Horton frowned. “What about air attacks? We’ve seen what they can do against tanks, why not against gun emplacements?”

  He sighed. “I wish, but it’s not that simple. They’ve dug down deep, bombproof shelters. We can bomb them until hell freezes over, and they’ll still be there, still waiting for us. Dammit, the bastards have even built an underground hospital in the city to cope with casualties once the attack starts. As defenses go, they’re as well prepared as any I’ve ever seen.”

  The Lieutenant nodded. “It doesn’t sound good. What does it mean, Colonel? How can we get past them?”

  “We don’t. When they start shooting, they’ll murder our troops before they reach the city. However, headquarters has worked out a plan to stop them. We need to make sure they run short of ammunition.”

  “I don’t understand, Sir.”

  “I mentioned this underground hospital. Well, they built an underground ordnance depot, dug so deep our bombs can’t touch it, and packed with enough ammunition, shells, and explosives to keep this war going for the next two years. You’re going to destroy it, Lieutenant.”

  He looked shell-shocked. “Destroy it? How?”

  He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t give a shit how. You’ll sneak into the city, locate the underground armory, get inside, and plant demolition charges. In such a confined space, when they detonate there’ll be a sympathetic blast enough to take out a city block, and they’re short gonna run short of bullets and shells mighty fast.”

  “Yes, I see that. But…”

  “No buts, Lieutenant. It will be dark before long, so get your asses moving. Find a way into the city and destroy those munitions. The entrance to the underground facility is in Avenue de Verdun. It won’t be hard to find. They’ll have sentries posted outside. But you know what to do, so go and do it.” He stared hard into Horton’s eyes, “You’re the 82nd Airborne, so show them what you can do.”

  * * *

  SS-Oberführer, or Senior Colonel Otto Baum, stood hands on hips, watching men toil at carrying heavy munitions down the long sloping ramp that led to the underground armory. Scar-faced after fighting a duel when he was young, with a broken nose and an eye missing, the socket covered by a black patch, the result of numerous street fights when he first joined the Nazis, he looked mean. He was mean, and he took pride in being thought of as such. If men were frightened of him, they’d jump to obey him, which was as it should be. A big man, he had the physique and the strength of a professional wrestler. A highly decorated rising star in the SS, headquarters had chosen him to command the defenses for Saint-Lo, to make sure a single American soldier never set foot inside the city. He was determined they wouldn’t regret their choice.

  Baum was an ardent Nazi, and he’d flogged and driven his Russian prisoners of war slaves almost to death, either by starvation or through the backbreaking toil to shore up the defenses to his satisfaction.

  One man stumbled, an emaciated scarecrow, his back bent double beneath the heavy weight of a 120mm shell. Every man held his breath as it hit the stone floor with a ring that resounded up and down the passage, every man but Baum. He was no coward, proud of his elevated position, his long service in the SS, and the decoration he wore at his throat. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, the highest award for bravery inside Nazi Germany, a medal for outstanding bravery that lesser men regarded with envy.

  The French civilian overseeing the work glanced at him. “Oberführer, that man is sick. It is not his fault.”

  Baum ignored him and glanced at the SS-Obersturmführer who accompanied him, a short, weedy-looking officer who owed his promotion to his father, a lifetime Nazi supporter, than any military prowess. If he’d earned a single medal it may have been different, but so far all he’d earned was Baum’s resolution to transfer him back to his previous posting, the concentration camp at Dachau, at the earliest possible moment.

  “Get two men to take him out and shoot him. I want someone to take his place, and the next time a man drops a shell, I will order the ten men in front and the ten men behind shot along with him.” His lips formed a twisted smile, “Perhaps that will ensure they are more careful.”

  The Frenchman, Marcel Renault, took off his hat and approached the SS officer. “Oberführer, he couldn’t help it. Their food rations have been cut three times in the past two weeks, and they do not have enough to survive.”

