Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Rio envies Cat’s sense of freedom and fun. There’s a wildness and energy to Cat, like maybe she’d stick a tack on Sergeant Mackie’s chair or spike the coffee with rum. And Cat has no tolerance for being treated like a second-class citizen, unlike some of the women in the company. That’s a position Rio finds herself increasingly drawn to.

“A dollar says I outshoot you, Suarez,” Cat whispers.

Tilo only half hears. “Did you just threaten to shoot me?”

“Only if you really annoy me,” Cat says.

“Crazy bitch,” Tilo mutters.

“And there you go,” Cat says in her good-natured way. “I’ll make sure it’s just a flesh wound.” Is she winking as she says it? It’s hard to tell, but the strange down-turned smile flashes.

The mood of the crowd is somewhere between anticipatory and solemn. The words and the tone incline toward solemn, but the greater fact is that finally they are going to learn how to shoot the rifles they now hold. Their rifles.

My rifle, Rio thinks.

“Therefore you will listen carefully to your instructor. You will listen and learn as though your life depends on it. It does. Lieutenant.”

The captain departs, leaving the lieutenant instructor, a bland-looking, high-voiced fellow in khaki. This is the same officer who first showed them how to attach the strap, how to wrap the strap around their left arms, how to insert a clip, how to hold the weapon in each of the major firing positions, and how to dry-fire.

“Okay,” the lieutenant begins. “So they give you the best rifle in the world. Me, I’m sick of monkeying around. When do we get to shoot this thing?” He grins. He’s given this speech before, probably many times, but he’s still enthusiastic. “I heard a man in this company say that very thing yesterday. So I will answer the question now. You’ll start shooting the M-1 when you’re ready.”

That sets off a murmur.

“Lookin’ like that may be never,” Kerwin says under his breath.

The lieutenant is on a one-foot-tall platform and has a standing chalkboard to one side. His service cap is jauntily cocked to one side.

“Men . . . and ladies . . . your brains are about to get a workout. This is a skull session, because today I’ll teach you elevation and windage.”

This is met with blank stares from most and a knowing nod from some.

“Brain work, that leaves me out,” Jenou mutters.

“I will teach you how to raise or lower your rear sights to account for the natural drop of the bullet. And how to adjust your sights left or right to account for the effect of the wind.”

What follows is a solid hour that sounds a great deal like Rio’s math classes back in school. There are even equations scrawled enthusiastically on the chalkboard.

Rio pays close attention, but not so close that she does not spare a sideways glance at Jack. She had a dream about Jack, and though she does not remember any specifics, she woke with a nagging feeling that something improper had occurred—in the dream.

She resists the urge to draw Strand’s picture from her inner pocket and tells herself that dreams are just dreams, they don’t mean anything. If she could recall specifics they would probably be completely proper and innocuous; yes, almost certainly. No, certainly.

You’re working yourself up over nothing.

Rio refocuses, and after listening and watching for a while, she has a fair idea how to manage it. A bullet drops twenty inches in three hundred yards. To adjust for that you click the elevation knob so you’re forced to point the muzzle upward while sighting the target.

“In this way, the bullet actually leaves the muzzle heading over the head of the Jap or Kraut you’re aiming at. But if you’ve calculated your range, and you’ve adjusted your sights properly, that bullet will drop naturally until it hits the bull’s-eye.”

A man’s chest. Or neck. Or face.

The math is not complicated, though predictably Jenou struggles with it. The concept is familiar to anyone who has ever thrown a ball: you throw high in order to reach the catcher.

Windage is more complex, and many heads are scratched.

“There are some simple tricks to help you judge windage,” the enthusiastic instructor goes on. “Take something light enough to be blown by the wind, say some dirt or a blade of grass. While standing, toss it into the air and watch where it falls. Point at the place where it lands. Then estimate the angle between your arm and your body. Let’s say the angle is forty degrees. Now then, the rule is that you divide the angle under your arm by four—by four—in order to get the speed of the wind in miles per hour.”

He asks a GI up to act it out on the platform. The crowd loves audience participation and watches avidly, hoping to see embarrassing failure, as the soldier estimates that the wind is moving at about seven miles an hour.

Milking. They’d been milking one of the cows. That was the dream. The ginger Englishman had been sitting on a stool milking one of the cows while Rio laughed and giggled. There! Just as harmless as she’d suspected, nothing at all concerning. And yet the image doesn’t feel right. She has the feeling that if she talks about it to Jenou, Jenou will cast a troubling light on it.