He acknowledged and continued checking the surroundings through his binoculars. He smiled, about four kilometers away, a Sherman. The American was shooting at something, probably one of their light tanks. If he were fighting a Tiger, he'd be dead. There was an explosion, and smoke poured into the air from some unknown victim.

  Poor bastard. Pity it's too far away to shoot.

  The Sherman began to move and joined with five similar vehicles. They all carried the distinctive white Allied star. The enemy armor stopped again, and a flash of light made him focus back on the Sherman he'd sighted first, destroying the unseen target. So they were watching him. He felt a shiver down his spine, as if someone had poured cold water down his back.

  I'm getting superstitious in my old age.

  The radio crackled to life, and he gave his call sign.

  "Where are you, Manhausen? You were supposed to be here several hours ago."

  He recognized the grating tones of Standartenfuhrer Meyer. The man was a legend in the SS Panzer Corps, a hard-charging tanker, and a man who didn't know the meaning of the word retreat. He had earned the respect of the Fuhrer himself, along with the Knight's Cross. When Meyer saw an enemy, any enemy, he'd charge in to fight, no matter what the odds. He'd enjoyed mixed fortunes. Sometimes it worked, but on at least one occasion, he'd run into hundreds of T-34s and KVIIs on the Eastern Front and been lucky to emerge with a quarter of his tank force; Tigers and Panthers that were irreplaceable.

  "We were directed the wrong way, Sir. We had engine trouble, but we're fixing it right now. We'll be with you shortly."

  His reply was met with a stony silence. He hit the transmit switch a couple of times.

  Damn, the radio has stopped working.

  Franz, the only man who may have fixed it was busy with the engine. He called to his radio operator, SS Rottenfuhrer Wilhelm Schneider.

  "Wilhelm, the radio's out. You'll have to try using Morse Code. Signal headquarters, give them our position, and tell Standartenfuhrer Meyer we'll be outside Caen in two hours."

  "Morse Code? I'm not sure..."

  "Use the book, Schneider. It's all in there."

  "Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer."

  He picked up his binoculars and looked back at the American tanks. The man was still watching him, the lenses of the binoculars catching the sunlight.

  Could it be true that we’ll meet in combat, a single tank from the German and American sides? How would we ever know, how would I recognize that one Sherman out of so many that poured ashore? Impossible! And yet...

  In this war, the impossible was happening on a daily basis. A strong flash of sunlight reflected off the turret of the American tank, and he focused his binoculars on the strange markings. It was some kind of a drawing, but what?

  He laughed. It was Minnie Mouse. He'd seen one of the American cartoons in a movie theater in Berlin. So that was what they'd named their tank.

  Perhaps they don't realize it, but in the real world, the tiger always gets the mouse.

  He held up his right hand, made a pistol, and in his best schoolboy English said, "Bang, bang, you're dead."

  Franz Schelling climbed out of the engine compartment covered in grease. The seventeen year old stared at him, looking puzzled.

  "Obersturmfuhrer?"

  "I just killed a Sherman tank, Franz."

  His face was serious. "Jawohl, Obersturmfuhrer."

  Kids, they don't they have any humor these days. Anyone would think there's a war on.

  "Are you finished in there?"

  "Another fifteen minutes, Sir. I found another faulty valve. Nearly fixed.

  Damn!

  * * *

  Bletchley Park, England, 02.55, June 7, 1944

  "It looks like Morse Code from one of their Panzers. It came in ten minutes ago. They're using the code we cracked two months ago, and the message was sent to a Standartenfuhrer Meyer. We've triangulated with the Navy. They're a few miles east of Colleville-sur-Mer, Sir."

  The British Army captain, part of Ultra, the signals encryption program, nodded as he looked over her shoulder. He read the decryption as she pulled it off the Enigma machine and looked thoughtful.

  "Standartenfuhrer Meyer, doesn't he command one of their heavy tank units? Tigers, I believe."

  "I think so, Sir."

  "So do I. Well done, Corporal. I'll contact RAF liaison and see if they have anything in the area. My word, that was quick."

