It was night in Metz, and the artillery barrage continued. It was raining again, and the air was thick with smoke. A faint glow could be seen above the rooftops as portions of the city burned.
At eleven o’clock, Lieutenant Franz Stahmer left the central railroad yards at the head of two platoons of engineers. They all wore raincoats and steel helmets, and some of the engineers, who’d never seen Stahmer before, joked about how fat he was.
They made their way over the network of tracks, heading west toward the line that formerly carried trains to Paris. Much of the track in the yard had been destroyed by bombing, but Stahmer was able to work out a route whereby trains could leave the yard and go west. He and his engineers followed this route out of the yard toward the front lines.
Stahmer walked at the head of the engineers, carrying his note pad and pencil, kicking rails and crossties, making sure the tracks could carry trains. He hoped that the tracks were serviceable because if his plan worked and the defenders of Metz could defeat the Americans, he’d become a hero and probably be promoted to captain.
They came to a section where a bomb had destroyed a length of track, and Stahmer made a note of it. Work parties would come later to fix the track, using rails cannibalized from other lines. Farther on, they reached another section that had been slightly damaged, and Stahmer made his customary notation.
They passed through the center of Metz, which the Germans still held. Gradually, the sound of fighting came closer, and occasionally a shell would hurtle to earth like a comet, forcing them to drop onto their stomachs. They’d get to their feet after the shell exploded and continue along the tracks.
Slowly, they drew closer to the American lines. The sounds of fighting increased in intensity, and more bombs fell around them. Stahmer knew now that the track had not been damaged very badly. A few nights of work should be enough to make the line operational, and then they could launch their sneak attack. The Americans never would expect it. They’d be outflanked before they knew it.
Suddenly, Stahmer heard footsteps up ahead and stopped cold. His men heard the footsteps, too, and unslung their rifles. They all crouched, waiting to see whether their own soldiers or Americans were coming toward them; if they were Americans, they’d open fire.
Figures emerged out of the night wearing the black uniforms of the SS. Stahmer was relieved and stood up. “Hello there!” he said, noticing a blonde young woman among them.
“Hello!” said the leader of the SS men, a husky lieutenant. “Who goes there!”
“An engineering patrol,” replied Stahmer, “and you?”
“A death squad.”
“Death squad?” Stahmer asked as the SS men drew closer. “What’s a death squad?”
Lieutenant Shroder smiled as he approached. “We ambush and kill American soldiers. What are you doing out here?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Stahmer, because his railroad project was top secret.
“Nothing?” asked Shroder. “Well, carry on.”
The SS men and the blonde woman passed by on their way to the center of Metz. Stahmer watched them go, wondering what they used the woman for; then he turned around and resumed his task of inspecting the rail line.
~*~
The first platoon of Charlie Company slept soundly in the cellar of the church, surrounded by barrels of wine tilted on to their sides. They’d gorged themselves on the wine, and some had spilled it all over their clothes. Puddles of wine were on the floor, and the subterranean room stank terribly, but the men snored with smiles on their faces. They’d stacked barrels of wine against the door so that no one would disturb them because no one was fit to stand guard throughout the night.
Mahoney was the first to awake, and after rubbing his eyes and yawning, he checked his watch. It was six o’clock in the morning, and it occurred to him that Captain Anderson might be awfully worried about them. He might even have the first platoon listed as missing in action on the morning report, and then there’d be some explaining to do.
“All right, you scumbags!” he yelled. “On your feet!”
The men stirred and snarled. They yawned, and some of them stumbled into dark corners to take leaks.
“Let’s go!” Mahoney said. “We’ve got to report in!”
Cranepool stood up, his hands holding his head. “Oh my God, I don’t think I can make it.”
“You’ll make it—don’t worry.”
Riggs staggered about, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. “Ooohhhhhh.”
“Shaddup, you fucking asshole, and pick up that walkie-talkie.”
Mahoney finally got the men organized. They unstacked the barrels in front of the door and left the cellar, climbing into the church, which was beginning to smell rank because of the dead German bodies. Leaving the church through a side door, they saw the first glimmer of dawn on the horizon. It was a chilly morning, and they huddled inside their field jackets, wishing they had some water to drink as they followed Mahoney back to the front lines.
~*~
Patton strode into his conference room, his uniform neatly pressed and necktie positioned correctly between the points of his collar. His boots were freshly polished, and he slapped his riding crop against his leg.
“How’s the attack going?” he asked Colonel Maddox, who was standing next to the map table with a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Steady progress is being made on all fronts,” Maddox replied.
“What about Metz?”
“I have the latest positions marked on the map.”
