"They think they've lost?"

  He stared at Grant. "Yes, they think they've lost. Of course, the Fuhrer maintains we can still win the war, when he unleashes his secret weapons. But most do not believe it is more than a matter of time before Germany surrenders. The men in Saint-Lo are desperate. We can do this."

  "Where is this French girl Margot being held?" Solly asked.

  "Gestapo Headquarters."

  He roared with laughter. "That's fucking rich. Gestapo Headquarters. What do we do, knock on the door and ask to be shown to Mam'selle Caron's suite?"

  "Yes," Sturm said, "Something like that. There may be some shooting."

  "You don't say."

  They stared at the German. "Doesn't that bother you, a Kraut shooting other Krauts?" Solly grinned.

  "They are Gestapo, so no, it does not bother me."

  "In that case, I'm in. Just so there's no misunderstanding, I'm in this to kill Germans."

  "Nazis," Grant corrected him, with a nod to Gunter, "I guess they're not all the same. Anyone else got anything to say?"

  "I'm in."

  "Me, too."

  They were unanimous. "In that case, let's go to work. There are Krauts to kill, and the 29th Infantry needs our help." He looked at Sturm. "Climb on top of Minnie Mouse. You're coming with us."

  Chapter Ten

  Two miles outside Saint-Lo, 11.30, July 11, 1944

  Commander of the 29th Infantry Division, Major-General Charles Hunter Gerhardt, thought back to his inspection in the early hours; row upon row of men, all of them waiting for the order to go, to attack into the maelstrom of German defenses that ringed Saint-Lo. He was aware of his reputation. The joke was he commanded three divisions in total. One was on the battlefield, another in the hospital, and the third in the cemetery. The last straw was when he set up a brothel for his men. The establishment was hurriedly closed on the orders of Eisenhower.

  Rank upon rank of men stared back at him as he drove slowly past. Infantry, tank destroyers, M10s, some equipped with the latest 76mm gun that could penetrate heavy armor when loaded with high velocity armor piercing rounds. General Omar Bradley, Commander of the US First Army in Normandy, had called him shortly after midnight.

  "Charles, we've had reports of enemy armor in the region of Saint-Lo. Intel figures it could be our old friends Panzer Lehr nosing around."

  He shrugged. "As I remember, we kicked their asses last time they put in an appearance, General."

  "True. Except this time we don't have the luxury of air cover. My weather guys tell me there's no sign of any let up in low cloud and rain."

  Gerhardt glanced out the window of the farmhouse he was using as a temporary headquarters. The rain fell in sheets, and the clouds looked as if they were almost touching the hilltops.

  "My tank destroyer battalions are equipped with M10s. I reckon they'll keep the Tigers and Panthers at bay."

  "I sure hope so. You know how important this is to the Army?"

  "I do, General."

  Bradley had gone over it at least ten times in the past several days. Saint-Lo, the key to breaking out from Normandy, leaving the flooded fields and bocage behind, and starting the long push through the rest of France. Provided they took the town.

  "Keep your eyes skinned for heavy armor. If we know how critical the town is, you can bet the Germans know, too. That means they'll throw everything into defending it, so it could be a hard slog. You're gonna take casualties, and they could be heavy."

  "That'll give more ammunition to my critics," Gerhardt replied grimly. He'd known for some time his command of the 29th was on the line.

  "Yeah. I'll cover your back, don't worry."

  "Thank you, General."

  "Provided you take the town. Otherwise, well..."

  Otherwise I'll be looking at commanding a mobile kitchen.

  "We'll take the town, Sir."

  "When?"

  Gerhardt thought hard. It was a tough target, no question. But he had a Division he was proud of, tough fighters, men who after only a few weeks were veterans of the bloody 'Battle of the Hedgerows.' Well supplied, well equipped, and well led. The Kraut strength was patchy at best, with a number of 'Ost' battalions, Russians and Ukrainians, who so far had indicated they'd surrender as fast as they could throw up their hands and shout, "Kamerad, Kamerad." Although they also had artillery, Fallschirmjager, Panzergrenadiers, and an unknown number of tanks, as well as the SS, there was always the SS.

