He glanced at Harry. “While it’s clear, we should carry on a bit further, see if we can locate the flak site.”

  “Ray, it’ll be surrounded by soldiers. If the Germans are expecting an airborne landing, they’d make sure to protect the guns with a ring of steel.”

  “It’s okay. As soon as we see them, I’ll turn around. Besides, we’re riding a German motorcycle. Maybe they’ll think we’re on their side.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  They rode for two miles to the outskirts of Nijmegen, and they went no further. The giveaway was the constant barrage of shells sited next to a dike. Designed to protect the town from floods, the long, high dike hid the guns from observation, as well as from enemy fire. They couldn’t see them, but the incessant barrage of shells told its own story. As did the chatter of machine gun fire, plucking at the paratroops still tumbling from their aircraft and falling from the sky.

  “There must be around ten or twenty flak guns in that place, and I’d guess as many machine guns,” he shouted to Harry, “We need to get back and call this in.”

  “They’ll have to plan a different route. They’ll have at least a battalion of soldiers guarding that site.”

  “Our mission is to take and hold the bridge.”

  He grunted. “We won’t take and hold anything if we’re dead.”

  Ray swung the motorcycle around and headed back. The platoon, or what was left of it, was walking along the road toward them. The Lieutenant held up his hand for them to halt when he saw them approach.

  “What’s the deal, Cassidy?”

  “Trouble, Lt.” He explained about the flak site, “A lot of heavy artillery, machine guns, and they’re sure to have plenty of soldiers guarding it all.”

  “Panzergrenadiers.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Panzergrenadiers, they’re elite motorized troops who accompany the panzers to protect them from anti-tank fire. I just got a call on the radio to warn us to expect them in company strength somewhere up ahead, and I think you’re right, that’s where they’ll be.”

  Sergeant Logan grimaced. “We have to do something about them. They’re ripping the guts out of our aircraft and killing a lot of our men. Besides, if we’re gonna reach the bridge, we have to get through.”

  Bond shook his head. “We’re not doing anything about them, Sergeant. There’s nothing we can do. We’re down to fifteen men, and we’re not about to go up against an entire company of Panzergrenadiers. You realize we’re talking about one hundred men, and they move around in those half-tracks. They’re fast, armed with machine guns, and they can go across any terrain. We’re lightly armed, and we’re on foot, as well as outnumbered. And maybe there’s something you haven’t thought of. Armor. Where there’re Panzergrenadiers, there’ll be armor. We’ll cross the River Meuse and find a different route past the Nijmegen Bridge.”

  “That’s not what our orders said, Sir.”

  He gave him a hard glance. “I don’t give a shit about our orders. Things have changed. I don’t want to see the platoon wiped out in a senseless attack.”

  Cassidy had been listening to the exchange, and they glanced at each other. Lieutenant Bond had a point, but so did the Sarge. Men were bleeding and dying up in the sky, paratroopers machine-gunned as they swung beneath their canopies. He knew Bond was right, but they had to do something. He knew something else. The Germans were vulnerable.

  “Lt, there may be a way.”

  “A way? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sir, they’ve dug themselves into a hole. Tucked behind that dike, they’re protected from incoming fire. But we know they’re there, and we can hit them hard before they realize we’re there.”

  He stared at him. “Private, do you know what you’re saying? A major flak gun site, protected by Panzergrenadiers, and you’re suggesting we attack it with fifteen lightly armed paratroopers. Are you trying to get us all killed?”

  “Nossir. All I’m saying is they won’t see us coming, and we can do some serious damage. Maybe enough to put the site out of action before they kill any more of our men, and shoot down any more of our planes.”

  He was shaking his head and looking at Cassidy like he was an infant. “You’ve forgotten something, soldier. Those Panzergrenadiers in half-tracks, as soon as they know we’re there, they’ll hit us like a tidal wave. Forget it.”

  Cassidy didn’t forget it. He stood his ground, refusing to back down. “Lt, we can deal with the half-tracks.”

