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This would explain the second lieutenant who is shaking hands now with the acting lieutenant, who salutes pleasantly and ambles off.

“Better put them at ease, Sergeant O’Malley, some of them look about ready to keel over,” the new lieutenant says.

He’s young—they always are—twenty-three or twenty-four years old. His uniform is perfection, creases all crisp and ruler straight, lapels starched and ironed to a knife’s edge, cap set to the correct angle with just a bit extra for a hint of swagger. He has a patrician face with high cheekbones, smooth peaches-and-cream complexion, and eyes the color of a calm sea on a sunny day.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Jenou says voicelessly.

The lieutenant is gorgeous.

“I’m Lieutenant Mike Vanderpool, I’m your new platoon commander.”

Despite the dandy’s uniform, he stands easy, a slight tilt to his head, and neither his voice nor his expression marks him as any kind of martinet.

“I’m a West Pointer, I’ll just confess that right from the start.”

There is a rustle of low laughs, quickly quashed.

“Yes, I am one of them. And this is my first time in the actual war. So I am relieved to find that I have under me some of the finest NCOs in the army. Sergeant O’Malley, Sergeant Shields, Sergeant Cole, and Sergeant Alvarez, I will rely on your experience as we work together.”

Rio almost smiles to see Cole standing a bit taller before self-consciously relapsing to an unimpressed slouch.

“You men—and women—I will come to know each of you in time. Give me a chance, and I’ll return the favor. Sergeant O’Malley? Anything you or your NCOs would like to say?”

Jack suddenly collapses, but he picks himself up and is diplomatically ignored by the new lieutenant.

Cole speaks up. “Sir, I don’t know if this is the right time, but I’m down a corporal and I’d like to replace him out of my squad.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“I’ve got a man who’s been filling the role temporarily. Stick. I mean, um, what the hell is your actual name, Stick?”

“Dain Sticklin, sir.” He winces noticeably, perhaps because his jaw is bruised a yellowish blue and may not be quite centered. But he looks better than Jack, who may well have died, been buried, and only recently been disinterred.

Lieutenant Vanderpool steps over, hands behind his back, interested. “You seem to have been injured, Private Sticklin.”

“Sir, we had a pass and . . . well, those back streets get pretty dark, with stairs and all, so I tripped.”

“Ah.”

“Landed on my face, sir.”

“Well. Maybe we could issue more flashlights. This tripping problem seems to be something of an epidemic in the platoon.”

“Yes, sir,” Stick says, his expression that of a man straining not to throw up.

“I will also require more attention to your uniforms in the future. The general is a stickler for proper uniform, including ties and shined boots. I would rather not be chewed out by General Patton. I saw it happen to a bird colonel once, and it was not a show I care to see twice.”

O’Malley, standing beside Lieutenant Vanderpool, says, “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

Vanderpool flashes a grin that gradually becomes a thoughtful frown. “It seems this platoon is afflicted with an unusual degree of clumsiness. At least half of you seem to have . . . tripped and fallen on your faces. But we’ll fix that right up. Sticklin, do you know what’s good for the aftereffects of tripping?”

“Oh . . .” Stick says, sensing where this line of questioning is going.

“A nice five-mile run, out to the wadi and back. I need to confer with my sergeants, so Corporal Sticklin? Lead the men out.”

Jenou raises a trembling hand, and Vanderpool says, “Yes, the women too.”

Rio has made many five-mile runs. But a five-mile run with a crashing headache and a mouth full of wool is a whole new level of agony.