The turret stopped moving as he acquired the target, and the gun fired. The shell smashed into the side of the STUG, and a wisp of smoke appeared from the hull where the projectile hit. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

  "We just scratched the paintwork, and she's about to fire!" Vernon shouted, "For fuck's sake, you stupid kike, kill him!"

  The enemy shell was aimed in haste and whistled past the turret.

  "AP loaded."

  "Fire."

  This time the shell pierced the steel hull, and smoke poured out as it exploded, sending hot shards of steel around the interior. The German crew would be sliced to ribbons, and every one of Minnie's crew knew their job was done.

  "Driver advance."

  They pushed on to Morgan and linked up with him at the edge of town. He'd located a good position in a narrow defile, a natural feature of the landscape. They were hull down and pouring fire onto the advancing Germans. Angel halted alongside Daniel Kuruk's Cochise, and they went to work.

  Bodies of German Panzergrenadiers were strewn all over the approaches to the town, together with burned out assault guns and wrecked artillery pieces. Yet still they came, advancing in short rushes, hardened professionals who'd learned their bloody trade on the Eastern Front. Another STUG appeared on their right flank and fired two shells in quick succession. The second round impacted only yards away before they realized they were under fire.

  "Gunner, target four o'clock, assault gun. Nail the bastard. Christ, Solly, he's real close."

  "AP loaded!"

  "Target acquired."

  "Fire!"

  The enemy machine was already moving away from the battle, and the shell smashed into the earth where only a second before the assault gun had been standing. Grant searched for more targets and found infantry, a bunch of helmeted German Panzergrenadiers racing toward them, covered by machine guns pouring out fire on either flank.

  "Target one o'clock, Panzergrenadiers coming in. They have panzerfausts, Solly.

  "Yeah, I see them. Load HE."

  The breech clanged open as Dale extracted the AP shell he'd just loaded, but before they could load a high explosive shell, several Shermans raced in and fired a hail of HE on top of the Germans. The multiple blasts tossed more bloodied bodies to the ground to join the earlier casualties, and he was reminded of a quote he'd learned a long time ago. The Duke of Wellington, the nineteenth century general, when surveying the carnage after the Battle of Waterloo, stated;

  'Nothing save a battle lost is so terrible as a battle won.'

  The enemy losses were fearful. Grant searched the shadows, waiting for the attack to continue after the terrible slaughter, but Solly shouted, "They're running. The yellow bastards are running!"

  They were indeed running. Most abandoned their heavy weapons; a few even tossed away their helmets and rifles in their desperate need to flee the butcher shop carnage.

  "They're not yellow," Grant sighed, "Flesh and blood can't fight armor, you know that, Solly. They've lost most of their troops already. If they keep coming, we'll wipe out the rest."

  "Fucking Krauts," he snarled in reply, "They deserve everything they get."

  "Maybe."

  I know why Solly is sore. It's because of the way they treat the Jews in Germany, but all of them? They can't all be bad, can they? Those bodies lying there, bloody and broken, are they all rabid anti-Semites? The Germans are known as a civilized race. A race that produced giants like Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. Bismarck, Goethe, Gottlieb Daimler and Karl Benz, inventors of the internal combustion engine. Mass murderers? That takes some believing. I guess time will tell.

  An argument was brewing inside the tank, and he listened to the angry voices of his crew. He heard Solly first, his voice laden with bitter venom.

  "What the fuck was that, Vern? Calling me a kike?"

  "That's what you are," Vernon Franklin's treacly southern tones answered him, "A kike, a Yid, you know what I mean. Everyone knows that's what Jews are."

  Solly's voice was cold, "Southern crackers screw their younger sisters, everyone knows that."

  "Fuck you," he snapped back, "You come down here and say that, and I'll punch your teeth down your Yid throat."

  "Save it for your sister, white trash."

  Grant swarmed down into the hull. Both men had left their positions and were squaring up to each other in the dark, cramped interior. Dale was trying to force them apart, but Vernon was spitting insults at him, too. "Get off me, you damned nigger. I'll deal with you later!"

