Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(55)

“I think our unit’s up there. We’re part of the 119th.”

“The one-one-nine?” The MP looks perfectly blank, aside from darting glances at the loot in the cart. Beebee gives her two of the small packs of Old Golds and the MP’s memory suddenly improves. “The 119th have been pulled east, other side of Niscemi.”

“Aren’t the Canadians over that way?” Beebee asks. “I heard some officers talking.”

The MP lights one of her new cigarettes, takes a deep drag, and says, “Kid, in case you haven’t noticed, no one knows what the hell is going on.”

“SNAFU,” Rio mutters.

“Situation normal,” the MP agrees. She gives them directions, which involve going back down the road to take a left turn on a road that’s barely a line on the map.

“Great,” Rio says with a sigh. They set off, keeping the pace set by General Patton, who, unlike his namesake, cannot be hurried. The war is happening, but not right here and not right now to Rio or Beebee. Rio worries about Jenou, all on her own, but the fighting seems to be north and northeast, so she’s not worried enough to try and run. The sun is already hot, though it’s not even midmorning. She’s tempted to tell Beebee to leave the cart and release the donkey, but among the treasures on the cart is a five-gallon jerry can of water.

The road is more of a dirt track running between farm fields. They reach a watermelon patch that has clearly been trampled and despoiled, with rind and red fruit lying along the road for a quarter mile, evidence that at least someone has passed this way, even if it’s not their platoon. This is heartening: Rio feels extraordinarily exposed out in the middle of open fields.

They pass an ancient, wizened peasant sitting on a stool watching a man and two women at work in a field.

“Niscemi?” Rio asks, making a chopping motion in their direction of travel.

The peasant says nothing, despite repeated queries, until Beebee hands him a pack of cigarettes, at which point the man grins so widely they can count all four of his teeth. It seems they are heading in the general direction of Niscemi. Of course they’ve been warned to pass well to the south of the town, and as they top a low rise they can see why. To their north tanks are moving along a road that according to the map will cut their own a mile back.

A German plane passes overhead, but has no interest in them. They hear distant explosions, but whether they are naval gunfire, bombs, or artillery Rio doesn’t know. What she does know is that she’s feeling strangely alone with Beebee and a donkey, on an island she’d never heard of six months ago, while men and women are fighting to her west, north, and east, as well as out at sea and in the air above.

At last though, as afternoon wears on and the sun beats down mercilessly, they come upon a new MP, a man who informs them that yes, at least some elements of the 119th are ahead in a stand of picturesque trees.

“What the hell?” Geer says. He’s on guard.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask us the password?” Rio says wearily.

“I sure would if I remembered it,” Geer says.

“The password is Old and the response is Gold,” Beebee says, and tosses Geer a pack of Old Gold cigarettes.

“So it is, so it is,” Geer agrees.

The platoon is sprawled amid olive trees, staying to the shade. Jenou spots Rio, flashes an expression of profoundest relief, and says, “Back so soon?”

Sergeant Cole says, “Good. You’re here. And you brought water. Well done, Richlin.”

“It was Beebee. He’s the forager.”

Cole peers closely at Beebee. “A forager, are you? Well, well. You two find some shade.” Then, in a louder voice, he yells, “Magraff! Grab this water and get everyone topped off.”

Rio notes that Magraff has become the squad gofer, probably because she no longer has a carbine, having tossed it away or dropped it—again.

Rio drops into a patch of shade beside Jenou. She unlaces her boots and begins massaging her sore feet. “Guess who I ran into?”

“General Eisenhower, I hope. Did you mention to him that I’m really not meant for all this dusty marching around?”

“The colored medic, Marr. The one we picked up on the way in.”

“It’s a small war. How is she?”

Rio considers. “I don’t know. Thinking too much, maybe.”

“That thing that happened . . . the bullet that went on and nicked you . . . That was probably pretty hard for her.”

Rio says, “I got the impression she was new to that bunch so they weren’t that close, but yeah, she was a little down in the mouth.”

She was also disapproving, and just a bit of a moral scold, but Rio sees no point in mentioning that.

Jenou nods. “If there’s one thing worse than infantry, it’s all of that.” She makes hand gestures that may be meant to convey medical care given to the wounded, but they end up looking like random, disturbed hand-waving.

Rio slaps Jenou’s shoulder. “Did you miss me?”

“Not at all.”

“Me neither.”

Both laugh, and Jenou says, “My God, we’re starting to sound like men.”

“I used to worry I’d seem mannish,” Rio says.

“Because of your . . .” And this time Jenou’s hand-waving is more specific, as is the pitying look she aims at Rio’s chest.