Front Lines

by Michael Grant

  That last thought lingers in her mind. She is a prisoner. She is a woman. And with sick dread she knows what to expect.

  But for now there’s a man with a bandage the color of old meat. She will change that bandage and worry about the rest later.

  33

  RIO RICHLIN—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA

  “Nothing we could do up against tanks, right?” Tilo says.

  “Fugging bazooka bounced off,” Corporal Hark Millican says, not for the first or last time. “How we supposed to stop tanks with that? Like throwing a fugging water balloon.” He has previously compared the bazooka shell to a baseball, a rock, and a watermelon.

  “What do you expect?” Luther snaps. “We’re fighting with girls against men. I always said this was doomed. I always said that.”

  Stick says, “As far as I can tell, the only one who inflicted any casualties on them was a girl.”

  “Because the men are too busy looking out for the women, that’s what,” Geer insists furiously. “Girls and a goddamned Jap. We’re cursed.”

  Hansu Pang cannot help but hear this. He clamps his jaw tight but says nothing and no one comes to his defense. The fact that Pang did exactly what he was ordered to do and performed as well as anyone means nothing; he has the face and the hair and, above all, the eyes of a Jap. And scared, beaten men need an excuse. Blame the women, blame the Jap, blame the officers all the way up the chain of command, blame anyone but themselves.

  They’ve lost Cassel. They’ve lost their medic. And, to make matters worse, everyone has earlier overheard the furious British captain reaming out Lieutenants Liefer and Helder, before leading his men off.

  “You ran, you silly bastards,” he raged. “We could have managed a fighting withdrawal, but you broke and ran.”

  To which Liefer had responded by making things worse. “I can only be as good as my people. These are green troops.”

  “Young lady, it’s a bloody poor officer that blames her men,” the captain shot back savagely. “I’ve got five of my boys dead and one so shot up he won’t be long joining them. And you were well in the rear, Lieutenant. That fact will be in my report, you may count on it.”

  And with that the British commandos double-timed past them, not without harsh words from some of the Tommies.

  “Soft Yank bastards.”

  “Americans, my arse.”

  “You fight like women. Oh, too right: you are women.”

  Rio does her best to ignore the taunts. She ignores, too, the unsettling mix of respect and resentment that comes from being the only one in the squad to provably hit an enemy soldier.

  She watches it in her memory. She sees the Italian through her sights. She feels the pressure of her finger on the trigger. He trips. He falls. Just a stumble.

  No, he’s hit. He’s fallen. He’s bleeding into the sand. Just like Cassel.

  She wants to walk with Sergeant Cole, but she resists. It would be like clinging to her parents, and she’s past that, she’s not a little girl needing her father. She’s a soldier, right? A soldier.

  Instead she walks with Jenou, good old Jenou who can always perk her up with chatter about boys and girls and clothing and hairstyles and . . .

  “What was it like?” Jenou asks her.

  There’s no doubt in Rio’s mind what her friend means. “It’s my job, right? I just did my job.”

  Jenou lets a few paces pass. “You were pretty cool under pressure.”

  “No different than anyone else,” Rio says, trying to shut her friend down. She’s feeling, feeling way too much now that the fight is past. She’s like a steam boiler, pressure building up inside, a churning feeling. She wants to scream.

  Everyone just shut up.

  “Bet there’s lions out here, up in those rocks. Mountain lions.” Cat walking just a few steps behind.

  Again with the lions. Give it a rest, Preeling, shut up, just shut up and let us march.

  “Probably eating the guts out of that Italian you shot,” Cat says.

  Rio spins to face her. Rio is vibrating, all of her body straining to contain the pressure. She wants to snarl at Preeling, but can’t find the words. Her clenched and cocked fist hovers, trembling, before dropping to her side.

  Rio grits her teeth and starts walking again. Jenou has at last realized her friend is upset. “Don’t pay any attention, Rio. Let it go.”

  Rio pulls out her canteen. Why are her hands trembling now when they were so steady before? She can feel the lightness of the canteen. There’s no more than two inches of water in it. Save it, don’t drink until you can’t stand it.

