The Bavarian Gate

19

Sicily

A few days later, the 505th loaded onto trains and rolled out of Oujda eastward, with twenty men and their duffel bags to a small boxcar. It could have been worse-the official capacity stenciled on the cars was forty men or eight horses-but they had eight hundred miles to go, and given the traffic, and the state of the equipment, tracks and bridges, it would probably take them four days or more. Twenty to a car was more than enough.

The trip ended in eastern Tunisia, where they camped near the holy Muslim city of Kairouan. The countryside wasn't as desolate as that around Oujda. It actually had trees, even if some of them did resemble cactus.

Training continued, but they weren't there long. Long enough to learn that their objective was Sicily, and to be briefed on their units' missions, drilling them on sand tables. Remembering the confusion on the flight from Land's End to Algeria, Macurdy wondered how meaningful those drills were. And this drop would be at night.

There was a shortage of troop planes for the division. Thus it would have to be flown on consecutive days, the 505th jumping on the first day, along with one battalion of the 504th. The heavily loaded C47s would take three and a half hours to fly the 420-mile dogleg course, using the island of Malta as a checkpoint. Then they'd return to Kairouan and bring the rest of the 504th the next day.

The veteran 509th would remain in Tunisia as a reserve. Macurdy could guess how pissed off they'd be.

Appropriately it was Melody, his spear-maiden second wife, of whom Macurdy dreamed that last night in Africa. Daylight and shrilling whistles woke him, and the dream slipped away, leaving behind only that it had been of Melody. After an early breakfast, the 505th lined up to draw ammunition and field rations, along with atabrine pills to prevent malaria, pills to purify water, and antifatigue pills.

They were scheduled to take off at dusk; it would, Macurdy thought, be a long day of hurry up and wait.

The men sat and stood around until shortly after noon, when the shouted order, "Load on the trucks," echoed down the line from the battalion commander to the company commanders. The trucks took them to various small airfields in the vicinity, where they waited again, now in the shadows of their planes. Macurdy field-stripped his BAR-so far as he knew, he was the only platoon sergeant who carried one of the 18-pound automatic weapons-then checked and reassembled it, less from concern than for something to do. He did the same with his.45. One big thigh pocket bulged with fragmentation grenades, and the Fairbairn knife he'd traded for in England was on his belt; he preferred the double-edged British weapon to the GI trench knife with its brass knuckles. His folding stiletto was in its concealed inner pocket, available to cut himself free if his chute hung up, or slit a throat and escape if captured. There were bandoleers of magazines for the BAR, and a canvas bag with additional grenades. Along with boots, steel helmet, trenching tool, first-aid kit, musette bag, map case… and of course his two chutes-main and reserve. He told himself wryly that with all of that, he'd weigh well over three hundred pounds, but there was none of it he'd willingly leave behind.

A mess truck rolled up to the company, with aproned men in back, and Macurdy got to his feet. "What the hell is that all about?" someone asked. "It's only half past four."

It was an early supper, suggesting they'd take off before too long. They got out their mess kits and lined up by squads, while a cook lowered the tailgate. It was far the best meal they'd eaten in Africa-roast turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy… even ice cream.

"The Army's version of the Last Supper," someone quipped It didn't get many laughs; a lot of men only picked at their food. Macurdy ate all of his; God only knew when they'd have time to eat again. He wondered what Mary would serve tonight. His mail hadn't followed him to the 505th; maybe it never would. But he'd written to Mary about his new outfit, so her future letters should find him. Thus far he hadn't gotten on the 505th payroll, either-that would probably take a legal transfer-but there'd be time enough to worry about that when he'd left Africa and the provost marshal behind.

After supper they lay around digesting as best they could, when a jeep rolled up, and Macurdy saw Captain Alden get out, one of the 509th's battalion surgeons. Briefly Alden spoke with Colonel Gavin, the regimental commander, then walked around among the troops, pausing to speak to some of the company officers. Macurdy felt concern. Had the 509th learned where he was? Was Alden looking for him? The officer came nearer, then recognized him and walked over, peering as if he couldn't believe it.

"Is that you, Macurdy? What the devil are you doing here? The last time I saw you-hell, it wasn't a month ago! you were in the hospital with one of the goddamnedest sorriest-looking legs I'd want to see. Bigger than a melon! What are you doing in the 505th? Hell! How are you even walking?"

