Front Lines (35 page)

Three German vehicles are burning, more are disabled, and the dramatic pink light of morning highlights a white flag flying from the antenna of one of the surviving tanker trucks.

“Well, I will be well and truly damned,” Sergeant Garaman says to Cole, shaking his head in disbelief at the carnage there at the end of their line. “You got some people who can fight, Jedron.”

“That I do.”

Rainy, no longer able to tolerate hugging the sand at a safe distance, has crawled forward. She sees helmets barely poking above foxholes. She sees Garaman standing, shielding his eyes, peering intently. Then she sees the bodies, maybe a dozen in German uniform, lying in the weird and horribly comic poses of violent death.

“I need ammo!” Sticklin shouts.

“Magraff, distribute ammo!” Cole shouts. “Pang, give her a hand.”

Geer, his voice choked, says, “My kitten! Miss Pat!”

Rainy risks standing herself and realizes the toll fear has taken on her: her muscles scream from tension and rigidity.

“What now, Sergeant?” Rainy asks Garaman. “Where's Lieutenant Helder?”

“Deader than hell, Headquarters.”

“Shit,” Cole says. “He was okay. I guess you're it, Garaman.”

“I fugging know it,” Garaman says bitterly. “Okay, I'll tell you what's next, Headquarters, we blow the hell out of the remaining trucks, scrounge what we can, and get the fug out of here before that tank column shows up.”

Off to the southeast a sandstorm whips up intermittent tornadoes, a brownish smear across the horizon, dirtying the sunrise, but it's a mile off and not heading this direction.

Rainy says, “Sarge, I'm with S2 and I want to look for papers, maybe interrogate some prisoners.”

Cole snorts and shakes his head. “Well, I sure wouldn't want to harm the war effort by denying you the opportunity, Sergeant . . . what was your name?”

“Schulterman.”

“We're just going to make sure this isn't a trick and . . .” He falls silent because three German soldiers are carrying the white flag forward. One appears to be a senior officer.

Weapons are trained on the advancing enemy but
no one fires, and a sort of collective sigh of relief rolls down the line. Rainy hears relieved laughter, nervous and uncertain.

Cole lights his stubby cigar with his Zippo and to Garaman says, “All right then, boss, what is the protocol for accepting the surrender of an enemy officer?”

Garaman lights one of his foul cigarettes. “See, that's why we need officers, to handle this kind of—”

“Sarge,” a man from Third Platoon says, high-strung and upset. “We got wounded. Six men, two of which is a woman. I mean, two are women, plus four men.”

“Well, we ain't got a doc, so you're going to have to do what you can. You got any medical skills, Headquarters?”

“No,” she says. Rainy is not about to let herself be turned into a nurse. That is a German colonel advancing under the flag of truce, and she is determined to do her job as a military intelligence sergeant.

Said German colonel stops fifty feet away. He speaks no English, so Rainy avoids nursing duty by stepping in as translator.

“He says he's Colonel Von Holtzer and he wants to see our commanding officer,” she says.

“Tell him we ain't got a commanding officer, just us lowly noncoms.”

This news is not well received. There's a desperate look in Colonel Von Holtzer's eyes, a kind of panic that
is quickly papered over by practiced arrogance. Through Rainy, he says, “I cannot surrender to common soldiers.”

“I see,” Garaman said, cracking a rare grin.

Cole said, “Tell the colonel we are going to blow up his fugging trucks and he can either disarm his fugging men and send them down the road and no one gets hurt, or we can resume fire.”

After a brief back and forth, Rainy says, “He'll do it, but only if you don't insist on formal surrender.”

Garaman said, “You tell the colonel—”

“Sarge,” Rainy interrupts, “I need to be able to question any officers.”

Sergeants Garaman and Cole blow different fragrances of smoke toward her and favor her with nearly identical looks of irritation. But then Garaman shrugs.

“Tell the colonel we reserve the right to question any officers. But aside from that we have no interest in taking prisoners. We'll leave him with what food and water we can spare, and nothing else.”

The colonel is clearly worried and unconsciously glances back toward his burning vehicles and men.

