Silver Stars

by Michael Grant

  Cisco? Unaffected. “Now what?”

  A jeep with its canvas cover up tears across the tarmac from the direction of a squat, unimpressive control tower, bearing a woman lieutenant and a male sergeant. Rainy remembers belatedly to salute.

  “I trust you had a pleasant flight?” the lieutenant asks with the gleefully malicious grin common to airmen and sailors when dealing with earthbound folk. She’s wearing a black armband that reads OD—officer of the day. Or night, in this case.

  Only then does Rainy realize she’s still clutching the unused vomit bag. She crumples it and shoves it into her pocket.

  They are driven to a white plaster building full of unoccupied desks. Someone has thoughtfully laid out Azorean bread rolls, roast beef, a local cheese, giant cans of mustard and mayonnaise, and a dozen Cokes in a bucket of ice. The Coke settles Rainy’s stomach enough for her to recognize and feed a ravenous hunger.

  “Where the hell are we, anyway?” Cisco asks.

  The lieutenant answers. “Lajes Field, Azores. The island is called Terceira. It means third. There are nine islands all together. We’re about two thousand miles from New York and just under a thousand from Portugal, and no distance at all from the U-boats, although they’ve had their horns trimmed a bit. Soon as you’ve finished, we’ll drive you down to the harbor, Angra, the biggest city they got here.”

  “Any action in Anger?” Cisco asks.

  “Angra. Angra do Heroísmo.” Rainy recognizes a fellow linguist. The lieutenant has worked on her pronunciation, not a normal thing for American troops overseas. “It means Bay of Heroism. And to answer your question, no, no action unless you mean two bars serving bad beer, worse wine, and no whiskey.”

  Cisco nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like an opportunity. You got horny GIs and . . . pardon my, uh, choice of words . . .”

  “Oh, there’s a cathouse,” the lieutenant assures him, showing no sign of feminine embarrassment. “Like you said: horny GIs will find a way.”

  They drive through slackening rain down a road paved with cobbles made of black lava. The road is lined with hydrangea bushes, blue and pink. The fields are small, extravagantly green rectangles marked off by low, volcanic-stone fences. The road winds and curves upward before beginning to descend into Angra. They pass a donkey cart and a small civilian truck, but that’s all for the half-hour drive.

  The harbor is a small, neat bowl surrounded by two-story whitewashed buildings with red tile roofs. The only prominent building is a church with twin square towers topped by neat white domes. The Americans have erected an antiaircraft tower, but no German plane has the range or the inclination to fly this far. There are two naval vessels tied up on the ocean-facing side of the protectively curved pier. One is a small destroyer or corvette, Rainy doesn’t know ships well enough to know quite what to call it. But she recognizes the long, narrow, gray dagger of a submarine.

  The sub is a Royal Navy T-class, a sullen-looking beast with a strange bulge at the front where external torpedo tubes look like the nostrils of a dragon’s flared head. She’s 275 feet, about four railroad cars long, or just shy of a football field, but just a tenth as wide in the beam. There’s a superstructure divided in two bits, the higher rear portion festooned with antennae and what can only be the retracted tops of two periscopes. The lower, forward part of the superstructure is taken up by a four-inch gun that seems oversized for its environment.

  Fishing boats are heading out from the shelter of the pier, chugging slowly, one after another into choppy seas gray in the faint light of dawn. The night has been shortened by their eastward progress.

  “There’s your ride,” the lieutenant says. The sergeant shows his face to a bored Portuguese sailor on sentry duty, and they drive out onto the mole, coming to a stop beside the sub.

  “Hey,” Cisco says. “That’s not ours, is it?”

  “His Majesty’s boat, Topaz,” the lieutenant says. “They’re your ride.”

  “The hell they are,” Cisco says. “There is no goddamn way I am going down underwater. No way in hell.”

  “You’ll have to,” Rainy says.

  “No. No.” Cisco shakes his head violently. He looks like a man ready to crawl out of his skin. Fearless through the battering airborne thunderstorm, he is transformed now. “No way. No way, no how. The hell with this! Uh-uh, no way.”

