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“Let’s hear the plan, Richlin,” Cole says.
Richlin turns and points to the sheer wall to the right of the ridge where half of the other soldiers crouch. “See that kinda seam or what have you? You get to that ledge there, after that the seam cuts back into the rock so it’s covered, almost like a tunnel. We figure it’s worth checking out, because maybe it continues on and comes out on the other side. Figure the Krauts either don’t see it or can’t get at it. It’s tight and it won’t be easy, but it might give us some enfilade with Stick’s BAR.”
Cole considers this, following her pointing finger. “Richlin, that’s a long shot. You’d be exposed trying to jump to that ledge.”
“Figure we go after dark,” says the young farm girl, sounding almost bored at the prospect.
“There’s a half moon, and it’s looking to be clear,” Cole says. “Which means you’ll be silhouetted against the stars.”
“We go before the moon comes up. First light we see what we see and if we get an angle on them . . .”
“You and Stick?”
That is my cue. “And me,” I say. There is something engaging about the freckle-faced soldier girl. And a desperate night mission with one of the newly minted girl soldiers? What better story would I ever find than the battle for Tunisia in its final phase?
“Okay. You and Stick get some rest,” Cole says. “As for you, miss . . .”
“Folks call me Spats.”
“I suppose there’s a story behind that nickname,” Cole says.
“I suppose there is, and if you let me go along on this mission I’ll buy you a drink someday and tell you all about it.”
“I don’t really think that’s . . .” He begins, ready to tell me no. That’s when I play my ace.
“Say, Sarge, I notice you enjoy a good cigar.”
“Lady . . . sorry, Spats . . . I enjoy anything that even looks like a cigar out here, it don’t have to be good.”
Like a magician producing a rabbit from his hat, I draw a cigar out of my blouse pocket. “I don’t know if this is any good, but I swiped it off a colonel’s desk.”
I confess to having embellished that story a little, ladies. In fact, I swiped it from a competing reporter. But nothing catches the attention of an enlisted man like the prospect of putting one over on the brass.
I spent the rest of the day interviewing the members of the squad, and I may write about them someday. But this story, I knew, was about the freckle-faced soldier girl.
The hour comes, and we begin to crawl up the gravelly slope, the grim-faced Corporal Dain Sticklin in the lead, his BAR heavy and no doubt painful on his back. And behind him a young but equally grim soldier named Rio Richlin, with her M1 Garand slung over her shoulder and her pockets stuffed with grenades.
The plan is to reach the top of the rise and then jump—silently we all pray—to a rock ledge three feet away and in plain view of the enemy. It’s too dark to see the ledge, but the two GIs have spent the day memorizing every inch of the approach. Darkness will hide them, but it may also betray them.
This is not one of the great battles of the war, ladies. This is a small but possibly deadly action, a squad of GIs against a squad of Krauts, the kind of dirty little fight that is the essence of war. Man on man, but in this case, one of the “men” is a girl who looks like she should be applying makeup and picking out a dress for the high school dance.
The jump is dangerous and terrifying. It will require Rio Richlin to stand up, fully exposed, and to leap three feet into darkness so profound I can barely see my fingers six inches in front of my face, and land on what she can only hope will be a solid ledge. Rio will go first so Stick can toss her his BAR. She crouches low and glances to her left to see the outlines of helmets from those ready to provide covering fire if the enemy starts firing.
She drinks deeply from a canteen, then sets the canteen down carefully. Canteens are noisy, and both she and Stick are stripped of all gear but ammo and grenades. The ammo clips have been wrapped in dirty socks to muffle any noise they might make.
Rio takes a couple of deep breaths, exhalation steaming, steadying herself. Then fast, silent, and fluid, she stands up and takes two steps forward over gravel that skitters a bit underfoot. And she leaps.
She lands hard, and I can hear a small sound as she bites off a grunt of pain. But she’s on the ledge, and the Krauts seem not to have noticed.
She turns and stretches out—exposed again—to take the BAR from Sticklin.
Stick jumps next and is guided to a softer landing by Rio’s outstretched arms. Stick squeezes her shoulder in thanks, a small gesture. A brotherly gesture, it seems to me, as I crouch terrified, waiting for my turn to jump. To my embarrassment I make a mess of it, kicking gravel on the takeoff and emitting an explosive exhalation on landing.
Immediately one of the soldiers crouching in wait below coughs loudly and scatters some gravel to distract from my clumsiness.
Miraculously, the Germans have not noticed, or if they have, they’ve decided against firing up at us.
We find ourselves in a smooth-walled ravine so narrow we have to turn sideways to go forward. My slight claustrophobia begins to nag at me. Some part of my brain keeps warning that we’re going in and never coming out. That there’s no way to run. That we could be trapped in here.