The comments from the 509th officer caused nearby heads to swivel.

Macurdy grinned, reassured: Doc wasn't there to pick him up. Of course not. It wasn't something they'd send a battalion surgeon to do, and if they did, Doc would carefully not see him.

"At the hospital," Macurdy answered, "they said I'd never be fit for combat again, so someone in base command transferred me to the MPs. But I'm the fastest healing sonofabitch in the army, so after about a week, a guy smuggle me a hacksaw blade to cut off the cast, and a guy in the next bed-from the 505th-got me in here."

Alden laughed, shaking his head. "You're not very strong on regulations, are you Macurdy? I won't tell your buddies till after you've taken off. They'll be jealous as hell." He gestured with his head at the C47 beside them. "That's why I'm here; thought I might get a seat in one of these gooney birds, and go along, but your CO wouldn't have it." He reached, shook Macurdy's hand. "Fast healing? That took more than fast healing; it took a damn miracle." He paused, frowning, as it struck him how miraculous Macurdy's recovery really was; he'd seen the x-rays. "Well," he said, "good luck. I'll see you when we catch up to you."

"Uh, sir?"

"Yes Macurdy?"

"Will you do me a favor? Get my mail forwarded to me, to B Company, 505th?"

"B Company, 505th. Sure." They shook on that too, then Alden left.

When he'd gone, one of Macurdy's troopers asked, "Who the hell was that, sarge? He's got medical insignia on his collar, a slung carbine, and a.45 on his belt. You don't see that combination very often."

"The limies have had medics picked off by snipers, so Doc had his men take off their arm bands and carry guns." Someone laughed. "Medics carrying guns? And he said you weren't too strong on regulations. Where'd he get that red beret? That sure as hell ain't regulation."

"General Browning gave it to him. The limey airborne general. I guess he likes guys a little crazy."

"What happened to your leg he talked about?"

"It got run over by a loaded truck. Looked worse than it was, though."

"Jesus! A fucking truck?! When was that? He said it wasn't a month ago, and you've been with us three weeks, I'll bet."

"I heal fast."

His men stared at him with new respect, a couple of them with awe. He removed his attention from them, and after a minute they returned to their thoughts. Macurdy had one of his own now: If his mail could catch up with him, might the provost marshal as well? Provost marshals had long arms.

The sun was nearly down when the word came to buckle their chutes. They'd put them on earlier, leaving them unbuckled. It won't be long now, Macurdy thought; so did 3,400 others.

It had been breezy all afternoon. Now it was downright windy, enough that the plane shuddered from it. If this were a training jump, he told himself, they'd have cancelled it hours ago. Thirty miles an hour, he guessed. The order came to load, and bent by the snug parachute harnesses, the troopers waddled to the ladders and hauled themselves aboard, to sit in two rows, facing each other. Shortly the engines started, the bird taking life. No one said a word. The abrupt engine acceleration of the final warm-up check made her quiver, then she calmed. After a couple of minutes, Macurdy heard and felt the power swell, and gradually the plane began to move, taxiing. Briefly it stood still again, then rolled into line. Plane after plane surged down the runway, taking off. His own began to roll, vibrating, accelerating, quivering. The tail rose, and they lifted. He looked around at the other troopers. Without exception their faces were serious.

Across from him, one of them spoke, more to himself than to anyone else. "Three and a half hours to drop time. I wonder what I'll be doing four hours from now?"

It would be a long three and a half hours. The plane bobbed and swayed in the wind, and a few men lost their turkey supper. "It's that damn ice cream," one of them said, drawing scattered laughs.

Macurdy was seated across from the door, an opening snarling in the slipstream. Through it he watched twilight thicken, become moonlit night. After a Ion g time, he spotted a fleet in the moonlight. Not the assault fleet, he thought; probably supply ships. Nonetheless the sight troubled him. Their planned flight course was to keep them well clear of the fleets, so they wouldn't be fired on. Shit! he thought, I suppose we're lost, like we were on the way to Algeria. But surely the damned airplane jockeys must see them down there!

The ships were soon left behind, and the planes hadn't drawn their fire. Then there was nothing, until someone saw land ahead in the night. Minutes later, tracers rose past the plane, seeming to float upward almost lazily. White tracers; American and British were red. On this plane he was senior, and jump master, so he got up and waddled to the door. There were flashes as well as tracers, antiaircraft shells exploding, and he realized how thin were the aircraft's aluminum sides. He could feel the plane climb. Nearby, another exploded in a ball of orange flame; tracer hit a gas tank, he supposed.

