"Heinrich, do you see him?"

  "Nein, not yet. Verdammt, where is the bastard! Fucking Fireflies, they're murdering us. What's the use of the Fuhrer's super tanks if the enemy can blow holes in them with those converted tin cans? Where is he?"

  "Franz, turn ninety degrees right, and take cover behind the wrecked Tiger one hundred meters to the northeast. If we stay out here, we're going to end up like him."

  "Zum befehl!"

  They slewed around as he worked the levers to stop one track and apply maximum power to the other, and the huge Tiger swung onto the new course. Another shell whistled past them and buried itself in an old Panzer IV, totally outclassed on the battlefield. Newer models of the veteran Panzer had side armor fitted and additional armor plate, but this early model had none. The big 17-pounder shell exploded inside the hull close to the gas tank, and the vehicle blew apart, as if it was made of tin.

  That could have been us. Dammit, our Tigers were supposed to better than this!

  Even the King Tigers were not invulnerable to the devastating Allied gun. The High Command was already worried about the effects of the new weapon and had issued instructions to all Panzer crews to deal with the Fireflies first. Problem was, they looked like Shermans. They were Shermans! Only the gun was different, with a longer barrel that the Allies had camouflaged so they looked no different to standard Shermans.

  Another shell pursued them and smacked into the wreckage of the Tiger, and then they were behind the thick steel of the burned out hull. Franz brought them to a halt and waited for orders.

  Where can I go?

  The enemy was everywhere; yet the seemingly advantage of lack of enemy air cover was negated by the devastating Fireflies.

  "Driver, go south."

  "But, Obersturmfuhrer," Franz objected, "The enemy is to the north."

  "The Fuhrer would want us to engage the enemy at all costs," Lenz added.

  It was too much, and he snapped at the stupid little HJ loader.

  "Fuck the Fuhrer! He's not in command of this fucking Tiger, is he, Lenz?"

  There was no reply, and Rolf cursed himself for losing his temper. It was stupid; making a statement that could be construed as treason, was treason.

  "I take that back. Allow me to explain. The Allied advance on Normandy is all pointing in one direction, Saint-Lo. Panzer Lehr will have no choice but to fall back on our defenses in that area, and the 12th SS Hitler Jugend has standing orders to link up with them. I am merely anticipating their withdrawal to the south."

  "The battle here is not finished" Lenz almost screamed.

  Manhausen glanced through the vision port and the wreckage of German armor that littered the battlefield. Every vehicle a grave for those brave men who were trapped inside.

  "It is, Junge. Believe me, it is. Driver, take us out of here. Head south, and stay off the roads. As soon as this cloud clears, they'll put aircraft up, and we won't last more than a couple of hours."

  Two hours later, he told the driver Franz Schelling to halt. They'd taken a broad sweep around the area of battle, hugging the wooded areas, except where they'd had to dart along narrow causeways between the flooded areas. They climbed out of the Tiger to stretch their legs and take a break from the noise and the stink of fumes. Rolf spent the time poring over a map. After a half hour of checking and calculating, he realized they were totally and hopelessly lost.

  * * *

  "Where are we? Still in France?"

  He grinned at Dale. "Just about. I think we're close to some village called Tribehou. It's about ten miles north of Saint-Lo. That's just a guess, and we could be anywhere. This map's useless."

  "What about the radio? Any chance we could talk to Morgan?"

  "And tell him what? We haven't got a clue where we are? How could he help us?"

  Dale shrugged. "No idea. I'll grab some coffee."

  Grant surveyed the surrounding countryside, as if some feature, a tree, a building, or a low hill could tell him where they were. He took the offered tin mug and appreciated the steaming java trickling down his throat. It helped him come to a decision.

  "We'll head north and try to intersect the Battalion somewhere in the area of Isigny. Mount up, we need to link up with the others before the Krauts counterattack and we find ourselves behind their lines."

  "We could already be behind the lines," Solly said, walking over and tossing out grounds from the bottom of his mug, "Maybe Vern will meet his Tiger sooner rather than later."

