AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Blooming dogwoods decorated the slow-moving river. Valentine rode across the river with the supply mules and surveyed the campsite from the opposite bank. Zulu Company's tepees and tents were hidden, set well back from the river. Even if the Quislings sent armed patrol boats up the river, they wouldn't know the Wolves were there once the raft and lines were hidden.
"You might think you've got the easy duty, but it's a serious responsibility," a voice said from behind.
Valentine turned. LeHavre emerged from the foliage, weighed down by map cases, a telescope, and the company's only submachine gun. The clouds had thickened, and the forest was a canopy of shadow.
"This is a tricky corner you're in, Valentine. The Kurians could float up the Ouachita, raid in from Louisiana, or come across the Mississippi. They have a big garrison at Vicksburg and the barges to float them. Your first job is to protect Southern Command by looking out for that kind of thing. If they come in strength, send as much information back to Regiment double-quick. Cause trouble for 'em if you can, but your men are worth more than Quisling conscripts, so make sure you don't get cornered. I've left you here for a reason, not because you're the junior. Fact is, another time I'd stay myself."
"Yes, sir. Hopefully it'll be a quiet summer."
A third man joined them, the bulky senior NCO, Sergeant Patel. "Everything's across, sir. Scouts are out and the column is ready to go."
"Thank you, Sergeant. I'll be along in a moment." He turned back to Valentine.
"Count on us being gone six weeks. I'll send you on a short patrol when we get back, so you can get some experience. I'm going to leave Brostoff out all summer watching the rivers, but I'll be back with Mallow and his platoon."
"The chickens will be fat by then, and I'm sure I can find some good-size watermelon."
"So young, and you already know how old soldiers think. Take care, Mr. Valentine," LeHavre said, returning Valentine's salute with his usual grace. "Don't let anything happen to Southern Command while I'm gone."
Valentine forced a confident smile when LeHavre winked.
With the patrolling Wolves departing and the day fleeing, Valentine supervised the team dismantling the ferry. They floated the lines and stakes back to the camp-side and rolled the raft out of sight.
"There's a new occupied farm two miles north of here, Lieutenant Valentine," Sergeant Quist reported. "Will we be paying them a visit?"
"Keep the men out of the henhouse, if you value your rank, Quist. You know how the captain feels about that sort of thing," Valentine said, clouding over like the sky above.
"Didn't mean that, sir. They know better. I meant a social call. Get things off on the right foot. We'll be moving up and down the river, and we don't want a gut full of buckshot by accident. He might want to trade for some grub, too."
"I see. I'm sorry, Quist, wrong conclusion. I'll make it the first thing tomorrow morning. I'll take Bozich; having a woman along will seem less threatening. Michaels is the senior Aspirant now, right? I'll take him, as well. You'll have to handle things while I'm gone, Sergeant."
It began to rain, and Valentine walked the perimeter of the camp. He enjoyed a warm rain, the feeling of privacy it afforded. He smelled the sentries' tobacco smoke even in the wet before seeing them, considered issuing an order against smoking on duty, then rejected the idea. The veterans knew when it was safe to smoke, and the newbies could be taught. Shelter, food, firewood, and security occupied his mind as he wandered through the drizzle, an ear always cocked for sounds in the camp. He used his nose as much as his ears, smelling which way cooking smoke and latrine odors drifted in the prevailing winds. There were Grogs who could hear and smell better than the Wolves. He would have to set still-watches on the river, build some kind of redoubt in case of sudden attack, and arrange for safe storage of ammunition and food supplies. Some kind of netting in the overhead trees might be a good idea, he thought, remembering his encounter with the Harpies in Weening. That made him think of Gabby Cho, and his good mood vanished like a lump of sugar in the rain.
The farm Quist had spoken of consisted of a single well-built barn, still under repair. Only a foundation remained where there had once been a house. The barn stood above a wet inlet from the Ouachita, and rice paddies flourished in the cleared land.
Valentine led Bozich and Michaels up the path from the river. Bozich had a hard face but warm eyes; LeHavre was thinking of making her a sergeant. She was the most diminutive of the Valentine's Wolves, but had stamina in inverse proportion to her size and carried a carbine with a telescopic sight. Michaels still had pimples and wheezed sometimes, but a little asthma would not necessarily disqualify him from future service. More important, he took his duties as senior Aspirant seriously.
The Wolves smelled cows and goats in the barn, but no pigs. It appeared that the farmers, whoever they were, lived above their animals, and pigs were not ideal livestock for sharing accommodations.
Dogs barked, and a tousle-headed girl in the yard scrambled up a ladder at their approach, calling "Momma! Momma! Momma!" like a wailing siren. A hairy face appeared at one of the lower windows, and the Wolves stopped.
"It's sojers," somebody yelled. Valentine's ears picked up at the sound of a shotgun breech being closed.
Two men emerged, both bearded, one a little more grizzled than the other. The elder held the shotgun Valentine had heard. Both wore faded rags, patched and clean but obviously pre-Kur salvage.
"Y'all out upcountry? Command boys?" the younger asked, within jumping distance of the barn door.
"Course they is," the armed one said. "Wearin' skins an' deer-booties."
"We're camping a couple miles downstream. Thought we'd pay a call," Valentine said, hand well away from his holster.
One of the barking dogs decided nothing interesting was going to happen and flopped on its side with a sudden motion, almost as if it had been shot. Bozich and the Aspirant snickered, and the dog's owners exchanged a look.
"That dog beat all. Goes to sleep like he's droppin' de-yad," the unarmed man said, showing a gap-toothed smile.
The ice was broken, and the men called out their families. Concrete Barn Farm, as the occupants styled it, consisted of two brothers, Rob and Cub Kelly. Their families and another unmarried young man worked the rice paddies, gardens, and fishing streams.
"We-uns think what's ours is ours," Rob Kelly, the younger of the brothers, said later, as the men and their wives sat with Valentine's team on the foundation of the house. Perhaps it had once been a front porch.
