Silver Stars

by Michael Grant

  Rio finds a scrap of soap resting in a mess kit on the ground. But before she can employ soap she first lets the water sluice away unbelievable layers of filth, filth in every crack and every orifice.

  And then: soap.

  Rio is crying by the time she lathers the soap and covers her hair, her face, her body—every inch of her body. Soap! Soap! The smell of it. The feel of it. It’s a small, slippery piece of humanity and civilization. She lathers and rinses, and then does it all again.

  When at last she can no longer take the cold, she finds Jenou standing by with a neatly folded and astoundingly clean uniform.

  From there it’s to the mess hall tent, where Rio would have happily devoured her weight in SOS without a complaint. But the cooks have done better, layering on scrambled eggs (powdered) and sausages and wonderful, fluffy, freshly made biscuits with butter(!) and jam(!). And of course, there is coffee. Coffee! The magical beverage. There’s a great, steaming tureen of coffee, all the coffee in the world, and it’s hot, and it’s not made from instant, and it contains no tiny pieces of gravel or leftover corned beef.

  Rio eats and drinks like an animal, shoveling, swallowing without chewing, until she is full. And then she keeps eating and drinking but uses her fork and spoon.

  Jenou doesn’t say much, just sits patiently, watching her friend eat and drink. When Rio is at last sated, Jenou says, “You’re going to want to sleep some more.”

  “I slept plenty,” Rio says.

  “Uh-huh,” Jenou says, and leads her back to the tent. Rio says she just wants to close her eyes for a minute and wakes up ten hours later.

  It is night when she opens her eyes. For a while she can’t tell where she is. It takes a while before vague memories of soap and food come floating up to her conscious mind.

  She sits up and looks around her. Jenou, asleep, snoring lightly. Cat, asleep, snoring not so lightly. Jack sitting in his cot, writing a letter by the light of a small candle. Beebee counting something on his cot and arranging things in short stacks: packs of smokes. Stick, passed out, facedown in his cot.

  “Where’s Geer? And Pang?” Rio asks, dreading the answer.

  Jack sets his letter aside and smiles crookedly at her. “She lives! As for Geer and Pang, I believe they are playing poker in another tent. Quite healthy, I assure you, though I imagine they’ll both be broke when they get back.”

  “How long?” she asks in a hoarse voice.

  “They pulled us off the line three days ago,” Jack says. “Since then we’ve all been sleeping, eating, and sleeping some more, though not all at the same time. I’m told I was medically dead for twenty-four hours.”

  He still has the red hair and the freckles, but the boyish mischief is gone now, or at least weighed down. His eyes are deep, sunken into his skull. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a tic in his cheek that nervously simulates a mirthless smile. He’s still Jack, but a different Jack, older, sadder perhaps, but enough of Jack that he still bothers with a wisecrack.

  Rio wonders what she herself looks like. How much does her face show what she has been through? There’s a blank deadness to her emotions, a distance from the world around her as if she’s standing on the other side of a sheet of frosted glass and can see people only dimly, hear them as if from a distance, touch them not at all.

  “When are we going back up?” she asks.

  Jack shakes his head. “The 119th took forty percent casualties, half of those KIA. Rumor is they’re going to ship us out.”

  “Out? Where?”

  Jack shrugs. “Home. At least, my home, England. But it’s just scuttlebutt.”

  “What happened?” She jerks her chin toward the tent opening, but Jack understands her meaning. She means the massif. She means the monastery.

  She means Monte Cassino.

  “Attack failed. We hold some positions, but Jerry chewed up the Frogs on our flank, and well, you know what happened to us.”

  “Then they’ll send us back.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Anyway, not you.” There’s a ghost of his old smile. “The general wants to see you.”

  Rio’s feeling numb, but this cuts through and makes her sit up sharply. “What?” Her first thought is that she is in trouble—very serious trouble, unprecedented trouble, if a one-star general is asking for her.

  Jack shrugs. He clearly knows something he’s not saying. “Standing request for you to go see the general as soon as you wake up.”