  He regarded him dispassionately. “Your job, Renault, is to ensure they work hard. If you can’t manage your work, I’ll have my adjutant shoot you along with this man.”

  He shivered. “Sir, I can manage. It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not. I’m a patient man, but my patience has limits.”

  Nobody smiled, and nobody took any notice as two burly SS men dragged the man who’d dropped the shell kicking and screaming out of the passage and to the place of his execution. He glanced at his adjutant.

  “Obersturmführer, how are the other preparations going?”

  “The men are working day and night, Sir. The emplacements for the artillery are complete, and we have communications trenches dug between the positions as necessary.”

  “And the rest of it? You know they will come, probably British or American commanders. Perhaps the elite troops they call the Airborne. We’ll see how good they are.”

  “Yessir. Every entry to the city is blocked, bar one, the northern approach across the River Vire along Rue du Creuset. As you ordered, we left it unguarded as far as the bridge. If they come and try to cross, we will be waiting for them. I have assigned an SS unit to stay under cover until they arrive, and when they are on the bridge, we will tear them into little pieces with our machine guns.” He chuckled, “I have four MG42s to cover the approaches, together with two platoons to make sure they never set foot inside the city.”

  Baum nodded. “They’d better not, Obersturmführer. And the rest of it?”

  “Every gun position is ready, Sir. We have teams of men standing by to carry ammunition as required, and when they come, they will discover their mistake. Our guns are sited deep inside concrete emplacements, protected against air attack, and they’ll blast them into little pieces.”

  “Very good. I shall return to our headquarters to direct the defense. I want updates every hour on enemy movements. When we know the direction they’re coming from, we can send more ammunition to keep the guns firing, no matter what. We have sufficient shells and bullets to defeat whatever they throw at us.” He glanced at the slave laborers shuffling past, “And these Russian prisoners are making it all possible.”

  He started to walk away, but paused. “One more thing, Obersturmführer. The leader of our nation in Berlin is waiting for news of our victory. When we have defeated the Americans, I will send him a message, and there will be medals and promotions for us all. By next week I have little doubt you will be a SS-Hauptsturmführer. And I anticipate promotion to SS-Brigadeführer and Generalmajor der Waffen-SS. We will all build our futures on the success of the coming battle.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Remember, they must not cross that bridge. If they cross the bridge…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. If they crossed that bridge, they were screwed, big time.

  * * *

  They were close to the town, creeping beneath the darkened skies. 03.00, and there was no sign of any more Germans. Especially armor. It had been a close thing, and were it not for those Typhoons, their bodies would’ve been laid out along the side of the lane, ready for shipment back to the States.

  They reached an intersection, and Cassidy held up his hand for them to stop.

  “We can go two ways. The main bridge over the river is a few hundred yards ahead, but if I were defending the town, I’d make sure to leave plenty of men to guard it. It’s a strategic crossing of the River Vire, and the Jerries must know that. The alternative is a smaller bridge three hundred yards further east. It’s not likely to be so well guarded.”

  “We need to get armor across, Cassidy,” Horton grunted, “I doubt the smaller bridge will cut it. We’ll go for the main crossing.”

  “Lieutenant, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Once we get across, we can circle around and take care of the defenses on the bigger bridge from behind. We’ll still have plenty of time to reach the underground store.”

  “Thank you for your comments, Private. I say we take the main bridge first, and if there’re Germans waiting the other side, we’ll knock them out before we carry on. That bridge is vital to the attack by the 29th. Move out.”

  He didn’t say anything, but Sergeant Logan shot him a look that said they could be heading into trouble. They carried on walking, and the bridge came into view. Like the rest of the town, blacked out because of the air raids, there were no lights, but the bridge showed as a dark loom across the silvery glitter of ripples on the water reflected by the quarter moon.

  He had a feeling in his guts. He just knew it was all going to go wrong, and in desperation he explained to Logan. “Sarge, this is all wrong. Unless they’re stupid, and we know they’re not, they’ll have men guarding that bridge. I believe they’re waiting for us, and when we get out in the open, they’ll start blasting. How about me and Harry Byrd get across and see what’s waiting the other side.”

