He lost his temper. “You stupid moron, don’t you know how to follow orders? Forget the damned bridge, I want those men before they do any more damage.”

  “But, Sir…”

  He drew his Luger pistol, nickel-plated, a gift from his parents when he graduated officer training school. “Do as I say, or I’ll put a bullet in you and get somebody else to drive the tank.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major. At once!”

  * * *

  They watched the Tiger reverse toward the canal, and neither man could believe their eyes.

  “Ray, tell me it’s not coming toward us?”

  “It’s coming toward us, Harry.”

  “They must have seen us. Shit, this is the end. We’re dead.”

  Chapter Four

  They didn’t die. The Tiger reversed within four yards of the canal bank and stopped. The tank had merely moved away from the fires to avoid any danger of the flames igniting the gasoline, and they were waiting for the troops to extinguish them.

  “What do we do?”

  He’d been thinking the same thing, and he had no answer for Harry. Save one.

  “We keep our heads down and wait.”

  Because the rear of the Tiger was close, he considered using their last rocket, although a moment’s thought was enough for him to realize if the tank exploded, they’d be engulfed in burning gasoline, and probably the shells would detonate sympathetically. Not a good plan. After a half-hour, there was still no sign of the armored vehicle making a move, and he cautiously poked his head over the top of the bank. A small, round stone about the size of a baseball blocked his view, and he moved it, tucking it into his pocket rather than risk it rolling down the bank and giving them away.

  The reason they weren’t moving became obvious. The smell of fresh bread and hot coffee was strong, and they’d decided to enjoy their lunch while they waited. He ducked back down and looked at Harry.

  “They’re eating and drinking coffee. They won’t move for a while.”

  “I can smell the coffee. It’s almost worth giving ourselves up.”

  He grinned as he looked over the top again. It wasn’t good. Although the tankers were taking a rest, the soldiers had put out the fires and were moving back toward the bridge. Some were helping to drag the artillery pieces into position, and it was obvious it wouldn’t be long before they fell on the Airborne troops holding the Nijmegen Bridge. It was equally obvious they’d be outgunned and outnumbered to a massive degree. And then there was the Tiger.

  He looked at Harry. “We have a single rocket. If we fire and miss, that’ll be the end. And when they roll that beast forward, our guys are finished. We need to work out a way to neutralize it.”

  “Ray, the best way to kill a tank is with another tank, and we don’t have another tank.”

  “What about that British armored division that crossed the bridge earlier? Where were they heading?”

  “I heard somebody say Arnhem, that’s about six miles to the east.”

  “We need to let them know they have at least one Tiger in their rear. Maybe they’ll send some tanks back to deal with it.”

  “Six miles is a long way, I doubt we’d get there in time.”

  “We can try. Why don’t we move along the canal bank until we’re out of sight of the tank and find a way to cross? Harry, we have to try.”

  “What about the bazooka?”

  “We need to move fast tonight. We’ll hide it here in the mud.”

  They slid four hundred yards along the bank and came across a steel pipe. It was probably used for carrying water across the canal. They straddled the pipe and managed to get across, and on the other side, they started jogging through the suburbs of Nijmegen North, heading east. They were on the outskirts when they ran into trouble. A house overlooking the highway suddenly erupted in a hurricane of automatic fire. They threw themselves off the road onto the verge and ducked low.

  “Krauts, they’re all over the place. How come they’re still here after the British armored column went past earlier?”

  “They’re cut off, and I’d guess they’re hoping their counterattack succeeds, and they retake the Nijmegen Bridge to block our forces from moving any further.” Cassidy gazed at the house; “I reckon there can’t be more than four men in there.”

  “Four men and a machine gun. We can circle them to get past.”

  “Or we can take them. Cover me, Harry.”

  “You can’t be serious? You left your Garand back at the canal. That means you plan to take on four Germans with a machine gun armed with a Colt.”

  “As I said, you cover me. I can move faster with a handgun.”

