HOLD THE BRIDGE

  By Todd McLeod & Eric Meyer

  BOOK 5 OF THE HEROES OF THE 82ND AIRBORNE SERIES

  SHORT FICTION

  Copyright 2020 by Todd McLeod & Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Chapter One

  Private Ray Cassidy grimaced as they waddled towards the C-47 waiting on the tarmac. He was out of his normal environment as much as any man could be. Short and wiry, like most outdoorsmen, his skin was tanned and leathery. He was a guy who’d spent almost every spare moment in the outdoors, hunting. Frequently tracking an animal for hours before he lined up the perfect shot. Now he walked slowly, struggling to keep his balance because each man carried so much equipment it was impossible to walk normally. Overloaded with helmets, parachutes, packs, ammunition, and there was more. Every trooper was issued with a handgun, a Colt M1911, and it still wasn’t enough. Because of previous experiences with armor, each man carried a heavy anti-tank mine.

  “They must be kidding if they expect us to carry this kind of weight into battle,” he grumbled.

  His buddy, Private Harry Byrd struggled to keep up. He was pale and inclined to a degree of flab, unusual for an Airborne trooper. Yet underneath the flab lay solid muscle. At nearly six feet, he was tall, with blonde hair, a throwback to his Viking ancestors, including his piercing blue eyes. The total opposite of Cassidy, he regarded any place outside of a town as alien territory.

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad when we reach the bridge. All we have to do is hold it.”

  “Yeah, against tanks.”

  “We don’t know for sure they’ll have tanks.”

  “You want to take a bet?”

  Harry shrugged. “I guess not.”

  Cassidy glanced around the crowded airfield, and everywhere he looked, there were aircraft, scores and scores of aircraft, and in the sky hundreds of planes thundered south, heading toward Holland for what was planned to be a massive breakthrough; an operation to hit the Jerries so hard they’d send them reeling back the way they’d come. Back to Germany, scuttling across the River Rhine, even now the politicians and generals were talking about an invasion of Germany to put paid to the Nazi regime. And locate the guy with the funny mustache in Berlin and give his ass a good kicking.

  That was the plan, but this was now. Ray almost lost his balance, but a corporal stood at the boarding ladder ready to help the overloaded troopers up the ladder. He sprawled on the aluminum floor after a mighty push toppled him inside the cabin. Harry followed behind him, rolling unceremoniously across the floor, and hands reached out to stop him colliding with the metal bench. They found themselves space to sit, and almost immediately the two Pratt & Whitney Wasp fourteen cylinder radial piston engines roared into life. A few minutes for them to warm up, and they were taxiing toward the runway. The engines screamed like banshees as the pilot boosted to full power, and a minute later they were in the air.

  It was mid-morning, and bright sunlight streamed through the windows of the Douglas Dakota. Peering out, Ray could see more aircraft in the sky than he’d have believed existed in the whole world. Hundreds and hundreds of aircraft carrying troops, and overhead, struggling to keep pace with the slow-moving transports, squadrons of fighters, shepherding the slow movers, keeping a wary eye out for German fighters. Yet there were no fighters, the USAF and the RAF had fought like tigers, ripping into the Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs, and the skies were empty of enemy planes.

  They flew over the channel, like vast flocks of migrating birds, although these particular birds were lethal, heading toward a final confrontation with the Nazi hordes, a hammer blow to finish them. That was the plan, but some clever German general once said, ‘No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy.’

  The first contact with the enemy was a rude awakening, a vast concentration of flak as they flew over the Dutch coast. All around them, aircraft took hits from massive 88mm flak guns. They watched as several C-47s went down in flames, carrying with them their crews and the eighteen Airborne troopers packed into the cabin.

  They watched gliders detach from damaged towing aircraft early, and the troops inside would be unable to reach the battle, assuming they survived the landing.

  “How long to go?” Harry asked Lieutenant Bond, seated opposite. The Lieutenant was short and slight, more like a successful long-distance runner. Pale-skinned, his dark, sharp eyes were constantly looking everywhere as if to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  He checked his watch. “Not too far. By my reckoning, we’re passing The Hague, and the flak is coming from their main batteries at Leiden. Around fifteen minutes, is my guess.”

  “They couldn’t have routed us to avoid that flak?”

  He shrugged. “They didn’t tell me what they had in mind. But the flak isn’t as heavy as we expected. Maybe they…” He flew across the cabin as a massive explosion hit the aircraft, and the nose tilted downward.

  “Damn, that was too close.” He pulled himself back to his place on the bench, “What was I saying?”

  “Something about the flak,” Harry reminded him.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. The flak, it’s not so bad.”

  Someone muttered, “You could’ve fooled me.”

  Bond shook his head. “No, it could’ve been much worse. Maybe they’ve moved some of the guns back to Germany.”

  “As long as they haven’t moved them to Nijmegen.”

  “No, there’s no chance of that.”

  They flew on, and the flak seemed lighter. All around them aircraft were descending as they neared the drop zone, and Ray watched through the window, awed by the vast armada of Allied might. The jumpmaster walked through the cabin, heading for the door, and the red light came on.

