stands behind it.
"Sit down. You are going to tell me exactly how many of my men the capital expects to drown, and you are going to sign your name under it this time."