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“How would you go at it?”
Mazur considers. He’d seemed at first like a bit of a fire-breather, but now that it’s time for the show he is cool and professional and Rio finds herself warming to him.
“Well, Sarge, they’ll have most of their people over on this side of the road. If there was a way to get to the other side . . .”
Getting to the other side is flatly insane. The only way is by crawling under the bridge, and there are Germans thick on both ends of the bridge. Can she get Jenou, Jack, Molina, Jeffords, Chester, Mazur, and herself under the bridge? She briefly considers a diversion, but an experienced German commander will smell that in a second.
Seven people beneath a guarded bridge? Easier with fewer.
“Here’s the plan,” Rio says. “Mazur, Stafford, and I try for the bridge. The rest of you go along the left bank and see if you can find a place to enfilade that bridge. Castain? You got Molina, Jeffords, and Chester.”
Jenou looks appalled, and it occurs to Rio that this will be Jenou’s first time really in charge of anything but herself. But Jenou nods worried acceptance.
Rio takes a bag of bazooka rounds from Chester and leads the way into icy water that deepens with each step so that soon it spills over the top of her boots. The artillery barrage creates crashing, ground-pounding noise, and the falling snow obscures sight: it’s the best chance they have.
But as they come to within twenty yards of the bridge, Rio spots a German sentry squatting beneath the bridge to relieve himself. He has his back to them and appears to be reading a letter as he defecates.
A veteran, Rio notes sourly. Only an experienced soldier has the sangfroid and cool calculation of risks required to calmly take a dump with artillery landing just beyond shrapnel range.
Rio hands her Thompson to Jack. He looks very unhappy, like he might object to Rio’s plan, but he subsides and accepts her submachine gun.
Rio moves quickly now, too close to avoid being seen if the German turns around, but knowing that he can’t possibly hear her and, given the situation, isn’t likely to smell her.
He never turns around as her koummya goes around his throat. She draws it back hard, needing it to slice straight through his voice box to silence any cry. He does not cry out. He twists and falls on his back. His throat is a grisly red smile.
They reach the far side of the road unobserved, then creep in a water-filled ditch alongside the road. From here they see more vehicles, all with engines running, with tank commanders sitting tall in their hatches.
They are just waiting for the artillery barrage to stop before giving the command to attack. Just above them, so close they can smell its exhaust, is the first Jagdpanzer. Behind it a standard Panzer Mark IV. If they take out one or both they will block the bridge and at least delay the attack. With enough delay the artillery-plastered American defenders may have time to stiffen their lines.
“All right, Mazur,” Rio says.
“I’m going to put some WP on that Jagdpanzer first. Then a HEAT round on that second panzer. Might get in a third round, depending. Then we skedaddle.”
“Is that American for run like hell?” Jack asks.
Rio has her Thompson again. Jack acts as loader for the bazooka. Mazur shoulders the long steel tube, and Jack slides a rocket into the tube.
“Watch the backfire, Tommy,” Mazur says to Jack.
Careful aim. They are side-on to the Jagdpanzer.
Whoosh!
BAM!
The round hits squarely on the side armor of the tank. It makes a small explosion, just enough to expose the white phosphorus to oxygen. The tank’s commander immediately yells orders as dense white smoke billows around him. The order is apparently to button up because the commander drops down into his vehicle and pulls the hatch after him.
Jack has already reloaded, and Mazur now aims at the Panzer Mark IV. It’s at an angle to them. The rocket flies, hits, and bounces away to explode in the trees beyond.
They hear shouted orders in German, and Rio knows what they will be: infantry is being ordered forward to protect the precious tanks.
“Try again!” Rio says.
Jack and Mazur reload. Aim. The sound of hobnail boots running, underbrush crashing and . . .
Whoosh!
BOOM!
