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“Geer, check on Petersen.”
Geer crawls back, and his report comes immediately. “Shot right through the radio,” he yells and comes crawling back. “Deader than shit!”
Pull back and leave Strand to his fate, presumably at a German POW camp for the remainder of the war? Or fight it out, risking all their lives?
As if reading her thoughts, Guttierez yells, “I ain’t leaving the skipper behind!”
The skipper meanwhile has lost the thread of the lyrics and is drifting into “Jingle Bells.”
For just a split second Rio hates Strand Braxton.
Morphine. Not his fault.
Eleven Krauts to six, but those eleven are Wehrmacht. They could be veteran troops, men who’d fought the Russians and British.
Professionals.
“Preeling. Get out on our right a hundred yards, and in three minutes you start blasting away. Throw a grenade but away from the plane,” Rio says. “Jack, stay put.”
“Certainly,” he says. “It’s damp, but the view is magical.”
Despite herself, Rio grins.
Within the small shelter of the fallen trees it’s the two flyers on the left, Geer and Rio in the center, with Jack on the left flank, Cat on the right. It’s all Rio can do. If the Krauts flank far to her right, they can circle around and come up from behind, but there’s nothing she can do about that. She doesn’t have the people to cover every approach.
The math is terribly clear in Rio’s mind. T
here is no way. The barricade is a joke, there’s limited ammo for the machine gun, and she’s likely facing veteran soldiers. No way. Sooner or later the Krauts bring up more men or call in artillery or simply flank them.
Her father’s words come back to her.
There will come a time when you’ll have a choice between staying in your trench and crawling out of it to save a buddy . . . When that moment comes, you stay down.
This is not a World War I trench, Father, and that’s not a buddy, it’s Strand.
Rio loosens the pins on two grenades. She pops a fresh clip into her rifle.
“Richlin?” Geer asks.
“Soon as Preeling opens up,” Rio says, “you lay down fire. Keep it aimed high and to the right.”
“What are you doing?” Geer demands.
She doesn’t answer but crawls away toward Jack. “It’s me,” she hisses when she gets close. She finds him lying on a shore too narrow to quite hold him so his right shoulder is up against a low shelf and his left is in the water.
“You good?” she asks.
“Fugging lovely,” he says.
“Stay here, Jack,” she says.
“What are you—”
Whoompf!
Cat has loosed her grenade, and it is followed instantly by the sound of her carbine, joined quickly by Geer and the .50 caliber.
Rio pushes up, up to her feet, numb, a part of her mind dreamy and distant, while another part is focused with razor-sharp intensity. A deep breath and her feet are moving, moving, running, boots splashing the shallow water, digging sloppy divots in gravelly mud.
