A woman comes rushing from the farmhouse, yelling in Italian, obviously scolding her children, waving at them to get back in the house. The house, in truth, is little more than a pile of mismatched stones, shabbier and less likely to be permanent than anything Rio has ever seen. There are no windows, just a low, crooked door and a roof of cracked tiles patched with tied bundles of straw.
The children ignore their mother, who slows as she approaches. No grin from her. Her face is brown and deeply lined, her eyes dark with a thousand years of Sicilian suspicion.
“Keep moving,” Cole urges his troops. “This war ain’t over just yet.”
They move along, and the children follow for a few dozen yards until drawn back to their mother.
They are in a sunbaked land of small farm fields, stone fences, donkey-drawn carts, scrawny cattle, and mostly dirt tracks rather than roads. Trees are few and far between, but prickly pear stands are everywhere, with large, flat ovals like beaver tails festooned with two kinds of needles.
Tilo cuts one with his knife and gingerly picks it up, careful to avoid the obvious pricks. But the large needles are not the problem.
“Ah! Damn! Ow!”
Hansu Pang says, “You got to watch the little hairlike prickles. They go right into skin and it’s hell getting rid of them.”
“Got a lot of them prickly pears in Japan, do you?” Geer asks.
“No, but they grow around the internment camp where my grandparents are.” He says it without rancor, but it irritates Rio anyway, because she expects an argument to break out and she’s instinctively unhappy about any unnecessary noise. Sure enough . . .
“How the hell are your grandparents locked up and you’re in the army?” Geer demands.
“I’ve been living in Hawaii, where people understand that we aren’t Japanese but Americans.” This time Pang’s anger peeks out for just a flash before being smothered. “It’s mostly in California that folks are being interned, not Hawaii.”
“Japs are Japs,” Geer says with a shrug.
“Thanks for saving my life, Geer, and also, fug you.”
It is the first time Pang has defended himself in any way, and to Rio’s relief, Geer lets it go.
They halt and crouch suddenly, hearing gunfire. But it’s not close and not directed at them, so the march continues. Rio has no real idea where they’re headed. Vanderpool told them the name of the village, but it’s all Italian gobbledygook to Rio’s ears.
Besides, Cat has noticed something far more interesting. “Hey, those are tomatoes!”
Every head swivels left.
“And they’re ripe!”
Sergeant Cole yells something about mines, but no one pays any attention since it’s unlikely the local farmers would be tending crops in minefields. An old farmer at the far side of the field looks as if he’s considering protesting, but then gets back to his labor. They keep going in the same direction, parallel to the road, but now they are slowing to snatch fat red tomatoes from the vines, stuffing them into backpacks and shirt pockets and taking big bites from the most promising specimens. Soon the platoon is dripping tomato juice down mouths and necks, fingers and arms. First Platoon, farther on their left, is busily denuding their half of the same field and the farmer finally yells at them, but with no effect.
Rio does not join in; she’s never been a great lover of raw tomatoes. Her leg wound is itching fiercely and at the same time aching and distracting her too much for cavorting through the fields. But a mile on, the tomato-stained, prickly-pear-maimed platoon spies a patch of watermelons, and this Rio cannot resist no matter the pain. She uses her koummya to slice open a melon heavy with sweetness and greedily gobbles it up, spitting seeds as she goes.
“It’s like watching an especially disgusting machine gun,” Jenou teases.
“What else am I supposed to do with watermelon seeds?” Rio demands.
Jack says, “You’re supposed to spit them discreetly into your spoon and lay them on the side of your fruit plate.” He winks and spits a seed about ten feet.
“Pitiful,” Tilo says. “I can beat it.”
The war is halted temporarily while Rio, Jack, Tilo, and Cat compete to see who can spit a seed the farthest.
Sergeant Cole comes over, shakes his head in disgust, grabs a hunk of melon, chews, swallows, and spits a seed through the gap in his teeth that very nearly doubles Cat’s record.
“I gotta teach you people everything? Now, get your butts moving, you’ve had your lunch.”
Another hour on and the sun is taking a toll on the GIs. A water pump used to fill a cattle trough is worked eagerly to fill helmets with water, which they dump over their heads.
“That’s better,” Rio says.
“Your leg is bleeding again,” Jenou points out. “Why are you being stubborn, Rio? Fall out and go back to the aid station.”
“It’s just a little blood,” Rio says.
“She’s right, you know,” Jack says. “You should get that attended to properly.”
“Richlin don’t want to miss the war,” Geer says. “Isn’t that right, Killer Rick? You want more body count.”
