He dropped to all fours again as he approached them from the side. The troopers' fire would be directed at the vehicles, seeking the firing slots to suppress German fire, hut the halftracks' real vulnerability was the lack of a roof, which was why they'd backed away from the grenade launchers.

At ten yards from the nearest, Macurdy paused, drew a grenade, pulled its pin and lobbed it. It landed in the halftrack, flashed and roared. No one exited the back door, but from the offside, a man emerged from the cab. Macurdy, on all fours again, scrambled forward. The German, sheltered by the half-track, climbed onto the track's mud-fender to peer over the side. Sheltered himself now from American fire, Macurdy shot him point-blank in the back, then stepped to the open door, shot the driver, and slammed the door shut.

He dealt with the other half-track in much the same way, then dragged two dead Germans from the cab and clambered in.

Although the outlying feldgrau would have had their attention firmly elsewhere, some must have noticed the explosions in the rear of the half-tracks, and be feeling serious concern. Almost surely one or more were crawling toward him on elbows and knees, Mauser or Schmeisser in hand.

He started the engine. His own people would have seen the grenade flashes and know that something was going on. Hurriedly he opened his first-aid kit, drew out the white triangular bandage, tied it to the muzzle of his BAR, slid back out of the cab and waved his flag of truce above the engine hood. Almost at once the American fire decreased, and he yelled at the top of his lungs: "YEEE-HAAA! SAN ANTONE! HOLD YOUR FIRE! IT'S MACURDY, COMING IN!"

Then he scrambled back into the cab, German bullets striking the inside of the door as he pulled it shut. The German gearshift worked more smoothly than that in American half-tracks. He turned the vehicle toward the American line, while bullets banged the armor. Within a minute he had a trooper on the seat beside him and four in back, while others sprinted to take the other half-track, still others providing covering fire.

He put on the late driver's coalscuttle helmet, raised the cab's steel shutter to see and be seen, and started down the road to the bridge, which he crossed without being fired on. The Italian machine gunners were gone, dead or fled.

At the top of the slope were two low pillboxes, eighty yards apart on opposite sides of the road. Getting out, he spoke to the men in back. "Cover me," he said, then to assure the Italians, shouted in German: "Ich bin gleich wieder da, warte auf die Amerikaner! " and without activating his cloak, trotted toward a pillbox, depending on the German helmet to fool the Italians. One large hand concealed a grenade, its pin pulled. Almost at the pillbox, he released the charging lever, counted silently to three, and tossed it through a gunport, then dropped. The grenade exploded, and someone inside began screaming, so e tossed in another, then cloaked himself and ran toward the halftrack. From the other pillbox, a heavy machine gun began to hammer. A terrific blow on his right arm spun Macurdy around and dropped him.

He almost blacked out, then rolled onto his back, fumbling for his knife. Lefthandedly, and shaking from shock, he cut and tore his right sleeve off. The wound was massive, bleeding heavily, and gathering himself as best he could, he wove and willed its occlusion. At once the bleeding slowed, then stopped. He was aware that the other pillbox had stopped firing. Forcing himself to stand, he staggered toward the half-track. A trooper hopped out of the rear, rifle in hand, and Macurdy dropped his cloak. The trooper's head jerked toward him.

"Jesus, Barge! You startled me." Then his eyes widened. "You're hit!"

"You got that right," Macurdy said, and feeling his knees giving way, sat down on the ground.

The trooper knelt by him. "Oh shit! That's a bad one." Taking the large airborne aid-kit from his belt, he pulled out sulfanilamide, bandage, and tape. Within a minute the wound was medicated and wrapped, then using the big triangular bandage, he immobilized the arm against Macurdy's body. Shakily and with the trooper's help, Macurdy got to his feet, climbed into the cab on the off side, and collapsed again. He could hear the trooper outside, shouting to the others. "Let's go! Let's go! We're done here. The sarge got hit; a bad one."

Someone else told off others to hold the pillboxes, then the man who'd bandaged him climbed in behind the wheel. Another got in on Macurdy's side and sat him up to make room. The driver turned the half-track and they headed back to the American position.

When they got there, the troopers still lay more or less dug in along the rim of the ravine. Most of them weren't his; there had to be forty or fifty now. The driver stopped, and the lieutenant called to them. "More krauts have arrived. Don't get careless."

The driver wheeled over to him and opened the door. "The sarge got shot," he said, "a bad one, one of those big 50s in the arm. But we cleaned out the pillboxes; he cleaned one out by himself. I left guys to hold them."

Macurdy got out without help, crowding past the steering wheel, wearing his own helmet now. "Medic!" the officer shouted, then turned to Macurdy. "Take it easy, sergeant. More men have come in; the shooting drew them. I sent your other half-track through to meet them, and it brought back a radio, so I let the beach commander know we've got the bridge but don't have many men to hold it. He said he'd get armor here as soon as he can, but when that'll be is anyone's guess."

The lieutenant sounded as casual as if talking about the price of gas. Then he sent a half-track back to the pillboxes, with more men to man them.

A medic arrived, wearing his armband, and in the shelter of the rim, carefully but quickly removed Macurdy's bandage to examine the wound. "Whoever took care of this did a good job," he said, and began rebandaging it. "Sarge, you earned yourself a nice hospital vacation." When he'd finished, he took out a syrette of morphine and injected it into the other arm.

Macurdy watched him crawl over to the lieutenant and speak to an undertone, something about "tough sonofabitch," and "could have bled to death," and "sleep."

He had no intention of sleeping. Almost certainly more Germans would arrive before seaborne reinforcements could, and the troopers would be in serious trouble. Meanwhile someone had taken his BAR, along with his bandoliers. Which made sense; he couldn't handle it one-handed. But, he told himself, he was the only one here who could make himself invisible. And even left-handed, he ought to be able to hit something close up with his.45, and toss a grenade far enough to do some good.

But first he'd gather his strength for a minute and fell asleep in spite of himself. He didn't even waken when the racket of fighting intensified, until a mortar round landed nearby.

Regaining his wits, Macurdy crawled to the rim and peered over it, looking toward the enemy positions. The Germans had been reinforced, and were laying down a lot of rifle and machine gun fire. Presumably quite a few troopers had been wounded or killed. The captured half-tracks had attacked the Germans and been disabled, presumably by a Panzerfaust, and the Germans were keeping flares in the air almost constantly, to foil sneak attacks.

On the other hand, the troopers' aimed fire, and the cover afforded by the rim, had discouraged the Germans from rushing them. The German strategy seemed to be to wear the Americans down with casualties-the mortars would do that-and wait for reinforcements, maybe panzers.

Someone had lifted Macurdy's bag of grenades, too. Except for his knife, all he had left was his holstered.45, and two grenades in a tunic pocket. So he crept out toward a flank, to a trooper he didn't know, whose M1 had gotten hot enough, Macurdy could smell char from the forepiece. The Germans must have pressed things at some point. "Let me have some grenades," Macurdy said. "Someone took mine."