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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 says with all the dignity he can muster as the truck rattles noisily over ground torn up by tank treads. “Half Korean and one-quarter white.”

“Well, goody for you,” Geer says. “So you’re a half-breed who’s only one-quarter traitor.”

No one comes to Pang’s defense, though the silence that follows is distinctly uncomfortable. It nags at Rio’s conscience, this baiting of Pang. There were Japanese (or Jappo-American, whatever, she isn’t sure what to call them) farmers around Gedwell Falls. They were just regular, hardworking farmers, no different than the various English, Scots, Italians, French, and so on in the area. She has heard about them being rounded up and sent to camps, many of them being forced to sell their farms for far less than they were worth.

She thinks someday s

he might get annoyed enough by Geer to say something. But not now. Not yet. She tells herself she has enough trouble being a woman in the army, she doesn’t need to pick fights on behalf of Japs.

Anyway, they have a twenty-four-hour pass. Time for fun, not for picking fights.

Tunis is a city, not a town—a vast, sprawling maze of sun-bleached one- and two-story stucco homes, narrow crooked streets, and narrow, even more crooked alleys. Their progress is slowed by donkeys piled high with bushels of dates, big pottery jars of honey, bushels of wheat, and colorful rugs; by men with dark, suspicious faces glowering from the shade of hoods; dirty, excited, nearly naked children racing alongside yelling their few words of English, “Hey, Joe, gimme cigarette?” and “My sister love you long time—one dollar!”

Jillion Magraff digs in her pocket, comes up with a chocolate bar—or what passes for chocolate in army rations—and tosses the bar into the gaggle of children, who instantly start fighting over it.

Finally the truck lurches to a halt outside an intersection choked with foot traffic milling past awning-shielded stalls selling olives, grapes, dates, chickpeas, bright orange spices, and war souvenirs that run from German medals and helmets to British tea and cans of bully beef to American cigarettes.