It happened so fast it took Murphy by surprise, but now the enemy had brought the full weight of their strength to bear, he had to work fast to regain the initiative.

  “Sergeant, split them into two squads. We’ll hit them from both flanks. Take the right. I’ll take the left. Now!”

  Murphy led seven men down the hill, and at first, they went unnoticed. Witherspoon’s men were getting hit hard, milling around in confusion, easy targets, and the enemy took full advantage. More went down, while Witherspoon did his utmost to rally his men and press home the attack. Murphy guessed he must’ve lost half his men in his eagerness to score a victory. Whatever the reason, it was killing his soldiers.

  They were thirty yards out when the Germans finally spotted them and concentrated rifle fire spat toward them, but they were close enough to hit them in a rush. Twenty Germans faced them, including the machine gun crew rushing to bring their MG-42 into action. He couldn’t let it happen. On full auto, the machine gun fired over one thousand rounds a minute, and the MG-42 only fired on full auto. In the next couple of seconds, it would spit a hurricane of bullets and cut them down in a massive, scything volley.

  He shouted, “Concentrate on that gun or we’re dead.”

  The machine gun crew worked frantically to bring it into operation, and if they’d got there in time, it would’ve left their bodies plastered all over the hillside. They didn’t get there in time because in his panicked haste, the loader dropped the end of the belt while trying to thread it into the breech. It gave them an extra second of breathing space while he struggled to load the gun. He didn’t make it. They cut loose with their Garands, firing repeatedly. Murphy and Kelly blazed away with their machine pistols on full auto. The men on the gun were torn into bloody ruin, and now it was time to deal with the others.

  Most had fled, rushing back to join the main body of Germans in a well-defended position fifty yards away, but Murphy’s men went after them, still firing. They were right behind them, running into panicked chaos. Troops manning anti-tank guns, mingling with men who’d run from their initial assault. Soldiers were torn between turning to face the new threat, continuing to wait for the mass of American troops and armor advancing steadily along the road below, or plain running away.

  A disorganized rabble stood no chance. The crew of the nearest PAK-36 had decided to face the new threat and frantically swung their gun around. Forgetting that an anti-tank gun firing an armor-piercing shell was about as much use against a small body of men hurtling toward them as throwing rocks. To their credit, they were fast. They had a shell loaded ready, and as soon as the barrel lined up on the Rangers, they fired. The shell whistled harmlessly past, and seconds later they were fighting at close quarters. Giving them no quarter, and when their magazines emptied, some men held their Garands by the barrel and used them as clubs.

  Those who continued to fight fired wildly, and most of their bullets failed to find a target. The Rangers and Witherspoon’s infantry went to work with deadly intensity, and the fight turned into a huge brawl, one-on-one, man-to-man. Men used fists, boots, and rifle butts, some taking their time to reload a fresh clip of eight rounds into their rifles and firing until they were empty. Reloading and firing again. Two hundred yards to the north, Rooker’s men were wading into another bunch of enemy soldiers, but he didn’t have time to look. The surviving Germans were starting to recover, and Murphy’s men were heavily outnumbered.

  A few, braver or more fanatical than the others, were putting up a hard fight. The Rangers were spared the fire from other machine guns because the fighting was too entangled, hand-to-hand, but soldiers arrived, outnumbering them three to one. He reached into a pocket for a fresh magazine, but the hand came up empty. He was out of bullets, but he tripped over the body of a dead German and strapped to his webbing were pouches for spare magazines.

  He ripped open a pouch, loaded a fresh magazine, and continued firing. Emptied the magazine in seconds and reached down to grab another. Loaded, fired, and emptied it, reached down again, and grabbed a third. Looked up to find the next target, and in a matter of seconds, everything had changed. They’d been joined by the survivors of Witherspoon’s men, who fought like tigers. They faced the remaining Germans who’d regrouped around an anti-tank gun position, protected by sandbags and heavy logs.

