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Rio drops to one knee and sights carefully. The Italian bobs and weaves, dancing from one side of her rifle sight to the other. She pulls the trigger—BANG!—and a red stain appears in the Italian’s lower back. She sees him grab futilely at it, like a man with an itch in a hard-to-reach spot. He runs another two steps and falls on his face in the dust.
“Cease fire, cease fire!” It’s Lieutenant Vanderpool, audible in a gap between gunfire. “Cease fire!”
It takes Rio a moment to realize that the only ones still shooting are the Americans. There’s a white handkerchief on a rake poking from the front door.
&nb
sp; They take five prisoners. They’d taken prisoners before, but they had been Germans. These are Italians, and though they adopt appropriately sullen expressions at first they soften up pretty quickly once the GIs start offering them cigarettes. The Italians have a bottle of harsh red wine, which they offer around, and in no more than ten minutes the Italians are chatting among themselves and trying out a few words of English on the bemused Americans.
My brother he live Philadelphia.
New Jersey, me. One year, yes?
And, the always popular in any language, Fug Mussolini, fug Hitler.
Lieutenant Vanderpool claps Cole on the shoulder and says, “You violated my order on the time of attack. Was that deliberate or did you just misread your watch?”
“Well, sir, we saw they had that little tank . . .” Cole shrugs.
Vanderpool says, “Yep. Well done, Sergeant. You almost certainly saved some lives. Mind you, I’m not giving you carte blanche to disregard orders . . .”
“No, sir,” Cole agrees, though Rio can see from his glazed expression that he’s a bit uncertain as to what carte blanche means. She’s not quite sure herself. No doubt Jenou will know, and certainly Stick or Jack will. She makes a mental note to ask.
“Send a detail back with the prisoners.” Vanderpool frowns, noticing the blood-soaked leg of Rio’s trousers. “You wounded, Richlin?”
“I tried to get rid of her earlier,” Cole says, “but . . .” Another shrug.
“Well, I like your spirit, Richlin, but you’re taking these prisoners back to the beach and then you will take yourself to the nearest aid station.”
Rio nods, then wonders if she should have saluted, so she does. The lieutenant salutes smartly in return, then with a smile he adds, “I appreciate the respect to my rank, but on balance I’d say we should dispense with saluting when we’re on the line: kind of makes me conspicuous.”
“Beebee, you go with her,” Cole says.
“But, Sarge,” Beebee protests weakly.
“Kid, as we were charging the barn you tripped, dropped your weapon, and if you was to look down the barrel of that weapon you’ll see it’s packed with dirt. So you stick to Richlin, she’ll keep you alive. For today. Hopefully.”
15
FRANGIE MARR—GELA BEACH, SICILY
Most of Walter Green’s platoon is scattered, wounded, or dead, and since they will not immediately rush into battle, Frangie is loaned to the colored aid station, where she has worked feverishly since coming ashore.
The doctor, when he finally arrives, is harried, annoyed, and imperious. He’s one of the few black doctors Frangie has ever seen, and she is drawn to the mystical power conferred by the letters “MD” that follow his name. He’s also a captain, but that doesn’t matter so much in a frontline aid station.
“Gunshot, through and through, perforated intestine. We cleaned and bandaged, morphine,” Frangie says, nodding at an unconscious soldier lying on a stretcher on the ground. Moving on to a female corporal, Frangie says, “Broken tibia, simple fracture, we’ve splinted. This fellow here is, well, battle fatigue, I suppose. He almost drowned coming ashore, and his buddy took one in the chest. So . . . And over here we have multiple shrapnel fragments in his calves, morphine. That fellow’s lost two fingers loading a howitzer, he’s bandaged.”
She goes on through her two dozen patients, calmly updating the doctor.
Finally, the doctor says, “Good.” Just that. Just “Good.”
His name is John Frame, Captain John Frame, US Army Reserves, now returned to extremely active duty through no fault of his own. Frangie would give her next meal to be able to sit down and throw questions at him for an hour, but he does not seem to be that sort of captain or doctor or person.
“Okay,” Dr. Frame says brusquely. “Transport him, him, him, her, and those two. The rest we’ll keep for a while.”
“Yes, sir.”
There is paperwork to be done—this may be war, and this may be a combat zone, but the army is still the army and there are forms to be filled out. Outside the tent, out in the sunshine, Frangie finds a seat on an overturned food crate and props a clipboard on her knee.
