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“Leave him,” Rio says, feeling like she’s been stabbed in the heart, feeling a boiling panic within her, but relinquishing her grip, falling back onto her behind, spinning, crawling, rising, running, with Jack beside her and bullets so thick they could be a swarm of bees.
“Coming in!” Jack yells.
They reach two fallen logs, one angled over the other, forming a V with the point toward the attack. The logs aren’t big, no more than six inches in diameter, but Cat and Joe have been busy dragging anything wood-like to this makeshift barricade. Geer is on his butt kicking dirt and rock into a barrier beneath the trees with the heels of his boots and cursing a blue streak.
Jack and Rio leap and tumble over the barrier, Rio plowing into Geer and twisting instantly to stand and fire back. Bang-bang-bang! Three quick shots to give the Germans pause.
The German fire stops, and Rio quickly checks her position. It’s open on both flanks and behind. The beach is twenty yards to their left. The plane is mostly to their right now, a hundred yards away.
Enfilade, defilade.
Strand lies directly between the squad and the still-unseen Germans.
“They’ll either come along the beach or circle the plane,” Rio says. She’s panting. They’re all panting.
“Or both,” Geer says.
“Petersen, make the call. Tell them we’ve made contact, force unknown. Joe, Guttierez?”
“Five minutes!” Joe answers. The two flyers are feverishly stripping the hanging bits of mounting from the machine gun. They’ll have to rest it on the unsteady log.
German fire resumes, bap-bap-bap-bap, with bullets tearing through foliage and sending leaves and chips of wood flying.
“How many guys in the Kraut patrol?” Jack asks.
“Can’t be more than a dozen,” Rio says, hearing the fear and excitement in her voice.
“They’re keeping us occupied while they flank us,” Jack says.
“. . . with every Christmas card I write . . .” Strand, of course, as the bullets fly inches above his nose.
“Beach or woods?” Rio asks Jack.
“Bloody hell,” Jack says, and crawls toward the beach cradling his rifle.
“Petersen, anything?” Rio asks.
No answer.
She turns to find Petersen sitting up with his back against a tree, his radio propped in front of him. Petersen is staring. Unblinking.
Jack’s M1 opens up, rapid firing, fast as he can squeeze them off. Rio still can’t see the Krauts, but she can guess their approximate position. They’re coming along the beach, looking for a quick conclusion.
“Right there!” she yells to the flyers, and chops the air to show direction. A bullet dings her helmet and ricochets away.
The flyers are ready, and their big .50 caliber blazes, stabbing tracer rounds into the trees.
“Watch your ammo!” Rio warns. “Short bursts, they aren’t fugging Messerschmitts!”
For no more than a minute both sides blaze away, a mad cacophony of explosions, the flit-flit of passing slugs, the softer thunk of bullets hitting wood, and then a cry of pain from the Germans.
The Germans stop firing, and Rio yells, “Cease firing. Cease firing. Jack! Can you see them?” The air stinks of gunpowder, a cloud of it hovers around them.
“Just one,” Jack yells back. “I think I got one of them!”
If there were a dozen Germans, then there are only eleven now. But on her side she has six people, one machine gun, and four rifles or carbines. If the Krauts have a mortar, this will be over as soon as they get it set up. But what are the odds of a Kraut patrol dragging a heavy mortar through the woods?
No, they have no mortar, and they have no machine gun either, though they have at least two Schmeisser submachine guns. But they may well have a radio and someone to operate it. Unlike Rio.
