The old farmer who disappeared earlier now comes clumping down the steps to the cellar, carrying a mixed set of glasses. Behind him comes his wife, equally old but clearer of eye, carrying a tray of bread, cheese, and a hunk of salami.
“Merci, madame et monsieur,” Wickham says in tortured French, obviously a phrase he has learned recently.
“Je vous en prie,” the old woman says.
The old couple leave. Philippe selects a dusty bottle from the rack and pops the cork.
“Who shall we drink to?” Hooper asks, sitting up, wincing in pain but trying gamely to be part of the conversation.
Wickham says, “To our American guest.”
They drink to Rainy, or rather to Alice.
Then Rainy raises her glass. “To the brave men and women who fight for the honor of France. And to the Royal Air Force.”
With that out of the way, they portion out the bread and cheese and Marie slices the salami. There is nowhere near enough to go around, but each is content with what they have, aware that what they eat comes from the meager supplies of the old couple. Then Philippe checks his watch. “It is time. Marie?”
Marie goes to the radio and switches it on. The channel selector is already tuned to the BBC. It takes a while for it to warm up, but then at last comes crackly music, the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The clear beats of that Beethoven opener have long since come to be represented by the Morse code:
Dit dit dit . . . dah.
Morse code for the letter V. V for victory.
“Your watch runs fast,” Marie says to Philippe.
“Perhaps I am in a hurry,” Philippe says.
“Yes, men are often in a hurry.”
“Because pleasure delayed can become pleasure denied.”
“Pleasure worth having is pleasure worth waiting for,” Marie counters, with a small sniff of dismissal that earns a wry grin from Philippe.
There is subtext there, a flirtation, and Rainy conceals a smile, noting that Wickham too is charmed by young love.
Then . . . “Ici Londres. Les Français parlent aux Français.” This is London. The French speak to the French.
“Two days ago we received the code to prepare. We await the final word,” Philippe says.
But first, the radio voice says, some personal messages.
He digs a slip of paper and a tiny pencil from his back pocket. Everyone—very much including the Nazis—knows that these “personal messages” are coded instructions to the Resistance. Owning an unauthorized radio, and especially tuning to the BBC, is forbidden and can be punished by deportation to camps in Germany or forced labor more locally or imprisonment, or even death.
“Demain la mélasse deviendra cognac.” Tomorrow, molasses will become cognac.
Rainy looks at Philippe. Nothing.
“Jean a une longue moustache.” John has a long mustache.
And Philippe’s eyes widen.
“Les sanglots longs des violons de l’automne . . .” The long sobs of the violins of autumn . . .
Philippe has stopped breathing.
“Blessent mon cœur d’une langueur monotone.” . . . wound my heart with a monotonous languor.
It is Philippe’s utter stillness that causes chills to creep up Rainy’s spine. No one breathes. Rainy has the feeling, at once frightening and thrilling, that the entire human race has just come to a fork in the road. The great battle for the future of human liberty has come at last.
A Communist Philippe might be, but he crosses himself in a way that Comrade Stalin would definitely not approve of.
“What is it?” Marie asks, and every eye in the room is on Philippe. He does not answer at first. He is stiff, staring. Then he blinks.
“The wait is over,” Philippe says in an awed tone. “That is the final instruction to begin the uprising.”
Rainy watches Étienne. What exactly is that expression? Philippe is distracted, mentally processing the difficult, dangerous steps ahead. Marie is excited and perhaps worried about Philippe. Wickham is uncomplicatedly joyful and slaps Hooper on the back. But Étienne? His first reaction is unreadable.
Then, almost peevishly, Étienne says, “And what about our tire? We still have to deliver Lieutenant Jones to observe the Das Reich. Those are my instructions.”
Philippe grins. “Perhaps we can get you your tire. But first we must ask you for help. Two of my best men were arrested and deported last week. We are shorthanded, and our assignment is . . . well, complicated.”
“But we cannot—” Étienne begins.
Rainy cuts him off. “What do you need?” she asks Philippe.
“People who can use a gun,” he says bluntly. Then, with a dubious shrug, he adds, “In a perfect world, someone who speaks German fluently. But that is . . .” He performs another Gallic shrug.