  "Fuck you!" Vernon Franklin snarled, "You think you're so fucking clever. I tell you, when we do meet up with a Tiger, it ain't gonna seem so funny." His face twisted into an evil expression, "Besides, there's always a chance you could become a prisoner. Those Nazis, they're not too friendly with Jewboys, are they?"

  Grant readied himself to stop them. If there was one thing calculated to throw Solly into a murderous frenzy, it was talk of the Nazi treatment of the Jews. This time, the gunner managed to control himself. Instead, he rammed a fixed smile on his face.

  "Tell you what, Vern. If we're taken prisoner, I'll them you're the Rabbi of an obscure Jewish tribe, one that hates Germans and has sworn to kill Adolf Hitler. They'll string you up from the nearest lamppost."

  Franklin looked uncertain, but he tried to bluster. "You're talking a crock of shit, Rothstein. Everyone knows Jews are circumscribed. One look at my cock and they'd know you were lying."

  "It's circumcised, you dumb cracker, not circumscribed," he laughed, "I said an obscure Jewish tribe, didn't I? That means one that doesn't go in for circumcision."

  "There's no such thing."

  Solly had the upper hand, and he knew it. "How would you know, Rabbi Franklin?"

  Vernon for once had no reply. He even looked frightened. Finally, he said, "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. We need to get rolling. Rabbi Franklin."

  Vern scowled but climbed up onto the hull and dropped inside. Grant checked Solly before they followed and kept his voice low.

  "This thing about Jews, a tribe that doesn't believe in circumcision. You serious or winding him up?"

  "It's a wind up, but don't tell him. If he believes it, it'll give him the incentive to kill more Germans."

  His voice was bitter, charged with malice and hate.

  "That's why you're here, Solly? Just to kill Germans. Nothing else, not to win battles, win a war?"

  "Kill the fuckers, Sarge. That's it. No other reason to be here. Many truths are going to come out when this war is over, and one of 'em is they've murdered a lot of Jewish people. They're calling it war crimes, and there’s talk about putting some of the leading Nazis on trial."

  "That's the right way to do it, Solly. Due process of law."

  He grimaced. "You can say that. You're a lawyer. These Nazi bastards will tie up the courts for years, you'll see. There won't be any justice for what they've done. They'll get off scot-free. No, the best thing to do right now is to kill as many as possible. If they're dead, they're not killing Jews."

  "I hear you. Time to move, we'll head north, and who knows, you might get a few more Nazis in your sights."

  His eyes glinted. "Bring 'em on. Even the Tiger Vern's so shit scared about."

  "We're all shit scared of a Tiger. You know we're as helpless as a baby if we run into one of those monsters."

  "Unless we can get a shot at the rear."

  Grant laughed. "Sure, when they see us, they'll be so terrified of a Sherman they'll run like hell, and give us the shot of their rear. In your dreams, buddy. Let's go."

  They rumbled north, and the low cloud seemed to shut off the noises of the battle, so they were alone in the open French countryside. It seemed impossible that battles were raging around them, battles that would decide the fate of the Free World. Birds sang, and once when Angel stopped the engine to check a possible fuel leak, the buzz of crickets sounded from the grass verges. Water birds took off and landed from the areas of flooded land. It was an idyllic scene that could have formed the subject of a French Impressionist painting.

  Angel resolved the fuel leak quickly with the help of Vernon. He was brought up on a farm and understood how to make running repairs to heavy machinery. It was almost a disappointment when they started the engine again. The bellow of the big Continental gas engine caused the birds to take flight, and the crickets to fall silent. The war had to go on. Solly had plenty of Nazis to kill, and Vern had to remain on watch for his nemesis, the Tiger tank.

  "Move out. Let's go find our people and do some fighting."

  They trundled forward at half speed. Gas was starting to run low, and running flat out ate it up so fast they'd run out of fuel before they reached HQ. He had the hatch open, and he kept a wary eye out for German aircraft. Although the cloud ceiling was so low, it'd be a brave man who flew in that murk. While he was looking up, a movement in the corner of his eyes distracted him. A speck of dirt, maybe, he wiped his eyes and looked again, and now he could see it was still there.

