Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(86)
“You can’t dwell on it, Richlin.” The way he says it makes it clear he knows this is not about seasickness. “You put it aside. You put it all in a box, and you don’t open that box until after.”
“Right, Sarge. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, we’re all just great,” Cole says. “Okay, Geer? You take point. Richlin, you have his back. Castain and Pang take the rear. The other squads will be on our six, so Castain and Pang, do not shoot them. They will be irritated with us if we shoot them.”
“Right, Sarge.”
Rio has a moment to wonder which is worse: being in the front, or bringing up the rear. Then again, if you happen to be a German gunner you might aim for the middle of the column, so . . .
“Don’t watch Geer,” Stick mutters so only Rio can hear. “Look past him. Right? And use your ears too.”
“Yeah, Stick,” Rio says, hoping she sounds tough and confident, but secretly glad of any advice. Private Geer (and his kitten) is on point, but she neither likes nor trusts the big redhead.
Stick, on the other hand, pays close attention and takes soldiering seriously, but he’s humping the BAR so he can’t be walking point.
He hasn’t talked much about it, but once in a tipsy pub conversation back in Britain during extended training, Stick let slip to Rio that he came from money. With his connections and smarts, Stick could easily have arranged a soft job far, far from the front lines. He could have had an officer’s commission without too much effort, and could have found a place on some general’s staff where he would sleep in a feather bed every night. He has chosen instead to serve as a private and to request the infantry.
No one requests the infantry. Rio sure as hell didn’t.
Luther seems to think he’s being singled out for his skills, and he puffs out his chest as he swaggers out in front, his face too bright against black night. Rio hears the soft rattle of something in his pack, the crunch of his boots, the sloshing of water in his canteen. She even hears when he farts. But she can see him only as an indistinct gray shape.
Rio is next in line. Behind her Tilo, then Stick, then Sergeant Cole, who will make a habit of never being far from point, but never so far up front that he’s the first guy shot.
Absolutely no one but no one wants Cole shot. As far as Rio can tell, Sergeant Cole is the only one who knows what’s going on, or at least can pretend to. Corporal Millican has a little rank, but Rio worries about him, and the truth is, Millican worries even more about himself. Corporal’s stripes do not a leader make.
They stumble around in the sand until they find the road, and, while it might be more exposed, it’s a whole lot easier to walk along mostly dry, hard-packed dirt interrupted in low spots by shallow patches of slick mud.
Rio peers deep into the darkness on either side of the road, head swiveling, just like she’s been taught. Is that a German helmet or a rock? Is that a bush or a man squatting behind a machine gun? Are there eyes out there in the night seeking just as eagerly for her?
Geer walks with his weapon resting in the crook of his left elbow, right arm looped through the strap. Rio does the same, though she occasionally blows into her hands or sticks her fingers under her arm to ward off the chill. It is cold, cold in the desert night, which they all agree is a travesty, a violation of the laws of the universe, and a damned dirty trick for the god of weather to play on them.
At first they move slowly, cautiously, then word comes forward to pick up the pace, they don’t have all night, so Geer takes longer strides and the rest follow.
“How’d he go?” Tilo stage-whispers. “Richlin. How’d he go?”
Rio considers pretending not to understand, but she understands fine, and Tilo and the others have a right to know. Kerwin had been everyone’s friend. Well, mostly. Luther never liked him much, and not being at all good-looking, he’d been all but ignored by Jenou.
“Two bullets, chest and neck,” Rio says at last. The callous tone of her voice surprises her. She doesn’t feel callous. She feels like her soul has been sandpapered raw.
She listens to her news being whispered back down the line. She waits for Cole to put an end to it, but he remains silent, knowing they need to digest this new reality.
“Was it . . . ?” Suarez doesn’t know quite how to finish that sentence.
“It didn’t take long,” Rio says. “Doc did his best, but the whole thing, maybe two minutes.” A very long two minutes. Two minutes that will resonate, that will spread into all the minutes to follow.
There is no follow-up question. The remaining eleven members of the squad ruminate on the fact that a man can be alive and talking and normal, and a second later be bleeding on the sand, and dead within two minutes.
Two minutes.
A long time for a dying man to think about the things he’ll never experience.
There are photos in Rio’s inner pocket, wrapped in oilcloth to keep the wet at bay. She wants to look at these pictures. She wants to remember those memories. She wants to push the other thing, this new and terrible thing, down below those gentler memories, dismiss it, put it in a box, like Sarge said.
In some way she cannot explain, Kerwin’s death makes Rachel’s death more real. Until now death has been an idea, a thing she could examine from a safe distance. It has touched her, but only through loss, not physically, not graphically, not with blood on her hands. One day Rachel was alive in Rio’s mind, the next she was gone, and Rio misses her, but Rachel’s death happened far away. Rio has had to imagine Rachel’s death. Cassel’s death requires no imagination.