Beside the door, the red light flashed on. Four minutes, supposedly. "Stand up!" Macurdy bellowed, and the men stood. "Hook up!" Each man snapped his static line hook onto the jump cable that ran the length of the troop compartment, tuggIng on it to make sure it was secure. Then they checked each other's chute packs.

"Stand in the door!" he shouted, then positioned himself with his toes over the edge, a hand on each side, and the line of men shuffled forward, nearly touching, guts churning. The plane rocked, bobbed, shook in the wind.

It should be losing altitude, not climbing, he thought, and the sound of the engines told him they were going too fast; the pilot was supposed to slow to one hundred miles an hour. Spooked by the flak, Macurdy decided. I hope to hell the sonofabitch remembers to raise the tail, or he'll kill half of us.

Next to the door, the green light flashed on. Too soon! Too soon! Macurdy thought as he launched himself. The prop blast flung him backward: The plane was going close to top speed, he realized, and felt brief anger. The men were going to be scattered all over hell.

His chute opened, the shock slamming him, then the gale swung him like a pendulum. If this is a thirty-mile wind, he told himself, we'll hit at thirty miles an hour horizontally and maybe twenty-five feet per second downward-plus or minus the pendulum speed. There'll be injuries tonight for damn sure.

Miles away he could see the constant strobing of artillery, probably coastal guns and naval vessels. Hopefully the enemy was getting pounded.

At least the sky was clear. The terrain below was a wash of pale moonlight and dense shadow. It did not look difficult. When he hit, luck was with him: he was oscillating upward, forward, his risers didn't twist, and he got his chute collapsed almost at once. He hit the harness release, then lay listening for a moment, hearing nothing except the rumble of distant artillery The planes had already passed beyond hearing. Getting to his feet, he scanned around. About two hundred yards away was an aura, dimly visible-another trooper shedding his chute-and in another direction a second. The pilot had jumped them from well above the 600 feet specified; more like 1,500, he decided. It had taken far too long to get down, more than a minute. God only knew where the rest of his men were.

He shouted to bring them, then unlimbered his BAR and scanned around again, finding none of the landmarks he'd hoped for. All he knew for sure was, he was on mildly rolling upland. Somewhere in southern Sicily, he told himself wryly. Now he could see a third trooper hiking in his direction, and while waiting, considered what to do. If he was anywhere near where he should be, which he doubted, then the Ponte Corvo airfield should be southwest.

The first two men reached him, one of them limping a little, and together they waited for the third, who was approaching slowly, apparently also injured. While they waited, they hear machine gun fire, and Macurdy registered the direction. In the absence of anything to the contrary, they'd head there, along with any others they found. When the third trooper arrived, Macurdy asked how he was. "I hit like a load of bricks," he answered. "I think my fucking ankle's broke; something grates in there when I walk. Hurts like hell."

"You got your compass?" The man felt for it. "Yup."

The machine gun fire repeated. "Good. Stay here. We'll head for the shooting; take an azimuth on it now, in case it quits. If you see any of the others, send them after us. If a machine gun or mortar crew shows up without their weapon, tell them to find the sonofabitch. Same with demolitions."

They left. Shortly the firin stopped, and it occurred to Macurdy that he hadn't hear any return fire, just the one heavy machine gun, its cyclic rate too fast to be American. After about ten minutes of walking, they came to a dirt road that ran roughly in the right direction. It had been graded, presumably by the military, and bore the light tread marks of what Macurdy guessed were tracked German weapons carriers. He angled off, paralleling it at about a hundred yards. Bordered by scattered small trees, it was easy to keep in sight.

In something like another mile he saw more trees ahead. When he reached them, he found they marked the rim of a shallow, sparsely wooded ravine, so he turned right, toward the road. When the road reached the rim, it turned sharp left, angling down the slope to ease the grade. Near it, the trees had been cut as if to clear a field of fire, and he could see a bridge below. Near its far end, the west end, were the overlapping auras of three men, who seemed to man a machine gun. The bridge was concrete, not what he'd expect on a country road in Sicily, where the word was the locals used only mules and horses. So then, built by the military. There'd no doubt be a low-profile, dug-in pillbox on the west side, probably on the rim, not visible at night from where he was.