  A vehicle, moving on a parallel course to their own, except this one was coming toward them, maybe three miles to the east. When they past each other, they'd be about a mile apart, near enough to do damage; especially if the oncoming vehicle was a Jerry and mounted an 88mm gun, like the Tigers.

  I’m becoming as nervous as Vern. And yet...

  He took out his binoculars and focused on the distant vehicle. It was a German, no question.

  It could even be... yes, a distinct possibility. What is it doing out here, so far from the battle? Are we behind the lines, or is there something going on I don't know about? Or are we hopelessly lost, doomed to tour the French countryside until such time as we come up on our own unit, or the enemy?

  He bent his head inside the turret, tapped Solly on the shoulder, and beckoned him to come up top, handing him the binoculars.

  "What do you think?"

  At first he didn't answer. He just kept his body tense and propped his elbows against the edge of the hatch for stability. Finally, he turned to Grant, his eyes glinting with the fury of righteous determination.

  "Tiger. No question. Let's go nail the bastard."

  Grant stopped him before he could climb down inside. "No! We fight that bastard and we die. Our only chance is to run; you know that. A Sherman against a Tiger, it's no contest."

  But Solly was staring back out at the distant tank.

  "It's not going to work that way, Sarge."

  "Damn right it is. I command this tank, not you."

  He stared at Grant, and his lips twisted in an ironic smile. "That's not what I mean. He's seen us, and he's changed direction to head us off. Either we turn south and head for the German lines, or we fight. There ain't no third option."

  He looked across. The Tiger was driving down a long flat slope, as Solly had said, and coming at them across their front. Their intention was obvious, to engage. As Solly dived inside the hull, he shouted down to the crew.

  "Tiger!"

  * * *

  "Sherman!"

  "I see him," Rolf grunted. Franz Schelling had spotted the enemy first; he must have been daydreaming when he should have been watching.

  "Load AP, button up, prepare to engage. Driver, full speed."

  Which is all of forty-five kilometers an hour on a good day. And that's assuming the defective valves don't crack up after a few minutes use. We'll also be burning fuel faster than we can replace it. What a way to fight a war!

  "Target in range."

  "Open fire!"

  The 88mm shell slammed into the earth a few meters past the Sherman, and Heinrich Boll hurried to correct. But even as they fired again, he knew they'd missed. The target was veering away, heading for a dark lane he could see at the side of the field, and then the Sherman almost disappeared.

  Sunken road, damn!

  "Driver, try and head him off. He's going north. There's only one road he can take."

  "Yes, Sir."

  And then the Sherman disappeared completely, as if the earth had swallowed it up.

  What the hell?

  "Franz, head to where you saw him last, along that sunken lane. Be careful, I think this is a tricky one."

  "Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer."

  Should I tell them what I saw on the side of the tank? Minnie Mouse, the same picture I’ve seen twice before? How can our fates be tied together, and we seem doomed to confront each other, time after time.

  There had to be a final reckoning, and he wondered how it would end. The German Tiger should smash the Sherman to pieces. It was no Firefly, and its puny gun could barely scratch their paintwork. Even so, he decided to keep quiet. Warriors were a suspicious breed, and his boys no less so than older, more experienced soldiers.

  "Gunner, stand by to fire the moment that Sherman is in your sights."

  "Yes, Sir!"

  * * *

  "We're screwed! Oh, Jesus, we're well and truly fucked!"

  He almost smiled to himself at Vern's panic, the realization of his nightmares. He'd already seen the sunken lane and reckoned they could get out of a confrontation with the German. The truth was, Vern was spot on. If they tangled with the Tiger, they were dead. No question.

  "Angel, you see that dark lane at the side of the field? Go there, now. Make it snappy!"

  "You got it."

  His normal laconic tone had risen almost an octave, and the laconic acknowledgement came out as little more than a squeak. But he swerved the tank over in the right direction, bumped out of the field, and they rolled down the steep bank until they were in the lane.

