Rio laughs savagely at this and nods agreement. Frangie’s attention is drawn to a group of four young GIs, all privates, all in crisp, clean army uniforms with nary a stripe on their sleeves. They are all young men and obviously in tearing high spirits.
Until they spot the three women.
One of them, a gangly youngster with a mean grin, comes over, leans on their table, and says, “Ladies. You look lovely this evening. But there seems to be a Nigra stinking up your table and—”
In less than three seconds Rio has knocked his hands away, which causes him to topple forward off-balance, grasped the back of his head, and accelerated his fall, slamming his face hard onto the table surface. Blood spurts from his nose. He yells, and Rio shifts her grip to one of his ears, which she twists viciously.
“See that ribbon on her uniform, you pimple?” Rio says, turning his head to look at Frangie. “That’s a goddamned Purple Heart. You come back tomorrow and there’ll be a goddamned Silver Star alongside it, you snot-nosed little shit.”
The other three start forward, ready to come to the aid of their companion, but they stop upon seeing a look from Rio. Frangie thinks it’s about the same look that a doomed gazelle sees on the face of a lioness.
“He’s just a little frisky, Corporal,” one of the cleverer among them says quickly. He retrieves his bleeding friend and guides him toward the men’s restroom.
“Thanks,” Frangie says. “But it doesn’t bother me. It’s water off a duck’s back.”
“Really?” Rainy asks her, peering with the special intensity of the inebriated. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“Maybe a little,” Frangie mutters. “You get used to it.”
“You shouldn’t,” Rio says. “You shouldn’t get used to it.”
“You sound like my brother,” Frangie says, feeling extremely uncomfortable.
And yet, isn’t she right?
Isn’t Harder right too?
Rio raises her glass. “Here’s to not getting used to bullshit.”
For the first time Rainy smiles. It’s a wry, mocking smile, but it’s her happiest expression yet. “Well, Corporal Richlin, you may just be in the wrong organization if you don’t like bullshit, because as far as I can tell the US Army runs on a full tank of bullshit.”
Rio reveals her slow-building but still sweet and rather amazing smile, clinks her glass against Rainy’s, and says, “I do believe you are correct.”
“Although,” Rainy says in a more somber tone, “that doesn’t apply to the GIs.” She takes several quick breaths, steadying herself. “Saved my life, GIs, and I will never—” She can’t go on. Rainy shakes her head, dashes away tears, and says, “I best hit the sack. Alcohol makes me weepy.”
They let her go, secretly relieved to let her carry her pain and rage off to bed.
“Just let me find one of those Gestapo bastards in my sights someday,” Rio says with a controlled anger and a deadly eagerness that scare Frangie. Then, switching gears entirely, Rio says, “But she’s not wrong, is she? About what they’ll have me doing, I mean. Giving speeches in high heels. Pity. Jenou—you met her—Jenou would probably love it.”
“Jenou. She’s the blonde with the . . . the figure?”
That gets a laugh. “The figure. I’m going to tell her you said that, she’ll love it. Yeah, that’s Jenou. Although . . .” Rio frowns. “I guess the truth is, she’s pretty much a GI now, herself. She’s changed a lot.”
“And you haven’t?”
They stay in the pub until closing time, finally abandoning war talk and army talk in favor of talking about mothers and fathers and siblings; about school and teachers and principals; about church socials, Fourth of July fireworks, jazz, boyfriends, real or potential, about Rio’s cows and Frangie’s menagerie of injured creatures.
Home, always home.
A million miles away, Frangie thinks. And can any of us ever really go back?
A car collects them the next morning after a night in which Frangie and Rio ended up squeezed together in one bed, with Rainy in the other and no one on the floor.
They are driven—frowzy, tired, somewhat hungover, and a little embarrassed by their soul-baring—to an RAF airfield that’s been turned over to the American Air Corps. The base is chosen because it affords ample open space and can produce a band to play various martial and patriotic tunes, one of which strikes Rio as oddly familiar as they march out onto the field to take their places.
