Front Lines

by Michael Grant

  “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.”

  “That was a very bad war,” LeFevre says, too much feeling packed into such a short sentence.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “When you get to France, take care of your men—and women—Sergeant. Leave no more dead Americans in French graveyards.”

  Cole holds out his canteen cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

  The two soldiers share a last drink of brandy and a silence that leaves Rio feeling very much like an outsider.

  Then, Jenou’s voice from outside. “Sarge! Tanks!”

  26

  RIO RICHLIN—A BEACH NEAR SOUSSE, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA

  There are many words that an infantry soldier does not want to hear: patrol, dig, march, volunteer, air raid, i
ncoming.

  And tank.

  Rio runs from the old French soldier’s hut followed by Cole. Liefer is standing up in the jeep scanning the road ahead as a hazy dawn picks out details of the surrounding countryside.

  No tank is in sight, but there’s a sound, a sound Rio has heard before but only from friendly tanks during training. It’s the sound of a barely muffled engine, punctuated by occasional backfires, the grinding of gears, and an unmistakable rapid metallic clank-clank-clank-clank-clank of treads.

  “What’s that sound like to you?” Liefer snaps at Cole and Garaman.

  “Sounds like tanks, Lieutenant,” Garaman says, shooting a meaningful look at Cole. “And not far off.” They are the professionals, the sergeants; they share something that does not include Lieutenant Liefer, still less Private Rio Richlin.

  “Okay,” the lieutenant says. “I’m scouting forward, see what I can see. Cole, deploy your squad. Garaman, send a runner back to the captain and Lieutenant Helder. And get the rest of Fifth Platoon into defensive position.”

  She drops herself smartly into the passenger seat of the jeep, which her corporal driver guns, slamming her back.

  Garaman spits tobacco juice and says, “I imagine the Tommies will form up back down the road. So, Cole, I figure your people fire a couple of rounds to keep the Krauts’ heads down, then fall back, hope to draw them in. Is that how you see it?”

  “Yep,” Sergeant Cole says.

  “And make sure your people don’t shoot the Loot when she comes hightailing it back.”

  “Sure about that?” Cole says dryly. He snaps out orders. “Second Squad, right-hand side of the road. There’s not much cover, so dig while you can. Millican, get the bazooka set up on that little hump there where you can cover the road. Pang, you load; Magraff, watch their backs. Stick, farther off by that, whatever the hell that is, that stumpy tree. Dig in, don’t fire until you have targets, and let Corporal Millican get off the first shot with the bazooka. Preeling with Stick. Castain, you’re running ammo. Get a box of thirty-caliber up here and another pouch of bazooka rockets if you can handle it. Richlin, Suarez, you’re with me.”

  For a moment no one moves. Then, in a perfectly calm, even pedantic voice, Cole says, “Not next week, now.”

  The bazooka team runs for the very slight elevation, while Sticklin and Cat race, heads low, for the tree that is a whole lot more like a bush once they look at it.

  “All right, Richlin and Suarez, we’re taking the left side of the road.”

  The three of them run forward, boots loud on pebbly soil, Cole in the lead, a scared and excited Rio in his wake, Suarez bringing up the rear.

  Rio sees Jenou and the others across the road, on their knees, wielding their entrenching tools with unusual vigor, scraping away enough crusty sand and rock to provide at least some sort of cover. They have a slight bit of elevation, not a hill or even a rise, but the road slopes downward and curves away behind a second rise, so while it is slightly lower than the platoon, it is mostly out of sight until the last half mile. The tanks will have to emerge from the shadow of that rise to follow the road past Rio’s position. This should give Millican a clear shot with the bazooka.

  “Down,” Cole says, pointing at the ground. “Make sure not to shoot toward our people, they will be irritated if you do.”

  “I’m shooting?” It comes out as a squeak.

  “That’s why the army invited you two to this little war. Aside from Stick, you two are the best shots in the squad.”

  “Swell,” Suarez mutters under his breath.

  Rio sees the squads of Fifth Platoon digging in a couple hundred yards behind them, and presumably Third Platoon is behind them. They only have a little more cover than Rio, but they’re farther from that relentless clank-clank-clank and the hollow growl of the tank engines, and she thinks she’d rather be back there. Or back anywhere.

  Won’t be a paper target this time.

  Suddenly the jeep barrels back down the road going flat-out and kicking up a plume of dust.

  The jeep brakes in a shower of dust and gravel, and Liefer yells, “Two German tanks and a whole goddamn company of Italian infantry!” before tearing away again toward the rear.

  She has given no orders. She has shouted a warning and disappeared. Rio sees a dark look in Cole’s eyes. Suarez looks nervous, but Rio is pretty sure he’ll do what he needs to do. Tilo Suarez might be a pain in the butt sometimes with his tiresome Lothario act, but he’ll do what he has to do.

  Will I?

  The sound of tank treads grows louder and louder, nearer and nearer, like the slow approach of a movie villain. Rio manages to push about ten inches of dirt and rock in front of herself and lies down in the laughably shallow depression. She rests her left hand on the dirt and points her rifle. Suarez has followed suit. He’s twenty feet to her right.

