Eight GIs were assigned to each sleeping compartment, bedding down in triple-berths against each wall. The bottom-most berth was wider than the top two—it doubled as a seat during the day, and two men shared it at night.

Excited at first, bored eventually, the soldiers called on other compartments, crammed in doorways, loitered to smoke and jaw in the narrow corridors and the coach cars. After twenty-four hours, the train was fetid with cigarette smoke, body odor, nervous sweat and stories.

There were the soldiers who talked incessantly. The soldiers who barely made a sound. Those who snored. Those who talked in their sleep. It took a long time for the compartments to settle down at night.

Hey, no whacking off.

Are you pissing out the window again?

No end of retorts to passed wind:

Who cut the cheese?

Who let go?

What crawled up your ass and died?

Captain Who?

They exhausted their dirty jokes. Their lurid tales, sexual conquests and family lore. Sometimes they sang—usually in a joking manner, but sometimes quite seriously. Like when the train passed an open field with a carnival at twilight, the Ferris wheel beautiful and jeweled against the sunset. People came down to the crossing to wave. Old men took off hats and put them on their hearts. Little boys stood stiff and saluted. The very young perched on a mother’s hip or rode high on a father’s shoulders, holding their cotton candy and toffee apples.

As they receded into the distance, a soldier said, “That’s the most goddamn American thing I’ve ever seen.”

And another soldier began to sing softly:

O beautiful for spacious skies,

For amber waves of grain,

For purple mountain majesties…

They all joined him, in harmony and with feeling.

The train arrived at North Platte, Nebraska, a giant hub of the Union Pacific Railroad. Here, people from surrounding communities erected a massive, volunteer-based canteen, dedicated to the needs of the soldiers passing through. Not just the needs of the stomach, but needs of the soul. Brisk, efficient women posted at desks would place long-distance phone calls for you, not suffering inept operators gladly and either cajoling or bullying a free line. They would send telegrams and cables. Wire flowers to your wife or sweetheart. One booth had piles of postcards, paper and pencils. Drop your folks a line, postage is on us!

Steam trains pulled into North Platte long enough for crews to relubricate the wheels, top off water levels and perform other routine maintenance which could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour. No matter—the canteen could pack a party into a stay of any length. If soldiers were ordered to stay aboard because the train was only there for five minutes, volunteers grabbed pre-made baskets of food, hit the cars like a swarm of reverse-engineered locusts, passed out goodies and wished the men well, with never a worker ending up a stowaway.