Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(96)

With rain falling and night dropping the temperature to near freezing, they carry the boats: five or six soldiers to each boat, soldiers already weighed down by their gear, soldiers with fingers numb with cold holding the slick wet gunwales, feet slipping in mud. They set out like some bizarre parody of an amphibious landing, a long line of men and women staggering abreast as they haul their awkward loads forward.

It’s almost funny at the start. And then the first artillery rounds start to drop from the sky, flying in from the town of Monte Cassino at the base of the massif and from hillside positions behind the far bank of the river.

Rio’s squad has one of the boats, all hands gripping, slipping, reattaching, slipping again. Shells scream in, and they drop the boat and lie facedown, hugging the mud.

Then it’s up and grab and stagger until mortars start to fall, and then it’s facedown again.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Then Lieutenant Stone calls a halt, and they sit in the mud as the American artillery opens up. For thirty minutes the distant 105s and 155s plaster the riverbanks and the positions beyond as they sit watching, hoping against hope that the artillery will do their work for them. A green kid yells, “That’ll teach ’em! Leave some for us!” But the veterans know better. The Germans are dug in, and while the rain of shells will kill some, it won’t kill enough.

And the American artillery does nothing to discourage the German gunners. A boat from Fourth Platoon is hit, making splinters of it and hurling men and women aside.

“All right, move out!” comes the order.

Rio sees Jillion crying freely, eyes red in the light of an explosion. She sees Jack, grimly determined, one foot in front of the other. Geer, strong as usual, cursing constantly. Jenou, having a hard time of it, hands coming out in blisters. Beebee has turned into a decent soldier with a talent for locating things, but he’s small and the weight is hard for him. Pang is at the back, holding on with both hands, probably bearing more than his share of the weight. Cat has the bow, probably also carrying more than her fair share.

Rio sees more hands slipping and calls, “Down boat.”

They drop the boat and fall to their knees or bend over, gasping. Canteens are drained, crumbs of biscuit retrieved from pockets and shoved into greedy mouths. A flask makes the rounds, a swallow of raw brandy that provides the only hint of warmth.

“Up boat!”

Another group is hit, their boat sent tumbling to crash into Sergeant Alvarez, wounding him. The calls for Medic, medic! sound across the field.

Trudge, trudge, trudge.

“Down boat!” The boats and their human transportation look like some strange sort of spiders: too many legs hauling a swollen, ungainly body.

A shell lands fifty feet away, and no one bothers to cower as clods of wet earth patter on their helmets and shoulders. A second round is closer, and they hug the ground again.

“Up boat!”

They are helpless. They are ants waiting for the shoe that will crush them. Rio spares a glance at Jenou. Her mouth is set, her eyes narrowed, determination on her face.

The next round and Jenou could be . . . Rio shakes off the image, but it is too vivid, too awful to dismiss entirely.

Ahead, a few stumps of trees mark the bank of the river, and now they are coming within range of small arms fire, so sniper rounds, outrunning the noise of their firing, come flit . . . flit . . . striking dirt, rocks, and at least one round punches a hole in the boat itself.

They are in the crosshairs of long-distance as well as close-range fire now. The position is impossible.

Impossible.

But then there is a screaming artillery round with a different pitch, as shells arc overhead from the Allied artillery behind them. The banks of the river erupt in smoke, almost useless smoke with the German gunners all zeroed in, but it will baffle the snipers, for a while at least.

Rio sees Jenou trying to light a cigarette, but her hands are shaking so badly that Jack does it for her. A distant part of Rio’s mind notices that her friend has acquired the habit too. How long has Jenou been smoking? Why hasn’t Rio noticed? Is there anyone left who hasn’t acquired the habit?

She looks at her brothers and sisters, peering at them each in turn, anything to distract from the fear rising inside her. This is not like staying strong in the heat of battle, this is helplessness. It is not the first time she’s been under artillery fire, but never has she had to simply walk through it, unable to shoot back, unable to take cover, unable even to run away.

“Up boat!” Rio says, trying to make the words sound like the previous twenty iterations, but to her own ear her voice sounds strained.

They run forward now, short, fast steps, feet slipping, boots so caked up with mud that each foot weighs ten pounds. No stopping this time, all the way, all the way!

BOOM! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

The 88s screech in, falling like meteors, sending up yards of dirt and leaving craters and mangled bodies behind. There is an eerie scream of pain off to the left, but the source is invisible because now they have at last reached the smoke. Rio glances up just as a falling shell punches a hole through the smoke and shatters a denuded tree that sends splinters flying, one striking Jillion in the stomach. It sticks out, an elongated triangle of wood. It’s as if someone has thrown a dart at her. Jillion releases her hold on the boat, and Rio does as well, rushing to her.

Jillion stands plucking at the splinter and says, “It doesn’t hurt.”