  But she drinks, just a mouthful, just enough to wash some of the grit from her teeth.

  “Sarge,” Sticklin calls out. “Off to the left at eight o’clock.”

  Cole halts, and the squad bunches up behind him. He’s like a mother duck with newborn ducklings; they follow him, go where he goes, stop when he stops.

  They all turn to look.

  “It’s a car,” Jillion Magraff says. “Probably coming to get us to surrender.”

  “It’s not German, it’s a jeep,” Hansu Pang says quietly.

  Geer unlimbers his rifle. “If the Jap says it’s a jeep, it’s for sure a German.”

  Sticklin levels the BAR at the approaching dust plume.

  “Hold your fire,” Cole says. “It’s a jeep.”

  Rio sees two people in the vehicle, a man and a woman. She looks ahead up this endless dirt road to nowhere. The Tommies are no longer in sight. Lieutenant Liefer has stopped. She’s shading her eyes, staring at the approaching vehicle. Behind them in the direction they’ve come from, Helder and Third Platoon. They, too, are watching the jeep, which pulls up in a skid.

  A female buck sergeant jumps out. “Are you from the 119th?”

  Lieutenant Liefer glares at her. “Have you forgotten how to salute an officer, Sergeant?”

  The sergeant does a double take, sighs, and snaps an entirely correct salute that Liefer takes her time returning. “This is Fifth Platoon, Charlie Company, 119th Infantry. You’re looking for us?”

  That last is said with an incredulous tone.

  “Excellent, our relief is here,” Jack says. Jack remained silent during the taunting by his fellow countrymen—this has earned him respect from the squad. He could have said he was English, he could have distanced himself from the disaster around him, but instead he remained loyal to his outfit.

  “Sergeant Schulterman, ma’am, and this is Corporal Seavee. May I ask if you are in command here, ma’am?”

  Liefer does not like her tone. The sergeant is not so disrespectful that she can make an issue of it, but it’s clear that Rainy Schulterman is not impressed. The lieutenant holds out her hand. “If you have orders for me, let’s have them.”

  Two folded sheets are drawn from within the sergeant’s shirt. She hands them to the lieutenant. Helder comes trotting up, and the two officers, as well as Garaman, peruse the two paragraphs and peer closely at the signature.

  Lieutenant Helder says, “Are you out of your fugging mind, Sergeant? We’re to turn north? Across that?” He waves at the desert and the looming hills. “And attack a German supply column? We’ve got two platoons, no armor, no artillery or air support.”

  “Sir, those are the orders,” Rainy says simply. Then adds, “The colonel’s orders,” and points at the signature.

  Rio notices the way Liefer’s face turns rigid as it dawns on her that the orders are for real and that failure to obey will mean the end of her career. If she still has one.

  “Then Colonel Clay has lost his fugging mind,” Helder snaps. “My men are not going to march across nine, ten miles of wasteland to get killed.”

  But Liefer has reached a different conclusion. “I’m in command here.”

  “You’re a second lieutenant, same as me,” Helder says.

  “What’s the date of your commission?”

  They compare commission dates, the day on which they were promoted to lieut
enant, and Liefer has seventeen days’ seniority. Lieutenant Helder curses, but he’s powerless unless he wants to disobey clear, written orders.

  Garbled repetitions of everything being said filter back through the GIs, who grumble, and more than grumble, about the stupidity of charging off into the desert with practically no water and damn little ammo. At least here on the road they may be taken prisoner by the Germans, who, by all accounts, treat prisoners humanely and according to the rules of war. But out in the deep desert, who knows?

  “I’m already almost dry,” Jillion Magraff says.

  “Almost? Hell, I’ve been out of water for a couple hours, at least,” Suarez says. He rattles his canteen to make the point.

  As the lieutenants and NCOs discuss their fate, Second Squad sits or sprawls or lies down beside the road.

  Rio closes her eyes. Closes them and sits there slumped over, her butt cold on the ground, swaying back and forth with exhaustion. It’s hit her all at once. No sleep last night, no sleep today, and it’s noon. Sleep, food, a hot shower, in that order, that’s what she wants. Top it with mail from home, and it would be a foot soldier’s paradise.

