Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(96)

“And what would you make of that?”

“There’s another one here from a tanker also talking about brandy, so I think unless the Wehrmacht is composed of drunks, they are not talking about brandy. Either ammo or fuel, most likely fuel.”

Colonel Clay’s eyes narrow. “Cigarette?”

She takes one but sticks it behind her ear to trade later. “The others are more obvious, I think. This one is a fellow asking about an injured soldier. This one asks whether there has been any mail.” She hesitates. “No, wait, there are two asking about mail. . . . It’s hard to be sure since these are just phonetic but yes, I think they are both asking about mail. Post. Is post available.”

“Artillery support,” Colonel Clay says. “A sort of crude code, barely disguised. They lack landlines, but they haven’t got the latest code, I suppose. Dismissed.”

She nearly misses that last word, but after a moment’s hesitation, jumps up, snaps a salute, and walks away, deflated.

Later that day she learns that she has been reassigned to Colonel Clay’s staff.

It is a step down in the sense that she’ll be working for a lieutenant colonel of intelligence rather than a full bird colonel in charge of the detachment, but she allows herself a satisfied grin. She has a feeling Colonel Clay might put her to better use.

And there is the added advantage of not working for a complete fool.

Clearly some sort of major German attack is coming. It may already have started, and General Fredendall is in “Speedy Valley” obsessing over his new headquarters construction, and Colonel Jasper is not inclined to make waves. Only Colonel Clay seems to have a clear notion of what he’s doing.

Somewhere out there in the vast reaches of the trackless Sahara, someone is very likely catching hell and perhaps about to catch a great deal more of it. Now at least Rainy Schulterman may be able to help them.





28

RIO RICHLIN—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA

They run.

Rio and the rest of Fifth Platoon run from the gunfire and the intermittent BOOM of the tanks’ cannon and the relentless clank-clank-clank of the tracks.

They run past Third Platoon, which promptly bails out of its shallow holes and starts running too.

They are a mob, feeding on their own fear, tensing against the bullets that can at any moment pass through their defenseless bodies, tensing against the shrapnel and flying rock that can rip and batter them to death in an instant.

Months of training and preparation, months of bragging that they are tough, that they can take it. Hey, the Krauts better look out now that the Yanks are here.

It takes two German tanks and two hundred indifferent Italian infantry to send them all fleeing for their lives.

Behind them they hear the metallic crack of the British antitank gun firing, joined by the hollow ka-tooo! of mortars firing, followed after a pregnant pause by the flat crump! of the shells landing amid the Italians.

But Second Squad, Fifth Platoon, as well as the other squads, and Third Platoon, all the Americans in this particular section of the Tunisian desert, all run until they run into Lieutenant Eelie Liefer in her jeep. Her driver looks scared. The lieutenant looks no better.

“Sergeant Cole!” the lieutenant yells. “What’s going on?”

“We hit ’em, they hit back, and now we’re running,” Sergeant Cole says, disgusted.

“Where’s Garaman?”

“I thought he was with you, ma’am. We need to form up.”

The GIs have mostly paused to see what light the officer can shed on the situation, particularly whether she has any better idea than just running away. They mill around the jeep, worried glances cast back toward the shooting, now just out of sight but very definitely audible.

“There’s no defensible ground here,” Liefer pronounces.

“Ma’am,” Cole says, “there’s those rocks over there, we can set up firing positions, defilade the road, backstop the Tommies. And try for some air support or naval gunfire. Artillery. Something.”

Lieutenant Liefer stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Hide in the rocks? From tanks?”

Rio can see exasperation on her sergeant’s face. “Lieutenant, let’s at least radio in, see if we can get some arty.”

“None of our artillery is in range, and there’s no air cover,” she says, sounding as though she knows what she’s talking about. “We have no choice but to pull back.”

“Ma’am, we’ll be leaving the Tommies hanging.”

“They’re commandos, experienced troops. They’re not our concern. Our concern is the safety of our own men.”

Cole’s mouth hangs open for several seconds in pure disbelief. He makes one more try. “We can carry out a fighting withdrawal, we can set up in those rocks and—”

“Sergeant Cole, I’m well aware that you used to have five stripes on your sleeve, but now you have three, thanks to your habit of insubordination. Unless you want to be minus another stripe, you will follow my orders.”

Half the GIs who’ve gathered around take this as a signal to keep moving. They don’t run, they’re tired, but they walk plenty fast, away from the sounds of a battle that has grown louder and more desperate. The British antitank gun is no longer firing, just the tanks and the mortars and rifles, lots of rifles. A terrible scream rises high in the air and is cut off in midnote. A pillar of dust rises from the direction of the fight.