  Down below, the Division had become aware of the fight and halted a half-mile back. Shriver’s Shermans were also aware of the fight going on up on the hill, but they weren’t about to risk their precious armor going head-on against entrenched anti-tank guns. Although if they did nothing, the anti-tank guns would start hitting them at any moment. Murphy guessed by now they’d have called in air support, but fighter-bombers could take time to arrive. Time they didn’t have.

  Things were looking bad until somebody down there got his shit together and gave an order. Five Shermans left the road and drove down a low bank, leaving just the tops of the turrets showing. Gun barrels elevated and traversed. They opened fire, and shells began to crash into the enemy, destroying one gun almost immediately. Yet it must’ve been a lucky shot, for they kept firing without scoring any further hits. Their shells impacted harmlessly on thick barricades of timber logs and sandbags.

  The Germans were down to around fifty men, but they had sufficient machine guns and anti-tank artillery to do some wicked damage if the Division continued driving along the road. Another stalemate, they couldn’t attack in the teeth of those PAK-36s, nor could infantry attack into the withering fire of the enemy machine guns. So, they waited, and Murphy felt his frustration mount with every minute that passed. Every minute that gave Richter more time to complete his task and deploy that superbomb.

  He spotted Rooker’s squad. They were working their way around to link up with Witherspoon’s men. It would’ve been a good move if the gunners inside those Shermans hadn’t kept up a rapid rate of fire, mixing armor-piercing with high explosive shells landing around his squad, forcing them into cover from the exploding ordnance. They all found what little cover they could, but it failed to protect them from the lethal rain of high explosive and metal fragments. Men started to get hit. More of Witherspoon’s depleted force fell, and a Ranger, Rafe Watson, had his head almost sliced clean off by a flying shard of metal. There was only one order he could give.

  “Pull back!”

  They scuttled back to the shelter of the trees. Witherspoon arrived on the run, looking shocked and dazed by what’d happened. He was mumbling about how he’d lost half his men, but Murphy told him to button it. Time for recriminations later.

  Debrett emerged from behind a tree and grabbed Witherspoon. “Lieutenant, I hold you responsible for this disaster. I ordered you back, but you disobeyed me, and look what happened. All those men killed and wounded. I’ll see you…”

  Murphy saw the Lieutenant redden in anger, bunch a fist, and ran toward him. “Jim, no! He isn’t worth it.”

  Too late. He swung and caught Debrett square on the nose. He dropped to his knees with blood pouring from his face. He looked up in amazement, couldn’t believe he’d been attacked by a junior officer, but Murphy noticed something in his gaze other than amazement. Satisfaction. Witherspoon had struck him in front of witnesses. There wouldn’t be any question about the outcome of an inquiry. The Lieutenant would be busted and sure to spend a lengthy amount of time in the stockade. He pulled him several yards away to make sure he didn’t hit the Colonel again.

  “That wasn’t a good idea. I’ve been tempted at times, but if you want to do it, make sure there’s nobody around.”

  His face was white with fury. “You don’t know the rest of it. Debrett changed his mind and sent us down there. He said it would be an opportunity to attack the Germans from behind. Then he saw what we were up against, and he tried to call us back, but it was too late. The bastard stayed well in the rear, no chance of him taking a bullet. I should’ve killed him.”

  “I know how you feel, but don’t even think about it. You’re in enough trouble already. We need to concentrate on getting out of this fix. We’ve done enough to warn the Division, and the Krauts are taking a pounding. They won’t last much longer, so we can focus on our mission. The priority is still to find that tunnel and locate this facility.”

  Lawson came toward him with Neuberg alongside.

  “He thinks he can work out how to find the place. He’s calculated the likely location relative to the road, and he said it must be further south. Where they could’ve brought in the construction machinery and heavy equipment to dig out the underground space. He reckons it must emerge about four miles to the south.”

