Silver Stars. Майкл Грант

      Sergeant Cole is the oldest member of the squad, in his midtwenties but with the air of an older man. He has wide-set eyes in an open face, thinning sandy hair, a gap-toothed grin, and the stub of an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.

      The young man with him is a mystery, so for the moment no one bothers to acknowledge his existence.

      “I got good news, and I got kinda good news,” Cole announces.

      “Oh, I do hope it’s a five-mile hike in full gear,” Jack Stafford suggests. He’s just about Rio’s height, with sparkling eyes, reddish-blond hair and a grin that practically defines the word devilish. Jack is a displaced British boy with the luck (either good or bad) to have ended up in the American army.

      “First, the not-so-good news,” Cole says.“We got a replacement for Cassel.”

       A replacement? For Cassel?

      “This is . . . Who are you?” There’s something anticipatory in Cole’s voice.

      “Private Ben Bassingthwaite,” the young man says.

      “Tell ’em where you’re from.” Cole hides a smile by taking a sudden interest in the ground.

      The private suppresses a sigh. “I’m from Beaverton, Oregon.”

      “The hell?” Geer demands rudely.

      “That’s right,” Cole says, struggling to keep a straight face. “He’s Private Benjamin Barry Bassingthwaite from Beaverton.” And then he waits as his squad runs through various possibilities.

      “Call him Beaver?” Cat suggests.

      “But that’s what I call Castain,” Tilo says, grinning at his own wit and batting his admittedly gorgeous eyelashes at Jenou.

      “Not before I get my coffee, huh, Suarez?” Jenou says. “Coffee before bullshit: it’s in the manual.”

      “Triple B?” Cat offers.

      “Beebee,” the newcomer says. “That’s what it always comes down to. Beebee.” His tone is resigned. Not happy, but not unduly upset either.

      “I still like beaver,” Tilo mutters. “Not that I’m getting any in this dump.”

      Jillion Magraff and Hansu Pang do not join in the banter. Magraff is either shy or sullen, Rio still isn’t sure which. And Hansu Pang is a Japanese American, and despite his good soldiering he remains deeply suspect.

      “Beebee it is,” Stick says. “Seen any action, Beebee?”

      Beebee is short, painfully thin, scrawny even, nothing at all like Cassel. He has the slightly nauseated look Rio would expect from a new guy suddenly pushed into a room . . . well, tent . . . full of new people all giving him the stink eye. For the moment at least, Beebee embodies the gap that opens up between those who have been under fire and those who have not. He is an unknown quantity, and just like the new kid in high school, people size him up, looking for vulnerability.

      Cat’s begun rolling up the side of the tent nearest her. The tent sides go up during the heat of the day and down for the chilly desert night. “Okay, that’s the bad news,” Cat says. “So what’s the good news?”

      Cole displays his uneven teeth. “Children, I got you a twenty-four-hour—”

      The word pass is lost in an eruption of cheering followed immediately by a whirlwind of GIs grabbing whatever money they’ve stashed away and pounding for the exit with such enthusiasm that Cole might well be trampled.

      “If only I could get you all to move that fast for inspection,” Cole says. “Now hold on! Hold on! ”

      They freeze, forming a comical tableau, like a freeze-frame in a cartoon.

      “Do not, I repeat, do not make damn fools of yourselves. I don’t want anyone in the hospital because of some drunk bar fight, and I don’t want anyone falling out because they’ve caught the clap, and Richlin? You and Castain have custody of the new man.”

      Cassel’s replacement.

      Rio wipes her right hand down the side of her pants, unconsciously wiping Cassel’s blood from her hand. Cassel, the first to die. His final word, “Oh.”

      Oh. And two minutes later he had bled out into wet sand.

      “Aw, jeez, Sarge,” Jenou complains theatrically. “If I’ve got to babysit, at least get me someone with some shoulders on him. Dammit.” She sighs. “Okay, Booboo or whatever your name is, you got thirty seconds to drop your gear and grab your cash because we are heading for town.”

      “Wait a minute,” Rio says. “I thought being a private meant I didn’t have to babysit. I mean, that’s sergeant work, isn’t it?”

      Cole says, “Yes it is, Richlin, just like it’s my job to delegate, and hey, guess what? I just did.”

      Rio is not specifically excited to see Tunis, but she is bored to the point of unconsciousness and welcomes anything at all that breaks the routine. Tunis, Paris, or the Gates of Hell, she’s up for anything that is not this tent. She shoulders her rifle.

      “Nuh-uh-uh,” Cole says. “No weapons. Drunk GIs and weapons are not a good mix. Do you all comprehend me? I am dead damn serious: I sure as hell better not be hearing about you from the MPs.”

      Rio and Jenou, with Beebee in tow, join the others climbing aboard an open deuce-and-a-half truck whose driver has been persuaded to drive into town in exchange for half a carton of Luckies.

      It’s a dusty, bouncing, behind-pounding, spine-crunching, noisy, two-hour drive down roads choked with military vehicles. A sort of hierarchy governs the roads: at the lowest end are civilians, Arabs and Berbers with huge loads on their backs or smacking heavily laden donkeys; next, soldiers on foot; then the trucks. Jeeps carrying officers are next, and at the top of the precedence, tanks, because no one wants to get in the way of a Sherman.

      Speaking of which, there is a very odd sight by the side of the road, a Sherman pointing vertically out of a crater. A bulldozer idles beside it, and colored troops are running a thick chain from the tractor to the front of the tank.

      Beebee says, “So I guess some of you fellows have seen action?”

      Luther Geer seizes the opportunity to impress and terrify the new guy. “We have been into the jaws of death, youngster. Jaws of death! Krauts everywhere, bullets flying, blood up to our knees!”

      “And how about you girls?” Beebee asks, unconsciously drawing closer to them.

      “Well,” Jenou drawls, “we mostly just follow behind the men and bring them tea and cookies when they get tired of killing Krauts.”

      Jack emits a guffaw. Then, as if it’s the most serious matter in the world, he leans toward Beebee and says, “Of course you Yanks call them cookies, but the proper term is biscuits.”

      “I like Castain’s biscuits.” Tilo smirks. “Richlin’s biscuits haven’t quite risen, if you see what I mean.”

      “Stick, you’ve read the manual cover to cover,” Jenou says. “Is it okay if I shoot Suarez?”

      “Gonna get me some A-rab tail,” Tilo says, undeterred. “Gonna see for myself what they’ve got underneath those scarves and outfits they wear. I hear an A-rab woman will go with a GI for a dollar.”

      “I’m getting me some hooch first,” Geer says. “Then tail. What about you, Jappo?”

      Hansu Pang jerks in surprise. He is rarely spoken to directly.

      Before Pang can decide on a reply, Geer continues. “I know you Japs like pussy, what with all the raping and such your people did in China.”

      “Knock it off, Geer,” Stick says.

      “I am one-quarter Japanese,” Pang