Steel Shards
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
Warren Pickett was dressed exactly the way Sawyer had last seen him when the two of them had visited Pickett's companies. A tanker's brown field jacket with the gathered woolen cuffs and collar that made them so popular. The 1st Division's famous patch at his left shoulder, the silver lieutenant colonel's leaves on each shoulder. The trousers were tucked into Wellington half-boots. He had taken off his helmet, exposing the dark, wavy hair combed toward the right ear. Warren lighted a cigarette, tossed away the dead match, and looked up quizzically. There was no smile. "Anthony, there is something I want to ask you. Something about which every officer in the regiment is curious. It is all right for me to say Anthony?" Wordlessly, Sawyer nodded. "Most of the officers don't realize the advantages you've had, Anthony. I digress. They take you as they find you. The significance of Groton escapes them. You, General Roosevelt, the general's son, Quentin, are the only officers of this division known to me who have attended the country's most prestigious prep school. Of course, there's our commander-in-chief, but he's not one of us. I went to a public high school in Michigan and then Northwestern. The father of a friend had been an athletic coach at Groton. He often talked of its eminence. And then, Anthony, there's the business of Lady Denton, a genuine beauty I'm told. Who else among us has a titled Englishwoman as a girlfriend?" Pickett paused to light a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one he was smoking. "Lost my lighter," he explained, "but then, ah Anthony..." "Anthony is perfectly all right, Warren. You are dead aren't you?" "Of course, I'm dead, Kimbro. Surely you can see that." The "Kimbro" was stated very firmly. " Well, I must get on with this. What was I saying?" "Something about a Lady Denton. Her name is Denis, Warren. Nadine Denis. You are not going to demean the lady?" "Certainly not. Nor is her relationship to you my business, beyond the common knowledge that it exists. I was going to comment that because you're of English stock, it's not illogical that you have ferreted out an English beauty." "Half-English, Warren. My mother is Pennsylvania Dutch, the real thing. And I have a cousin who's fighting for Germany." Sawyer looked more carefully. There were two holes in the front of Warren's jacket, another in his neck. No bleeding. But then the dead do not bleed. "I have a minute or two left, Kimbro. I'll get to the point. Tell me what possessed you to pick up that flag and run with it at those French bastards? The chances were excellent that you would be killed just like your friend Prentiss Carter." "Warren, for God's sake, look at yourself." Sawyer felt a pang of regret that he had been so insensitive. Embarrassed, he looked away, then back. He was surprised to see the hint of a smile. Never had Warren Pickett's eyes been so clear, the face so open. "So we were just doing our job, is that it? North Africa is a long way from San Juan Hill." Pickett's face hardened, the eyes flashed, "Sawyer, you dumb bastard, if you want to live to fuck another pretty woman, the next time you better think before you act." There was a god-awful crash. Sawyer seemed to be coming out of a mist into which Pickett was fading. Damn, he didn't want to lose the man just yet. Instead of this glory and girlfriend shit, there were some really important things about the battalion that he wanted to discuss. For Pete's sake, he rarely used the S-word never the F-word. No, Pickett had used the latter. He stirred to the sound of voices. A dream that's what it had been. A dream!
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
Bareheaded, Leutnant Gerhard Krieger, aged 20, pushed up his sand goggles to a point above his eyebrows. His tousled blond hair was as filthy as the unprotected skin of his face, the latter accented by the owlish area around his eyes. The column was halted while Oberstleutnant Renze, commander of the 8th Panzer Regiment, conferred with Oberst Maucke, 15th Panzer Division commander. Ahead lay Alam el Halfa Ridge, their objective. The date was the 1st of September, 1942. This deepest penetration of the German forces into British Egypt had brought the Panzers to the "gates of Alexandria," seventy miles to the east. Libya and the major port facility at Tobruk were 250 miles to the west. "Herr Leutnant," came a faint voice from Krieger's feet, "do we have a minute?" Dietel, the speaker, was not employing the intercom. "Possibly." "I must water the desert." "Out. All of you. Buy chocolate. Bring me a cigar," Krieger said into his mike. "Please, Herr Leutnant, your future does not lie with the theatre." Dietel slammed back the driver's hatch, leaped out and attended to his business. Fahr, the gunner, slipped out the same opening, held up a chunk of yellowish-orange cheese. "Genuine Swiss, Herr Leutnant." Krieger laughed, watched as Fahr sectioned the rock-hard brick and spread the pieces over the blistering hot engine plate. That done, he again used his pocket knife to carve up a quarter loaf of bread. The jagged slices joined the simmering hunks of cheese on his impromptu stove. Krieger remained in the PzKw IV's turret. As the platoon commander he must be alert to all aspects of the situation. Visual and radio. Four months ago he had been at Kaiserslautern, the training and replacement center of Wehrkreis XII, a mere fifty kilometers from his home in Saarbrücken. He wondered if the pleasant house, a villa on the east side of the city, was still standing. English bombers had carpeted Saarbrücken several times before his hurried transfer from the training center to the excitement of the Western Desert. Rommel's vaunted Afrika Korps was badly in need of replacements. Kaiserslautern was the 15th Panzer Division's Depot. When order prevailed, the 21st Panzer Division drew its personnel from Berlin, the depot center for Wehrkreis III. By turning his head, Lieutenant Krieger could see the dusty outline of 21st Panzer's column of tanks. The two divisions, 15th and 21st Panzer, were what Generalfeldmarschall Rommel called his Afrika Korps, supported by the 90th Light Division and the Italian Xth and XXth Corps. Gerhard thanked the Lord that his parents were safe. His father's gift for languages and his enterprise had opened the export-import door. From the early thirties he had been in business for himself, and then with the blossoming of the Hitler years and the growing importance of foreign trade Georg Krieger had established a branch office in Buenos Aires. In 1941 with the concurrence of the government...all travel by German nationals was subject to government approval...his father had transferred his headquarters to Argentina, taking his wife with him. Beef, wheat, and coffee from Brazil were his principal concern. The civilian front was beginning to feel the weight of British bombing. And with Operation Barbarossa in full swing, Georg Krieger worked hard to meet Germany's growing need for foodstuffs. Gerhard's tank, one of the new Mark IV specials, was armed with a long-barrelled 7.5-centimeter gun equipped with a recoil-assisting, double-baffle muzzle brake. This high velocity weapon could punch through the skin of any of its enemies, including the American-supplied Grants and Shermans as well as the Tommies' standard Matildas and Crusaders.
About the Author
Bidwell Moore served with the 1st Division throughout World War II--Kasserine, Omaha Beach, the Battle of the Bulge were signal actions. Subsequently, he was an assistant military attaché in Switzerland and held several Washington intelligence posts.