Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“You too, Sarge. Wait, give me your medical kit.”

He does, nods, and is gone.

From outside she hears more muffled bangs, running feet, a jeep engine, shouts, and urgent orders.

The reality of it hits her. She will be alone here with the captain, alone waiting for the enemy. Everyone who can leave has left. “Ren, you take off too. You done good, now get the hell out of here.”

The raw, exposed flesh under the captain’s torn skin oozes with some thick, green-brown liquid, black in the minimal light. Bile, maybe, or the contents of his lower intestines. The wound is deeper than she can see, there is almost certainly shrapnel up inside his belly, and it is septic—she can smell the intestinal contents. There’s no way the captain survives, not even at a field hospital, most likely. But Frangie does not believe for a moment that she can leave him. Medics do not only care for the wounded, they comfort the dying.

Outside, the last jeep takes a load on its engine and begins to draw away. There’s a shockingly loud explosion and a flash of light that turns every seam and gap in the tent bright yellow for a second. They’ve set off the last of their ammunition, keeping it from the enemy.

Frangie ties off as many bleeders as she can. Is that a hint of color returning to the captain’s face? Must be, because he sits bolt upright, stares in horror

and confusion at the mess of his crotch, and cries, “They shot my dick off!”

“It’s still there—”

“Kill me now, kill me now, kill me now!”

“Like hell I will,” Frangie snarls.

“Sergeant! Sergeant! I order you to shoot me!”

“Captain, you’re okay, you’re okay, take a look!”

Frangie draws the skin flap back, exposing the captain’s genitals.

“It’s all there, Cap, it’s all good,” the white sergeant says.

But of course it’s not all good. Frangie has not the faintest clue what to do about what may be a perforated intestine or gallbladder. She is not a surgeon, not a doctor, not even close.

A silence descends. Outside, the feet no longer rush. There are no more small explosions. The only things Frangie hears are the captain’s labored breathing, almost a sob, and the sound of blood dripping onto dirt floor.

Then, in the distance, engines.

31

RAINY SCHULTERMAN—MAKTAR, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA

“You’re a girl.”

“No, sir, I’m a sergeant. I’m a sergeant carrying orders from Colonel Clay.” Rainy tugs the single sheet of paper from her pocket and opens it for the skeptical sergeant.

“You some kind of paratrooper?” He doesn’t seem mean as much as amused.

“I am no kind of paratrooper,” she says. “This will be a first for me.”

“Well, I have to tell you, Sergeant Schulterman, this here is what we call FUBAR.” But he extends a hand, shakes hers, and says, “But I’ll fly you. Call me Skip.”

“Skip?”

“Warrant Officer Elihu J. Ostrowski if you prefer, but Skip rolls off the tongue a bit easier.”

Rainy manages a grin, a shaky, tenuous grin, and says, “I’m Rainy. And I know it’s FUBAR, Skip, and I’m sorry to drag you into it.”

He’s an older man in his early thirties, with a face creased by a lifetime in the sun. He doesn’t seem happy about flying a young woman barely more than half his age, but he’s not hostile, and Rainy has learned to welcome anything short of open contempt. And after all, she’s dragging him into a bad situation, so he’d be justified in a little resentment. She reminds herself not to mention that this whole mission is largely her idea.

They stand before an Army L-4, basically just a Piper Cub. It has a single engine and a single overhead wing, without weapons, armor, or speed to protect it. It has two seats, one behind the other, and only one cramped door that requires Rainy—newly bulked up with not one but two parachutes—to squeeze in with great difficulty.