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And then, turning to run again, Rainy trips, throws out her hands instinctively. The suicide pill flies free, but she tracks it, sees it peeking from beneath a fallen pine twig. Rainy grabs for it, footsteps so close now, her fingers find the pill, raise it to her mouth, and she is hit from behind, a knee in the spine. Electric pain shoots through her body.
She has a split second to see the shoe that smashes into the side of her head, sending her consciousness spinning through the void, twirling, dragging her down and down. The second punch finishes the job.
Rainy lies crumpled, unconscious on the ground, her wine gurgling out onto the pine needles. Her gun beside her.
26
RIO RICHLIN—ABOARD LST-902, OFF SALERNO, ITALY
It is Rio Richlin’s first battle briefing as a corporal, an NCO, a noncommissioned officer. Corporals aren’t always included, but Stick has brought her along and Rio is very sensible of the compliment.
Sensible of the compliment . . . and resenting it. She had not asked to be made a corporal, had not wanted to be made a corporal, had argued with Cole and their new lieutenant, and had been told to shut up and do what she was told.
That part at least she understood.
In addition to the NCOs, their new lieutenant, Frank Stone, is there. No one knows much about Stone yet aside from the fact that he looks almost absurdly young, smokes like a fiend, blinks a lot, and seems to have a chip on his shoulder.
The main hold on the tank deck of the LST has the feeling of a warehouse made of steel. It is a vast oblong box stuffed full of Shermans, twenty tanks in all, plus two half-tracks and a couple of jeeps.
GIs are berthed in rectangular cells all around the outer edge of the boat. This ship has a nominal capacity of 217 men, which is nonsense—there are soldiers crammed everywhere. The upper deck is crawling with soldiers. The busy sailors have trouble at times pushing through the crowds of soldiers to reach their stations and genially curse the men and women in green as “sand fleas,” “lubbers,” “clumsy bastards,” and more, but never with real animus. The sailors know that soon these soldiers will be ashore . . . and they will not be.
Twenty tanks, something like 305 men, barrels of oil, ammo—the contents of this one ship could start a war all by itself, Rio thinks.
The colonel, a West Pointer, has given a little rah-rah speech and turned the briefing over to Captain Jesus “Paco” Morales, also a West Pointer, a shinily bald, broad-shouldered officer in a spotless uniform. Morales urges the two dozen noncoms to line up around a low sand table. The sand table is a lovingly sculpted diorama of the Salerno beach.
“Okay, men. And lady,” Morales begins. “We have a tough one here, a real ball-buster, begging your pardon, Corporal.”
Two specific references to Rio—she is the only female present—and both times every head but Stick’s swivels toward her.
Rio is aware, very aware, of being an object of great interest. The army as a whole has not changed its opinion of women soldiers. The army, to put it simply, hates the idea of women soldiers. This hatred is expressed in a variety of ways: from verbal harassment to crude attempts at seduction down to the more subtle means of slur and exclusion. But Rio Richlin is not just the only female NCO—a very unwilling NCO—at the briefing, she comes with a reputation.
So curious eyes, many but not all hostile, take in her stance, her expression, her uniform, and her koummya, then add in the stories that have circulated about her, including the fact that she refused to ship out after being injured. They reach various conclusions, mostly that she is some sort of freak of nature, a standout, a very odd duck, probably a man hater, likely to end up an old maid, and more on that same line.
“As you can see, we have a very long stretch of beach, almost twenty-five miles end to end. We’ve had a bit of luck with some intelligence giving us a notion of Herman’s positions.”
Herman, like Jerry, Kraut, Heinie, the Hun, the Natsee, and more, is a common term for the Wehrmacht, its officers, the German people, and Adolf Hitler himself. Morales likes to mix and match his slang terms.
“We are facing a full panzer division,” Captain Morales says. “Fortunately twenty-five miles of beach is a lot for a single division to defend. Unfortunately the Hun is cl
ever and experienced. They have broken the Sixteenth Panzer Division into four mobile battle groups, roughly here, here, here, and here. And eight reinforced strong points: here, here, here, these three here, here, here.” With each “here” he stabs his pointer at a place on the sand table. “They’ve got massed artillery on almost every high spot: here, here, here, and possibly here.”
There is a discontented murmur from the NCOs, many of them experienced combat soldiers, though there are some green hands too. The experienced sergeants see nothing but problems ahead: a long beach swept by artillery, a beach that opens onto a triangular plain bordered to the north by mountains, to the south by mountains, and to the east by more mountains. The goal is the city and port of Naples, Napoli to the Italians, and Naples is thirty-five miles north from Salerno along a road that is in plain view of mountainside artillery almost every inch of the way.
Rio focuses all her attention on the sand table, trying to commit every detail to memory, willing it to sink deep into her brain. But she spares a glance at Stick, solemn and engaged, and hopes that any life-or-death decisions will fall on his shoulders, not hers. And just beyond him, head tilted, cold cigar in his mouth, is Sergeant Cole. There is reassurance in those two. Cole is a soldier’s soldier, and Stick is close to achieving that same status.
“Damn river,” Cole mutters.
“Speak up, Sergeant,” Morales says, looking sharply at Cole, who is not in the least intimidated.
“Well, sir, it’s that river.”
The sand table shows a winding stream, the Sele River.
Morales nods. “You are correct, Sergeant, the river is a problem. It splits our battlefield and at least at the start there will be Brits on one side, us on the other. We need to close that gap pronto or the Hun will drive his tanks right down through us.”
Lieutenant Stone says, “Nothing we can’t handle, sir.”
This bravado is to be expected—you don’t get far in the army by displaying doubt, not if you’re an officer—but there is an inaudible, invisible, and yet unmistakable coolness coming from the combat veterans. They are men and woman who have actually fought tanks, and they don’t talk lightly about “handling” them.
