Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“I take it from your cowlike immobility that you are waiting for me to show you the way,” Mackie says. “I will not be showing you the way. The theoretical for this war game is that this platoon has lost its sergeants as well as its lieutenant, so, ladies and gentlemen, I will be back at my quarters filling out reports and drinking coffee while you are hiking through the woods. There will be proctors wearing yellow armbands. They will evaluate your performance and decide who’s dead and wounded. And they will evacuate you when and if you break an ankle or are bitten by a snake.”

Arabella DeLarge emits a small shriek at the mention of the word snake. So does one of the men. Sergeant Mackie grins, which is not a reassuring sight.

There are blank looks all around. The platoon consists of forty-eight men and women, and not one of them has any particular reason to think they’re in charge. Finally someone actually pulls out a compass and says, “Northeast is that way,” and makes a chopping motion.

Stick has just elected himself as guide. Some of the other men grumble and make a point of taking out their own compasses as if to double-check, but in the end the consensus is that they should all follow the young man with the widow’s peak who spoke up first. They set off through the woods with all the discipline of a herd of sheep, and all the stealth of a brass band. They reach a proctor a few minutes after plunging into the woods. He nods as they pass.

Within minutes the complaining begins.

“If you soaked wool blankets in steaming hot water and then wrapped them around yourself, it would not feel as miserable as this,” Rio says.

“Humidity,” Jenou agrees darkly, catches her boot on one of the many aboveground roots, and trips.

“And snakes, don’t forget snakes,” Kerwin says, and snatches Jenou’s pack, keeping her from hitting the ground face-first.

“Thanks, Cassel.”

“Well, we’re a team, right? I’m pretty sure I heard that somewhere.”

Rio swats another mosquito. “I keep killing these mosquitoes, but they keep coming.”

“So where are these Nigras?” Luther demands. “Let’s find ’em, pretend-shoot ’em, and head back.”

“Be careful they don’t pretend-shoot you,” Rio snaps. The contempt in Geer’s voice sets her teeth on edge.

“No Nigra ever beat a white man,” Luther says breezily. “Just like no woman ever beat a man.”

Rio bites her lip, not wanting to waste energy on a pointless argument. She does not like humidity, that’s the main point; in fact, she hates humidity. It’s grown steadily worse over the last few weeks, and she now thinks of the humidity and heat as personal insults. And she hates mosquitoes with an intensity of feeling she has never felt for anything before.

Rio comes out of her sour rumination on climate, and the insects that climate brings with it, in time to hear Geer say, “. . . we string ’em up.”

“What?” Rio demands.

Luther grins and pantomimes a rope around the neck, yanked upward. He sticks his tongue out comically. “Nigra talks back, Nigra shows disrespect for a white woman, what else are you going to do? You get some boys, go around to their shack, frog-march them to the nearest tree, and watch ’em dance while you pass the bottle around.”

“Shut up, Geer.” This from Kerwin.

“Screw you, Cassel, I know where you come from, and it ain’t any different there.”

“Not every southern man is you, Geer,” Kerwin says, and accelerates his pace to put distance between them.

“Tell you what,” the unapologetic Luther continues, “it’s a damn mistake giving Nigras uniforms and guns.”

“There’s one behind you! And he’s got a gun!” Jenou yells.

Luther spins around, catches himself, and spots the grin on Jenou’s face. “Yeah, screw you, Castain.”

The mood has gone from sullen to resentful to downright angry as they march now through boot-sucking mud and swat at bugs and shy away from roots that look like snakes and just generally comport themselves like sullen kids on the worst field trip ever, which is not far from the truth.

“Oh, good: someplace to sit,” Jenou says as they step into a triangular-shaped clearing. She pulls out her canteen and raises it to her lips. Three drops fall.

“I can spare a swig,” Rio says, and hands her canteen to Jenou, not without some reluctance.

Stick surveys the trees around them, ignored by men and women who have flopped down onto the ground or are sneaking off to pee. Rio is one of the few interested when Stick says, “That’s the direction. But we should send scouts out ahead.”

“Yeah, you get right on that, GI Joe,” someone says sardonically.

“I’ll go,” Kerwin says.