  This is even stranger: generals do not summon corporals. That’s odd enough, but if a general does summon a corporal it comes with a “right now,” not a “wait till she’s awake.” She can’t quite process the thought: A general? Wants me?

  Whenever I happen to wake up?

  “What the hell?” she mutters, and climbs stiffly to her feet. “What time is it?”

  “About 1900 hours. It looks later than it is.”

  Rio wishes for three things: coffee, a smoke, and for Jenou to somehow accompany her. It’s like being called to the principal’s office, and she wants a friend along. But of course it will never do: the summoned one goes, not the summoned one plus her friend. Anyway, Jenou is currently dead to the world.

  But Rio does manage a smoke, and she swings by the mess tent and captures the last half cup of coffee, en route to the general’s tent, which is . . . no idea. She has never really seen this camp, which is a confusion of tents and vehicles and men, some rushing about, others drifting half dead.

  She asks an MP and gets directions. The HQ is two tents strung together, with an MP guard at the pinned-back flap. Rio is sure she smells cooked beef inside. The general is having his dinner, a great, juicy steak no doubt, him being a general. But on being informed that a Corporal Richlin is there, the great man calls her in.

  Brigadier General Rufus Valdosta is a bespectacled man with sparse hair combed over a skull that shines in the grim light of a kerosene lantern. His uniform is clean but basic GI with none of Patton’s swaggering embellishment or Mark Clark’s elite tailoring. Valdosta is a fighting general, an Army Reserve major given temporary rank and thrust into a position for which he, like most of the army, is barely prepared.

  He is at a foldable table, sitting on a camp chair. Rio is obscurely pleased to see that what’s on the plate before him is not a steak as she’d imagined, but SOS: creamed beef on toast. He’s drinking coffee, and there she spots the only sign of privilege: his coffee has been lightened with milk or cream.

  Valdosta stands to accept her salute, puts her at ease, and offers her coffee. “Or maybe something stronger? I don’t indulge in spirits myself, but I don’t begrudge others.”

  Rio refuses both, feeling way too far from comfortable to be able to calmly sip coffee and nibble cookies. An aide brings a second camp chair, and Rio sits, moving like an old woman as joints and muscles complain bitterly.

  “You’ve had a time of it,” Valdosta says.

  “Yes, sir.” Rio flashes on Mackie, way back in another life, telling her new recruits that 90 percent of what they needed to say was “Yes, Sergeant.” Now it was “Yes, sir,” but the principle was the same: you never went far wrong answering in the affirmative.

  “Well, Corporal, I don’t mind telling you that when the Supreme Court in its wisdom decided to send young ladies to war, I thought it was the damned foolest thing ever. I still regret it extremely. I suppose I’ve always thought of war as a male vice and was grateful that at least half the human race could be spared it.”

  He takes a swig of his coffee, and though she hasn’t asked for it, a cup arrives for Rio. She is grateful for its warmth and the comfort of familiarity in this extremely unusual environment. No cookies arrive, and she is vaguely disappointed.

  “That said, I am a man of reason. I follow the facts. Women soldiers are on average almost but not quite as effective as the male—they fall out for exhaustion at a higher rate. And we’ve got the new problem of soldiers getting in the family way, or at least cl
aiming they have so they can catch the bus home. And needless to say, army doctors are not gynecologists. On the other hand,” he says, pursing his lips and frowning, “the females get in fewer bar fights, catch a lot less clap, and never desert, at least not for long.”

  Rio adopts a deliberately blank expression, concealing her guilt at the mention of bar fights.

  “As for you, young lady, Corporal Richlin, I have the great honor to inform you that you have been recognized for valor.”

  Rio doesn’t know what he means by this, but she feels certain it demands a “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me.” He pushes his plate away, hauls a leather briefcase up onto his table, fiddles with the buckles, and then searches through papers within. And finally says, “And here it is.” He lays the paper down and taps it with his forefinger. “Don’t thank me, thank the captain, the two lieutenants, and the two sergeants who have all attested to your actions in Africa, in Sicily, and now here in Italy.”

  Mystified but staying cautious, she says, “Yes, sir.”

