1632

'You were quick enough to put my boyfriend in the front line!'

Frank was just as stubborn as his niece. 'That's different. He's a guy. And I'll tell you something else, young lady. If that stupid damned boyfriend of yours breaks ranks 'cause he's worried about you, there'll be hell to pay! That's one of the reasons I don't want-'

'Chip?' demanded Julie. 'Ha! I already told him what'd happen if he did. He's hunted with me too, you know. I'll nail him before he takes a step.'

Watching the interplay, Mike's grin faded. In truth, despite his genuine amusement at his older friend's knee-jerk outrage, Mike was uneasy himself with the arrangement. Mike thought he possessed little of any traditional 'male chauvinism'-and what little there was had long ago been beaten out of him by his spunky sister-but he could still recognize a certain crude reality to Frank's opposition. It was a simple fact that, by and large, women were not as physically suited for infantry combat as men.

By and large…

Mike remembered a phrase from a play he had just seen two weeks ago. Shakespeare's Hamlet, staged by the high school's drama class in front of a packed audience in the school's auditorium, and then rebroadcast on TV. (They had kept the author's name. Balthazar had not objected; he had even had kind words to say about the performance, which, as was his custom, he had seen on the opening night.)

By and large…

Ay, there's the rub. What happens to the individual, when they get locked within that dangerous 'by and large'? Generality is a slippery slope.

Mike studied the women in the pickup's bed, steadying himself with a hand against the truck's jolting progress down the dirt road.

Julie Sims, for all her cheerleader prettiness, had the physique of someone who was as well trained athletically as any of the boys she cheered on. Mike didn't doubt for a minute that she was in better physical shape than ninety-five percent of the men in the American/German army. Not as strong, no doubt, as many of them. But He eyed the rifle held casually in her hands. By universal acknowledgement, Julie Sims was the best rifle shot in Grantville. In all of Marion county, for that matter. Maybe even in the whole state. There had been talk of sponsoring her for the Winter Olympics biathlon. The talk had been serious enough that Julie had taken up cross-country skiing, and applied herself to it with her usual energy. Her skill on skis would be her downfall, she was convinced. Certainly not the shooting!

Mike's eyes met those of Gayle. The glance they exchanged was warm and friendly. When Gayle had started working in the mine years ago, she had encountered a certain amount of harassment from some of the male miners. Not much-and nothing in the way of physical abuse-but enough to make her defensive. 'Defensive,' for someone with Gayle Mason's temperament, was indistinguishable from belligerent. Then Mike had returned to West Virginia, gotten hired at his father's old job, and the harassment had ended within a week. They had wound up becoming good friends.

His eyes moved to the woman sitting next to Gayle, and the concern in them deepened.

'Relax, brother of mine,' said Rita. 'We'll stay out of trouble. I promise.'

Mike smiled ruefully. Promises be damned! He knew his sister too well.

In the front, Frank was still muttering. 'Damn Melissa Mailey, anyway,' he was heard to grumble. 'Stupid pinheaded liberal feminist peabrained-' On and on.

Bouncing around in the semidarkness of the truck bed, Mike and his sister exchanged grins. Melissa, of course, was taking the public blame for this latest outrage. Simpson, especially, seemed to spend half his time cursing her name from the rooftops. He had long since, in his relentless political campaign, elevated Melissa Mailey to the status of Ba'alzebub to Mike's Satan.

But Melissa was quite innocent, in truth. The middle-aged schoolteacher had been as surprised as anyone, when Rita and Gayle and Julie Sims advanced their demand to be incorporated into Grantville's armed forces. In the raucous debate which erupted in the emergency committee, Melissa had waffled and wavered-quite unlike her usual self. On the one hand, her feminism inclined her to support the proposal. On the other…

At bottom, Melissa Mailey had the soul of a pacifist. A semipacifist, at least. A Boston Brahmin, born and bred in a certain other-worldly atmosphere. The thought of carrying a gun herself had never seriously crossed her mind. Not even in her days as a radical college student, when she had been much more attracted by the tactics of civil disobedience.

No, Simpson could denounce Melissa all he wanted. Here, as in so many things, the rich man from the big city simply failed to understand the mentality of the 'poor white trash' he had found himself placed amidst. Unsophisticated they might be, in some respects. But generations of poverty and hard times had also bred a certain hard-headed practicality, and a willingness to accept reality for what it was. Nor did the proposal seem all that strange, come down to it. Many of Grantville's women had already served in the U.S. military, after all, drawn by the same blue-collar motives which impelled their brothers and cousins to volunteer.

