Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(52)

Rio turns away to hide the emotion that makes her feel silly and vulnerable. She glances over and sees Jenou rolling her eyes sarcastically. And beyond her, Stick, with a tear rolling down his cheek.

There should be a sense of elation. This is their last day of basic training, their next-to-last day at Camp Maron before heading home on a week’s leave and then going on to their next assignment. But the few cheers and hoots die out quickly, and suddenly the rush to the HQ bulletin board is on.

“A nickel says it’s a desk job,” Jenou says. “And while I love your crazy dream of driving big trucks around between mortar shells, Rio, I think a nice office in which you and I are the only pretty girls surrounded by unattached officers would be just swell.”

“Oh, come now, Jen. You know you’ll miss all this.”

There is a slight downhill slope to the one-story HQ building, and since so many have gone running on ahead, Rio and Jenou take their time, ambling along under puffy clouds with a blessed breeze pushing the humidity back into the forest.

“Have you heard from Strand?”

“He’s going on leave at the same time we are. He’ll be back in Gedwell Falls, so I imagine I’ll see him.”

“Oh, you imagine that, do you? Of course you’ll see him.”

“Most likely.” Rio smiles to herself.

Jack and Kerwin come running up behind them, and Jack puts a hand on each of their shoulders, embracing them as if they were long-lost chums, despite having just parted minutes earlier.

“Are you as excited as I am? Or are you as anxious as I am?” Jack asks.

“We’re giddy,” Rio says dryly. “Can’t you tell?”

“Think of it as a huge department store full of wonderful choices you might pick up and take home with you. There are motor pools on freezing arctic islands with walruses. There are dreary offices deep underground in London so you can keep typing right through the bombing. There’s the unloading of ships, the handing out of gear, the care and feeding of outraged forest-dwelling pigs . . .”

“I knew that was coming,” Kerwin says ruefully. “But you left out a few things. Like shooting and firing off howitzers. You know, all that stuff.”

“Oh, that.” Jack waves it off. “The army won’t waste four such intelligent and, may I say, pretty soldiers on anything so crude. I rather doubt we’re going to the front lines.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Kerwin asks with a grin that grows to consume most of his face.

“You were exactly the one I was thinking of,” Jack says, and gives Kerwin a friendly punch in the arm.

Stick is twenty yards ahead.

“What about Stick?” Cassel asked.

“Not pretty.”

“He’ll most likely volunteer for some elite outfit. That young man intends to win the war all by himself.”

“You don’t?” Rio asks, still puzzling over whether “pretty” refers to Jenou or herself. Most likely Jenou. In fact, certainly Jenou. No one who sees the two of them together would pick Rio as the prettier one.

Well, maybe someone would. Not every man preferred voluptuous blondes to brunettes with impressive biceps.

It doesn’t matter anyway: Rio is taken. She has a boyfriend. And while Jack is funny, charming, and not bad looking in a certain light, he is no Strand Braxton.

The bulletin boards are surrounded by a school of agitated piranhas anxiously shoving and pushing and exulting and bemoaning. Luther’s overbearing voice demands, “What’s a 745 designation mean? Why don’t they speak plain English?”

“Hopefully 745 means permanent latrine duty,” Rio mutters.

“Rifleman,” Kerwin says. When he sees their surprised looks, he says, “Hey, I pay attention to the important stuff, just not the boring stuff. 745 is ‘rifleman,’ which is just the army’s sweet way of saying, ‘You’re going to war, Private.’”

“Well, I pity the outfit that gets Geer,” Jenou says.

They wait with growing impatience and nervousness as the crowd slowly thins out. Men and women cluster in little groups, discussing their assignments and what it might mean, and who else has the same. Words like artillery, logistics, jump training, and motor pool float by. There are numbers, meaningless but life-altering numbers, of classifications and also of units.

Finally Rio reaches the sheets stapled to the plywood board. She finds her name and puts her finger on it. Then follows the line to the right and sees her number.

No, she must have lost her place. She retraces. And then, just to be sure, she counts the lines and once again finds the number.

To her left Jenou emits a soft cry. A whimper. It’s too vulnerable, that sound. Jenou is never vulnerable.

Rio cannot look away. She stares far too long at the number after her name. And beyond it the divisional number. The 119th Division. She stares at these two numbers until Jenou leans her head on her shoulder.

“Rifleman,” Rio says dully. “It’s that stupid Sharpshooter badge.”

“Maybe,” Jenou says, “but that doesn’t explain why I’m in the same boat.”

Kerwin and Jack and a late-arriving Tilo are the same: riflemen. All assigned to the 119th. So are Cat and a girl named Jillion Magraff, who Rio has never warmed up to.

Stick joins them, looking worried, but not about himself. “I drew light machine gunner,” he says, and nods as though it was not only inevitable, but correct. “Going to the one-one-nine. What did you guys get?”