Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(34)

I’m in good health and good spirits. I guess there was a news item that mentioned me, but you know that’s all exaggerated. The biggest danger I ever face is sunburn. Well, that and the chow.

I saw Strand, which was nice. He seems fine, though a little worn down, maybe. He lost a man, and I suppose that’s twice as tough when you’re the one in charge. Well, that’s war, I guess. But if you run into his folks don’t tell them that, just tell them he was healthy and fine when I saw him.

I miss you. I miss home. I even miss the cows. But hopefully we’ll get this war over quick and I’ll be back there with you.

Your loving daughter,

Rio





10

FRANGIE MARR—OFF GELA BEACH, SICILY

First wave.

First wave.

The words won’t stop torturing her. She will be landing with the first wave.

She is shaking, shaking down to bone and sinew, shaking down to the molecular level, one big tremble. Her teeth chatter in a dust-dry mouth. Her heart fades in and out, almost seeming to stop at times before pounding back like a panicked horse. Her breathing is a series of gulps and snorts, forcing air in and out of lungs that feel paralyzed.

“Lord Jesus, keep me safe,” she prays.

According to her watch, a secondhand Timex, it is early morning, but it looks a lot like night. There are stars winking through gaps in high clouds. No moon, not that she can see anyway. From the railing of the transport ship she can make out nothing of the island itself, just a sort of looming darkness within darkness that suggests mountains. But off to the left, the west, beyond the town of Licata, yellow and orange explosions mark the places where paratroopers are already engaged in battle. And something like a distant storm in the east marks the naval artillery covering the landing of the British and Canadian forces.

There are ships spread far behind hers, hundreds of them, a huge gray armada, only visible because of the phosphorescence of the water. The vast fleet should be reassuring, but ships stop at the water’s edge while soldiers must go on.

Why am I so afraid?

It’s the landing, she realizes, the absurdity of it. Madness! Little men and women on little boats trying to attack the massive, mountainous island. It seems ridiculous. It seems impossible. Surely the Italians and Germans are ready and waiting. They must have known this day was coming, and if they didn’t guess it earlier, they must know it by now.

“Searchlights!” someone hisses.

Spears of white light stab at the ships from the beach, the circles of illumination crawling across wave tops before picking out a transport here, a destroyer there. In the light Frangie sees the nearest destroyer’s guns swivel toward the beam. Everyone expects the shells to start flying from the shore. But nothing. The searchlights sweep and illuminate, like stage lights looking for the star of the show. But then, one by one, the searchlights go dark. And there is no distant sound of the big shore batteries firing.

From overhead Frangie hears the wind in the wires that hold a barrage balloon floating high to complicate life for German planes. No planes, not yet.

There is a small New Testament in her inner pocket where she also keeps her photos of her parents and her brothers. She touches it with cold fingers. She searches for a verse.

The Lord is my shepherd . . .

No, she’s never liked that psalm. She’s never liked picturing herself as a sheep.

Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong.

She glances at the men nearest. Some smoke at a frantic pace. One chews gum loudly, snapping it. Others move their mouths silently in prayer. Most stare stonily into the dark.

The men are afraid too. And these are green troops who have not yet seen what a high-powered rifle round does to a human body. Their fear is of something they cannot fully imagine. They don’t yet know how easily bones break and flesh melts and organs spill from . . .

She squeezes her eyes shut, tighter, tighter till stars and pinwheels are all she sees. She opens them to see Walter Green looking at her through wire-frame spectacles.

Is he afraid? Or are sergeants not allowed to fear?

Walter Green tosses his cigarette aside and comes over.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

She nods too fast, not trusting her voice.

He says, “‘Fear thou not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee.’” Seeing her surprise, he adds, “Isaiah. If I’m not mistaken, he lived through a war with the Assyrians. Very bad fellows, those Assyrians. What are you scared of most?”

“Most?” She runs through a gallery of gruesome injuries. But in her imagination she is both the wounded and the medic. The medic whose fingers fumble and who can’t remember what she’s supposed to do. “I could make you a list,” she says with an effort at lightness.

He lays a hand on her arm, looks her in the eye, and says, “You’ll do fine.” Then he leaves to deal with a shoving match between two of his higher-strung charges.

That’s it, isn’t it, Frangie thinks. That’s what I’m most afraid of. It’s not just being hurt, though that’s real enough. I’m afraid I’ll fail these GIs. I’m afraid I won’t be smart enough, brave enough . . .

The announcement comes, and Frangie jerks out of her reverie and moves along with the men and the few women of her new platoon. She shuffles along till she comes to where Walter is checking men’s gear.