  “Oh, yeah, and how’s that?”

  “We ambush them. Bury some of our anti-tank mines across the ground where we have to retreat. As soon as they head toward us, we start running, and they’re sure to follow. When they do, they’ll run into the mines. And when they’re out of action, we can hit those flak guns.”

  He looked at Sergeant Logan. “What do you think?”

  “Sir, we have to do something, and Cassidy’s idea is as good as any. Who knows, it might even work.”

  “And if it doesn’t? If we don’t stop those half-tracks?”

  He smiled. “Then we’d better run faster than we’ve ever run in our lives.”

  Bond nodded. “Okay, we’ll give it a try. Let’s get across the bridge, men, and move into position.” He looked at Cassidy and Byrd. “You two men go ahead with the motorcycle and keep an eye out for the enemy. As long as they stay inside that flak site, we might stand a chance. But if they send troops this way to defend against the airborne landings, we could run into a shitstorm. And I doubt any of Cassidy’s ideas will get us out of it. Move out.”

  They climbed aboard the motorcycle and roared back toward the bridge over the River Meuse, and Lieutenant Bond’s worst fears were realized. A small squad was forced marching along the road, a half-dozen men heading west. One carried a machine gun on his shoulder, four were armed with KAR98 bolt-action rifles, and the squad leader had an MP-38 submachine gun slung across his chest.

  “Harry, use the machine gun before they recognize us.”

  He turned his white face toward him. “The damned thing’s jammed again, and I don’t know if I can fix it in time.”

  Cassidy measured the distance between them and the soldiers, working out they had maybe ten seconds before they were so close they had to recognize them as enemy soldiers. They had a few seconds left to live before a shattering burst of gunfire tore them into little pieces.

  Chapter Three

  They spotted them, and Cassidy reckoned it would take five seconds to close the gap. Probably three seconds before they open fire, and at such a short-range they couldn’t miss.

  Harry leaned over toward him and shouted, “Ray, you have to stop! It’s our only chance. We have to surrender.”

  “Do what you want!”

  But don’t expect me to surrender, not to some Kraut.

  Byrd put his hands in the air, and maybe it was all that saved them. The Germans were confused, the man in the sidecar with his hands in the air as if he meant to surrender. And yet the BMW didn’t slow, and for precious seconds they hesitated to open fire. And when they made the decision, it was too late. Cassidy twisted the throttle grip, and the engine roared as the big, heavy machine picked up speed as if to pass them. The Germans watched, bring up their guns ready to riddle it with bullets as it overtook their column, but it didn’t overtake anything.

  At the last second, he moved the handlebars a fraction, and the motorcycle and sidecar smashed into the line of Germans, knocking them down like dominoes. Some screamed, some died as the bike plowed over them, and the last man managed to dodge away. The NCO, a Feldwebel, armed with the MP-38, brought the gun to his shoulder and took aim. Too late and too slow, Ray cracked out the Colt and fired three shots. At least one bullet knocked him backward with blood pouring from a huge wound in his chest, and he opened up the throttle to continue driving.

  “I was going to surrender,” Harry objected, “That wasn’t fair.”

  “You want to die? Those troops are about to get the licking of their lives, and when they start to run, they won’t have time for any prisoners. They’ll execute them. Shoot them down like dogs. I wouldn’t call that fair either. These bastards have a reputation, for sadistic brutality. You heard about those twenty Canadians they murdered at Abbaye d’Ardenne?”

  “Nope, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, outside Caen, a bunch of SS murdered their prisoners.”

  “We don’t know if they were SS.”

  “I didn’t intend to stop and asked them for their IDs while they were about to shoot us.”

  “I guess not.”

  They rode on until they reached the bridge over the Meuse, and there was still no sign of a defense. Cassidy kept going, heading toward the next objective, the bridge at Nijmegen. And before they reached the town, the high dike protecting the German flak emplacement, and hiding what they assumed was a company of Panzergrenadiers with their half-track vehicles.

