Front Lines (26 page)

They were taught in basic that a helmet is not there to stop bullets. It is just there to stop ejected rifle brass and falling shrapnel from hitting your head. A bullet? A German rifle bullet will pass right through the steel helmet like a hot knife through butter.

Rio isn't taking her helmet off to adjust it, no, not just yet; she'll take what armor she can get. She's seen now what bullets do. But after a while Rio's mind travels away. It goes to that far-off movie theater. It goes to the last letter from Strand, the one where he sounded just the slightest bit distant, as though maybe he had not really been in the mood to write to her.

From there it goes to questions of whether she was a fool thinking that one real date, a few stolen kisses on the
Queen Mary
, and a couple of letters mean they have a real relationship. What are they, even? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Absurd. Going steady? Those are school notions. Those terms are from another life.

And from there her memory inevitably wanders to the
Tiburon
and Jack. She glances back at him but sees nothing but his helmet over Sticklin's shoulder.

It was nothing, really. Nothing.
Really.
Even Jenou said it was nothing. Forget it. Rio is Strand's girl. But that definite statement leads her imagination to questions about women in the air corps. They are almost certainly pretty. Why wouldn't they be? Of course they are: a smart, good-looking young woman would naturally choose air corps over army, if she could, and if she had a lick of sense.

In my own defense, I just wanted to drive a truck.

Strand is probably already bored with the idea of her, of little Rio from Nowhere, America. Yes, he is from that same nowhere, but that will just make some bold floozy from the big city all the more enticing to him.

She chews on that for a few miles and then begins to think about life after the war. What would that be? First, she will finish school, of course. Then . . . Well, what then? College? She would be only the second person in her family to ever finish high school, and if she went to college, the first Richlin ever to do so.

Or she could forget schooling, get married, and have children. And cook. And clean house. Help the children with their homework. Say things like, “Just wait till your father gets home.”

Not yet. First this. First war.

Gradually, as the long, slow miles pass, Rio stops thinking about anything really, and just walks. She's had
practice at that. Walking doesn't take much thought after the first few miles.

The sun turns the horizon pink, then golden, the light picking out random objects—a single big boulder sitting all by itself, a stump, a misshapen tree, the peaks of the mountains in the distance off to the right. A random beam of sunlight peeking just for a moment through the clouds brightens half of Jenou's face but leaves her eyes in the shadow of her helmet. But the dawn has not penetrated the space directly ahead of the column; they march still toward darkness.

Somewhere out there artillery is blasting away, a sound like far-off thunder. Someone was catching hell, and she hopes it's them, the enemy.

Kill them all, artillery, kill them all before they can kill me.

“Geer, fall back. Richlin, take point,” Cole says.

“But, Sarge, I'm—” Geer starts to complain.

“Private Geer, when I tell you to fall back, fall back.” No yelling, no threat, just that calm authority Cole always seems to convey.

And suddenly Rio is walking point.

Behind her stretch two American platoons and one British platoon. Ahead of her, presumably the enemy. Or maybe just more desert.

Possibly lions.

We're out front because we're expendable,
she realizes. It's the British commandos who matter; they're the experienced soldiers and thus more valuable.

The platoon's been briefed on the basics of the mission: a crossroads, then a detachment of
Nachrichtentruppe
, the communications arm of the German army. They were believed not to be defended and were expected to be easy prey.

“Shoot 'em up, blow up their radios, and run like hell,” that was the short version of the mission.

Run like hell back to boats that may or may not be there.

She freezes. Something ahead. On the road.

It takes several frazzled seconds, several tentative steps, before she recalls the hand signal for “freeze.” She cocks her left elbow, raises her left hand, and makes a fist. Nevertheless Tilo Suarez, who has been sleep-marching, plows into her.

“Hey,” he protests.

“Shut up, Suarez! Sarge!” This in urgent whispers.

Sergeant Cole holds his palm out to the soldiers behind him, then motions for them to drop and take cover. The squad, and then the rest of the platoon, takes a knee and waits. Sticklin trots off the road, drops, and readies his BAR.

