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“Unfortunately they can’t get the boats anywhere near the river by truck, so we have to carry them from a drop-off.”
“How far?” Coelho asks.
“About a half mile, I reckon.”
“What the hell?”
“That’s right,” Cole says, raising his voice just a little to quiet the din of outrage. “We’re carrying the boats across open country in full view of Kraut artillery, although it’s dark enough and we’ll have smoke. Then we put ’em in the water and cross the river.” He spreads his hands. “That’s my orders. No one’s happy about it.”
“It’s fugging suicide,” Sergeant Alvarez says. “You know goddamn well this is FUBAR.”
“This entire goddamn campaign is FUBAR,” Sergeant Coelho says. “General Mark goddamn Clark does not know what the fug he’s doing. He’s as big a glory hog as Patton, but only half as smart.”
No one jumps in to defend the general, who is seen as more interested in reaching Rome and riding through the streets like some Roman emperor of old than in the lives of his soldiers. Cole lets the anger burn down to glowing coals before adding, “Yeah, and just so you know exactly how FUBAR this is, our flanks will be hanging in midair. Once we get across—”
There’s a bitter snort.
“Once we get across, we’ve got a series of objectives. A series of hills—”
Rio almost smiles. Cole always pronounces it “OB-jectives.”
“Better and better,” Alvarez says. “Cross this flooded field in the freezing rain, through minefields, paddle across to reach barbed wire and more minefields, and then la-di-da into the hills and every goddamned inch of it under Kraut shells.”
“Well, Alvy, you’ve explained it perfectly,” Cole says dryly.
This earns bitter, cynical laughter.
Rio says, “What’s the terrain like?”
“Open from here to there, farm fields, cross-country. There are some tree trunks still standing along the riverbank, but the fact is there’s not six inches of real cover between here and the far bank of the river. And none on the other side either.”
Rio falls in beside Stick as they slog back to their squad.
“Listen, Richlin, this is a bad deal. You know it, I know it. But we can’t let on to our people.”
“You don’t think they’ll figure it out pretty quick?”
“Sure they will. But we can’t have anyone hanging back. So you and me, we put on our war faces and keep discipline.”
“Whatever you say, Stick.”
Rio is weary, they all are. Too many fights in too many villages; too many holes dug only to fill with rainwater; too much time spent cringing in muddy fields as artillery dropped around them; too many snipers firing from too many well-concealed positions; too many night patrols sneaking along that river in the dark with Kraut machine gunners firing at any sound; too many hikes past the bodies laid by the side of the road for graves registration.
Weary. Down to her bones.
The lunacy of the plan is instantly clear to every member of the squad, but Rio keeps a stern look on her face and refuses to join in with the loud grousing. She hasn’t asked to be made corporal, she doesn’t want the job, but she’ll do anything for Stick, and he’s asked her to back him up.
They are trucked to yet another muddy field—having to get out twice to push trucks whose wheels have sunk to the rims in the soup—where they find the boats. Boats . . . and craters.
Rio has her hands full trying to locate two boats in the roadside dump that have not already been holed by shrapnel. Jenou is with her, shining a flashlight to inspect the boats. At least a third will never float. “This isn’t good, is it?”
“No,” Rio says softly.
“Jesus.”
“Scared?” Rio says it in what she intends to be a joking tone, as if expecting Jenou to deny it. But it comes out sounding like a challenge.
“Sure I’m scared,” Jenou says. “I’m not you, Rio, all right? Is that what you want me to say? You want me to kiss your butt and tell you how brave you are? Fine. You’re braver than I am, Rio. You’re a better soldier. Goodie for you.”
