Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(120)
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?