Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(99)

“See who we have,” Colonel Clay says.

“Sir,” Rainy interrupts.

She’s forgotten now that the officers are speaking. Sergeants in the company of senior officers are like children: best seen and not heard. But something about having been labeled an aggressive Jewess . . .

“Sir,” she repeats when the conversation continues uninterrupted.

“Yes, Sergeant, what is it?” the colonel snaps.

“Sir, we have someone who can get there with a radio and who speaks German.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Captain Herkemeier, concerned, shaking his head slightly and mouthing the word no.

“Me, sir,” Rainy says. “Get me a jeep and a driver, I’ll carry the orders.”

“Very commendable,” Colonel Clay snaps dismissively. “But this isn’t a drive in the country. In fact, it won’t be a drive at all. It would mean jumping.”

“Jumping, sir?”

“Out of an airplane,” Colonel Clay says.

And before Rainy Schulterman can think through the implications of what she is saying, out come the words “I can do that.”





30

FRANGIE MARR—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA

For the better part of a day, retreating American troops and some scattered units of Brits stream past Frangie and the shattered but still-functioning remains of her unit. Trucks, jeeps, battle-scarred Sherman tanks, one with its turret blown clean off, come rattling by, steel beasts pushing past scared and beaten men and equally scared and beaten women. The GIs come as slumping groups that look like they’ve never seen a parade ground, or as individuals with heads down, and occasionally as more or less ordered squads and platoons.

Some in that passing show are wounded, and there is no surplus of medics, so some, a few, have spotted the cross on Frangie’s helmet and come in search of help.

About half turn back once they see the color of her face. But she’s still not short of patients to treat—bullet holes and shrapnel, broken bones and burns, but also diarrhea from bad water, and fevers from infections. There are some who just can’t go on but reach her tent and fall down, fall straight down like felled trees, their last reserves of energy utterly drained.

Frangie is using forceps to dig painfully into the meat above the collarbone of a wounded soldier, looking for the lead. It must have been a nearly spent bullet since it went in and did not come out the other side. For the most part the bullet wounds she’s seen are like this, suffered at a distance, not close up. And many, like this wound, are in the back or the back of legs, arms, or buttocks—the wounds of those fleeing, not advancing.

“Gotta sit still, Corporal, and Private? Keep that light still.”

The sun is up, but inside the tent it’s all soft-green shadows and canvas-filtered glare. The private holding the flashlight—Frangie knows him only as Ren—is tired, everyone is tired, but she can’t hope to see what she’s doing unless he holds the light still.

“It hurts, goddammit,” the injured corporal says angrily, twitching again. Tears stream down his face, but they’re not tears of pain or sadness, they’re tears of helpless rage.

“Listen to me, Corporal, this ain’t going to kill you unless you jump around and make me nick an artery, so sit still.”

“That’s what I get,” he says bitterly. “Nigra skirt trying to kill me.”

It’s not the first time Frangie has heard some variation on that theme. The worst refuse to accept any help. Others like this angry corporal will take the help but curse her while she’s delivering it. Others, though, are just grateful for anyone of any color who will ease their fear and pain.

“Give me some damn morphine!”

“We’re short of morphine; we keep it for those that need it worst.” She shouldn’t be wasting breath. The wound is bleeding freely, and she can’t swab fast enough to get a look inside the hole. She’s feeling for the bullet, gently moving her probe from side to side, hoping to feel a click. She feels a click but it’s bone, and the corporal howls.

“Saving it for your Nigras, more like!”

“Shut the fug up, Brattle, I’m tired of hearing it.” This from a white male sergeant who’s escorting the wounded man.

“This Nigra’s going to finish what the damned Krauts started!”

It’s been like this hour after hour. Frangie has no time to wash her hands between patients, no water to be spared for washing even if she had time. She’s got first draw on water supplies, but it doesn’t matter much because there isn’t any more than a few mouthfuls for anyone.

In the back of her mind she keeps a running inventory. So many pressure bandages, so much tape, so many splints, so much gauze, so many ampules of morphine. She’s begun “charging” for her services, requiring patients to give up most of the contents of their emergency medical kits. But it’s not enough, and she’s already put out the word that she needs T-shirts. Her orderly, Ren—in reality just a passing white private whose nerves collapsed under the strain of combat—cuts them into strips when she doesn’t have him holding the flashlight.

Her patient, Brattle, says something that’s obliterated by the shattering noise of the remaining guns opening up again after a brief interlude.