Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(51)

“Goddammit, boy, you best hand her back down if you know what’s good for you!”

The black sergeant is doing a slow boil, and she almost wants to tell him no, don’t make trouble.

Almost.

What she says is, “Thanks, Sarge.”

He ignores her and hops down from the truck, combat boots hard on the packed clay. He snaps fingers over his shoulder and is handed a rifle by one of his men.

“Sergeant Embleton, I believe you may be under the weather,” he says. Embleton looks wary, glancing from the advancing man with a rifle to the truckload of black faces behind him.

“No harm meant, Green,” Embleton says.

Green says, “Yes, I do believe you are drunk and driving a jeep, which could mean loss of rank, Embleton. Especially since you managed to bust out your headlight.”

“I didn’t bust out no—”

Crumpf!

Sergeant Green smashes the butt of the rifle into the left headlight of the jeep.

Embleton watches, groans, and Frangie sees real fear on the white man’s face. That simple reality amazes her. White men do not fear black men, not in her world.

“Now, I don’t know what one-horse cracker town you come from, Embleton, but we aren’t there. We’re on an American army post. And I believe you have been warned about messing with female soldiers before.”

“You don’t talk to me like that, boy.” Despite the drink, there is authority in that voice, a sense of right, a tone full of brutal history.

Sergeant Green stiff-arms the rifle back up to his corporal. He places his hands deliberately on the frame of the windshield and door of the jeep, looming over Embleton despite being the shorter man. “I find out you pulled anything like this again, and it won’t be the headlight that gets a rifle butt. Do you understand me clearly? Now, you get this jeep back to the motor pool and hope they believe whatever bullshit story you come up with to explain the damage.”

Hate, pure and undisguised, radiates from Embleton’s face. But in the end, he drives away, wheels churning red dust.

Frangie closes her eyes and drinks in relief. She thanks Sergeant Green again.

“No idea what you’re referring to, Private,” Green says after he’s climbed back up in the truck. “Nothing happened here. Any of you fellows see anything happen here?”

There comes a false but cheerful chorus of “No, Sarge” from the truck’s occupants, and even one smart-aleck who says, “I’ve lost my sight altogether, Sarge. Can I go back home now?”

The truck starts off again, and in a few minutes Frangie is safe and sound in her barracks. She sets her bundle down on her cot and goes to the latrine to vomit into the toilet bowl.





16

RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA

“What is that filth on your belt buckle, Private Castain?”

It’s inspection. It is the very last inspection they are to endure under Sergeant Mackie. The lieutenant has come to witness, as has the captain, two officers Rio has barely glimpsed during her weeks at Camp Maron.

Rio winces as Jenou makes the mistake of glancing down at her belt to see whether she can identify the “filth” in question. Jenou observes a single, greasy fingerprint and, in the process of observing this, realizes she has looked down while at attention—a sin, a crime, a travesty, an offense against all that is good and holy, quite possibly a form of treason, and the moral equivalent of offering to serve coffee and donuts to Mussolini, Tojo, and Hitler.

“Private Castain, after thirteen weeks I would have thought you understood what it means to be at attention! Obviously I have failed you, Private. I have failed you, I have failed the lieutenant, I have failed the captain, and I have failed whatever sad unit ends up having you when you leave this place.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Neither the lieutenant nor the captain seems remotely upset, but the lieutenant makes a point of putting on his disappointed face, while the captain just looks as if he has an appointment elsewhere.

Once the inspection is complete and the officers—having done their duty—are gone, Mackie keeps them all lined up and at attention.

“In a few minutes you will be dismissed. At that time you will proceed to the bulletin board outside Company HQ to learn where you have been assigned.” Sergeant Mackie’s pacing has not grown less sinister, but Rio is used to it now.

“Some of you will man a typewriter. Some of you will drive a truck or a jeep. Some of you will go off to specialist training. A lot of you will draw safe and easy duty.” Pace. Pace. A glance at this private or that, still judging, still searching for fault. “And some of you will be going to active frontline outfits. But wherever you are assigned, you will be soldiers in the army of the United States of America. You will be part of a history that stretches back two centuries. A proud tradition. The American army has never failed in its duty. You will not fail.”

That last catches Rio by surprise. Suddenly she feels tears in her eyes.

Mackie stops in the center, arms clasped behind her back, a position that leaves her very close to Rio.

“Some of you may not make it back,” Sergeant Mackie says. “But you will not fail me. You will not fail yourselves. And you will not fail our beloved army. You are far from being the best I have trained.” She sighs. “But you’re not the worst. Dismissed.”