“Son of a bitch,” Hill screamed and started shooting again. The others joined in and the four Germans, along with the unlucky American, were shredded.
When the killing stopped, they made another attempt to look at the corpses, or at least what was left of them. What they saw were the remains of four very young men. These were the legendary Werewolves, Hill concluded, and they didn’t look like much at all. But what kind of damage had they managed to inflict?
Elsewhere, the firing had pretty much ceased. Only sporadic and solitary gunfire was heard and no more grenades. Hill realized that Tanner was beside him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people, Captain. You might get shot.”
“You’re right. The next time the Krauts attack, I’ll announce myself. Other than the foolish and unfortunate Sergeant Baker, did you lose anybody?”
“Nobody that I’m aware of, sir. How about you?”
“There were about twenty of them, including our former guest, Hans Gruber.”
“I hope the little shit got killed.”
“No such luck. No one’s found his body.”
The wind shifted and they smelled something burning. “Aw Christ,” said Tanner. “That’s coming from General Evans’ quarters.”
As a major general, Evans was entitled to one of the few actual buildings in the division area to use as his office and headquarters and it was burning fiercely. “Did the general get out?” Tanner asked anyone. He saw Cullen and waved him over.
* * *
Major General Richard Evans had again been unable to sleep. He appreciated his staff’s concern for him and thanked them for the soft bed and the roof that didn’t leak, but it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t nod off. The war had ground down both his division and himself. He was an exhausted and underweight shell. Since arriving in Germany, the 105th had suffered more than three thousand casualties. Three thousand bright young men killed, wounded, or maimed along with several dozen missing. He didn’t think any of the missing had deserted. More likely, their mortal remains had been obliterated by a shell or buried by some explosion.
Mercifully, he didn’t know very many of them. Their names on the casualty lists jumped out at him, however, and he wondered how many relatives, friends, and lovers were mourning the dead and hoping that the wounded would recover.
Of the three thousand casualties, only two thousand had been replaced. The United States Army was suffering a manpower shortage; thus, the division was understrength as well as unmotivated. The two thousand replacements were poorly trained and indifferently motivated. Even so, many of them had become casualties. Their inexperience led too many of them to believe that they were immortal or that this was some sort of noisy and thrilling game.
He grieved for them all and once more doubted if he was cut out to be a general. How could Eisenhower or Patton or Devers send tens of thousands of men to fight each day knowing that many of them would not come back? At least his division was going to be pulled out of the line. That was the good news. The bad was that they were going to be headed to the German city of Bregenz and be part of the final assault on Germanica.
The chatter of gunfire interrupted his musings. It was close, too close. He hopped out of bed and quickly put on his trousers and boots. Now the shooting was really close and he cursed the fact that all he had to protect himself was his.45 automatic. And where the hell were his guards?
A window crashed below him. Swearing softly, he made it to the head of the stairs. He saw shadows moving. It was just one man. But was it an American or a German? The answer came quickly. The man must have sensed the motion above him. He turned and fired a burst from a submachine gun. Bullets chewed into the wall beside the general. Evans fired back. The German shot again. This time, Evans took the full strength of the bullets in his chest. He gasped and fell forward, slowly sliding down the stairs.
“General!” Evans tried to focus on the sound. It was Cullen. Good boy, he thought as a red haze started to overwhelm him. There was more shooting and he saw the German buckle and fall, his body shredded by bullets from Cullen’s Tommy gun.
He tried to say his thanks, but his body wasn’t functioning and he smelled smoke. Nothing was functioning.
* * *
Cullen’s uniform was scorched and his face was soot-blackened and burned red. “No, the general did not get out. He was shot many times by a German while he was trying to get down the stairs.
“I got the German, but then the place began to burn up and I was barely able to drag him out. In case you’re wondering, General Evans lived for a few minutes but soon was well and truly dead with a bunch of bullets in his chest. If he had any last words, I couldn’t make them out.”
The gunfire had stopped. There were, however, the sounds of people yelling for help or screaming in pain. People were giving orders and trying to get control of the situation.
Cullen borrowed a canteen and dumped some of the contents on his face. “I’d like to know just how the Nazis got through our security. My guess is that the guards were either asleep or not paying attention or were killed by the Germans. For their sake, I hope they are all dead. Letting a general get murdered will put you in the stockade for centuries.”
With a chance to catch his breath, Tanner wondered if Lena had made it to safety. The German attacking force was small; therefore, the odds were well in her favor. Good odds weren’t good enough. He needed facts.
As soon as he could he ran to where the women had their tent. It was still standing, although there were some disconcerting holes in the canvas. He was about to ask about her when she ran up, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around, and hugged him fiercely.
“I was so worried,” she said. Her voice was muffled by the fact that her mouth was against his chest.
“So was I,” he said, reveling in the fact that he could feel her breasts against him and the beat of her heart as he held her tightly. “Their attack was a bust. If they wanted to kill high-ranking officers, the only one they’ve gotten is General Evans. His death is terrible, but we will recover.”
He realized that it was a tacit admission that the late Evans had not inspired confidence. There would be new commanding general for the 105th, but who would it be and, more important, would it make a bit of difference?
* * *
Joey Ruffino had never been to the White House. Most people hadn’t. First, it would have involved a lot of money that most people didn’t have, thanks to the Great Depression. Second, by the time his good job had given him enough money to spend on the trip, wartime restrictions would not permit it to happen easily.
Thus, arranging for many thousands of his mother’s supporters to arrive in Washington at the same time and find lodgings had proven to be a monumental logistical effort. He was pleased that he and his team of volunteers had actually pulled it off. Although much a much smaller crowd then what he’d hoped, several thousand protestors had managed to make it to Washington. A tent city had sprung up across the Potomac and, while watched carefully by the Secret Service, the army, and the District of Columbia police, the protestors were left alone.
Even though it hurt his foot to walk any distance, he insisted on doing it. It was his duty and it thrilled him to honor his mother. He felt that her spirit walked beside him as he circled the White House grounds and carried the placard calling for the troops to be brought home.
He was surprised that the White House, while quite large, wasn’t larger. It was beautiful, but not truly a palace. He’d seen enough pictures in books and magazines to understand what a palace should look like. Nobility did not live in the White House, just an elected president, and now it was Harry Truman’s turn. The view was marred by the sandbag fortifications and the large numbers of heavily armed soldiers along with machine guns on the roofs of many surrounding buildings. While there was little danger at this time in the war from either German or Japanese aircraft, sabotage could not be ruled out. He’d been told that there were real fears that some crazy fanatic would steal a plane and crash it into the White House or the Capitol. This was once considered preposterous, but no longer, since the Japanese kamikaze pilots began sacrificing themselves by flying into American ships.