  But in the end there is a way, involving quite a bit of Azorean vinho de cheiro, a red wine that smells of strawberries. And just two hours behind schedule an exceedingly drunk and raving mobster is manhandled down the hatch and lashed into a canvas hammock by wonderfully amused British submariners.

  9

  RIO RICHLIN—CAMP ZIGZAG, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA

  “Richlin! Someone here to see you.” Sergeant Cole holds the tent flap back, and a tall young man bows his head to enter.

  “Everyone decent?” Strand Braxton asks, grinning. He’s in an Air Corps uniform: khaki slacks and a sheep’s-wool-trimmed leather jacket that looks very dashing and is completely wrong for the heat.

  Rio at that moment is carefully cleaning and oiling her M1. The pieces are laid out on her cot atop a spread-out towel. She has removed the strap. She has pulled the trigger guard forward and pulled the trigger assembly all the way out. She has separated the stock and has even disassembled the gas cylinder, laying the parts out in a neat, familiar pattern.

  With clean rags, brushes, and solvent she has cleaned each and every part. She is now busy using a second clean rag to cover all moving parts with a thin coat of oil.

  Her hands are greasy, and she smells of sewing machine oil and kerosene. She is dressed in dungaree trousers and a sweat-stained T-shirt. The army has spent approximately zero time considering the fact that army bras—a device with as many straps and as little sex appeal as a parachute—is only indifferently covered by the T-shirt.

  The fact that she is in a shocking state of undress flashes through Rio’s mind, but that does not stop her from yelling, “Strand!”

  She sets the traveler (a small, curiously shaped metal piece) down, glances furtively around to see if Jack is there. Then she runs to Strand, throwing her arms around him.

  They kiss, but discreetly, a kiss that is more passionate than brother-sister, but more self-conscious than would be the case if Geer, Stick, and Cat were not watching with undisguised interest.

  “Huh,” Geer says. “So Richlin is still a girl. I’ll be damned.”

  “Strand, this is Stick, the one with the clean new corporal’s stripes, that’s Preeling there, and the asshole is Geer.”

  The word asshole is out of Rio’s mouth before she can think it through. She sees Strand wince, then cover it up. Geer doesn’t even pretend to be offended.

  “Sorry,” Rio says, genuinely embarrassed. “My language has gone to . . . I mean, well, you know . . .”

  “It’s good to meet you all,” Strand says. Then he looks more closely at Rio. “Is that a bruise?”

  “What, this?” Rio waves it off. “Just, um . . . I accidentally ran into a pole last week.” She avoids eye contact with her squad members, all of whom maintain what might be called a patently false silence, including Cat, who ostentatiously makes a turning key motion over her mouth.

  Just then Jenou enters, spots Strand, and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. What are you doing, Lieutenant Braxton, slumming with lowly enlisted types? Did you remember to salute him, Rio?”

  “She gave me a different kind of salute, and I liked it a whole lot better,” Strand says.

  “What are you doing here?” Rio asks. She’s holding him by the biceps, keeping him close, enjoying the feel of him. He’s a solid reminder of a different life, and a different Rio. And she quite likes the feel of his lean muscles.

  “I volunteered to fly a bird colonel over here. He and his staff were in some big hurry, and we’re stood down for a couple days. So I gassed up my plane, grabbed my copilot and flight engineer, and here I am, at least unt
il tomorrow morning. I don’t suppose you can wrangle a twenty-four-hour pass?”

  Jenou laughs, and Rio shoots her a warning look, but of course Jenou ignores that and says, “Well, we had some passes last week, and you see the results.” She aims an accusing finger at Rio’s bruise. Mock-serious she says, “I’m afraid Rio can’t handle her drink.”

  “Knock it off, Jen,” Rio says, not quite playfully.

  “Why, Rio told me she ran into a pole,” Strand says with a wink. “And I am honor-bound to believe her.”

  “You should have been there when that big old Texan boy, the one with the bandaged ear, came after her, thinking she was easy prey, and she pulls out that big knife of hers—”

  “Jen!”

  “Knife?”

  “It’s a keepsake,” Rio says quickly. “You know, a souvenir. I think it’s something the A-rabs carry just for show.”

