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“So I’ve heard.”
“When you get to France, take care of your men—and women—Sergeant. Leave no more dead Americans in French graveyards.”
Cole holds out his canteen cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
The two soldiers share a last drink of brandy and a silence that leaves Rio feeling very much like an outsider.
Then, Jenou’s voice from outside. “Sarge! Tanks!”
26
RIO RICHLIN—A BEACH NEAR SOUSSE, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA
There are many words that an infantry soldier does not want to hear: patrol, dig, march, volunteer, air raid, i
ncoming.
And tank.
Rio runs from the old French soldier’s hut followed by Cole. Liefer is standing up in the jeep scanning the road ahead as a hazy dawn picks out details of the surrounding countryside.
No tank is in sight, but there’s a sound, a sound Rio has heard before but only from friendly tanks during training. It’s the sound of a barely muffled engine, punctuated by occasional backfires, the grinding of gears, and an unmistakable rapid metallic clank-clank-clank-clank-clank of treads.
“What’s that sound like to you?” Liefer snaps at Cole and Garaman.
“Sounds like tanks, Lieutenant,” Garaman says, shooting a meaningful look at Cole. “And not far off.” They are the professionals, the sergeants; they share something that does not include Lieutenant Liefer, still less Private Rio Richlin.
“Okay,” the lieutenant says. “I’m scouting forward, see what I can see. Cole, deploy your squad. Garaman, send a runner back to the captain and Lieutenant Helder. And get the rest of Fifth Platoon into defensive position.”
She drops herself smartly into the passenger seat of the jeep, which her corporal driver guns, slamming her back.
Garaman spits tobacco juice and says, “I imagine the Tommies will form up back down the road. So, Cole, I figure your people fire a couple of rounds to keep the Krauts’ heads down, then fall back, hope to draw them in. Is that how you see it?”
“Yep,” Sergeant Cole says.
“And make sure your people don’t shoot the Loot when she comes hightailing it back.”
“Sure about that?” Cole says dryly. He snaps out orders. “Second Squad, right-hand side of the road. There’s not much cover, so dig while you can. Millican, get the bazooka set up on that little hump there where you can cover the road. Pang, you load; Magraff, watch their backs. Stick, farther off by that, whatever the hell that is, that stumpy tree. Dig in, don’t fire until you have targets, and let Corporal Millican get off the first shot with the bazooka. Preeling with Stick. Castain, you’re running ammo. Get a box of thirty-caliber up here and another pouch of bazooka rockets if you can handle it. Richlin, Suarez, you’re with me.”
For a moment no one moves. Then, in a perfectly calm, even pedantic voice, Cole says, “Not next week, now.”
The bazooka team runs for the very slight elevation, while Sticklin and Cat race, heads low, for the tree that is a whole lot more like a bush once they look at it.
“All right, Richlin and Suarez, we’re taking the left side of the road.”
The three of them run forward, boots loud on pebbly soil, Cole in the lead, a scared and excited Rio in his wake, Suarez bringing up the rear.
Rio sees Jenou and the others across the road, on their knees, wielding their entrenching tools with unusual vigor, scraping away enough crusty sand and rock to provide at least some sort of cover. They have a slight bit of elevation, not a hill or even a rise, but the road slopes downward and curves away behind a second rise, so while it is slightly lower than the platoon, it is mostly out of sight until the last half mile. The tanks will have to emerge from the shadow of that rise to follow the road past Rio’s position. This should give Millican a clear shot with the bazooka.
“Down,” Cole says, pointing at the ground. “Make sure not to shoot toward our people, they will be irritated if you do.”
“I’m shooting?” It comes out as a squeak.
“That’s why the army invited you two to this little war. Aside from Stick, you two are the best shots in the squad.”
“Swell,” Suarez mutters under his breath.
Rio sees the squads of Fifth Platoon digging in a couple hundred yards behind them, and presumably Third Platoon is behind them. They only have a little more cover than Rio, but they’re farther from that relentless clank-clank-clank and the hollow growl of the tank engines, and she thinks she’d rather be back there. Or back anywhere.