  He sighed. “I agree. It doesn’t look good. If you go across, it means you’ll get blasted first.”

  “Unless we put on some speed to reach the other bridge, cross over, and come in behind them.”

  “It could work. Okay, I’ll persuade Horton to wait.”

  The Lieutenant didn’t like it, but at last he saw sense and said they had one hour.

  “After that, we’re going across.”

  They took off, jogging along the darkened street parallel to the river, giving the approaches to the main bridge a wide berth until they reached the smaller bridge, a footbridge. It wasn’t unguarded. The iconic shape of a German helmet identified the sentry pacing backward and forward.

  “I’ll take him,” Harry murmured as the man reached their side of the bridge and turned to start back the other way.

  “Harry, no, wait!”

  He didn’t wait, and Cassidy went after him. He’d seen what Byrd had failed to see, another sentry on their side of the bridge. He’d just lit a cigarette, and the match flared before he tossed it into the river. He didn’t see Harry at first. The noise of exploding ordnance from outside Saint-Lo covered his footsteps. He reached the soldier, who heard him at the last moment and started to turn. Harry leapt the final yard, jumped him, and the two soldiers crashed onto the concrete surface of the bridge.

  Ray concentrated on the other soldier who’d unslung his rifle and flung it up to his shoulder, looking for a clear shot. He didn’t get one. Before he pulled the trigger, he slammed into him with the force of a small truck, and the guy dropped his rifle. Unusually for an enlisted man, he had a pistol tucked into an open holster, and maybe he’d seen too many Westerns. He saw the gun coming up, and even had time to identify it as a Luger before he smashed a hard fist into the man’s face, simultaneously grabbing for the gun. The soldier twisted like an eel, stepped back, and leveled the gun at Ray’s face. His service with the 82nd Airborne was about to come to an abrupt end.

  Chapter Three

  He didn’t die, although he should have. The German had him bang to rights, standing less than two yards away with the pistol pointed at his chest. He squeezed the trigger and… nothing happened. He looked at Cassidy and muttered something that sounded like, ‘Ach Scheisse!”

  They were his final words. The paratrooper drew back his fist and smashed it into his face so hard he heard and felt the bones breaking. A paratrooper’s boot also makes a useful weapon, especially when delivered against a soft, exposed throat, and when he connected, the guy threw up his hands to his neck to relieve his breathing. The Ka-Bar that followed the kick made things worse. Ray snatched out the blade, knelt, and plunged it into his chest.

  He got back to his feet and looked at Harry, who was finishing off his man. He’d ripped off his helmet and repeatedly used his rifle butt against the guy’s head until he fell unconscious. They could’ve fired several shots, and the overwhelming crash of explosions may have covered the noise. Or they may have alerted the Germans. But they hadn’t used their rifles, and they hadn’t made any undue noise. Ray looked around, and they were alone in the darkened city. He saw something lying on the ground; the German Luger, still unfired and its safety catch still on. He snatched it up, tucked it in his belt, and glanced at Byrd.

  “We’re leaving. We don’t have much time left. What did the Lieutenant say, one hour?”

  “One hour is right.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They reached the opposite side of the bank, and they were inside the city. The streets were deserted, and no lights showed, so they had to be careful to avoid the heaps of rubble everywhere after the pounding the USAF had given them over the past days. The main bridge was close, and they reached it in several minutes, ducking into cover as a vehicle appeared. Its tracks clattered on the tarmac as it rolled right up to the approaches where it stopped.

  “German half-track, shit! There must be a dozen men in there. You see the unit insignia painted on the side?”

  “I see them. They told us about that unit. Second SS-Panzer-Division ‘Das Reich.’ They’re Panzer Grenadiers, and those dudes play rough. What do you reckon they’re up to?”

