Page 13 - Crossing the Deadline

Crossing the Deadline

make their horses gallop on command then stop suddenly.
They trot and walk in patterns.
With so many people, the training camp must have a

larger population than most towns in Indiana.
August nudges my shoulder and points to a building
opposite the main entrance. “I can hear my stomach
growling. Maybe we can get something to eat there.” Along

the far wall, smoke pours from several chimneys attached to
a long building. “It’s gotta be the dining facility.”
“The major said we’re to gather around the platform,” I
remind him, pointing to a wooden stage.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time,” he says, heading in the
direction of the mess hall.
A series of buildings that appear to be barracks run
along the edge of two walls. Men, their hands planted in

their armpits, dash in from the cold. White tents, too many
to count, sit just yards from the barracks and stretch beyond,
past what I can see.

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