Sig glared at his partner in irritation. If the SOB was nervous, why the hell didn't he show it? Why so goddamned smug and calm?
“Sure. I forgot,” he said sarcastically. “You're the expert. I think we're being committed too damned fast!”
Dirk opened his eyes. He looked at Sig.
“Relax, Siggy baby,” he said quietly. “I'm scared too. Only damned fools don't get scared.”
“I hadn't figured on ending up in the French Army,” Sig said. He felt an overwhelming need to say something — however inane.
Dirk shrugged.
“It's their sector,” he said “Closest point on the front to Hechingen.”
“I know that, dammit'” Sig snapped. He was aware that he was being unreasonable, but he could not help himself. “I know this spot was chosen because the Westwall is supposed to be weak here. I just hope to God that's true. The damned Black Forest is supposed to be enough of an obstacle itself. Sure.” He glanced at the grim Moroccans. “I also know these bastards can hardly wait to get into a fight.”
Dirk looked up at him.
“How do you know that?”
“I do speak French,” Sig snapped. “Or had you forgotten?”
Dirk held up his hands. He knew his partner's irritation was an outlet for his pent-up apprehension. He felt it himself, but he'd had time to learn to cope.
“The First French has been holding a passive front along the Upper Rhine for too damned long, according to these guys,” Sig continued. “Ever since their outfit hit the Siegfried Line north of Strasbourg this morning, they've been hopping mad because they were kept out of it to go on a nursemaid expedition!” He scowled at the Moroccans. “They'll probably go looking for trouble.”
Sergeant Abu Kamir Hassan stood up.
“Partons!” he said sharply.
Dirk climbed to his feet.
“I guess that means ‘get your ass in gear!’” he said. “Come on, Siggy, up and at ‘em!”
The sky was overcast. The night was dark. Dirk slid over the bloated rim and huddled on the bottom of the rubber boat as he had been instructed. He cradled his rucksack protectively between his legs. It contained his lifeline — his radio. The other five men assigned to his boat were already in place. Four of them would paddle.
Dirk was impressed. He had not thought it possible for twenty-two men to move down the riverbank and launch four boats in the water without making any sound at all. But if he'd closed his eyes, he would have thought himself utterly alone with only the sounds of the gently lapping river waves and softly rustling leaves.
He could barely make out the boat on his right. Sig would be in that one, with the big Moroccan sergeant, Hassan. The Moroccan had curtly ordered them to split up when they'd headed for the same boat. He grinned to himself. Sensible not to put all his agents in one basket…
He was not aware of any command having been given, but suddenly the rubber boat was gliding silently across the black water into the darkness toward the ebony horizon — and Germany….
Sig was crouched in the middle of his boat behind the hulking Moroccan sergeant He was aware of the fact that his heart was pounding. It was loud in his ears. He could hear nothing else except the silken sound of the paddles softly dipping into the inky water. He touched his breast pocket, where his new ID papers were safely tucked away. They'd made it easy for him. The Moles had prepared all his papers in his real name, his real nationality, background and occupation. He had nothing to memorize and only one thing to forget — the fact that he had ever been in the United States. Dirk's cover was not so simple, but he seemed to have mastered it without difficulty. Sig peered into the darkness, trying to see Dirk's boat, thought he could make out a darker shape sliding noiselessly over the water close by, could not be sure. What if they got lost? He had a flash of panic, but he shook it off. The broad back of the Moroccan non-com kneeling before him was surprisingly reassuring.
The Schwarzwald — the Black Forest.
He knew the area, although he'd never been there. It was the birthplace of the mighty Danube. He still remembered the pictures in his schoolbook in Zürich. He frowned. What the hell was a memory like that doing in his mind now? But irrepressibly he recalled what he'd known then and coupled it with his recent mission briefing. They would be landing in the region called Mittlere Schwarzwald — the Middle Black Forest, a region of forest-clad, rolling hills where the mountains were lower and the forest less dense and forbidding than in the Nordschwarzwald to the north or the Hochschwarzwald — the High Black Forest — to the south. They would be able to link up quickly with the Kinzig Valley, which crossed almost the entire area. He had to admit that Corny had chosen the best possible spot.
He was suddenly aware that the gentle motion of the rubber boat had stopped.
The Moroccan sergeant turned to him He motioned him to follow. Noiselessly he climbed from the boat. Sig followed.
The riverbank was gravelly and made a small grating sound as he stepped on it. He froze Dammit! They must have heard it in Berlin. The sergeant motioned him on. The bank rose gently toward cultivated land. A vineyard, he thought. He crept up the slope after the Moroccan. His rucksack seemed heavy on his back. At the edge of the vineyard he stopped. Out of the darkness two figures approached. Dirk and one of the goumiers. Dirk grinned at him, gave him a thumbs-up sign and lay down beside him.
In silence they watched their escort patrol secure their beachhead.
The Moroccans moved swiftly, noiselessly, knowingly. The four boats were carried a short distance up the bank and laid down close together. Two men melted into the ground beside them. The rest quickly fanned out along the vineyard and disappeared in the darkness.
The sergeant came up to the tensely waiting agents.
“You,” he whispered hoarsely. “Both. Stay tight behind me.”
“Sergeant,” Sig breathed, “how—”
“I am called Abu,” the Moroccan interrupted.
“Abu. How far up is the fortified line?”
“Not far. You see.”
He turned to his right. He held up his hand. He turned to his left and repeated the gesture. At once he started into the vineyard, moving through the rows of staked vines in a low crouch.
Dirk and Sig followed.
Dirk's every sense was strained to full capacity. He could hear faint rustles on his right and left as the goumiers made their way through the vineyard. He could hear Sig breathing close behind him. The vineyard seemed to go on forever.
Suddenly Abu stopped.
Before them stretched an open space, a pasture dotted with an occasional tree. Beyond rose the wooded hills of the Black Forest.
Dirk crept up to the Moroccan.
Wordlessly the man pointed to his right and to his left. Dirk strained to see.
At the far edges of the clearing he could make out two dark, squat shapes — like massive building blocks.
“Blockhäuser,” Abu whispered in heavy-accented German, “bunkers. The Westwall fortifications.”
He pointed straight ahead.
“Between them — clear.” He nodded at the open space before them. “That is their field of fire,” he whispered. “We must cross.”
He beckoned for Sig to join them.
“You—” he pointed to them both—“stay five steps behind me,” he breathed. “Do as I do. I take you through.”
He stood up Slightly crouched — his gun held at port arms — he began to walk out across the open field.
Dirk counted his steps…. Three… Four… Five… He started out after the Moroccan, closely followed by Sig.