  “No idea, and there’s not a damn thing we can do while they’re parked there. We have to wait.”

  An officer climbed out from the passenger side of the half-track, and a moment later an NCO slipped out from a building overlooking the bridge. They talked for several minutes before the officer climbed back into the vehicle. It clattered and rumbled away, disappearing into the city.

  Ray glanced at Harry. “You saw him?”

  “I saw him. It’s a trap. They’re waiting for our guys to cross that bridge, and I guarantee they have enough guns to shred the poor bastards before they make halfway. We have to get back to Horton and tell him what we’ve seen.”

  “Harry, there’s no time. We have what, fifteen minutes left? After that, they’ll start crossing the bridge, and they’ll chew them into mincemeat.”

  “What can we do? There’re just two of us, and there could be any number of SS inside that building. Ray, we can’t take them all.”

  “We can do some shooting, and that will warn our men there’s a problem this side. Enough for the Lieutenant to take the hint and cross on the other bridge.”

  “You think he’ll take the hint? I’m not so sure. The guy’s doing his best to make a reputation.”

  “If he doesn’t take the hint, the Sarge will handle him. Why don’t we find where those Jerries are hiding, see if we can shake them up a bit?”

  They were careful, knowing enemy eyes were watching everything. As they sneaked toward the building where they’d seen the NCO appear from, both men tensed, waiting for the shooting to start, for bullets to smash into them from the Germans hidden inside. They were lucky. They managed to reach the rear of the building without detection, aided by the weak moonlight that cast shadows enough to protect them. Cassidy found a door and opened it a fraction. Inside he heard voices, German voices. Men talking, laughing, probably swapping jokes like soldiers everywhere.

  They weren’t like soldiers everywhere. They were Germans. The enemy.

  “I’m going inside,” he whispered to Harry, “Cover me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ray, they’ll murder you. You don’t need to do this.”

  “I’ll just be a few minutes. If I don’t come out, try to warn the platoon.”

  Harry murmured more objections, but he didn’t hear the last of them. He was already slipping inside the large building. From outside he’d counted up four stories, and he estimated there were at least a half-dozen rooms on each floor. Enough space to accommodate a company if necessary, and he calculated they’d all be stationed at the front, guarding the bridge. He tiptoed along the passage, checking each room as he passed, and finding them empty until he reached a room overlooking the bridge.

  They were there, German troops, and in the faint light he couldn’t work out if they were SS or regular army, the Wehrmacht, but whatever they were, they were trouble. He noted the two MG42s facing out the window, and he had little doubt there’d be others elsewhere. In the room he saw four soldiers, and each carried an MP40. From close range four MP40s and two MG42s could spew out enough bullets to wipe out a small body of men. Like a platoon.

  I can’t leave this place and hope there’s enough time to send a warning. There has to be something I can do, but what? If they cut loose on the platoon and wipe them out, the mission to destroy the ordnance store is a bust, and that means the 29th is about to walk into a shitstorm of enemy bullets and shells. I have to do something, but what?

  He heard footsteps approaching from the floor above, and he slipped into an empty room. Except it wasn’t empty. They’d piled munitions on the floor, metal cases of belts for the machine guns, crates of ammunition, and grenades. He thought about the grenade he’d managed to throw back when he stormed the machine gun, and he wondered.

  Is it possible I could use the grenades against these bastards? No, there has to be twenty men at least in this place, and after the first grenade explodes, they’ll come after me all guns blazing. I’d be lucky to toss a second grenade.

  The footsteps came closer. He held his breath and ducked behind a pile of wooden crates. A helmeted head looked into the room briefly, a swift glance, and withdrew. Just a brief check, and he was safe, at least for the time being. The top crate was open, as if they’d inspected the contents, so he did the same. Four grenades lay on top, and underneath four more, and beneath them another four. Twelve grenades in all, and he grinned to himself when he thought about the amount of damage they’d do if he could throw them all at once.