Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(106)

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 lieutenant, 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.