  The next thing she hears is Cole sounding bitterly unhappy. “All right, Second Squad, gear up.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Jenou groans.

  “I knew it,” Hark Millican says, his eternal gloominess validated.

  Jenou is standing; she offers Rio her hand and pulls her friend up.

  “Bloody march in the bloody desert.” Jack Stafford’s usual good humor has deserted him.

  An argument has broken out between the two lieutenants and Corporal Seavee. The officers are requisitioning his jeep.

  “I’m only here because she”—the newly arrived sergeant—“popped up and shoved those orders in my face, but I got other orders, orders to get this jeep back to my captain,” Seavee says, standing with arms crossed.

  “Do you have written orders to that effect?”

  Seavee shakes his head, amused in a bad way, pissed off but defeated by the relentless logic of officers. “Goddammit. Goddammit. We don’t know what the hell’s out there, Lieutenant, all due respect.”

  “Welcome to the war,” Liefer snaps, and seems quite pleased with that terse response.

  Sergeant Cole and his counterparts from the other squads do a water and ammo count. It quickly becomes clear that there’s nowhere near enough water, and half a dozen soldiers out of maybe sixty, seventy men and women left in the two platoons have lost or thrown away their rifles, though in Second Squad only Jillion Magraff has done so. Food is short as well. The jeep brought some cans of water, but barely enough to take the edge off.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we are on short rations,” Cole says. “We’ve got a good nine, ten miles at least, assuming there’s a pass through those hills over there.”

  “Are they sending us some supplies?” Stick asks.

  “Hell, Stick, we’ve got a military disaster going on here, the whole front is being rolled up. We are no one’s top priority. If we find this column, maybe we can drink their water.” It’s a peevish joke, and no one laughs.

  “What’s this column we’re supposed to find?” Luther demands, angry because he has a blister from poorly worn-in boots, and because his kitten is kneading his chest with her sharp little claws.

  “Supposed to be ammo trucks and fuel tankers rendezvousing with a German armored column.”

  “A what? An armored column? Tanks?”

  “If we get there fast enough, maybe we get the trucks and skedaddle before the tanks show up.”

  “If we don’t, we’re fugging dead,” Jack says. “Infantry against tanks? In open desert? That’s mad!”

  Cole does not argue with him. Stafford’s summation and the sergeant’s silence begin to sink in. The two green platoons are going off on a suicide mission with no help coming. There’s mutiny in many eyes, but the problem is that there’s nowhere to run. They are separated from any other force, and in the middle of a major German attack.

  “I’d sure like to know who the hell dreamed up this hair-brained scheme,” Geer demands belligerently.

  “I did.” It’s the female sergeant who brought the orders from headquarters.

  Her announcement earns her looks ranging from skepticism to resentment to outright hate.

  “Great, another woman soldier,” Luther sneers. “Thanks. Fugging excellent.”

  The complaints continue, but in the end they carry as much weight as a soldier’s complaints generally do: none.

  Sergeant Schulterman has been kicked out of the jeep so Liefer can take her place, with a PFC from Third Platoon perched on the back to employ the .50 caliber machine gun.

  The jeep takes off at a walking pace with Second Squad behind it eating the dust it kicks up, and the rest of the two platoons behind them eating still more dust. This does not improve anyone’s mood. But gradually Cole stretches the distance between the squad and the jeep. It’s not quite enough to save them from a fine coating of dust that gets into their clothing and noses and eyes and mouths.

  “Maybe we should get off to one side, Sarge,” Jillion Magraff suggests.

  “No, I think we best follow the jeep’s tracks,” Cole says.

  “But the dust is—”

  “You can get used to the dust,” he says. “Can’t get used to land mines.”

  The entire squad misses several steps. It would be funny if they weren’t talking about mines.