  The loader stepped out of the way. Vernon swung a punch, and Solly avoided it. He connected with a hard left to the Southerner's kidneys. Vern grunted in pain and reached out to take a hold of the gunner, but Grant had had enough. He grabbed both struggling men and held them apart. Their faces were red with fury, and they snorted with anger as they tried to pull away from him.

  "Cut it out, both of you." His voice was hard and cold, "Either you stop this, or I'll replace you with two crewmen who don't act like total assholes. You'll both be in the stockade, and they tell me it's mighty uncomfortable."

  They eased back.

  "You wouldn't do it," Vernon panted, his voice hoarse with anger, "You wouldn't dare. Besides, you can't do it. You're not an officer. You're just a grunt, like us. And you're under arrest. Chances are they'll put you against a wall and shoot you."

  "He did it for me!" Solly snarled, lashing out again.

  "Leave it out, Solly. He's right; I'm not an officer. I'm a lawyer, and if I report what you're doing in the middle of a battle, they could put you against a wall and shoot both of you along with me. Think about it. I have nothing to lose. Do you want to die?"

  They both shut up, although the air inside the Sherman crackled with tension.

  Angel shouted, "Enemy armor coming in! Heads up, you guys."

  Grant climbed up to commander's seat, shouting orders.

  "Gunner, load AP. Angel, prepare to move out, only on my order. Where are the rest of our tanks?"

  "They could be Tigers," Vernon Franklin almost whispered, watching through the vision slot.

  "Movement on the left flank, distance about a thousand yards. They're not Tigers. They look more like Panzer IVs."

  "I see them," Solly shouted.

  Dale was ready. "AP loaded."

  Grant was studying the new arrivals. Something about them looked... "No, wait. They're ours."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes. They're 75mm howitzers, M8s. I saw them earlier. They're the 14th Armored Field Artillery Battalion. They must be going after the retreating Jerries. Jesus Christ, we've won! They're falling back. It's over."

  Except the war raging inside Minnie Mouse wasn't over. Vernon was a problem, a serious problem, with his grating racist views. Not untypical given his Southern origins, but in the middle of a war wasn't the time to ass around. Grant looked down at them and realized they were waiting for him.

  "Stand down, we'll wait for orders. But well done, it looks like we beat them."

  They cheered, all prejudices forgotten in the elation of victory. He grinned to himself as Vernon even patted Solly on the back, and Dale shook hands with every man in the crew. He let them enjoy the moment and waited until they quietened down. It was time to lay down the law.

  I’m a lawyer, aren't I? He smiled to himself, Grant's law. It sounds good, anyway.

  "All of you; listen up. We're here to fight a war. These Krauts are killing our people, and we want to make them pay." He thought about David, his body lying somewhere on the bottom of the sea. Of Margot, did she suffer when they killed her, or was it quick? "We're here to kill Krauts, and anyone who wants to waste time fighting amongst ourselves is in deep shit. So cut it out, all of you."

  They were silent. Only Dale met his eye, and the black crewman understood. The rest of them looked away, their expressions guilty.

  "Is that clear?"

  A few mumbled, yeah and okays, and then there was silence.

  "Good. If I hear someone call my crew a yid, a spic, a kike, a cracker, or anything else, he's finished. Period." He glared at them; "I might even take it into my head to shoot you. I'm already looking at a murder charge, so I haven't got a single thing to lose."

  It was a forceful argument, and they were silent. He smiled as he climbed back into the turret. He was fighting hard to stop himself from laughing aloud, which would ruin it all. He was a killer, a murderer, a condemned man, so they'd believed it and swallowed the lie. Maybe it was the way he framed it, using all of his legal knowledge and experience. No wonder people hated lawyers. But he had to have a crew who would fight the enemy, who would hack into the enemy and not themselves. Maybe he had it.

  "Sarge?"

  He looked at Solly. "What is it?"

  "How're you going to deal with that murder charge?"

  He obviously felt guilty about Grant taking the rap for what he did. He stared back at the shamefaced gunner.