  The guns were still firing, and the air over Northern Holland was alive with the black puffs of smoke from heavy caliber shells, and machine guns chattering their messages of death to descending paratroopers.

  “The sonsofbitches,” he snarled, “They need a good hammering, and we’re the men to do it.”

  “Amen to that,” Harry murmured.

  They turned around to head back to the platoon, and they’d just crossed the Meuse Bridge. He stopped next to the Lieutenant and explained what lay ahead.

  “It’s like I said, Lt. Behind that dike it’ll be hard for them to see us until we’re real close. We can sneak up and plant the mines without them seeing what we’re up to.”

  “Very good, Private. Men, pick it up. Our guys are dying.”

  They increased speed, trying to jog, but the weight of the huge amount of equipment they carried, especially the anti-tank mines, made anything beyond a slow plod impossible. Until Ray suggested they use the sidecar to carry them forward. Harry climbed out, and they placed the heavy mines inside the body of the sidecar. He went forward again as far as possible without the Germans seeing what they were up to. He almost made it, but the tank ran out of gas when he was less than fifty yards short of his intended objective. Minutes later the platoon caught up. The men unfolded their entrenching shovels and began digging while Sergeant Logan walked up and down, pointing out where best to place them.

  “We don’t have many, so we’ll bury them in three lines of four mines each. If that isn’t enough, we’re in the shit no matter what happens. Make sure they’re well camouflaged, and when you’re done, spare a few seconds to pray the Jerries don’t have too many half-tracks.”

  A few men chuckled, but most didn’t. They were thinking about the next stage of the operation, the all-important attempt to lure the Panzergrenadiers from behind the dike.

  “I need two volunteers,” Bond called to the men, “Someone to go forward and find out what’s going on around that flak site.”

  Logan pointed to Cassidy and Byrd. “You two men get moving. You had an easy ride on that motorcycle. It’s time for you to use your legs again like real soldiers. Get to the top and see what we’re up against.”

  “Thanks a lot, Sarge,” Harry muttered, as they loped away.

  Before they abandoned the BMW, he’d removed the MG-34 from the sidecar, insisting the cumbersome weapon could come in useful. He had two spare belts of ammo draped around his shoulders and a full belt loaded in the gun, a lot of bullets. They reached the earthwork, which was around twenty feet high, and climbed to the top. What greeted them was astonishing, and explained why the Allied air forces hadn’t bombed it. They’d camouflaged every gun and vehicle with nets entangled with foliage stripped from trees in an adjacent wood. From the air, it would’ve looked innocent, except when the guns were firing, but it was a racing certainty they’d have early warning of fighter-bombers heading their way, and they’d cease fire.

  “You see the entrance, about eight hundred yards to the south?”

  Harry nodded. “I see it, and I also see the half-tracks, a half-dozen of them. To get them to come after us and cross the minefield, we’d have to show ourselves, and when they see us, I’m not sure we can outrun them. How fast are those half-tracks?”

  Ray grunted. “A lot faster than us, but it has to be done. I have an idea. Let’s get back to the platoon.” He nearly added, or ‘what’s left of it.’

  He explained the plan to the Lieutenant and Sergeant Logan. They weren’t too happy, but they had nothing else. He assigned Kurt Steiner and Ernie Rothman to join them. Steiner was as American as apple pie, but he had to constantly fend off the taunts aimed at his Germanic name. Ernie Rothman was Jewish, and he could easily have picked a fight with Steiner because of the way the Nazis treated Jews. Yet the two men were like peas in a pod. Two Americans, proud of their country, and proud of what he did to defeat Hitler’s savage hordes.

  They returned to the dike, reaching the narrow entrance the Jerries had dug from the earthwork to allow vehicles and guns to move in and out. They waited, just out of sight of the Germans until Logan, waiting in front of the minefield they’d dug, gave the signal. They were ready, and all they had to do now was wave a red flag in front of the bull. Except no bull had ever carried automatic weapons.

