Juggernaut
By Lee Strong
Aboard the Luftschiff [Airship] Lucia Maria “Lucie”,
Over Paris,
Unoccupied
Godlike, Hauptmann
Erwin Rommel looked down as the wrath of the aroused German Empire descended
on the besieged capital of
The radio never ceased its reports. Telegraph keys chattered Morse code without pause. As the reports streamed in, young officers moved markers across the maps on the table and the walls of the Zeppelin airship’s cramped operations center. Beyond the cloth walls of the airship pushing boldly through the night sky, the very real vengeance those markers represented was punishing the arrogant French brutally.
Four months
previously, the Americans had kidnapped
Two waves of
the most skillful airplane pilots in the Empire had already savaged every
aerodrome and antiaircraft site in and around
And beyond the
beleaguered capital even greater movements were underway.
The Navy was sallying out to avenge
“Captain Rommel,” a young Naval officer interrupted the commando leader’s thoughts. “We are approaching your drop point over Target Raymond and are descending to drop altitude. Group A is turning to attack Target Albert. Kapitanleutnant Zuppner recommends that you prepare yourself.” His finger indicated the Lucie’s position on the charts, apparently centimeters away from its ultimate target, as were her sisters Beatrix and Dora. The bombers, Ermengarde and Freya, were already above the target, hammering its perimeter into rubble. The gunship Sigrid brought up the rear. Operation Juggernaut was unfolding as planned.
“Very good, Bootsmann Dorf. My compliments to Fregatenkapitan Strasser, Captain Zuppner and Bootsmann Hines. Very precise navigation. My men and I will be ready. Hauptfeldwebel, come with me.” He jerked his head towards the narrow passageway to the drop compartment behind the operations center.
Sergeant Major Thoma followed Rommel through the passageway. “These Navy boys seem to know their job, sir. Still, seems odd to be dropping from a Navy airship.”
Rommel sniffed. “The Army gave up its airships in June. After the Berlin Raid, the General Staff decided that prospectors were the future of land warfare, not airships.”
“Rather be riding a mole than this gasbag. Still, can’t wait until the engineers get some built.”
“Quiet right, Sergeant Major.” Rommel entered the confined drop compartment. The rush of cold air outside the compartment shook the cloth walls. In its dimly lit confines 18 Army Strosstruppen stood waiting quietly on a narrow catwalk along with 2 Navy men. Military airships normally carried 18-22 sailors plus bombs, machine guns and ammunition. Tonight, the bombs, guns and gunners were gone, stripped out to provide lift capacity for the storm troopers and their special equipment.
Beside each commando was a closed hatch, with a massive coil of heavy rope piled atop it. The senior Army storm trooper, Obergefreite [Corporal] Beyerling, saluted on behalf of the formation. Rommel returned the salute smartly.
Thoma and Rommel took their places. Army hands swiftly strapped blackened equipment over their two tone grey uniforms and checked the results carefully. Juggernaut had a margin for error built into it but audacity and shock were the commandos’ real weapons.
One Navy man was listening to a telephone connected to Lucie’s bridge. He waved his hands to attract the attention of any storm troopers not paying attention, held up his thumb, and shouted “Dropping grapples. Brace for shock.” Commandos and Navy men tightened their fists on handholds.
Thumping sounds echoed through the duraluminum girders of the airship’s structure. The giant vessel bucked as its streamlining changed. Chunking sounds came from somewhere below them. The mountaineers among the commandos – including Rommel – recognized it as titanic metal claws slamming into rock. The airship shook and tilted like a toy in a frost giant’s grasp. Deceleration took hold as Lucie slowed, delicate as a debutante at her first dance. The test airship Clotilda ripped in two at this point; I must recommend Hines for a medal, thought Rommel.
The Navy controller shouted, “Cutting forward grapples! Entering drop position!” Both Navy men transferred one hand to large levers in front of them and the two rows of waiting storm troopers.
Seconds – or eternities – later, the controller waved his free hand again and shouted, “Dropping ropes! Gott mit uns!” The Navy men threw their backs into their respective levers.
Hatches sprang
open, dropping the coils of rope downward. Blasts
of air assaulted the men in the drop compartment but everyone present had
practiced this maneuver a dozen times before.
Behind the airship, Rommel caught sight of the blasted front entrance of
the
The rear
grappling hooks were snagged – as planned – in the ruined façade, slowing Lucie
to a halt over Target Raymond. Rommel
looked down as the falling ropes slammed onto the roof of the Salle
des fêtes, the great ceremonial festival hall of the
Rommel leaped outward, into the air over the target.
