Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(47)
“Not every southern man is you, Geer,” Kerwin says, and accelerates his pace to put distance between them.
“Tell you what,” the unapologetic Luther continues, “it’s a damn mistake giving Nigras uniforms and guns.”
“There’s one behind you! And he’s got a gun!” Jenou yells.
Luther spins around, catches himself, and spots the grin on Jenou’s face. “Yeah, screw you, Castain.”
The mood has gone from sullen to resentful to downright angry as they march now through boot-sucking mud and swat at bugs and shy away from roots that look like snakes and just generally comport themselves like sullen kids on the worst field trip ever, which is not far from the truth.
“Oh, good: someplace to sit,” Jenou says as they step into a triangular-shaped clearing. She pulls out her canteen and raises it to her lips. Three drops fall.
“I can spare a swig,” Rio says, and hands her canteen to Jenou, not without some reluctance.
Stick surveys the trees around them, ignored by men and women who have flopped down onto the ground or are sneaking off to pee. Rio is one of the few interested when Stick says, “That’s the direction. But we should send scouts out ahead.”
“Yeah, you get right on that, GI Joe,” someone says sardonically.
“I’ll go,” Kerwin says.
Rio can’t pass up a chance to take a shot at Luther. “I’ll go, as long as Geer doesn’t.”
She’s not excited about walking ahead; she just wants to get away from the sound of people complaining. And, truth be told, she has carefully preserved her water and doesn’t want to have to share what’s left with Jenou. She loves Jenou, but Jenou needs to manage her own canteen; there are no soda machines out here.
She also half hopes and half fears that Jack will volunteer to join them. He’s good company, she tells herself, and he carries his own weight and doesn’t beg water off other people. Besides, she has had no second dream about him, but receiving a very affectionate letter from Strand has—she believes—put all thoughts of the Englishman out of her mind. She sees him now as nothing but a fellow soldier, more charming than most, less likely to smell—some of the men are not great fans of deodorant. Plus he tells amusing stories about England, about how they drive on the wrong side of the road, and how the king—who is definitely called George but may be either the fifth or the sixth, Rio can’t be sure—came to be king only because his older brother ran off with an American floozy.
But as it happens Jack is in dire shape having split a bottle of moonshine with a corporal from supply the night before. He is lying flat on his back, helmet pulled over his eyes to shield them from the sun. From time to time he moans.
Rio and Kerwin agree with Stick that they’ll start off ten minutes ahead and fire off a shot if they get into trouble, or come running back if they learn anything useful. Sticklin goes over the compass reading with them, and both Rio and Kerwin pull out their compasses and pretend to know what he’s talking about.
Then they forge ahead, leaving the gaggle behind. The platoon soon disappears from sight and then sound.
“If you can get past the heat and the bugs, it’s kind of pretty,” Kerwin says, looking around.
Rio considers that. The trees are draped with Spanish moss, forming a great shroud that makes even young trees look ancient. A pure white bird with ungainly legs folded beneath it flies overhead, screeching a warning. Mushrooms the color of caramel erupt from decayed logs. The sky is a rich blue void framed by ornate patterns of branch and leaf. There are puffs of cloud but too little to offer any hope of relief from the sun.
“Uh-huh,” Rio says, unconvinced.
“Freeze or I shoot.”
The voice does not belong to Kerwin. It belongs to a young black man who rises from concealment behind a pillow of moss. He’s holding a rifle leveled at them, and he is wearing a red armband.
Rio glances back, looking for a place to run, but two other black soldiers wait, each with rifle leveled.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kerwin says.
“Maybe, but first you’ll be a prisoner.” This from a small black woman soldier Rio has overlooked in her search for an escape route.
Rio and Kerwin exchange looks of consternation mixed with relief: now they don’t have to keep marching through the damp forest.
“Put down your weapons,” one of the male soldiers says. “You are officially prisoners of the Red Force.”
Rio shrugs and slings her rifle, as does Kerwin.
“All right, Marr, you keep an eye on ’em till we can find a proctor.”
The young woman shrugs. “There’s a fairly dry log we can rest on over there.”
On impulse Rio sticks out her hand. “Rio Richlin. This is Kerwin Cassel.”
They shake briefly, and Rio glances at her palm.
“How you doing?” Kerwin says.
“Frangie Marr. And I’m doing fine now that I get to sit down.” She sits on the log with Rio and Kerwin, who chooses to stretch out on his back, indifferent to the large beetle he nearly crushes.
“I don’t suppose anyone’s got a smoke,” Kerwin says, looking up at the sky.
“Well, since you are my prisoner, I guess the humane thing . . .” Frangie Marr digs a slightly mashed cigarette out of her pocket and hands it to Kerwin, who lights it up.