Rainy considers. Her objective is to find and shadow and report back on the Das Reich. On the other hand, she cannot do that without Philippe’s help. And her orders do, after all, include language instructing her to render assistance where possible to local elements of the maquis.
“I speak German,” Rainy says.
7
RIO RICHLIN—TROOP SHIP USS RICHARD ATKINSON, THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
Rio Richlin—who does not suffer from seasickness much—is at a final company-level briefing delivered by Captain Tom Passey. It is 3:25 a.m. Most hands hold mugs of steaming coffee.
Captain Passey looks like a store clerk to Rio, a balding, middle-aged man devoid of dash who was, until two months ago, stationed stateside at a supply depot in New Jersey. He is a dedicated officer, willing to learn, but in no way experienced.
Lieutenant Horne, Rio’s platoon leader, sits in a folding chair to one side praying he can keep his food down until the briefing is over. Horne is of middling height, young like virtually all second lieutenants, with a weak chin, brown hair, and brown eyes. He looks like a fellow determined to be important. But at the moment he is trying not to puke.
Three other lieutenants stand in a knot to one side, splitting their attention between Passey and their platoon NCOs, who stand stolidly, looking on with the skepticism that seems to come so naturally to those with stripes on their shoulders.
Three twelve-person rifle squads, plus a smaller headquarters squad, make up a platoon. Four platoons make a company, and Captain Passey is in charge of that company of roughly a hundred and ninety souls.
Each platoon has a lieutenant. Rio surveys the officers as Passey continues. She knows that Lieutenant Arch Manly has some combat experience, having been briefly at Salerno before earning a Purple Heart with a through-and-through bullet wound to his calf. But all told, the remaining lieutenants—Mary Gorski, Don Reynolds, and Daniel Horne, average age maybe twenty-three years—have a total of zero combat experience.
Each of the three rifle platoons has, in addition to a lieutenant, a platoon sergeant, usually a tech or staff sergeant. These are Dain Sticklin, Drake Harwich, and Francis “Frank” Lincoln.
Stick and Lincoln have seen combat; Harwich has not.
Below the platoon sergeants are the squad leaders, buck sergeants, sixteen of them in all, of which seven have been in the war, including Rio Richlin and Cat Preeling, two of the three females.
Not at the briefing are the assistant squad leaders (ASLs) who are babysitting their GIs, and are mostly corporals with a smattering of PFCs and buck sergeants. Of these sixteen men and women, just seven—fewer than half—have seen combat.
The lower ranks, the privates, the body of the army, are also not present at the briefing, but less than 20 percent of the GIs in Passey’s company have combat experience. And this, in total, Rio knows, represents one of the more combat-tested companies in this relatively experienced division.
In short, most of the officers, most of the NCOs, and most of the GIs have no real idea what is coming, a fact that Rio cannot quite put out of her mind as she listens to Passey rattle off recognition signals, assembly points, Day One objectives
, and so on.
Day One objectives.
Rio knows that phrase from Italy. It had quickly become a dark and unfunny joke. The Germans did not care about Day One objectives. In fact, they tended to object in the strongest possible terms to Day One objectives.
They stand around a sand table relief of the beach code-named “Omaha” on a sheet of plywood, with water represented by blue paint. The beach is represented by sand glued in place. The tall bluff is glued sand on smoothed-over papier-mâché.
To Rio’s knowledgeable eye it forms a series of conditions perfectly designed to kill her soldiers.
Passey says, “Now, I know I’m repeating a lot of stuff you already know. But this is a big day we have ahead of us. Field Marshal Rommel has been busy fortifying what the Nazi calls the Atlantic Wall.” He pronounces Nazi as Nazzee, rhyming with snazzy.
Rio does not concern herself with the affairs of generals, but she knows that Erwin Rommel, nicknamed the Desert Fox, is no fool. Even as his troops were fleeing the British across North Africa, hungry, short of fuel and ammo, they’d had time to roll right over the green American army. And roll right over Rio Richlin, who can still remember the very mixed emotions of running away from German tanks.
As Passey speaks, Rio translates mentally from officer to sergeant.