  He ran off to find a phone and made the call. "Yes, three miles due east of Colleville-sur-Mer, at least one heavy tank, could be a whole battalion, Tigers, probably. Ten minutes ago, yes. You have a Typhoon squadron crossing the Channel right now? Excellent. Good hunting."

  * * *

  The men of the North Nova Scotia Highlanders looked at their new surroundings, awed by the immensity of the ancient stone abbey with the high stone tower. They were more awed by the grim faces of the stormtroopers who guarded them. Private Charles Doucette gave Corporal MacIntyre a worried glance.

  "I don't like it, Corp."

  He put his hand on the other man's shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "Relax, Charlie. They're just moving us to another cell."

  He knew it was more complicated than he'd admit. Their captors were SS, wearing leopard-pattern camouflage uniform which they'd come to recognize as unique to the stormtroopers. The twin lightning flashes on the collars denoted them as SS. Many of the Germans were young, little more than boys.

  No, they are boys, he corrected himself, yet not like any boys I’ve ever encountered.

  Some, though by no means all, were the image of blonde-haired, blue eyed Nazis, as people commonly perceived SS stormtroopers. Others were dark haired and dark eyed. But they all had one thing in common. When they regarded the Canadians, their stares were hard and cruel. Merciless, like hunters eyeing up their prey, deciding how they would make the kill. Yet they weren't hunters, they were soldiers, just like the Canadians.

  Surely they won't murder unarmed prisoners. It’s unthinkable. Even for Nazis.

  A man rode up on a powerful motorcycle and alighted. He ignored the prisoners, strode over to the guards, and began speaking to them in a harsh, grating voice. They didn't understand the words. They were Canadians. They spoke English and French, not German. The man barked a final order, and it sounded like, 'Sofort!'

  What the hell does that mean?

  Then he turned on his heel. He climbed back on the bike, started the engine, and roared away. The guards approached them, their machine pistols unslung, and pointed toward a stone wall at the side of the abbey. They hesitated, but the SS squad leader, an SS Scharfuhrer who looked about nineteen years old, barked that single word again.

  "Sofort!"

  They got the message, but they walked slowly to the wall, expecting to be corralled there while they awaited transport to a prisoner of war camp. The guards watched them, their eyes wary. They shepherded them into a tight group close to the stonework, and then stepped back, keeping their weapons leveled at the Canadians. The Scharfuhrer opened his mouth to shout an order, but abruptly, another soldier raced out of the abbey building. A Wehrmacht captain, not an SS man, and he began remonstrating with the squad leader. They did not know it, but he was arguing for their lives.

  "Scharfuhrer Bachmann, I beg you, do not do this. You cannot murder innocent prisoners."

  The man sneered as another officer exited the abbey and marched up to them.

  "You'd better tell that to Standartenfuhrer Schulz, Captain. You never know, he might even..."

  Before he finished, the new arrival said, "Scharf, what's going on here?"

  He wore a gray-green uniform, almost but not quite SS. He had a badge on his cuff, bearing the title, SD. Before the Scharfuhrer could reply the Captain intervened.

  "This is not an SD matter, Standartenfuhrer Schulz. There is no need for your involvement. It is none of your business."

  The new arrival ignored the interruption. He talked quietly with the SS NCO for a few minutes, and the Scharfuhrer pointed at the Wehrmacht Captain. He was standing in front of the prisoners, staring down the muzzles of the guns. Standartenfuhrer Schulz clicked his fingers, and two of the SS men cocked their MP40s. The message was unmistakable. Reluctantly, the Captain stepped aside, but remained next to the Canadians.

  "What's SD?" Doucette whispered.

  "No idea," McIntyre murmured in reply, "Whatever it is, I don't think it's anything good. Why is that officer standing in front of us?"

  "I don't know."

  The SD officer looked across and gave the Army Captain a long, cold stare. "You will stand down, Captain Sturm. Everything that happens in this area is my business. I am investigating a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler, which takes priority over every other consideration."

  "But these prisoners..."

  "You think a few prisoners are more important than the safety of the Fuhrer?"

  "No, of course not. But the two matters are unrelated, you know that."

