Front Lines

by Michael Grant

  39

  RIO RICHLIN, FRANGIE MARR, RAINY SCHULTERMAN—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA

  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.”

  Interstitial

  107TH EVAC HOSPITAL, WÜRZBURG, GERMANY—APRIL 1945

  Well, Gentle Reader, I had a bit of joy today. Sergeant Richlin—Rio—came by to check on me, see how I was doing. I think she scared some of the nurses; she has that effect on people now. She’s hard and she’s foul-mouthed and she’s got that thousand-yard stare that I suppose I do as well. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she came in straight from the front line, grenades hanging off her like ornaments on a Christmas tree, tommy gun on her shoulder, her prized souvenir, a German Luger, stuck in her webbing belt, and that big knife of hers strapped to her leg.

  But if you looked hard, Gentle Reader, you’d still see something of that freckle-faced tomboy who grew up milking cows and thought “golly” was a curse word. Some part of the sweetness of her is still alive underneath it all, or at least I think so, hope so. Same as I hope there’s still some part of a different me hidden away under the hard shell of cynicism.

  I wonder how I look to her. I know I’m damaged in more than body. The fever that pushes me to write this is not the symptom of a mind at peace. Can she see the invisible damage inside me, as I see it in her?

  Won’t be long now, I think. The Russians are in Berlin, going street by street. The Krauts will have to fold up shop, though not until Hitler’s dead, I guess. They are still in thrall to that mad bastard, even now with their cities burned down around their ears, what a goddamn waste. A lot of German units have surrendered, and what’s left is mostly old men and kids. Kids. Like we were not long ago.

  It’s coming to an end, this war, but I still have a lot of story to tell. There’s Sicily and Italy and France yet to write about. A whole lot of war there.

  North Africa was where we were bloodied, where we became real soldiers, but in the grand scheme of the war it was small beer. The Krauts taught us a lesson we needed to learn, though; they knocked the cockiness right out of us, that they did, and we were better soldiers for it. One hell of a lot of Krauts died in the stony hills of Sicily and Italy because we had begun to learn our profession.

  The battle of Kasserine Pass will not go down in history as the finest moment in the history of the US Army. Although what’s funny is that when we were in it we didn’t know that’s what that debacle would be called. We just knew it was FUBAR. It shook me, that’s for sure, shook me all the way down to my bones. There’s nothing like the feeling of running away to feed the beast of fear inside you. That took its toll. Still does.

  But that’s all down the road. We’ll get there, Gentle Reader, we will.

  If you’re wondering what happened with Rio and Strand and Jack, or wondering whether Rainy ever met up with that nice Jewish boy again, or whether Jenou ever met her longed-for handsome officer, or whether Frangie and Sergeant Walter Green . . . Well, not now, that’s all for later. Right now I have to go and cause a ruckus because they’re talking about shipping me stateside. I won’t have it. I’ll go AWOL before I let that happen. I got this far with our little band, and I’ll be damned if I miss the final act. I don’t expect we’ll celebrate, celebration doesn’t feel right, but I would sure love to sit down and have a quiet beer with my pals.

  Besides, like I said, there’s a lot more for me to write.

  THE BATTLE OF KASSERINE PASS

  “The weaknesses the Americans showed were those usually demonstrated by inexperienced troops committed to battle for the first time. Beforehand, they were overconfident . . . once committed, they were jittery . . . They lacked proficiency in newly developed weapons such as bazookas. They had difficulty identifying enemy weapons and equipment . . . They were handicapped by certain poor commanders . . . reactions were slow, cautious, and characteristic of World War I operations. Units were dispersed and employed in small parcels instead of being concentrated. Air-ground cooperation was defective. Replacement troops were often deficient in physical fitness and training. Some weapons were below par. . . . Higher commanders shirked the responsibility or lacked the knowledge to coordinate units in battle . . .”

  —US Army Center for Military History

  “In Tunisia the Americans had to pay a stiff price for their experience, but it brought rich dividends.”

  —German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I write fiction. In writing this piece of fiction I have attempted to accurately capture the flavor and the feel and as much of the detail of actual historical events as is practical, but any conflicts between my version of events and the work of historians should unquestionably be resolved in favor of those worthy academics. In writing this book I have relied on dozens of histories, memoirs, newsreels, museum exhibits, and photographic archives, but all errors or deviations from fact are mine alone.

  Operation Torch and the battle of Kasserin
e Pass? Real. Tulsa? Real. New York City? I’m pretty sure that exists. Gedwell Falls is my own invention, though I suspect it’s located quite near Healdsburg, California. Similarly, Camps Maron and Szekely, while suspiciously close to Fort Benning, Georgia, are made up. Other things, things you might not expect, actually happened. A lot of American troops really did go to war on the luxury liner Queen Mary. And the bit about a French soldier who erected a barricade symbolique? That scene is actually based on a true story. Nothing is more unexpected than reality.

  In the course of portraying the attitudes and notions of social justice prevalent in the United States in those days, I have used language and portrayed attitudes that all good people now find abhorrent. But it was another time, and I can’t whitewash history. In those days, racism and sexism and anti-Semitism were all right out there in the open. Some people had begun to see beyond those destructively irrational notions, but it was very much a work in progress. The generation that won World War II saved the world—no, really, saved the world—but they were not saints.

  There’s a bunch more to be found on our website, www.frontlinesbook.com, and our Facebook page, Facebook.com/frontlinesbook, including videos, photos, maps, music, additional stories, and more.

  I’m to be found on Twitter @MichaelGrantBks.

  Questions of legal rights and permissions should be directed to Steve Sheppard at Cowan, DeBaets, Abrahams and Sheppard, but please don’t send him fan mail—he’s a lawyer, and he’ll charge me to read it.

  Thanks. Please consider checking for digital shorts wherever you buy ebooks and stay tuned for book two of Front Lines.

  —Michael Grant

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  This is very much a partial bibliography.

  A lot of my sources were online. I have only to wonder, “How do you fire a bazooka?” and ten seconds later I’ll be watching the official World War II–era army training film. How great is that?

  A quick shout-out to some wonderful museums: the Imperial War Museums in London, the National World War II Museum in New Orleans, and the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC. You can understand intellectually how intimidating a tank is, but standing in front of the real thing, running your hands over the armor, that certainly drives the point home.