Our army's too small? Well, then-enlist women.

Squawk, squawk, squawk. By and large…

Fine. They've got to pass the same physical tests.

By and large, the women who volunteered failed to pass Frank's rigorous regimen. And Mike refused all pleas to ease the training. That far, he was not prepared to go.

By and large…

Ay, there's the rub. Because a fair number of women did pass even Frank's disgruntled scrutiny-and some of them with flying colors. Six of them, to be precise. All six were now riding in the pickup with the army's official commander. Mike had decided he should accompany them, in their first test in actual battle.

***

'Just stay out of trouble,' Mike said, loud enough to be heard by all the occupants in the back of the truck. 'Do us all a favor, will you? Stay out of trouble.'

Gayle and Julie grinned. The other three girls smiled. Rita seemed to ignore the remark completely. She was peering through one of the firing slits.

' 'Stay out of trouble,' ' she mimicked sarcastically. 'Jeff's just dropping Gretchen off. Now there's the woman you oughta be worrying about.'

She turned away, bestowing her brother with a glare. 'Why is it,' she demanded, 'that men shit their pants at the idea of a woman in a battle-but have no trouble at all sending Mata Hari into the lion's den?'

Mike laughed. 'Mata Hari? Get real! Gretchen's not going to be batting her eyes at any diplomats and generals.'

His sister's gaze was unwinking. 'No. That'd be safe, compared to what you want her to do.'

Mike looked away. To his relief, Gayle came to his rescue. 'Give your poor brother a break, Rita,' she said, chuckling. 'He backed us up, didn't he, push come to shove?'

His sister's reply was inaudible. But Mike wouldn't have heard it, anyway. He had caught sight of Gretchen, still kissing her new husband as she stood alongside Jeff's motorcycle. He almost laughed again, seeing the shocked expressions on the faces of the German burghers and their women alongside the road. In public! Outrageous!

'You ain't seen nothing yet,' he whispered. 'Notable men and women of Germany-heeere's Gretchen!'

Chapter 38

Reluctantly, Jeff let her go. 'Be careful,' he whispered, giving Gretchen's waist another quick hug.

'Me?' she demanded, frowning half-jocularly. 'You are ze one goink in battle. Not me!'

Jeff was not mollified. 'Still-'

Gretchen grabbed the back of his head and drew his face to hers. A quick, firm kiss followed. Then she stepped back, patting him on a plump cheek. 'Go, husband. Come back to me. Safe.'

Jeff sighed. When she wanted, his wife had a will of iron. He knew full well that this was one of those times. He still didn't understand why Gretchen had been so quick-so eager-to accept Mike and Melissa's proposal. But he hadn't questioned her at the time, and he wasn't about to do it now.

So he satisfied himself with a quick glance at her bodice and vest. The garments had been designed slightly oversize. Between that, and Gretchen's impressive bust, the 9mm automatic resting in the shoulder holster was quite unnoticeable.

His wife laughed. 'Not to stare at mein tits!' she exclaimed, shaking her head and wagging a finger. 'Vat skandal!' Then, very softly: 'Do not vorry, husband. Go.'

A moment later, Jeff was roaring off. He made it a point to do a wheelie as he passed a small group of young men standing by the road. The local toughs, by their look.

They were suitably impressed-not so much by the acrobatics of the machine as the ferocious scowl on the face of the very large man who rode it. That, and the odd but deadly looking weapon slung over his shoulder. Jeff would have been quite shocked-and utterly pleased-had he known the impression he made on those bravos. They saw nothing of a shy young man in his leather-jacketed form. Just a killer. The fact that he wore spectacles made him seem all the more dangerous. The better to see his victims, no doubt.

One of the young toughs was not as intimidated as the others. After the motorcycle's roar faded, he cast an eye on the woman standing by the road staring after it.

'Good-looking,' he mused. 'Very.'

'Forget it, Max,' hissed one of his friends.

Max leered. 'Why, Josef? Who knows? Her man might be dead before the day is over.'

Max's friends gathered around, crowding him close. 'I said forget it,' repeated Josef, punching Max in the shoulder. The gesture was not playful in the least. 'He might not, either. And even if he is, what of the others?'

Max let it go. The woman had disappeared into the crowd, by now. And he didn't like the way in which Josef was gripping his dirk. 'Just joking,' he mumbled. But he made himself a silent promise to pursue the matter. Alone.

***