Front Lines

  “Cut your hair that short?”

  “I’ll still have all of this.” Jenou waves a languid hand, indicating her body. “And honestly, when we dry-fired our rifles I lost a hairpin and my hair ended up getting in the way.”

  “How short?”

  Jenou holds up two fingers like scissors and pretends to cut at about the three-inch mark.

  “You’ll look cute,” Rio says.

  “Cute? How dare you? I’ll look stunning,” Jenou corrects her.

  Rio rolls onto her side and pushes closer, lessening the gap between them so she can lower her voice. Jenou mirrors her movement.

  “Am I becoming mannish?” Rio asks.

  Jenou barks a short laugh, then puts a hand over her mouth. “Mannish?”

  “I was just thinking of writing to Strand.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re wondering if he’ll still like you when you can beat him up.”

  “Yes, that, what you said, aside from the beating-up part.”

  Jenou shrugs. “I have given this some thought.”

  “I was sure you would have.”

  “And what I’ve decided is: tough shit.”

  Rio waits, looking into her friend’s luminous eyes, but there is no more, so she prompts, “Tough shit?”

  “Look, honey, we are in the army now. We have to do what we have to do to make it through. Right?”

  “Right,” Rio agrees tentatively.

  “So we have no choice anymore. This is it. We have PT before sunrise, and we have marches, and we have runs, and we have drills, and we have no choice in the matter anymore. And if Strand, or any other boy, doesn’t like it, tough shit.”

  “Tough shit?”

  “Tough shit.”

  “Okay. Tough shit.”

  “I can’t believe you said that out loud, Rio,” Jenou says with a mischievous smile. “You never used to curse. I think you’re becoming mannish.”

  Rio would throw something if not for the fact that her bunk is perfectly squared away.

  The lights go out with an audible snap of the switch. Rio pulls the rough wool blanket over her. Almost instantly sleep comes, leaving her only time enough for two thoughts.

  The first is: But I still want him to like me.

  The second is: Tough shit if he doesn’t.

  LETTERS SENT

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I only have time for a quick note to let you know that I am well. Jenou and I are settling in. The barracks is fine, there’s a heavy curtain separating the girls women from the men. I find the strangest thing is not so much being with the males as the fact that some of the battalion are quite a bit older. The people I spend time with tend to be younger. There’s a fellow named Tilo who is twenty, I think. He thinks he’s God’s gift to the fairer sex, but he’s harmless. And Dain Sticklin is twenty-one, but Jack Stafford is just seventeen, barely older than me, and I think Kerwin Cassel isn’t much older, either. There are people here in their late twenties, even thirties!

  But they’re really a swell bunch.

  How is everything at home? Did Clarabell have her calf? And is it a bull as we thought?

  Your loving daughter, Rio

  Dear Strand,

  I hope you were sincere when you asked me to write you, because I’m doing it, as you can see.

  I have arrived at Camp XXXX, which is just a few miles from XXXX, which is basically the middle of nowhere.

  The barracks is . . . well, I suppose you’re in your own barracks, and I’d guess they’re about the same. I was going to add that our sergeant is pretty tough, but I suppose all drill sergeants are. The only difference being that ours is XXXX.

  I suppose I don’t really have anything very clever to say, except that I really enjoyed our date. I especially enjoyed talking with you afterward. I’m enclosing a copy of a photograph my father took of me in my uniform. It’s the only picture I have to send right now, but I hope to be able to send you a picture that is a bit less GI. I do still remember what it’s like to wear a dress, though it may be some time before I have the opportunity. Still, if you’d like a more girly picture of me, I can ask my folks to try and find one in the photo album. And I would love certainly enjoy a picture of you as well.

  I hope you are well, can you tell me . . . ?

  Affectionately,

  Rio

  Hi, Mom and Dad and you too Obal,

  Well, I’m here at basic training. I wish I could tell you it’s fun, but mostly it’s a lot of standing at attention and saluting and making sure your uniform is just so.

