Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

They are discussing intelligence reports that the Germans are either launching or about to launch a full-scale attack. Rainy faithfully writes down the essential

s of the conversation, using her own version of shorthand. “C” is the colonel. “S2” is his intelligence chief, Lieutenant Colonel Courter Clay, a sour-faced, brush-mustached, cold fish of a man with wide-set eyes that stare challengingly out from beneath impressive iron-filing eyebrows. He has the look of an unpleasant private school headmaster.

The other major participants in the conference are: 1) a British major named Wiltshire (W), who is supposed to be the liaison with the Britain forces but spends most of his time frowning at documents he doesn’t read; 2) another lieutenant colonel, Kanly Coffee (KC), whose main duty appears to be acting as General Fredendall’s spy; and 3) a major from the air corps named Bencell, abbreviated not as B but as (A) for air.

C—Likely just probe.

S2—Don’t believe so. Three forward units report contact w/ German or mixed Germ-Ital units.

C—Reports like this before. What sense wd it make? Germans between us & Monty’s whole army. No sense.

KC—If we panic at every report . . .

C—Maybe if we had air recon.

A—No planes to spare for recon.

C—Wiltshire?

W—Nothing. Monty does not see evidence of attack.

Rainy at this point could very well stop taking notes—she doesn’t—because she’s been around long enough to recognize the sounds of paralysis. The only officer she really trusts is the one she likes least: the S2, Colonel Clay.

Lieutenant Colonel Clay is, as Sergeant Pooley has observed, “a humorless prick,” but he has energy and determination, which set him apart from the lethargy at this outpost, and indeed the lethargy throughout II Corps.

Eventually the colonel will decide to do nothing other than forward a memo to the general, who will also decide to do nothing. It takes Colonel Jasper another half hour to reach that point, but the conclusion Rainy writes down is not a surprise. Nor is it a surprise when the colonel moves on to a much more passionate discussion involving kerosene heaters.

Is it treason to suspect that the men commanding II Corps are incompetent? Surely the powers-that-be in Washington would not send incompetents to oversee America’s first real contact with the German foe.

Rainy tells herself that, but she fails to convince.

When she returns to her desk to type up her notes, Pooley looks up questioningly and gets a terse “They’re going to wait and see” from Rainy.

She types up her notes and puts them in the “out” basket on her desk. They will be collected by the corporal, who will take them to the staff sergeant—Pooley—seated just five feet away—who will take them to the colonel’s aide, who will, as far as Rainy can tell, file them away, never to be seen again.

At times she envies the frontline troops. At least they know what they are doing.

“Where’s the goddamned interpreter?” This is from Colonel Clay, the S2, who now looks around the stuffy office with an irritated gaze. He is referring to Lieutenant Belfurd who, Rainy knows, is in town visiting a prostitute.

“Colonel, the lieutenant’s out of the HQ,” she says discreetly.

“I’ll just bet he is.”

“Colonel, I speak and read German.”

Colonel Clay stares at her as if she is a dog who has suddenly announced a talent for plate spinning. His two bushy gray eyebrows become one.

Pooley speaks up, saying, “Colonel, she is fluent. She sometimes helps out Belfurd . . . Lieutenant Belfurd, I mean.”

“What is your clearance? Your security clearance, miss.”

It is not protocol to address her as miss. It is protocol to address her as sergeant. Or by her last name, Schulterman. But Rainy does not have quite the cheek to reprove a lieutenant colonel. Not right away.

She reassures Colonel Clay that she is cleared for sensitive documents. He sniffs, sighs, and finally crooks a finger at her.

Rainy leaps from her chair and follows him out of the room. They go to Colonel Clay’s office. The walls there are festooned with the usual maps, but interspersed in unused spaces are drawings of fish, done in oil crayon. Quite good pictures, Rainy thinks. Some are only partly finished.

“Steelhead,” Rainy mutters, not thinking.