"Open wide for Uncle Joe, Missy. You know you want it."

  She kept her mouth tightly closed. It was only delaying the inevitable.

  I can't just give in. Can't!

  "Open your fucking mouth!" he snarled, "I'll bust your fucking teeth if you don't do it now!"

  She felt the wetness as tears streamed down her face. To give in to these animals was inconceivable, yet not to meant they would hurt her even worse. Something inside her, a strong, iron streak of pride refused. She shook her head.

  Do what you want with me, but I'll fight you every inch of the way!

  "Hit the fucking whore, Joe," the big man shouted, his voice slurred, a man possessed by base lust, "Bust her face, show her you mean business!"

  "Damn right. She'll do as she'd told, so help me, or we can fuck her corpse. It's all the same to me."

  He took a huge combat knife from his pocket and held it in front of her.

  "Say hello to my little friend, whore. He knows how to open a girl's mouth. You don't open it, I'll cut it open."

  The blade looked razor sharp, and Joe held it sideways to swipe across her mouth. He grinned at her. "Say goodbye to the pretty face, Missy."

  The explosion was so loud it was deafening, close to her ears. Dimly, she realized it was the noise of a shot. Then there was another. The arm that gripped her slackened, and she turned to look at the source of the shot; A German, wearing the familiar coalscuttle helmet and clutching a still smoking, Luger pistol. She fainted.

  Chapter Six

  Chateau La Roche Guyon, Normandy, France - Rommel's Headquarters, 05.15, June 19, 1944

  The famous face wore a grim expression. "What the hell is going on? I have spoken to the Fuhrer, and he demands immediate action. Now!"

  As he spoke, he banged the map table, and the staff officers around him flinched. Most were damp from the heavy rain that had lashed Normandy for the past few days. They'd mostly traveled in open staff cars, some in Kubelwagen jeeps, which was fine on a warm summer’s day. Not like now, the journeys had been sheer bloody misery in such stormy, wet weather the entire region had experienced, and now this. Erwin Rommel, no less, adding to their misery with the fury of his anger.

  The setting was incongruous, a French chateau, luxuriously furnished in Louis Quinze furniture, gilt mirrors, and a huge Ormelieu clock on the mantel. Rommel had complained it was more like a whorehouse than Army Headquarters. He stared at his Chief of Staff.

  "Ernst, do you want to know what action the Fuhrer authorized me to take for officers who appear to fail in their duty?"

  "No, Herr Feldmarschal."

  "A firing squad! No court hearing, no defense, he told me to just take out the offender and shoot him. And that's what I intend to do, unless you light a fire under our troops."

  He stared around the room, and a junior officer glared back at him.

  "Well?"

  "It's not all our fault, Sir. Headquarters failed to release the heavy Panzer battalions! We could have beaten the Allies back if we'd had the tools to do the job."

  "Perhaps you'd better take your objections to the Fuhrer!" The man looked away, "I thought not. It's no use crying over it now. We have the Panzer Lehr Division fully engaged, and they're hitting the enemy hard at Tilly-sur-Seulle. If they win, we shall be in a position to retake Carentan. It is as you know is the key to the entire Cotentin Peninsula, to Normandy itself."

  "Panzer Lehr will not fail," a Panzer liaison officer, a Wehrmacht Major insisted, "Herr Feldmarschal, you know those crews are the best we have, and their armor is second to none. Tigers, King Tigers, Panthers."

  "Panzer IVs as well," another officer muttered drily.

  The Major flushed. "Panzer IVs, yes, but they're still better than anything the Allies can throw at us. However, the Tigers and Panthers will carry the day, Sir. They're unbeatable."

  "Yet we're still falling back, still losing tanks and men," Rommel countered, his voice low, "You've heard of these new Shermans, the Fireflies?"

  The Major turned a deep shade of purple. "We've heard of them, of course. They carry a 17-pounder gun, which I admit can penetrate and destroy our heavy armor. We've begged the Luftwaffe repeatedly to overfly the battlefield and destroy them. Where are they? Perhaps Reichsmarshall Goering can tell us."

  "The Eastern Front," Rommel said casually.