  We have not fired any guns yet or driven around in tanks, Obal, sorry. Our NCOs—who are all black—are trying hard I think to train us as best they can with XXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX and XXXXX XXXXX XXXXXX. But the XXXXXXX officers XXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX and XXXXXXX XXXXX so we don’t really XXXXXXX much.

  I have told my sergeant I want to apply for XXXXX school, but that has to go through XXXXX XXXXX, who doesn’t seem to think colored soldiers will be needing any XXXXX because he doesn’t think they’ll let us fight ever. I suppose that’s fine with me, but I still really want to be a XXXXX. All I can do is keep trying, I guess . . .

  Love, Frangie

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I am safely ensconced in a place I shall not name for fear of the censors leaving big black marks on this page. But I am well. I am doing my best, and the lessons are challenging. There are obstacles I shall not describe nor name, but I expect to overcome them. And I believe my circumstances will change substantially very soon.

  I am getting plenty to eat, and while I have not been able to keep kosher, I have managed to avoid the bacon. I am required to be present at Christian chapel on Sundays, but I am of course not required to participate other than to sit respectfully. I won’t say that being a Jew does not present some difficulties, but they pale compared to the obstacles presented by those who disapprove of my XXXXX.

  But you know me: I am not easily discouraged . . .

  Sincerely, Rainy

  Dear Ary,

  I hope you’re half as bored and safe as I am. I hope you’re sitting out in the sun on the deck of some big gray ship or better yet on the beach at XXXXX XXXXX. I can’t allow myself to think too much about the danger you might be in. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me, because you should. Maybe not Mom and Dad, but you can tell me. At least as much as you can with the censorship.

  Sadly, I can tell you nothing. It’s unfair and unequal, I suppose, but that’s the way it is.

  I’ve arranged for twenty-five dollars to come out of my monthly pay and go to your “friend.” It’s probably for the best: it keeps me away from the poker games . . .

  Your loving sister, Rainy

  Mother and Father,

  It’s me, your little soldier girl Jenou. I am so tired and can barely move. I’m so sore my fingernails hurt. My hair hurts. My eyeballs actually hurt.

  But at least I’m out of Gedwell Falls and out from under your feet, right?

  I don’t know how much I’ll write. Sergeant XXXXX orders us to write, and I am doing so because she scares me. But I don’t think you care if I write, and I know I don’t. I expect if things go the way I hope they do that I will never have to return to the Falls, and I’m pretty sure that would leave both of you feeling relieved.

  There you go, just like the sergeant ordered.

  Private Jenou Castain

  12

  RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA

  My rifle.

  It is 43.5 inches long, measuring from the butt plate to the muzzle. It weighs 9.5 pounds and fires a 30.06 cartridge.

  The slug itself is no bigger in circumference than a toddler’s little finger, but that slug flies from the muzzle at 2,800 feet per second.

  Rio has her rifle in hand. She’s seated cross-legged like all of them, with the rifle butt on the grass and the muzzle pointed at the sky.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is why we have
brought you here and given you those snazzy uniforms.” Captain Jessep raises a rifle in the air, two-handed. He holds that pose for a moment so the dozens of men and women seated on the grass can see.

  “This is the M1 Garand rifle. It is the finest rifle ever to be entrusted to an infantryman. Many of you will never fire a rifle in anger, but each of you will learn how to do so. There may come a time when even the cooks and the clerks and the ladies will be required to shoulder a rifle and fire it at the enemy.”

  “The ladies,” Cat whispers derisively, just loud enough for the captain to hear, though he doesn’t react. “Ladies with rifles.”

  Rio envies Cat’s sense of freedom and fun. There’s a wildness and energy to Cat, like maybe she’d stick a tack on Sergeant Mackie’s chair or spike the coffee with rum. And Cat has no tolerance for being treated like a second-class citizen, unlike some of the women in the company. That’s a position Rio finds herself increasingly drawn to.

  “A dollar says I outshoot you, Suarez,” Cat whispers.

  Tilo only half hears. “Did you just threaten to shoot me?”

