Purple Hearts (Front Lines 3)

“It was a bit confusing,” Rio says, sidestepping the question.

“Did you or did you not know that I had ordered Sticklin to stand fast?”

If she lies and she’s caught there will be no help for her. But she can only be caught in the lie if survivors of the ambush come forward to challenge her. She is not one hundred percent sure, but she believes they will not.

“No, sir. Last thing I heard was Stick saying withdraw.”

“You’re a damned liar, Sergeant, and if you weren’t a woman I’d have you up before a general court-martial! Cowardice! Cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

“Sir, you were not there.” She says it levelly, uninflected, implying nothing.

“I was in command via radio, and I thought I had competent NCOs, not a pair of . . . of . . . women!”

Rio says nothing. But she looks plenty. She stares directly into his angry eyes, unflinching. After an uncomfortably long time she says, “Sir, we started out with twenty-nine GIs. We came home with sixteen. If we’d stayed, no one would have come home. And you’d be explaining to the captain and the colonel how you happened to not be there when your entire platoon was wiped out.”

Silence returns. She watches the calculations being done behind his eyes. He’s furious, and he’s a coward, but he’s not entirely stupid. He knows she’s right. She’s helped save his career by getting out with anyone.

“I’d bust you down to private right now if I had a single NCO to replace you with.”

“I would very much appreciate being a private, sir. Stafford is ready to step up, he’s a damned good soldier. And if not him, then I’m sure the Repple Depple can send us a three-striper.”

He snarls so ferociously she nearly recoils. “No time, sadly, Sergeant. We’re moving out.”

“Moving out?” She laughs in disbelief. “We just got our asses kicked. And we’ve been on the line since—”

“I don’t give a shit. We got orders for all hands on deck. They’re rounding up cooks and typists and giving them M1s. The Krauts are attacking in force, northwest of us.”

“We are not the whole army. My people are beat! We lost Stick, who was the glue that held us all together. My people are exhausted and feeling about as low as you can get.”

Horne looks down at the desk, smiling nastily at her upset. “Yes, shame about Sticklin. Good man. And now, guess what, Richlin? You are Sticklin. You’re the new platoon sergeant, God help us.” He spits on the dirt. “Like I said, I’m a bit short of NCOs. Now get your exhausted people saddled up and ready to go in fifteen minutes. Trucks are coming. Dismissed.”

Rio storms from the tent, fists clenched, lips so tight they disappear. She’s supposed to take over for Stick? Run the platoon for that weak, lying, coward Horne? With who? Cat is on her way to the field hospital, supposedly fine, but out of the war. Mercer was last seen sobbing helplessly into his helmet. And Geer . . .

She slows as she approaches Geer. He sits in a camp chair, bending over Pang. He carried Pang all through the awful miles. His uniform is saturated with Pang’s blood. Pang’s rifle lies across his chest like a holy object. His chest does not rise or fall.

“Listen, Richlin,” Geer says without looking up. “Can you, um, can you uh, you know, get me Pang’s address stateside? I need to write to his folks.” The last few words come out strangled.

“That’s not your duty, Geer, that’s the chaplain and—”

“No.” He struggles to control his facial muscles. “No. I’m going to write them.”

“Okay, Geer,” Rio says. “I’ll get the address.”

“Thanks, Rio.”

Has Geer ever used her first name before?

“Listen, Geer, I hate to do this. But the yellow bastard made me platoon sergeant. So the squad is yours.”

Geer nods, still looking down at Pang, who looks peaceful. He might almost be asleep but for the waxy stillness of his flesh. “You’ll do fine, Richlin.”

Coming from Geer, it is a profound compliment. “I suppose we’re never going to like each other much, Geer, but I’m damned glad I have you to take over the squad.”

Geer stands up. Slaps his hands against his sides as if marking the end of something. “Who do you think I should make my ASL?”

“That’s on you, Geer. Whoever it is will be your assistant squad leader, not mine.”

“Think people will follow a limey?”