The sergeant cursed softly under his breath.
He had thought the tracer fire looked awfully low while he was going under the wire. Well, two could play that game. When this was all over, he’d have a word or two with the Legionnaire sergeant who had manned the weapon during the Red Eagles’ run. What was her name again … Brandy? Yes, that was it.
Spengler allowed himself the ghost of a smile as he recalled the magazine spread that had been passed around when they got this assignment.
He had to admit, they didn’t have anything that looked like that in his unit. While there were women in the ranks of the Red Eagles, their build and manner was from flat-faced, big-boned, muscular genes that would look more at home behind the wheel of a truck or a bulldozer than on a dance floor or in a centerfold. Maybe he wouldn’t lean on this Brandy girl too hard. Perhaps a sociable drink or five …
The sharp report of a starting gun drew the sergeant’s attention. The Legionnaires had started their run. There were many obstacles to clear before they reached his position, and since there was no sense in spraying bullets over the barbed wire when there was no one there, the sergeant had time to watch for a while before settling in behind the machine gun.
At first, he thought the Legionnaires had gotten their signals crossed and were following the normal procedure of running the course in “flights,” as half a dozen figures darted out from the starting line. Then he realized that the entire company was, indeed, moving, but in a steady, ground-eating jog rather than a headlong sprint.