  “Only if you really annoy me,” Cat says.

  “Crazy bitch,” Tilo mutters.

  “And there you go,” Cat says in her good-natured way. “I’ll make sure it’s just a flesh wound.” Is she winking as she says it? It’s hard to tell, but the strange down-turned smile flashes.

  The mood of the crowd is somewhere between anticipatory and solemn. The words and the tone incline toward solemn, but the greater fact is that finally they are going to learn how to shoot the rifles they now hold. Their rifles.

  My rifle, Rio thinks.

  “Therefore you will listen carefully to your instructor. You will listen and learn as though your life depends on it. It does. Lieutenant.”

  The captain departs, leaving the lieutenant instructor, a bland-looking, high-voiced fellow in khaki. This is the same officer who first showed them how to attach the strap, how to wrap the strap around their left arms, how to insert a clip, how to hold the weapon in each of the major firing positions, and how to dry-fire.

  “Okay,” the lieutenant begins. “So they give you the best rifle in the world. Me, I’m sick of monkeying around. When do we get to shoot this thing?” He grins. He’s given this speech before, probably many times, but he’s still enthusiastic. “I heard a man in this company say that very thing yesterday. So I will answer the question now. You’ll start shooting the M-1 when you’re ready.”

  That sets off a murmur.

  “Lookin’ like that may be never,” Kerwin says under his breath.

  The lieutenant is on a one-foot-tall platform and has a standing chalkboard to one side. His service cap is jauntily cocked to one side.

  “Men . . . and ladies . . . your brains are about to get a workout. This is a skull session, because today I’ll teach you elevation and windage.”

  This is met with blank stares from most and a knowing nod from some.

  “Brain work, that leaves me out,” Jenou mutters.

  “I will teach you how to raise or lower your rear sights to account for the natural drop of the bullet. And how to adjust your sights left or right to account for the effect of the wind.”

  What follows is a solid hour that sounds a great deal like Rio’s math classes back in school. There are even equations scrawled enthusiastically on the chalkboard.

  Rio pays close attention, but not so close that she does not spare a sideways glance at Jack. She had a dream about Jack, and though she does not remember any specifics, she woke with a nagging feeling that something improper had occurred—in the dream.

  She resists the urge to draw Strand’s picture from her inner pocket and tells herself that dreams are just dreams, they don’t mean anything. If she could recall specifics they would probably be completely proper and innocuous; yes, almost certainly. No, certainly.

  You’re working yourself up over nothing.

  Rio refocuses, and after listening and watching for a while, she has a fair idea how to manage it. A bullet drops twenty inches in three hundred yards. To adjust for that you click the elevation knob so you’re forced to point the muzzle upward while sighting the target.

  “In this way, the bullet actually leaves the muzzle heading over the head of the Jap or Kraut you’re aiming at. But if you’ve calculated your range, and you’ve adjusted your sights properly, that bullet will drop naturally until it hits the bull’s-eye.”

  A man’s chest. Or neck. Or face.

  The math is not complicated, though predictably Jenou struggles with it. The concept is familiar to anyone who has ever thrown a ball: you throw high in order to reach the catcher.

  Windage is more complex, and many heads are scratched.

  “There are some simple tricks to help you judge windage,” the enthusiastic instructor goes on. “Take something light enough to be blown by the wind, say some dirt or a blade of grass. While standing, toss it into the air and watch where it falls. Point at the place where it lands. Then estimate the angle between your arm and your body. Let’s say the angle is forty degrees. Now then, the rule is that you divide the angle under your arm by four—by four—in order to get the speed of the wind in miles per hour.”

  He asks a GI up to act it out on the platform. The crowd loves audience participation and watches avidly, hoping to see embarrassing failure, as the soldier estimates that the wind is moving at about seven miles an hour.

  Milking. They’d been milking one of the cows. That was the dream. The ginger Englishman had been sitting on a stool milking one of the cows while Rio laughed and giggled. There! Just as harmless as she’d suspected, nothing at all concerning. And yet the image doesn’t feel right. She has the feeling that if she talks about it to Jenou, Jenou will cast a troubling light on it.