Rainy says, “I'm not sure this guy's in charge. He seems awfully nervous. I would suggest we take his offer, but keep our eyes open—there may be another colonel—even a general—hiding among the men.”

It is a shrewd guess, and Rainy is flattered by the
surprised appreciation in Garaman's eyes. Cole nods agreement.

“All right, Headquarters. We'll secure the column; you take a couple of Cole's people and check it out. Tell the colonel here to order all his men to drop arms and move north away from the vehicles. If there's any trouble—I mean if we see so much as a souvenir dueling pistol—we will open up on them and kill every last one of the bastards.”

Which is how Rainy ends up trudging across the desert toward the Germans with Rio Richlin and Jack Stafford, once Cole has waved an all-clear.

They have covered half the distance when a single person appears, walking out of the sunrise.

Stafford trains his rifle. Rio levels hers from the hip.

Rainy calls out something in German, but almost immediately realizes that this is definitely not a German.

“She's a Negro,” Rio says.

“Yes, I just noticed that,” Rainy says. “And a woman.”

“The Germans are not fond of blacks, or women,” Stafford points out.

Rio calls out, “If you've got any weapons, drop them right now.”

“Private Frangie Marr. I was being held prisoner.”

“Put your hands down, Private,” Rainy says. She looks closely at the small young black woman. “You look like
you've been through it.”

“Hey,” Rio says. “Don't I know you?”

Frangie tilts her head and looks at her quizzically, then her face brightens. “Seen any wild pigs out here?”

“I have not,” Rio says, breaking into a grin.

“Where's that big old hillbilly who was with you?”

That kills the smile on Rio's face. “Kerwin Cassel. He, uh . . .” She shrugs.

Frangie understands immediately. “I am sorry to hear that. He seemed like a good guy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he was. He was a good guy.”

The four of them stand awkwardly until Jack says, “I'm not sure I'm enjoying this war.”

That coaxes a rueful nod from Rio and Frangie. Rainy fidgets impatiently, but she says nothing, acutely aware suddenly of a yawning gap between herself and these soldiers who have seen real combat, who have fired guns in anger.

Rainy looks thoughtfully at Frangie. “You were a prisoner? You see that colonel standing over there? Is he the commanding officer?”

Frangie closes her eyes, an aid to memory, and a response to exhaustion, exhaustion somehow made more profound by the relief she feels at being back with American troops. “Him and another guy in a different uniform. Black uniform.”

Rainy feels predatory excitement. “An officer in a black uniform?” She points at her collar. “SS?”

“Yep,” Frangie confirms. “He's the one that shot my patient, lying on a table, his stomach all messed up. Ordered one of the soldiers to shoot him in the head.”

“Waffen SS. They're a whole separate army. Fanatics. The worst of the worst.” To Frangie she says, “I imagine you'd like to grab some chow and take a nice long nap, but can you walk with us through those Krauts?”

So they are four when they enter the mass of angry, resentful, worn-out Germans. The Germans are under the guns of a dozen Americans armed with rifles and submachine guns. Other soldiers are gleefully looting trucks, digging out anything that can be eaten, drunk, or considered a souvenir.

Rainy speaks German as she walks through the sullen mob. “You men have nothing to fear, we don't shoot prisoners. As long as you cause no trouble, we're going to let you walk away. I just want the officers.”

She watches eyes flick involuntarily, but not toward the two lieutenants and the major standing together and trying to look dignified in the face of defeat. Nor do they glance toward Colonel Von Holtzer, who stands aloof, face mirroring the self-justifying internal dialogue he's assembling for his superiors.

No, the eyes dart toward a corporal in blood-stained
khaki who sits on the sand surrounded by other men, all stiffly ill at ease.

Rainy walks directly to this man, who refuses to look up.

“That him?” Rainy asks Frangie.

“I can't see his face.”

Stafford steps forward and uses the barrel of his rifle to push the man's head back.

“That's him, and he speaks English,” Frangie confirms. “What happened to the fancy boots, Colonel?”

“Go on, shoot me,” he said, rising to his feet, defiant. “Kill me and be done with it.”

“Doc, they've got chow and wounded back there,” Rainy says to Frangie, who gratefully takes the hint.