He repelled
swiftly down the rope, fast-roping to control his descent.
His boots were the first to touch down in as yet unconquered
Seconds behind him came crunching sounds as Thoma and the other storm troopers followed him to the graveled roof. Above them, the Lucie swayed to a halt, directly above the Salle. More grappling ropes dropped from her nose to clasp the south end of the hall and hold the assault airship in place.
To the east, Rommel could see the Beatrix swooping into position over the gardens south of the hall. He turned and saw the Dora close behind her sisters, aiming for the east wing of the Palace.
Sixty men to rip the heart out of the French nation! Sixty German warriors! thought Rommel.
There was a scream behind him. He whirled around. A man was down. Leg probably broken in the repel. Too bad. Juggernaut was on a precise timetable. They would pick him up later. If they had time. Fifty-nine German warriors…!
“Go!
Go! Go!” barked Rommel as
he discarded his rope and unslung his MP18 Schmeisser submachine gun with its 32
round “snail” magazine. In
a man-to-man fight, the winner is he who has one more round in his magazine.
The section of 20 storm troopers split into 4 teams according to plan. Sergeant Major Thoma led one team to a small roof building that covered a stairwell into the Salle. A second team unloaded heavy equipment, mostly clamps and chains, and began laying it out across the roof. Corporal Beyerling led a third team – grenadiers and engineers – to enter through the main building. And a fourth team followed Rommel as he ran to the south edge of the roof.
More French cuirassiers had guarded this side of the Salle but their attention had been attracted by the Beatrix hovering over the garden and the men of Section B dropping into it. They were firing at the other Germans when Rommel’s men gunned them down.
Rommel’s team shouted the recognition signal – “Juggernaut!” – to the approaching Section B men and dropped to the ground. The south wall of the Salle was pierced by formal windows and a wide door. The five men quickly arranged themselves and burst in, one per window and three smashing in through the French doors. The Section B men would enter on their heels.
As the Germans
forced their way into the Salle, they had a quick impression of a grand formal
dinner, reduced to screaming chaos by the bombing and sudden appearance of
commandos in the heart of
Rommel fired a burst into the elaborately decorated ceiling and shouted for silence.
Storm Trooper Vollmer collapsed silently beside him, a heavy knife hilt protruding below his right ear. Vollmer lay beside Trooper Stocker, already on the floor, the latter’s head a red ruin.
Rommel jerked his attention back to the roomful of enemies in time to see a gorilla in a brown American uniform step up to him, seize the Schmeisser in one hand and deliver a bone shaking uppercut with the other. Star studded blackness exploded in Rommel’s skull. He joined Vollmer and Stocker on the floor.
Rommel choked his way back to consciousness, his lungs heaving to clear some noxious chemical from his nose. He awoke to see Leutnant Doktor Ehlert putting a bottle of smelling salts away. Satisfied that his patient would live, the doctor stepped back.
Another lieutenant, this one his second in command, Roland Jagow, hove into view. “Sir, are you well? Are you able to continue the mission?”
Rommel shook his head to clear it and affirmed, “Ja, I am. What happened?”
Ehlert helped his superior to stand. They were still at the south end of the great hall. But Jagow and the reinforcements from the Beatrix and the Dora had imposed order on the unruly crowd. The women were seated on the floor on the right side of the hall while most of the Allied men were seated on the left side. A group of four men stood close at hand. Their hands were cuffed in front of them. Teams of Germans controlled the perimeter of the room and the various entrances including the stairwell to the roof. Thoma was stalking around the room, keeping an eye on everything at once. And, near the stairwell, Storm Trooper Hans-Dietrich Joll waited, maniac grin on his face, flamethrower ready in his hands.
Jagow pointed to an American colonel lying on the floor, dead to the world but heavily bound anyway. Beyerling and three troopers stood guard over him.
“Sir, allow me to present Colonel Wilhelm Byrne. The Wrecker of Berlin,” he clarified unnecessarily. “We subdued him while he was killing your team.”
Rommel’s eyes jerked to the American’s powerful form for the second time this evening. He cursed, first in astonishment and then in delight. “What a catch!” he exclaimed. “He’s worth more than a dozen generals.”
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Jagow. “I recommend that we take him up with the first batch.”
“A very good idea,” confirmed Rommel, still gazing at the unconscious form. He shook his head again. “Who else do we have for the first batch?”
