a pair of. 30 caliber machine guns mounted on the wings with a crude trigger in the cabin.
“You know these things can jam, sir,” Rolfe said. “in which case they’d be useless as tits on a boar.”
Morgan smiled. “You know that and I know that, but I’d just feel better having them and knowing that I might just stand a chance of firing back at somebody shooting at me. I never realized how helpless we were up there until the krauts opened fire and I could do nothing but jerk and twist and run like hell.”
Rolfe laughed. “Sometimes running’s the best possible move, if you ask me.”
The plane was ready and Snyder was ready. It was time to go back up, but the weather wasn’t going to cooperate. Damn.
With nothing much better to do, Jack drove his Jeep around traffic and towards the head of the column. Jeb Carter’s company had point this miserable and slow-moving day.
The column was stalled. Again. Trees had been felled across the road and there were clear indications that the road had been mined. If so, it was likely that the shoulders and the fields on either side were also mined. The Germans had a helluva lot of mines.
Soldiers were hunched over and moving cautiously towards the rude barricade. A couple of men had mine detectors and they swung them slowly over suspected areas like magic wands, while others waited the okay to start clearing the road. The mine detectors could pick up buried metal, but some German mines were made out of plastic, or even wood.
Jeb Carter, now Captain Jeb Carter, was in the turret of his Sherman and standing up with the hatch open. When he saw Jack, he grinned. “Hey, come on up here where real men hang out.”
Several of Carter’s men laughed at the jibe. “Good. Maybe I can get combat pay,” Jack retorted as he climbed onto the tank’s hull. It was slippery and he was wearing a poncho. He prayed he wouldn’t slip and fall into the mud. Carter would never let him hear the end of it.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get rain in your tank?”
Carter laughed. “It’ll help rinse all the crud out of it. Damn thing stinks of piss, oil, and sweat.”
Bang!
One of the men at the roadblock jerked and fell. “Sniper!” someone yelled and the others scattered and one poor soul stepped on a mine. It exploded and Morgan watched in horror as the man’s torso went in one direction and his legs in another.
Bang! Another GI fell, writhing and screaming. One of his buddies grabbed him and dragged him under cover. Jack slid off the tank and into a ditch. Carter had ducked into the turret and closed the hatch. The tank’s engine roared and the tank lurched forward. Carter stopped his tank just before the roadblock. A mine could rip the treads off his vehicle and leave him stranded and helpless.
Levin plopped down in the dirt beside Jack. “Where the hell is Carter going? Does he even know where the sniper is?”
“If the sniper has any brains, he’s halfway to Berlin by now,” Jack said.
Another tank joined Carter’s and the two of them sprayed likely areas with their machine guns. There was no response. An infantry patrol moved forward and disappeared into the rain, which had decided to fall in torrents. After what seemed an eternity, the patrol returned. Two men half-carried, half-dragged a wounded German soldier, while another carried a Mauser rifle with a telescopic sight. A Luger was stuck in a GI’s belt. The German grimaced with pain as he was ungently dumped beside Morgan and Levin.
Carter reversed his tank, stopped beside them, and clambered down.
“The dumb shit didn’t run away in time,” Carter snarled, his face contorted with fury. Men in his company had been among those killed and wounded. The German had been shot in the thigh, but didn’t seem in any life- threatening danger. They searched his pockets and found he was from the 89th Infantry Division, a unit neither had heard was in the area. Jack thought that intelligence would like to talk to this guy.
“The son of a bitch just stood up and surrendered,” one of the soldiers said. “He was even grinning at us.”
The sergeant in charge of the men clearing the roadblock walked up, took the prisoner’s Luger from a suddenly grinning corporal, held it to the prisoner’s forehead and pulled the trigger, splattering the German’s brains on the ground. Morgan and Levin were stunned.
“Those were my guys the fucker killed, Captain,” the sergeant snarled to Carter as if daring him to do something about it. Morgan had heard that a lot of prisoners never made it back to the prison pens. Surrendering in combat was very chancy, especially for someone who’d just killed several Americans. Too bad nobody would get a chance to interrogate this one, although his papers would tell a great deal.
Carter nodded. “Don’t ever do that again, Sergeant. And, oh yeah, give me the fucking Luger. Shooting a prisoner does not qualify you for a souvenir.”
CHAPTER 7
Hermann Goering half dozed in his oversized hospital bed and thought of Carinhall, his magnificent estate northeast of Berlin. Named for his first wife, Carin, it had also been the site of his wedding to his second wife, Emmy. His dreamy drug-induced thoughts included his happily observing the magnificent and historic art works taken from museums and private owners. Most of the latter were, of course, Jews. Much of it had been bought from the previous owners and not stolen, as some alleged, and so what if he paid only a minuscule fraction of the real worth? The owners were permitted to live, weren’t they? At least for a while, he thought and giggled softly, unless they had somehow managed to get out of Nazi Germany, in which case they could live all they wanted.
He managed to realize that he desperately needed to get out of this damned hospital bed and go home to Carinhall. He wanted to know what was happening in Germany, but no one would talk to him even during those brief times when he was lucid. He was alone in the large, even luxurious, room. Even though he knew better, he felt it could be a prison. But who would imprison the heir to Hitler?
His mind was fogged, but he’d been told that Hitler was dead. In that case, he, Hermann Goering, should be leading Germany in her fight against her many enemies. But if he wasn’t leading Germany, who was? Bormann was an obvious choice, since Bormann was an odious snake who’d connived himself into a position of power, but the equally disgusting Himmler was another possibility. If only he could think clearly, he could work this out.
Goering thought the doctors were trying to wean him away from his drug addiction, but they were going about it in a very strange way since he was not suffering from any withdrawal symptoms. He chuckled to himself, making a sound like a gurgle. At least he was finally losing some weight. Perhaps some of his older uniforms would fit him. That would be nice. He’d look well at social events.
A new doctor in a white coat came in and looked at his chart. He was very tall, well over six feet, and he had dueling scars on his cheek. His eyes were cold as ice and Goering suddenly knew that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t a doctor! It was Otto Skorzeny. So why is he in my room? Goering thought, and then smiled. He is going to take me from this wretched place and put me in charge of Germany as Hitler’s rightful heir. So why is he fiddling with the intravenous solution?
Skorzeny looked down on Goering and twisted his face in something resembling a smile. It made him look evil and Goering shivered. He tried to move his arms but they wouldn’t respond. Then his tongue wouldn’t either.
“It won’t be long now Fat Hermann,” Skorzeny said.
It wasn’t. In only a few seconds, eternal darkness enveloped Hermann Goering.
The city of Rennes in western France had fallen to the Allies. Located along the Ille and Villaine rivers, Rennes had been a major city since before Roman times and, along with medieval buildings, the city boasted a section of the third century city wall.
It was also a major rail hub, which accounted for the fact that it had been bombed a number of times. It was now the latest temporary headquarters for Eisenhower and the rest of SHAEF, which had moved from Bayeux.
