James Benn: A Mortal Terror

“Sergeant, I am Colonel Samuel Harding, of General Eisenhower’s staff. These two work for me.”

“Yeah, right. Ike’s in London last I heard. You tellin’ me he sent you down here to sneak up on us? You with that British general snoopin’ around? Or have we caught ourselves some Kraut spies?”

“General Eisenhower did send me,” I said. “To catch a murderer. Sergeant Amos Flint, last seen driving that jeep outside.” I saw the men exchange glances.

“Murder? Who’d he kill?”

“His own lieutenant. A doctor, a captain, a major, a POW, and at least one sergeant from his own platoon. He stole that jeep and we think he’s headed into enemy territory. What line did he feed you?”

“Big tall guy? With a skinny kid tagging along?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “Hey, if you’re sure we’re not Germans, how about giving us our weapons back?”

Harding stood and held out his hand. The sergeant gave him his. 45 back. Our other weapons were laid on the table.

“They were here earlier this morning. Gave us a story about bein’ on the lam from the MPs for slugging some desk jockey who got a bunch of his men killed for nothin’. Seemed believable.”

“He’s a practiced liar,” I said. “Damn good at it, so don’t feel bad. He let you have the jeep?”

“We swapped. Had an old Italian ambulance, a Fiat truck, that we used for transporting wounded. Most times, the Krauts don’t shell ambulances on their own. But we liked the jeep and that. 30 caliber, so we suggested a trade. Thought it might help him blend in.”

“Did he say where they were headed?”

“Back to his outfit, he claimed, in Le Ferriere. Said they’d lie low for another day or so until the dust settled, then show up to get the lay of the land.”

“How well is the line defended along here?”

“Well, you got the Hermann Goering Panzer Division over there, but they pulled back pretty far. You can cross the canal any time you want and get nothing more than wet feet. It’s more of a big drainage ditch than any canal I ever saw.”

“You have outposts along the canal?”

“Colonel, our outposts are way across the canal. That’s why the Krauts pulled back. They don’t like waking up in the morning to find sentries with their throats slit.”

“ Das dicke Ende kommt noch,” Kaz said.

I was sure the calling card that the Force men left behind would appeal to Flint. “Did you give him any of your stickers?”

“Yeah, a souvenir, sorta. He didn’t like hearing about that Limey any more than we did. No offense, lieutenant,” he said to Kaz. “Seeing as you’re Polish.”

Kaz, who wore the red shoulder flash that proclaimed Poland on his British uniform, nodded in acceptance.

“We have to get to Big Mike,” I said. “Fast.”

We hotfooted it out of there, all of us worried about Big Mike and Cosgrove now, not to mention Danny. Flint had a new vehicle, one that gave him an edge. The red cross on the Italian ambulance was like a free pass. GIs would wave him on, the Germans would hold their fire, and Big Mike wouldn’t know what hit him.

“Big Mike, come in,” Harding said into the walkie-talkie, holding down the press-to-talk switch. “Big Mike, come in.” He released the switch. Nothing.

“Keep trying, maybe they’re out of range,” I said as I started the jeep and pulled out into the road. We were clear of the trees in a few seconds, and I prayed that whatever German up in the hills had his binoculars trained on us couldn’t be bothered to call in fire on one measly jeep.

For the second time today, I was wrong. Really wrong. I heard the whistle of incoming shells, and stepped on it. For the third time today, wrong again. The salvo hit just ahead of us, and if I’d pulled over I could have avoided going through it. Bright flashes shuddered against the ground, sending dirt and smoke everywhere, blinding me as I lifted one arm to shield my eyes, holding onto the steering wheel with the other.

The next thing I knew, I had a mouthful of mud. I was in a ditch by the side of the road, a thin rivulet of water soaking me. I tried to get up and clear my head. I saw a blurry figure standing over me, got up on one knee, and blinked my eyes until I could make him out.

“You all right, Colonel?”

“Leg’s banged up a little, but I’m fine,” he said, taking my arm and helping me up.

“Where’s Kaz? What happened?”

“He’s looking for the walkie-talkie. We hit a shell hole and rolled the jeep. We’re lucky it didn’t come down on top of us.”

The barrage had stopped, but I heard shelling farther up the road. “That could be Big Mike and Cosgrove getting hit,” I said. “Or Flint and Danny.”

“The radio is useless,” Kaz said, pointing to the jeep on its side in the ditch. The pieces of the walkie-talkie were pinned underneath.

“See if you can get some help to right the jeep,” I said, grabbing my carbine. “I’m going up there.” I started to run, hearing Harding and Kaz yelling at me to stop, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t wait by the side of the road like a stranded motorist. I had to move, to get to Danny before everything went wrong. If it hadn’t already.

The first thing that went was my helmet. Too damn heavy. Then the canteen from my web belt. I wasn’t wearing the ammo bandolier, so all I had was the fifteen rounds loaded in the carbine and my. 45 automatic. If that wasn’t enough, I was in bigger trouble than I thought. My Parsons jacket went next, and then I settled into a run, remembering track team in high school. Danny used to come watch me practice. I did the hurdles and the long jump. Not all that well, but it had been a hell of a lot easier without combat boots, an automatic flapping on my hip, and an M1 carbine at port arms.

I could see puffs of explosions in the distance, rising above the shrubs and trees that lined the canal. If there were Force men hidden along the canal, they didn’t show themselves. From what the GIs we’d met told us, most were on the other side, hiding out until nightfall. I ran, focusing on lifting my legs, getting the most out of each stride, keeping my breathing regular and my eyes on the horizon. Get into the rhythm, Coach used to say. Don’t stare at the ground in front of you, it’s all the same. Look ahead, to where you want to be.

I ran.

The explosions ahead had ended. The road was deserted. I kept running, my legs aching and my lungs burning. I wondered if a German observer was tracking me through his binoculars, figuring another dogface had gone nuts. Shell-shocked, battle-fatigued, crazy. I ran, remembering Coach’s words: Just because you feel pain, you don’t have to stop. My boots beat a rhythm on the road, and I imagined Danny waiting for me, although all I could see in my mind was a kid in short pants, running through the backyards of our neighborhood.

I stumbled, one boot catching on the pavement, and went head over heels, tucking my chin and rolling until I came up again, running. I was bleeding somewhere on my arm, and one knee felt wobbly, but I focused on picking up my feet and kept going, watching the road ahead.

Then I heard shots. Pop pop pop, followed by a rat-tat-tat, then a chorus of mayhem as automatic weapons and rifles spat fire, and I picked up the pace, ignoring the searing pain in my lungs, trying to figure out where the fight was. On the right, by the canal. Small explosions thudded, grenades maybe. I was closer to the fight now, and slowed so I could catch my breath and be ready, watching for movement along the canal. I got off the road, double-timing it across a field and into the trees and shrubs lining the bank of the canal, hoping for cover before I was spotted. I worked my way into a patch of dense brush, and stopped, kneeling as I waited for my breathing to get under control. Gasping for air, I parted the bushes and scanned the canal, both directions. Nothing. Then I saw a head pop up across the bank, about fifty yards upstream. More rifle fire sounded, then a submachine gun, probably a Schmeisser MP40.