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Things, Rio thinks, are not going according to plan.

Someone with stars on his shoulders, Bradley or Ike himself maybe, somebody, had taken his eye off the ball. And now the much-battered 119th Division is on its way to die for their mistake.

Platoon Sergeant Richlin sits on the hard wood bench, scratches at her lice, wedges herself in so as not to be bounced off, takes a drink from her canteen, tilts her helmet forward, and goes instantly to sleep.

After an unknown number of hours she wakes to find that they are still in forest, though whether it is the same forest or a different one, she cannot tell. A narrow river chuckles contentedly beside the road. The hills on either side are steep and growing steeper.

The road itself is busy in both directions. Long columns of wounded GIs pass going the other way. And once again, refugees are on the move, forced off the road into the woods, where they pass slowly, ghosts with backs bent beneath household belongings, or pushing wheelbarrows with old people propped in undignified positions, and children left to cling to their mothers’ hems.

The road takes a turn, still following the river, and ahead is a town dominated by three impressive buildings. First, perched in splendid isolation atop an absurdly steep ridge sits an abbey that, from Rio’s limited view, looks ancient and vaguely reddish. She is sure there’s a word for the style of architecture, and once upon a time she might have asked Stick, who seemed to know most things.

The town proper is dominated by a church with twin stone towers topped by diamond-shaped gray slate roofs. The church is up a moderate slope from a castle, an impressive whitewashed affair with a very Sleeping Beauty sort of round tower on one end. The abbey overlooks everything, the church overlooks the castle, the castle overlooks the town, the town is built alongside the river, and everything but the abbey is sandwiched into a heavily forested ravine of almost comical steepness.

Rio hears heavy firing up on the ridge, machine guns and small arms and the occasional thump of a mortar.

We’ll be climbing that slope unless I miss my guess.

The truck stops beside the river in an open, cobblestoned square. Now, for the first time, Rio notices that there are only four trucks.

“Everyone stay put,” Rio says, and climbs down. She walks the length of the truck to the driver, a man she guesses may be twenty-five but who is so whiskered, so slack of jaw and blank of expression, he looks like a much older man.

“When does the rest of the column get here?” Rio asks.

“This is the column,” the driver says. “Now fug off ’cause I’m going to sleep.”

To Rio’s amazement he does just that, and right then, collapsing onto his seat and snoring before he is fully prone.

“Get the people assembled, Richlin.” It is Lieutenant Horne.

“What are my orders, sir?” Rio asks.

Horne points with a cigarette up the slope. “Up there. The Krauts have tanks, we got tanks, and our tanks are getting their asses kicked. Fritz has this place surrounded.”

Rio takes that in. “We’re surrounded in a ravine with only one road out? When does the rest of the division get here?”

“They don’t. It’s just Fifth Platoon. The brass are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, throwing units into the line. Captain Passey and the rest of the company are elsewhere. Just you and me, Richlin.” He grins and winks as if it’s all some kind of joke. “So, like I said: climb that ridge. Report to whoever is in command up there.”

“And you, sir?”

Horne points at the castle. “That’s the HQ, I’ll be there getting the lay of the land. You can have my radio operator.”

“Food?” Rio asks, increasingly furious.

“You see a field kitchen?”

“My people are supposed to climb that?” Rio points at the ridge. “With no rest, no hot food, and go right into it?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem for you, Richlin. You’re the tough-as-nails soldier girl, aren’t you? The lady warrior with the Silver Star?”

He gloats at her, gloats as if this is a game and he’s just scored points. Her choice right then is to either follow orders or tell the supercilious fool what she thinks of him. What’s he going to do, court-martial her?

Well, she realizes, yes: that’s what he’s itching to do.

She turns her back on him without a salute or a word and stalks to the back of the truck. “All right, grab your gear.” She raises her voice to a shout and says, “Fifth Platoon, saddle up!”

“What are we doing?” Jenou asks as she climbs down, blinking sleep out of her bloodshot eyes.

Rio raises her eyes to the slope.