“I wasn't planning on killing you, Colonel . . .” Rainy lets the question hang.

“SS Colonel Von Kleeberg,” he says. “Where are your officers? I demand to see them.”

“Nah, you don't want to see them,” Jack says.

“So I am to be questioned by a . . . a . . . female sergeant?”

Rainy does not see the smile on her own face, but Rio and Stafford do, and their opinions of the sergeant from headquarters change dramatically. Headquarters does not like SS officers, no she does not.

“Not just a female, Colonel. A Jew. Sergeant Rainy Schulterman. Hebrew.”

The colonel's hauteur slips and there is a mix of hatred and dread in his eyes that Rainy enjoys immensely.

That's right, asshole, one of those people.

The colonel spits at her. It hits Rainy on the cheek and slides down her face, cleaning a path through the dust as it does.

“Happy to shoot him for you, Headquarters,” Jack says cheerfully.

“No, that's what he wants. Then his little blond children and his wife and his mistress can all tell themselves he died a warrior's death.” Rainy does not bother to wipe off the spit; she leaves it there, evidence of her indifference.

She considers for a moment, then says, “I won't kill you, Colonel, you're a potentially valuable asset. You weren't here for the supplies, you were joining the tank column. Replacement commander, right? You're coming with us. But first you're taking off those boots and the pants too.”

“I don't take orders from filthy Jews.”

Rainy gives no order and is frankly shocked when Private Rio Richlin swings the butt of her rifle into the side of the colonel's face. It's not enough to kill or even render him unconscious, but it staggers him and blood seeps from his ear.

Rainy gives a slight nod to the fierce young woman and notices a troubled frown on Stafford's face.

In the end they march a bootless, pantless SS colonel back to the platoon and present him to Sergeants Garaman and Cole.

“This piece of shit is an SS colonel who had an unarmed, wounded American captain shot through the head. We're taking him with us,” Rainy says, defiant, expecting them to argue.

The two sergeants nod contentedly as they peer at the swelling bruise on the side of his head, then at his state of undress, and finally, as though they have synchronized their movements through long practice, turn to look at Rainy Schulterman.

“One other thing, gentlemen,” Rainy says. “Some of those trucks are still working. If you squeezed your people in tight . . .”

“We could ride on out of here,” Sergeant Cole says. “Yeah, we already thought of that.”

“Might not be room for the prisoner, though,” Rainy says.

“Might not be.”

“Might be you could tie him to the bumper. He looks healthy enough to run.”

“Now I know why they never let women fight wars,” Sergeant Garaman says. “Too mean.”

Luther's kitten, the inexplicably named Miss Pat, took a piece of shrapnel in her paw.

“Well, she won't be able to count to ten on her paws, but she'll do fine,” Frangie says after bandaging the wound.

Luther Geer takes the kitten back from her and after some grimacing manages to say a civil, “Thanks.” And then, after some kind of internal struggle, amends it by saying, “Thanks, uh, Doc.”

The German prisoners are set to digging graves for the American and German dead. But they are not given any precious water or food because the sandstorm has cleared, revealing a line of two dozen German tanks that Cole estimates in the light of day to be five miles away.

“Time to skedaddle on outta here,” Cole says. “Move, people! If we don't get the hell away before those Panzers get within range, I will be irritated.”

The two platoons are down to a total of just fifty-one men and women and no officers. The gravely wounded, those who will never survive being moved, are left behind in the hope that the Germans will do the decent thing. The walking wounded are laid out on the beds of the trucks while the healthier folks, including Rio and Jenou, Frangie and Rainy, Cat and Jillion, Jack and Stick and Suarez, Pang and Geer, all end up standing on seats, their feet between the heads and shoulders and legs of the injured. It's not a comfortable way of traveling, and the GIs keep up the usual steady stream of complaints, liberally salted with the inevitable obscenities and blasphemies, but no one is anxious to climb down and try to walk away from the approaching German tanks.

Those tanks fire one shot after them that explodes harmlessly, but perhaps because they've noticed an SS colonel (forcibly uniformed in the tell-tale black) being dragged along on a rope at a desperate trot, or more likely because they don't have orders to go wasting fuel, the tanks give up the chase.

