Purple Hearts (Front Lines 3)

“Here to see the captain,” Rainy says, and is waved inside just as rain starts falling. Inside the tent is steamy and crowded. There’s a foldable map table with a map Rainy suspects is inaccurate, open and marked with grease pencil.

“Captain Mackie,” Rainy says, and salutes. “I’m Lieutenant Schulterman.”

Mackie is under thirty, olive-skinned, stiff as a board, and at first meeting Rainy suspects she might be a martinet. The captain is turned sideways to Rainy at first, but when she turns and Rainy can see her more clearly by the light of a single kerosene lantern, she sees mud-caked boots, mud splatters all up the legs of her trousers, and she sees that the left sleeve of her uniform blouse has been crudely hacked away to make room for a blood-soaked bandage.

So, maybe not a martinet: maybe a soldier.

“Lieutenant Schulterman,” Mackie says. Her voice is clipped but not tense. “What can I do for you?”

Rainy says, “Damned if I know, Captain. I’m not sure how I ended up here, to tell you the truth. There’s a bit of a . . .” She’s about to say panic but chooses a different word. “. . . a bit of confusion going on. I’ve been sent to assess the situation here.”

“Ah. Spying for the brass? Well, I’ll tell you, Schulterman, I got people from three different divisions,” Mackie says. “We’re in a box and holding lines we cannot hold for much longer. That’s the situation. And, no offense, Lieutenant, but about the last thing I need right now is another G2 officer.”

“Sorry, Captain,” Rainy says. A captain on the front line of a hot fight wants combat officers, not intelligence officers.

Mackie slices the air horizontally with stiff fingers. “Okay, look, you want to be useful? I could use some information. Grab some coffee and let’s talk.”

Rainy takes a cup of coffee proffered by an aide, and Mackie and a male lieutenant lead her to the map table. “I haven’t had a chance to be briefed by the colonel lately. He probably has the straight poop, but all I know is I’m supposed to hold this ridge.”

Rainy sets her cup down and leans over the map. “I’ll give you what I have. That’s the Second SS Panzer Division shooting at you, it’s an old-line division. France in 1940. Poland. The Balkans. Fought the Russians at Kursk. An old-line division, but mostly green troops now, despite that. They were almost wiped out in the Falaise pocket after D-day, so this is a lot of replacements.”

Mackie takes this in and nods. “A full panzer division? Great. So what’s the overview?”

Rainy shrugs. “I can give you the official version, which is that this is a German probe, a diversion. Officially the Krauts don’t have enough divisions to do anything more than launch harassing attacks.”

“And the unofficial version?”

The unofficial version is made up of hints and guesses, rumor and scuttlebutt Rainy has picked up hanging around HQ. Her natural tendency to secrecy suggests she say nothing more. But Mackie is in a spot, and she doesn’t strike Rainy as the sort of officer to berate her for passing along her own judgments.

“Well,” Rainy says, sighing, “some few of us think Adolf has been playing possum with us, preserving his strength, building up new units for an all-or-nothing breakout.”

“Based on?”

“Based on: we’ve seen panzer units pulled back for no good reason out of the east. We’ve seen frontline units starved of supplies we know the Krauts have. Also too much radio chatter coming from Jerry. And, finally, it makes a demented kind of sense: Adolf has nothing left to stop the Russians, so his best bet is to get us and the Brits to sue for peace. I think he’s trying to cut us in two and push to Antwerp.”

“With how much?”

“Officially? Maybe two or three divisions.”

“And?”

Rainy shrugs. “Some of us, including my colonel, think they may have thirteen infantry divisions and six or even seven panzer divisions.”

“Jesus H. That’s not a diversion,” Mackie says. “That’s a desperate, all-out, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink attack.”

“If it’s any comfort, som

e of the top brass think if it is an all-out attack, it will actually be an opportunity. If the Germans are heading for Antwerp we have a shot at hitting their flanks and cutting them off.”

“Not such an opportunity for the GIs who have to do the dirty work,” Mackie says.

The tent flap opens, and a dirty, sweat-stained woman sergeant whose ripe smell precedes her enters, snaps a salute, and freezes stiff, staring at Mackie. Glancing at Rainy. Then back at Mackie.

“Small war, Richlin?” Mackie says.

“You’re a . . .” Rio Richlin waves in the direction of Mackie’s shoulders.

“I had a choice,” Mackie says, returning the salute and then shaking Rio’s hand with genuine pleasure. “Either stay stateside and keep training idiot recruits, or take the ninety-day wonder route and join the war as an officer. You look like shit, Richlin.”