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Then he pauses, tilts his head, thinking, then snaps his fingers. “Aren’t you the one who put in for medic?”
She doesn’t trust herself to speak without choking, so she nods.
“Well, then, goddammit, I’ll see to it,” Kirkland says. The last of his anger ebbs with sighs and shakes of the head.
“I would like that, Sarge,” Frangie says tightly.
“You’ll most likely be lousy at that too,” he says, but without malice.
“Sarge. Can I ask . . . ?”
“What I said to Oberdorfer?” He laughs. “Nothing much. Just mentioned that the cathouse he visits is off-limits and the steaks and chops he brings them as payment are stolen army property.”
It takes Frangie a few beats to tease out what the word cathouse means. Then she says, “Oh.”
“That’s how it’s done if you’re a colored man in a white man’s army,” he says. “Gotta know something. So I make sure to stay well informed. But you will not repeat that, Marr, or I will come down on you like the true wrath of Jehovah.”
“Right, Sarge.”
“You got three weeks left. Try not to fug up any more than usual. Get out of here.”
14
RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA
“You shouldn’t have too much trouble keeping track of the enemy today,” Sergeant Mackie says. “The red team is actually black soldiers from across the river. Easy to differentiate. Like it will be if you’re fighting Japs—easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”
They are grouped into platoons and squads, combat formations different from the organization for other training. Rio knows most of the people in her squad, likes some of them, can’t stand others, Luther Geer being prominent among that second group. Rio, Jenou, and an older woman named Arabella
DeLarge are the only females in their squad. Cat Preeling is with a different group.
They carry full gear, including rifles loaded with blanks.
“They’ll make noise, they just won’t kill anyone,” Mackie says laconically. “Only your own stupidity will get you killed. Try not to be stupid. The army would like you to get into the war before you get yourself killed.”
They are deep in the trees and deeper still in the mosquitoes, which fly like dive bombers through the clouds of harmless but annoying gnats. The day is hot and, worse yet for girls from California, humid. Humidity at Camp Maron has been torture for Rio and Jenou.
Rio slaps a mosquito on her neck.
“Did you apply your mosquito repellant, Private Richlin?” Mackie demands.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Rio says. “The mosquitoes don’t want to be repelled.”
“Richlin’s just too sweet,” Tilo says.
“Today’s exercise is simple. The Red Team—”
“The coons,” Luther interrupts.
“—will be coming from the east looking to take the only bridge over this stream. Then they will attempt to hold that bridge. You will beat them to that bridge and hold it.”
“Hell yes, we will,” Luther says loudly. He has left his contraband kitten back in its enclosure beneath the barracks.
“If we find this bridge,” Kerwin mutters just loudly enough for Rio and a few others to hear.
“Your compass heading is north-northeast,” Mackie says. “The objective is approximately four miles from here. We will begin . . .” She looks at her watch, waits, waits, waits. “Now!”
And no one moves.