  “‘I will stick this in your guts and push it till the point comes out of your mouth.’ That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Rio?”

  Jenou bats her eyes at Rio, who is not interested in being teased, not right then, not when she’s hoping Strand doesn’t notice that she stinks of solvent and oil, not to mention just stinking from the lack of a shower after a sweaty morning spent unloading a truck.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Rio says. “Let me just reassemble my rifle.”

  She sits back down and looks at the pieces laid out. It’s a complex job, but one she can do blindfolded by now. But having Strand watch with a show of interest makes her self-conscious. Her best time is four minutes and six seconds. If she does it that fast won’t she look like . . . well, like a soldier? But if she slows down the others will spot it immediately and the reaction will not be kind.

  “Who’s got a watch with a second hand?” Cat asks, batting her eyes at Rio, obviously perfectly aware of Rio’s dilemma. And that settles it. Rio can only do her best.

  Slide bolt into receiver. This is always tricky and usually involves some wiggling of the piece, but Rio has it down to a single, smooth insertion. Then slot the operating rod back into the housing, slide it back to make sure it catches the rod. Then the follower assembly—drop and slide. Bullet guide, follower arm, operating rod catch, holding pin, check the movement, slide in the long spring, lever the assembly into the stock, pop in the trigger guard, lock it down, check the bolt, squeeze the trigger to earn a pleasantly layered metallic click and . . .

  “Five minutes, thirty-eight seconds,” Geer says. “Hell, I can beat that, Richlin.”

  “Not my best,” she mutters, and when she looks up, Strand’s expression is not congratulatory but serious. His forehead wrinkles, his brows lower over his eyes, shadowing them. His mouth is set in a stern, pressed line, and it takes him longer than she would like for him to ease it into a pleasant smile.

  “Okay,” Rio says with false cheer to conceal her unease, “let’s see if Sarge is feeling generous.”

  She takes Strand’s arm, actually clamps a hand on his bicep—and draws him outside into the light and heat and dust. She looks around for someplace private, any place, but she is surrounded by a half a square mile of tents, temporary huts, cooking fires, male soldiers naked to the waist, piles of discarded crates that once held canned food, the cans that came from those crates, parked jeeps, and deuce-and-a-halfs rumbling by in clouds of dust.

  One of the parked jeeps apparently belongs to Strand, at least for now, and he has a corporal dozing in the driver’s seat, helmet tilted forward to shield his eyes, feet up on the dashboard.

  Sergeant Cole is sitting on a camp chair drinking coffee with O’Malley and another sergeant. Rio says, “Come on,” and hauls Strand over.

  “Sarge, meet Lieutenant Braxton, a friend of mine from back home. Strand, Sergeants Cole, O’Malley, and Alvarez.”

  Cole stands, pivots, salutes, then shakes Strand’s outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  “And you, Sergeant, I’ve heard a bit about you through Rio’s letters.” He raises a finger, forestalling a response, and reaches into his inner pocket to pull out a small parcel wrapped in newspaper. “Rio happened to mention that you enjoy an occasional cigar. I don’t know if these are any good, I picked them up in a little shop in Casablanca . . .”

  Strand unwraps the parcel, revealing six fat brown cigars. Cole swallows hard. “Those are Cubans. Those are the real thing!”

  “Well, they’re yours,” Strand says.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. I take that very kindly. So, just what is it I can do for you in response to this very, very, very welcome bribe?”

  “Well, I’m only here for twenty-four hours, and I was wondering . . .” He shrugs.

  “I see.” Cole pretends to consider this carefully. “Sergeant O’Malley, I wonder if we might be able to rustle up a twenty-four-hour pass for Private Richlin.”

  “Wait,” Strand says. He darts over to his jeep, feels around inside a canvas carryall, and produces a bottle of rye whiskey, which he carries back to O’Malley. “I don’t suppose you’re a drinking man?”

  “I’d have thought an officer would have more sense than to even ask that question.” O’Malley hefts the bottle and says, “I do believe you’re correct that we’re being bribed, Jedron. And a damned fine bit of bribery it is too. Make it a case next time, Lieutenant, and you can have Richlin for the whole rest of the war.”

