1632

Finally, Julie's face gained an expression. She blushed with embarrassment, hearing the cheers coming from below in thick German accents. Then, blushed deeper still. The American soldiers now climbing up the ridge were cheering themselves. Julie! Julie!

Frank managed to sigh and grin at the same time. "So, niece of mine. How does it feel-being cheered yourself, for once, instead of leading them?"

"Feels great," came the immediate response. Julie was now grinning herself. Then, catching sight of one of the faces coming up the slope, the grin faded.

"Oh, damn," she grumbled. "I was afraid of that. Chip's sulking again."

Frank looked away. "He's good at that. I've noticed."

Julie cast a suspicious glance at him. "Are you criticizing my boyfriend, Uncle Frank?"

"Me? God forbid. Nothing else, I've got too much sense to tell a young lady what kind of man she oughta latch onto."

The suspicion was replaced by a mischievous little gleam. "God forbid, my ass!" Then, Julie sighed. "Oh, hell. I'm beginning to think-I don't know. Maybe Chip's a little-I don't know. Too young for me. Too immature. What do you think, Uncle Frank?"

"Not for me to say," was the reply. "Not for me to say."

"God forbid," agreed Julie. "God forbid."

***

When Gretchen's husband arrived back at Jena, leading the triumphant American army on his motorcycle along with his friends, he did not demand a full investigation into the circumstances regarding the death of one Max Jungers at the hands of his wife.

Not at all. He more or less demanded, instead, that a fair piece of Jena be turned into rubble. Offered to do it himself, in fact, insofar as the very frightened Chief of the Watch could interpret his snarling phrases. And his friends, apparently, were offering to help.

So, when they arrived, did the Americans riding in the awesome APC. So did the Americans marching alongside the thousands of captured prisoners and their camp followers.

So did the Scots cavalry-with the sole quibble that all of Jena would look better, loose stone piled on charred beam.

The Chief of the Watch-all of the town's notables, in fact, who had gathered hastily by now-had no difficulty at all understanding the Scotsmen. The Scots accent was heavy, but their command of German was excellent. And whatever slight misunderstanding there might have been was promptly cleared up by the German contingent in the American army, who added their own cheerful recommendations. Most of which involved the sort of gruesome details which only hardened mercenaries can send tripping so lightly off the tongue.

Fortunately-danke Gott!-the American commander was a less irascible sort of man. Slightly.

"Bad," muttered Mike angrily. "Very bad!" He glared at the cluster of frightened notables. "One of our women molested-after not more than a few hours in this town? Just visiting old friends and distant relatives?"

He snarled. "Very bad!" Then, visibly restraining his fury: "But- No doubt the town itself was not responsible."

Heinrich interpreted. A small sea of nodding heads greeted that last sentence. Mike responded through clenched teeth.

First, to Heinrich: "Interpret precisely!"

Then, to the notables: "This scoundrel. Jungers, his name? He has friends? Accomplices?"

Eagerly, the notables offered up the sacrificial lambs. Names were named. Faces described. A particularly disreputable tavern mentioned-specified-described in detail-its location precisely depicted-offers of help to find the way The APC rumbled down narrow streets, followed by perhaps a hundred American soldiers. The large and well-armed husband stayed behind, surrounded by several hundred equally fierce-looking friends and comrades. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied with comforting his timid, trembling, terribly upset wife. So, at least, the notables interpreted the beautiful young woman's shaking shoulders and heaving chest. The husband's broad smile, of course, was nothing more than a man trying to settle his wife's nerves.

By the time the APC reached its destination, the tavern had long since emptied. Not even the owner of the ramshackle stone building had stayed behind.

Wise choice. The Americans-in and out of the APC-put on a splendid display of firepower. The large crowd of Jena's citizens who watched were most impressed. And even more pleased. The tavern's reputation was well deserved.

So, the incredibly rapid rifle fire which shattered all the windows and pockmarked the soft stone walls was cheered exuberantly. The Claymore mine mounted on the APC's front armor which blew the heavy wooden door into splinters was greeted with gasping applause. And the piиce de rйsistance-the grenades lobbed into the interior which turned a tavern into so much wood-and-glass wreckage-produced squeals of glee and even, here and there, some dancing in the streets.