The central question was, what should he do about the bridge? Destroy it assuming someone came up with explosives-so the enemy couldn't use it? Or prevent it from being blown, so that seaborne forces could use it? All the briefing in the world didn't help when the goddamned airplane jockeys dropped you in the wrong county.

"Anderson," he murmured, "you're in charge. Take cover here where you can watch the road. More guys should be coming. I'm going to check the bridge for explosives; I'll be back before long. If any krauts or eye-ties come along, lay low and let them pass."

With that he left, the other two following him with their eyes. When he reached the first trees, he disappeared seemingly swallowed by shadow.

Cloaked, Macurdy worked his way down the side of the ravine as quietly as possible. The bottom was sand, with occasional large rocks too heavy to be carried away by the torrents of the rainy season. A man sat dozing at the base of a bridge piling. His uniform was Italian, and a submachine gun lay across his lap. He smelled of wine. Carefully Macurdy lifted the man's gun, sprinkled dirt in the action and barrel, then laid it down beside him.

The bridge had been mined, the caps wired for electrical detonation; obviously the Italians would rather blow the bridge than let the invaders take it, but wanted it available as long as it was in their hands. After removing the wires, he drew his trench knife and cut them far too short to be reattached. Then he buried the caps in sand-he hated the touchy damned things-and moved back down the ravine again before climbing out.

As he climbed, heavy machine gun fire began again, one gun, then another, not from the bridge, but from the rim above the ravine, repeating sporadically as if at scattered targets briefly glimpsed. From where they were, the gunners could no doubt see the road approaching the ravine from either direction; probably they'd spotted more troopers coming. He speeded up. Now he hear the hammering of an American machine gun; obviously more guys had arrived, hopefully quite a few of them. Almost at once there was more enemy machine gun fire. German, he thought. They favored the 7.62, its high cyclic rate unmistakable.

Back on top he found quite a few more troopers, but they were pinned down, less by the pillbox across the ravine than by two armored half-tracks with the German military cross, black edged with white. Remaining invisible, he slunk along just below the rim, counting men and assessing the situation. The troopers were under the command of an officer now, and still invisible, Macurdy approached him from behind, then dropped his cloak. "Lieutenant," he said. The man started in surprise.

He didn't know Macurdy, but he did know the bridge. His company's mission was to take and hold it. Unfortunately he had no idea where most of the company was, except that a plane carrying fifteen of his platoon had been shot down. With only a dozen of his own men, some with landing injuries, he was glad to have Macurdy's troopers, most of whom had shown up Just now it was a standoff, he said. Some of the troopers had grenade launchers for their M1s, though the supply of grenades was limited, and when a trooper had launched one almost into the rear of a half-track, the Germans had backed away. They seemed satisfied to pin the Americans down, as if expecting reinforcements. He'd sent men to take out the machine gun at the bridge, which so far hadn't fired on his positions, though the pillboxes-there seemed to be two of them-had fired sporadically at them. Italians, he thought. Germans would be more wholehearted about it.

There'd been flurries of rifle and submachine gun fire from feldgrau who'd dismounted from the half-tracks, probably at troopers he'd sent to scout them.

Macurdy reported what he'd found and done, then without asking for orders, crept away, cloaking in the nearest shadow, the lieutenant frowning after him. And continued as rapidly as he could, hampered by his BAR, a clumsy weapon to crawl with. When he was well out on the flank, out of the American field of fire, he rose to a crouch and trotted toward the halftracks.

He dropped to all fours again as he approached them from the side. The troopers' fire would be directed at the vehicles, seeking the firing slots to suppress German fire, hut the halftracks' real vulnerability was the lack of a roof, which was why they'd backed away from the grenade launchers.

At ten yards from the nearest, Macurdy paused, drew a grenade, pulled its pin and lobbed it. It landed in the halftrack, flashed and roared. No one exited the back door, but from the offside, a man emerged from the cab. Macurdy, on all fours again, scrambled forward. The German, sheltered by the half-track, climbed onto the track's mud-fender to peer over the side. Sheltered himself now from American fire, Macurdy shot him point-blank in the back, then stepped to the open door, shot the driver, and slammed the door shut.

He dealt with the other half-track in much the same way, then dragged two dead Germans from the cab and clambered in.