“Sir.” Jagow directed his superior’s attention to the group of 4 Allies standing nearby. “Allow me to present Raymond Poincaré, President of France; Paul Painlevé, Prime Minister of France; Georges Clemenceau, Senator; and General John Joseph Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Force.” Two storm troopers guarded the executive party. Pershing was impassive; the Frenchmen looked at Rommel as if they had found half a worm in an apple they had bitten into. Clemenceau looked as though he wished to maul the entire German army to death personally.
Rommel collected himself and switched to French.
“Well, gentlemen, you are now prisoners of the German Empire.
You are going to be taken to
Pershing spoke up in formal French. “Captain, I must protest on behalf of these gentlemen. They are civilians and should not be the targets of military actions.” Rommel had to admire the man’s composure and bearing. Still….
“I must disagree, general. They are the leaders of a nation that declared war on the German Empire. As such, they are legitimate targets for capture. After all, your Colonel Byrne captured our leadership; why should we not capture yours?” He gestured with his head towards the man on the floor and smiled with wry humor.
Pershing replied stiffly, “Your Kaiser and Crown Prince are military officers as well as political leaders. They were in uniform performing duties as Supreme Warlord and Inspector General when Colonel Byrne captured them. He allowed their unarmed servants to escape. These gentlemen are civilians and you should allow them to leave.”
Rommel reminded himself of Juggernaut’s tight timetable and dismissed
the argument. “I will allow my
Prince Regent to sort out the niceties later.
You can make your case to him – in
As the second in command began his answer, Beyerling gestured to the guards. Two storm troopers picked up Byrne’s heavy body and the group of prisoners and guards began moving past the other Allied male prisoners towards the stairwell. Joll made way for them to ascend to the roof.
Byrne Byrne’s powerful body crashed into a graveled surface. A groan escaped his lips before he could stop himself. This jig is up; might as well get up, he thought.
Further thoughts were interrupted by a German shout including the phrase arbeit mach frei. He stirred, the very picture of a man without a care in the world rudely awakened from a deep and restful sleep.
He was on the roof of the Salle des fêtes. There was a German zeppelin hanging about 50 feet overhead. He could see two more zeps low over Ely’s Palace, one nearby over the garden, and the other further away over the far wing of the Palace. The one overhead was anchored to a chain stretched across the roof and secured to clamps on the east and west sides of the building. Someone had converted the roof into a temporary landing pad.
The night sky was riven with the noises of war, some airborne, some on
the ground. To the south, a fourth
zep cruised over the Champs-Ely’s Avenoo and the big park there.
He could hear machine guns roaring as streams of tracers savaged the
ground. Rifle shots and occasional
heavier weapons fired back unsuccessfully. Closer
at hand, fires devoured historic buildings with gusto.
The funny sounding European fire and police alarms came and went, along
with more rifle fire. Tracers
zipped from rooftops around the Palace down into the streets.
His line of sight over the roof edge was bad but he could just see a fire
truck taking a hit and crashing into a building.
Whoever was shooting from the rooftops wasn’t friendly.
Maybe the French “paranoia”
about spies and traitors wasn’t so far fetched after all.
General Pershing and the three biggest French big shots shared the roof with him. More importantly, nine Germans shared the roof with him. Eight if you discounted the guy lying unconscious with one pants leg cut away and a heavy splint added. Four Germans were obviously lookouts, watching to the four cardinal directions. The other four were guarding the prisoners. One of them was shouting at him and gesturing with his submachine gun.
Pershing interpreted. “Byrne, the Kraut wants you to do some manual labor for them. He says you’re big enough to pull your own weight.”
“Sure thing,” snapped Byrne. “As soon as he takes off the bracelets and ankle warmers.” He held out his cuffed hands.
Pershing looked at Byrne oddly but translated his agreement to the German. The latter gave a snort of laughter and shouldered his submachine gun. He unlocked Byrne’s handcuffs and leg shackles. By gestures and shouting, he caused Byrne to stand next to a particular rope running up into the hovering zep. Byrne complied meekly. Satisfied, the guard shouted something to Corporal Beyerling.
The corporal began forcing the Allied prisoners onto a wooden platform where he gestured from them to lie down. While he was arranging the prisoners, Byrne traced the scheme by eye. His rope connected to a pulley in the lighted interior of the zep that was connected to the prisoners’ platform. A German in a dark blue uniform looked down at the rooftop. The Germans planned to hoist the big shots into the zep with himself providing at least some of the work! That clearly wasn’t in the original plan but never understand the creativity of someone trying to dodge work!