  "I will decide what is and what is not related."

  "Scharfuhrer, remove that officer."

  The SS NCO shouted an order. Two troopers dragged the German Captain away and held him several meters from the prisoners. The SD officer gave the Canadians a casual glance, and then nodded at Bachmann.

  "Carry on, Scharfuhrer. And make it quick. I am needed urgently in St-Lo. Gestapo has set up a temporary headquarters in the town to interrogate captured Allied officers."

  He went to turn away, but stopped and turned back with a thoughtful expression. "Scharfuhrer Bachmann, I could do with some assistance. This Allied attack has made a great deal of extra work for all of us. If you are amenable, I will arrange with your CO to put you under my command for the duration of this emergency. It is clear you have a certain, er, ability, with these prisoners."

  Bachmann smiled. "How long will the assignment last, Sir?"

  He shrugged. "A week, perhaps more."

  "I would be honored, Sir." He gestured at the prisoners, "So I may..."

  "Shoot them, yes, of course. Get on with it, man."

  Bachmann shouted an order, and the Canadians heard the ratcheting of the cocking levers as the SS guards charged their weapons.

  It can't be happening. The world is going crazy. There’s no way they'll kill them, no way. What is this, some kind of cruel trick to intimidate them?

  The Army Captain shouted something at the SD officer, but the man turned his head away, refusing to listen.

  A split second before the firing started, Corporal MacIntyre knew the truth. He drew himself to rigid attention, holding the position until a hail of 9mm bullets from the MP38s stitched a line across his chest. He fell as one of the rounds tore into his heart. His last thought was of regret that he'd been unable to protect his men from the cowardly murder. His body fell, and by some coincidence he hit the ground and lay in a neat line with the other men of his section. Soldiers, even at the end.

  Had he lived, he may have seen the Wehrmacht Captain don a steel helmet and shoulder a rifle. He mounted a pedal cycle and rode away from the abbey, in the direction of the Allied lines.

  Chapter Three

  10 Downing Street, London, England, The Third Day – June 8, 1944

  Churchill smiled. "Ike, overall I'd say we're doing better than expected."

  They were relaxing in the garden of Number 10 Downing Street. Churchill was puffing on his usual cigar and doing his best to defeat a half-full tumbler of Scotch whisky. Eisenhower sipped at a glass of fruit juice, wearing a frown. The customary smile he presented to the public was absent.

  "We're taking losses, Prime Minister, you know that. There's another thing. So far, the Germans haven't brought in their heavy armor, especially the Tigers."

  "Nor will they!" the Prime Minister chortled, like a happy schoolboy, "The little Corporal Hitler still believes we have an army in Kent, waiting to cross over to Pas-de-Calais. He could prove to be the best friend we have in this invasion. Remember, history has shown he has a tendency to get it wrong just lately. In military matters, anyway."

  "Let's hope it stays that way. We need more men, more guns, and more armor if we're going to break out of Normandy. Yet already, some of our boys are reporting they're low on fuel and ammunition."

  Churchill waved his cigar airily. "Relax, General. The Mulberry harbors are on the way, sailing across the Channel. Once those contraptions are in place, we'll be able to give them all the fuel and ammunition they need."

  Ike shook his head. "I sure hope so. You know they're towing those Mulberries across the sea at five miles an hour. It's mighty slow, and they're a sitting duck if the Luftwaffe catches them on the way."

  "Luftwaffe? What Luftwaffe? Our combined air forces have hammered them out of the skies during the past few days, and what's left is barely capable of getting airborne." He held up a hand to forestall a protest, "I know, I know, they can bring in reinforcements. But so can we. This is the largest invasion in the history of man, and it'll go down in history, famous for its massive scope and ingenuity."

  "It'll be infamous if it goes wrong."

  "It won't go wrong. There's a big difference between us and the Germans."

  "What's that?"

  "We're ready for it. The Nazis are not. This time, we've got them by the balls, General. And we'll keep squeezing until they scream for mercy."

  The phone rang, and Churchill picked it up. "Yes, yes. Colleville-sur-Mer, did you say? Good, a pretty place, I once considered painting a watercolor there. Monet loved it, beautiful scenery. Let me know how it goes."

