"I want fire superiority!" the sergeant bellowed. "Take out that mortar position!"
Now that a command had finally been given, the men in the squad responded, opening up on the Germans after the initial moments of confusion.
From the rate of fire from the Germans, it seemed that the GIs had run into a small squad tasked with holding up any pursuing Allied forces. This was definitely not the entire Wehrmacht, but a smaller unit left behind to fight a rear-guard action. That much was a relief. The German position was anchored by an armored Kübelwagen, flipped on its side. Its location at a slight bend in the road gave the Germans a commanding view of any movement on the road. It was the perfect setup for an ambush, and the Americans led by Captain Norton had walked right into it.
Another mortar pounded the road, showering their hiding place with mud. The Germans kept up a steady rifle fire, their shots pinging off the wrecked tank.
"I never thought I'd say it, but it's a good thing the Jerries know how to build a tank," Vaccaro said.
"Can't be more than half a dozen Jerries," Cole replied. "But they got us pinned down right good. I can see that mortar crew from here. Give me your rifle a minute. Let me see if I can pick ‘em off.”
Grinning, Vaccaro started to hand Cole his scoped Springfield.
"What the hell are you doing?"
They turned to find Captain Norton glaring at them.
"Sir?"
"That's your weapon, soldier,” he said to Vaccaro. “You keep that rifle unless I tell you different. Private Cole has his own weapon."
"Yes, sir." With a glance at Cole, Vaccaro took the rifle back. Here they were, pinned down by a handful of Germans, and Norton still had it in for Cole.
It turned out that Norton wasn’t finished. "Besides, he's not the only one around here who can shoot. Now, get the hell out of the way."
Norton put the sniper rifle that he had taken from Cole to his own shoulder. For Cole’s part, it was like seeing another man with your girl. Norton propped it against an edge of the tank's hulk. The Germans were no more than 200 feet away. Even without a scope or binoculars, they could just see the steel-gray helmets of the German mortar crew in their dug-in position. Not that the Germans were an easy target.
As they watched, Norton took a long time lining up the sights. Meanwhile, the Germans got off another mortar round, showering them all with mud and whistling shrapnel.
Finally, Norton fired.
"Did I get one?" he barked excitedly.
"No, sir," replied Sergeant Woodbine, who was watching the German position through binoculars. "Maybe try again?"
“You bet your ass I’ll try again.”
Norton took his time, but his second shot missed, too. He fired again. He hadn't bothered to time his shots to coincide with a mortar round, so that the Germans quickly identified his position. Rifle rounds ricocheted off the ruined tank, so close that Norton had to duck his head. Out in the road, they could hear West calling for help. Bullets erupted in geysers all around him; it was a wonder that he hadn't been hit again.
"Sir, you want me to try?" Cole asked the captain. "I know I can pick 'em off from here."
Norton turned on Cole, his face livid. "Goddammit, Cole! This rifle isn't zeroed in properly. You call yourself a soldier? I ought to transfer you to mess duty."
Cole had a lot to say in response, but he kept his mouth shut. Besides, they had bigger things to worry about. The Germans continued to keep them pinned down. Peering out, Cole could see West writhing in the mud.
"Aww, to hell with it," Cole announced. "You boys cover me."
Without another word, he dashed from behind the wrecked tank, holding the grease gun at hip level and keeping his finger on the trigger as he ran. The burst of fire wasn't accurate, but it was enough to make the Germans keep their heads down.
He reached West and bent down to help him up. West was too big for Cole to carry, but he got West’s arm across his shoulder and managed to half drag, half carry him toward the relative safety of the wrecked tank. Bullets whipped the air and another mortar round hit the road.
"Let 'em have it!" Sergeant Woodbine shouted.
The Americans emptied their M-1s at the Germans, firing furiously enough to buy Cole and West precious seconds. They tumbled behind the panzer, West grunting in agony from the pain of his wounds.
Immediately, Vaccaro went to work on West, giving him a shot of morphine, dousing his wounds with sulfa powder, and wrapping them tight.
Norton sat with his back to the tank, clutching the sniper rifle, and looking white-faced. When the Germans had returned fire, a couple of rounds from their Mausers had passed close enough to his ear that he felt the air vibrant. His legs had involuntarily turned to Jell-O.
"We'll have to work around them, sir," Woodbine said. "There can't be more than a half dozen Jerries up there, but they've got that goddamn road covered."
"Don't you think I know that?" Captain Norton snapped.
The sergeant clapped his mouth shut. "Yes, sir."
Norton started to organize the encirclement, but Cole interrupted.
"Sir—"
"Goddammit, Cole! What the hell is it now?"
"It's the Germans, sir. They ain't there no more."
Norton risked a peek around the tank. The hole that had held the mortar team appeared empty. The soldiers behind the Kübelwagen also seemed to have disappeared.
"They're gone," Norton said. "Guess we chased them off."
Cole wasn’t so sure. The Germans would likely set another ambush ahead. "The thing about Krauts is that the ones you don't kill today, you just have to fight tomorrow."
Norton glared at Cole. "You've got this whole war figured out, huh? Good for you. Now shut the hell up and get a move on."
Chapter Four
Maybe Captain Norton didn't want to hear it, but Cole was right about someone just having to fight the Germans later on. The Germans who slipped away from Captain Norton's squad went down another road, eager to escape rather than fight. But when they heard a vehicle approaching, they quickly set up another ambush, knowing that it was more likely to be an American vehicle than one of their own.
In a Jeep rushing toward the unseen Germans sat Brigadier General Winston Bell Tolliver III, known to his friends and family as "Bean" Tolliver because he'd been the smallest and youngest in a family of large male relatives. It wasn’t really right to say that Tolliver was sitting in the Jeep. In reality, he held on for dear life in the passenger seat of the Jeep hurtling down the dirt road. Jeeps did not have seat belts, so it was either hold tight or get bounced out into the muddy road. The general kept banging his shins painfully against the metal dashboard.
Despite his nickname, Bean Tolliver was actually of average height and build, though starting to go soft in the middle. With fifty on the horizon, the general had a touch of gray around the temples, and the hair on top starting to go thin. His balding head was hidden beneath a pristine steel helmet emblazoned with a single star. Just last year he had started needing glasses to read fine print, but he kept those tucked into a pocket.
He was a staff officer assigned to Eisenhower's HQ, playing a key role in logistics. The bulk of his job was to oversee the ordering of supplies from tires to gasoline to spare parts for shipment to France. Once those tires and gasoline and spare parts arrived, it was someone else's problem to get them into the field. Here in Normandy, the Red Ball Express had mostly taken care of that.
Tolliver was good at this job, but it wasn't exactly the sort of role that left one covered in glory and bedecked with medals. Despite the stars on his collar, Tolliver sometimes felt that he didn’t quite measure up to combat officers.