“He has festooned the shallows with steel triangles we’re calling hedgehogs, obstacles, many of them wired with antipersonnel mines. But the engineers will have seen to a lot of that.”
Translation: The hedgehogs will still be there, and many will still be mined.
“The beach itself will have been prepared by naval gunfire and bombers to create holes and depressions you can use as fighting holes.”
Translation: Most likely there will be no holes, which in any case wouldn’t be worth much because . . .
“The heights are thick with pillboxes and reinforced machine gun emplacements, so it will be your first priority to reach those and take them out. Word is that the flamethrowers are especially useful for this.”
Translation: The Krauts will have the height and the cover and can lay plunging fire down on the beach.
As for flamethrowers, Rio does not like them. She can imagine that they may be useful, but she does not like the idea of any of her people walking around with a big tank of jellied gasoline on their backs when bullets are flying.
“Our landing spot is here.” Passey taps the table with a pointer.
Translation: Within a half mile of there, if we’re lucky.
“G2 doesn’t think the Luftwaffe has much in the area, but don’t neglect to look up from time to time, eh? A plane with the stripes painted on the wings is one of ours—anything else is Luftwaffe.”
Translation: Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs will add bombs to mortar and cannon fire.
“As usual, the Nazi has defense in depth. Artillery here and here.” Tap and tap. “Panzer units here and here.” Tap, tap, tap, and tap.
Translation: It will be murder.
“I won’t lie to you, men . . . and ladies . . . this will be a tough objective.”
Translation: Yep, it’ll be murder.
The briefing breaks up, and Rio finds herself walking back to the hold with Stick, Cat, and Frank Lincoln.
“Well, that was cheery,” Stick says glumly.
“They couldn’t find a damn beach that didn’t have a damn cliff staring right down at it?” Frank Lincoln demands. “This is FUBAR. The beach is narrow, the bluff is high and steep, and the only comfort is that the air corps will supposedly have dug us some nice holes in the sand.”
“Don’t overlook the fact that a long, concave shape like that beach, plus the height, means Jerry will have both frontal and enfilade fire,” Stick points out.
Cat shares a look with Rio. “My guys are as green as grass snakes. I got just three guys that ever even fired a rifle in anger.”
Rio is a bit luckier. Her squad consists of veterans Jack Stafford, Hansu Pang, and Luther Geer, good experienced soldiers all; Jenou Castain, Rio’s childhood friend, who could be useful when she felt like it; and Beebee, a genius of a scrounger, but a mediocre soldier generally found well back from the action. Counting herself, Rio has six reasonably capable soldiers. Then there are the three replacements who she’s had for four days: Rudy J. Chester, Hank Hobart, and Lupé Camacho. Of these, Camacho shows some potential, Hobart may settle down in time, and Rudy J. Chester is likely to be killed, if not by the Germans, then by Rio.
Last, and definitely least, there are the three other replacements she acquired through no fault of her own just last night: two women, one man, none of them able to dump sand out of a boot with the instructions printed on the heel, let alone do any damage to the enemy.
“If they can get the tanks ashore we may do okay,” Stick says, straining for optimism. “And if the bombers have done their job.”
“That’s two ifs,” Lincoln says darkly.
“I have more, if you want,” Rio mutters.
My first combat assignment as a squad leader is: invade France.
Swell.
No sooner has Rio rejoined her squad in the hold than the order comes to stand by for embarkation. Numbers will be called and units will advance to designated areas, all wonderfully planned out, no doubt, but likely in Rio’s somewhat cynical estimation to be the usual SNAFU. Situation Normal: All Fugged Up.
When did I get to be so negative?
Kasserine Pass, the Rapido River, Monte Cassino . . .
The troop ship holds most of the division, and they will be going ashore in LCVPs, also called Higgins boats, flat-bottomed, ramp-fronted boats just thirty-six feet long, ten feet wide, and capable of carrying thirty-six soldiers, or three squads: Rio’s, Cat Preeling’s, and the command squad, consisting of Lieutenant Horne, Sergeant Billy O’Banion, two runners, a radio operator, a two-man bazooka team, and a buck sergeant named Mercer whose precise function Rio has not figured out unless he is there as a replacement for . . . well, perhaps for her if things go badly.