  Every man shuddered at the phrase that conjured up so much blood and suffering. It was their perpetual nightmare, a transfer to the fighting in Russia, slowly moving eastward, nearer to the Reich.

  "However, Goering informs me that aircraft have been reassigned to this theater of operations, and they are already on the way. In the meantime, we have to deal with the Fireflies as best we can. When we destroy them, we can push the Allies back into the sea. The Panzer Lehr must not fail if we are to defeat this invasion."

  "Tilly-sur-Seulle will..."

  "It is not Tilly-sur-Seulle that concerns me! We must reinforce our defenses at Saint-Lo. That town is our Achilles heel, Gentlemen. If they break through at Saint-Lo, all France will be theirs for the taking. No matter what happens, Saint-Lo is where we must stop them, and it is there our heavy Panzers must fall back and dig in. If the Allies break through, we will lose France, perhaps the entire war. Get back to your units, and prepare to fight the battle of your lives."

  They clicked their heels and saluted. One by one they left, until he was alone in the map room, once the ballroom of the chateau. He looked down at the map again, and then checked through the unit returns, to consider what he had left to fight with. The losses had been enormous. Could they defeat this mighty invasion? Not if the enemy kept pouring materiel ashore from their temporary harbors at such an unbelievable rate. His thoughts were interrupted as an aide knocked and entered.

  "Sir, a communication from Luftwaffe Headquarters. One of their reconnaissance flights has just returned from the beach areas."

  "Yes, what of it?"

  The man smiled. "The Allied harbor to the west of Port-en-Bessin, this thing they call the Mulberry, has been destroyed in the recent storm!"

  "You are certain?"

  "It is definite, Sir. They are sending photographs as soon as they have been processed."

  "Good, good. And their other harbor, to the east?"

  The smile faded. "It is still intact, Herr Feldmarschal. But if this weather continues..."

  "Yes, yes, maybe it will suffer the same fate, or maybe not. Dismissed."

  Once again he was on his own, left to go over and over the plans to defeat the landing.

  Could the destruction of that harbor mean we have a chance? No, of course not. The war is lost, only a fool would deny what is staring us in the face. The transfer of aircraft from the East would be helpful, but at the cost of weakening our defenses against the Soviet hordes. A few months, no more, and they could be knocking at the doors of Berlin itself. There is only one solution; we have to replace Hitler and negotiate for peace. The Fuhrer will never stand down, of course, but there are officers on the General Staff who plan a more direct approach to get rid of the maniac who's brought Germany to her knees. God help us all if von Stauffenberg fails.

  * * *

  They'd set up a makeshift camp in the rubble of what had once been a French village. No one knew the name. It had been blasted into an amorphous collection of smashed buildings and heaps of rubble over the past few days. At least it hid them from the marauding Germans, who were increasingly hitting back over the battlefront. Someone had brewed a can of fresh coffee, and they sat on blocks of stone enjoying the respite. They were sheltering beneath a half ruined cottage roof that kept them out of the driving rain while they enjoyed the break from the sour, stale stench of oil and fumes inside the vehicles. Morgan sat alone and gestured for Grant to join him. He got to his feet and walked over.

  "How can I help you, Major?"

  "What happened to that girl of yours, the one who did the cooking?"

  "She was in the headquarters area when the Germans overran it and destroyed it."

  "She's dead?"

  He told the officer what he'd found, the destroyed vehicle and equipment, the heaps of destruction and bodies piled everywhere. Morgan looked thoughtful.

  "So you haven't seen the body?"

  "No, Sir, but it seems pretty conclusive."

  "Does it? I don't agree. She could have been taken prisoner, or run away, or even wounded and be lying in a hospital. I wouldn't give up, Grant, not yet." He lit his pipe and puffed away, "You know Saint-Lo is the key to breaking out from Normandy?"

  "No, Sir."

  He nodded. "After we've broken through at Saint-Lo, you should make some inquiries about what happened. You never know."

  "Thank you, Sir. You're sure we'll fight a battle at Saint-Lo?"

  "Yes. Napoleon certainly would have."

  "Napoleon?"