“What do you see, Richlin?” Cole is at her side, hunched low.

It's still just early morning. The hope of a colorful sunrise fades, and now the light is the gray of raw oysters as cloud covers the horizon.

Rio peers down the road through the gloom, squints, and lowers her head slightly, trying for a different perspective.

“I think it's a man, Sarge. I think he's got a light.”

Cole draws a deep breath. “I think you may be right. I make it a man and some kind of lantern. You've got good eyes, Richlin. Okay. Advance slowly.”

Advance?

“Sarge?”

“Go on, Richlin. Keep your eyes open, issue the challenge, anything happens hit the deck and we'll open up. Stick? Heads up with that BAR.”

The man—if that's indeed what it is—stands about two hundred yards up the road. There is a hut off to the man's right, a low adobe structure no bigger than a garden toolshed. But there could easily be a couple of German infantrymen in there. There could be a machine gun.

It can happen so fast. Instantly. Without warning. Like it had to Kerwin.

To him. But not to me.

“Mustard!” Rio yells, louder and shakier than she intends.

No answer. She raises her rifle to her shoulder. She
sights on the figure. She flicks off the safety.

Elevation? Windage?

“Mustard! Answer or I shoot!”

“Is it shallots? Do not shoot, I beg you!”

The words are heavily accented. German accent? Or Italian?

“Why shouldn't I shoot?”

“Because I am not your enemy.”

“Put your hands up in the air!”

The lantern, if that's what it is, rises from below waist height to above head height. This has the effect of spilling yellow light down on the head of an old man dressed in an aged uniform that he has not been able to button all the way.

“I'm moving up, Sarge.” Rio's mouth tastes of bile. Her heart pounds, but instinct reassures her: it's just one old man. But then again, there is the hut, a closed door, a window dark in shadow.

“Stick!” Rio yells.

“Yeah!”

“Watch that doorway.” Then, to the man with the accent, “I'm coming forward. Anyone comes out of that building, we open up.”

“You have nothing to fear,
mon ami
.”

I have plenty to fear.

Keeping her rifle sighted she walks steadily forward.

“It's just a man,” Rio yells back to Cole. “One guy. He's not armed.”

Cole barks orders for Magraff, Suarez, and Pang to rush the building. “Look out for booby traps.” Then he trots up to Rio. Together they look the man in the road over.

He is perhaps fifty-five or sixty-five years old, with weary, heavily bagged but humorous eyes, and a magnificent handlebar mustache that's eaten the lower half of his face. He's holding a lantern and having some difficulty keeping it up in the air. There is no weapon visible, and the uniform, while aged, carries a patch with the flag of France. The old flag, the one before the occupation. There are medals on his chest.

In the middle of the road he has placed a stone, smaller than Rio's helmet. Leaned against this stone is a small child's slate chalkboard with the word
Barricade
written on two lines.
Barri
and
Cade
.

“Okay, bud, what's your story?” Cole asks.

“May I lower the lantern? My strength is not what it once was . . .”

“Fine. Now who the hell are you?”

“I am Sergeant Maxim LeFevre, of the army of France.”

“Okay, Sergeant Le . . . whatever,” Sergeant Cole says. “Why are you standing here in the middle of the goddamn road?” Cole still has his tommy gun trained on the man.

“I have been returned to active duty through no desire of my own, I assure you. And I have been tasked to set up a barricade to slow the advance of any American troops on the roads.”

For a full thirty seconds neither Rio nor Cole can think of anything to say to that.

Jillion Magraff calls out, “Building's clear, Sarge.”

Rio and Sergeant Cole lower their weapons.

“You're here to slow our advance?”

The Frenchman shrugs, and with the fine nuance of his people manages with that shrug to convey helplessness, cynicism, and amusement. “I must follow orders, yes? So I have set up a barricade.
Une barricade symbolique
. A symbolic barricade.”

“A symbolic barricade?”

The man indicated the rock and the sign. “
Comme vous voyez.
As you see.”

“And you lit a lamp so . . .”

“So my American friends should see the barricade and not stub their toes en route to killing the
Boche
.”