“Shut up, Geer,” Rio snaps, not liking the nickname.
“That’s why she won’t swap out that big old M1 for a carbine,” Geer says. “Can’t shoot a man from half a mile away with a carbine.”
This is too much like an insinuation of cowardice for Rio. She grabs his shoulder and spins him around to face her. “What is it, Geer? You think I’m afraid to do it up close? Because it was pretty up close and personal when we took out that Kraut mortar team.”
Geer grins and holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot me, Killer Rick. I surrender. You’re right, you like killing at any distance.”
“I’m doing my job. Doing what I’m told, same as you.”
“And no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy doing your job, right, Richlin?”
Rio is considering punching him in the nose, but she spots Jenou out of the corner of her eye. Jenou is standing with head down, unwilling to show her face.
My God, does Jenou believe that too?
“Knock it off,” Stick says with the authority of his new corporal’s rank. “We got actual enemies, we don’t need to go looking for more here in the squad.”
The column starts moving again, but not for long. There’s what looks like an abandoned barn up ahead, a pile of stones with a collapsed roof. Platoon Sergeant O’Malley raises a clenched fist, calling a halt. The rest of the division is lost to sight behind a rise in the land off to their left. GIs drop to a knee or sit right down in the dirt. Rio squats and watches O’Malley, now conferring with Lieutenant Vanderpool.
Clearly the old sergeant doesn’t like something about that barn. Rio tries to figure out just what exactly it is, because the same instinct is nagging at her. The land around the barn is not unusual: dry fields lying fallow, terraced vineyards bearing only stunted young grapes, prickly pear stands, two exhausted-looking donkeys standing mute beside a water trough. The sky overhead is clear blue with a blistering sun floating toward its zenith.
She glances back and only now realizes that the road has been climbing gently. That flat fields have given way to terraced fields as they’ve moved onto higher ground. It has the odd effect of making Rio a little homesick. Parched gentle hills, vineyards, dry yellow grasses and isolated patches of green, a blue sky and bright sun, these are Rio’s natural habitat, at least whenever she gets out of Gedwell Falls into the surrounding countryside.
Then she spots something. There is a line of cypress trees, tall and narrow, like spear points lined up in a row. The line of trees would block their view of the barn if it had been extended just a half dozen trees farther. She squints and shields her eyes and sees several small disks the color of the red mud so familiar from basic training in Georgia—the raw, still-moist trunks of trees recently cut down.
Cut down to reveal the barn? No. Cut down to give the barn a clear view and field of fire over
the road.
Cole looks worried. “Okay, people, listen up. The Loot and O’Malley are worried about that barn, and I agree. It’s a perfect site for an MG. Third and Fourth Squads are going to make it look like they’ve stopped for chow. First and Second Squads are going back down the road like we’re heading for the beach. Then we’re going to circle left and right respectively, and get close enough to put some fire onto that barn.”
There are groans, but also murmurs of excitement.
“I hope it’s Krauts and not just Italians,” Cat says. “The Eye-ties might give up and then what? We’re marching prisoners back to the beach.”
First and Second Squads amble away, faux casual, rifles slung on shoulders, heading back the way they’ve come. A quarter mile down the road, around a bend, they halt. First Squad takes the left, Second Squad takes the right, which means walking off the road into a terraced hillside field. They walk upright at first, even taking time to pick the occasional very sour and unripe grape from the gnarled vines. But as they come around into sight of the barn they crouch low, walking bent over, which only exacerbates the pain in Rio’s leg.
For about two hundred yards they are exposed, though far enough distant that they may avoid being spotted, and anxiously await the zipper sound of German machine guns. Then they are once more hidden from view by the bulk of the hill and can stand up and stretch strained muscles.
Soon they are back to where they can plainly see the barn, though now the surviving cypresses partly mask it. Here the vines are gone and the hill is covered in tall, desiccated grasses set off by the inevitable prickly pears. They are perhaps two hundred yards away from the target but not directly in line with the dark, gaping, threatening door.
Cole looks it over through his binoculars. “Can’t see anything,” he says. “Can’t see any cover either. We can either go round this hill, which is going to take half an hour, or we just walk right in.” He glances at his watch. He is supposed to have his squad in place in twenty minutes. “We’d have to do it at a run. What do you think, Stick?”
“Go around,” Sticklin says without hesitation.
“What about you, Richlin?” Cole asks.
Rio actually jumps. “What? Don’t . . . don’t ask me!”
Cole sends her a sidelong look. “You know, Richlin, you won’t be a private forever.”