  “Three minutes, stand by.”

  “Hook up,” Sergeant Logan shouted over the roar of the engines. The noise increased as the door opened, and a gale howled in from outside. Ray clipped his static line to the overhead cable and waited. The atmosphere inside the cabin was tense. They were jumping in broad daylight, and they had no idea what they would encounter on the ground. Cheering Dutch civilians, or grim-faced German soldiers intent on killing them?

  “Green light, go, go, go!”

  He shuffled forward, stepped out into the sky, and seconds later felt the tug as the static line pulled his parachute open. He was looking down over the town of Grave, the first objective around three miles from Nijmegen. A bridge over the River Meuse they expected to be lightly defended. They’d take the bridge and race toward the second bridge over the River Waal. That was the theory, and eight hundred feet above the ground it was beginning to come apart.

  The flak had become intense, and any questions about where they’d sent the guns from Leiden were answered. They were here. The air was alive with exploding shells, and more and more aircraft suffered hits. Machine gun fire sent a curtain of lead into the sky, and soldiers jerked as bullets tore into them. Ray prayed he could reach the ground in time to shoot back. The landing zone came up suddenly, and he was on target, a field with a windmill at one end, and more Airborne troopers hit the ground around him. Including Lieutenant Bond, who was racing around to rally his men, and Sergeant Logan, who was looking at the bloody body of a dead trooper. The Sarge always took it personally. He was the glue that held the platoon together. A leathery vet, hard and immensely strong, he didn’t take shit from anybody. And that included the Lieutenant.

  “Move it, you guys. We’ve got trouble. Radio operator, where the hell are you?”

  Private Ernie Rothman rushed toward him, passing him the handset from the bulky SCR-300 backpack radio he carried. “Here, Sir.”

  Bond shouted into the microphone, venting his anger and frustration at the operator on the other end. “Who’s that? Do you stupid bastards know they moved the flak guns close to Nijmegen?” He listened through the headphones, “Is that Captain Pryce? Sir, when the second wave arrives, the enemy will be on full alert, and those men are gonna run into a shitstorm.”

  Bond listened for almost a minute, and his eyes widened with disbelief. “You’re telling me to continue to the target? What about those flak guns? We’ll run into them, and they’re not gonna be pleased to see us.�
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  He listened again and growled an acknowledgment. “Okay, Captain, we’ll do our best.”

  He threw the handset back at Private Rothman and looked for the Sarge. “They want us to cross the first bridge, locate the flak site, and put it out of action before we reach the second bridge at Nijmegen.”

  “They can’t be serious.”

  “They’re serious, and we don’t have much time. Get them on their feet, Sergeant, move out.”

  “Yessir. Cassidy, take the point. We’re heading east toward the river bridge.”

  He nodded and ran to the edge of the field. He was about to step out onto the road that led to the bridge when he heard an approaching engine. A German motorcycle with a sidecar attached was racing along the road, oblivious to the presence of enemy soldiers. Cassidy signaled for them to hit the deck, but too late. They’d seen them, and the BMW motorcycle skidded to a halt, the passenger in the sidecar swung the MG-34 machine gun toward them, and a stream of lead spat toward the men lying in the field.

  The gunner emptied his ammo belt and was lacing in a new one. Ray knew he had to do something and fast before the lightly armed paratroopers fell to the next stream of bullets. He put the heavy anti-tank mine on the ground, held his Garand at the hip, and charged out onto the road. The Germans were so astonished they were too slow to respond. He charged toward them, firing as fast as his rifle would allow until he was out of ammo, tossed it to the ground, and dragged out the Colt and continued firing. He emptied the magazine, eight .45 caliber slugs, and his first target was down, the gunner in the sidecar. But the danger wasn’t over. The motorcycle rider was dragging the body away from the gun so he could resume firing.

  Ray didn’t slow. He kept running, reloading on the run. The rider had managed to clear the body and had tucked the butt of the weapon to his shoulder, bringing the barrel around to aim at Cassidy, who now had a fresh magazine in the Colt. Eight bullets, and he squeezed off every single one. He never knew which one hit the target. All he saw was the German jerk as a bullet hit a vital part of his body, and blood spurted out in a fountain. He looked down at his uniform, blood soaking the cloth, as he slowly fell backward onto the road, next to the body of his passenger.

  He ran up to him to make sure, inserting another fresh magazine into his Colt, but the gunner was dead, and the rider breathing his last as his blood pumped out and formed a pool on the tarmac. He checked to make sure there were no more Jerries around and signaled to the platoon it was clear. They joined him on the road, and the Sarge nodded his appreciation.

  “Good job, Cassidy. That could’ve been nasty.”

  Harry glanced at him. “I’ve always hated motorcycles.”

  “Motorcycles? What’s wrong with them? They’re a lot of fun.”

  “Not the ones with machine guns.”

  Ray grinned. “I guess not. Sarge, it looks like the road is clear. We can keep going to the first bridge.”