Rio notices Cole peering closely at what GIs called fruit salad: the medals that adorn the man's chest. Rio is on the point of laughing in a mixture of relief and condescension, but Cole straightens up and extends a hand, which the old man shakes firmly, decorously.

“Sergeant LeFevre, I am Sergeant Cole, this is Private
Richlin. I'm sorry to say so, but I'm afraid I gotta take you prisoner. Don't you know all the Vichy people have come over to our side?”

“Of course, Sergeant, that is understood. But my commander, regrettably, has not. I regret to say that he is a true
collaborateur,
and in time, I hope to see him hanging by the neck.” The old Frenchman indicates the building. “Will you and the lovely Private Richlin do me the honor of sharing a glass of brandy with me?”

“It's early for a drink.”

“It is war, Sergeant, how can it be too early?”

“Point taken. The honor would be mine,” Cole says. “Millican! Take point, keep 'em moving, we'll catch up. Preeling? Double-time back to the lieutenant, tell her we have an honored prisoner.”

Rio follows the two into the building, shrugging at Jenou's unspoken question as they pass.

Inside is a bare room with the unmistakable feel of a place that has not been inhabited in some time. There is a rickety wood table with one leg missing, propped against a wall. On the table, a wedge of cheese, a heel of crusty French bread, and a bottle. The ceiling is so low that Sergeant Cole's helmet scrapes a crossbeam and he removes it and sticks it under his arm.

Cole breaks out his canteen cup, and Rio follows suit. The Frenchman pours Cole a healthy shot, and, after a
disapproving glance that takes in Rio's age, he pours her a bare mouthful.

“To Free France and the American army,” LeFevre says, raising his own glass.

“Free France,” Cole agrees. At the moment he is not entirely pleased with the American army.

Rio is extremely leery of alcohol, clearly recalling the results of her first episode of drunkenness. But it would be impolite to refuse.

The burn in her throat leaves her wheezing embarrassingly. It's worse than whatever it was Jack gave her.

“We had some trouble coming ashore,” Cole says.

“Indeed?”

“We lost a man. And we killed the gunner and two others with him. It looked like an isolated outpost, though word will be out and the Krauts will be on our tails before long.”

“I am grieved by your loss,” LeFevre says. “We are still somewhat divided, as you have seen. The generals in Algiers have joined the Free French, but not all are ready to abandon Vichy. Many fear what the Germans will do in Occupied France should we aid the Americans here in the colonies.”

“SNAFU,” Cole says, and when the Frenchman looks uncertain, explains, “Situation Normal: All Fugged Up.”

LeFevre breaks into a big grin that pushes his mustache
up around his nose. “SNAFU. Hah! Delightful.”

Liefer and Garaman arrive. The lieutenant looks around suspiciously. Garaman's experienced eye goes straight to the bottle.

“Better tie this man up and march him back to the beach,” Liefer says.

“Lieutenant, a moment?” Cole asks. He draws her aside for a whispered five-minute conversation, during which the Frenchman smiles at Rio and says, “So it is true, that even the young women of America fight in this war? I do not approve. War is no place for a young woman.”

“No place for anyone, far as I can tell,” Rio says. She glances unconsciously at her hand. Chipped fingernail polish and, in the creases of her palm, blood.

Liefer, looking annoyed, comes over and says, “My sergeant here says you'll give us your parole. You won't fight or inform your superiors of our coming this way.”

LeFevre's smile is not warm; the lieutenant lacks charm. “My orders were merely to erect a barricade. They neglected to order me to bring sufficient men as there were none available, and I have no orders to report back. My superior”—and at that he spits onto the floor—“is far from Algiers and still obeys his German masters like a faithful dog.”

The lieutenant accepts that, though without grace and with a hard look at Sergeant Cole. “On your head, Cole,”
she says, and leaves.

Cole sticks out his hand again for the Frenchman, and they shake solemnly. He nods at the medals on the older man's chest. “I had two uncles in that war, sir. One came home. I intend to visit the other's grave should we make it to France.”