  They were next to them in the dike, and he peeked around the corner of the huge earthwork. Men were resting close to their guns and vehicles, waiting for more aircraft to pass overhead. It was a good time as any, and he nodded to the other three men.

  “Let’s do it. Harry, try to make that thing work.”

  He held the machine gun hip-high, with the ammunition belt over his left arm to guide it through the breech, and he pulled the trigger. This time, it worked. A long stream of bullets hammered into the nearest group of Germans standing next to their half-track. Several went down before they scattered to take cover. Harry kept firing and emptied the belt, by which time all hell had broken loose. They reacted fast, returning fire with a vengeance, and the troopers took the hint.

  “Let’s go!” Ray shouted. They started to run, disappearing out of sight. Instead of racing across the low-lying field, they climbed the dike and flattened on the top as the first half-track appeared, loaded with grim-faced soldiers. Searching for the men who’d attacked their position, and they quickly found them. At least they thought they’d found them. Several hundred yards away the platoon was marching away, taking their time. They’d dangled the bait, and the Germans took it. The engines of the half-tracks roared as they gunned the engines to go after them, and up on the dike Cassidy smiled. If it worked, they were about to find things didn’t work out the way they’d planned.

  Logan and several of the men looked around as if in panic and started to run across the minefield. They’d noted the position of each anti-tank mine with innocent-looking markers, a stone or a branch placed on the ground, and they made sure not to step anywhere near them. The Germans were getting closer, and the machine gun opened up from the leading vehicle. Ray bit his lip as he saw a man stagger, hit by a bullet, but other men grabbed him and helped him along until they put the next part of the plan into action.

  The countryside of Holland is littered with canals, dikes, and ditches to drain the land from the constant threat of flooding from the sea. They’d been heading for one of these ditches, half-filled with water. As more bursts of gunfire split the air around them, they’d dived into a ditch in front of them. They were safe from incoming fire, until the Germans got close enough to blast them. It all depended on the minefield. If they decided to flank them instead of going straight at them, they’d lose. Not lose the battle, but lose their lives.

  They didn’t try to flank them. They were pissed, chasing this puny group of American soldiers daring to attack their carefully prepared anti-aircraft emplacement, and they charged in with a frontal attack. Showing considerable bravery, the Airborne troopers poked their heads up, peppering the half-tracks with bullets from their Garands. It served to incite the Germans even more, and they kept coming.

  Six half-tracks raced into the minefield. One moment they were blazing away with their machine guns, Panzergrenadiers standing in their vehicles with expressions of eager anticipation. Until the first mine exploded. It threw the lead vehicle into the air, and it landed on its side, spilling wounded and dying soldiers onto the ground. The other five kept coming, not realizing what had happened. They’d have assumed a mortar round or artillery shell had landed on the leading vehicle and saw no reason to stop the pursuit.

  In case they were discouraged, Sergeant Logan kept the men pouring rounds at the Germans, making sure the bait was as tempting as ever, and they dutifully swallowed the hook. Charging across the freshly dug mines, one by one the vehicles exploded until all that remained were six heaps of wreckage, surrounded by the corpses of dead soldiers. Thirty had survived, and except for two men who’d recovered MG-34s from the wrecked vehicles, they slung their MP-38s across their chests and helped their wounded comrades to retreat to the anti-aircraft emplacement.

  Looking down from the top of the dike, Harry grinned. “We got ’em, the bastards. That’ll teach them to mess with the 82nd.”

  He didn’t reply at first. The retreating soldiers had stopped halfway back, laid the wounded on the ground, and grouped in a huddle. Talking amongst themselves, and moments later the four Airborne troopers found out what it was. Somehow, they’d worked out they were facing a tiny unit of enemy soldiers, and with thirty men armed with machine pistols, they were out for revenge. They split into two groups, fifteen in each, and raced out to the flanks to circumvent the minefield. They were going back to kill the Americans who’d ambushed them and caused so many casualties. They were running at an angle toward the ditch where the eleven men of First Platoon were hunkered down.