“Did some Scots come into the pub last night?” she whispers to Frangie.
“With a bagpipe,” Frangie whispers back.
“Did we sing with them?”
“Yes,” Rainy interjects from behind the other two. “I was woken up by the sound of a cat being strangled, a bunch of Gaelic, and two out-of-tune sopranos singing about Scotland the Brave.”
It is chilly and damp. The grass is wet beneath their polished shoes. There is a reviewing stand with a few dozen civilians, no one that any of them knew. There is a color detail holding the flags of the United States and Great Britain, as well as the flag bearing the insignia of the First US Army Group.
The band is to the side of the reviewing stand, playing their trumpets and tubas and banging their drums, none of which helps Rio’s head.
And penned in together by a rope, a dozen or more men and some women, with cameras flashing and newsreel cameras turning and stubs of pencil scratching away at notepads.
They follow an officious sergeant who marches them out into position, facing the reviewing stand. And they stand there for twenty minutes at ease, which is only slightly less relaxed than being at attention—waiting, waiting, ignoring shouted questions from the reporters while the band plays on.
Did you kill many Germans?
How’s it feel being a woman soldier?
Have you got boyfriends?
Finally they spot a convoy of staff cars and jeeps and a single British lorry coming straight across the grass landing strip. One of the staff cars wears a red flag with the three gold stars of a lieutenant general.
“Jesus Christ,” Rio whispers through seemingly tight lips. “Is that Old George himself?”
The general is a brisk, energetic man in his late fifties, wearing his army cap with its three shiny stars at a rakish but still proper angle. His uniform is a study in elegant tailoring. He wears high, polished brown leather cavalry boots, and—if any confirmation of his identity was required—two ivory-handled revolvers.
General George S. Patton is surrounded by a gaggle of colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants, who follow him like so many sparrows flocking around an eagle. He glares at the three women, and none of the three is in any doubt about his mood: Patton does not want to be there.
But then the young female who’d driven the British lorry walks confidently over, and to the astonishment of every single person in attendance—particularly Rio, Frangie, and Rainy—Patton executes a sincere bow as the young woman offers him her hand. He kisses her hand before stepping back, a big, slightly terrifying grin on his hard face.
Staff rush to bring a microphone forward and a nervous captain begins the proceedings by announcing the names of those in attendance. The next to last name mentioned is that of General Patton.
The final name is “Second Subaltern Elizabeth Windsor.”
“Oh my God,” Rainy breathes. “The princess!”
“The what?” Rio and Frangie echo, too surprised to be discreet.
“Elizabeth Windsor. Princess Elizabeth, the king’s daughter!” Rainy is not easily impressed. The general has not cowed her. She’s dealt with colonels and generals, but this finally cuts through her cynicism and a smile slowly appears.
They are called to attention—they’re already at attention, proximity to a lieutenant general will do that, but they take this order as a sign that it’s time to stop whispering.
Their names are read out one by one, followed by the official summaries of their actions. And then, all at once, Rio is face-to-face
with Patton, who gives her a sideways, thoughtful look before taking the medal from one of his aides and pinning it onto the lapel of her uniform. The lapel being more discreet under the circumstances than pinning it on her chest.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Richlin,” Patton says with bare civility.
“Corporal, sir,” Rio blurts as the general is moving away.
He stops, comes back a step, leans toward her, and says, “Young lady, if I say you’re a sergeant, then you’re a god . . .” He glances guiltily toward the princess, clears his throat, and starts over. “If I say you’re a sergeant, then that’s what you are.”
Princess Elizabeth steps to her and extends her hand, smiling radiantly, just a teenager herself, Rio realizes.
Completely confused, Rio attempts a curtsy but has no idea how to manage it, so ends up looking like she’s got an itch.
“Now, now, none of that,” the princess says with a high, musical laugh. “You’re Americans, and we settled all that some time ago.”
Rio swallows, says nothing, bobs her head, and the moment blessedly ends as Patton and Elizabeth move on to Rainy.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Schulterman. Fine work,” Patton says, and pins her medal on.