  "I can't get a shot," Solly shouted, "Not from this angle."

  "That's okay. You'd be wasting your time. We're going to work around behind him."

  "If you say so."

  "I do."

  He watched the German storming toward them, and then he was out of sight as the lane dropped lower and they were away from his line of fire, just in time. A massive 88mm shell chewed a huge crater in the field right next to where they'd been a second before. The Kraut had to be shooting almost blind; they were impossible for him to see. Time to see if those theories were right. What was it Major Morgan said?

  'Speed and surprise, appear where they least expected it. Maneuverability. The tools of war.'

  Time to give this mother a taste of history.

  "What're we gonna do?" Solly shouted, "You're not going to let him get away?"

  "It's more a question of whether he'll let us get away, my friend. But no, we have a chance to roast his ass. We need Napoleon."

  "You what? Who the fuck is Napoleon, he on our side or theirs?"

  "Ours. Now shut up and wait for my order. We'll get one shot if we're lucky, then we're away from here. Angel, halt the vehicle. Reverse back along the lane."

  "You're not serious! Sarge, there's one big mother waiting for us back there. We need to get out of here as fast as this baby will carry us."

  "Negative. That's exactly what he'll be thinking. The moment we show our turret out of this lane, I guarantee we'll find him there waiting for us. We're heading back, and let him vector across country to where he thinks we are. As soon as he shows, nail the fucker."

  A pause. "Well..."

  "Do it, Angel. There isn't time to mess around. He won't give us a second chance."

  "Bastard won't give us a first chance," Vern cut in.

  But Angel had already put the vehicle in reverse, and they were going backward. It was difficult without using the vision slot. Except he knew there was nothing in the lane behind them, unless the Tiger came down for a look-see. In which case, the first they'd know would be when the shell slammed into them. He was able to line up on the sides of the track and keep the Sherman moving in reverse without hitting the sides too many times. They reached the point just where the lane had dipped down below the level of the field, and Grant called a halt.

  "I'm going out to see where he is. The rest of you stay inside and wait for my order. Solly, you get a chance to put one in him, do it."

  "Damn right I will. Nazi fucker, we'll make it one less SS murderer for the Fatherland."

  "Just sit tight and wait. Be ready to take the shot. If we need to move, I'll signal."

  He climbed out of the turret and jumped down to the muddy track. The rain had stopped, but the water had settled in pools in the deep ruts, and he landed almost up to his knees. He scrambled up the bank, with his head kept low and peered over the top. The Tiger was charging toward the position five hundred yards away where they expected them to emerge.

  Stupid bastards fell for it.

  He raced back to Minnie Mouse, climbed into the turret, closed the hatch, and waited. Just a few seconds more, and scratch one Tiger.

  * * *

  He should be in sight by now. Where is he?

  Rolf found he was almost holding his breath as his iron monster stormed down the shallow slope, the wide tracks throwing up sheets of water from the sodden field. He'd pinpointed the precise position where they'd intersect the Sherman's course, and unless he'd got it all wrong and forgotten everything he'd learned about trigonometry, gunnery, and target acquisition, he had to be there. Had to be there, except he wasn't.

  Verdammnt! A Sherman can't just disappear, thirty tons of steel, a crew of five men. So where is he?

  Something nudged at the corners of his mind. This was no ordinary tank. This was Minnie Mouse. The vehicle he kept having nightmares about for some strange reason. It wasn't logical; there was no reason for concern. Their puny 75mm popgun couldn't touch them, could barely put a dent in their thick frontal armor. He laughed, there was no cause for concern. The only way that tiny gun could hurt them was from...

  Oh shit!

  "Driver halt! Back up, now, reverse course and get us out of here!"

  Obediently, Franz jerked the Tiger to a halt, flung the gearbox into reverse with a grinding, grating noise, and they started to go backward. The shell rocketed past their engine compartment, missing them by less than a meter, to bury itself in the Normandy mud, without exploding.