"Sir?"

  He realized the man was still waiting for his acknowledgement. There was only one possible answer.

  "Is the Generalfeldmarschal aware of the order?"

  "It came through Generalfeldmarschal von Rundstedt's headquarters, Sir."

  "And Rommel?"

  "He is on a visit to Germany, Sir. He went home for his wife's birthday."

  With a huge effort, he prevented himself from laughing. They couldn't wake the Fuhrer from his rest, in order to repel an Allied invasion that could potentially force them all the way back to the German border. And Rommel was visiting his wife to celebrate her birthday.

  Am I insane, or is it them? And they tell us we are the master race!

  "Very well. You may tell Generalfeldmarschal von Runstedt we have received the order, and will move at once. I trust the Luftwaffe will provide air cover along the way?"

  The man took several seconds before he replied. "The Luftwaffe is short of fuel, Sir. As soon as they find some gas, they will attempt to put up some aircraft."

  What is this, an army or a bunch of halfwits? That ignoramus Goering, he should get his fat ass over here and put a rocket under his pilots. Then again, if they had no gas, who was to blame? Not the men on the front line, that was for sure.

  "I understand."

  He put the receiver down after he'd heard the operator say, "Good luck, Sir."

  We'll need more than good luck, my friend. We'll need a miracle. It's time to round up my schoolchildren and drive to the beaches.

  When he reached the barn, he could hear the massive Maybach engine ticking over. Even at low revs, it was a mighty throb that shook the flimsy wooden structure. SS-Sturmann Franz Schelling grinned at him from the driver's vision slot. The gunner, Unterscharfuhrer Heinrich Boll, was on the deck, securing the lines that held spare equipment to the hull. He saluted Manhausen.

  "Sir, we're all secured and ready to go."

  "Good. The rest of the crew?"

  "Wilhelm is warming up the radio. Siegfried is also inside the hull, checking the ammunition."

  He nodded. "You've done well, Boll. We're moving out to the beaches."

  "They're sure, the Allies are really coming?"

  His seventeen-year-old face shone with enthusiasm. Rolf knew it was Boll's ambition to command his own Panzer. He also knew the kid would never survive long enough to achieve his dream. None of them would. From across the road, another Tiger of the 12th SS HJ nosed out of a haystack where they'd hidden through the night, and the behemoth moved toward the tarmac road. He climbed into the turret, adjusted his headphones and microphone, and called the crew.

  "Stay alert for enemy aircraft. You can be sure they'll be somewhere overhead. Franz, follow that Tiger in front of us, but don't get too close."

  "Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer."

  He was good, and the order was unnecessary. Like Heinrich Boll, Franz was seventeen years old. Both of them were the oldest kids in his crew, apart from himself. He was ancient; he'd gone to Russia an enthusiastic 23-year-old officer. He returned two years later, and twenty years older. His dark hair was streaked with gray, which he tried to conceal. It was enough his crew were so young, without highlighting the difference by having a gray-haired commander.

  Their Tiger rolled onto the road and took up station one hundred meters behind the tank in front. Behind them, another steel monster rolled into formation and joined the line, and another and another. Rolf suddenly remembered the most important ritual of all, and leaned down to make his voice heard over the roar of the engine and the clatter of the tracks.

  "Hals und Beinbruch!"

  They laughed delightedly and echoed his words. A pagan German custom, it translated as 'break a neck and a leg.' The idea was to fool the Devil. But it wouldn't fool the Amis or the British. Not for a moment.

  Chapter Two

  Berchtesgaden, Germany, The Second Day – June 7, 1944

  Even those staff who'd observed his gradual decline found themselves shocked. Since the defeat of the Sixth Army at Stalingrad, he'd become more irritable, more inclined to fly into fits of rage. Even worse, his decision-making abilities were lessened. He was unsure, hesitant even. When he did make up his mind, he issued strings of commands without recourse to advice from his experienced Generals.

  Perhaps he knew they were men who would have advised him the inevitable outcome of his insane refusal to consider tactical withdrawal would result in the loss of even more tens of thousands of German soldiers. As the Commander-in-Chief of the German Army, he'd become a liability. But they still watched him, fascinated by his effortless ability to dominate a room and to overwhelm his audience.