  "Tonight, Sir."

  "Tonight? You're certain?"

  "Nothing's certain in war, General. But if all goes to plan, we'll be inside the town by tonight."

  "Then I wish you luck. One thing more, Charles, Intel has informed me there's a Gestapo Headquarters in the town. You know what to do."

  "Gestapo? I'll make sure there isn't a brick left standing, Sir. My boys are not too happy with those SS and Gestapo bastards. Some of them are Jewish, and others have Jewish relatives. They can't wait to pay them back for what they've done."

  "No war crimes, no shooting prisoners, Charles."

  Gerhardt was offended. "No way, that's not my style. When we come up against SS and Gestapo, I have a way of dealing with them. Standoff and hammer the crap out of them with artillery." He chuckled, "We don't take too many prisoners that way. As soon as we get near, and I have the coordinates of their HQ, I'll pass them on to our artillery."

  "That's the spirit, Charles. Save us all a deal of grief. Excellent. Call me when you're in the town, and I'll pass the news on to Ike. He's already planning the next stage of the offensive, something the Brits came up with. Cobra, I believe it's called."

  "You'll be the first to hear, General."

  * * *

  Gestapo Headquarters, Saint-Lo, 12.30, July 11, 1944

  Josh, where are you? I can't take much more of this. Every time I hear the sound of boots in the corridor outside my cell, I think they're coming to execute Father Bouchet and me. I can't help but worry the Germans may beat back the Allied offensive. Are you dead, Josh, lying in the burned out hull of a Sherman tank while the rest of the Americans are running back to the beaches, unable to defeat the might of the German Army?

  She pictured the blackened bodies of the crew of Minnie Mouse, with a sneering SS tank commander laughing to his men as they drove past. She wanted to be dead, to end this terrible ordeal. She glanced across at Father Bouchet as he stirred, groaning in pain. They'd taken him down from the cross before they were transferred to Saint-Lo, and she'd assumed it was in preparation for the planned execution. He lay on the hard, concrete floor, moving in and out of consciousness. She crawled across to him.

  "How do you feel, Father? Is there anything I can do?"

  He smiled through lips that were cracked and bloody. Inside his mouth, there was only his tongue. They'd smashed out his teeth during their frequent torture sessions.

  "Perhaps a prayer would be the best option."

  "I meant your wounds. You're still bleeding. I can see you're lying in a pool of blood."

  He looked at his hands and then his ankles. "We have no bandages, and even if we did, they will come for us any day. No, prayer is our only comfort."

  She ignored him, pulled off the tattered remains of her blouse, and began tearing it into strips. She gently wound a makeshift dressing around each of the four main wounds, one in each hand, and one in each ankle. Each time she touched the ruined flesh, he winced in agony.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, "but if I don't do this, you could die."

  He chuckled, although it came out as a strangled noise from inside his throat. "I could die? I trust you're not serious."

  "We're not dead yet, Father. The Americans could come at any moment and free us."

  "Or the Gestapo may come and execute us."

  "Let's hope it'll be the Americans. We should have faith in them. Their tanks will smash through the German lines and come to rescue us."

  He didn't reply. As a member of the resistance, he had considerable knowledge of the capabilities of the German armor, and he knew the heavy Panzers would not be beaten easily. The Shermans, the bulk of the Allied armor, were lighter and less well armored. Their guns were of smaller caliber. Besides, their men lacked the experience of fighting on the Russian Front, which had forged the Panzer crews into some of the best tankers in the world, those who had survived.

  He was also aware of those that had not survived the vicious duels with the Soviet T34s, and as a result, large numbers of the Panzer crews in France were merely boys, drawn from the Hitler Jugend. Many SS troopers were unwilling low-grade 'volunteers' from the fighting in the East, and were likely to be less than committed to the Nazi cause. Then he considered the armor again and compared the relative size of the Tiger Is and the Panthers, the Tiger IIs, to the Shermans. It was no contest.

