With an icy feeling running up his spine, Mansfeld looked away. He should have foreseen this reaction. Only a very few people in this world could see things as clearly as he did. Even Kleist lacked the foresight.
“Have you decided, General?”
If he stayed, his reputation might suffer a grievous stain. If he left, he might die to torturers. Then his reputation might still receive the stain. Historians would say he ran away. So, he had no choice, did he? He must struggle through with the tools at hand.
“I will stay, sir.”
“Fight!” Kleist said. “Break through Syracuse and you can still win the great victory.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kleist stared at him.
He wonders if he has infused me with courage. What a grim joke on me.
“Do not fail me, Mansfeld. Do not fail.”
Walther Mansfeld nodded. At this point, what else could he do?
The endless blue of Lake Erie stood to the west as Jake and Charlie trudged along Interstate 90 south of Buffalo. Long lines of American and Canadian soldiers retreated from the cauldron. These were the remnants of Fifth Army, a shattered force demoralized by defeat and too much death and destruction. They had held off the enemy long enough to save Syracuse and possibly the summer campaign, but it had come at a heavy cost to them.
The head of the column reached a hilly area with barricades across the freeway. Military police wearing white helmets and holding batons blocked the route. Soldiers from fresh American divisions backed the MPs, including low-profile Jefferson tanks.
The MPs began the long process of sorting out the soldiers, checking papers. They sent men to different areas, trying to regroup companies and battalions. They also made sure no one tried to desert.
“This can’t be good for us,” Charlie said, as they stood in line, waiting. “We’re penal militiamen.”
“Don’t worry,” Jake said.
They moved up as the line shuffled forward, and an hour passed. Finally, it was their turn to talk to the MPs.
“Drop your weapons right there,” the head MP said, pointing at a pile of discarded guns and rifles.
Jake set his M16 on the ground. Charlie did likewise. Then it happened fast.
MDG Dan Franks appeared from behind several Jefferson tanks. Had Franks been waiting for them? It sure seemed like it.
“Just a minute,” Franks said, loudly. He had his right hand on the butt of a holstered Glock. He swaggered to the MPs, with his own white helmet proclaiming him as one of the brethren of military police.
Maybe Franks spoke too loudly. Maybe there was something off or strange in his voice. He’d been herding penal militiamen for a long time, with no one to stop him from doing what he wanted. Jake noticed other people looking up. These others weren’t MPs or Detention people, but regular American soldiers. Among those who watched the proceedings was a colonel. He stood in the main turret hatch of the nearest Jefferson tank. There was something familiar about the colonel. Then Jake gave all his attention to Franks, and to the evil smile on the sergeant’s gaunt face.
Jake had been in the process of handing his Militia papers to the head MP. Charlie waited behind him, with his papers ready.
“I know them,” Franks said in his arrogant voice. “They’re deserters of a penal battalion, and they’re dangerous.” As if to show the MPs just how dangerous, Franks drew his Glock, aiming it at Jake.
Jake licked his lips. He couldn’t believe this. After everything he had been through, this bastard showed up at exactly the worst moment. Was Franks trying to cover his murder?
“He killed our lieutenant,” Charlie said, maybe thinking the same thing as Jake. “He—”
Franks’ Glock barked twice, each time the gun jumping in his hand and curls of smoke lifting from the barrel. Charlie crumpled to the ground, with blood gushing from his throat. The potato-farmer from Idaho jerked and flopped.
MPs shouted. Other men scrambled to their feet. Jake couldn’t believe it and he snapped. He drew a knife, and he charged Franks. The MDG Sergeant managed another two shots, but he didn’t have time to aim, just fire. The first bullet whanged off Jake’s body armor. Another went wide. Jake didn’t dodge or anything like that. He was too furious. His eyes blazed murder-lust. His nostrils flared and he heard wild shouting around him. Only vaguely did he realize he was the one doing the crazy shouting.
Franks brought the gun higher and pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. It was stupid luck. The sergeant pulled the trigger again—it clicked again—and his eyes widened in realization that he was out of bullets.
Jake reached Franks, and he forgot all the niceties of knife combat. He did remember enough to go low, punching the blade through Frank’s stomach, angling the steel upward. He slammed the blade to the hilt. And as he shouted, Jake twisted the handle, twisting the blade inside Franks’ body. Jake wiggled the blade back and forth. Then he grabbed Franks by the throat with his free hand, put a foot behind one of Franks’ heels, and tripped the MDG. They went down together. Franks screamed in mortal agony and he bucked. Jake rode him and removed the bloody knife, shifted his shoulders and thrust the blade into Franks’ throat so the tip grated against gravel underneath. The lights went out in the sergeant’s eyes, and sanity returned to Jake Higgins.
He heard guns cocking, and he figured it was just a matter of seconds before they blew him away. He released the knife, and very slowly, he straightened and rose to his feet. A glance showed him that Charlie was dead and gone. Jake shook his head. The pain was too much for him to wail or weep.
Charlie, Charlie—I’ll miss you my friend. This was a dirty war from the start. They screwed us. They royally screwed us.
First rubbing his nose, Jake faced the head MP, a lean man with a scar under his right eye. The MP aimed a .45 at him. Others did likewise, and they watched him angrily.
Jake pointed at Franks. “That bastard killed our lieutenant. Charlie was right. That’s why the sergeant shot him.”
“You just killed him,” the lean MP said.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I’d do it again, too.” He realized that he was screwed to the wall. There was no way he could fight this. He was as good as dead. He shrugged. “The penal battalions are wrong. They’re un-American.”
“Killing your sergeant is wrong,” the MP said.
“Not if you’re Davy Crocket,” Jake said. “Not if the sergeant was a son of a bitch murderer who just killed your best friend. I’m glad I killed him. He deserved it a hundred times over.”
“You’re under arrest,” the MP said.
“Just a minute,” the colonel in the Jefferson turret said.
A large crowd had gathered by now. Clothes rustled as they turned to the colonel.
“What’s your name?” the colonel asked Jake.
“Jake Higgins, sir,” he said.
“Are you any relation to Colonel Stan Higgins?” the tanker asked.
“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
“I can see the resemblance,” the colonel said. “And I thought I heard something in your voice and your choice of words just now.” He addressed the head MP. “This is Colonel Higgins’s son.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the MP said. “I don’t care whose son he is. He just killed a sergeant.”
“The sergeant just killed his friend, and turned the gun on him,” the colonel said. “You saw it. It was self-defense.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” the MP said.