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Stafford steps forward and uses the barrel of his rifle to push the man’s head back.
“That’s him, and he speaks English,” Frangie confirms. “What happened to the fancy boots, Colonel?”
“Go on, shoot me,” he said, rising to his feet, defiant. “Kill me and be done with it.”
“Doc, they’ve got chow and wounded back there,” Rainy says to Frangie, who gratefully takes the hint.
“I wasn’t planning on killing you, Colonel . . .” Rainy lets the question hang.
“SS Colonel Von Kleeberg,” he says. “Where are your officers? I demand to see them.”
“Nah, you don’t want to see them,” Jack says.
“So I am to be questioned by a . . . a . . . female sergeant?”
Rainy does not see the smile on her own face, but Rio and Stafford do, and their opinions of the sergeant from headquarters change dramatically. Headquarters does not like SS officers, no she does not.
“Not just a female, Colonel. A Jew. Sergeant Rainy Schulterman. Hebrew.”
The colonel’s hauteur slips and there is a mix of hatred and dread in his eyes that Rainy enjoys immensely.
That’s right, asshole, one of those people.
The colonel spits at her. It hits Rainy on the cheek and slides down her face, cleaning a path through the dust as it does.
“Happy to shoot him for you, Headquarters,” Jack says cheerfully.
“No, that’s what he wants. Then his little blond children and his wife and his mistress can all tell themselves he died a warrior’s death.” Rainy does not bother to wipe off the spit; she leaves it there, evidence of her indifference.
She considers for a moment, then says, “I won’t kill you, Colonel, you’re a potentially valuable asset. You weren’t here for the supplies, you were joining the tank column. Replacement commander, right? You’re coming with us. But first you’re taking off those boots and the pants too.”
“I don’t take orders from filthy Jews.”
Rainy gives no order and is frankly shocked when Private Rio Richlin swings the butt of her rifle into the side of the colonel’s face. It’s not enough to kill or even render him unconscious, but it staggers him and blood seeps from his ear.
Rainy gives a slight nod to the fierce young woman and notices a troubled frown on Stafford’s face.
In the end they march a bootless, pantless SS colonel back to the platoon and present him to Sergeants Garaman and Cole.
“This piece of shit is an SS colonel who had an unarmed, wounded American captain shot through the head. We’re taking him with us,” Rainy says, defiant, expecting them to argue.
The two sergeants nod contentedly as they peer at the swelling bruise on the side of his head, then at his state of undress, and finally, as though they have synchronized their movements through long practice, turn to look at Rainy Schulterman.
“One other thing, gentlemen,” Rainy says. “Some of those trucks are still working. If you squeezed your people in tight . . .”
“We could ride on out of here,” Sergeant Cole says. “Yeah, we already thought of that.”
“Might not be room for the prisoner, though,” Rainy says.
“Might not be.”
“Might be you could tie him to the bumper. He looks healthy enough to run.”
“Now I know why they never let women fight wars,” Sergeant Garaman says. “Too mean.”
39
RIO RICHLIN, FRANGIE MARR, RAINY SCHULTERMAN—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA
