Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(39)

Sincerely, Rainy

Dear Ary,

I hope you’re half as bored and safe as I am. I hope you’re sitting out in the sun on the deck of some big gray ship or better yet on the beach at XXXXX XXXXX. I can’t allow myself to think too much about the danger you might be in. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me, because you should. Maybe not Mom and Dad, but you can tell me. At least as much as you can with the censorship.

Sadly, I can tell you nothing. It’s unfair and unequal, I suppose, but that’s the way it is.

I’ve arranged for twenty-five dollars to come out of my monthly pay and go to your “friend.” It’s probably for the best: it keeps me away from the poker games . . .

Your loving sister, Rainy

Mother and Father,

It’s me, your little soldier girl Jenou. I am so tired and can barely move. I’m so sore my fingernails hurt. My hair hurts. My eyeballs actually hurt.

But at least I’m out of Gedwell Falls and out from under your feet, right?

I don’t know how much I’ll write. Sergeant XXXXX orders us to write, and I am doing so because she scares me. But I don’t think you care if I write, and I know I don’t. I expect if things go the way I hope they do that I will never have to return to the Falls, and I’m pretty sure that would leave both of you feeling relieved.

There you go, just like the sergeant ordered.

Private Jenou Castain





12

RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA

My rifle.

It is 43.5 inches long, measuring from the butt plate to the muzzle. It weighs 9.5 pounds and fires a 30.06 cartridge.

The slug itself is no bigger in circumference than a toddler’s little finger, but that slug flies from the muzzle at 2,800 feet per second.

Rio has her rifle in hand. She’s seated cross-legged like all of them, with the rifle butt on the grass and the muzzle pointed at the sky.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is why we have brought you here and given you those snazzy uniforms.” Captain Jessep raises a rifle in the air, two-handed. He holds that pose for a moment so the dozens of men and women seated on the grass can see.

“This is the M1 Garand rifle. It is the finest rifle ever to be entrusted to an infantryman. Many of you will never fire a rifle in anger, but each of you will learn how to do so. There may come a time when even the cooks and the clerks and the ladies will be required to shoulder a rifle and fire it at the enemy.”

“The ladies,” Cat whispers derisively, just loud enough for the captain to hear, though he doesn’t react. “Ladies with rifles.”

Rio envies Cat’s sense of freedom and fun. There’s a wildness and energy to Cat, like maybe she’d stick a tack on Sergeant Mackie’s chair or spike the coffee with rum. And Cat has no tolerance for being treated like a second-class citizen, unlike some of the women in the company. That’s a position Rio finds herself increasingly drawn to.

“A dollar says I outshoot you, Suarez,” Cat whispers.

Tilo only half hears. “Did you just threaten to shoot me?”

“Only if you really annoy me,” Cat says.

“Crazy bitch,” Tilo mutters.

“And there you go,” Cat says in her good-natured way. “I’ll make sure it’s just a flesh wound.” Is she winking as she says it? It’s hard to tell, but the strange down-turned smile flashes.

The mood of the crowd is somewhere between anticipatory and solemn. The words and the tone incline toward solemn, but the greater fact is that finally they are going to learn how to shoot the rifles they now hold. Their rifles.

My rifle, Rio thinks.

“Therefore you will listen carefully to your instructor. You will listen and learn as though your life depends on it. It does. Lieutenant.”

The captain departs, leaving the lieutenant instructor, a bland-looking, high-voiced fellow in khaki. This is the same officer who first showed them how to attach the strap, how to wrap the strap around their left arms, how to insert a clip, how to hold the weapon in each of the major firing positions, and how to dry-fire.

“Okay,” the lieutenant begins. “So they give you the best rifle in the world. Me, I’m sick of monkeying around. When do we get to shoot this thing?” He grins. He’s given this speech before, probably many times, but he’s still enthusiastic. “I heard a man in this company say that very thing yesterday. So I will answer the question now. You’ll start shooting the M-1 when you’re ready.”

That sets off a murmur.

“Lookin’ like that may be never,” Kerwin says under his breath.

The lieutenant is on a one-foot-tall platform and has a standing chalkboard to one side. His service cap is jauntily cocked to one side.

“Men . . . and ladies . . . your brains are about to get a workout. This is a skull session, because today I’ll teach you elevation and windage.”

This is met with blank stares from most and a knowing nod from some.

“Brain work, that leaves me out,” Jenou mutters.

“I will teach you how to raise or lower your rear sights to account for the natural drop of the bullet. And how to adjust your sights left or right to account for the effect of the wind.”

What follows is a solid hour that sounds a great deal like Rio’s math classes back in school. There are even equations scrawled enthusiastically on the chalkboard.