about it,” Major Masters said, then added: “Well, he’s coming in. Let’s see what he has to say.”
They walked to the .50-caliber air-cooled Browning position on the left, arranged themselves behind its sandbags, and watched as the tall soldier, his arms still over his head, walked toward them.
The soldier was no boy, but there were no chevrons visible on the sleeves of his fatigue shirt.
When he was twenty yards away, Captain Allen stood up.
“Over here, soldier,” he called.
The soldier trotted to the machine-gun emplacement, dropped his arms, and saluted.
“Who are you?” Major Masters demanded.
“Technical Sergeant Jennings, sir.”
“Are you in charge of this . . . patrol?”
“No, sir. Sir, with respect, may I go wave the others in?”
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” Allen said.
Masters gave him a dirty look, and when Jennings was just possibly out of hearing range, said, “I was talking to that man, Allen. You should not have interfered.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Fuck you! Until someone relieves me, I’m in command here, and you’re just a goddamn visiting brass hat. A minor-league brass hat.
Jennings trotted halfway toward where he had stopped the jeep and gestured toward the hill that it was all right to come in. Then he trotted back to the machine-gun emplacement.
“Just who is in charge of your patrol, Sergeant?” Major Masters asked.
“Sir, with respect, if I don’t find a slit trench in the next sixty seconds, I am going to have a personal catastrophe.”
“Over there, Sergeant,” Captain Allen said, chuckling as he pointed.
“Thank you, sir.”
Masters gave him another dirty look.
“Vehicles coming down the hill, Captain!” the sergeant in the turret of one of the Shermans called.
Allen and Masters looked.
“What the hell is that?” Masters asked.
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Captain Allen said.
The vehicle leading the weapons carrier toward them was jeeplike but not a jeep. After a moment Allen remembered seeing pictures of a Russian vehicle like it in a magazine. Or was it during one of those endless goddamn Know Your Enemy! briefings?
“It looks like a Russian jeep,” Allen said.
Major Masters snorted or grunted again; Captain Allen wasn’t sure.
The Russian, if that’s what it was, jeep stopped behind the jeep the sergeant had left out there, and a man . . .
How do I know that guy is an old-time noncom? Allen thought.
. . . climbed out of it, got in the jeep, and led the Russian jeep and a weapons carrier into the roadblock.
When the jeep got close and he could see its stocky, barrel-chested driver, Captain Allen was even more sure he was a longtime noncom. He said so, calling out, “Sergeant, park your jeep behind the Sherman on the left.”
The driver nodded his understanding.
The Russian vehicle—That’s what it is, I’m sure—immediately followed.
With its headlights on, for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t this guy know that turns him into a bull’s-eye?
“Turn those headlights off!” Captain Allen ordered firmly, even a little angrily, then impatiently signaled the Russian vehicle to move past him and get behind the closest of the three tanks.
As the weapons carrier rolled up to him, Allen ordered, “Put that behind that tank,” and pointed to the third Sherman.
As the truck passed him, Allen saw that the truck bed was just about full of people. It was now dark, so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw at least two, maybe three, Orientals.
Major Masters marched purposefully toward the Russian vehicle, with Allen following.
The driver . . .
Who’s not wearing a helmet . . .
Goddamn it, none of these people are!!!
. . . who looked a little old to be a private—there was no rank insignia in sight—was already out of the Russian vehicle, leaning against it, lighting a cigar with a wooden match.
“Are you in charge of this . . . operation?” Major Masters demanded.
“Yes, I am,” the driver said, taking a deep, satisfied puff on his cigar, then examining the coal.
“And don’t you salute officers, soldier?” Major Masters demanded icily.
“Sorry,” the driver said, straightened, and saluted. Masters returned it impatiently. After a moment, Allen did so too.
“What’s your name, soldier? Your outfit?” Major Masters demanded.
“My name is McCoy, Major,” the driver said. “And I’m a Marine. Actually, I’m a Marine major.”
Captain Allen accepted this immediately. There was something about this guy’s voice, the smile on his face, that made the announcement credible. Major Masters had trouble with it.
“Is there some reason you’re not wearing the insignia of your rank, Major?”
“Who are you?” McCoy asked.
“My name is Masters. I’m the assistant G-2 of the 25th Division.”
“You work for Colonel Lemuleson?” McCoy asked.
“As a matter of fact,