That thought bothers Rio more than the action ahead. It is one thing to follow orders; it is quite a different thing to take responsibility.
Cole quickly decides the matter: they’ll go around the hill, even if it means running. This they do, running in ninety-degree heat without shade, running with gear rattling, with troops panting and tripping and cursing under their breath. It’s worse for Stick, who still carries the big BAR.
Now the pain in Rio’s leg is doubled. Every impact of boot on dirt sends a shock of pain shooting up her thigh into her belly. She grits her teeth, determined to go on, not to fall out. Part of her mind is still digesting the way Jenou looked at her, the way she refused to look at her, the way the usually protective Jenou failed to speak up in Rio’s defense.
Jenou has known her longer than anyone but her parents. Does Jenou honestly believe Rio enjoys killing?
I could prove her wrong. I could fall out. I could go find a nice clean cot in an aid station back on the beach.
But she runs on, her M1 held chest high, canteen bouncing, boots pounding dust.
“So this is why we had all those five-mile runs,” Jack says, panting.
Why didn’t Cole ask Jack? Jack’s a good soldier.
When they emerge, sweat staining their uniforms, they see the barn from the side. And they see the Italian light tank behind it.
Cole stares at his watch. “Three minutes,” he says. “No time to send word back or bring up a mortar.” On this side of the barn is a hole like a window except that it was clearly punched out from the inside, with stone bricks lying scattered beneath it.
“They’ll have their MG on the road, most likely. We’ll be getting small arms fire this direction. Unless they’ve got a second MG.” Again he consults his watch. “If we jump off a minute early maybe the Eye-ties shift their fire toward us.” He points. “We go straight across toward those prickly pears. We run like hell and hope they don’t spot us. If we reach the prickly pears, we can put some fire on that light tank, make it hard for them to crank it up. Because if they get that thing started up . . .” He shrugs and shakes his head at that prospect.
Cole is putting them at risk in order to save other lives. And that, Rio thinks, is why I’m happy being a private.
“All right. Drop your packs. We’ll go in two groups. Stick, you take Richlin, Castain, Pang, and Geer. Keep your heads low and run like hell,” Cole says. “Keep some space between you. We’ll follow on a ten count. On three. One. Two. Three!”
They break into a mad dash, moving more easily without their packs, Stick, Rio, Jenou, Pang, and Geer bringing up the rear.
Rio no longer notices the pain in her leg. She’s pushing her senses forward and away from herself, willing her eyes to see inside the stony wreckage ahead, willing her ears to hear the first click of a cocking machine gun so she can drop.
They make it halfway before the rest of the squad comes pelting after them. They run exposed now, with no cover between them and that shadowed, forbidding hole.
Rio spots an Italian officer, suspenders hanging, something in his hand, sauntering out the back of the barn toward the tank.
He is just a hundred yards away. If he but listened, he would hear the sound of their boots and their rattling gear.
He turns. He shades his hand and stares. His mouth opens in an astonished O.
“Richlin!” Stick says in a terse voice, and she drops to her belly and sights on the tan uniform. Much closer than her first kill, but farther away than others.
She is about to pull the trigger when the back half of the squad comes panting by, unaware that she is ready to shoot. They swarm into her field of view and for a moment the Italian disappears. When he reappears he is running and shouting.
Rio curses under her breath and jumps to her feet. She leaves a small patch of blood-red mud behind.
The Italian officer disappears from view, and now two Italian soldiers rush toward the tank. It is a pitiful thing by the standards of an American Sherman, let alone a massive German Tiger, but more than enough to tear up a column of infantry.
Stick slows to a deliberate walk and fires the BAR from his hip, collapsing the two soldiers.
Now the machine gun they’ve been expecting to hear opens up on the two squads advancing down the main road.
B-r-r-r-r-r-t! B-r-r-r-r-r-t!
Geer throws a grenade in the direction of the tank. It explodes but only marks the side of the tank with a spray of smoke.
Rio runs, sees Jenou just ahead of her, Jenou firing her carbine at waist height. Jenou stops firing when Jack reaches the wall of the barn and flattens himself against it. He pulls a grenade from his webbing belt, yanks the pin, lets the clip fly, counts one . . . two . . . three, and tosses it through the hole. Two seconds later it explodes, sending a big cloud of hay fragments billowing out on a wave of smoke.
Rio runs and spots the Italian officer running at full speed away from the barn, away from the tank, seemingly heading for the hills and leaving his men to the mercy of the Americans.
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.”
Silver Stars Page 15
