Below in the draw, the colonel orders the rest of the platoon to advance.
Rio grabs one of the Germans’ canteens, smells the contents, and upends it, drinking deep: better to save her own water supply. Molina stands a respectful few paces away. Rio searches the young woman’s face for signs of the complete and abject cowardice she displayed on the beach. But Molina looks undisturbed. In fact, she seems to be nodding to herself, as if approving of what she’s done.
Maria Molina looks like nothing special, a wide brown face, brown eyes, brown hair. She’s of average height and average weight. Nothing special, but Rio breathes because of her.
“Thanks, Molina. Good shooting.”
“Anytime, Sarge.” Molina’s eyes keep flitting back to the German who’d been cut in half.
Rio nods. “Yep. Welcome to the war, Molina. How you liking it so far?”
Molina looks alarmed until she realizes that this is as close to an official ceremony of acceptance as she is likely to get. Richlin is talking to her like she would talk to Geer or Castain. As if she is an actual adult. She has, in a phrase she recalls from a detective novel, “made her bones.”
“I like it a whole lot better when I can shoot back,” Molina says.
Rio laughs. “Castain, Stafford, and you too, Molina, let’s take a walk ahead and see what we find. Maybe kill some more Krauts.”
12
RAINY SCHULTERMAN—NEAR LIMOGES, NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE
When handed a weapon, the first thing to do is check the safety—on—and then rack the slide to see if there is a round chambered. But this weapon is unfamiliar to Rainy.
“Wh
y that’s a Sten,” Sergeant Hooper says, seeming revived by the sight of something familiar and British.
Philippe is handing out weapons, Sten guns for Rainy, Marie, Wickham, and himself; a German Luger pistol and four grenades for Étienne.
Perhaps Philippe knows that Étienne prefers handguns.
But maybe, Rainy thinks, he has given Étienne the weapon least likely to allow him to shoot them all in the back.
Paranoia, Rainy chides herself. But then a different word: caution.
“I want a Sten,” Étienne says.
“You carry the grenades,” Philippe says. “I’ve seen you play at boules—you have an accurate throw.”
True? Or a weak excuse?
Étienne frowns but does not argue. This is Philippe’s territory.
Rainy sits beside Sergeant Hooper, who walks her through the gun. It looks small and cheaply made to Rainy, who is accustomed to the larger, heavier, more complicated Thompson used by US forces. The Stens are weapons favored by the British SOE, which has been financing and arming the maquis. It’s little more than a steel pipe with a stubby barrel at one end, a magazine sticking awkwardly sideways, and a metal pistol grip at the back.
“Safety here. This button is the selector,” Hooper explains. “In for semiautomatic, out for full automatic. Of course this is the commando version with the pistol grip. It normally comes with a short metal stock.”
“Rate of fire?”
“Five hundred rounds per minute. Of course you’ve only got a thirty-two-round clip, so short bursts, eh?”
“Does it climb?”
Hooper shakes his head and gazes admiringly at the crude weapon. “It doesn’t look like much, the old Sten, but there’s not much climb and she won’t wander either. Of course beyond a hundred feet you couldn’t hit a London coach at high noon, but up close she’ll do the job. Nine millimeter, meaning you can use German ammunition at a pinch.”
“That’s what it’s loaded with,” Philippe says. He’s busy showing Marie how to use the gun, though Rainy has the distinct impression that the demonstration is unnecessary. Unnecessary, but given the flush in Marie’s cheeks, not unwelcome.
“If she jams,” Hooper goes on, “you just pull the magazine, give ’er a tap on the ground, stick her back in, cock, and Bob’s your uncle.”