came. Almost as soon as the Americans began flowing into Bavaria, television stations across Germany ran special reports that showed file footage from recent conflicts depicting the carnage that modern war leaves in its wake. Spliced in with older footage from the last war in Germany, the special reports had the effect of reinforcing the positions of those of the political center and left who were calling for immediate negotiations and efforts by the government in Berlin to defuse the situation. When the pleas of German legislators, news correspondents, local officials whose communities lay in the projected line of march, and concerned citizens fell on deaf ears, many decided to take matters in their own hands. So it came as no surprise to the captain when he saw several Germans, both young students on their way home from school and old women, stop in midstride and reach down to grab a handful of snow. Knowing what was next, the captain turned back to his driver and told him to speed up.
While the captain was able to make it through the center of town without much trouble, the trucks following the captain's Volkswagen caught the full weight of the German civilians' anger. When the first truck rumbled into sight, the citizens of Niederjossa had snowballs in hand and were ready. The soldiers riding in the rear of the truck were exposed to the full fury of the volley of snowballs, since the canvas sides of the lead truck were rolled up to allow the soldiers sitting on the bench seats that ran down the centerline of the truck's cargo bed to look out. The soldiers ducked and covered their faces as best they could while the truck's driver attempted to speed up. His efforts, however, were frustrated by the driver of a car that had slipped in behind the captain's Volkswagen and the lead truck. The driver of the car slowed down in order to allow his fellow townsmen a chance to launch a second and third volley of snowballs at the exposed and defenseless soldiers. Only the driver of the truck, a senior sergeant seated next to him, and a gunner who had been manning the machine gun set on a ring mounted at the top of the truck's cab escaped the full fury of the snowballs, but not completely. Several still splattered on the windows of the cab, some with a pronounced snap, indicating that some of the more vicious peace-loving civilians had put stones in the center of their snowballs. One particularly well aimed snowball even came in through the opening where the machine gunner had been standing and hit the machine gunner square on the head.
While the machine gunner jumped up to shake his fist at the shouting civilians and the sergeant tried to pull him back down into the cab, the driver of the truck inched closer to the slow-moving car until he lightly tapped the car's rear with the massive steel bumper of the truck. The driver of the car quickly understood the message. Knowing that the truck driver meant the first tap as a warning, the driver turned onto a side street as soon as he could, leaving the truck driver free to pick up speed and roll clear of the town center.
Only after they had cleared the last of Niederjossa's houses did the sergeant slap the machine gunner on the head with the palm of his hand. Recoiling from the sudden slap, the machine gunner yelled out in perfect English, 'Hey, what in the hell did you do that for, Sergeant Rasper?'
'Because, Specialist Pape, I know you and you've got a big mouth.'
Still angry and upset, Pape looked down at the floor of the cab, and then back to Rasper. 'I wouldn't have said anything in English. I just wanted to give them the finger.'
'That, you idiot, would have been just as bad. Germans use different hand and arm signals to communicate their displeasure with their fellow countrymen. Now if you can't do what you're supposed to and behave like a good little Nazi, I'll throw you in the back with the rest of the company.' When he saw that Pape was finished pouting, Rasper stuck his thumb up. 'Now get up there and see if the other trucks made it out and have caught up.' While Pape climbed back up to man his machine gun and check to their rear, Rasper looked down at his map and spoke to the driver. 'Let's start picking up speed and see if we can catch up with Major Ilvanich. We're almost at the bridge.'
'Goddamned German Nazi sons of bitches. One town hails you like a hero and the next spits in your eye. I think the major's right. We should just say the hell with it, put on Russian uniforms, and let everyone hate us. At least we'd know what to expect.'
Rolling his eyes, Rasper shook his head and repeated his order. 'Quit thinking, Pape, and get back up there.'
