we used up.'
'They'll do that, I'm told,' Ed answered. 'Rogue waves, I mean.' I really don't want to think about the Romanian girls right now. 'Hey look, I have a doctor aboard but she speaks only limited English and has no equipment at all beyond her little doctor's bag. And even that's nineteen fifties technology. Can you and your men wait until we get to Guyana or, better, to Brazil?'
Thornton's face was gray, ashen. He nodded wearily, and seemed almost confused. 'I think so. Nothing wrong with us really but some broken bones and a couple of concussions. We oughta be able to wait a few days . . .'
Cruz and Borsakov, standing behind Kosciusko, looked at Thornton, at Morales being carried off, and at a very broken and bedraggled looking Simmons and Antoniewicz. They then looked at each other and shook their heads. 'We don't think so,' Cruz said. He looked at the Bastard and added, 'This heap shouldn't be in the water again until it's refitted. But Art and I can take one of the Hips and fly these guys to Panama City. There are some good hospitals there, English-speaking, even, and I doubt Stauer will balk about paying for the best care. They can fly to Georgetown later. It's maybe . . . three hours round trip to Panama City and back.'
Ed thought about it, weighing the options, the issues, and the problems. A Russian chopper in Panama has got to be an unusual event. Flying off a ship that isn't supposed to have any is even more likely to raise eyebrows. But we need these guys on their feet by D-30. If they're worse hurt than I hope, they might not be ready. They might never be ready. It's a risk to send them to shore but . . .
'It's a risk worth taking,' Kosciusko said. 'Break out a chopper. Land . . . where? Right at the airport?'
'Probably less noticeable than anywhere else,' Cruz offered.
'Right. Okay then, land right at the airport. Rent a car. Take them to hospital that way. If it looks like any of them can be released quickly, like within a few hours, wait for them and bring them back. We'll keep it down to ten knots, here.'
'Wilco, skipper,' Cruz agreed. He was actually senior to Kosciusko, in retired rank, but the latter was skipper of a ship, the former was a Marine, and the captain of a ship is its monarch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
We become what we do.
-May-lin Soong Chiang
D-85, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil
The broad dirt path from A Company's camp, generally to the north, to the airfield passed around the outskirts of Central Camp. Phillie was busy inventorying medicines and equipment lest Sergeant Coffee become more unhappy with her, a fate devoutly to be feared. She stopped what she was doing for a moment when she heard the singing coming through the open portal of one of the aid station tents.
. . . d Nachte stand nie der Motor,Wir sturmten und schlugenUnd kampften uns vor,Mit den Panzerkameraden treu vereint,Immer die Ersten am Feind.
That was odd enough to bring Phillie out of the tent. German? Sounds like German. Sure as shit, there was the armored company, in the same battledress she now wore, marching in four groups, forty files of three and change, the big red-headed guy she knew as George marching by the left flank, all of them singing some bloody awful foreign-Gotta be German.-song. The men in the ranks looked to average somewhere in their early to mid forties, but there were some considerably older ones among them. Sergeant Major Joshua, marching at the head of the column, had to be over sixty, she thought.
Over the singing, George somehow managed to make himself heard. 'Column Riiighghght . . . .MARCH!' After another step, the point of the long column turned right, heads erect and arms swinging.
Panzergrenadiere,Vorwarts, zum Siege voran!Panzergrenadiere,Vorwarts, wir greifen an!
Phillie stopped what she was doing and pulled on her camouflage jacket, the same kind as the troops wore though she filled hers out rather differently. I don't want Sergeant Coffee pissed at me anymore, she fretted, as she took the time to button the thing. She clamped the broad brimmed hat on her head. Then it was out the tent door, trailing the marching company. She saw a couple of others following. She assumed it was out of curiosity.
She froze when she heard Coffee's voice, 'I thought you were doing an inventory, Nurse Potter.'
'I was but . . . '
'Never mind. This will be useful education for you, too.'
Phillie breathed a mental sigh of relief. 'Now come on,' Coffee said, 'hurry up and we can fall in on the last platoon.'
He ran; she followed. She found it hard to keep in step until Coffee said, 'Listen to the stressed beats. That's when your left foot hits the ground.' Then he joined the singing.
. . . Wird jeder Feind gestellt,Bis die letzte Festung fallt,Und im Sturm drauf und dran uberrannt.
'How do you know the song?' Phillie asked from the side.
'No talking in ranks,' he admonished her. 'But I used to be his platoon sergeant for a while.'
'Whose platoon sergeant?' she asked, ignoring the admonishment.
'Reilly's, the fucking maniac.'
Von Panzergrenadieren,
Panzergrenadieren uberrannt.
Von Panzergrenadieren,
Panzergrenadieren uberrannt!
Ahead, the dirt path through the jungle opened up to the airstrip's clearing. The volume of the singing, if anything, redoubled. One of the airplanes Phillie had learned was called a 'Pilatus Porter' was turning around, midway down the strip. George called out, 'Column Leeeffft . . . MARCH!'