Although the outlying feldgrau would have had their attention firmly elsewhere, some must have noticed the explosions in the rear of the half-tracks, and be feeling serious concern. Almost surely one or more were crawling toward him on elbows and knees, Mauser or Schmeisser in hand.

He started the engine. His own people would have seen the grenade flashes and know that something was going on. Hurriedly he opened his first-aid kit, drew out the white triangular bandage, tied it to the muzzle of his BAR, slid back out of the cab and waved his flag of truce above the engine hood. Almost at once the American fire decreased, and he yelled at the top of his lungs: "YEEE-HAAA! SAN ANTONE! HOLD YOUR FIRE! IT'S MACURDY, COMING IN!"

Then he scrambled back into the cab, German bullets striking the inside of the door as he pulled it shut. The German gearshift worked more smoothly than that in American half-tracks. He turned the vehicle toward the American line, while bullets banged the armor. Within a minute he had a trooper on the seat beside him and four in back, while others sprinted to take the other half-track, still others providing covering fire.

He put on the late driver's coalscuttle helmet, raised the cab's steel shutter to see and be seen, and started down the road to the bridge, which he crossed without being fired on. The Italian machine gunners were gone, dead or fled.

At the top of the slope were two low pillboxes, eighty yards apart on opposite sides of the road. Getting out, he spoke to the men in back. "Cover me," he said, then to assure the Italians, shouted in German: "Ich bin gleich wieder da, warte auf die Amerikaner! " and without activating his cloak, trotted toward a pillbox, depending on the German helmet to fool the Italians. One large hand concealed a grenade, its pin pulled. Almost at the pillbox, he released the charging lever, counted silently to three, and tossed it through a gunport, then dropped. The grenade exploded, and someone inside began screaming, so e tossed in another, then cloaked himself and ran toward the halftrack. From the other pillbox, a heavy machine gun began to hammer. A terrific blow on his right arm spun Macurdy around and dropped him.

He almost blacked out, then rolled onto his back, fumbling for his knife. Lefthandedly, and shaking from shock, he cut and tore his right sleeve off. The wound was massive, bleeding heavily, and gathering himself as best he could, he wove and willed its occlusion. At once the bleeding slowed, then stopped. He was aware that the other pillbox had stopped firing. Forcing himself to stand, he staggered toward the half-track. A trooper hopped out of the rear, rifle in hand, and Macurdy dropped his cloak. The trooper's head jerked toward him.

"Jesus, Barge! You startled me." Then his eyes widened. "You're hit!"

"You got that right," Macurdy said, and feeling his knees giving way, sat down on the ground.

The trooper knelt by him. "Oh shit! That's a bad one." Taking the large airborne aid-kit from his belt, he pulled out sulfanilamide, bandage, and tape. Within a minute the wound was medicated and wrapped, then using the big triangular bandage, he immobilized the arm against Macurdy's body. Shakily and with the trooper's help, Macurdy got to his feet, climbed into the cab on the off side, and collapsed again. He could hear the trooper outside, shouting to the others. "Let's go! Let's go! We're done here. The sarge got hit; a bad one."

Someone else told off others to hold the pillboxes, then the man who'd bandaged him climbed in behind the wheel. Another got in on Macurdy's side and sat him up to make room. The driver turned the half-track and they headed back to the American position.

When they got there, the troopers still lay more or less dug in along the rim of the ravine. Most of them weren't his; there had to be forty or fifty now. The driver stopped, and the lieutenant called to them. "More krauts have arrived. Don't get careless."

The driver wheeled over to him and opened the door. "The sarge got shot," he said, "a bad one, one of those big 50s in the arm. But we cleaned out the pillboxes; he cleaned one out by himself. I left guys to hold them."

Macurdy got out without help, crowding past the steering wheel, wearing his own helmet now. "Medic!" the officer shouted, then turned to Macurdy. "Take it easy, sergeant. More men have come in; the shooting drew them. I sent your other half-track through to meet them, and it brought back a radio, so I let the beach commander know we've got the bridge but don't have many men to hold it. He said he'd get armor here as soon as he can, but when that'll be is anyone's guess."

The lieutenant sounded as casual as if talking about the price of gas. Then he sent a half-track back to the pillboxes, with more men to man them.

