Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(89)

“So my American friends should see the barricade and not stub their toes en route to killing the Boche.”

Rio notices Cole peering closely at what GIs called fruit salad: the medals that adorn the man’s chest. Rio is on the point of laughing in a mixture of relief and condescension, but Cole straightens up and extends a hand, which the old man shakes firmly, decorously.

“Sergeant LeFevre, I am Sergeant Cole, this is Private Richlin. I’m sorry to say so, but I’m afraid I gotta take you prisoner. Don’t you know all the Vichy people have come over to our side?”

“Of course, Sergeant, that is understood. But my commander, regrettably, has not. I regret to say that he is a true collaborateur, and in time, I hope to see him hanging by the neck.” The old Frenchman indicates the building. “Will you and the lovely Private Richlin do me the honor of sharing a glass of brandy with me?”

“It’s early for a drink.”

“It is war, Sergeant, how can it be too early?”

“Point taken. The honor would be mine,” Cole says. “Millican! Take point, keep ’em moving, we’ll catch up. Preeling? Double-time back to the lieutenant, tell her we have an honored prisoner.”

Rio follows the two into the building, shrugging at Jenou’s unspoken question as they pass.

Inside is a bare room with the unmistakable feel of a place that has not been inhabited in some time. There is a rickety wood table with one leg missing, propped against a wall. On the table, a wedge of cheese, a heel of crusty French bread, and a bottle. The ceiling is so low that Sergeant Cole’s helmet scrapes a crossbeam and he removes it and sticks it under his arm.

Cole breaks out his canteen cup, and Rio follows suit. The Frenchman pours Cole a healthy shot, and, after a disapproving glance that takes in Rio’s age, he pours her a bare mouthful.

“To Free France and the American army,” LeFevre says, raising his own glass.

“Free France,” Cole agrees. At the moment he is not entirely pleased with the American army.

Rio is extremely leery of alcohol, clearly recalling the results of her first episode of drunkenness. But it would be impolite to refuse.

The burn in her throat leaves her wheezing embarrassingly. It’s worse than whatever it was Jack gave her.

“We had some trouble coming ashore,” Cole says.

“Indeed?”

“We lost a man. And we killed the gunner and two others with him. It looked like an isolated outpost, though word will be out and the Krauts will be on our tails before long.”

“I am grieved by your loss,” LeFevre says. “We are still somewhat divided, as you have seen. The generals in Algiers have joined the Free French, but not all are ready to abandon Vichy. Many fear what the Germans will do in Occupied France should we aid the Americans here in the colonies.”

“SNAFU,” Cole says, and when the Frenchman looks uncertain, explains, “Situation Normal: All Fugged Up.”

LeFevre breaks into a big grin that pushes his mustache up around his nose. “SNAFU. Hah! Delightful.”

Liefer and Garaman arrive. The lieutenant looks around suspiciously. Garaman’s experienced eye goes straight to the bottle.

“Better tie this man up and march him back to the beach,” Liefer says.

“Lieutenant, a moment?” Cole asks. He draws her aside for a whispered five-minute conversation, during which the Frenchman smiles at Rio and says, “So it is true, that even the young women of America fight in this war? I do not approve. War is no place for a young woman.”

“No place for anyone, far as I can tell,” Rio says. She glances unconsciously at her hand. Chipped fingernail polish and, in the creases of her palm, blood.

Liefer, looking annoyed, comes over and says, “My sergeant here says you’ll give us your parole. You won’t fight or inform your superiors of our coming this way.”

LeFevre’s smile is not warm; the lieutenant lacks charm. “My orders were merely to erect a barricade. They neglected to order me to bring sufficient men as there were none available, and I have no orders to report back. My superior”—and at that he spits onto the floor—“is far from Algiers and still obeys his German masters like a faithful dog.”

The lieutenant accepts that, though without grace and with a hard look at Sergeant Cole. “On your head, Cole,” she says, and leaves.

Cole sticks out his hand again for the Frenchman, and they shake solemnly. He nods at the medals on the older man’s chest. “I had two uncles in that war, sir. One came home. I intend to visit the other’s grave should we make it to France.”

“That was a very bad war,” LeFevre says, too much feeling packed into such a short sentence.

“So I’ve heard.”

“When you get to France, take care of your men—and women—Sergeant. Leave no more dead Americans in French graveyards.”

Cole holds out his canteen cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

The two soldiers share a last drink of brandy and a silence that leaves Rio feeling very much like an outsider.

Then, Jenou’s voice from outside. “Sarge! Tanks!”





26

RIO RICHLIN—A BEACH NEAR SOUSSE, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA

There are many words that an infantry soldier does not want to hear: patrol, dig, march, volunteer, air raid, incoming.