Luther’s kitten, the inexplicably named Miss Pat, took a piece of shrapnel in her paw.
“Well, she won’t be able to count to ten on her paws, but she’ll do fine,” Frangie says after bandaging the wound.
Luther Geer takes the kitten back from her and after some grimacing manages to say a civil, “Thanks.” And then, after some kind of internal struggle, amends it by saying, “Thanks, uh, Doc.”
The German prisoners are set to digging graves for the American and German dead. But they are not given any precious water or food because the sandstorm has cleared, revealing a line of two dozen German tanks that Cole estimates in the light of day to be five miles away.
“Time to skedaddle on outta here,” Cole says. “Move, people! If we don’t get the hell away before those Panzers get within range, I will be irritated.”
The two platoons are down to a total of just fifty-one men and women and no officers. The gravely wounded, those who will never survive being moved, are left behind in the hope that the Germans will do the decent thing. The walking wounded are laid out on the beds of the trucks while the healthier folks, including Rio and Jenou, Frangie and Rainy, Cat and Jillion, Jack and Stick and Suarez, Pang and Geer, all end up standing on seats, their feet between the heads and shoulders and legs of the injured. It’s not a comfortable way of traveling, and the GIs keep up the usual steady stream of complaints, liberally salted with the inevitable obscenities and blasphemies, but no one is anxious to climb down and try to walk away from the approaching German tanks.
Those tanks fire one shot after them that explodes harmlessly, but perhaps because they’ve noticed an SS colonel (forcibly uniformed in the tell-tale black) being dragged along on a rope at a desperate trot, or more likely because they don’t have orders to go wasting fuel, the tanks give up the chase.
The fortunes of war had their fun getting the platoon involved in an ill-conceived commando mission and then sending them into battle unprepared. The fortunes now relent and give them safe passage to reach and join the flight of the Americans through the mountain passes and eventually back to safety.
Safety, hot chow, and plenty of water.
Rio stands in line for that hot chow, a stew of some sort containing God only knows what species of meat. She is exhausted, too exhausted even to make small talk with Jenou or Jack or Stick, each of whom has now become something more to her than they were before. They are welded together in a way that each of them feels and none of them could explain. And some of that rubs off on the outsiders who shared the terror and thrill of combat with them, Frangie and Rainy.
Rio is weary to the point where a choice between eating and just throwing herself on the ground and sleeping is a tough one to make. In a dull and distant sort of way she is aware that something profound has changed within her. She both fears and welcomes this change.
A white PFC with a clean uniform, clean, shaved face, and bright eyes objects to Frangie being in the chow line ahead of him. Rio turns hollow eyes and a blood-spattered face to him and says, “Fug off.”
And when the PFC says, “Figures a woman wouldn’t know any better than to eat with a Nigra,” it’s Luther who growls, “You know what’s good for you, boy, you’ll do like she said and fug off.”
There is a weight that comes from surviving combat, an authority that soldiers serving honorably in the rear may resent but cannot ignore.
They sit hunched over their tin mess kits, shoveling food mechanically, saying nothing, staring at nothing, and one by one fall back onto the dirt and sleep.
When they are roused by insistent shoves and kicks by Sergeant Cole, it is to board still more trucks and head farther to the rear to rest, rearm, reorganize, and prepare for whatever the brass has in mind for them next.
Cole pulls Rio aside before they board. “When we get our new lieutenant, I’m putting you in for a medal, Richlin.”
“Oh, Jesus, Sarge, don’t do that. I didn’t do anything everyone else wasn’t doing.”
Cole smacks the side of her helmet. “Hey. Medals aren’t just for you. They’re for other men—and women—to see and to want to be more like you.”
Rio laughs and yawns simultaneously, not an attractive look or sound. “Forget it.”
“You got something, Richlin. I’m going to tell you what it is, and you’re probably not going to like it.”
This gets Rio’s attention. She sighs, but she listens.
“A lot of guys go to war. A small percentage of them end up in the shit. A small percentage of those end up being good soldiers. And a smaller percentage still become what you’re on your way to being, Richlin.”
“Tired?”
“Killers. I don’t mean crazy glory-hounds or heroes. I mean efficient, professional killers.”
“That’s not . . . ,” Rio says, trying to work up a dismissive laugh. She shakes her head no, not liking that at all, not liking it one bit. That’s not her. That’s not Rio Richlin, confused and aimless teenager from Gedwell Falls. She’s going to be a wife, marry Strand, have kids.
“When the war’s over, you put all that in a box,” Sergeant Cole says. “You go on with whatever else you want to do in life. Get married and have lots of babies. But right now, Richlin, you’re a killer, and killers are what I need. So I’m putting you in and that’s it.”
Rio says nothing, just turns away and walks back to her squad, who are busy packing up, smoking, cursing, and annoying one another for no good reason. A fist fight breaks out between Tilo and Luther, and everyone watches for a while until it becomes clear that both men are just blowing off steam. The fight ends when Jillion Magraff arrives with a purloined bottle of German schnapps, and the squad quickly adjusts its priorities.
Jenou intercepts the bottle on its way to Rio. “Oh, no you don’t. I saw what happened last time you started drinking.”
Rio holds her hands up and lets the bottle pass by.