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Finally they spot a convoy of staff cars and jeeps and a single British lorry coming straight across the grass landing strip. One of the staff cars wears a red flag with the three gold stars of a lieutenant general.
“Jesus Christ,” Rio whispers through seemingly tight lips. “Is that Old George himself?”
The general is a brisk, energetic man in his late fifties, wearing his army cap with its three shiny stars at a rakish but still proper angle. His uniform is a study in elegant tailoring. He wears high, polished brown leather cavalry boots, and—if any confirmation of his identity was required—two ivory-handled revolvers.
General George S. Patton is surrounded by a gaggle of colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants, who follow him like so many sparrows flocking around an eagle. He glares at the three women, and none of the three is in any doubt about his mood: Patton does not want to be there.
But then the young female who’d driven the British lorry walks confidently over, and to the astonishment of every single person in attendance—particularly Rio, Frangie, and Rainy—Patton executes a sincere bow as the young woman offers him her hand. He kisses her hand before stepping back, a big, slightly terrifying grin on his hard face.
Staff rush to bring a microphone forward and a nervous captain begins the proceedings by announcing the names of those in attendance. The next to last name mentioned is that of General Patton.
The final name is “Second Subaltern Elizabeth Windsor.”
“Oh my God,” Rainy breathes. “The princess!”
“The what?” Rio and Frangie echo, too surprised to be discreet.
“Elizabeth Windsor. Princess Elizabeth, the king’s daughter!” Rainy is not easily impressed. The general has not cowed her. She’s dealt with colonels and generals, but this finally cuts through her cynicism and a smile slowly appears.
They are called to attention—they’re already at attention, proximity to a lieutenant general will do that, but they take this order as a sign that it’s time to stop whispering.
Their names are read out one by one, followed by the official summaries of their actions. And then, all at once, Rio is face-to-face
with Patton, who gives her a sideways, thoughtful look before taking the medal from one of his aides and pinning it onto the lapel of her uniform. The lapel being more discreet under the circumstances than pinning it on her chest.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Richlin,” Patton says with bare civility.
“Corporal, sir,” Rio blurts as the general is moving away.
He stops, comes back a step, leans toward her, and says, “Young lady, if I say you’re a sergeant, then you’re a god . . .” He glances guiltily toward the princess, clears his throat, and starts over. “If I say you’re a sergeant, then that’s what you are.”
Princess Elizabeth steps to her and extends her hand, smiling radiantly, just a teenager herself, Rio realizes.
Completely confused, Rio attempts a curtsy but has no idea how to manage it, so ends up looking like she’s got an itch.
“Now, now, none of that,” the princess says with a high, musical laugh. “You’re Americans, and we settled all that some time ago.”
Rio swallows, says nothing, bobs her head, and the moment blessedly ends as Patton and Elizabeth move on to Rainy.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Schulterman. Fine work,” Patton says, and pins her medal on.
On reaching Frangie, the general seems to take a breath and hold it, as if unwilling to breathe her air. His eyes are cold and dismissive, but he says the right words of congratulation.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Marr. Good work.”
The princess is more gracious, and she holds Frangie’s hand in hers for a long time as she speaks about helping to keep our brave boys—and girls too—alive and healthy so they can return to their loving families.
And then they are done, marched off the field as the band plays “Garryowen.”
Squeezed into the backseat of the closed car that will carry them to a reception at the enlisted men’s club, Rio says, “I do not want to be a sergeant. No, I sure as anything do not.”
“Pay’s better,” Rainy observes.
But for Rio it feels like a punishment. She had not wanted to be a corporal, and this is infinitely worse. She wonders now if she shouldn’t accept the offer of stateside duty. If she goes back up to the front in Italy, or sits here waiting for the invasion, either way she’ll be given men and women to train and teach and coddle. She will be Sergeant Cole. She will be Dain Sticklin.
I’ll be Mackie! she thinks, recalling her first sergeant, all the way back at the beginning. In her memory Sergeant Mackie has become an almost mythic figure. “I have no business being sergeant,” Rio says.
