The Haigerloch Project

When Corny had first told him of the decision to infiltrate them by land rather than by parachute, he'd felt greatly relieved He couldn't see himself leaping out of an airplane in the dead of some dark night. Corny's reasoning had been utterly logical. He and Dirk would have had to jump blind into enemy territory without a reception committee. The drop plane over the sensitive area might well have alerted the enemy — and there had been too little time to train him, Sig, thoroughly in proper jumping procedure, making an accident upon landing a high-risk proposition. And finally — it would be quite impossible for Dirk to jump with his scarcely healed chest injury anyway. He snorted cynically to himself. That last reason would have been enough all by itself for anyone — except perhaps for Corny….

He glanced at Dirk sitting close by, his eyes closed. He seemed utterly relaxed, calm. Almost too calm. Is that his way of being nervous? Sig wondered.

He looked around at the other men crowded into the farmhouse. Twenty-two of them. He'd counted them. Several times. Twenty-two. Including the sergeant, a forbidding, six-feet-four giant of a man with the magnificent name of Abu Kamir Hassan, who hadn't said two words to them since they had joined the patrol.

In a little while his life — and his partner's — would be in their hands….

He studied them with an odd, morbid fascination. How many of them would come back? How many would die? Would—he?

They were a strange group. Swarthy-skinned, with piercing dark eyes, rugged faces and close-cropped black hair; a special combat patrol mounted by the Premier Groupement de Tabors. Marocains — the First Group of Moroccan Tabors They looked fierce, hard, totally deadly as they checked their equipment and weapons with the quick, meticulous care of professional killers. In addition to their guns, every one of them carried a long, razor-sharp knife and several grenades hanging from his belt. The French officer who'd briefed Dirk and Sig on the line-crossing operation had referred to the Moroccans as goumiers, men specially trained for infiltration operations in rugged terrain. He had sounded awed.

A thought flashed into Sig's mind. World War II. It really was a world operation. Here he sat, a Swiss in a US Intelligence outfit, in a French farmhouse, surrounded by a band of Moroccans, with a Dutch partner and with clothing and equipment supplied by English Moles!

He looked at Dirk.

“I don't like it,” he said darkly.

Dirk kept his eyes closed.

“What's not to like?” he commented airily. “Just because you might get your ass shot off paddling across the river and crawling through the Siegfried Line?” He shrugged. “You'll get used to it.”

Sig glared at his partner in irritation. If the SOB was nervous, why the hell didn't he show it? Why so goddamned smug and calm?

“Sure. I forgot,” he said sarcastically. “You're the expert. I think we're being committed too damned fast!”

Dirk opened his eyes. He looked at Sig.

“Relax, Siggy baby,” he said quietly. “I'm scared too. Only damned fools don't get scared.”

“I hadn't figured on ending up in the French Army,” Sig said. He felt an overwhelming need to say something — however inane.

Dirk shrugged.

“It's their sector,” he said “Closest point on the front to Hechingen.”

“I know that, dammit'” Sig snapped. He was aware that he was being unreasonable, but he could not help himself. “I know this spot was chosen because the Westwall is supposed to be weak here. I just hope to God that's true. The damned Black Forest is supposed to be enough of an obstacle itself. Sure.” He glanced at the grim Moroccans. “I also know these bastards can hardly wait to get into a fight.”

Dirk looked up at him.

“How do you know that?”

“I do speak French,” Sig snapped. “Or had you forgotten?”

Dirk held up his hands. He knew his partner's irritation was an outlet for his pent-up apprehension. He felt it himself, but he'd had time to learn to cope.

“The First French has been holding a passive front along the Upper Rhine for too damned long, according to these guys,” Sig continued. “Ever since their outfit hit the Siegfried Line north of Strasbourg this morning, they've been hopping mad because they were kept out of it to go on a nursemaid expedition!” He scowled at the Moroccans. “They'll probably go looking for trouble.”

Sergeant Abu Kamir Hassan stood up.

“Partons!” he said sharply.

Dirk climbed to his feet.

“I guess that means ‘get your ass in gear!’” he said. “Come on, Siggy, up and at ‘em!”

* * *

The sky was overcast. The night was dark. Dirk slid over the bloated rim and huddled on the bottom of the rubber boat as he had been instructed. He cradled his rucksack protectively between his legs. It contained his lifeline — his radio. The other five men assigned to his boat were already in place. Four of them would paddle.