Kriecher?' he rapped. 'Come on, man, for Christ's sake, speak up!'
The Creeper's eyes were wild with fear behind the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses.
`Come on, Lieutenant Kriecher,' von Dodenburg thundered, beside himself with rage. 'Get the lead out of your fat arse!'
`But you can't make me ... me fight,' the Creeper found his voice at last. 'I'm not a fighting soldier.'
`Well in Heaven's name, what the hell are you then?'
Von Dodenburg never got an answer to his question.
`Look out sir,' the operator screamed suddenly. 'A grenade ?
A round metallic ball had tumbled to the ground just inside the entrance to the command post. Von Dodenburg reacted instinctively, his body electric with fear. Grabbing the helmet off the table, he flung himself forward, thrust it over the grenade and pressed down hard with all his weight.
A second later the grenade exploded. With a kick like that of a mule, the impact struck him in the chest. His whole body was lifted up from the ground. The air was full of the smell of burning. As he came down again and the shattered helmet rolled from beneath him, he saw what it was - the camouflage paint, melted by the hot blast.
`Are you all right, sir,' the operator yelled, pulling him to his feet.
Von Dodenburg swayed groggily and looked down at his chest. The whole front of his tunic was black and singed. `I think so,' he said weakly.
Then he shook his ringing head. There wasn't a moment to lose. The Amis would come bursting in in a moment, spraying the CP with machine-pistol fire.
‘ Give me the Schmeisser,' he ordered, his voice sounding faint and far away. 'And stand by!'
In the very same instant that the man who had thrown the grenade pulled back the tarpaulin, von Dodenburg fired a wild burst from the hip. The clatter of the slugs was ear-splitting in the confined space. The big Ami screamed with agony and came tumbling down the crude steps to sprawl dead in front of von Dodenburg. Hastily he kicked him over to make sure. He was. The bottom half of his face had been shot away.
‘ Come on,' he yelled, recovering himself now, 'let's get the hell out of here. It's sheer suicide to stay!'
Now even the Creeper needed no urging. He grabbed the machine-pistol from the floor and followed the other two up the stairs.
Outside the snow storm still raged. Here and there, little groups of shadowily outlined men swayed back and forth in mortal combat but the Amis were already pulling back. Everywhere their officers were blowing shrill blasts on their whistles and shouting orders. A Negro sat up suddenly just in front of them, moaning piteously, his arm shot away, blood pouring through fingers clasped to the stump. Von Dodenburg shot him without even realizing he was doing so.
They pushed on. Before them in the white mist, he could hear the confused orders and counter-orders of the retreating Amis. They were definitely withdrawing. Hastily he pulled out his signal pistol and fired a red marker flare into the sky.
`Rally on me, Wotan!' he bellowed above the vicious snap-and-crackle of small-arms fire. 'On me , Wotan - now ! '
Grenadiers came scurrying out of the snow on all sides, firing wildly from the hip as they came.
`Form a skirmish line,' he yelled, 'and stop that bloody indiscriminate firing, will you!'
The firing petered away as the men took up their positions.
`I'll take the right, Kriecher - you the left!'
This time the officer did not protest. He took his position up as ordered and when von Dodenburg blew a shrill blast to advance, he ran forward obediently with the rest.
Here and there small groups of the Americans fought to the end. But the men of Wotan knew they were winning now; they had the Amis on the run. They charged forward, ignoring the slugs which hissed by them. Men crumpled violently, but in their rage they did not seem to notice their casualties. A big black sergeant, face streaked with blood, tried to cover the withdrawal with a Thompson sub-machine-gun. A
The Creeper's eyes were wild with fear behind the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses.
`Come on, Lieutenant Kriecher,' von Dodenburg thundered, beside himself with rage. 'Get the lead out of your fat arse!'
`But you can't make me ... me fight,' the Creeper found his voice at last. 'I'm not a fighting soldier.'
`Well in Heaven's name, what the hell are you then?'
Von Dodenburg never got an answer to his question.
`Look out sir,' the operator screamed suddenly. 'A grenade ?
A round metallic ball had tumbled to the ground just inside the entrance to the command post. Von Dodenburg reacted instinctively, his body electric with fear. Grabbing the helmet off the table, he flung himself forward, thrust it over the grenade and pressed down hard with all his weight.
A second later the grenade exploded. With a kick like that of a mule, the impact struck him in the chest. His whole body was lifted up from the ground. The air was full of the smell of burning. As he came down again and the shattered helmet rolled from beneath him, he saw what it was - the camouflage paint, melted by the hot blast.
`Are you all right, sir,' the operator yelled, pulling him to his feet.
Von Dodenburg swayed groggily and looked down at his chest. The whole front of his tunic was black and singed. `I think so,' he said weakly.
Then he shook his ringing head. There wasn't a moment to lose. The Amis would come bursting in in a moment, spraying the CP with machine-pistol fire.
‘ Give me the Schmeisser,' he ordered, his voice sounding faint and far away. 'And stand by!'
In the very same instant that the man who had thrown the grenade pulled back the tarpaulin, von Dodenburg fired a wild burst from the hip. The clatter of the slugs was ear-splitting in the confined space. The big Ami screamed with agony and came tumbling down the crude steps to sprawl dead in front of von Dodenburg. Hastily he kicked him over to make sure. He was. The bottom half of his face had been shot away.
‘ Come on,' he yelled, recovering himself now, 'let's get the hell out of here. It's sheer suicide to stay!'
Now even the Creeper needed no urging. He grabbed the machine-pistol from the floor and followed the other two up the stairs.
Outside the snow storm still raged. Here and there, little groups of shadowily outlined men swayed back and forth in mortal combat but the Amis were already pulling back. Everywhere their officers were blowing shrill blasts on their whistles and shouting orders. A Negro sat up suddenly just in front of them, moaning piteously, his arm shot away, blood pouring through fingers clasped to the stump. Von Dodenburg shot him without even realizing he was doing so.
They pushed on. Before them in the white mist, he could hear the confused orders and counter-orders of the retreating Amis. They were definitely withdrawing. Hastily he pulled out his signal pistol and fired a red marker flare into the sky.
`Rally on me, Wotan!' he bellowed above the vicious snap-and-crackle of small-arms fire. 'On me , Wotan - now ! '
Grenadiers came scurrying out of the snow on all sides, firing wildly from the hip as they came.
`Form a skirmish line,' he yelled, 'and stop that bloody indiscriminate firing, will you!'
The firing petered away as the men took up their positions.
`I'll take the right, Kriecher - you the left!'
This time the officer did not protest. He took his position up as ordered and when von Dodenburg blew a shrill blast to advance, he ran forward obediently with the rest.
Here and there small groups of the Americans fought to the end. But the men of Wotan knew they were winning now; they had the Amis on the run. They charged forward, ignoring the slugs which hissed by them. Men crumpled violently, but in their rage they did not seem to notice their casualties. A big black sergeant, face streaked with blood, tried to cover the withdrawal with a Thompson sub-machine-gun. A
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