Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

They have covered half the distance when a single person appears, walking out of the sunrise.

Stafford trains his rifle. Rio levels hers from the hip.

Rainy calls out something in German, but almost immediately realizes that this is definitely not a German.

“She’s a Negro,” Rio says.

“Yes, I just noticed that,” Rainy says. “And a woman.”

“The Germans are not fond of blacks, or women,” Stafford points out.

Rio calls out, “If you’ve got any weapons, drop them right now.”

“Private Frangie Marr. I was being held prisoner.”

“Put your hands down, Private,” Rainy says. She looks closely at the small young black woman. “You look like you’ve been through it.”

“Hey,” Rio says. “Don’t I know you?”

Frangie tilts her head and looks at her quizzically, then her face brightens. “Seen any wild pigs out here?”

“I have not,” Rio says, breaking into a grin.

“Where’s that big old hillbilly who was with you?”

That kills the smile on Rio’s face. “Kerwin Cassel. He, uh . . .” She shrugs.

Frangie understands immediately. “I am sorry to hear that. He seemed like a good guy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he was. He was a good guy.”

The four of them stand awkwardly until Jack says, “I’m not sure I’m enjoying this war.”

That coaxes a rueful nod from Rio and Frangie. Rainy fidgets impatiently, but she says nothing, acutely aware suddenly of a yawning gap between herself and these soldiers who have seen real combat, who have fired guns in anger.

Rainy looks thoughtfully at Frangie. “You were a prisoner? You see that colonel standing over there? Is he the commanding officer?”

Frangie closes her eyes, an aid to memory, and a response to exhaustion, exhaustion somehow made more profound by the relief she feels at being back with American troops. “Him and another guy in a different uniform. Black uniform.”

Rainy feels predatory excitement. “An officer in a black uniform?” She points at her collar. “SS?”

“Yep,” Frangie confirms. “He’s the one that shot my patient, lying on a table, his stomach all messed up. Ordered one of the soldiers to shoot him in the head.”

“Waffen SS. They’re a whole separate army. Fanatics. The worst of the worst.” To Frangie she says, “I imagine you’d like to grab some chow and take a nice long nap, but can you walk with us through those Krauts?”

So they are four when they enter the mass of angry, resentful, worn-out Germans. The Germans are under the guns of a dozen Americans armed with rifles and submachine guns. Other soldiers are gleefully looting trucks, digging out anything that can be eaten, drunk, or considered a souvenir.

Rainy speaks German as she walks through the sullen mob. “You men have nothing to fear, we don’t shoot prisoners. As long as you cause no trouble, we’re going to let you walk away. I just want the officers.”

She watches eyes flick involuntarily, but not toward the two lieutenants and the major standing together and trying to look dignified in the face of defeat. Nor do they glance toward Colonel Von Holtzer, who stands aloof, face mirroring the self-justifying internal dialogue he’s assembling for his superiors.

No, the eyes dart toward a corporal in blood-stained khaki who sits on the sand surrounded by other men, all stiffly ill at ease.

Rainy walks directly to this man, who refuses to look up.

“That him?” Rainy asks Frangie.

“I can’t see his face.”