  "Solly, sooner or later we're going to tangle with a Tiger, right?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "How do you think it'll end?"

  He grimaced. "Bad. He'll shoot the crap out of us."

  "Right. So why should I worry about Lindbergh and his stupid court martial? We're up against superior armor, so the chances are I won't survive long enough to be around for it."

  He looked dubious. "I get it. At least, I think I do."

  "Good, now forget about it."

  "Okay, and thanks again, Sarge."

  "Sergeant Grant," a voice called out to them.

  Morgan was climbing out of his Sherman, and he jumped to the ground. Grant joined him.

  "Sir."

  "You did well. We all did well. The plan now is to push forward and complete the linkup with Utah Beach. It's a good time for us, daylight hours. If the Krauts come out to fight, out aircraft will crap all over them."

  "Yes, Sir. We need to collect our tank, Minnie Mouse. The engineer said they'd have it ready. It was just the track."

  "There's no time, Grant. We're moving shortly."

  He shook his head. "Sir, it'd mean a lot to the men. You know, they feel better in their own vehicle. They fight better, too."

  Morgan considered for a moment and nodded his head. There was little of the academic inside the Major. He looked more like a member of a barbarian tribe. Like those who'd rampaged out of the dark German forests to savage the Roman Legions, two thousand years before. His face was covered in soot and grease, and the serious, academic man had disappeared. He'd become a savage. He'd become war.

  "Go get it, but if it isn't ready, you take the vehicle you have."

  "Yes, Sir."

  The replacement vehicle had served them well, but it wasn't Minnie. Solly swore he wouldn't have missed that shot if they'd been in their own Sherman. Almost an hour later they reported back with Minnie Mouse. Morgan looked hard at the newly repaired M4. The engineers had done a good job, but the new steel track gleamed in the harsh light of dawn. They'd also welded plates over several shrapnel holes. He pointed it out.

  "Get some paint and cover it all up. You may as well put a target on the side."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "When you're done, I have a couple of matters to discuss with Division, so we'll be delayed. I'm hoping for some replacements before Company A becomes a single tank outfit. As soon as I'm back, we move out."

  The Major went away, and Grant looked around them. The stink of the battlefield savaged his nostrils, rank and putrid. He'd been in several actions since they'd landed, but the slaughter of the Panzergrenadiers beat everything that had gone before. It wasn't all bad. Somewhere, a clump of trees had caught fire, evoking memories of childhood, campfires, bush cooking, companionship, and stupid songs.

  Dead bodies still lay where they'd fallen. Like abandoned garbage-filled rags on a landfill, yet these rags contained men, or what had once been men. Each of those men had a wife or mother. A father, a brother, drinking buddies, workmates, from a life before the military. He felt a wave of melancholy come over him. This was the reality of war, death for some, and for the rest, death was only delayed until the next time, or the time after. He looked up, and as Morgan's tank started up, the Major returned. He vaulted onto the hull of the Sherman and climbed into the turret.

  Minnie lurched, bumping over an obstacle as they rode out after Morgan. When he looked back, they'd driven over a small heap of bodies, an entire squad of Germans who'd been struck down by an HE shell. The bodies were imprinted with the pattern of a steel track pressed into the corpses.

  Is Margot lying like this, the victim of a sudden and vicious attack, her body trampled by rampaging armor?

  He felt numb, unable to put to rest his grief over the knowledge he'd lost so much. First David, and now Margot. He would also have to live with the knowledge that their bodies may not even avoid hideous desecration in death.

  There was just one way to help heal his pain.

  Kill Germans.

  * * *

  She opened her eyes and found she was staring up at the sky. Her memory was only hazy, the wild flight from the bloody battle that engulfed the camp when the Germans made a lightning attack, and as she ran, she'd looked back to see her vehicle overturn in a mountain of smoke and flame. She raced away from the devastation with the others, escaping the streams of machine gunfire and the explosions from artillery shells and mortars. The Allies had pushed back the Germans, and now they were triumphant in their unexpected victory.