  Rio shifts position and tries to exclude Jack from her peripheral vision.

  “An even simpler way is to raise your arm to level, which is ninety degrees. Then divide that into five segments. Imagine a clock hand jumping from minute to minute. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Each click, each segment, is five miles per hour.

  “With this bit of information you can set the windage screw on the rear sight, so that even as you continue to aim the sights straight at your target, the muzzle will actually be aimed to the left or right of the Jap or Kraut. Then the wind will simply blow your bullet sideways until it hits.”

  A chest. A neck. A face.

  After an hour of this, and an hour of rehearsing the four firing positions—prone, seated, kneeling, and standing—they pile aboard trucks for the three-mile trip to the firing range.

  “I’m amazed they don’t have us run there,” Jack says. “This is luxury!”

  “We are truly being treated like movie stars,” Jenou agrees wryly, waving a hand around the open truck as it bounces with bone-jarring force over some dried-mud tire tracks.

  They are split into two groups. One will stand in the deep trench beneath the targets and mark hits and misses while the other shoots. Then they’ll switch.

  Additional instructors await, one for every three shooters, acting as spotters and offering helpful tips.

  On command, Rio loads her rifle. Eight long brass cartridges lined up two-by-two in the metal clip, which she thumbs into the chamber.

  “Check safeties!”

  There follows some clicking and sheepish looks and everything is checked by the range instructors, who buzz around like capable bees, often physically manipulating soldiers into the right grip, the right stance.

  Rio gathers a small handful of dirt as there are no handy blades of grass. She lets it fall and watches where the lightest bits land. Feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, she points with her whole arm to the spot. Rio does a rough calculation and decides on three clicks left windage.

  “Take a prone position!”

  This they have practiced many times. Rio lies flat, with her legs spread medium-wide and cocked to the left, making her body into a lazy L. The fr
ont sight has three elements: a left and right side, each about half an inch high and curved outward, a bit like goat horns. Between them is a simple square post half as tall as the sides.

  The rear sight is a stubby steel cylinder with a hole in the center. It is this hole that must be adjusted for altitude and windage. Click, click, click.

  Two hundred yards, that’s the range. But they’ve been taught to take a ranging shot first and see where the bullet strikes before adjusting for altitude on the range.

  “Ready. Aim. Fire when ready.”

  Rio lines the sights up. The target bull’s-eye appears to sit just on top of the center post of the front sight as seen through the hole in the rear sight.

  Don’t jerk, squeeze.

  BANG!

  The rifle punches her shoulder and almost tears loose of her grip.

  Shots ring out to her left and right, much louder than she’d imagined. Painfully loud. There’s a ringing in her right ear, and her left ear’s not much better off.

  The target is lowered. A minute later it rises back into view again, and a black disc is placed over the spot where the bullet struck. It was low, almost off the paper, and to one side.

  Rio adjusts her sight. She backs off a click on windage and raises the rear sight by four clicks.

  Her second shot is just above the bull’s-eye. One click less altitude.

  BANG!

  The third round clips the edge of the bull’s-eye. The fourth does as well.

  “Not bad,” an instructor says. “You’re jerking the trigger just a little. And firm up your firing position.” He lifts her legs by the ankles and shifts them left. “Get that strap seated just right around your arm, and I think we better loosen it just a notch and give you more play.”

  Round six hit the black target.

  Rounds seven and eight do as well.

  “Keep it up, we’ll get you a marksman badge, Private. You’ll be able to keep your boyfriend in line.”

  Jenou has a great deal more trouble, as does Kerwin, who still does not understand the underlying concepts.

  The seated firing position is with legs extended, knees raised just a bit, body leaned forward, and elbows braced on knees. Rio does moderately well, but not as well as she had done prone. Kneeling is worse still. The position is wobbly, which is why the army discourages it. And standing she scores only 50 percent.