The creative guard alternated between watching Byrne and the other Allied
prisoners. Byrne stood quietly; the
Allied big shots were understandably argumentative.
Clemenceau’s objections were especially entertaining.
When his gesticulations reached a particular crescendo, the inner circle
of guards swung their weapons to cover the so-called Tiger of
Byrne shook his arm in a certain way and a derringer popped into his hand. The creative guard went to that place in the Infernal Regions reserved for lazy people.
As he died, Byrne appropriated his weapons. In the darkness and general uproar, no one seemed to notice the shot. Nine shots from the guard’s back up Lugar Pistol ’08 eliminated Beyerling and the prisoners’ guards. Pershing and the French leaders dived for cover as Byrne’s bullets creased their hair.
More bullets slammed into the roof gravel around him. The German overhead was firing a pistol at him. Byrne emptied his appropriated Schmeisser upward. The would be sniper jerked and spun into space. His body smashed into the roof, blood splattering over the Frenchmen rising from the limited cover of the roof. Pershing was low crawling towards Byrne.
The gunfire and the body’s impact alerted the sentries. Faces turned towards Byrne and the prisoners. Out of bullets, he crouched and jumped backwards, deliberately crashing into the western lookout. He whipped around and clubbed the shaken commando with his appropriated Schmeisser. The German helmet saved its owner’s skull for better things. Bullets whipped past. The other lookouts were getting frisky.
Byrne dropped the broken gun and seized the storm trooper by throat and belt. He turned around, presenting the commando’s back to his fellows. A hail of German bullets shredded their colleague’s body. Someone screamed an order “Halt!” Byrne ignored it.
The American yanked a grenade off his shield’s belt. These fellows seemed to be loaded for a forest full of bears and a circus full of lions. He pulled the pin with his teeth and hurled the first one at the nearest active enemy. They had paused to assess the situation. Byrne didn’t allow them time for analysis. More grenades followed until all of the enemy gunners were dead.
“Vas is los?” came a shout from the stairwell.
Byrne turned again, his shield still before him. Another German soldier was poking his head out of the stairwell, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene. He crouched low, using the small building to protect himself from possible enemies. Behind him were several big shots in handcuffs. Their variously colored clothes and decorations contrasted with the German grey uniforms.
The new German peered through the darkness and uncertain lighting. His eyes fell upon what appeared to be a comrade standing near the western parapet with an American officer lying before him. He demanded a battle report from his fellow commando.
Instead of reporting, the commando leaped into the air like some Martian plant man teleported to Earth and came crashing down on the newcomer’s head. Before the latter could untangle himself, the American who had thrown the German’s body like a shot put was on him as well. The newcomer was suddenly flying over the nearby parapet into the Avenue du Marigny below.
A trained and prepared man can almost always survive a one story fall by flexing his legs, landing on his feet and rolling to absorb the shock safely. Arms flailing in surprise, the flying commando landed on his face.
“Mein Gott!” gasped the next figure in the stairwell. Byrne spun around, hands clamping down on the figure’s arms. He lifted….
… and dropped the man onto the roof as lightly as he could. The German speaking figure wore the green uniform of the Luthanian ambassador rather than commando grey. The ambassador hit the roof and rolled. Byrne recalled that his name was German, too – Freidrich von der Tann – but the pint sized Balkan principality was an Ally despite their language. Byrne understood that they were giving the Austrians fits.
The next 4 men were various national generals being honored for their contributions to the Allied cause. Byrne encouraged their escape to whatever safety the roof offered with physical help and vivid language. The guard behind them got a face full of lead from the commander of the First US Army, still in handcuffs but able to wield another appropriated Schmeisser. When more Germans entered the lower stairwell, Byrne cleared them out with another volley of grenades.
After that, things were quiet for a while.
Von der Tann appropriated some commando’s pistol and began smashing handcuffs. He then directed the various prisoners to stand guard at the four corners of the roof. Clemenceau entertained himself by shooting holes in the zeppelins hovering over the garden and east wing of the palace with an appropriated K.98 carbine.
Pershing spoke quietly, “Byrne, where did you get the derringer that you used on that guard?” He pointed towards the body of the lazy guard. “I saw you use your derringer on the first Kraut through the window and they searched your body when you were unconscious.”
