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Rio does not concern herself with the affairs of generals, but she knows that Erwin Rommel, nicknamed the Desert Fox, is no fool. Even as his troops were fleeing the British across North Africa, hungry, short of fuel and ammo, they’d had time to roll right over the green American army. And roll right over Rio Richlin, who can still remember the very mixed emotions of running away from German tanks.
As Passey speaks, Rio translates mentally from officer to sergeant.
“He has festooned the shallows with steel triangles we’re calling hedgehogs, obstacles, many of them wired with antipersonnel mines. But the engineers will have seen to a lot of that.”
Translation: The hedgehogs will still be there, and many will still be mined.
“The beach itself will have been prepared by naval gunfire and bombers to create holes and depressions you can use as fighting holes.”
Translation: Most likely there will be no holes, which in any case wouldn’t be worth much because . . .
“The heights are thick with pillboxes and reinforced machine gun emplacements, so it will be your first priority to reach those and take them out. Word is that the flamethrowers are especially useful for this.”
Translation: The Krauts will have the height and the cover and can lay plunging fire down on the beach.
As for flamethrowers, Rio does not like them. She can imagine that they may be useful, but she does not like the idea of any of her people walking around with a big tank of jellied gasoline on their backs when bullets are flying.
“Our landing spot is here.” Passey taps the table with a pointer.
Translation: Within a half mile of there, if we’re lucky.
“G2 doesn’t think the Luftwaffe has much in the area, but don’t neglect to look up from time to time, eh? A plane with the stripes painted on the wings is one of ours—anything else is Luftwaffe.”
Translation: Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs will add bombs to mortar and cannon fire.
“As usual, the Nazi has defense in depth. Artillery here and here.” Tap and tap. “Panzer units here and here.” Tap, tap, tap, and tap.
Translation: It will be murder.
“I won’t lie to you, men . . . and ladies . . . this will be a tough objective.”
Translation: Yep, it’ll be murder.
The briefing breaks up, and Rio finds herself walking back to the hold with Stick, Cat, and Frank Lincoln.
“Well, that was cheery,” Stick says glumly.
“They couldn’t find a damn beach that didn’t have a damn cliff staring right down at it?” Frank Lincoln demands. “This is FUBAR. The beach is narrow, the bluff is high and steep, and the only comfort is that the air corps will supposedly have dug us some nice holes in the sand.”
“Don’t overlook the fact that a long, concave shape like that beach, plus the height, means Jerry will have both frontal and enfilade fire,” Stick points out.
Cat shares a look with Rio. “My guys are as green as grass snakes. I got just three guys that ever even fired a rifle in anger.”
Rio is a bit luckier. Her squad consists of veterans Jack Stafford, Hansu Pang, and Luther Geer, good experienced soldiers all; Jenou Castain, Rio’s childhood friend, who could be useful when she felt like it; and Beebee, a genius of a scrounger, but a mediocre soldier generally found well back from the action. Counting herself, Rio has six reasonably capable soldiers. Then there are the three replacements who she’s had for four days: Rudy J. Chester, Hank Hobart, and Lupé Camacho. Of these, Camacho shows some potential, Hobart may settle down in time, and Rudy J. Chester is likely to be killed, if not by the Germans, then by Rio.
Last, and definitely least, there are the three other replacements she acquired through no fault of her own just last night: two women, one man, none of them able to dump sand out of a boot with the instructions printed on the heel, let alone do any damage to the enemy.
“If they can get the tanks ashore we may do okay,” Stick says, straining for optimism. “And if the bombers have done their job.”
“That’s two ifs,” Lincoln says darkly.
“I have more, if you want,” Rio mutters.
My first combat assignment as a squad leader is: invade France.
Swell.
No sooner has Rio rejoined her squad in the hold than the order comes to stand by for embarkation. Numbers will be called and units will advance to designated areas, all wonderfully planned out, no doubt, but likely in Rio’s somewhat cynical estimation to be the usual SNAFU. Situation Normal: All Fugged Up.