  "It is nothing but a ruse," he told them, his voice harsh, but under control, "I suspected the Allies would make a diversionary attack on my Fortress Europe, and they have fallen into my trap. The Panzer divisions are waiting outside Pas de Calais, and when the main Allied force lands, the armor will smash them to pieces."

  Feldmarschal Keitel nodded, enthusiastic as ever. "Your genius is all we need to destroy all who dare to attack us, Mein Fuhrer."

  Hitler nodded. After all, the praise was no more than his due. Before he could speak again, another voice intruded.

  "Fuhrer, they are landing in Normandy in vast numbers. It is hard to believe they have sufficient forces to mount an additional attack further east. I have spoken to Rommel, and he believes this is the real thing. We should move our Panzers to the beaches immediately and repel them before it is too late."

  The haunted, laser eyes flickered around and focused on Colonel Ernst Schraub, an aide to Colonel General Jodl, who hissed at his man to be silent. It was too late.

  "Do you question my judgment, Colonel?"

  The voice was icy, and the volume began to rise. They waited for the explosion.

  "Of course not, Mein Fuhrer."

  "I do not believe you, Schraub. You say that Rommel, and presumably yourself, do not agree with my reading of the situation."

  His voice rose to a scream, "I TELL YOU IT IS A DIVERSION! YOU WILL CONTACT VON RUNSTREDT NOW, GIVE HIM MY ANALYSIS, AND TELL HIM TO CONTINUE TO HOLD THE PANZERS IN RESERVE."

  Hitler's face was now bright red, and his eyes blazed with a furnace-like heat, huge and filled with a terrible anger. "IS THAT CLEAR?"

  "Yes, Mein Fuhrer."

  The unfortunate aide stumbled toward the door to pass on the message to Feldmarschal von Rundstedt, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces in France. Behind him, he heard Hitler speaking again. It was as if a switch had been thrown, and the Fuhrer's voice was almost normal.

  "The situation in Russia needs to be stabilized. When we have beaten back these Allies, I will send the heavy Panzer divisions back to the Eastern Front where they are more needed."

  "Brilliant, Mein Fuhrer. A master stroke."

  It was Keitel again, of course. Hitler's yes-man, nicknamed Lakeitel, German for 'the nodding donkey.' Schraub stumbled into the radio room. After he'd passed on the order, he decided it was time to contact Rommel. The man really was a military genius, and Hitler respected him for his abilities. Perhaps he could persuade the Fuhrer to move the Panzers to the beaches. There was only one way to beat the Allied invasion, and that was with armor, heavy armor, Tiger and Panther tanks, and the new King Tigers. Assemble them in a single massive force and hurl them at the impudent invaders. They would pound them into scrap. Dunkirk would be a tea party in comparison to the fate they would meet in Normandy, if the Fuhrer could be persuaded to allow them to move.

  * * *

  Omaha Beach, June 7, 1944

  They'd endured a tough night. The Krauts weren't about to fold, that was for sure, and several fierce counterattacks hit them hard. They lost two more M4s, one to an anti-tank gun and one to a panzerfaust. In the end, they managed to secure a position where their armored vehicles were hull down, protected by a natural depression in the ground. They even grabbed a couple of hours sleep. Yet there was much work to do, the Krauts were still fighting back hard.

  There'd been little sign of heavy armor. The crappy French tanks the Germans captured in 1940 were outdated and easily dealt with. The STUG IIIs were something else. A mobile assault gun and tank killer, they had a low profile that made them hard to hit. They were a dangerous enemy, and their 75mm gun packed enough punch to take out a Sherman. The STUGs were issued to Panzergrenadier units, who'd made several attacks close to the landing beaches. So far, they'd beaten them all back. The real puzzle was the armor.

  Where are the Tigers?

  He grinned, the crew asked him the same question several times every hour. It was understandable; they wanted to know when to duck and run.

  "Sergeant Grant!"

  He climbed to his feet as Major Morgan approached in the dark, predawn chill.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "You did well yesterday. With those French tanks."