Byrne snorted derisively. “I had two derringers up my sleeve. No one looks for a second holdout once they’ve found one.”
“And why the hell did you bring guns and knives to a state dinner? They must have found four or five knives on you.”
“The invite said there might be a card game later.
In
Pershing wasn’t sure if his subordinate was joking or not. He’d heard things about Byrne’s childhood. Further inquiries were interrupted by gunfire and grenade blasts from the eastern side of the roof.
“Report!” barked Pershing.
A British voice replied. “Several Germans attempted to break out of the building and reach the airship above the lawn. They’re dead now, sir.”
“Good job,” assessed Pershing. “That might be a feint so ….”
Thunder erupted from the main building, cutting off the commander’s analysis. Stones flew, crashing down on the roof. One of them caught an Italian general standing too close to the blast. He smashed backward into a parapet and hung there unmoving. Smoke poured from a new hole where the Salle roof joined the main building. Gunfire began popping from the upper windows of the Palace. A Belgian officer collapsed as his legs were cut out from under him.
Germans climbed out of the hole, advancing cautiously but steadily
through the rubble littering the roof. They
fired carbines and Schmeissers as they moved.
There seemed to be a lot of Germans visiting
French Field Marshal Foch ran forward. He threw one grenade as he charged and reached into an appropriated “potato sack” for another. German bullets cut him down. The first grenade went off. Two commandos were thrown to the ground. One got up.
The American, British, and Luthanian soldiers and the French politicians fired into the German advance. Byrne heard noises coming up the stairwell and dropped his last grenades down the trap. The Briton apparently heard something as well. He stood up and began firing over the eastern parapet at someone or something in the garden below. A hail of bullets from the snipers in the main Palace smashed into him. He slumped to the roof. Clemenceau took his place.
Von der Tann, Poincaré and Painlevé were holding the center of the roof where the lifting platform lay. They had contrived a rudimentary barricade out of the platform, ropes and chain providing themselves with some protection. Not enough, through. Painlevé suddenly spasmed and fell silent. Von der Tann rolled over as bullets plunked into the roof beside him. He fired upward twice and the rain of lead ceased. Two more Navy men fell out of the open hatch and crashed to the roof inches away. The Luthanian added their bodies to the barricade and resumed firing.
The advance slowed but didn’t stop. Both sides were low on men and ammunition. The situation was a soldier’s nightmare.
Byrne peered cautiously around the side of the small stairwell cover.
There was some sort of fire in the main building behind the advancing
Germans. He smiled grimly.
No wonder they wanted out so badly!
The fire advanced out of the hole onto the Salle roof.
Whoops!
That was no fire!
“Flamethrower!” bellowed Pershing. He rolled, ducking behind the cover of the stairwell cover as the devil’s tongue licked the space where he had been. The clothing of corpses littering the roof behind him caught fire. The brilliant tongue twitched and splashed across the stairwell cover. The small building started burning.
Pershing rolled in the opposite direction, under the fiery jet, out onto the roof. He came to his knees, carbine barking. Two bullets screamed towards Trooper Joll, narrowly missing him. The third time’s the charm!
The carbine clicked empty.
Pershing triggered the gun again and again but no more bullets magically appeared.
Joll grinned maniacally. He relaxed the trigger, choking off the fuel to his portable dragon. The devil’s tongue collapsed with the stairwell cover building burning brightly. Almost casually, Joll swung his weapon directly towards Pershing who was rising to his feet. The pyromaniac savored the moment.
The American commander threw the useless gun down and looked his executioner squarely in the eye. He was vaguely aware that Poincaré and von der Tann were frantically working their guns. They were dry as well.
Joll aimed and fired. The devil’s tongue licked out…
…. into the air over Pershing’s head as Byrne’s flying body crashed down on the German’s gun arm, forcing the flamethrower’s infernal mouth to pivot upwards.
Joll screamed as he was smashed to the roof, bones breaking under the impact of the burly American’s weight. Byrne’s haymaker put him out of his misery.
Byrne stood up. The rooftop was quiet.
Pershing was the first to speak. “My God, Byrne. That was insane....” He coughed. “Inspired. That was inspired! But how did you do that?”
Byrne wasn’t looking at his superior. “Sir. I was guarding the stairwell when Mrs. O’Leary’s Cowboy here joined the party. When he lit the little building off, I climbed up the parapet and then onto the little roof. I guess he couldn’t see me because he was looking into his own fire. When he aimed at you, I jumped on his a… arm. Sir.”