  “And die faster,” he grumbled, “It’s your funeral, buddy. Say the word.”

  “Now!”

  A low, ornamental wall encircled the house, and before the Germans spotted him, he’d sprinted across the road and dived down behind the wall. He kept moving, snaking along until he reached the corner and moved down the side of the house to the rear. If the enemy suspected what he was up to, he’d run into trouble when he entered the house to take them on. In this case, trouble meant a storm of lead, but hell, this was war, and war meant taking risks. So far he’d been lucky, and either his luck would continue or it would run out. He didn’t plan on ducking any risks. He’d take it anyway the cards fell. Although right then he’d prefer the card on top of the deck wasn’t the death card, the ace of spades.

  He nearly made it, pushed open the door, and a staircase was in front of him. He stepped into the hallway just as a steel-helmeted soldier started down the stairs from the second floor. His plan to get in behind them and take them by surprise was out of the question. He raised the Colt, pumped two bullets into the German’s chest, and stepped through a doorway as more boots clattered down the stairs. He saw another soldier run past him, and he stepped up, pumping another two bullets into him.

  A voice shouted from the second floor, questioning what was going on.

  “Werner, was is los?”

  He considered waiting in ambush in the hallway for the next soldier to come down, but if the other two came down together, he doubted he could get them both before one put a bullet in him. He’d have to do it the hard way and go up there after them. A grenade would’ve been more effective and less risky, except he was out of grenades. He was about to put his boot on the first stair when he looked down at the body of the man he’d just shot. Tucked into his left boot was an iconic, German pattern stick grenade, with the long wooden handle to assist the throw.

  He snatched the unfamiliar grenade from the man’s boot, pulled the metal ring to extract the pin, and lobbed it up the staircase. It fell on the landing, someone shouted, and a moment later it exploded. He raced up the stairs, around the corner to the room at the front of the house from where they’d fired at them as they approached. He expected to be greeted by two dead or dying soldiers on the floor. He’d made a mistake. The soldiers had erected a makeshift barricade from heavy Dutch clothes chests, and they sheltered them from the blast. Even worse, they were waiting for him, and they swung the machine-gun around, an MG-34, cutting loose a storm of bullets as he appeared.

  His luck hadn’t run out, not altogether. He was moving when they saw him, and their bullets ripped chunks of masonry from the wall right behind him as he ran past. He had time to dive to the floor and rolled behind yet another hardwood clothes chest. He guessed they’d used the room as a dressing room, and the chest was filled with clothing. The Germans peppered the chest with bullets and failed to penetrate through to his side. He had to do something. He was trapped in a room with two Germans and a machine gun, and a Colt M1911 just didn’t cut it.

  A soldier climbed to his feet to walk over to him and fill him with bullets, but Harry was still outside, keeping him covered. One of his bullets clanged off his helmet, the other ripped a long strip of cloth from his tunic, and he ducked back down with the second soldier. Ray didn’t have long. If either German had a grenade tucked in his boot like the one downstairs, they’d work out the quickest way to kill him was to throw it and it would be all over. Unless he did something first.

  He had an idea, a last desperate throw of the dice, and he looked around for something small and heavy. Nothing. He fished in his pockets and came up with the small stone he’d picked up on the canal bank. It was about the size of a baseball, dark and round. It also happened to be about the size of an American grenade. He tossed it, a gentle lob over the hardwood chests, and it fell out of sight next to the two Germans crouched behind them. Both men screamed.

  “Achtung! Granate!”

  They jumped to their feet like scalded cats and dived over the chest to land on the other side, hugging the floor close to where he lay. He got his feet, aimed his Colt, and squeezed the trigger, one bullet in the head for each man. They were both dead, and once again he’d been luckier than he deserved. One soldier had a grenade tucked into his boot, and if they’d used it, he’d be dead. He stood in the window and shouted to Harry he’d got them all. He waved an acknowledgment and started toward the house.

