Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(53)

Rio exhales a long, shaky sigh and says, “My parents are going to kill me.”

She makes excuses for why she won’t join the others at chow and heads alone back to the barracks. She finds it empty. Perfectly orderly of course, with blankets all tight and foot lockers all squared away, but empty. She goes to her bunk, conscious of the fact that tonight will be her last night here.

She sits down, careful not to pull the woolen blanket loose. Later, when she stands up to go, she will smooth it carefully and eliminate any slight crease. She spots a thread of lint, picks it off, and sticks it in her pocket for later disposal. Then she hears the steady tread of boots on tile and knows who owns those boots.

“What did you draw, Richlin?”

“Rifleman, Sarge,” Rio answers. “The 119th.”

Sergeant Mackie is quiet for a long time. Rio looks down at the floor, down at those perfectly spit-shined boots. She has the terrible feeling that she might cry, and she would rather Mackie not see that.

“What did you put in for?”

“Transport. I thought . . . Well, I’ve driven a truck before, back home, so I figured . . . I mean, a friend of mine, the air corps snatched him up because he’d flown a plane . . .”

Mackie says, “I guess the army needed riflemen more than drivers.”

“I guess so.”

“Are you scared, Private?”

“I’m scared of telling my folks. My sister . . . she was in the navy. Jap bombers . . .”

Rio waits, expecting the sergeant to tell her to knock it off, or else clean something or paint something. The old saw in the army goes, “If it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t move, pick it up; if you can’t pick it up, paint it.” The mission of noncoms is to keep soldiers constantly busy, even if that means painting rocks, and Rio has done some rock painting during her weeks at Camp Maron.

“I knew you were from a gold-star family,” Mackie says after a while. “It’s in your file. But you know, the odds of getting hurt bad or killed are pretty low, even up on the line. Pretty good chance you won’t even get a scratch.”

“I’ll tell my mother you said that.”

“Well.” For a pregnant moment it almost seems Sergeant Mackie might pat her on the shoulder, but no such touch occurs. “You have potential, Richlin. You’re young—too young. But you never came running to me for help, and that tells me something. Keep your head down, your eyes open, listen to your sergeants—your squad sergeant, your platoon sergeant. They’ll be trying to keep you alive.”

Rio nods, unable to speak. That tells me something. It isn’t the most effusive compliment, but it touches her.

She wants to thank Mackie, an urge she never expected to feel. Sergeant Mackie has never been abusive or harsh as some DIs were, but she has never shown Rio any favor either. She’s pushed, tortured, and exhausted Rio the same as she has every other soldier, male or female.

The next words are out of Rio’s mouth before she can stop and think. “I’m afraid I might be a coward.”

Sergeant Mackie slows and stops. She turns and walks back, pace, pace, leather on polished tile.

“Private Richlin, every soldier is a coward some of the time.” She sighs and for just a moment she isn’t a sergeant, she’s a woman, an adult woman, though probably no more than seven or eight years Rio’s elder. For a moment she’s just another human being. “I was at Bataan, Richlin.”

Bataan, where American soldiers and marines were beaten by the Japanese. The captured soldiers were sent on a brutal death march that had become a notorious symbol of Japanese inhumanity.

“I was pulling desk duty when the Japs hit us, day after they hit Pearl. Bombing, strafing, naval shelling, and I hadn’t even been issued a rifle. I found one. I took it off . . . off a fellow who didn’t need it anymore.”

She sits down on the edge of Jenou’s cot, though even seated she looks spring-loaded, like she might leap up like a jack-in-the-box at the slightest provocation.

“They came ashore, and all of us were ordered to go and fight them. No plan. The officers were all dazed and confused. Training was . . . Well. Anyway. So, we fought them. And they beat us. Damned good fighters, the Japs. They beat us and they beat us, and we’d retreat, and they’d keep coming. They pushed us right across the island. Men dying everywhere. Heat. Malaria. We’re telling ourselves help is coming, but deep down we know better. GIs start surrendering. Were they cowards? No, they were sick and hungry and exhausted.”

“Did you surrender?”

“No.” For a while she is silent, staring past and through Rio at memories. “No, I did not surrender, but it wasn’t on account of me being braver than anyone else. Somehow I ended up close to General MacArthur, which was no picnic, but better than what was happening to the men taken prisoner. Then the president finally ordered Mac to abandon the Philippines. The general . . . well, I shouldn’t say it, but he’s a pompous ass and a showboat, but he’s important to the war effort, so they ordered him to abandon the place and slip away on a PT boat at night. General took me along, part of his bodyguard supposedly.” She makes a disparaging face.

“But you were ordered to leave, same as the general.”

“Yep.” Mackie slaps her hands down on her thighs as if signaling the end of the conversation. But then she goes on. “I’d have run if I could. I’d have surrendered if I could. Many good soldiers, brave men, strong men, after weeks of it, they were just done. Just done. And I was as done as any of them. If I’d had somewhere to run to, I expect I would have.”