  He put down the phone and grinned at Ike. "That was Bletchley. Our Ultra people have German heavy armor pinpointed north of Omaha Beach. It could be a single Tiger or an entire division. They're sending in the Typhoons to deal with it. Our operation won't go wrong, Ike, you'll see."

  The Supreme Commander looked uneasy. "Let's hope not."

  "Of course it won't. You'll be the most popular man in America. Why, you could stand for President and they'd elect you."

  Ike made no reply. Churchill, a political veteran, noticed the gleam in his eye.

  I thought he had something like that in mind. He's a good man, too. I wish him well. However, we have a long, long way to go before we defeat that little Austrian house painter in Berlin. One of our problems is those Tigers. Despite what I said to Ike, heaven only knows why they haven't brought them to the front. Whatever the reason, they've made a huge mistake. When they do bring them up, God help us all.

  "These heavy Panzers" Eisenhower suddenly said, "You know what'd happen if they did come at us in force?"

  Churchill wondered if he was a mind reader. "We won't allow that to happen, General. Our aircraft will destroy them before they even get close."

  "I hope so. But if," he persisted, "they did manage to assemble in large numbers, hundreds of Tigers, King Tigers, and Panthers, a solid wedge of steel, well..."

  Churchill nodded. It was a question.

  He has to know the truth. After all, he's the man we're depending on to get this right.

  "If that happens, General, then we could lose."

  Ike nodded. "Now we know what's at stake if the Tigers come at us in force. The lives of almost half a million men, our troops in Northern France."

  Churchill grimaced. "It's more than that, General. We could lose the war."

  * * *

  It was 02.00, and they'd been fighting for the past two hours. The infantry ran into trouble on the outskirts of Gruchy, still within spitting distance of the beach. It should have been a straightforward advance, but the crafty Krauts hit their flank with intense artillery and machine gunfire. In deep trouble, they sent an urgent call for armored support. Which meant rousing Company A, who were close. Within minutes, the Shermans were readying to move out. Grant's worry, like the other commanders, was that supplies were slow coming up to the men who were doing the fighting. They were running low on the essential stores they needed to keep fighting.

  He recalled the previous evening. They'd been checking out the vehicle after the day's fighting.

  Christ, was that only three hours ago?

  "Solly, how're we looking for shells?"

  "Not good. We used up most of our HE, and the AP was down to thirteen shells. Luckily, I scrounged up some replacements, so we have around thirty."

  "They say we'll be up against artillery, so we'll need that HE."

  A pause. "Too bad. Someone should have brought up more supplies."

  "Okay, do what you can. Maybe the boat sunk bringing in the replacements."

  Solly chuckled. "Or maybe they sent the wrong thing. Did you hear about the Jerries at Stalingrad, when they tried to reinforce the Sixth Army by air? Rumor is, they sent in an entire cargo of rubbers. Another aircraft came in with pepper. That's what they say, anyway."

  "Soviet propaganda, probably, you can't believe everything they put out."

  "The Sovs beat the shit out of the Krauts, Sarge. That wasn't propaganda. They're still beating them. You know they're already in Poland."

  "I know. Look, the shortage of shells, it's down to ship losses during the landings, that's all. Dammit, Solly, you saw what it was like. We have to manage, like everyone else.

  A pause. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Maybe you're right."

  Grant understood the bigger problem on his gunner's mind. He was worried sick about his relatives in German-held areas.

  There’s been all the talk of mass killings, sure, but so far that's all it is. It could all be invented. Solly should stop worrying and concentrate on winning the war.

  "Sarge." Angel climbed down through the hatch.

  "What is it?"

  "I just dipped the tanks. I know what I said earlier about having enough, but we're down to less than half, not much more than a quarter full. We're using gas at a crazy rate."

  "I hear you. At first light, I'll ask around."

  "Sure."

  He went off to bed, making a note of what he had to attend to the next morning. He never got the chance. They rousted them in the early hours and ordered the weary tankers to go forward and help out the 29th Infantry Division. Within minutes, they were moving.