  Even so, why bother to explain it to her. She'd told him over the past few days of her feelings for the American tanker, Sergeant Josh Grant. Love had struck her like a lightning strike, and doubtless the Sergeant felt the same way, yet how long could he survive against the might of the heavy Panzers? The odds were not good.

  "Yes, they will penetrate through the German lines. Let us hope they are here in time to help us."

  Before they take us out of here for that final, long walk, and then, oblivion.

  * * *

  One mile outside Saint-Lo, 17.30, July 11, 1944

  They'd just driven down a slit trench that had sheltered an anti-tank crew. Two men with a panzerfaust, and Grant was ready for them. Angel went to full speed, bumping across the wet field, while Grant and Vern hosed them down with the machine guns. They were not men of the highest caliber, or maybe they'd just decided it wasn't worth fighting for a lost cause. They ditched the launcher, leapt out of the trench, and started to run. The machine guns cut them to pieces before they'd taken a dozen paces.

  He heard the Company net come to life. "This is Morgan, who do I have left out there?"

  He checked in, and Daniel followed suit. The Major sounded relieved

  "Thank God for that. Form up on me. I'm in the field to the south of your position."

  They acknowledged, and Angel plunged through the hedgerow to come up with Morgan's tank. Cochise made its appearance a few seconds later, and they formed a small arrowhead formation, ready for the next phase. Morgan had picked up a company of infantry, who were looking for the reassurance of heavy armor to hide behind, and a big gun to hit back with.

  "Pull up alongside me," Morgan said, his voice grim and tired.

  They halted either side of his tank and climbed down. Grant could see why the Major was upset. The field was strewn with bodies. American bodies.

  They look so young, some of 'em are just teenagers.

  "It was a hard fight." They looked up as an officer joined them. Like Morgan, he looked all in. The new arrival glanced at Gunter's German uniform but made no comment. It was that kind of a mixed up crazy war. The two officers moved away and chatted for a few moments, then returned. Morgan did the introductions. "This is Lieutenant Anderson, he's in command of Alpha Company."

  A lieutenant, and he's a company commander. Jesus, it must have been bad.

  "He's the most senior officer left standing," Morgan explained, "Probably the only officer. He's coming along with us so we can offer him close support, and his men will do their best to keep the Panzergrenadiers away from our Shermans."

  "Makes sense," Grant nodded, "Sir, we're supposed to push on into Saint-Lo." He pointed toward the road lying a few hundred yards below their position, "That would seem like the quickest route to me."

  He shook his head. "Not going to happen. Lieutenant, would you explain your orders to my Sergeant."

  "Yes, Sir. The plan is to finish off the enemy here and dig in while the artillery pound the crap out of strategic targets inside and around the town; defensive strongpoints, artillery parks, assembly areas, and barracks. Oh, yeah, they've pinpointed a Gestapo facility in the town. Believe me, that's one target they're going to get a kick out of shelling. Those Nazi bastards are about to get a taste of hell."

  Gunter gasped. "Sergeant, the Gestapo Headquarters, they cannot..."

  He nodded and looked at Morgan. "Sir, there's a woman inside that prison, a hostage of the Nazis."

  "A woman? What're you talking about?"

  "The girl who cooked for us a few days back. We have to get her out."

  Morgan's face showed understanding. "Yes, of course, I remember. That was swell cooking. I doubt my wife's chow will ever taste the same." He lost himself in his thoughts for a few seconds, but then his face darkened, "You were saying?" He looked even more tired, and something more, ill maybe. Grant noticed the deep lines etched into his face were even more prominent.

  Either he's ill or he's going through a divorce.

  "The girl who cooked for us." He grinned, trying to lighten the moment; "I guess your wife ain't no great shakes in the kitchen."

  He scowled. "No, Sergeant, she is not."

  "She could always take some lessons," Solly tried to cheer him up. He considered himself something of an authority on food and occasionally harbored plans to open a kosher restaurant.

  Morgan shook his head. "Too late for that, I'm afraid."

  Solly's enthusiasm bubbled over, "It's never too late. She can't be much more than thirty years old, Sir. She could..."

  The officer's eyes were red, and tears began to form in the corners. "She's dying, Corporal Rothstein. On this occasion, I assure you it is too late."

  Grant put a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. "Cancer?" His uncle had died prematurely of that dreaded disease.

  "Cancer, yeah. She was getting treatment, but I got a letter from her to tell me we've reached the limit on our insurance. She'd need, well, a lot of money to give her a better than even chance. Telephone numbers, they said, it could run to a hundred thousand dollars over the next three years. Without it, well, you know."

  "It's a lot of cash. Can't you, you know, can't you raise it? I mean, I don't mean to pry..."

  "If we sold everything, the house, cashed in our investments, borrowed every penny, we could maybe raise a quarter of it."

  He cut off the discussion to stride away and stand on his own for several minutes while he wiped his eyes. When he walked back, his eyes were even redder, but he'd recovered his equilibrium. He forced a grin.

  "Just some grit in the eyes. Forget my problems. Let's go kill some Krauts. Where were we, this girl in Saint-Lo, was it?"

  "Yes, Sir. We need to get her out before the attack starts."

  He looked puzzled. "Sergeant, they're about to shell the place in, when is it?"

  He looked at the Lieutenant.

  "Four hours, Major, the artillery barrage starts just before dark."

  "There you are, four hours. It can't be done, Grant, I'm sorry. She'll have to take her chances."

  "I'll go in on my own," he snapped, "I'm not leaving her to be pounded to gristle by our own artillery."

  "Sergeant, that'll do!" Morgan murmured, "You obey orders, otherwise you know what'll happen. You're already in the shit as it is. You do this and Lindbergh would have you shot at dawn."

  Grant felt a dark mist closing around him.

  We have to go in and get her, goddamnit. We have Gunter Sturm, and he knows a way in. We could snatch her from the prison, kill a few Krauts, and get out while the going’s good. There has to be a way to persuade him, something anything, but what? Shit! There is something.

  "If you won't do it for Margot, Major, do it for your wife."

  Morgan stared at him. "You'd better explain yourself. You're one step away from a court martial, Sergeant. And that's after I break your nose."

  He explained at some length. They clustered around while he told them about the SS Divisional payroll, as well as the treasury, and how the SS planned to grab it for themselves. Gunter filled in the gaps, with the exact location and the estimated amount.

  "It's the payroll for the past five months. It was delayed while they were in Russia, and somehow it's only just arrived in France. Then there are the allowances for expenses, together with the Divisional treasury."

  "How many million?" Solly stared.

  "Forget it," Morgan snapped, "It's not our money. It belongs to the soldiers who earned it."

  "You mean it belongs to the SS," Gunter reminded him, "You would pay them to continue killing American soldiers?"

  "I, er..."

  "If we take that money," Grant said quietly, "It's possible some of them may desert. It could save lives. Many lives."

  "Forget it," Morgan said again.

  "Major, we could help," Lieutenant Anderson offered. He looked around at his depleted force, a miniscule total of thirty-four men left standing, "Hell, chances are we'll all be dead the way things are going. We may as well die fighting for something worthwhile."

  "Lieutenant, if..."

  "I could put my kids through school," his Company Sergeant, Wade Jenkins, interrupted, "It'd be a dream come true. Worth fighting this war for."

  "Worth dying for?"

  Jenkins shrugged. "I'm taking that risk every hour of every day, and there ain't any kind of a reward."

  Morgan shook his head in disbelief, but then he looked down sharply at his hand. He suddenly realized he was holding the letter from his wife. He thought for long moments. Finally, he looked up.

  "It'll save lives, you say?"

  "No question," Anderson jumped in.

  "Hundreds of lives," Solly added, "They'll desert in droves if they can't pay them."

  Grant could see in his eyes his dreams of relocating his family on a farm in Palestine. Angel visualized his dream of his own pizza bar, and his face twisted in a smile. For once, Vern was silent. He stood next to Dale, and they chatted like old friends, about alligator farms, probably, and college tuition. They all needed just the one thing to make their dreams come true. And it lay less than two miles away.