  The pass appears with record speed—it’s possible the rye will be shared with the captain. Strand dismisses his corporal to the mess tent and settles behind the wheel with Rio beside him. They drive off, and then Rio sees Jack. Jack is shirtless, stripped down to his boxer shorts and boots, wielding a shovel and digging a new latrine trench. He is bathed in sweat that rolls intriguingly down his smooth, tanned chest. He spots Rio, then does a double take, eyes narrowing as he realizes who is driving.

  It is the moment Rio had hoped to avoid. Strand is oblivious, Jack being just one more soldier with a shovel. Jack nods at Rio, tries and fails to smile, and ends up seeming to grimace in disgust. Rio raises her hand in a guilty, halfhearted wave and the jeep roars on by, its dust-cloud swirling over Jack.

  It doesn’t matter. Strand is Strand, while Jack is just Jack.

  “Where are we going?” Rio asks, raising her voice to be heard over the rush of wind in her face.

  “I, uh . . . I arranged a little privacy.”

  “How much privacy?” Rio asks archly.

  “It’s a room in a hotel, but we can leave the door open. And I’m told there’s a shower.”

  “Uh-huh.” A slow, skeptical drawl.

  Strand grins at her. “You know, being in the army has made you cynical.”

  “Being around men all day and night will do that to a girl.”

  “I imagine that’s true. Say, how are you, Rio?” It’s a serious question, more serious than it would have been back home, more serious than it would have been on the Queen Mary. As she feared, the sight of her in an OD T-shirt reassembling her weapon like an automaton has left an impression.

  She shrugs. “Fine as anyone, I guess. Sick of living in the dirt. Sick of the same three things to eat every day. Sick of hearing the same old stories from the same old people day in, day out. I swear if Suarez starts in again on the time he caught a fly ball at Yankee Stadium . . . But I’m okay.” She smiles and reaches out to touch his hand on the gearshift. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “No more war talk.”

  He reaches awkwardly with his right hand and she shakes it, softening the grip of her muscles, wishing the pads of her fingers and palm weren’t hard with calluses earned wielding shovels and hauling supplies. The morning had been spent hauling food supplies into the mess tent with Beebee and pretending not to notice as Beebee stole roughly 10 percent of what they unloaded for use as “trade goods.”

  The hotel is a relic of French colonial influence, even flying a faded and tattered French tricolor over the door. A new sign has been nailed beside th
e front door that reads: Amis et Alliés Well Coming.

  Friends and allies welcome. Given that Vichy French forces were firing on Americans just months earlier, it elicits a skeptical grunt from Rio. But inside there’s a desk and a manager and a bellman, and overstuffed leather chairs arranged around low tables topped with beer bottles and glasses and overflowing ashtrays.

  The bellman, a surly young Arab, shows them to a third-floor room that is clean enough and furnished with a dresser with peeling veneer . . . and an iron bed.

  “Get us a bottle of Champagne,” Strand orders the bellman.

  “No have,” the bellman says, but with something in his eyes that suggests the answer may be only temporary. Sure enough, when Strand hands him a ten-dollar bill, it turns out the hotel does indeed have a bottle of Champagne.

  “You can close the door,” Rio says. “I’m not worried about my reputation.”

  “But what about my reputation?” Strand asks with a wink. He closes the door.

  Rio notes her own lack of concern for propriety and reputation. She would never for a moment have considered being in a closed hotel room with a man back home. The very idea was outrageous. She’d have slapped the face of any man who suggested such a thing.

  They kiss, a tentative first peck, and then a longer kiss, and then a kiss that threatens to end with both of them on the bed. Rio pulls back and says, “I’m going to find the shower.”

  The shower is down the corridor. It is none too clean but wildly luxurious by army standards, with actual tile on the walls. Rio strips down and turns on the cold water, which, as she expects, is plenty warm, and in any event there is no hot water. She uses a bar of fragrant soap to shampoo her hair and carefully clean every square inch of grime from the rest of her.

  “Wow,” Strand says, as she lets herself back into the room.