Patton strode toward the map table and looked down. He could see that the Hammerhead Division had taken approximately 20 percent of the city in the first day of fighting.
“They’re not moving fast enough,” Patton said. “I’d better call Donovan and light a fire under his ass.”
“The Germans are putting up stiff resistance,” Maddox said.
“Then the Hammerheads will have to fight harder.”
Patton marched toward the communications center, holding out his hand. The sergeant in charge handed him a telephone.
“Get me General Donovan,” Patton said gruffly.
~*~
Colonel Anton Meier sat behind his desk in Gestapo headquarters in Metz, drinking a cup of coffee made out of real coffee beans. His desk was littered with communiqués from SS units in the front lines of the Metz battle, and they disheartened him. The Americans were making slow but steady progress. It would only be a matter of time before they captured the city. Meier would become a prisoner of the Americans in a few days if he didn’t flee the city, and he had no intention of fleeing the city because Himmler would have him shot if he did.
On the other hand, if the Americans took him prisoner, he would be in for a bad time. They’d find the torture chambers beneath the headquarters building and would be outraged by them. They’d also find mutilated corpses and maybe even some prisoners who’d managed to escape. The prisoners would tell horror stories about the activities of the SS in Metz under the command of Colonel Meier. They might put him before a firing squad right away or even turn him over to the French underground, which would be worse.
Meier lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. The only thing for him to do would be to die at his post in Metz. That prospect didn’t bother him particularly because it would be a hero’s death. They might even erect a statue to him someday in his home town of Bremen. He was a fanatical SS man, and for him there were things worse than death, such as disgrace or treachery. Moreover, he belonged to a special sect of SS officers who practiced occult rites and believed in reincarnation, so he thought that his death wouldn’t be an end at all but a new beginning.
His ace in the hole was the shipment of Zyklon B hidden in a basement room of Gestapo headquarters. Regardless of what General Neubacher had said, Meier fully intended to unleash the Zyklon B on the Americans when they got close enough to Gestapo headquarters. The Zyklon B was extremely deadly, and one good whiff of it could kill a man. It would kill everyone in the blocks surrounding Gestapo headquarters before it dissipated into the air. It might even kill everyone for miles around, and how wonderful that would be. Metz would become a vast cemetery, and in years to come it would be written that Colonel Meier of the SS had wiped out huge numbers of the Americans while sacrificing his life at the same time. The Fuehrer and Himmler would give speeches praising his name. There’d be parades and special ceremonies. City squares would be named after him. Songs would be composed about his heroic last stand.
Meier couldn’t sit still behind his desk, so excited was he by the prospects of glory after his death. He rose and paced the floor, the cup of coffee in his hand, sipping and thinking about future party rallies at Nuremburg, where the Fuehrer would praise his great sacrifice. How Meier had loved those big party rallies. He’d been to every one of them since 1928, when he’d joined the party.
The telephone on his desk buzzed, snapping him out of his reverie. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Shroder is here to see you, sir.”
“Send him right in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door opened, and Lieutenant Shroder marched into the office, wearing his black SS uniform and carrying his helmet underneath his arm. “Heil Hitler!” he cried.
“Heil Hitler!” Meier looked Shroder up and down, pleased by what he saw. Shroder also was a fanatical SS man and an idealist like himself. He was blond, had a square jaw, and surely was a pure Aryan of the very finest quality. He was leader of one of the special killer squads organized by Meier to ambush and kill American soldiers. “Have a seat, Shroder,” Meier said.
“I prefer to stand, sir!”
“But you deserve a rest after all the fine work I’m sure you’re doing.”
“No one should rest until this city is cleared of Americans,” Shroder replied.
“Quite,” agreed Meier. “Well, I’ll stand, too, then. What have you to report?”
“My squad has killed twenty-six American soldiers, sir.”
“Very good,” said Meier, puffing his cigarette. “And how many of your men have you lost?”
“Only three, sir.”
“An excellent ratio. Your girl is holding up well—what is her name?”
“Heidi, sir.”
“Yes, Heidi. How about her?”
“She’s doing very well, sir. The Americans cannot resist her.”
“I can understand why. She’s a lovely young thing. How fortunate you are to be able to spend so much time with her.”
Shroder blushed. “Yes, sir. We have returned to base because we need more ammunition. Then we shall go out into the city again.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wear civilian clothes instead of uniforms?” Meier asked. “Don’t you think you’re more conspicuous in your uniforms?”
“We are soldiers, sir, not terrorists. We prefer to wear our uniforms.”
“I can understand that,” Meier said. “I’d do the same myself if I were you.”