  Then he smiles. “You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you? Your kind never does. Richlin, by order of the President of the United States, you have been awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action. And by God, having read the record on you, I don’t doubt you deserve it.” He stands, and so does she. He sticks out his hand, and she stares at it for a few seconds before reaching, almost frightened, to shake it.

  “Sir, I . . . The platoon, the whole outfit . . . Stick, I mean, Sergeant Sticklin . . .”

  He waves her to silence. “Like I said, your kind never does understand why they’re getting a medal. I’ve had the pleasure of handing out a few such, and I’ve never yet had one where the soldier didn’t try to throw all the honor onto his brothers.” He dipped his head. “Sisters too, now.”

  She nods and means to say Yes, sir, but a lump has formed in her throat, and, to her horror, there are tears in her eyes.

  “This is the first time for one of your, um, sex. You and a couple others. They want to make a bit of a show out of it, I’m afraid, so you’ll find orders waiting for you to take transport to England, and there you can have the whole kit and caboodle.”

  The dreaded tears spill and run down her cheeks, and Valdosta, noticing, says, “Well, so you are still a female, I see. I suppose I’m old-fashioned. I’m used to female tears, but I freely confess I had not known females had it in them to be so fierce: I’d have been much more cautious around Mrs. Valdosta and not slept nearly so soundly back in Missouri.”

  Rio can’t help but smile at that.

  “You’ll be made sergeant, of course, probably should have been by now, but better late than—”

  “Sir! General, I . . . I’m sorry, sir. Permission to say something?”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t make me a sergeant. Please. I’m happy . . .” That word stops her because of course she is not happy, but now she’s stuck with it. “I never even wanted to make corporal.”

  He stares at her for a long while, and Rio can see that his mind is elsewhere, remembering, reliving. He shakes his head at last. “Don’t like the weight, eh?”

  She shakes her head. “I just want to do my job.”

  “Well, young lady, this is my division, the one-one-nine. And it’s been hit pretty hard.” He’s heaving the words up, sighing, pushing past his own emotion. “Pretty hard. It has taken terrible casualties, casualties taken because I sent it into battle and kept it there. The ‘job’ you speak of isn’t just going in harm’s way yourself, it’s sending others there too. People you know, maybe even friends. You’re brave, you’re tough, you can fight. I guess now we’ll see if you can lead.”

  Rio heads out into the dark, out under an eerie and surprising sight: the clouds have cleared, a little at least, and she sees stars overhead, actual stars!

  And in the distance the impossibly steep massif of Monte Cassino, and the tall, forbidding walls of its monastery.

  Jack is waiting for her, and Jenou and Cat are awake.

  “So?” Jack says.

  Rio shrugs.

  “You’re an official hero, and all you can manage is a shrug and a look like you swallowed Geer’s cat?”

  Miss Lion has been retrieved from the quartermaster, who fed her while Geer was on the line. She lies atop a snoring Geer, glaring at everyone around her as though she’s a watchdog and she doesn’t like the look of any of them, no, she definitely does not.

  Hansu Pang comes up and extends a hand. “Congratulations, Richlin.”

  “Thanks, Pang, but—”

  “Come on, Richlin,” Cat says with a groan. “Cut the humble act, we have important business to deal with.” At that she produces an almost-full bottle of brandy. “It’s a damn celebration, whether you like it or not.”

  “They’re talking about making me a sergeant,” Rio says wonderingly.

  “About time,” Jack says.

  Cat uncorks the bottle, which wakes Geer, who in turn smacks Stick on his back. “Come on, Stick, we’re drinking.”

  They pass the bottle solemnly, like a ritual, like some parody of holy communion. Cat, Pang, Geer, Jack, Jenou, Beebee, and a sleepy but smiling Stick.

  “They’re sending me out early. I guess you all follow later,” Rio says.

  “We hate to lose you,” Stick says sincerely. “Even just for a while.”

  “They can’t force me to take a promotion, can they?”

  “Well,” Geer drawls. “They can force you to leave your home and come wallow like a hog in the mud of Italy, so I’m guessing they can force you to do whatever the hell they like.”

