Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(86)

“Where’s Miss Lion, Geer?” Cole asks to get them all past the moment.

“Sent her back with the water truck to the quartermaster back down the hill.” He sighs. “This is no place for a lady.”

“No ladies here,” Jenou says glumly.

Geer starts to argue, then raises his canteen cup in Jenou’s direction and falls silent.

Jenou pulls her book from her backpack and turns so she can read by firelight.

“Jenou Castain, bookworm,” Rio marvels.

“Well, fashion magazines are kind of sparse,” Jenou says absently.

Jack says, “It’s September. Back to school.”

That earns a meager laugh followed by a gloomy silence, which is broken by Jillion Magraff, who offers up a bit of impromptu poetry.

The one-one-nine



always on the line,



Shootin’ up the Kraut,



Runnin’ in and out, Pissin’ in our pants,



Eatin’ out o’ cans,



Wishin’ we were home,



Feelin’ all alone.



The one-one-nine,



Where life is j-u-u-u-s-t fine.



That earns some laughs and even some applause. Magraff is a useless soldier, worse than useless really, downright dangerous. But she can be amusing at times when she isn’t fleeing in terror or sunk in a distracted funk drawing in her little sketch pad.

But Cat, too, has some skill with verse, and she offers hers up as a song set to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

Yankees came to Africa,



To run away from Heinies,



Floated off to Sicily,



To run a race with Limeys.



Yankee doodles keep it up,



Yankee doodle dandies,



Mind the mortars and the mines,



And keep your shovels handy.



“Hold up there, Preeling. Who the hell are you calling a Yankee?” Geer, of course, dropping into the group, but welcome since he’s brought a new bottle of the possibly sacred wine. Rio takes a long pull.

“You, you hillbilly,” Cat says. “We’re all Yanks as far as the Krauts are concerned.”

Geer considers this for a moment. “Yeah, okay. But it doesn’t set well with me. Not at all.”

At which point Cat produces her second, and last, verse (so far): Yankees went to Italy,

To visit Mussolini,



Found the bastard’s run away,



And left the German meanies.



This time most people—including Geer—join in the chorus.

Yankee doodles keep it up,



Yankee doodle dandies,



Mind the mortars and the mines,



And keep your shovels handy.



Then, someone across the church, a man with a very fine voice, perhaps even a professional voice but certainly worthy of any church choir, begins a mournful Bing Crosby song.

Be careful, it’s my heart.



It’s not my watch you’re holding, it’s my heart.



That earns less appreciative whistling and more respectful applause. He didn’t quite pull off Bing’s lazy drawling croon, but it is well done nevertheless. The mood turns wistful and even, in some cases, thoughtful.

Rio retrieves her dry and toasty socks, puts them on and her boots as well. She never wants to be caught fumbling with laces if trouble starts, but the front line has moved past them for now and short of an air raid—or a sudden counterattack—there is no real danger on this night. Probably.

She bunches her coat up into a pillow and closes her eyes. She has acquired the combat soldier’s ability to fall asleep any place, any time, within seconds. Usually. But now she lies back listening to voices, some familiar, some not.

They’ll have us up again tomorrow, just you wait and see if they don’t . . .

I’m going to open my own garage. I’m good with engines, don’t know why I’m not in some motor pool instead of here . . .

Yeah, that’s one pretty girl, Henricksen, you’re a lucky guy . . .

FUBAR as usual, it’s all FUBAR . . .

Tell you exactly what I’m gonna do. I got me a bass boat, fourteen-footer, gonna fill it up with tackle and beer and some boiled shrimp, see, and just drift down the bayou. And I won’t even mind if I don’t get a nibble . . .

If you shoot me in the foot, I’ll shoot you. We’ll say it was just some beef over cigarettes or something . . .

Fugging Suarez, man . . .

She ain’t waiting for you . . .

If the bullet’s got your name on it . . .

I miss . . .

I wish . . .

Home . . .





28

FRANGIE MARR—US ARMY HOSPITAL, PORTSMOUTH, UK

“This one’s a Nigra. What am I supposed to do with her?”

“Chief says coloreds go to the Sixth.”

“How in hell am I getting her there, we only have . . . Never mind. Three more, that’s four. That’s a load.”

“Yep. Get ’em an ambulance. You’ll need a colored driver. Make sure you put ‘colored’ on all the paperwork.”