Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(119)

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.”