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Everyone squats down, and the GIs on point switch off their flashlights. Yes, there are definitely lights, slitted headlights that cast pale pools on what must be a road.
“Could just be locals.”
“No. It’s trucks,” Garaman says.
Distance is almost impossible to gauge; the desert is just a dry ocean with few landmarks or reference points. It could be five miles, it could be twenty. The noncoms huddle with Rainy Schulterman and unfold a map, which they read in the light of a flashlight shining red through fingers.
“Could be we’re in the right place,” Garaman says. “Sheer dumb luck.”
“Could be another minefield between us and them too,” Hark Millican says with one of his more worried sighs. “Could be antipersonnel this time.”
“We either do it or don’t,” Cole says, looking to Helder, who says, “Goddammit,” several times.
No one doubts the answer. They’ve come too far. They’re late getting here, but the way back isn’t much better than the way forward at this point. Everyone is thirsty, seeing the presumed German trucks as a possible source of water. Or death.
“If it was tanks we’d hear them,” Cole says, reassuring his squad.
Rio is not reassured. She hadn’t even thought of tanks. They were looking for trucks, the tanks weren’t supposed to be there ahead of the fuel. But now it’s all she can think of. She’s had all the tanks she ever wants to see.
Garaman says, “How do you see this, Jedron?”
Cole considers. “If there are mines we’re better off sticking to single file until we get close. Keep intervals. No light. When we’re within a hundred yards or so of the road we spread right and left. They get into the crosshairs, we fire off some flares. We light them up and open up.”
Sergeant Garaman nods. “Yeah.” Then he turns to the lieutenant.
The lieutenant sighs. “Not much else we can do, is there? Can’t even see if there’s any cover.”
“Wish we had a couple more mortars and a few fifties,” another NCO says.
“Wish we had a couple of fugging tanks and some planes overhead,” Garaman says, and there’s low, anxious laughter.
“Light ’em up, blow ’em up, be ready to run like scared rabbits.”
“Hero time,” Sergeant Cole says dryly.
Rainy Schulterman says, “It’s awfully dark.” There’s fear in her voice.
Yeah, it is, Headquarters. It sure is.
35
RIO RICHLIN—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA
Lights crawl toward her across the black and featureless desert, out of the southeast, heading north. Both platoons are dug in facing east.
Lieutenant Helder is in command, but he’s self-aware enough to know that this is not a job for a ninety-day wonder with no combat experience, so in effect, Sergeant Garaman is in command, with his counterpart, Sergeant Coffey from Third Platoon, as his second. Between the two platoons there are eight NCOs, not counting the female sergeant from headquarters. “Headquarters” is instructed to dig a hole well back and stay down.
Rio has had time to dig a decent hole, not deep enough to stand in, but she can squat on her knees. A hundred feet to her right, Jenou has her own foxhole. A hundred feet to her left and taking advantage of a few feet of elevation, Stick has the BAR ready.
Millican and Pang are a hundred yards out front, practically on top of the presumed line of travel for the convoy. But even in the dark Rio can see that the convoy is not staying in line but spreading out across the desert.
“That’s good and bad,” Cole opines. “Means they don’t think they have mines here.”
“What’s the bad part, Sarge?” Jenou asks.
Cole is walking the line, making sure everyone in the squad is tucked in, talking calmly, doing his best
to project a confidence Rio knows he doesn’t feel.