  Before he could reply, the Lieutenant joined them. “Maybe, maybe not. Moving those flak batteries to this area suggests they knew we were coming. We need to know if they’re waiting for us up ahead. I dunno, this is starting to unravel. We’ve lost men, and we could lose a heap more. We need reconnaissance, except we don’t have time.”

  “Lt, how about I take the motorcycle and scout ahead?”

  The Sarge nodded. “That’s a great idea. He can move fast to the bridge on that thing. He’ll be there and back before we cover the first few hundred yards. Private Byrd, go with him. You know how to handle that machine gun?”

  He grimaced. “That’s all I need, a motorcycle with a machine gun.”

  “Get aboard and start moving. We’re on a tight schedule.”

  He climbed into the sidecar while Cassidy vaulted astride the big BMW. The engine had stopped, but he jumped on the kick-starter, and it roared to life. Harry was still getting into position, and he almost fell out when he spun the cycle in a tight turn and headed toward the bridge over the Meuse.

  “You could’ve waited,” Harry shouted over the noise of the engine and the slipstream.

  “You heard them. We’re on a tight schedule. Keep your eyes skinned for Jerries.”

  “You got it.”

  Cassidy opened the throttle and zoomed away toward the bridge, and at first, he couldn’t believe their luck. The huge steel structure was impossible to miss, and there wasn’t a single German in sight. A half-dozen Dutch civilians standing at the side of the road recognized the American helmets and waved. Harry waved back at the friendly greeting. Except it wasn’t a friendly greeting, it was a warning. A warning Cassidy almost missed. They rounded a bend, and a line of Jerries were dismounting from a truck and spreading out across the road. As if it couldn’t be worse, two soldiers passed down a machine gun, and other were busy digging out the firing pit on the verge.

  “Shit!” Harry shouted, “Germans!”

  “You don’t say. Shoot the bastards.”

  A moment later, “Uh, I pulled the trigger and nothing happened.”

  A hail of bullets whined toward them. Ray moved the handlebars and spun the big BMW off the road, through a narrow gate, and across the field. He was heading toward a windmill, pursued by more bullets. His head spun as a bullet ricocheted from his helmet, and Harry grunted as another bullet tore through the skin of his left side. Then they were behind the windmill, out of sight of the Germans, but there was no place to go. Ahead of them lay one of the hundreds of canals that crisscrossed Holland, and behind them, German troops were racing after them, including two men carrying the machine gun.

  “We’re screwed.”

  He looked at Harry and peeked around the side of the windmill at the troops rushing toward them. His mind was working furiously on what to do next, except there was no next. They had limited choices. Slug it out with the Germans, or abandon their mission and swim across the canal. The alternative was simple. To die.

  Chapter Two

  They were getting closer, and he was working out the odds, working out how to do what they’d come there to do. Kill Germans, take the bridge, and hold the bridge.

  Okay, the Germans are here.

  “Harry, can you get that machine gun working?”

  “Yeah, the belt was misaligned. I fixed it now.”

  “You’re sure it’ll work?”

  “Yep. What do you have in mind?”

  “We do what they pay us to do. Kill the bastards.”

  “Ray, have you done the math? There’s two of us and a lot more of them.”

  “Except we have a machine gun. Get back into the sidecar. We’re going out there.”

  He didn’t look happy. “We go out there, and we’re gonna die.”

  “Nope, we go out there, and those bastards are gonna die. Get aboard, Harry. Let’s give them the shock of their lives.”

  He mumbled something that was drowned out in the roar of the engine as Ray jumped on the kick-starter. Harry fell backward away from the butt of the machine gun as they shot out from behind the windmill. He opened the throttle wide, aiming straight at the Germans, praying Byrd would be as good as his word and start throwing some lead. The machine gun chattered, and Harry sprayed the oncoming enemy soldiers with their bullets. He kept the throttle open wide, charging toward them. At the last second, they threw themselves to the ground as the BMW raced past, but they weren’t done.

  He managed to detach the machine gun from the mounting on the sidecar and swung it around, spraying the reeling enemy with the remainder of the belt. When they came across the truck, there’d been around twenty soldiers, but ten bodies lay prone on the field, and the rest were crawling away, unable to recover from the fusillade. They reached the road, and Cassidy turned east to complete what they’d started. To scout out the bridge, and when they reached it, he found to his astonishment that it was undefended.

  Where are the Germans? They knew we were coming, so they can’t be far away, but where?

  He accelerated, drove all the way across, and on the other side found nothing. A farmer was steering a horse-drawn cart laden with hay onto the bridge, and he gave them a doubtful glance, unsure about American soldiers riding a German motorcycle combination. There was nothing else in sight, no traffic, as if the enemy had run. Except they hadn’t run, and although he couldn’t see them, he could hear them. Overhead, the vast aerial armada continued to fly across Northern Holland, heading for the other bridges. Nearby the flak guns kept up a constant barrage of shells, hitting some of the aircraft. The slow-moving gliders suffered worst, easy targets when the high explosive slammed into them and tore their flimsy fuselages apart.