Silver Stars (Front Lines 2)

And left the German meanies.

This time most people—including Geer—join in the chorus.

Yankee doodles keep it up,

Yankee doodle dandies,

Mind the mortars and the mines,

And keep your shovels handy.

Then, someone across the church, a man with a very fine voice, perhaps even a professional voice but certainly worthy of any church choir, begins a mournful Bing Crosby song.

Be careful, it’s my heart.

It’s not my watch you’re holding, it’s my heart.

That earns less appreciative whistling and more respectful applause. He didn’t quite pull off Bing’s lazy drawling croon, but it is well done nevertheless. The mood turns wistful and even, in some cases, thoughtful.

Rio retrieves her dry and toasty socks, puts them on and her boots as well. She never wants to be caught fumbling with laces if trouble starts, but the front line has moved past them for now and short of an air raid—or a sudden counterattack—there is no real danger on this night. Probably.

She bunches her coat up into a pillow and closes her eyes. She has acquired the combat soldier’s ability to fall asleep any place, any time, within seconds. Usually. But now she lies back listening to voices, some familiar, some not.

They’ll have us up again tomorrow, just you wait and see if they don’t . . .

I’m going to open my own garage. I’m good with engines, don’t know why I’m not in some motor pool instead of here . . .

Yeah, that’s one pretty girl, Henricksen, you’re a lucky guy . . .

FUBAR as usual, it’s all FUBAR . . .

Tell you exactly what I’m gonna do. I got me a bass boat, fourteen-footer, gonna fill it up with tackle and beer and some boiled shrimp, see, and just drift down the bayou. And I won’t even mind if I don’t get a nibble . . .

If you shoot me in the foot, I’ll shoot you. We’ll say it was just some beef over cigarettes or something . . .

Fugging Suarez, man . . .

She ain’t waiting for you . . .

If the bullet’s got your name on it . . .

I miss . . .

I wish . . .

Home . . .

28

FRANGIE MARR—US ARMY HOSPITAL, PORTSMOUTH, UK

“This one’s a Nigra. What am I supposed to do with her?”

“Chief says coloreds go to the Sixth.”

“How in hell am I getting her there, we only have . . . Never mind. Three more, that’s four. That’s a load.”

“Yep. Get ’em an ambulance. You’ll need a colored driver. Make sure you put ‘colored’ on all the paperwork.”