Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Keep praying for me, Pastor. Don’t forget me.

Frangie

Dear Father,

I am well, though somewhat damp and oppressed by gray weather in a place I shall not name but which you may reasonably deduce. You’d think given my name I’d be better at enduring rain. I don’t believe we shall be here for long, though I have no idea where the army may send me next.

I have to tell you some things that may disturb you. Let me start by saying I know about the numbers running—they found out during an investigation of my background. I was surprised and disappointed, I guess, but I’m not upset now. You’ve always been a good father, and you did what you had to do to keep us all fed and together during the Depression and since then too. The commandments say we should honor our parents, and I do honor you, and I don’t think I have anything to forgive.

But I’m going to tell you something now that you need to know in case something happens to Aryeh. You have a grandchild on the way. (No, not mine!) Aryeh fell in love and one thing led to another.

And, Father, the girl, his wife, is not a Jew. Her name is Jane Meehan. I’ve arranged to give her some of my pay and so has Aryeh, of course, but who knows what may happen in a war.

Next letter I promise will have fewer surprises.

Love,

Rainy

Dear Strand,

It was wonderful being able to spend some time with you on the XXXXX. I so wish it had been more. I suppose there are good things about a fast ship, but the time did fly by.

We spent XXXXX in XXXXX doing more tedious training, and I had hoped to see you there and be able to spend time with you in Jolly Old XXXXXX. But I’m afraid I’m off yet again to parts unknown and the rumor is that XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. So this may be XXXXXXXXXXX.

I don’t mean to seem contrary or argumentative, but I suppose it got under my skin a little when you said I was “playing” soldier. Maybe I was a little, in the beginning, but I think now it won’t be any kind of play. I’m not sure I’m ready for what lies ahead, but I mean to do my best. I want you to understand that, and I hope you’ll be proud of me. Even when I’m a grizzled old veteran. Funny, huh?

I keep your picture with me and look at it often. I will think of you up there in the sky, somewhere, being very brave and dashing. I will think of you every day.

Maybe this is silly and too sentimental, but I hope the day will come when we can find ourselves back at the Jubilee, sharing popcorn and watching a movie. Would you like that? I would.

Please take care of yourself, Strand. Please.

Your girl,

Rio

21

RIO RICHLIN, FRANGIE MARR, RAINY SCHULTERMAN—ABOARD USS TIBURON, OFF THE COAST OF PORTUGAL

“Jesus save us!” Kerwin cries, perhaps being funny, but perhaps scared as hell too.

The Tiburon—a much, much smaller ship than the Queen Mary, and much, much more likely to be tossed around like a cork—reaches the top of a wave and then shoots down the far side like a boulder rolling down the side of a mountain. For a few seconds Rio feels as if gravity has been canceled. But gravity comes right back with a vengeance as the ship bottoms out, nearly collapsing Rio’s knees.

“I never knew being in the army meant so much time on boats,” Jenou says. “And if we have to be on boats, why can’t it be the Queen instead of this old tub? I liked the Queen.”

“Yes,” Rio says wryly, “you had a very good time on the Queen.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call one young ensign a very good time. More like a . . . diversion,” Jenou says, and a

ttempts to toss her hair coyly, an effect ruined by the fact that her hair—and the rest of her as well—is quite wet.

Rio, Jenou, Cat, Kerwin, Luther, Tilo, Stick, and Jack have been formed into a squad with the sullen and unfriendly Jillion Magraff, a gloomy corporal named Hark Millican, a very Japanese-looking and instantly distrusted Hansu Pang, and Buck Sergeant Cole, who is to be their squad leader.

Most of the squad is in bunks trying desperately not to vomit. But Rio, Jenou, Cat, Stick, Tilo, Kerwin, and Jack are either immune to seasickness or else have already emptied every possible fluid from their bodies. The seven of them have found a tiny, cramped space beneath an overhanging gangway on the port side. They are shielded from the direct blasts of the weather and catch only spray rather than the massive, deck-clearing gray-green waves that roll over the bow and the starboard side.

“This is bad,” Rio shouts above the wind. “Not as bad as down below.”