Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(95)

C—Likely just probe.

S2—Don’t believe so. Three forward units report contact w/ German or mixed Germ-Ital units.

C—Reports like this before. What sense wd it make? Germans between us & Monty’s whole army. No sense.

KC—If we panic at every report . . .

C—Maybe if we had air recon.

A—No planes to spare for recon.

C—Wiltshire?

W—Nothing. Monty does not see evidence of attack.

Rainy at this point could very well stop taking notes—she doesn’t—because she’s been around long enough to recognize the sounds of paralysis. The only officer she really trusts is the one she likes least: the S2, Colonel Clay.

Lieutenant Colonel Clay is, as Sergeant Pooley has observed, “a humorless prick,” but he has energy and determination, which set him apart from the lethargy at this outpost, and indeed the lethargy throughout II Corps.

Eventually the colonel will decide to do nothing other than forward a memo to the general, who will also decide to do nothing. It takes Colonel Jasper another half hour to reach that point, but the conclusion Rainy writes down is not a surprise. Nor is it a surprise when the colonel moves on to a much more passionate discussion involving kerosene heaters.

Is it treason to suspect that the men commanding II Corps are incompetent? Surely the powers-that-be in Washington would not send incompetents to oversee America’s first real contact with the German foe.

Rainy tells herself that, but she fails to convince.

When she returns to her desk to type up her notes, Pooley looks up questioningly and gets a terse “They’re going to wait and see” from Rainy.

She types up her notes and puts them in the “out” basket on her desk. They will be collected by the corporal, who will take them to the staff sergeant—Pooley—seated just five feet away—who will take them to the colonel’s aide, who will, as far as Rainy can tell, file them away, never to be seen again.

At times she envies the frontline troops. At least they know what they are doing.

“Where’s the goddamned interpreter?” This is from Colonel Clay, the S2, who now looks around the stuffy office with an irritated gaze. He is referring to Lieutenant Belfurd who, Rainy knows, is in town visiting a prostitute.

“Colonel, the lieutenant’s out of the HQ,” she says discreetly.

“I’ll just bet he is.”

“Colonel, I speak and read German.”

Colonel Clay stares at her as if she is a dog who has suddenly announced a talent for plate spinning. His two bushy gray eyebrows become one.

Pooley speaks up, saying, “Colonel, she is fluent. She sometimes helps out Belfurd . . . Lieutenant Belfurd, I mean.”

“What is your clearance? Your security clearance, miss.”

It is not protocol to address her as miss. It is protocol to address her as sergeant. Or by her last name, Schulterman. But Rainy does not have quite the cheek to reprove a lieutenant colonel. Not right away.

She reassures Colonel Clay that she is cleared for sensitive documents. He sniffs, sighs, and finally crooks a finger at her.

Rainy leaps from her chair and follows him out of the room. They go to Colonel Clay’s office. The walls there are festooned with the usual maps, but interspersed in unused spaces are drawings of fish, done in oil crayon. Quite good pictures, Rainy thinks. Some are only partly finished.

“Steelhead,” Rainy mutters, not thinking.

“Did you say steelhead, miss?”

“Sorry. Yes, sir. I didn’t mean . . . it’s just . . .” and she waves vaguely at one of the fish. “That’s a steelhead trout. Rainbow trout, some call them.”

The colonel stares sideways at her and lights a cigarette without offering one to her. “And what would you say that was?” He points to a second drawing.

“I’m not completely sure, Colonel. Some type of salmon, but I’m not as up as I should be on salmon species.”

“It’s a Coho salmon. I caught him in Scotland. Twenty-nine inches. No record, but a fine fish that cooked up very nicely over a campfire.”

For a moment he seems lost in memory. Rainy is fascinated at the possibility that an actual smile might appear beneath the unfortunate mustache, but no. He is content to smoke and contemplate his various fishes. “You must be a country girl.”

“No, Colonel, I’m from New York City. But every summer we had Jewish camp up in the mountains. We fished a bit, and I got so I liked it.”

Almost as if his primacy has been challenged, Colonel Clay says, “I tie my own lures.”

“It’s a skill I wish I had, sir.”

He still looks sourly at her, but she senses that she has passed some kind of test and been found to be of at least marginal intelligence and wit. He waves her over to his desk. “These are transcriptions of a dozen unguarded German radio intercepts. They’ve been written down phonetically since we are short of German speakers. Can you make any sense of them?”

She gathers up the flimsy sheets and, without being asked or given permission, sits down in the colonel’s chair and frowns in concentration.

For five full minutes she ignores the colonel as he stands, impatient and annoyed by the effrontery of a mere three-striper, a female at that, sitting there like a schoolgirl working out her homework.

“This one is a Kraut lieutenant asking about some crates of brandy. He says he is short of brandy, and if he is to move as ordered he will need more.”