  "They were nothing, Sir. Tin cans is all they are."

  "Maybe. Listen, we're moving inland, some place called Gruchy. The 29th Infantry will spearhead the advance, and we'll support them as and when they need us. The objective is Vierville, you got that on your map?"

  Grant took out his map case and squinted at the rough detail.

  "Yes, Sir, Vierville. When do we jump off?"

  "Soon. We'll wait for them to move and stay close. The objective is to link up with Utah Beach in the west, but that'll take time. The signs are the Krauts ain't gonna leave without a fight."

  He seemed to pause for a few moments, and then he went on, "A warning, Sergeant Grant. Ike takes a dim view of shooting prisoners, you copy that?"

  So Lieutenant Bligh ratted me out. Too bad, they can't prove anything.

  "Yessir."

  "If we start shooting their soldiers, they'll do the same to our men. Besides, we're not butchers, not like the Nazis."

  "Nossir."

  "Even if they are murdering Jews in the thousands, if what we're hearing is true." He fixed Grant with a fierce stare, "If you take a prisoner who you believe has been involved in that kind of activity, you know what to do."

  "Yessir."

  "Good." He grinned, "If you think he's guilty, shoot the bastard, but next time don't get caught."

  He felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The Major gave him a grim smile. "My wife's family is Jewish, so you can imagine how I feel about these Nazi swine."

  Morgan stomped away, leaving him scratching his head in astonishment.

  So much for that!

  He went to roust his crew as the first rays of dawn crept across the beaches from the east. They bathed the outlines of the Shermans in a hard, harsh light, making them a perfect target for an air attack. He looked up.

  No sign of the Luftwaffe, thank God. Then again, USAAF and the RAF appear to have total air superiority, at least so far. If the Luftwaffe does come, they'll get a hot reception.

  Cheered by that thought, he roused the crew. Solly was awake, his face screwed up in thought. Grant followed the direction of his gaze, a stretch of coastline with a small fishing village in the distance. It was like a Monet painting, the impression reinforced by the soft lines of the pale dawn, the hard edges blurred by the swirling smoke smoothed the definition. He recalled Rothstein was a talented artist in his spare time, when he wasn't busy with his principal work as an accountant for a big city firm.

  "You thinking about painting that scene? It sure looks good."

  Solly turned around, and Grant was shocked by the grim lines on his face, as if he'd aged five years in just a few hours.

  "Not really. It reminds me of something, Beach at Trouville, I guess, by Boudin. He painted it in the late nineteenth century. Before it was light, I could visualize it down there, the beach umbrellas, the bathhouses, and the vacationers. When it started to get light, I realized it was an illusion. The umbrellas, the bathhouses, they were wrecked and burned out vehicles. And the people were all dead."

  He didn't reply for a few moments. Then he nodded his understanding. "You're thinking about your folks."

  "Yep. It was that Kraut, his talk about Auschwitz. People say they're killing Jews in the tens of thousands in that camp. I keep thinking about my relatives."

  "It may be a rumor, Solly. You could be worrying over nothing."

  The other man gave him a skeptical glance. "We moving out?"

  "We are. Our job is to support the ground pounders, 29th Infantry. Their objective is Vierville. It's a village about half a mile inland. Our job is to run interference if they run into enemy armor."

  He nodded, his face still etched with worry. "I guess it's time to ring the breakfast gong."

  "Yeah, get them moving."

  They both looked around the area. The beach and inland areas were still alive with machine gunfire, artillery, and the ships pounding the defenses, although they'd shifted their aim further inland. Aircraft droned overhead, in ones, twos, and sometimes whole fleets; all heading for the enemy positions, hitting the crap out of them, and returning to Britain to refuel and rearm.

  "It's like a machine," Solly mused, "A well-oiled machine, a conveyor belt of death. Except when the belt breaks, and men fall into the cogs to be chewed up and spat out, just so much bone and gristle."

  It sounds like a premonition of death, but whose death?

  "Round 'em up, Solly. We need to find some breakfast. I have a feeling it's going to be a long day. At least it isn't raining."

  As he said it, the first large drops splattered on his head, and the downpour followed. He grinned.