A few rows down Rio spots Cat taking a pull from a flask. Cat sees Rio and holds the flask up in offer. Rio considers but reluctantly shakes her head. Alcohol will soften the edges of her worry, and she wants to worry, she needs to feel the danger. One of the first times Rio had been in charge she had lost a man, Tilo Suarez, through nothing but carelessness. She is determined not to repeat that. No more carelessness. No more good people dead for no reason. She’s heard some of the other squad leaders talking about taking pillboxes and maybe killing a tank, their excitement in inverse proportion to experience, but her measure of success is simpler: start the day with twelve, including herself, and end the day with twelve.
Into the boats, off the boats, up the beach, up the bluff . . . victory.
She smiles sourly at this private thought. Right. Victory. Because the Germans are known for giving up easily.
Rudy J. Chester is prosing away to Camacho and two of the newest squad members, a man and a woman whose names Rio has to struggle to recall, about his theory of combat.
“I figure the Krauts’ll know they’re licked when they see us coming,” he says. “And with all the shells we’re dropping on them, it’ll be bim, bam, boom.” He smacks his hands together, a dismissive gesture.
Rio steps to him, grabs his rifle, and points. “Your safety’s off.”
“I want to be ready,” Chester says.
“Safeties on until you have something to shoot at,” Rio snaps, resisting the urge to add, you blithering idiot.
One of the greenest of the greenhorns, a short, nervous, active man of twenty-two named Dick Ostrowiz, asks, “You’ve been in it, Sarge. How bad will it be?”
Too many eyes turn to await her answer.
“It will be bad,” she says. There’s no point lying. She has to establish from the start that she can be trusted to tell her soldiers the truth: bullshit is for officers. “It’ll be loud and confusing and scary as hell. You’ll be wet and loaded down. In fact . . .”
She glances around to make sure Lieutenant Horne is nowhere near. She lowers her voice. “They’ve got some of you hauling fifty, seventy pounds of extra gear on top of your usual loads. We’re probably just going to leave all that crap on the boat.”
Geer, Stafford, Pang, and Jenou all nod knowingly. Lupé Camacho speaks up. “Aren’t we going to need all that extra ammo?”
“It won’t be all that useful if you’re dead,” Rio says flatly. “A wet, scared, tired soldier hauling ammo boxes across the beach is the kind of bullshit some desk jockey comes up with. You’re going to be lucky to manage yourselves and your rifle.”
With a glance at Rudy J. Chester, Hobart says, “The Germans know they’re licked, though. Right?”
Rio shakes her head. “The Kraut never gives up. If he ever looks like he’s giving up, he’s just moving back to the next line of fortification. If you think he’s licked, he’s getting ready for a counterattack. And if you think you’re better, tougher, stronger, or braver, you’re wrong.”
All conversation in the immediate vicinity stops.
“He’s got better tanks and artillery. Better machine guns too. He’s better trained, and he’s dead damned serious now, because he knows we’re coming, and he knows we intend to kill him and take his country. He figures while we’re at it we’ll rape his wife and use his kids for target practice. See, the thing is, they don’t know we’re the good guys. They think they’re the heroes. So they’ll fight. They’ll fight every inch of the way.”
She lets that settle in for a minute. Then, seeing the wide eyes and nervous swallowing all around her, she says, “On the other hand, we have the air, and we have the navy, and we have this.” She smacks a hand down on the stock of Chester’s M1 then shoves it back to him. “The M1 Garand is the best rifle in this war. Keep it dry and keep it clean. Keep the waterproof cover on until you are ashore. Be careful climbing down the nets. Listen to the crews, they’ll tell you when to jump into the boat. We’ll have a nice long wait as we circle around, and then when all the landing craft are loaded up, we’ll head in. Most likely we’ll take some artillery and some machine gun fire on the way. Might as well relax during that because there’s not a thing you can do about it. Once we get to the beach, if you jump off into deep water, do not panic. Drop your belt and your pack, anything that weighs you down. Do that before you try to swim. Try to hold on to your weapon. But above all, do not panic. If you don’t panic, you won’t drown.”