Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“She’s faster than Kraut subs,” Cat says. “That’s the point.”

This is a sobering thought. Reassuring, but also sobering.

The hold is already hot when they come aboard. It grows hotter over the next few days. The hold already smells of paint, varnish, and ancient body odor at the outset, but those are good times fondly remembered a few days later when the hold reeks of vomit, overflowing toilets, sweat, farts, cigarette smoke, and more vomit, as well as the paint and varnish. At times Rio is convinced the air in the hold is no more than 10 percent actual, breathable air.

This particular section is occupied solely by women, but the open-air decks are available to all, with the result that masses of frustrated, nervous, bored, and seasick GIs regularly pack the upper decks from rail to rail.

Under a chilly sun Rio and Jenou take the air, straining every nerve to ignore the incessant catcalls and lewd entreaties of male soldiers.

“Hey, girls, my bunk’s pretty crowded, but I can make room for both of you.”

“Come here, honey, there’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh yeah, Daddy likes what she’s got.”

“Hey, Joe, that private has titties.”

“Come on, honey, just a

little kiss.”

Some of the men from Rio’s company try vainly to stop the harassment, but this has led to several fistfights. The ship’s captain has several times made announcements over the public address system, but GIs ignore sailors, even captains. So if Rio intends to breathe actual oxygen she has no choice but to endure a stream of abuse so constant it becomes background noise, like the thrum of the engines or the howl of the wind in the wires.

“Ladies, I’ve got something for you. It’s right here in my pants.”

“Come on now, sweet things, what are you doing, holding out for an officer?”

“Officers got tiny dicks; you want a real man.”

“Holding out till the Germans get her, then we’ll see how long she can hold on to her chastity.”

All of this is accompanied by hoots, whistles, gestures, and, on occasion, dropped trousers. Rio is used to a certain amount of this, but being trapped in close quarters with thousands of keyed-up men who do not know her has made it all much, much worse.

They are three days out before Rio hears a familiar male voice.

“Rio? Is that you?”

She turns warily to see Strand Braxton.

“Strand!”

“How long have you been . . . Well, I guess it’s obvious, isn’t it, that you’ve been aboard the whole time. I never saw you!”

He is as tall as ever, as good-looking as ever, his smile as dazzling as ever. He moves as if to take her in his arms but she glances meaningfully over his shoulder to the stacked rows of avidly observant men on the deck and on the stairs and the officers watching just as avidly but with more decorum from the upper decks.

Strand quickly grasps the point and extends a hand, which she gratefully takes and holds longer than necessary.

“You look swell,” she says.

“So do you. I can’t believe you’re here. I wish—” He stops when he realizes there’s a soldier literally at his knees, gazing up at the two of them. “Come on,” he says. Then, “You too, Jenou.”

But Jenou knows better. “No, I think I’ll just stay here and breathe the fresh air and fresher comments.”

“You can take the brunette,” someone shouts, “but leave us the blonde.”

Jenou rolls her eyes. “My public demands I stay. You two go catch up. Hey, wait!”

Strand and Rio turn back to see Jenou snapping a salute.