“Fuck this shit,” Tyree yelled. He ran to the other side of his truck, opened the door and pulled out the carbine. He shot at the first Frenchman he saw and the man doubled over, his leg shattered.
Within seconds, the French were shooting at him and his comrades. Several other drivers had gotten their weapons and began shooting back. Tyree heard a scream and his friend Leon fell.
Tyree had only one extra clip. He forced himself to be calm, aimed carefully, and shot another communist. The American soldiers outnumbered the French and soon began to overwhelm them with fire.
Avant yelled something that must have meant retreat because the French began to pull back.
“No, you don’t,” muttered Tyree. He jumped from behind his truck and ran to Avant. “I ain’t no fucking slave,” he said and shot the Frenchman several times in the chest and head at point blank range.
Within minutes it was over and the surviving communists had departed into the shadows. Lieutenant Johnson wasn’t dead, at least not yet, but it did look like his skull was fractured since there was a big dent in it. Tanker fires billowed and ammunition exploded while other supplies simply burned. There was nothing to do but care for their wounded, and watch and wait for the next convoy to rescue them. It wouldn’t be long. The Red Ball Express ran an almost continuous line of vehicles across France to Germany. Another convoy would be along shortly and the fires must be attracting attention.
Other than Leon who’d been shot in the chest and was dead, no others in Tyree’s squad had been killed, although a couple had been wounded. Maybe twenty in the entire column were casualties, and at least a dozen dead French littered the area. Tyree walked over and looked down on Avant’s shattered body.
“Told you I weren’t no fucking slave. Maybe now you’ll believe me, asshole.”
Morgan kept a low profile as he breasted the hill crawled down the other slope. He thought he was an innocuous target even if anyone did see him, and didn’t think anyone would shoot at him from such a distance, but why take a chance?
Levin crawled beside him. “Is that what I think it is?”
Morgan laughed. “Unless somebody’s moved the Nile, Roy, yes, that is the Rhine.”
“No pyramids and no Ay-rabs and no camels in sight, so I guess you’re right. Jesus, what a barrier and what a mess getting over is going to be.”
Their hill overlooked the German town of Remagen and the Ludendorff railroad bridge, that until only a few moments earlier spanned the Rhine. The bridge had been blown by German engineers and now lay in ruins in the river. Not only was the bridge down, but the shattered remnants blocked the river. They had watched the explosions in horror as there were still people crossing it. Those unfortunates had been tossed into the air like toys. All that remained of the bridge were the twin medieval-like towers at each end, now nothing more than useless artifacts. The railroad tracks on the German side ran slightly upgrade and disappeared into a tunnel.
“Kind of hard to believe the Nile is even bigger and longer,” Levin continued. “So too are the Mississippi and a whole bunch of other rivers. Statistically, the Rhine is small potatoes except for the fact that we’re going to have to cross the damn thing with people shooting at us.”
“Thanks for the redundant and irrelevant geography lesson,” Jack said. “Even though I went to what you think is a cow college, I did learn basic geography, beginning with the fact that the world is round.”
“Jews figured that out a long time ago during their wanderings,” Levin said with mock solemnity. “They knew that because they always kept coming back to where they started.”
The small town of Remagen was on the west bank of the Rhine and across from an even smaller town of Linz. Remagen was roughly halfway between the German cities of Cologne to the north and Koblenz to the south.
“Too bad we couldn’t have taken the bridge intact,” said Levin.
Jack sighed. “A pipe dream at best. And I’ll bet every other bridge across the damned Rhine is blown too. Or will be in the next ten minutes.”
It was downhill to the river and then steeply uphill from the other side. Worse, the land on the German side was higher than the western side which meant the defending Germans had another slight advantage. The river banks were not straight up like the Grand Canyon, but they were steep enough and would be difficult for a crossing army to take and climb. Numerous gashes in the hillside were clearly visible and represented German defenses. The sheer number of them was daunting.
“They can’t all be real,” Jack said. “But it’ll be hell figuring out which ones are and which aren’t.”
A gust of snow swirled and momentarily hid their view. Floes of soft ice bobbed northward towards the English Channel. It was a further reminder that the water was dangerously cold and that winter was just beginning.
“Think it could freeze solid?” Jack asked.
“I read that it has in the past,” Levin said. “When it did, Germanic barbarians in Roman times were able to cross, but maybe it was just a bunch of krauts all liquored up so they didn’t notice they were getting wet. But who the hell knows? All I do know is that I don’t want to go swimming in that mess. I just can’t see us trying anything until the weather is a lot warmer.”
“I suppose that’s good news,” Jack said, “but all it really does is extend the war by however many months while we just sit here. Of course, just sitting here might extend our lives.”
Artillery boomed behind them and shells exploded near the tunnel entrance. “Oh, that’ll do a lot of good,” Jack said. “I got a nickel says the krauts don’t even respond.”
Levin laughed. “Sucker bet. The Nazis won’t expose their batteries for no good reason. All that shelling is doing is chewing up useless ground. God, I hope it isn’t our guys wasting our ammunition getting their rocks off by shooting into Germany.”
The bombardment stopped as quickly as it began, like somebody had told the gunners to stop. “Christmas is just a little ways off,” Jack said. “Maybe we’ll get some leave if things stay quiet. Of course, it won’t involve you since you’re Jewish.”
“Screw you, Morgan. I’m entitled to free time, too. Besides, Hanukkah starts December 11, so I’ll be celebrating just like you.”
Sergeant Tyree Wall quickly came to the conclusion that First Lieutenant Stanley Bakowski was all right for a white guy. For one thing, he came from up north, Chicago, which meant he wasn’t an ignorant redneck cracker, and second, he too wanted revenge on the French communists who had kept up their attacks on American truck convoys. More important, the stocky and blond-haired Bakowski seemed to treat Wall and the other Negroes with respect. Maybe he was lying about it, but he lied well. Regardless, it was appreciated.
The lieutenant wore a cloth badge that said he was a Ranger. Tyree was less than thrilled about being a human target, but if it helped get the French communists off his back and maybe save the lives of his men, so be it.
Thirty trucks made up the convoy of human decoys. Each driver rode alone as per usual. Bakowski tried to get the colored drivers to at least wear helmets but they said it made driving difficult, especially at night, and the Ranger lieutenant reluctantly concurred. “Keep them by you so you can put them on real fast,” he’d said.
Instead of supplies, each truck’s cargo consisted of four heavily armed men. Slits had been cut in the canvas to facilitate shooting, and the men were prepared to jump down quickly. They too wore Ranger insignia.
Tyree and Bakowski had gone over photos and maps of the route and decided there were only a couple good spots for an ambush. If there was no ambush tonight, they’d try again in a day or so. Bakowski didn’t think the commies could resist the sweet fat target the column presented. Tyree said he half hoped the lieutenant was wrong.