  “See, the good thing is, if there are mines they’re most likely antitank not antipersonnel. So it’d take something heavier than a man to set one of those off.” Cole reluctantly spits out the butt of his cigar, now no more than half an inch long. He pulls a replacement from his breast pocket and looks at it regretfully. He draws his knife and cuts the end off, then lights it with a Zippo. “But maybe there’s antipersonnel mines, in which case something heavy will set them off too. Either way . . .”

  Stick is the first one to grin, and it spreads throughout the squad as more GIs realize that they are basically letting Lieutenant Liefer ride in comfort . . . and check for mines. It’s the sort of thought that brings a bit of joy to a foot soldier.

  Rainy Schulterman walks beside Rio and Jenou, drawn by gender not rank.

  “Has it been rough?” Rainy asks.

  “It’s been cold,” Jenou allows.

  “Too cold for mosquitoes. That’s good, anyway.” Tilo is giving the woman the once-over. Rio almost has to admire his single-mindedness, but she doubts the sergeant is Suarez’s style. She’s small, dark haired, olive complected, with what is probably a nice figure beneath a crisp but oversized uniform. She looks clever, Rio thinks, smart. Rainy has very alert eyes and seems interested in the people around her. Somehow that doesn’t seem like Tilo’s style.

  And credit where it’s due, Rio thinks, she can’t have been expecting to get dragged along on this mission. She’s an office worker, probably some kind of clerk or something, who’s been sent off to deliver orders.

  But no, hadn’t Schulterman said this whole thing was her idea?

  “What do they have you doing?” Rio asks.

  “I work in intelligence,” Rainy says.

  “Office work? Headquarters work?” Jenou asks. “That’s what I wanted. A desk, a telephone I could answer in a kind of sexy, breathy voice, hot showers, and hotter young officers.”

  Rio sees Rainy’s nascent laugh before it comes and says, “No, she’s entirely serious.”

  “I am,” Jenou confirms. “I did not volunteer for the infantry.”

  “No one volunteers for the infantry,” Tilo says. “Except Stick. Stick, you always wanted this, right?”

  “Maybe not exactly this,” Stick says gloomily. “I was thinking we’d be going forward, not backward.”

  “It caught everyone by surprise,” Rainy says. “The attack, I mean. Besides, you’re no longer retreating, you’re counterattacking.”

  “Counterattacking when everyone else is retr
eating sounds just a bit loony,” Jack says.

  The day is running out, and soon they’ll be marching in darkness. The officers are anxious to reach the pass before night falls, so the jeep accelerates just a little, pushing the pace. They’re climbing up a long slope now and the grumbling has turned specific: when are they going to get a break? When are they going to get a chance to eat? Even walking off to one side to take a bathroom break is impossible because at this pace they won’t catch up without running and no one wants to run.

  The sergeant from headquarters—now, in fact, nicknamed Headquarters—is having a particularly rough time of it because she’s not in the shape the infantry men and women are.

  “Where are you from?” Rainy asks.

  Rio makes a gesture indicating herself and Jenou. “We’re from a little town in Northern California that you’ve never heard of.”

  “Have you seen a lot of action?”

  Rio shrugs. “Well, we took on a couple of tanks. I guess you can see how well that turned out.”

  “It’s not just your outfit,” Rainy says. “The whole front is collapsing. FUBAR.”

  It dawns on those within hearing that they have here that rarest of creatures: someone who actually has some notion of the big picture. Rio, Jenou, Tilo, and Jack move closer.

  “Tell us,” Tilo says.

  Rio says, “See, we don’t exactly know why we’re here or what’s going on.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Rainy says with just a trace of condescension. “What’s happening is that the Germans did what they were not supposed to do. They were supposed to realize that with the American army in front of them and the British army behind them, they were surrounded and cut off, and would be best off just surrendering. Instead, they attacked.”

  “Yeah, we noticed that much,” Tilo says.

  “If we don’t stop them, they could push us all the way out of Tunisia, all the way back to Oran, or even clear out of North Africa, though that’s unlikely. We have the edge in numbers and supply. Their big weakness is fuel for those tanks,” Rainy goes on. “They’re desperate. This fuel column is absolutely vital to them. They lose that fuel, this part of their thrust will peter out.”