  There’s a bit of teasing after that, various members of the squad competing to come up with examples of how much better it’ll be once Rio is gone.

  Won’t have to listen to her bitching about SOS.

  You know those sneaky farts no one admits to? That’s Richlin.

  Who’s going to steal all my smokes once Richlin’s gone?

  Eventually it’s just Rio and Jenou, and they leave the smoke-filled tent for fresh air.

  “Whoa,” Jenou says. “Are those stars?”

  “Yeah, shocked me too.”

  “You know, Rio, chances are you won’t end up back with us.”

  Rio shakes her head. “I won’t let that happen.”

  Jenou laughs. “I’m not sure a little tin star on your chest will give you godlike powers, Rio.”

  “I’ll do my damnedest,” Rio protests. “I’ll refuse to fight.”

  “Honey, don’t be a fool. You’re going to be the first woman ever—ever—to earn the Silver Star; they’re not going to send you back to the line. They’ll trot you around like a show horse for the newspapers and the cameras and probably have you giving speeches and sleeping in fancy hotels, ordering up steak and lobster.”

  Rio takes a step back. “That’s bull.”

  Jenou sighs and shakes her head. “Well, maybe not, I don’t know. But we better face up to the fact that this may be good-bye, at least until the war is over.”

  “No!” Rio cries. “No, that’s not right, that’s nuts. We’re in this together. You and me, Jen.”

  “Sweetie, all we’ve done is get on each other’s nerves.”

  “Fug that, we can get on each other’s nerves and still be friends, can’t we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That answer cuts Rio like a knife.

  Jenou sees her reaction and squeezes her hand. “You’re a genuine, certified, grade-A hero now, Rio. Me? I’m just a plain old dog-faced soldier.” She takes a beat before adding, “Well, a very pretty dog-faced soldier.”

  “You’re my friend, Jen,” Rio says, urgently returning Jenou’s pressure on her hand. “You have to always be my friend.”

  “I’m not the right friend for someone like you.”

  “You fought as hard as I did,” Rio insists. “You put as many Krauts in the ground as Geer or Cat or me.”

  Jenou nods, accept
ing this, and even smiles in gratitude. “Let me make it clear for you, Rio. Like I said, I don’t expect I’ll make it through this war. I used to. I used to think . . . hell, we all did, didn’t we? Used to think it couldn’t happen to us? I don’t believe that anymore. When I catch it, I don’t want you to be the one who sent me.”

  “You think I’ll get you killed?” Rio feels hurt by the suggestion, but it’s instantly clear that she hasn’t understood.

  “No, I don’t think that. I mean, sure, it could be you, but it could be anyone or anything. But if it is you, it’ll eat you up inside. That’s part of it. The other part is that I’ve been leaning on you.” She straightens her spine and holds her head high. “I’m ready now.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Ready to stop leaning on you, my best friend. My brave, fearless best friend. The sister I never had. Funny thing is, once you accept the fact of death, you stop being afraid.” She sighs and tilts her head back to look at the stars and says, “I don’t like any part of this whole goddamned war, but I’m ready now to pull my own weight. You’ve become a hero, Rio, and to my amazement, I, Jenou Castain, have become a soldier.”

  Rio parts the next morning, with tears from Jenou, and the inevitable jokes and gibes and nonsense from the others.

  Rio, seated in the back of a truck, waves to Jenou and Cat and, coming to stand beside them, Jack.

  Jack makes a fist, places it over his heart, and bows to her. Then he disappears as the truck column obscures Rio’s view.

  35

  FRANGIE MARR—US ARMY HOSPITAL, PORTSMOUTH, UK

  “Just hold it still, Frank. How many times do I have to tell you to hold it still?”

  “Well, it hurts, Miss Frangie!”

  “Nonsense. Goodness, you’d think you were the only person here with a bullet wound. Look at me!” She holds up her right hand, now with just four fingers and a tiny stump. “When I got hurt, I was a perfectly obedient patient.”

  A nurse walking by says, “Uh-huh,” in a sarcastic voice.