  “Set sights for two hundred yards,” Cole says.

  Rio hasn’t even thought of adjusting her sights. It shames her being reminded, and she quickly clicks the elevation wheel. There is no breeze to speak of, no need to adjust for windage.

  And suddenly there they are.

  They seem almost to rise out of the desert, two tan steel monsters come to destroy, Panzer IIIs, two-inch main gun, two machine guns. The barrel of the lead tank’s gun is pointed directly at Rio.

  It sees me!

  The absurdity of facing a tank with just a rifle comes home full force. The tank doesn’t care about her pitiful rifle, or the human being holding it. The tank doesn’t care about anything made of flesh and blood.

  The Italian soldiers are a ramshackle mob walking in front of the tanks with more on the flanks. If the column on the left side just keeps walking the way they are they’ll walk directly into Rio, Suarez, and Sergeant Cole.

  Five hundred yards, a quarter mile. The enemy infantry are sketched figures, two legs, two arms, a circle of head, just sticks, no face, no expression, no individuality. Yet there’s an air of weariness about them, a sense of exhaustion.

  “At least they didn’t spot the jeep,” Cole mutters.

  “How do you know . . . ?” Rio starts to ask, but then decides she probably isn’t supposed to be asking questions at a time like this.

  Cole answers anyway. “From the way they walk. They haven’t sent out flankers, their heads are down, rifles slung.”

  Now that she looks more carefully, Rio sees the same thing: the Italians are not expecting to be fired upon, or perhaps they are and have just given up caring. And yet, they are coming on, and they are bringing tanks with them.

  “Maybe they’ll stop,” Tilo says, which makes no sense to Rio. Of course they’ll keep coming, they’ll keep coming at the same leisurely pace until someone fires on them.

  They’ll be surprised, the Italians, as well as the German tankers. But surprise wasn’t going to gain the Americans much, not with just two platoons of green troops. The enemy column stretches as far as she can see, a full company of men, easily two hundred or so. Twelve hundred Italians might be manageable by themselves, but they aren’t by themselves. They are very definitely not by themselves.

  Clank-clank-clank-clank-clank.

  Four hundred yards.

  Rio swallows dust. Her hands sweat on the stock of her rifle. Cole is on his knees like a prairie dog, watching the enemy, glancing toward his men, glancing back at the rest of the force. The British commandos are way back, out of sight. The Americans are as dug in as they’re going to get in bare rock, sand, and pebbles.

  “We’ll bang on ’em, then fall back,” Cole says.

  “Right.”

  “No time for a decent ambush. But make your shots count. Discourages the others if you shoot a few.”

  “Uh.” That short grunt is all the speech Rio can manage. Suarez is silent.

  Three hundred yards. Millican and Pang are the bazooka team, and they are roughly fifty yards closer to the enemy. Millican will fire at two hundred yards. Bazookas are pretty accurate at one hundred to two
hundred yards, not much use beyond that unless you get lucky.

  Watch your breathing. Slow it down. In, out, slow.

  “Okay, Millican, get ready,” Sergeant Cole mutters, as if willing his corporal to strike at the right moment. “Wait till you’ve got ’em . . .”

  “Unh?” Rio grunts, thinking he’s talking to her.

  She remembers firing the bazooka a few times back at Camp Maron. They are surprisingly simple weapons, a 54-inch section of pipe just 2.36 inches in diameter, with a chunky wooden trapezium stock and a stubby grip for each hand. Two batteries hide inside that primitive wooden stock—a tiny bulb will light up if you pull the trigger when the launcher is empty. The light on means you have enough juice to fire the round.

  Pang carries two bazooka pouches, each containing three cylinders that hold the 3.5-pound rockets. He’s already pushed one in the back of the tube and pulled the safety clip clear.

  Suddenly there’s a hollow bang, like someone striking an empty steel barrel with a hammer, and a puff of smoke.

  The rocket flies right over the top of the lead tank.

  “Damn it!”

  The bazooka round has knocked the casualness right out of the enemy. Rio sees them diving off to the sides of the road. They may be tired, but they run and jump with impressive speed.

  Good. Just stay down.

  But they don’t stay down, because now a German staff car, an open, gray-painted saloon, comes tearing up the side of the road, bouncing madly, and nearly driving right over cowering Italians, who have to roll from cover to avoid being hit.

  A somewhat portly German officer in the backseat of the staff car yells a blue streak at the Italians, a shrill and tinny sound at this distance. He gesticulates furiously, gestures that very clearly mean, “Get up there in front of the tanks!”

  Some of the Italians heed his demands, and some do not but instead stay flat on the ground, very much like Rio and Tilo.

  A second round flies from Hark Millican’s bazooka. And this time it hits the side of the leading tank’s turret . . . and glances off. It explodes harmlessly two hundred yards off in the dirt. But it seems to have grazed or perhaps just frightened the lead tank commander who’d been heads-up in the hatch, because he drops out of sight, as does his counterpart in the second tank, both as fast as whack-a-moles. Now slowly, slowly but inexorably, the tank’s big gun comes swinging toward the bare bit of elevation where Millican, Pang, and Magraff squat. Magraff backs away fast, trips and falls, jumps up and runs.