Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Rainy is tempted to stop by Fifth Platoon and thank them. But it was her bright idea that got their lieutenant killed, and others besides, and on reflection she decides that would not be wise. She was the bringer of ill tidings, and soldiers are not above blaming the messenger.

She and her battered, exhausted, sore, and dirty prisoner drive away.

Frangie no longer has a unit to return to. Whatever was left of her battalion is far from here, and no one seems clear on where it might have gone. She seeks out Sergeant Garaman.

“Sarge, I’m kind of up in the air right now. I don’t suppose I could tag along with your platoon until I figure out where I’m supposed to be.”

Garaman shrugs and flicks away the butt of his cigarette. “Well, we need a doc, that’s a fact.” He sighs, anticipating some world of trouble he’s buying for himself by an impromptu integration of his platoon. Then says, “Go hook up with Sergeant Cole. His squad’s all broads, Limeys, Japs, and misfits anyway, might as well add a Nigra.”

So Frangie gathers her small stash of medical supplies, sneaks by the hospital tent where additional supplies happen—purely by accident—to fall into her pockets, and finds Second Squad climbing on a truck.

There’s another squad with them, and naturally one of those soldiers makes an angry remark about her race.

“She’s not a Nigra,” Luther says. “She’s Doc.”

“How’s Miss Pat doing, Geer?”

Luther pulls the kitten from his shirt, holds her up, and says, “Not Miss Pat anymore, she’s a veteran, she gets a better name. Calling her Miss Lion from now on.”

Rio looks at Jack, guessing what’s coming next. Jack winks at her and says, “See? I told you there were lions around here.”

Interstitial

107TH EVAC HOSPITAL, WÜRZBURG, GERMANY—APRIL 1945

Well, Gentle Reader, I had a bit of joy today. Sergeant Richlin—Rio—came by to check on me, see how I was doing. I think she scared some of the nurses; she has that effect on people now. She’s hard and she’s foul-mouthed and she’s got that thousand-yard stare that I suppose I do as well. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she came in straight from the front line, grenades hanging off her like ornaments on a Christmas tree, tommy gun on her shoulder, her prized souvenir, a German Luger, stuck in her webbing belt, and that big knife of hers strapped to her leg.

But if you looked hard, Gentle Reader, you’d still see something of that freckle-faced tomboy who grew up milking cows and thought “golly” was a curse word. Some part of the sweetness of her is still alive underneath it all, or at least I think so, hope so. Same as I hope there’s still some part of a different me hidden away under the hard shell of cynicism.

I wonder how I look to her. I know I’m damaged in more than body. The fever that pushes me to write this is not the symptom of a mind at peace. Can she see the invisible damage inside me, as I see it in her?

Won’t be long now, I think. The Russians are in Berlin, going street by street. The Krauts will have to fold up shop, though not until Hitler’s dead, I guess. They are still in thrall to that mad bastard, even now with their cities burned down around their ears, what a goddamn waste. A lot of German units have surrendered, and what’s left is mostly old men and kids. Kids. Like we were not long ago.

It’s coming to an end, this war, but I still have a lot of story to tell. There’s Sicily and Italy and France yet to write about. A whole lot of war there.

North Africa was where we were bloodied, where we became real soldiers, but in the grand scheme of the war it was small beer. The Krauts taught us a lesson we needed to learn, though; they knocked the cockiness right out of us, that they did, and we were better soldiers for it. One hell of a lot of Krauts died in the stony hills of Sicily and Italy because we had begun to learn our profession.

The battle of Kasserine Pass will not go down in history as the finest moment in the history of the US Army. Although what’s funny is that when we were in it we didn’t know that’s what that debacle would be called. We just knew it was FUBAR. It shook me, that’s for sure, shook me all the way down to my bones. There’s nothing like the feeling of running away to feed the beast of fear inside you. That took its toll. Still does.

But that’s all down the road. We’ll get there, Gentle Reader, we will.

If you’re wondering what happened with Rio and Strand and Jack, or wondering whether Rainy ever met up with that nice Jewish boy again, or whether Jenou ever met her longed-for handsome officer, or whether Frangie and Sergeant Walter Green . . . Well, not now, that’s all for later. Right now I have to go and cause a ruckus because they’re talking about shipping me stateside. I won’t have it. I’ll go AWOL before I let that happen. I got this far with our little band, and I’ll be damned if I miss the final act. I don’t expect we’ll celebrate, celebration doesn’t feel right, but I would sure love to sit down and have a quiet beer with my pals.

Besides, like I said, there’s a lot more for me to write.

THE BATTLE OF KASSERINE PASS

“The weaknesses the Americans showed were those usually demonstrated by inexperienced troops committed to battle for the first time. Beforehand, they were overconfident . . . once committed, they were jittery . . . They lacked proficiency in newly developed weapons such as bazookas. They had difficulty identifying enemy weapons and equipment . . . They were handicapped by certain poor commanders . . . reactions were slow, cautious, and characteristic of World War I operations. Units were dispersed and employed in small parcels instead of being concentrated. Air-ground cooperation was defective. Replacement troops were often deficient in physical fitness and training. Some weapons were below par. . . . Higher commanders shirked the responsibility or lacked the knowledge to coordinate units in battle . . .”

—US Army Center for Military History

“In Tunisia the Americans had to pay a stiff price for their experience, but it brought rich dividends.”

—German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel