He looked at two more crates underneath, and each contained a similar number of grenades, labeled ‘Stielhandgranaten,’ which he assumed was the German word for hand grenade.

  There are enough of the damned things to dump these bastards into the river, with half the building on top of them. Except I can’t toss them all at once, unless… If I pull the ring on a single grenade, would that cause a sympathetic detonation, and they’d all go up? There’s only one way to find out.

  He listened to make sure no soldiers were walking in the back to block the way out, pulled the ring of the grenade on top, and lay it back in the case. He sprinted out along the passage, racing for the door, knowing he had to warn Harry. In another couple of seconds the building would cease to exist and become a heap of rubble, and a grave for the soldiers waiting in ambush for his platoon.

  He almost made it when a German stepped out in front of him, and at first he didn’t recognize an enemy. A split second later he moved like lightning, grabbing for his MP40 to fill the American intruder full of lead.

  Chapter Four

  Before he had a chance to pull the trigger, the grenades exploded in a shattering detonation. The shockwave slammed into them, and their world became a nightmare of smoke, flames, and flying masonry. Ray felt himself sucked through the air, and he’d no idea where he’d wind up. No idea if he’d be trapped beneath several hundred tons of masonry and rubble, and he passed out.

  “Ray.”

  The voice calling his name seemed to come a great distance away. He opened his eyes, and he was staring into the concerned face of Harry Byrd. “Is this for real, or did we both die?”

  “It’s for real, pal. You had me worried there for a time.”

  His mind cleared a fraction, and he focused on that single word. Time.

  “How long since we left the platoon?”

  “Just over an hour. They’ll be coming across any moment.”

  “The Germans! We need to warn them it’s an ambush!”

  He chuckled. “The hell with any ambush, you know what you did in there? Why don’t you take a look?”

  Painfully, he raised himself onto his elbow and maneuvered himself around. The explosion had thrown him clear and saved him from being buried alive. Nothing had saved the German soldiers waiting to spring the ambush. The building was no more, a heap of rubble, a testament to the power of three-dozen German stick grenades. There were no survivors. There could be no survivors. The building had become a vast tomb, a charnel house. He shifted his gaze when he saw movement on the bridge. First Platoon was crossing, hunched over, waiting for the bullets to fly, and led by the determined figure of Lieutenant Horton.

  Byrd went to meet them, and several minutes later they were looking down at the prone figure of Cassidy. Horton didn’t look sympathetic.

  “What happened, did you stumble on a patch of rubble on the way in? Dammit, I told you we could use that bridge. There never was a problem. Why are you lying there? Get on your feet, soldier!”

  Harry took a deep breath, probably to stop him taking a swing at the guy.

  “There was a problem, Lt. If he hadn’t done what he did, you’d all be dead.”

  He pointed to what was left of the building that until recently had housed a squad of German soldiers armed with machine guns and other automatic weapons. Sergeant Logan raised his eyebrows. “He did that?”

  “He did that, and it nearly killed him. The guy deserves a medal.”

  “Yeah, I guess he does. Lt, Private Cassidy deserves an apology. You could’ve lost the entire platoon.”

  “Maybe I was wrong. Okay, Cassidy, you’re fit now, so get on your feet. We have a job to do.”

  It was as much as he could expect. Horton checked the directions and led them toward Avenue de Verdun. The damage to the buildings was astonishing, and large parts had been reduced to heaps of rubble, like some mad men had decided to tear down the entire city and start again from scratch. Bodies lay everywhere, some left unburied where they’d fallen, bloated, and clouds of flies took off as they walked past and disturbed them. They reached their destination, the Avenue named after the famous First World War Battle of Verdun. Less than thirty years before the mighty German Armies had poured into France expecting an easy victory. Verdun, amongst other brutal and attritional battles, proved them wrong, and they retreated back across their borders.

  They stopped and sheltered inside the ruins of what had once been an elegant, four-story house. The top three stories and disappeared, shattered by bombs and shells, but the first floor still stood, enough to keep them out of sight of German eyes. The entrance to the underground armory lay two hundred yards away, unmistakable because of the activity around it. A half-dozen SS men on guard duty watched as teams of ragged, emaciated figures battled under their heavy loads, like a procession of ants entering the dark portal and disappearing inside. Across the street, the Germans had established a sandbagged machine gun nest, and helmeted soldiers kept a careful watch at the approaches.

  “They’re still bringing in more munitions,” Horton murmured, “That place must be stacked floor to ceiling with enough ordnance to destroy half of France. When our guys attack tomorrow, they’re gonna hit a wall of high explosive and hot lead.” He glanced aside at the Sarge, “Getting in there could be a problem unless we can take out that machine gun. Getting to it won’t be easy. They’re watching from both sides of the street.”

  Logan nodded, still staring at the target. “The key is the machine gun. Knock that out, and we can hit those guards across the street.”

  “I agree, Sergeant, but how? If we attack the machine gun, they won’t stand by and do nothing.”

  Cassidy had been trying to find a way in, which meant a way past that machine gun. He was looking up and down the street, like Horton and Logan, but he was also looking up.

  We’re Airborne, aren’t we, paratroopers, soldiers who drop in on the enemy from the sky?

  The machine gun emplacement lay two yards in front of a blank wall around fifteen feet high, and they’d positioned the emplacement so nobody could come at them from behind.

  “Why don’t we drop on them?”

  Horton gave him a puzzled look. “Soldier, did you get a bump on the head when that building collapsed?”

  “My head’s fine, Lieutenant. So why don’t we drop on them?”

  He sighed and looked at Sergeant Logan. “Will you explain to this man we’re on the ground, not inside an aircraft.” He looked at Cassidy. “Don’t worry, when we get back make sure you see a doctor.”

  “Lt, I keep telling you there’s nothing wrong with my head. I meant climb the wall from the other side and drop on them. Last time I heard, that’s what paratroopers do.”

  He looked at the wall. Logan looked at the wall, and they looked at each other.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  The Sarge ignored him. “Byrd, Cassidy, are you up to it?”

  The Lieutenant started to protest. “Now hold it, why those two?”

  He didn’t spare him a glance. “Because they’re the best we have at killing Germans. Don’t worry, the rest of the men will have plenty of chances to throw some lead when we attack across the street.”

  They didn’t wait for a debate, and the two troopers left the ruined building by the rear entrance. Ray led, picking his way carefully across the heaps of rubble. They were walking through what had once been the long passage of a department store, now a destroyed testament to the power of high explosive bombs. The roof had gone, and all that remained was smashed but still standing, brickwork either side of where they walked, and the wall. They came up behind it and searched for a way to climb the sheer, smooth face. There was nothing, until Harry almost tripped over a long roofing beam.

  “Ray,” he whispered, “Gimme a hand. We can prop this against the wall and shin up it.”

  They found it weighed a ton. Solid oak, twelve inches by twelve inches, and twenty feet long. When they tried lifting it, it wouldn’t budge. Despite the enormous weight of the length of hardwood, they found the reason for it refusing to move was a heap of rubble that had fallen on one end.

  “There’s no way we can move that, not in the time we have left. We need another way.”

  “Shit.” Cassidy moved next to the wall, inspecting its surface, searching for a weakness. Maybe there was a way they could remove some of the bricks enough to squeeze through and get behind the Germans. The darkness made it difficult, so he felt along the brickwork with his hands. It was smooth and undamaged. He went back to the beam and considered if there was another way. There was none.

  “Harry, we’ll have to go around and hit them from the street.”

  “No way, don’t forget the SS guards on the other side. They’ll spot us immediately. It won’t work, Ray.”

  He was right, and yet they had to do something. In the event, the problem was taken away from them. A roar of engines, and they looked up in time to see an aircraft plunging down toward them, a twin boom, twin engine Lockheed P-38 Lightning. It flew so low the bombs fitted to the hard points beneath the wings were visible. They were also visible as black objects that fell toward them, and it was almost too late when Cassidy shouted, “Cover!”

  There was no cover, except for the heap of rubble trapping one end of the oak beam. They scrambled toward it as the bombs whistled down toward them, flung themselves down in the rubble with their heads pressed to the dirt and dust. The twin explosions shook the ground. The shockwave punched into them, and more rubble cascaded over them. For Ray Cassidy it was déjà vu, like back at the bridge, and once again he survived what should have killed him. When the aircraft flew away, he cautiously lifted up his head. Harry Byrd was staring at him again.

  “Pal, either you have a charmed life or working with you is as dangerous as charging a Tiger tank. I’m not sure which.”

  “We’re alive, aren’t we? How about we take another look at that machine gun emplacement?”

  They turned their heads, and they were staring at the backs of German soldiers. The explosions had torn a huge gap in the wall, big enough to drive a jeep through. Nothing lay between them and the machine gun, except the Germans, and they were busy. The explosions had covered them with broken bricks and chunks of rock, toppling the sandbags that protected the machine gun. They were busy clearing the debris, dusting off and cleaning the MG42, and rebuilding the sandbags; too busy to peer into the darkness behind them.

  He looked at Harry. “It’s now or never. We can hit them from behind. When we’ve knocked out the machine gun, our guys can charge in and take out those guards. This is our chance. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Horton struggled to come to terms with what had happened. “Sergeant, what you think? Those bombs likely killed them.”

  Logan had been thinking the same thing. Even though Cassidy and Byrd always came through, the time had to come when they didn’t make it.

  “It’s likely, yeah, but look at the machine gun nest. The blast did a lot of damage, and right now they’re rebuilding it. We could take the chance and hit those guards now, go straight into the underground armory, and set demolition charges to destroy it. It will have to be now or never, Lt. Once they get that machine gun back into action, we’ll have lost the chance.”

  “I concur. Men, lock and load. We’re going in.”

  They gripped their weapons, and once again Horton went to the front. “On my order…”

  He never gave the order. A harsh grating bark from behind stopped him.

  “Halt! Drop your weapons, and stay where you are!”

  They turned slowly, and they were looking into the muzzles of eight MP40s, held by grim-faced SS troopers. Men who looked like they were aching for their officer to give the word so they could start the killing. He didn’t give the word.

  “Last chance, Americans. Drop those guns, or my men will shoot.”

  Horton nodded and laid down his Grease Gun. Logan placed the Thompson on the ground, and the rest of the men followed.

  The German officer nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent, now put up your hands. My men will escort you into custody.”

  He shouted a string of orders in German, an order the Americans wouldn’t have understood. If one of them, Corporal Henry Miller, hadn’t been descended from German immigrants who’d insisted he learned to become fluent in the language of his motherland.

  “Sarge, the guy just ordered them to take us away and shoot us.”

  “You’re sure you heard right?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Logan looked everywhere, searching for a way to escape death, and there was no way. Cassidy and Byrd were dead, killed in the bombing raid, and they were about to die, executed by the SS.

  The Lieutenant glanced at him, and he shook his head. “We’re screwed, Sir.”

  “You’re sure there’s no mistake? That is what he said?”

  “This is the end, Lieutenant.”

  For the first time, he heard the young officer swear.

  “Shit.”

  Chapter Five

  Cassidy and Byrd, watching through the gap in the wall, saw it all happen. They heard Corporal Muller translate the SS officer’s orders and watched the platoon form up under the German guns. Ready to march away to their deaths. In front of them, the machine gun crew had stopped to watch the capture of the Americans, as had the guards in front of the entrance, but as they started to walk away with their hands in the air, they turned back to their work.

  “We have to do something,” Harry murmured.

  He’d been thinking the same thing. He was watching his platoon marching further from the guns they’d left on the ground, moving toward their place of execution.

  “Whatever we do, it has to be now. So we can give them a chance to pick up their guns. It’s time to nail those bastards, Harry. Show those Krauts not to mess with 82nd Airborne. You loaded?”

  “Say the word, buddy.”

  “Now!”

  They charged out through the gap in the wall and fell on the shocked and bewildered machine gun crew. Cassidy fired first, knocking them down like coconuts on a fairground sideshow. Byrd followed, firing repeatedly, and in the first few seconds they’d nailed the four Germans rebuilding their machine gun nest. The SS men guarding the entrance stared at them in stunned surprise, but not for long. They pointed their submachine guns and opened fire, but by now they’d dropped behind the partly rebuilt emplacement, and the bullets whacked harmlessly into the sandbags.

  Both men returned fire, and the guards scattered, but the eight men guarding the prisoners were taking interest, and the officer was shouting orders. In a couple of seconds they’d be all over them, and they had one tiny window to beat the odds. Taking a chance, Ray jumped to his feet and cupped his hands before his mouth to make a megaphone.

  “82nd, grab the guns and kill the bastards while you have a chance. Do it now!”

  The Germans failed to understand, ignored the unarmed prisoners, and concentrated on the threat in front of them. Behind them, Logan raced back to where they’d dropped their weapons, and the rest of the men followed. Before they recovered their wits and noticed the threat from behind, the platoon was fully armed, and the serious fighting started. They weren’t unarmed prisoners, lambs for the slaughter. They were Airborne, tough paratroopers, and they were pissed. Very pissed.

  Military tactics dictated they should’ve hit the dirt to keep their profiles low while they took down the enemy. Military tactics could take a hike. They charged into the teeth of MP40 submachine guns held by fanatic Nazis unable to grasp such a dramatic turnaround. One moment they’d been faced with unarmed prisoners under sentence of death, the next by almost twenty ferocious paratroopers. Horton led the charge, his Grease Gun spitting bullets, followed by Logan with the Thompson, followed by grim-faced troopers, and it was too much. Outnumbered and awed by the ferocity of their enemies, they turned and ran. All except the officer, who vanished.

  The guards on the entrance used a different tactic, and they retreated inside. Out of sight of Horton’s charge, but they’d forgotten about Cassidy and Byrd across the street. Until their Garands spat bullets at them, and inside the narrow tunnel entrance, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Six SS troopers became six bodies, and when the last one fell, the two men were already racing across the street and into the entrance.

  They descended the long ramp that sloped down, only pausing when two Germans came racing toward them, realized what they faced, and died. They ran on until they reached the end of the passage, and a huge armored steel door stood in front of them. It wasn’t locked, and Cassidy pushed it open and stopped. They were looking at an amazing scene, a cavernous underground room packed with scores of wooden and metal crates, long cases that would have contained machine guns and rifles, and cowering on one side, a bunch of men.

  At least, they’d been men once. They were like scarecrows, backs bent, thin, wrinkled, and aged before their time. He looked at Harry. “Russian prisoners, the poor bastards.”

  He nodded. “I’ll tell them to get out while they still can.” He walked over to the nearest man, who shivered in terror as he approached, “It’s okay. We’re getting you out of here.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  It was the same voice, the same man. A senior SS officer, and he had the drop on them, holding a pistol pointed at them, “Drop the weapons.”

  Harry glanced at him and recognized the man who’d ordered the execution of his platoon. “No.”

  He gave him a thin smile. “I told you to put the rifles down. Do as I say and you will live, otherwise you die. I will give you three seconds to choose.”

  “One of us will die, pal, but while you’re killing one, the other will kill you. So screw you, Mister.”

  His lips twisted into a snarl. “When you address me, you will give me my proper rank. I am SS-Oberführer Otto Baum, and I can kill you both before you have a chance to return fire.”