Ignoring the blast of frigid air that hit him as soon as he stuck his head up out of the cab, Pape grabbed the machine gun ring mount and pulled himself up. Planting his feet shoulder width apart on the cab's seat and bracing himself against the steel ring mount, Pape managed to get a good stable stance while the wind whipped at his back. Looking down the road back toward Niederjossa, he saw the last of the trucks carrying Company A, 1st Ranger Battalion, leave the town. Second Lieutenant Fitzhugh, whom everyone had begun calling Lieutenant Fuzz after the Beetle Bailey cartoon character, was in that truck bringing up the company's rear. Like the truck that Rasper and Pape were traveling in, Fitzhugh's truck had its canvas sides rolled up, exposing the soldiers of Company A. Wearing German Army uniforms and rank insignia, and riding in German Army trucks 'borrowed'' by Major Ilvanich at a German Army reserve depot, all the Caucasian soldiers of the company were grouped into one platoon. Led by Fitzhugh and nicknamed the 'Salt'' Platoon by Sergeant First Class Raymond Jefferson, the senior black soldier in the company and leader of the 'Pepper'' Platoon, this platoon was the up-front platoon, the one that Ilvanich intended to use when pretending to be the commander of a German infantry company. Jefferson and all the black soldiers in the company were formed into what Ilvanich referred to as his sneaky devil platoon, which would slip around any enemy while Fitzhugh held the enemy's attention. Riding in two of the covered trucks in the center, Jefferson and his platoon, retaining their own weapons and uniforms, kept track of where they were and what was happening by watching through holes discreetly cut into the canvas sides covering their truck's cargo bed. The third truck, in the center of the column, carried extra rations, fuel, ammunition, and the American uniforms and weapons for Fitzhugh's platoon.
Seeing that everyone had made it and was caught up, Pape bent down and informed Rasper. Standing back up, but before turning around, Pape pulled the gray German Army scarf up over his mouth and his goggles down over his eyes. Ready, he faced front just in time to see the open Volkswagen staff car with Ilvanich and Sergeant Couvelha pull back onto the road from a small rest stop where it had been waiting for the trucks. Off in the distance Pape could barely make out the autobahn bridge over the Fulda River that they were to secure in advance of the Tenth Corps. Though it was now less than a kilometer away, it was partially obscured by fog and mist. The Russian major kept telling everyone in the company that the gloomy, gray overcast sky was good for the corps, since it limited aerial surveillance by the Luftwaffe and German Army helicopters. The worse the weather, he told everyone, the faster we go. To Pape, however, that same depressing scene only meant that they would spend another cold, dark, and miserable night with their asses hanging way out in front of the rest of the corps, waiting for someone to come along and relieve them before the Germans found them out and killed them all.
Not that he wouldn't have preferred a good stand-up fight. Anything, Pape thought, was better than tromping around in enemy territory waiting for someone to discover who they really were. That, to Pape, was nerve-racking. To a cocky young man full of piss and vinegar, infiltrating enemy lines in advance of the corps' main body to secure key terrain and bridges lacked glamour, though he was finally beginning to realize what being a ranger was all about. Slowly the whole operation to him was turning out to be just like ranger camp. The only difference was that instead of having to make long, grueling, back-breaking treks through the Florida swamps, they got to ride. That and the fact that if they screwed up this patrol there wouldn't be a next patrol. For that matter, as he watched Ilvanich's Volkswagen slow as it approached a roadblock on the highway manned by real German soldiers, there wouldn't be a next anything. Reaching forward with his right hand, Pape grasped the bolt lever in the palm of his upturned hand and gave it a jerk back, cocking the weapon just in case Ilvanich couldn't convince the real Nazis that they were, as Rasper would say, good little Nazis too.
Too cold to leave the warmth of the fire they had started on the side of the road, the two German Army engineers waved Ilvanich through with no more than a glance. Angered by this lack of soldierly vigilance, Ilvanich was about to stop to yell at the German Army engineers for failing to challenge him. After considering the matter carefully, however, Ilvanich decided not to Though he knew that a good German Army captain would do so, there was always the possibility that he just might play his role too well, causing the German soldiers to react by asking him for documents and identification that he did not have. Besides, he did not know for sure how his American rangers would react to such a challenge. Although he had no doubt that they were all good men, he'd had little time to work with them. Neither he nor the Americans had been able to establish the working relationship that allowed commander and soldiers to react intuitively as one in the short time that they had been together. So Ilvanich allowed the transgressions of the German Army engineers to go unpunished. They would someday pay for that. Turning away, Ilvanich motioned to Couvelha to head for a group of military vehicles parked under the autobahn bridge.
Even before he stopped, a young lieutenant of pioneers, German combat engineers, strolled up to Ilvanich's