The fortunes of war had their fun getting the platoon involved in an ill-conceived commando mission and then sending them into battle unprepared. The fortunes now relent and give them safe passage to reach and join the flight of the Americans through the mountain passes and
eventually back to safety.

Safety, hot chow, and plenty of water.

Rio stands in line for that hot chow, a stew of some sort containing God only knows what species of meat. She is exhausted, too exhausted even to make small talk with Jenou or Jack or Stick, each of whom has now become something more to her than they were before. They are welded together in a way that each of them feels and none of them could explain. And some of that rubs off on the outsiders who shared the terror and thrill of combat with them, Frangie and Rainy.

Rio is weary to the point where a choice between eating and just throwing herself on the ground and sleeping is a tough one to make. In a dull and distant sort of way she is aware that something profound has changed within her. She both fears and welcomes this change.

A white PFC with a clean uniform, clean, shaved face, and bright eyes objects to Frangie being in the chow line ahead of him. Rio turns hollow eyes and a blood-spattered face to him and says, “Fug off.”

And when the PFC says, “Figures a woman wouldn't know any better than to eat with a Nigra,” it's Luther who growls, “You know what's good for you, boy, you'll do like she said and fug off.”

There is a weight that comes from surviving combat, an authority that soldiers serving honorably in the rear
may resent but cannot ignore.

They sit hunched over their tin mess kits, shoveling food mechanically, saying nothing, staring at nothing, and one by one fall back onto the dirt and sleep.

When they are roused by insistent shoves and kicks by Sergeant Cole, it is to board still more trucks and head farther to the rear to rest, rearm, reorganize, and prepare for whatever the brass has in mind for them next.

Cole pulls Rio aside before they board. “When we get our new lieutenant, I'm putting you in for a medal, Richlin.”

“Oh, Jesus, Sarge, don't do that. I didn't do anything everyone else wasn't doing.”

Cole smacks the side of her helmet. “Hey. Medals aren't just for you. They're for other men—and women—to see and to want to be more like you.”

Rio laughs and yawns simultaneously, not an attractive look or sound. “Forget it.”

“You got something, Richlin. I'm going to tell you what it is, and you're probably not going to like it.”

This gets Rio's attention. She sighs, but she listens.

“A lot of guys go to war. A small percentage of them end up in the shit. A small percentage of those end up being good soldiers. And a smaller percentage still become what you're on your way to being, Richlin.”

“Tired?”

“Killers. I don't mean crazy glory-hounds or heroes. I mean efficient, professional killers.”

“That's not . . . ,” Rio says, trying to work up a dismissive laugh. She shakes her head no, not liking that at all, not liking it one bit. That's not her. That's not Rio Richlin, confused and aimless teenager from Gedwell Falls. She's going to be a wife, marry Strand, have kids.

“When the war's over, you put all that in a box,” Sergeant Cole says. “You go on with whatever else you want to do in life. Get married and have lots of babies. But right now, Richlin, you're a killer, and killers are what I need. So I'm putting you in and that's it.”

Rio says nothing, just turns away and walks back to her squad, who are busy packing up, smoking, cursing, and annoying one another for no good reason. A fist fight breaks out between Tilo and Luther, and everyone watches for a while until it becomes clear that both men are just blowing off steam. The fight ends when Jillion Magraff arrives with a purloined bottle of German schnapps, and the squad quickly adjusts its priorities.

Jenou intercepts the bottle on its way to Rio. “Oh, no you don't. I saw what happened last time you started drinking.”

Rio holds her hands up and lets the bottle pass by.

“At some point you're going to have to spill,” Jenou says.

“What? Spill what? The bottle?”

“The straight dope. The inside scoop. You have now had . . . interludes . . . with two different males. It's time for detailed comparisons, Rio.”

Rio glances guiltily toward Jack, who is dusting Suarez off and getting Geer's helmet, which Suarez had knocked off.

“Let's just pretend it was only one . . . interlude,” Rio says. “Strand is the one. Jack is . . . He's a fellow soldier.”