  Ray looked around the room, a final check before they left in case he’d missed anything, and there was something of value to the Intelligence guys. Like documents or maps. He found nothing, but there was something he’d missed. As Harry came in through the front door, he heard a man entering through the rear door, the way he’d come in. He ran to the staircase and looked down. The guy had been in the rear yard, probably answering a call of nature. Although how he could not have heard the commotion was strange. He was buttoning up his pants and when he looked up, he saw Cassidy standing above him, and Byrd walking through the front door.

  He carried an MP-38 slung on his chest, and he didn’t hesitate. Brought the muzzle around the point at Harry and squeezed the trigger. A stream of 9mm spewed out from the gun, and he screamed in pain when at least one struck him.

  Ray shouted, “No!”

  He raced down the staircase, spitting bullets from his Colt, except he was almost out, and after the first two rounds, it clicked on empty. Meanwhile, the German had switched his aim and more bullets hacked toward him. He retreated to the second floor and dived around the corner, away from the incoming fire, but his buddy was lying downstairs wounded, and the bastard who’d shot him was alive. He slammed his remaining magazine into the Colt and was about to start back downstairs to save Harry when he had another thought. Eight rounds were feeble compared to a machine pistol, and it wouldn’t do Harry any good if he was cut down by automatic fire in the attempt.

  Before he entered the house, Harry said the Colt wasn’t much of a weapon to go up against a machine gun. He was right, but the Germans at the front of the house had a machine gun, and they were dead, so they wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it. He ran into the room, stepped over the bodies, and hefted the MG-34. A belt of ammunition with almost two hundred rounds remaining; so there’d be no shortage of bullets.

  Now for the bastard downstairs!

  He walked along the landing. The guy was making it easy for him, walking up the stairs and shouting in broken English for Cassidy to surrender.

  “American soldier, you must surrender now. Your friend is injured, and if you toss your puny handgun down the staircase and come up with your hands up, I won’t shoot. You can save your fellow soldier. You have no choice. What use is a handgun against a machine gun?”

  “I borrowed your machine gun, pal. A German machine gun. Good weapon.”

  The guttural voice shouted a reply. “It makes no difference, your friend will never get out of here alive. Put down your weapons. You have no other choice.”

  “Is that right?” He stepped out into the open at the top of the staircase and pointed the barrel down, toward the man standing at the bottom. His MP-38 was pointed upward. He was relaxed, glancing around, waiting for him to obey.

  Ray squeezed the trigger and sent a long a stream of bullets that tore into the German and threw him backward. He was angry, pissed that the guy had ambushed Harry, and he didn’t let up on the trigger. Instead, he watched the soldier’s body jerk as the bullets struck, and when he’d expended what he reckoned was around one hundred bullets, he stopped shooting and started down the stairs. There was no need to check the soldier. He probably had more lead in his body than living tissue. The bullets had devastated him, ripped apart as if by some terrible machine, and there was nothing left except blood, tissue, and torn uniform.

  He ran to Byrd, and he was lying on the floor, still alive. “Harry, where were you hit?”

  “My chest, just above the heart. Ray, I’m gonna die.”

  He pulled open his jacket to look at the wound. If the bullet had struck a quarter of an inch lower, it would’ve penetrated his heart and he’d be dead. But the bullet had struck the brass closure of his wallet. Harry kept it stuffed with local currency, wherever they were stationed. Pounds when they were in England, Francs when they arrived in France, and somehow he’d managed to acquire a bundle of Dutch guilders when they crossed the border. The bullet was still there. It had penetrated the brass buckle, through the leather, the bundle of bills inside, and entered his chest, scratching the skin.

  “It’s a flesh wound. You’re not gonna die.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yep. Although your financial affairs took a big hit.” He showed him the wallet, and they regarded the big hole in his hard currency savings, “It’s a loss, but it’s a lot better than the alternative.”

  Harry had a one-word reply. “Shit.”

  “You’ll get over it. Get off the floor. We need to move out and reach those British tanks before it’s too late.”

