Six

hill. Sergeant Mullroy lowered himself to the ground and rested against an old gnarled chestnut tree, nursing his leg as the wound threatened to reopen. The radio crackled as Johnson contacted HQ to report the successful completion of their mission.

Mullroy knew this would be his final mission. They were lucky to have survived this long, this deep in enemy territory. Nazi patrols came close to uncovering their position too many times; God was watching over them, but Mullroy doubted even He could protect them much longer this far across enemy lines. Berlin was a day’s walk from where they sat, and Hitler still commanded the might of the Third Reich.

His squad had indeed completed their mission, but it was only a single piece in a much larger puzzle. Thomas was dead, Riccards limped along with shrapnel in his chest, and Becker never returned from his reconnaissance. What remained of his command would get them back across the battlefields and to their rendezvous with the British on the Channel, but could accomplish little else. He would have to be content with that.

Something nagged at him, however. While they had, indeed, succeeded in destroying the munitions factory and ammo dump, there was still the matter of the secret Nazi lab. Mullroy had been briefed of its existence, but told little else. He alone in the squad knew it was a target of opportunity, one to be sought if at all possible. He paled at the thought of moving even deeper into Germany. His body ached to be back in Brooklyn with his wife by his side and a hot meal on the table. Too many nights had passed seeking shelter from the rain; too many days had passed hiding from German troops.

A bomber and fighter escort droned by overhead, no doubt heading for a raid on some defenseless British town. Mullroy pictures families deserting their supper tables at the sound of the air raid sirens, diving for desperate cover in homemade shelters. It angered him. It solidified his resolve. It brought him to a fateful decision.

“Men,” he said, pulling himself up to a standing position. “Do you trust me?” To a man they answered, “Yes!” “Then I have no choice but to tell you our work here ain’t done.” His men looked confused; confused and exhausted. “We got one more target to hit, and I have a feelin’ it’s gonna be the toughest of all.” He looked each of them in the eye as he spoke. “We could go home right now, but if we do, then Jerry is gonna be knockin’ on our doors next. One last job…that’s my promise to you. Then I’ll get you all home.”

They looked at him, at each other, and then Johnson answered, “Let’s kick some Nazi ass, Sarge.”

These were his men, and he knew they would walk through fire if he asked it of them. And he just might have to.

Read the conclusion of the story in volume 3, “Assault on Stalag 12”