A medic arrived, wearing his armband, and in the shelter of the rim, carefully but quickly removed Macurdy's bandage to examine the wound. "Whoever took care of this did a good job," he said, and began rebandaging it. "Sarge, you earned yourself a nice hospital vacation." When he'd finished, he took out a syrette of morphine and injected it into the other arm.

Macurdy watched him crawl over to the lieutenant and speak to an undertone, something about "tough sonofabitch," and "could have bled to death," and "sleep."

He had no intention of sleeping. Almost certainly more Germans would arrive before seaborne reinforcements could, and the troopers would be in serious trouble. Meanwhile someone had taken his BAR, along with his bandoliers. Which made sense; he couldn't handle it one-handed. But, he told himself, he was the only one here who could make himself invisible. And even left-handed, he ought to be able to hit something close up with his.45, and toss a grenade far enough to do some good.

But first he'd gather his strength for a minute and fell asleep in spite of himself. He didn't even waken when the racket of fighting intensified, until a mortar round landed nearby.

Regaining his wits, Macurdy crawled to the rim and peered over it, looking toward the enemy positions. The Germans had been reinforced, and were laying down a lot of rifle and machine gun fire. Presumably quite a few troopers had been wounded or killed. The captured half-tracks had attacked the Germans and been disabled, presumably by a Panzerfaust, and the Germans were keeping flares in the air almost constantly, to foil sneak attacks.

On the other hand, the troopers' aimed fire, and the cover afforded by the rim, had discouraged the Germans from rushing them. The German strategy seemed to be to wear the Americans down with casualties-the mortars would do that-and wait for reinforcements, maybe panzers.

Someone had lifted Macurdy's bag of grenades, too. Except for his knife, all he had left was his holstered.45, and two grenades in a tunic pocket. So he crept out toward a flank, to a trooper he didn't know, whose M1 had gotten hot enough, Macurdy could smell char from the forepiece. The Germans must have pressed things at some point. "Let me have some grenades," Macurdy said. "Someone took mine."

Eyeing Macurdy's immobilized arm, the trooper frowned, then rolled half over and fished out two.

"That all you got?" Macurdy asked.

The man started to reply, then instead, took three from his grenade bag for himself and gave Macurdy the rest. For just a moment he watched as Macurdy crept over the rim, toward the Germans, and seemed to disappear.

Bullets did not respect invisibility spells, so Macurdy crawled along on his good side, directly toward the Germans, pushing mainly with his left leg, chagrined at how tired he felt, though he drew on the Web of the World. Once a bullet clanged against his helmet, a glancing blow that made his head swim and his heart race. Eventually he reached the German positions. Now the bullets that threatened him were American, but mostly aimed fire, and not nearly as numerous as the Germans were pumping out.

Approaching a machine gun nest, he rolled onto his back, left-handedly dug out a grenade, and pulled the pin with his teeth. Then, ignoring the American fire, he rolled to his knees, released the charging lever, paused, raised his body, side-armed the grenade into the machine gun nest, and dropped onto his left side again.

The grenade roared, then he crept to the next machine gun nest and repeated the action.

While tossing a third, a mortar round landed close behind him, this one American; an airborne mortar crew had arrived and was attacking the Germans from behind. Concussion shredded the back of his blouse, at the same time that a fragment struck him in the back, breaking his shoulder blade, another punctured a lung, and a third mangled a buttock. Then he lay unconscious, unaware that his final grenade toss had been successful.

He was lucky the shock had disrupted his invisibility spell. Even so, he very nearly died.

Three days later he awoke in a base hospital. In the dream he'd awakened from, Varia and Melody and Mary and Vulkan all had been caring for him. A day later, General Ridgeway, 82nd Airborne commander, came through the ward with an aide and a surgeon, stopping to talk briefly with the airborne patients who were awake. At Macurdy's bed he looked at a clipboard and smiled. "How are you feeling, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Getting by," Macurdy murmured.

"Colonel Massey here"-the general indicated the doctor-"says he's sending you to England to get your shoulder blade reconstructed. Meanwhile I have a brief report written and signed by a Lieutenant Maye, describing what you did. You're as lucky as you are brave. When things get a little more organized, I expect you'll hear more about it."

"You'll be glad to know your people held the bridge, but it was touch and go for a while. The Germans got panzers there ahead of our Shermans."

Macurdy's eyes had closed before the general finished.