Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(107)
“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.