Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“Shit,” Cole says. “He was okay. I guess you’re it, Garaman.”

“I fugging know it,” Garaman says bitterly. “Okay, I’ll tell you what’s next, Headquarters, we blow the hell out of the remaining trucks, scrounge what we can, and get the fug out of here before that tank column shows up.”

Off to the southeast a sandstorm whips up intermittent tornadoes, a brownish smear across the horizon, dirtying the sunrise, but it’s a mile off and not heading this direction.

Rainy says, “Sarge, I’m with S2 and I want to look for papers, maybe interrogate some prisoners.”

Cole snorts and shakes his head. “Well, I sure wouldn’t want to harm the war effort by denying you the opportunity, Sergeant . . . what was your name?”

“Schulterman.”

“We’re just going to make sure this isn’t a trick and . . .” He falls silent because three German soldiers are carrying the white flag forward. One appears to be a senior officer.

Weapons are trained on

the advancing enemy but no one fires, and a sort of collective sigh of relief rolls down the line. Rainy hears relieved laughter, nervous and uncertain.

Cole lights his stubby cigar with his Zippo and to Garaman says, “All right then, boss, what is the protocol for accepting the surrender of an enemy officer?”

Garaman lights one of his foul cigarettes. “See, that’s why we need officers, to handle this kind of—”

“Sarge,” a man from Third Platoon says, high-strung and upset. “We got wounded. Six men, two of which is a woman. I mean, two are women, plus four men.”

“Well, we ain’t got a doc, so you’re going to have to do what you can. You got any medical skills, Headquarters?”

“No,” she says. Rainy is not about to let herself be turned into a nurse. That is a German colonel advancing under the flag of truce, and she is determined to do her job as a military intelligence sergeant.

Said German colonel stops fifty feet away. He speaks no English, so Rainy avoids nursing duty by stepping in as translator.

“He says he’s Colonel Von Holtzer and he wants to see our commanding officer,” she says.

“Tell him we ain’t got a commanding officer, just us lowly noncoms.”

This news is not well received. There’s a desperate look in Colonel Von Holtzer’s eyes, a kind of panic that is quickly papered over by practiced arrogance. Through Rainy, he says, “I cannot surrender to common soldiers.”

“I see,” Garaman said, cracking a rare grin.

Cole said, “Tell the colonel we are going to blow up his fugging trucks and he can either disarm his fugging men and send them down the road and no one gets hurt, or we can resume fire.”

After a brief back and forth, Rainy says, “He’ll do it, but only if you don’t insist on formal surrender.”

Garaman said, “You tell the colonel—”

“Sarge,” Rainy interrupts, “I need to be able to question any officers.”

Sergeants Garaman and Cole blow different fragrances of smoke toward her and favor her with nearly identical looks of irritation. But then Garaman shrugs.

“Tell the colonel we reserve the right to question any officers. But aside from that we have no interest in taking prisoners. We’ll leave him with what food and water we can spare, and nothing else.”

The colonel is clearly worried and unconsciously glances back toward his burning vehicles and men.

Rainy says, “I’m not sure this guy’s in charge. He seems awfully nervous. I would suggest we take his offer, but keep our eyes open—there may be another colonel—even a general—hiding among the men.”

It is a shrewd guess, and Rainy is flattered by the surprised appreciation in Garaman’s eyes. Cole nods agreement.

“All right, Headquarters. We’ll secure the column; you take a couple of Cole’s people and check it out. Tell the colonel here to order all his men to drop arms and move north away from the vehicles. If there’s any trouble—I mean if we see so much as a souvenir dueling pistol—we will open up on them and kill every last one of the bastards.”

Which is how Rainy ends up trudging across the desert toward the Germans with Rio Richlin and Jack Stafford, once Cole has waved an all-clear.