  "Yep. He lost the war, but he won a great many battles before the end. The application of maximum force to the weakest point, I believe that was his maxim. That's Saint-Lo, in our case. We'll be there sooner than later."

  "Yes, Sir."

  He left the officer enjoying his pipe and returned to his crew, just in time to intercept another problem between Vernon and Solly. The Southerner had a cut to his eye and was about to land a haymaker on Solly before Grant managed to grab his arm. He held the two struggling men apart.

  "I told you to cut it out. What's the problem now?"

  Neither man spoke, so he looked across at Dale. "You gonna tell me what happened?"

  He shrugged. "Just the usual. Calling each other names, you know how it is."

  Which meant Vern was on his anti-Semitic kick again.

  "I've had about enough," he hissed. He wanted to kick Vernon out of the unit, but that wouldn't be fair without finding out who started it. He looked at Dale.

  "Who was it this time?"

  Dale stared back, his face blank, unwilling to rat either man out. This was more than Vern deserved after his 'nigger' taunts at Dale. Grant was still wondering when everything happened at once. Kuruk came running toward them.

  "Jerries have broken through. We're moving out!"

  Morgan and Bligh were already on the move, racing to their vehicles. Grant and his crew leapt aboard Minnie Mouse, and while Angel started the engine, he fastened his headset in place and listened for orders. Three seconds later, the headphones burst into life.

  "This is the Company Commander. The Germans are trying to break through our front lines, three miles south of Isigny and close to a village called Rupalley. We're heading there now, but be warned, it's tough going. The area is partially flooded, and the roads we need to follow are bordered by..."

  "Bocage. I fucking knew it," Angel Montalban muttered.

  "Shut up and drive!"

  Angel muttered something, but Grant ignored it, and he fell in after Bligh's Sherman. Kuruk came last, and they followed a narrow farm track that led south. The sounds of battle were already loud in the cold dawn, and it occurred to Grant the Germans were making good use of the weather, which prevented air attacks. Within yards, the high walls closed in. They were inside the Normandy bocage, and every man knew fear. Who was waiting behind the thick, opaque walls? Anti tank guns maybe, STUG assault guns, Panzer Grenadiers, even entire Panzer companies. There was no way to know.

  "Sarge," Vern called over the internal net, "I don't like what I'm seeing."

  "You think anyone else does?"

  "Well, no. But there could be..."

  "A Tiger, yeah, I know. Then again, there may not be. So shut up."

  "Bird-brained cracker," Solly muttered angrily. He was still sore about the last confrontation, although he'd come off best.

  "Tell that fucking kike to button it, or I'll knock his teeth down his yid throat."

  "That's enough! We're going into battle. I'll transfer out the next man who says another word."

  They shut up. Minutes later, a shell came from nowhere and hit The Bounty. Bligh and his crew had no chance. The vehicle exploded, and incredibly, Grant watched the turret fly into the air as the ammunition stores exploded. Bligh was still inside the turret as it sailed into the air and descended into a nearby field. At least, the top half of him was. The rest of him, his legs, was incinerated inside The Bounty.

  He worked to control the churning in his guts and find a way out of the bocage shooting gallery. Another shell fired and glanced off the frontal armor of Cochise. They were next, no question. Morgan's Sherman had gone to full speed, and he was bouncing over the rutted lane, seeking a way out of the trap. Grant saw a gap in the hedge, a narrow gap, little more than large enough to drive a motorcycle through.

  "Angel, hard left. Now!"

  He held on as they smashed into the thick foliage, and for a sickening moment Minnie hesitated, and he thought they weren't going to make it. Then they picked up speed, and they were through. The enemy gun was in front of him, one of the bastardized Pak 38s fitted with the French 75mm field gun; a powerful weapon that had destroyed more than its fair share of Shermans, and now they were levering the carriage around to take on the new threat.

  "Angel, nail the bastard."

  "HE loaded."

  "Fire!"

  The projectile left the barrel at the exact moment they ran into a deep ditch that cut the field, and the shell exploded harmlessly thirty yards short.

  "Fire again!"

  "Loading HE."

  "Angel, forget that, ram the bastard. He'll hit us before we're ready to fire."