  She'd made it a kilometer away from the blazing action. Ahead of her, soldiers, American soldiers, were still racing for the illusory safety of Omaha Beach. Suddenly, she tripped and banged her head when she hit the ground. When she came to, she opened her eyes and saw movement nearby. A man came toward her.

  "Hey, little lady, what's up? You running from the Jerries?"

  He was huge, a great, hulking brute of a man. His uniform was tight over his broad chest, and his pants were too short for his long legs. She didn't reply.

  "I can help you, Missy. Help you escape. You stick with me and Joe, and we'll see you okay. Ain't that right?"

  "Sure is, Benny."

  The voice came out of the darkness, and a man walked out into the open. Where the first man was huge, a looming menace, a walking nightmare; the other man was short and weasely. His thin face wore a sour expression, yet like his partner, his eyes gleamed with an expression she was familiar with. There was something off about them, and she realized they were the first foot soldiers she'd seen without rifles. It came to her suddenly.

  Deserters, subject to no laws, no morality, and with nothing to lose only their lives if they’re caught!

  She was aware she was at a disadvantage, lying on her back on the ground. She forced her dazed mind to think clearly and climbed unsteadily to her feet. The big man came forward to help her, but she backed away.

  "I, I must go now. I have some distance to travel."

  She was aware her voice was shaky, and she resolved to appear confident. These people would sense fear and be on her like a pack of wolves. She turned to walk away, but the thin man, Joe, blocked her path.

  "There ain't no rush, Missy. Take a rest. It looks like you took a tumble."

  The big man came up behind her, and she could hear his hoarse breathing. Then he moved closer, and his hot breath was on her neck.

  "Please, I need to..."

  The big, meaty paw was on her shoulder, as he came even closer, his breath stank as if he'd been living on a diet of rotted flesh. Perhaps he had. Her heart fluttered as she tried to control the growing terror inside her. Then a huge arm came around her and held her tightly. The hand was fondling her breast.

  "You're not very friendly, Missy," the small man, Joe, muttered, "Benny is only trying to help. Why don't you relax and sit on the ground? Get yourself rested before you go on your way."

  The pressure on her breast was greater, and pain shot through her as the man gripped her nipple and squeezed hard. She screamed, and the man laughed.

  "Yeah, you get it all out. There's half the fucking world screaming and dying around here. It won't make any difference if you sing out." Joe suddenly stepped forward and wrenched at the front of her thin cotton dress. The ten-year-old cotton tore as if it was no more than paper, and the material hung around her body, leaving her covered only by her brassiere and panties.

  The men were gulping in huge quantities of air, the sight of a semi-naked young woman pitching them into new heights of arousal. She struggled, but Benny held her in a grip of steal as Joe wrenched away the last of her underwear. She stood, shivering with terror and cold, wearing only her patched cotton stockings and rubber boots on her feet. She blocked another scream from emerging and began planning how to escape the two beasts that would rape her.

  What can I do, can I reason with them? Offer them money? What?

  A huge hand moved down and fondled her vagina. A small squeal left her lips, and Joe sniggered.

  "That's right, Missy. You like it, don't you? Give her some more, Benny. She's falling for you."

  The fingers felt around her labia, and then they were inside her. She felt repulsed as the dirty, rough hand explored her, and then the big man dragged her down backward until she was prone on the grass. With a miserable feeling, she knew it was over. There was no escape. These men were going to abuse her, rape her. Probably they'd explore as many ways as possible to inflict pain and humiliation on her. They were those kinds of men. Brutes. It was their aphrodisiac to have a squirming, terrified woman at their mercy and abuse her body with callous disregard for any common humanity.

  As if to confirm her thoughts, the hand slid round, felt her rear, and then a finger pushed inside her ass. At the same time, the man in front of her, Joe, unbuttoned his pants and brought out his engorged cock.

  "Push her down, Benny. She'll know what to do, French whores always know how to please a man."

  I'm not a whore, and you're not a man!

  They slammed her to her knees, and the big penis came nearer, nearer, until its tip touched the lips of her closed mouth. There was no escape; the big man had her locked in one strong arm while the other continued to explore her breasts.