  They glanced down the hillside. If they trekked along the far side of the slope for a couple of miles and stayed out of sight of the enemy, it may be doable. Further up the hill, Rooker’s squad was heading in. A few minutes later he arrived, and he told him what he had in mind. They agreed they had to do it, and it was the only way. He walked a few yards away to try to get a better look and the route they had to follow. By sheer bad luck, he’d chosen the exact moment when one of the Shermans fired a high explosive shell. By some freak of ballistics, it went wide and exploded against a granite rock poking out above the ground. The shell detonated, showering fragments of hot metal through the air. They missed every man, except Murphy.

  The hot shard struck him on the shoulder, over same the spot where he’d been shot twice before. It could’ve sliced into him and ripped through his body, but it didn’t. It struck him flat, and the kinetic energy knocked him over. He was swamped by a hell of hot agony as he fell, hit the ground hard, and everything went black.

  When he awoke, he wished he hadn’t. Two men, Gordon and Kelly, had improvised a kind of crude gurney with two shelter halves and were carrying him between them. Every step jolted, sending fierce bolts of fresh agony through his body, and he couldn’t help but cry out. He was dimly aware of a prick in his arm before he realized what was happening. Anderson had bent over him, and he straightened, holding the empty morphine ampoule.

  He didn’t argue. Keeping a clear head was fine, normally, but not now. All he could think of was the intense pain, which would’ve been much worse without the shot. He saw Lawson standing nearby. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s difficult to work out. We’re out of sight of the enemy and trying to find a way to get down to the road. The slope petered out on the edge of a limestone cliff, a sheer drop. We must keep going until we find another way down.” He paused, staring over the edge. Did a double-take as he focused his binoculars.

  “There’s a jeep down there, and the crazy fool is driving past an enemy gun position they haven’t seen. Two men, the driver and… I don’t believe it. Captain Burgess, what’s he up to?” He hesitated, “No, it can’t be. The driver, it’s a Free French soldier. Clemence Delon!”

  He groped for his binoculars, but somewhere along the line he’d lost them. He gestured for Lawson to hand his over to him and looked down at the road. The jeep swam into focus, and she was driving fast. Although they weren’t under fire, the road was pockmarked with shell holes, and she was driving like crazy. The inevitable happened when the wheels dropped into a deep hole and the jeep somersaulted, threw the two occupants into the air, and came to rest upside down.

  He struggled to his feet. “We need to get down there. they need help.”

  He was swaying badly, his body fighting a combination of pain and morphine. He felt a strong arm supporting him and he glanced at Kelly. “Leave me alone. I can make it, I’m okay.”

  “The hell you’re okay. If you want to help her, we’ll get you down there without you breaking any bones.”

  They made it down the hill and reached the upturned jeep. He rushed to check on Clemence. She looked up at him, and he was relieved to see she was conscious. When he asked if she was injured, she told him no. “But I don’t know about Captain Burgess.”

  “They’re checking on him now. What were you doing?”

  “Jack, we got the message about a possible enemy ambush, transmitted from an aircraft carrying out a reconnaissance flight. Shriver was anxious to get the column moving again, and he wanted it checked out. The pilot reported that a bunch of troops were near the top of the hill, but for some strange reason, he said they looked like Red Army. Burgess said he knew what they were after, and he insisted on going ahead to take a look. Said if they were Russians, we had to stop them getting any closer. Hit them with an airstrike if necessary. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Does he know the shit’ll hit the fan if Joe Stalin finds out we’ve bombed his men?”

  “He knows, but if they find him ahead of us, it would be a lot worse. How is he?”

  Rooker wandered over, his face grave. “Burgess is hurt bad, a couple of badly broken bones, and he could have internal injuries. He’s bleeding from the mouth and needs medical attention. There’s no way he can go on.”

  “Sergeant!” Burgess shouted from where he lay on his back. Anderson was trying to fasten an improvised splint on his leg, but one arm was bent into a grotesque position, “I have to go on. You’ll have to carry me.”

  Rooker grunted. “I don’t think so. Anderson, what do you think?”

  He shook his head. “If he moves, he’ll die. He has to wait for the medics.” He paused and looked at Murphy. “You, too, Lieutenant, you’re not in good shape. You need…”

  “Negative,” Murphy snarled, “We need to find that tunnel and nail Richter. It’s our number one priority.”