  "I'm on it."

  He hit the gas and they surged closer. It was a tossup as to who would get there first. He saw the sweating German crew, their faces white beneath the iconic steel helmets, struggling to get a fresh shell into the breech of the Pak 38. All the while, Minnie was surging toward them, an iron monster come from their nightmares to bring down death and ruin on their heads.

  The German breech clanged shut, and the gunner looked down the sight to make certain of the shot. It was too late. Minnie hit the gun like an avalanche, and thirty tons of tracked steel rolled over the gun and crew, turning them into so much twisted scrap metal, flesh, blood, and bone. He looked back, but they were finished, pulverized into the rich Normandy soil.

  "Nice job, Angel. They're done for. We need to...Oh, Shit!"

  "What do I do, Sarge?" Angel screamed.

  "Gunner, load AP," Solly intoned, "We'll nail ourselves a few more Krauts."

  Dale removed the HE and began to slam in the AP. Ahead of them, a line of three STUG IIIS were deployed, hull down, waiting to catch a few unwary Shermans. He searched around and saw a sunken lane, only twenty yards north. He screamed out the order to Solly to get them away.

  The German guns crashed out; two missed, and one hit on their turret armor. They were lucky, the shell struck at an oblique angle and spun away. Then they were dropping into the sunken lane and only showing their upperworks to the enemy. In the distance, perhaps a half-mile away, five German tanks were moving in a parallel direction. It looked as if the single Pak 38 had been the rearguard for an intending ambush, perhaps of a larger formation that was heading toward them. Morgan's voice came into his headphones.

  "Company A report in. Grant, Kuruk, what is your status?"

  Dan replied first, a hurried confirmation that they were only a few hundred yards behind Morgan.

  "Sergeant Grant, where are you?"

  He rapidly gave their location. "You have German armor to your right flank, three STUGs and four Panzers, they look like IVs."

  "Can you rejoin us?"

  He looked around at the enemy armor. Morgan and Kuruk were in sight now; somehow they'd found a way through and were the other side of the Krauts.

  "That's a negative, Sir. Only way is to attack, and I don't fancy our chances."

  "Me neither. Very well, you'll have to turn north and see if you can work your way around from the flank. Call me when you're nearing Rupalley."

  "Roger that."

  Grant suddenly felt very alone. They were gaining on the Panzers, but every yard was a yard further away from his unit.

  He smiled to himself, my unit, three Shermans, some company!

  Angel steered them along further sunken lands, cutting through the bocage when he could find a gap, and each time, they held their breath until they came out the other side and found it clear.

  They were all alone in a maze of high hedges, the occasional ruined farmhouse and burned out vehicle. Nothing moved, neither friend nor foe. The sky was still thick with heavy cloud, and the rain fell incessantly so that no aircraft could overfly the battlefield. They pushed through one high hedge, and every man tensed as they emerged in a tangle of equipment, guns, tanks, artillery, and men. Yet still nothing moved, it was the detritus of a recent battle, too soon for the grave units to come in and bury the corpses.

  They were like fallen logs, brown with mud, unmoving, strewn carelessly amongst the steel and iron that had so recently been used against them, and was now their only grave marker.

  "Jesus!" Vernon exclaimed, popping his head out of the escape hatch to take a look, "This was some battle. I wonder who won."

  "They did," Solly replied.

  "How do you know that? You some fucking psychic?"

  "I counted the wrecked equipment. Most of it is ours. Was ours."

  No one commented as they drove past the carnage. By some instinct, Angel had slowed as if to pay homage to the fallen. Then he picked up speed, and soon it was behind them. They drove for two hours, attempting to rejoin Morgan and stem the German attempt at a breakthrough. Another hour went by, and Grant suddenly realized they were lost.

  * * *

  "Firefly!"

  Rolf jerked his head around as the shell punched past them and buried itself in a Panther of Panzer Lehr, running a few meters on their left flank. There was nothing, just wrecked and burning vehicles, trucks, bodies, and in between, heavy and medium tanks weaving an intricate ballet as they tried to kill the enemy before they were killed themselves.