GIs with a longer break at the canteen were treated to the time and attention of dozens of women. Music came from an old piano in the corner, or record players. An area was cleared for dancing. And all around the perimeter of the cavernous station were booths with sandwiches, drinks, sweets, cigarettes, magazines, newspapers, even paperback books.

“Take it with you,” the women said of the stoneware mugs filled with coffee and tea, the glass bottles filled with milk, the plates, the cutlery, the wicker baskets. “Just leave the dishes at the next station. We’ll collect them tomorrow.”

The single girls begged for the insignia badges of all the units. In return, they took soldiers’ names and APO addresses, promising to write.

“Happy birthday,” a woman said, putting a plate with an entire cake into Kennet Fiskare’s hands.

“It’s not my birthday,” he said.

“It is now.” She smooched his cheek and melted into the throng.

Kennet went to one of the mail booths, took a postcard and wrote a quick note to Marta: I think even the Harvey Girls would say North Platte is the nicest place in America.

The men climbed back aboard the cars, arms full of bounty, balancing dishes and cups. Cheeks sporting lipstick kisses and collars smelling of a half-dozen perfumes. Hands still feeling shakes, backs vibrating from many a slap. Flirted with, praised and thanked within an inch of their lives. As the train lurched and pulled away from North Platte, nobody in Kennet’s compartment could speak. They clutched their baskets of sandwiches, coffee and treats and stared at the receding, magical city that had created a canteen out of nothing but kindness and goodwill. They broke open popcorn balls to find slips of paper with a woman’s name and address:

Please write. I’ll write you back. I’ll be your friend from North Platte.

Even with the heightened emotions, nobody cried. Not until the train passed the little storybook depot at Kearney, Kansas. This was Corporal Jefferson’s hometown, and his parents and sisters, alerted to the train passing through, were waiting on the platform. The train wouldn’t stop, but that didn’t mean Jefferson couldn’t reach for one last touch. The conductor was a nervous wreck but the men ignored him as they got Jefferson situated on the steps leading down from the little, noisy vestibule between cars. They hung onto his belt, craning their necks as Jefferson leaned out far and reached one hand toward his father’s rough fingers and the other to his mother’s softer ones.

“Goodbye, darling!” she cried. “Be careful!”

The train listed as every man hung out the windows, their own fingers reaching, tingling in sympathy, longing for a whisper of skin and a taste of home. They yelled and whooped as if at a ball game. They reached to catch the sisters’ blown kisses, clutch them, swallow them, light them up and smoke them.