Silver Stars (Front Lines 2)

Well, I’m a corporal now, and they’re threatening to make me a buck sergeant eventually. It means some responsibility, which I’m not keen on. I think I like following orders rather than giving them, although you know, strictly speaking, NCOs don’t give “orders,” they just carry them out. So I suppose whatever happens it won’t be entirely my fault.

We lost a fellow named Tilo Suarez a few weeks ago. It was very sad, and I’ve been going over and over in my head what could have been done, by anyone, to save him. Sergeant Cole says I have to accept it and move on. He says we have to put all our feelings in a box and only open that box at some later time. But these people are my friends now, not just fellow soldiers.

I am sorry, I am rambling on, aren’t I? And I don’t have time to start over or I’ll miss getting this posted, and who knows when the next mail call will come.

Daddy, I remember you saying that I should find a good sergeant and stick by him. Well, I have two now, Cole and Stick. I am in good hands, and I am not worried so I hope you won’t be either. I’m writing this from the shadow of a sheer and amazing mountain topped by an incredible monastery. It’s all very beautiful.

Love always,

Rio

Dearest Rio,

Finally I am in a place where I can write: England! Of course I can’t tell you where exactly without risking the censors marking the page up with their black marks, but I am fully recovered and reassigned to XXXXXXXX.

My darling, I loved our time together in Tunis. It was magical. I won’t say more here where prying eyes see everything, but I want you to know that it was no meaningless pastime for me.

I wanted to say that when we last met, but Guttierez tells me I was singing Christmas carols. I was a little out of my head, as I guess you noticed. Ha-ha.

Anyway, darling, I hope the future will see us together, you and I. I hope also that you know I will always try to do the right thing by you. I would say something more definite, but my love, I am leery of making promises when our futures are so fraught with possible difficulties.

But my love for you is undiminished. Always and forever yours,

Strand

30

RIO RICHLIN—RAPIDO RIVER, ITALY

“Okay, huddle up,” Sergeant Cole says. He’s just come from a briefing with the captain, and the expression on his face is grim in the gray, cloud-filtered light. A chilly drizzle falls, dripping down helmets to slide down ponchos, and from there to soak trouser legs and the tops of socks and inevitably boots.

Cole’s cigar is lit and clouds of blue smoke billow forth from time to time, sometimes lingering beneath the brim of his helmet. They are six men and one woman: Sergeants Cole, Sticklin, Alvarez, and Coelho, and Corporals Petrash, Marder, and Richlin. Everyone but Alvarez is smoking, including Rio. All are caked in mud, the men all whiskered, and Rio is nearly as dark from smoke and dirt. Eyes peer from beneath helmet brims, white-rimmed eyes in darkened faces.

Winter has come with rain and hail and still more rain. Italy from Rio’s perspective is made of jagged rock, rubble, and mud, and life is a story of cold and wet and hunger and exhaustion. Each day the proportions change but the essentials do not.

“Here’s the deal. We are starting the big push on Monte Cassino.”

No one is surprised, but neither is anyone happy at the prospect. For weeks after taking Naples they have fought their way closer to the massive, forbid

ding rock topped by the awe-inspiring monastery. Monte Cassino lies directly alongside the only usable road to Rome. From that high perch the Germans see everything, and their gunners can pick off tanks or trucks with effortless accuracy.

Monte Cassino must be taken.

Monte Cassino cannot be taken.

“There’s this river up ahead that some are saying is the Volturno, and others are saying is just more of the Rapido.” Cole waits, letting this sink in. Earlier a Texas outfit had tried to cross the Rapido and had come very close to being wiped out before withdrawing, having achieved none of its objectives.

“I don’t much care what they call it. They say it’s not very wide or deep, but it’s too deep to wade across and the water is running pretty fast. And, well, you know about the Texans.”

Stick spits rainwater that’s run into his mouth and says, “Sarge, we’ve all been patrolling that stretch of river, and we can’t even get a recon patrol across. The Krauts have wire everywhere and mines, they’ve got MGs dug in and mortars and 88s sighted in.”

Cole sighs. He relights his cigar with his Zippo, and in the light of the flame he looks older, Rio thinks. Not a little older, a lot, as if he’s aged twenty years. “Yeah, the brass knows all about it. But this is a broader movement—Free French are attacking as well. And we’ll get arty.”

“Great,” someone mutters. “At least we’ll have crater holes to jump into.”

“Look, I’m not here to bullshit you,” Cole says. “This isn’t a garden party. Engineers have marked lanes through the minefields, mostly, so as long as no one panics maybe we can avoid those at least. But don’t assume. Engineers make mistakes, and it’s not unknown for Kraut patrols to move the markers.”

Rio listens closely to every detail, but her heart is sinking. She knows what matters and what does not. Will the target be softened up by artillery? Yes. Will there be cover? No. How strong is the enemy? The Wehrmacht is never so weak you can relax, but intel says they’re not expecting the Allies to attack.