  "My fault, I shouldn't have tempted fate."

  "Nope. Any chance of breakfast?"

  "Not one. I saw the quartermaster's truck go down with one of those LCTs. Our cookhouse gear was loaded, food, cookers, you name it."

  "That's okay. We'll manage with what we have inside the lockers on Minnie. Maybe we can stroll into Vierville later and buy a couple of French loaves from a boulangerie."

  "If we can beat the Krauts first and toss them out."

  Solly winced and strolled off. He was a man with a lot on his mind. Any man who thought the enemy was murdering his folks would be pissed. Was he any different? He was determined to make them pay for his brother David, but at least he'd been a soldier. If the stories were true, they were killing civilians in droves.

  Fucking Krauts. I hate them, I really do.

  A half hour and a cold greasy breakfast inside his belly, he climbed onto the hull and slid into the turret hatch. He leaned down to shout to the driver.

  "Angel, did you check the fuel?"

  "We're over half full, Sarge. How far are we going today?"

  "About a half-mile, if we're lucky."

  A chuckle. "We could cook dinner for the Battalion with what we have, and still have enough gas for the day."

  "I hear you. How about ammo?"

  "We fired off about half what we had in the locker. Mainly HE, we've got plenty of AP if we run into armor."

  "Dale, how about belts for the machine guns?"

  "We're good. I've reloaded, and we have spares, provided we're not planning to fight all the way to Berlin. Not today, anyway."

  No one laughed. "I guess we're good to go. Start engine and move up behind the Bounty."

  The engine roared, and the stink of exhaust fumes engulfed them. Angel slammed the gears into forward drive, and they lurched forward. Major Morgan's voice came into his earphones.

  "This is the Company Commander. Intel has reported there's an elite German unit in the area, the 352nd Infantry Division. Some of their men are vets from the Eastern Front, so they've asked us to go check them out. I'll take the rest of the Company. Lieutenant Bligh, I want your platoon to stay with the infantry. They say the Krauts have a unit of artillery up ahead. Good luck, men. Move out."

  "That's just our damn luck," Vernon whined, "Why couldn't we be facing a unit of German Red Cross nurses? We could give 'em a good time, persuade the girls to desert and come over to our side."

  "It'd take more than your ugly mug to persuade them," Dale growled. It was one of those times when Vern had got on his nerves a tad too much. He got on all their nerves.

  "Fuck you," Vern swore in retaliation, "You find me any girl, and I'll sweet talk her into bed before you have time to spit."

  "You spit at girls, is that the way you do it down South?"

  "You come here, and I'll..."

  "Cut it out!" Grant snapped, "If you want to fight anyone, save your strength for the Germans. You heard the Major, Angel. Move out."

  "You got it," he replied nonchalantly.

  Minnie lurched forward, and this time Bligh led them away from the beach, as Morgan's armor sped away at a tangent. A couple of hundred yards ahead of them, the infantry were marching in a long line, evenly spaced, hugging the verge on the edge of the road. If they hit serious trouble, they'd disappear into the ditch and call in the Shermans. At first it looked as if the Germans had pulled back. There was plenty of shooting and shelling, but all of it some distance away. It was as if they were in some kind of a dead zone when an MG42 opened up, with its peculiar buzz saw ripping noise, and a half-dozen soldiers went down.

  "Ambush, get moving!" Bligh shouted, "Kraut machine gun, he's holed up in a cottage up ahead, kind of white, with blue shutters. I can see the muzzle flashes. Hit the bastard."

  Grant thumbed his mike. "Gunner, load HE."

  "Loaded and ready."

  "Target is the white cottage, one o'clock, two hundred yards ahead."

  "I'm on it."

  "Fire!"

  The gun crashed back on its mountings as the shell left the barrel, and already Dale was stooping forward to load the next.

  "Keep firing. I want that position destroyed. Kill them."

  Solly and Dale continued with a fast rate of fire while Angel kept the Sherman moving forward. The machine gun had stopped firing, and Grant opened the hatch to get a better view. He saw them, the distinctive square helmets, two men darting away from the cottage and using the garden wall as cover.