On reaching Frangie, the general seems to take a breath and hold it, as if unwilling to breathe her air. His eyes are cold and dismissive, but he says the right words of congratulation.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Marr. Good work.”
The princess is more gracious, and she holds Frangie’s hand in hers for a long time as she speaks about helping to keep our brave boys—and girls too—alive and healthy so they can return to their loving families.
And then they are done, marched off the field as the band plays “Garryowen.”
Squeezed into the backseat of the closed car that will carry them to a reception at the enlisted men’s club, Rio says, “I do not want to be a sergeant. No, I sure as anything do not.”
“Pay’s better,” Rainy observes.
But for Rio it feels like a punishment. She had not wanted to be a corporal, and this is infinitely worse. She wonders now if she shouldn’t accept the offer of stateside duty. If she goes back up to the front in Italy, or sits here waiting for the invasion, either way she’ll be given men and women to train and teach and coddle. She will be Sergeant Cole. She will be Dain Sticklin.
I’ll be Mackie! she thinks, recalling her first sergeant, all the way back at the beginning. In her memory Sergeant Mackie has become an almost mythic figure. “I have no business being sergeant,” Rio says.
“Neither do I,” Frangie says, but grins as she adds, “but if it comes to it I’ll take the extra pay.”
“Nah, I can’t . . . ,” Rio says. “I don’t want that . . . that responsibility. You two don’t get it. The sergeant is the . . . the . . .” She shrugs helplessly.
“The one who leads his people into the valley of the shadow of death,” Frangie says, earning a snort from Rio.
The car runs along the base of the cliffs, white chalk rising abruptly to their left, the English Channel on their right.
“Driver?” Rainy says suddenly. “Can you pull over? I want to look.”
They climb out, breath steaming in the cold. They stand side by side, looking out across the water, three young soldiers in their best uniforms, newly adorned with the Silver Star.
“France is over there about twenty miles or so,” Rainy says. “In a few weeks or months a very large number of GIs are going to land on some beach over there.”
They stare some more, and Rio lights a cigarette. She’s landed on beaches in North Africa, in Sicily, and on the mainland of Italy. This time will be worse. This time the Germans will know the Allies are coming in earnest. This time it will be to the death.
Rainy says, “Some of those GIs will get hurt, and they’ll need a medic.”
Frangie nods. “Too few medics, too many hurt boys.”
“Well, they’ll have one with a Silver Star,” Rainy says, and claps a hand on Frangie’s shoulder.
“I guess they will,” Frangie says with a sigh.
“But will they have sergeants?” Rainy moves to stand right in front of Rio. “When they found me, when I finally figured out that I was safe, you know what kept going through my head, Richlin?”
Rio shakes her head.
“I am not some wild-eyed patriot,” Rainy says softly. “When I started out I trusted in orders. I trusted my superiors. Well, I don’t trust so much anymore, but even . . . before . . . even before, I don’t think anyone would ever have mistaken me as a sentimental person or an uncritical person.”
That earns a wry smile from both Rio and Frangie.
“But what went through my head, again and again, as I . . .” She fights through the tightening of her throat. “As I lay there in my own piss and blood, what I thought was, thank God for the US Army.” Then in a whisper, “Thank God for the US fugged-up-beyond-all-recognition Army.”
“Dammit,” Rio says, and wipes angrily at a tear.
“And you know what, Sergeant Richlin? There’s a whole bunch of people, millions of them, right over there, right across that water, who are praying for the US Army. And a bunch of green kids from Alabama and Nebraska are going to jump out of planes and go running out of boats trying to be that army. Half of them won’t know which end of a rifle to point at the Krauts. You know what those green kids will need? You know what all those GIs and all those millions of people over there will need?”
Rio grits her teeth, willing herself not to be swayed, not to be influenced by high-flown words.
“They’ll need people who know how to fight and how to keep guys from getting killed,” Rainy says. “What do we call those people, Richlin? What do we call those people, Rio Richlin from Cow Paddy or Bugtussle or wherever the hell you’re from?”