  Still grumbling, he got to his feet. They went out the back way where they found two of the peculiar, upright Dutch cycles leaning against the rear wall. Without a word, they took the cycles and wheeled them out to the road. Less than a minute later they were pedaling east along a narrow highway bordered by a canal on each side. Another minute later, they stopped.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Cassidy didn’t have anything to add. An armored column was heading straight at them, and this time there was nowhere to run.

  Chapter Five

  They weren’t destined to die in that place, and the tanks weren’t German. They were British, the modified, up-gunned Shermans they called ‘Fireflies.’ The big difference was the much larger sixteen-pounder gun fitted to the turret, capable of destroying any German tank it came across. Including Tigers.

  The lead tank rumbled after them and stopped. The commander stared down at them from his turret, and instead of a steel helmet, he wore a black beret.

  “Are you men lost?” He had a peculiar British accent.

  “We were looking for some tanks.” Ray pointed a thumb behind him in the direction of Nijmegen, “Some of our guys are trying to hold the bridge, and the Germans have brought up a company of infantry, four artillery pieces and a Tiger. There’s no way they can deal with the Tiger.”

  He gave him a serious nod. “I guess not. We were heading back that way. The Germans have bought up heavy reinforcements including armor, and the Airborne landing at Arnhem is falling apart. We’ve been ordered to fall back, so we were heading back to Nijmegen anyway. How does a ride sound, or would you prefer to cycle?”

  They climbed onto the hull of the tank, and it rumbled forward. They heard the commander, a captain, give the order over the radio to increase speed, and within minutes they were nearing the town. The battle was still raging, artillery pounding the defenders’ positions around the bridge, and the infantry working their way forward using classic tactics. A section would race forward, drop to the ground, and cover the section behind while they followed. It was working, and they were within one hundred yards of the bridge. Soon, a final rush would swamp them, and it’d be all over. Except it wasn’t.

  Ray looked around, and there was no sign of the Tiger. For a fleeting moment he hoped it’d left, but he knew it was a forlorn hope. It would be around somewhere.

  The Captain barked an order over the radio, the tanks deployed in line abreast, and the turrets began to traverse. He used the microphone again. “Load high explosive and fire at will. Knock out those enemy soldiers, and watch out for the Tiger.”

  The noise was deafening. Eight Fireflies firing their massive sixteen-pounder guns, and a storm of heavy shells fell on the Germans, the equivalent of 88mm shells. The effect was devastating. One moment the confident troopers had been advancing, about to swamp the Americans with their overwhelming numbers and firepower. The next they were dying, and those that didn’t die were diving for cover. But it wasn’t all over. The Luftwaffe, seldom in evidence during the Allied advance toward Germany, put in an appearance. A flight of four Focke Wulf 109s dived on the tanks, their 20mm cannons ripping into the armored hulls of the modified Shermans, and one Firefly exploded when cannon shells ripped into the fuel tank.

  The fighters didn’t have it all their way. Each Firefly carried a Browning M2 .50 caliber on the turret, and the commanders sent a stream of lead into the sky to show the Germans they weren’t defenseless. Two fighters veered away when a stream of heavy lead ripped toward them, tearing chunks of metal from their fuselages. Yet the Brownings were no match for the fast-moving fighters, and they zoomed up into the sky, barrel-rolled, and hurtled back down for a second attack.

  It would’ve succeeded, but for the return of the USAF. Eight aircraft of a squadron of P-47s, returning from escorting a bombing raid into Germany. When they discovered the tempting prospect of four enemy fighters dangled in front of them, they fell on the Focke Wulfs. It was no contest. The Thunderbolts carried eight .50 caliber Brownings, and the sky was filled with hot lead, most of it targeted at the Germans. Two Focke Wulfs dived steeply, trailing smoke, and hit the ground several hundred yards away. Another exploded when a massive stream of .50 caliber bullets ripped into it, and the fourth and last aircraft turned east, heading for home, trailing smoke from multiple hits. The P-47s lingered overhead for several minutes, looking for more targets before they flew off to the west.

 

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