“Still ten to go,” Beame said.

Slade said, “Take my word for it. Before this is over, we're going to have to fight them.”

One by one, the next ten Panzer tanks, fully prepared for battle, driven by some of the most dedicated and steely-nerved army technicians in the world, captained by officers who were among the best of the German military class, passed over the bridge without hesitation. A few of the tank commanders nodded at Dew. Most ignored him.

“Here come the trucks,” Slade said as the trucks came into sight behind the last of the rumbling Panzers.

According to Maurice, there were thirty trucks, each carrying more than thirty men in addition to the driver and the officer up front. They were not nearly so large as the tanks. They would be able to streak through the bridge posts without any anxious moments, and each driver would have time to give Danny Dew a quick but thorough looking over.

The first truck hit the graded bridge approach at forty miles an hour, closing the gap between itself and the last tank which was already at the far side of the gorge. It bounced badly in the ruts; the soldiers in the back looked grim as they sat on metal benches and gripped the side slats to keep from falling to the floor. The truck jolted onto the bridge and growled away, followed closely by another and another and still another of the transports.

“This is too much,” Kelly said. “Our luck will change.”

It didn't. None of those drivers, turning glassy blue eyes on Danny Dew as they went by, saw anything amiss. Not just then, anyway. Perhaps later they would think of it. Five years from now, one of these dumb krauts would sit up in bed in the middle of the night and say to a startled wife: “That sentry was a Neger, for God's sake!” Now, though, all the trucks went past without incident.

Behind the last of the trucks, separated from the transports by fifty yards, was the first of the two motorcycles that wrapped up the procession. It passed with a noisy clatter. Immediately after it was by, Danny Dew stepped back and away from the edge of the bridge, rolled over the top of the riverbank and out of sight of the final cyclist. It was in this last sidecar that he would ride away— if he were really a German sentry.

Now came the worst part.

“This is the worst part,” Slade said.

Usually, according to Maurice, the last cycle picked up the sentry. Now and again, however, if the sentry felt like a bit of relief from the windy ride of the sidecar, he would flag down one of the last transports and climb into the back of the truck. Kelly was hoping the man on the last cycle would go on if he saw no sentry waiting, sure that his man had joined the troops in the back of one of the transports. Also, since this was apparently a German camp, the cyclist wouldn't see how anything could have gone wrong. And he wouldn't take the time to stop and search for his man, because he wouldn't want to fall too far behind the main body of the convoy, not in a foreign country where — quite often — the peasants had been known to play some bloody tricks on their conquerors.

The situation was further complicated by the fact that they could not risk a shot now that they had gotten this far without being discovered. They couldn't kill the cyclist yet, if he became inquisitive. The last of the convoy was still in sight, the roar of the tanks far ahead. The night had gotten just still enough to allow a shot to carry to the men in the open backs of the last couple of transports still on the bridge.

The motorcycle slowed.

“He's stopping,” Beame said. His voice sounded like that of a frog only partly turned back into a prince.

The motorcyclist slowed even more.

He looked them over as if they were on display and he was thinking of buying one of them. He scanned the bridge, searching for the sentry he was supposed to pick up, then he looked at them again, having come even with their jeep.

He was young, even younger than the soldier Sergeant Coombs had killed, with his helmet flat down in place and his body girdled up in black leather belts. He looked sharp, not easily fooled, like a farm kid who had found a new sophistication in his uniform and was trying to live down what he considered shamefully simple origins. A long-snouted machine pistol was holstered on his hip, and a completely unnecessary bandolier of ammunition wound around his chest.

He stopped his cycle altogether.

Thinking fast, Kelly grinned and waved him on, pointing after the convoy to indicate that the sentry had already left.

The rider hesitated.

“Go away,” Beame whispered.

The cyclist finally lifted one hand off his bars to wave back, then accelerated and went on his way.

For about ten feet.

Then Lieutenant Slade shot him in the back of the head.

12

The cyclist fell into the handlebars, recoiled lifelessly, and began to slide sideways in a graceless heap.

Unguided now, the heavy motorcycle jolted out of a shallow rain furrow and swung erratically toward the bridge abutment. It was made more stable by the sidecar than it would have been with only its own two wheels, but still its single head lamp made crazy, jiggling patterns on the night.

As the dead soldier tipped into the sidecar which the bridge sentry would have occupied, Slade's second shot took him through the shoulder and passed straight into the gasoline tank under him. There was a flat, contained explosion hardly louder than either of the shots. Flames engulfed the machine and the dead man as the whole bright bundle crashed headlong into the concrete bridge support.

Major Kelly stood up in the jeep and drew his own gun, as did Lieutenant Beame. Slade, standing up in the back seat, already had his pistol out, of course, and he was jabbering about his success in nailing the kraut. Neither Kelly nor Beame said anything. They watched the retreating trucks, waiting for one of them to pull up and disgorge German infantrymen. Then it would be all over. At least, Major Kelly thought, Slade would get it. The whole thing might be worth dying for if Slade were killed too.

The last of the transports had already come down on the roadway on the far side of the gorge and was making for the bend which would put it out of sight. The first motorcycle was close behind it. Surely, either the two soldiers in the motorcycle or the men sitting in the last of the open-end trucks would see the fire, begin to wonder…

But the Germans kept moving away, rounded the bend, were gone. A minute went by. Two minutes. Five. When the Germans had not returned in ten minutes, Major Kelly knew they never would. By the time they saw the last motorcyclist was missing, they wouldn't know where to look for him. Amazing.

Lieutenant Slade watched the smoldering motorcycle and the shapeless body sprawled within it. He smiled. “One more jerry that won't be shooting up American boys.”

“Why?” Beame asked.

“Because he's dead,” Slade said, perplexed by the question.

“Why did you kill him?” Beame amplified.

“What would my mother have said if I'd let them all go?” Slade asked.

“Who?”

“My mother!”

“How would your mother ever find out, if you had let him go?”

“She has connections, sources,” Slade said, looking down at himself. “You'd be surprised at my mother's sources.” He tugged at the hem of his jacket. “I shouldn't have had to wear this silly uniform. Look at my hips. My hips look ridiculous in this uniform.” He looked at the dead German in the middle of the road, a black lump in a wreath of gray smoke. “His uniform fit him well enough.”

13

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