Purple Hearts (Front Lines 3)

“See this path we’re on? See how it’s marked out with tape? That means engineers have cleared it. That way and that way? Mines and booby traps. Bang! And suddenly you don’t have to worry about ever having babies.”

Joe instinctively reaches for his crotch. He looks left, looks right, peers intently for the sight of a stretched booby-trap wire, and falling behind in the process so he has to jog to catch up.

“Richlin is your squad sergeant. Stick—what the hell is his real name? Sticklin. Yeah, Dain Sticklin—he’s the platoon sergeant. Both rock solid. Captain Passey’s all right for an officer, not big on chickenshit. And Lieutenant Horne, well . . .”

He’s about to prompt her when he notices the shrug and correctly decides that he’s being given information that is not to be spoken of openly.

“There’s a battalion of tanks going to make a run, and we’re going along to keep them from getting lonely,” Castain says. “Job number one when working with tanks? Don’t get run over! They can’t see much through their little portholes, and they will absolutely run right the hell over you.”

Wait a minute, is she saying I’m going into actual combat?

Now?

“Here’s the way your day is planned out: you’re gonna fall in with the rest of us, and we’re going to walk along beside the tanks, then we’re all going to turn and go blazing into the woods and the Krauts will panic and flee!”

Joe feels he may need to throw up.

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“Here’s how it’s actually going to happen: you’re gonna fall in with the rest of us, and we’re going to walk along beside the tanks, and the Krauts will be raining mortars on our heads and getting their MG42s nice and warm, and then a tank’s gonna blow up, and everyone’s going to be screaming and yelling and running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”

“I think I need to—”

“Puke? Go ahead. Better to get it over with now.”

He pauses, leans against a tree, and empties his stomach.

“There are two schools of thought on stomachs,” Castain proses on as artillery pounds and Joe retches. “Your optimist says it’s best to have a nice, big breakfast so you have energy for a long fight where you might not get a chance to eat. Your pessimist, on the other hand, says better to have an empty stomach and bowels, too, though no one can take a shit anyway if they’ve been living off C rations without shoving a grenade up your rear. Or unless you’ve got the trots, and if you don’t, you will.” Then, realizing she hasn’t finished the thought, she adds, “Empty stomach in case, you know, in case you’re gut-shot. You don’t want your half-digested Ham and Lima Beans bubbling out of the hole.”

Joe had thought he was done puking. No. He had more.

Usually after throwing up he felt better. He does not feel better.

“You’re gonna think, mortars, hey, I better hit the dirt! Uh-uh. Mortars, you keep moving forward. First of all, Fritz is careful not to shell his own people, unlike the idiots in our artillery, not to mention the goddamned air corps shooting anything that moves. So the closer you are to their lines, the safer you are from shelling. Also, the way shells hit, see, the shrapnel keeps flying mostly in the same direction the shell lands.” She makes an exploding motion with her hands to illustrate. “So you want an 88 or a mortar to go off behind you, not in front.”

“But . . .”

“But?”

“But if you get closer to the Germans, don’t they, you know . . . shoot at you?”

They’re moving again, but Castain pauses a beat to look him over as if examining a rare but hideous new life-form. “Why yes, I’m very much afraid that they will shoot at you, Private Dumbass. The Germans are very fond of shooting, and their favorite thing to shoot at is a dumbass greenhorn.”

She takes his shoulder and pulls him close. “Here’s the secret not many people know: our job is to go and kill the sons of bitches Krauts before they can kill us. Shh! That’s a secret known only to Ike and Patton and me.”

They move on, and now Castain switches from glib mockery to a more intense and hurried tone. The artillery barrage goes on, and it sounds—and feels—horribly close. It’s like a long, slow earthquake, wobbling and shaking under his boots.

“In the woods you can’t see shit. So you do what’s called marching fire, right? You shoot even when you don’t have a target because the Kraut doesn’t know you’re just shooting trees, he thinks he better keep his head down. Right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, yes.”

“I don’t mean just fire away till you run dry, but don’t just carry your rifle, use it. And if you do see a Kraut, what do you do?”

“I . . .”

“Shoot him. You shoot him right then, no thinking about it, you aim and you shoot the bastard.”

Is it possible to throw up with an empty stomach?