Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Round six hit the black target.

Rounds seven and eight do as well.

“Keep it up, we’ll get you a marksman badge, Private. You’ll be able to keep your boyfriend in line.”

Jenou has a great deal more trouble, as does Kerwin, who still does not understand the underlying concepts.

The seated firing position is with legs extended, knees raised just a bit, body leaned forward, and elbows braced on knees. Rio does moderately well, but not as well as she had done prone. Kneeling is worse still. The position is wobbly, which is why the army discourages it. And standing she scores only 50 percent.

“You see now,” the lieutenant instructor says when they switch places with the target-handlers, “the importance of your firing position. Good position most often equals good shooting. There is no purpose in just firing away, people. Do that and your rifle is just a noisemaker. Make every shot count, and remember this: every time you miss, you’ve given that Jap monkey or Kraut soldier a chance to take a shot at you or your buddy. Shoot him before he shoots you, because sure as hell you won’t be able to shoot him afterward.”

Jack, joking, says, “Do you suppose the Germans will helpfully point out where we’ve missed?”

An NCO, an older man in his fifties standing nearby, says, “You’ll know if you hit one.”

“How’s that, Sarge?” Rio asks.

The sergeant spits a stream of tobacco juice in the dirt. He gives Rio a skeptical, disapproving up-and-down then says, “A lot of ways. You may see blood spray. You may see them fall over. You may hear them cry out for their mother. Mutter, mutter! That’s German for ‘mother, mother.’ I don’t know if Japs have mothers. Do you want to see that, Private? Do you want to see the blood and hear them cry for their mothers?”

Rio, stunned by the sudden hostility in his voice, can’t answer.

He shakes his head. “And that’s why women should not be soldiers, little girl, because you have to want that. You have to hate that man over there enough to take away everything he is or ever will be.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t think you girls have that hate inside you. Truth be told, I hope you don’t. But good shooting just the same, Richlin.”

Hate. The word alone makes Rio queasy. How do you hate someone you’ve never met? Weren’t Germans and even Japanese just soldiers doing what they’d been ordered to do?

“I don’t want to hate them,” she admits softly.

“Then stay the hell out of combat, sweetheart, because you’ll either hate or you’ll be dead.”

More time is spent that day and on subsequent days teaching them to fire the M1 Garand and the blessedly lighter M1 carbine, as well as the shoulder-punishing grenade launcher and the hard-to-control submachine gun and the falsely named light machine gun, the Browning automatic rifle, or BAR.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Jenou says at chow that evening. They are seated in the noisy chow hall, staring with resignation at the evening’s meal.

“What, you can’t eat that creamed beef on toast?” Rio asks, though she guesses what Jenou means. “You have to: it’s your patriotic duty. We are weapons in the service of our government, and we must be strong.”

Kerwin playfully throws a squeezed ball of bread at Rio.

“I do not know that I can shoot someone,” Jenou admits. “I mean, what if he’s good-looking? That would run counter to all my beliefs in the importance of handsome men.”

“Yes, we are important,” Tilo says, holding up a spoon like a mirror to preen.

“Oh, I can shoot you, Suarez,” Jenou jokes. “No problem there.”

Tilo throws up his hands. “What is it with girls threatening to shoot me today?”

“I suppose it’s usually their fathers threatening to shoot you,” Stick says, and winks at Cat. Tilo kind of likes this; it feeds the myth of his sexual prowess he’s been laboring to construct.

Jack catches Jenou’s seriousness. “It must be a hell of a thing.”

“What?” Rio asks between mouthfuls of the pasty gray substance on her tray.

“Killing a man.”

“Not a man, an enemy.” Luther Geer has invited himself to join the conversation though he’s at another table, his back just behind Rio’s.

When no one responds, Luther turns around, lifts his leg over his bench and then over their bench, thus transferring himself to their table. For some reason no one understands, Luther has taken to keeping a calico kitten with him, despite the fact that he runs the risk of being disciplined. The kitten, peeking out from Geer’s collar, has a belligerent look that mirrors its owner’s. “Why the hell do you think we’re here? The army isn’t paying us to do push-ups and learn the obstacle course, they’re making us over as killers. Look at me. I sell shoes back in civilian life, I don’t go around killing people. But you show me some yellow Jap monkey and I’ll damned sure shoot him and smile while I’m doing it.”

“Crudely put,” Jack says, “but I suppose I agree. That is what we’re being trained to do.”