Rio shakes her head from side to side, negation but . . . but also acceptance. Yes, she is swayed by Rainy’s words, but wasn’t it always inevitable? Was she ever really going to run away and sell war bonds?
Rainy takes Rio’s shoulders in her hands and says, “Honey, I hate to tell you, but they call those people sergeants.”
Rio gazes out across the steel-gray water, out across the whitecaps, past the gray navy ships patrolling. She sees her father, warning her not to play hero, to keep her head down. She sees her mother, crying that she can’t lose another daughter, not again.
She gazes into a future of sunshine and fresh-baked muffins and the happy children she will have with Strand. Maybe.
And then she sees Geer and Pang, Cat and Beebee. She sees Stick and Jack. And Jenou. She even sees that green fool from the pub and a million like him, ignorant, lost, blustering, clueless idiots who will probably not last five minutes once the shooting starts.
And she sees Cassel.
And Suarez.
And Magraff.
“So,” Rio says at last. “Just what is the pay for sergeants?”
Interstitial
107TH EVAC HOSPITAL, WüRZBURG, GERMANY—APRIL 1945
We did not take Monte Cassino, Gentle Reader. It took three more tries before Polish troops finally climbed the last bloody feet.
By then the bombers had come and obliterated the monastery. That was a pity, I suppose, especially since it didn’t really help. But that’s war, I guess. If you don’t want to see your great old buildings blown to hell, don’t start wars.
General Mark Clark finally got his big moment of fame, capturing Rome. Yep. American forces took Rome on June 4, 1944. The world had two days to give a damn and then, well, you know what happened on June 6, 1944.
I call it justice: the great glory hound general had his glory dimmed. Too bad he left so many thousands of good men and women dead on the way. And they’re still fighting in Italy, even with the Russkies closing in on Berlin and the Americans racing to the Wolf’s Lair. I don’t know what history will have to say about the battles for Italy, but from where I sit it looks like a huge damned waste.
But that’s the word for all war, isn’t it? Waste. Villages and towns and great cities turned to rubble; civilians homeless, wandering the fields trying to find a blade of grass to eat, waiting for sons and husbands who aren’t ever coming home.
In Italy we had Brits, Canadians, Aussies, Kiwis—who came damned close to taking Cassino when it was their turn—men from every end of the French or British empire, those crazy-brave Poles, and us Americans. And yeah, Eye-ties and Krauts too, though don’t expect me to shed a tear for them, those fools who followed madmen and now sit hungry and cold in the destruction they unleashed.
Waste. A waste of staggering proportions.
Oh well, forget I said that. It’s all glory, kids, nothing but glory. After all, Gentle Reader, they’ll need you or your kids ready to fight the next war, right? We wouldn’t want you to get the idea that your war will be a waste, right?
Anyway.
Yeah, anyway.
Put it all in a box, Sergeant Cole used to say. Put it all away and lock it up and don’t open that box until . . . until you’re a wounded soldier sitting in a hospital with a typewriter.
See, the thing is, it scares me, all that stuff I’ve put away. I thought maybe writing about it would let me get a handle on it. Well, fug it all, it’s not working. Too much. Just getting this far it’s too much, and we haven’t gotten to France yet, or Belgium or Germany.
I warned you there would be hate. I warned you. And by the time we were all done with our time in sunny, delightful Italy, we’d started to feel it. It’s hard to kill a person you don’t hate. A vicious cycle, hate and killing, killing and hate.
What a wonderful world.
And more to come. Because next I will tell you about France and Belgium and Germany. I will take you to a beach named for a city in Nebraska.
Omaha Beach, Gentle Reader. And the forest. And the Bulge.
And hell itself, which the Krauts called Buchenwald.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There will be those who think my depiction of racism in the wartime American military and the country at large is overly harsh. Sadly, this is nonsense. The reality was worse than I have the opportunity to show in this necessarily limited narrative.
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