  Burgess jerked his head around. “What’s this about a tunnel?”

  “Neuberg, get over here and tell him what you told us.”

  When he’d finished speaking, Burgess tried to force himself up. “That’s it. That’s how they’ll get the device out from underground, and they could take it anywhere.” He looked from one man to the other. “I gather you understand now what we’re up against.”

  “Damn right, we do,” Murphy grunted, “We have to go on.”

  Debrett chose that moment to arrive. Somehow, he’d smartened up his uniform, cleaned off the worst of the mud, and brushed away the dead leaves. All that marred his appearance was the blood plastering his face and the bloody wreck of a nose.

  “I heard that, and we’re not going anywhere. I’m the senior officer, and that means what I say goes. We have wounded men, myself included, so we wait here for medical attention.”

  Technically, he was correct. A colonel outranked a captain. They did have another man of equivalent rank, Colonel Cuthbert Lawson, but being of a different army, they weren’t subject to his orders. Technically. But Lawson intervened all the same and talked smoothly for several minutes, outlining what he had in mind.

  “I suggest we leave the wounded here with four men to guard them, while the rest go on. We must find that tunnel entrance.”

  Debrett didn’t like the idea one little bit. He insisted every man should stick around until the main force arrived, and he left them in no doubt they’d be in deep shit if they disobeyed. He looked at Witherspoon, who was standing nearby.

  “That officer attacked me. Look at my face! I’ve placed him under open arrest, and I want him kept under guard.”

  Burgess cocked an eyebrow. “Did I hear you say that Witherspoon hit you and did that to your nose?”

  “Yes, it was him.”

  “It must’ve been a hard punch. Was it deliberate?”

  “There’s no question,” Debrett grunted, “There were witnesses.”

  They looked at Witherspoon, and he must’ve known it would end his military career. It wasn’t difficult to understand why he’d done it. He’d seen too many men killed and wounded, thrown away because of senseless orders.

  Debrett misread the situation, and he gloated. “You’re fucked, Lieutenant. I’ll have you tossed into a cell and drummed out of the Army.”

  “Is that right? Then I’ve got nothing to lose.” He drew back his fist and slammed into his face again. There was an audible ‘crunch’ as his knuckles broke more bones and more blood spurted out, “Fuck you.”

  Debrett howled in pain and rage and looked at Burgess. “Did you see that? Another deliberate assault on a senior officer.”

  “See what, Colonel?”

  “He hit me again.”

  “I didn’t see a thing. Murphy, how about you?”

  “Nope, nothing.”

  “Colonel Lawson, you must’ve seen it.”

  He gave him a look of distaste. “I was looking the other way. That wound looks bad, Colonel. You’ll be best off staying with the wounded while we go look for that tunnel.”

  He ranted and raged, but nobody listened. He was still ranting when they moved Debrett into a clump of bushes twenty yards away and told him it was for his own good. He’d be out of sight if the enemy turned up. He didn’t argue.

  They had to go on. Witherspoon spoke with Sergeant Rooker, the senior NCO, to get the men ready to move out. They planned to leave Neuberg, Murphy, and the rest of the wounded, with a few of the men to guard them. As well as Clemence, who insisted on staying with him.

  Murphy lay his back, trying to clear his befuddled head, still confused by the amount of morphine Anderson had administered. He couldn’t shake the feeling they’d failed to work something out, and he gazed around, looking for Neuberg. Spotted him a few yards away and called him over.

  “Are you sure about that tunnel entrance? Could it be that far away?”

  He hesitated for several seconds before giving a reply. “It’s impossible to be sure, I’m afraid it’s just guesswork. It’s the best I can do.”

  “We need to do better. Professor Neuberg, think about it. When we were inside the Harz, we found the caves you believed should lead to the facility. Richter was headed that way, and it would be one hell of a long crawl. I’ve been down there, and in places it’s tough to get through. I can’t see a man like him crawling several miles in those conditions. Could it be much closer?”