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They find the company road, and after some questioning of busy noncoms they find the right tent. Sitting in a camp chair outside the tent are a male staff sergeant with a prominent widow’s peak, pale skin, and intelligent eyes. And a woman buck sergeant with her mud-caked boots up on an empty C ration crate and a tin canteen cup of steaming coffee in her hand.

“Here they are,” the staff sergeant says, at once weary and amused.

“Those are mine?” the woman buck sergeant asks. There is no attempt to disguise a critical, dubious look. “These are what I get in exchange for Cat Preeling?”

“Look at it this way, it’s three for one.”

“Except Cat can handle a BAR and won’t wet herself the first time she hears an 88.” The woman sergeant stands up, and now Lupé sees that she has a long, curved knife strapped to her thigh—definitely not army issue.

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“Line up,” the woman sergeant says. “No, not at attention, do I look like an officer? Is this a parade ground? I’m Sergeant Richlin. You can call me Sarge or you can call me Sergeant Richlin.”

Lupé looks closely and sees that amazingly the sergeant is quite young, probably no older than she is herself. Sergeant Richlin is a bit taller than Lupé, paled by weeks living with British weather, dark hair chopped man-short, blue eyes alert and probing.

“How about I call you sweetheart?”

This from the big boy from Philadelphia, Rudy J. Chester. He’s grinning, and for a moment Lupé is convinced that Sergeant Richlin will let it go. Then she sees the way Sticklin draws a sharp breath, starts to grin, looks down to hide it, shakes his head slowly side to side, and in a loud stage whisper says, “The replacements are here.”

There’s the sound of cots being overturned and a rush of feet. A pretty blond corporal bursts through the tent flap, blinking at the gray light as if she’s just woken up, glances around, and says, “Uh-oh.” And then, “Geer! Beebee! Get out here. I believe one of the replacements just back-talked Richlin.”

There’s a second flurry of movement, and a young man with shrewd eyes and a big galoot with an impressive forehead come piling out, faces alight with anticipation.

“What’s your name?” Sergeant Richlin asks.

“Rudy J. Chester, sweetheart.” He grins left, grins right, sees faces that are either appalled or giddy with expectation, and then slowly, slowly seems to guess that maybe, just maybe, he’s said the wrong thing.

Rio Richlin steps up close to him, her face inches from his. He is at least four inches taller and outweighs her by better than fifty pounds. Which is why it’s so surprising that in less time than it takes to blink twice, he is on the ground, facedown, with his right wrist in Richlin’s grip, his arm stretched backward and twisted, and Richlin’s weight on her knee pressed against his back-bent elbow.

“Oh, come on, Richlin!” the big galoot says. “Should of used the knife!”

The pretty blond shakes her head in mock disgust. “She’s gone soft, Geer. It’s all this high living.”

Richlin lets Rudy J. Chester writhe and struggle for a few seconds before explaining, “The average human elbow can be broken with just fourteen pounds of pressure, Private Sweetheart. How many pounds of pressure would you guess I can apply against your elbow?”

Chester struggles a bit more before finally saying, “More than fourteen pounds, I guess.”

“More than fourteen pounds, I guess, Sergeant Richlin.” She gives his arm a twist that threatens to pop his shoulder out of its socket.

“More than fourteen pounds, I guess, Sergeant Richlin!”

Rio releases him. The blond corporal mimes applause. The big corporal named Geer goes back under cover. Beebee shakes his head and mutters, “I missed the first part. Can we do it over?”

Private Rudy J. Chester gets to his feet.

“Now listen to me, the three of you,” Richlin says. “This is Second Squad, Fifth Platoon, Able Company, 119th Division. This is a veteran division, a veteran platoon. Everyone in this squad has been in combat. You have not. Therefore everyone in this squad outranks you. Are we clear on that?”

Three voices say, “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Okay.” Now Richlin allows her voice to soften. “We have a few days, at best a week, to get you ready for the real thing. The real thing will be like nothing you learned at basic. Whatever ideas you have, get them out of your head, because you know nothing.”

Three heads nod. Lupé thinks, I should have mouthed off and maybe she’d break my arm and send me home.

At the same time, she thinks she’s never before met any woman who could convincingly threaten to break a man’s arm. Let alone a freckle-faced gringa who can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

“This is Sergeant Sticklin, the platoon sergeant,” Richlin goes on, explaining in a tone that suggests she’s talking to the slow-witted. “Here’s the way it goes: Franklin Delano Roosevelt gives an order to General Marshall, who gives an order to General Eisenhower, who gives an order to General O’Callaghan, who gives an order to Colonel Brace, who gives an order to Captain Passey, who gives an order to Lieutenant Horne, who gives an order to Stick—Sergeant Sticklin—and then Sergeant Sticklin and I try to figure out how to carry out that order without getting you people killed. Is that about right, Stick?”

“It is,” he allows, mock-solemn.