Pershing started to say something about the Medal of Honor. Byrne ignored him and picked up the flamethrower. He looked it over. The controls were simple enough.
He pointed the infernal machine at the zeppelin hovering overhead, attached to the temporary airship landing pad by hempen ropes. The devil’s tongue licked out, filling the open hatch. Byrne played his new toy across the ropes and the underside of the cloth covered craft. The flames lit the night….
… and illuminated the Allied targets on the roof for the snipers in the main building. Gunfire erupted again.
Byrne ran forward, stopping at the eastern parapet of the Salle roof.
The fiery jet played across the shattered windows of the
The ropes holding the Lucie to the roof of the Salle parted. The burning airship drifted southward in the evening breeze. The Allies on the roof could hear some shouting coming from the craft. The undermanned crew had only now realized that something was dreadfully wrong. Perhaps they would escape to fly another day.
Byrne tried to toast the second airship as well but the flamethrower ran dry.
The little party of surviving Allies – two Frenchmen, two Americans and one Luthanian – assembled near the stairwell. The covering building had burned to the graveled roof but the stairs themselves were clear. Pershing suggested he descend first.
Behind them, a voice cleared its throat. “Congratulations, gentlemen. You have defeated a large number of Germans tonight.”
They whirled around. Erwin Rommel stood facing them, Schmeisser in one hand and Lugar in the other.
“However, as you can see, you have not defeated the German Empire.”
Byrne leaped for the German officer….
Rommel’s pistol barked. He sidestepped. Byrne crashed onto the gravel yet again, right shoulder smashed and right arm half paralyzed.
Rommel sighed. “I expected
that. Colonel Byrne, you are indeed
a dangerous man. However, you are
not bulletproof. Now, get up and
follow my orders. As long as I have
the guns,
Von der Tann glared at Rommel. “And where have you been hiding?”
Rommel gave a self depreciating shrug. “In a manner of speaking, I have been ‘hiding’ in plain sight. Field Marshal Foch’s grenade stunned me as I led my men in the last attack and it required some time to recover. However, now that I have, the fight goes on. Be so good as to descend the stairs, gentlemen, or the next shot will be fatal.”
With sour faces, the Allied survivors descended the stairs into the Salle.
The great festival hall was largely intact. The Allied guests and waiters were still threatened by a tiny knot of German walking wounded. Some women were assisting the doctor as he labored to save the more grievously injured lying on the floor.
“Doctor Ehlert, report,” ordered Rommel.
The doctor spoke as he worked. “Sir, we have 5 wounded personnel present plus yourself and myself. Lieutenant Jagow is dead leading the attempt to break out to the Beatrix. Sergeant Major Thoma is somewhere in the Palace leading the snipers. All 3 airships are out of communication.” He paused to sigh deeply. “Sir, I respectively submit that Operation Juggernaut has failed. We must…”
Rommel reddened. “Never!”
he barked. “We have hostages
including the French President and American commander!
We have an extraordinary opportunity to negotiate safe conduct for
ourselves and our hostages to the
Swiss border and then to
“Sir, your fighting spirit does you great credit but….” began the doctor.
“Hauptmann Rommel. I volunteer to be a hostage,” interrupted a female voice. Her German was quite good.
Rommel looked up to see a strikingly handsome woman standing beside Ehlert. She had been helping the doctor treat his patients. The bottom of her once elegant dinner gown was soaked in blood. Her hands were full of makeshift bandages.
“Very good, Madame. And your name is?”
“Barbara Harding Byrne.”
There was a pregnant pause. Rommel’s eyes widened and he spun around to stare at Billy Byrne once again. The latter nodded simply.
A sharp pain announced the insertion of a steak knife into Rommel’s short ribs. Stumbling with pain, he turned, chivalry forgotten, Lugar swinging into position to crater Barbara Byrne’s head…. Two feminine fists hammered his throat, cutting off his air supply. Billy Byrne’s haymaker put him out of his misery.
Dr. Ehlert was stunned but not too stunned to save lives. He shouted a surrender in German and French. After a long moment, the other storm troopers dropped their weapons. Allied hands snatched them up.
The doctor dropped to the floor and began working on Rommel. With luck, the battered German commander would survive.
Still speaking in French, Ehlert muttered, “Well, that is the first time that I have seen a princess rescue a prince.”
The Byrnes smiled in unison. Billy said, “It was her turn to rescue me.”
~ The End ~