“Right. You think I'm going to let you get away with that? There are a lot of boats and trucks and long walks ahead of us, Rio. You will tell all. Oh yes, you will tell all.”

Rio has a sudden, overpowering desire to hug Jenou, so she contents herself with patting Jenou's back. “You and me, right?”

Jenou turns and notices tears in her friend's eyes. “Of course you and me, honey. All the way through.”

After a while Rio says, “You know what I wish I had right now?”

Without a moment's hesitation, Jenou answers, “Sure. Same thing I want. A big basket of fries and a milk shake.”

Rio gasps and then shakes her head ruefully. “I was going to say a big
plate
of fries and a Coke. But close enough. You know me too well, Jen. I don't even need to tell you anything.”

Jenou gives Rio a playful shove and says, “Nice try. But you will tell all. I will absolutely resort to torture.” Then Jenou's focus shifts to someone beyond Rio. “Well, hello, who is that?”

Rio glances over her shoulder and sees a young lieutenant in a torn and dirty uniform carrying an M-1 like an enlisted man. He could use a shave, but he's not bad looking despite that. He's trading salutes with Sergeant Garaman.

“Law of averages says it's someone with orders for us to go off and do something stupid,” Rio speculates.

“That's a coincidence, because I just happen to have something stupid in mind,” Jenou says.

Rainy Schulterman is brought to the nearest thing this dusty, chaotic assembly area has for an S2. Captain Jon Joad demands to know what the hell she thinks she's doing out here, separated from her unit.

Rainy shows him her orders.

The captain sneers. “Yeah, and how did that go for you, little lady?”

“Pretty well, sir.”

“Well?” He throws the orders at her; she fumbles the catch and has to pick the page up out of the dirt.

“Yes, sir, quite well.”

“The hell are you talking about, lady?”

“Sir, we were able to intercept a supply column and
destroy it just before a German tank column rendezvoused. That's why there are those German trucks parked out there. And, sir, I have a request.”

“A request?”

“Yes, sir, I have a prisoner I need to get back to Maktar. I need a jeep and a driver, and an MP to keep an eye on the prisoner, if you have any MPs, otherwise any soldier you can spare.”

“What, some beat-up sergeant surrender to you?”

“Sir, I have a Waffen SS colonel as my prisoner, and I request—pursuant to the orders I've just shown you—to have appropriate means made available for transport so he can be interrogated ASAP by Colonel Clay.”

She is given a jeep, a driver, and a corporal to ride shotgun.

The corporal is the gloomy Hark Millican, volunteered by Sergeant Cole, who taps Stick to step up into that role.

Rainy is tempted to stop by Fifth Platoon and thank them. But it was her bright idea that got their lieutenant killed, and others besides, and on reflection she decides that would not be wise. She was the bringer of ill tidings, and soldiers are not above blaming the messenger.

She and her battered, exhausted, sore, and dirty prisoner drive away.

Frangie no longer has a unit to return to. Whatever was left of her battalion is far from here, and no one seems
clear on where it might have gone. She seeks out Sergeant Garaman.

“Sarge, I'm kind of up in the air right now. I don't suppose I could tag along with your platoon until I figure out where I'm supposed to be.”

Garaman shrugs and flicks away the butt of his cigarette. “Well, we need a doc, that's a fact.” He sighs, anticipating some world of trouble he's buying for himself by an impromptu integration of his platoon. Then says, “Go hook up with Sergeant Cole. His squad's all broads, Limeys, Japs, and misfits anyway, might as well add a Nigra.”

So Frangie gathers her small stash of medical supplies, sneaks by the hospital tent where additional supplies happen—purely by accident—to fall into her pockets, and finds Second Squad climbing on a truck.

There's another squad with them, and naturally one of those soldiers makes an angry remark about her race.

“She's not a Nigra,” Luther says. “She's Doc.”

“How's Miss Pat doing, Geer?”

Luther pulls the kitten from his shirt, holds her up, and says, “Not Miss Pat anymore, she's a veteran, she gets a better name. Calling her Miss Lion from now on.”

Rio looks at Jack, guessing what's coming next. Jack winks at her and says, “See? I told you there were lions around here.”