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graduating from Berkeley, Woody had studied International Law at the University of Neuchâtel in Switzerland with the idea of joining his father’s law firm, Wenton, Ward & Zimmemann, in San Francisco as an expert in that field. Woody was in Switzerland in 1939 when the war broke out, and he returned at once to the States. Since he had traveled extensively in Europe, skied and climbed in the Swiss and Bavarian Alps, and spoke fluent German and some Italian, he had been a natural for the U.S. Military Intelligence Service when he volunteered just after Pearl Harbor, and he’d ended up in the Counter Intelligence Corps. A Staff Sergeant, he had more than once turned down a field commission. “Too damned busy to take time off for that crap,” he’d said. Hall thought he knew the real reason: the three-year extra hitch that automatically went with the commission. And Woody— however bang-up a job he was doing—just wanted to get the war over with and go home.
    “You came all the way back to Corps to tell me something I can read in tomorrow’s Stars and Stripes?” Hall asked sourly.
    “Not—exactly,” Woody admitted disarmingly. “Actually, I want to talk to you about the latest latrine rumor. About the point system for going home.”
    Hall raised an eyebrow. “How the hell do you know about that?” he asked archly. “The War Department hasn’t issued any directives yet.”
    “Ran into a guy from G-1,” Woody explained. “Pumped him a little. He said they got the advance poop.”
    “Let’s hear it.”
    “It’s a four-point system, Mort,” Woody said eagerly. “You get credits for length of service, service overseas, combat service—and for having kids.” He leaned forward. “Here’s how it’s supposed to work. You get one point for each month of service plus one point for each month overseas. You get five points for each combat decoration and for each battle star, and you get twelve points for each kid you’ve got!”
    “Got any?” Hall asked drily.
    “Who the hell knows,” Woody said, shrugging mischievously. “Nothing that’ll give me twelve points, that’s for sure.” He grinned. “But get me home and I guarantee I’ll start on it right away!”
    “I don’t doubt it.”
    “Anyway, a guy’s got to have eighty-five points to be eligible to go home.” He glanced sideways at his C.O. “An enlisted man, that is. Officers have to have more. Sorry.” There was a hint of self-satisfaction in his voice. “They call it the Adjusted Service Rating Score.” He looked earnestly at Hall. “Listen, Mort. This waltz is pretty near over. I don’t want to get stuck doing lousy occupation duty in Kraut country. I want to go home. I counted up my points. I’ve got an ASR score of seventy-six. Seventy-six points. Including my five battle stars and that Purple Heart I got at the Bulge. And the Bronze Star for that Reichsamtsleiter case in Meiningen.” He looked disgusted. “I’m a lousy nine points short.”
    “T.S.,” Hall commented drily.
    “Yeah. But it doesn’t have to be tough shit, Mort.” Woody looked earnestly at his C.O. “All I need is two more months and a cluster to my Bronze Star. And I’m home free.”
    “And you want me to write you up for one? On what grounds? Being the first to figure out how to beat the point system?”
    “Shit, no, Mort.” Woody sounded offended. “I’ll earn the damned points. All I need is a case that’ll give me a chance to do it. You know—a ‘glamour’ case. Some big-shot deal. Something that’ll be noticed. You know.”
    “You usually pick your own damned cases,” Hall commented acidly.
    “Sure. I know. But I thought you might know of something. Throw it my way.” He looked guilelessly at Hall. “How about it? A lousy five points.”
    Hall leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and contemplated the young man sitting across from him.
    A “glamour” case. He didn’t know of any. And if he did, would he