Hanging on

take the time to stop and search for his man, because he wouldn't want to fall too far behind the main body of the convoy, not in a foreign country where-quite often-the peasants had been known to play some bloody tricks on their conquerors.
        The situation was further complicated by the fact that they could not risk a shot now that they had gotten this far without being discovered. They couldn't kill the cyclist yet, if he became inquisitive. The last of the convoy was still in sight, the roar of the tanks far ahead. The night had gotten just still enough to allow a shot to carry to the men in the open backs of the last couple of transports still on the bridge.
        The motorcycle slowed.
        "He's stopping," Beame said. His voice sounded like that of a frog only partly turned back into a prince.
        The motorcyclist slowed even more.
        He looked them over as if they were on display and he was thinking of buying one of them. He scanned the bridge, searching for the sentry he was supposed to pick up, then he looked at them again, having come even with their jeep.
        He was young, even younger than the soldier Sergeant Coombs had killed, with his helmet flat down in place and his body girdled up in black leather belts. He looked sharp, not easily fooled, like a farm kid who had found a new sophistication in his uniform and was trying to live down what he considered shamefully simple origins. A long-snouted machine pistol was holstered on his hip, and a completely unnecessary bandolier of ammunition wound around his chest.
        He stopped his cycle altogether.
        Thinking fast, Kelly grinned and waved him on, pointing after the convoy to indicate that the sentry had already left.
        The rider hesitated.
        "Go away," Beame whispered.
        The cyclist finally lifted one hand off his bars to wave back, then accelerated and went on his way.
        For about ten feet.
        Then Lieutenant Slade shot him in the back of the head.

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    12
        
        The cyclist fell into the handlebars, recoiled lifelessly, and began to slide sideways in a graceless heap.
        Unguided now, the heavy motorcycle jolted out of a shallow rain furrow and swung erratically toward the bridge abutment. It was made more stable by the sidecar than it would have been with only its own two wheels, but still its single head lamp made crazy, jiggling patterns on the night.
        As the dead soldier tipped into the sidecar which the bridge sentry would have occupied, Slade's second shot took him through the shoulder and passed straight into the gasoline tank under him. There was a flat, contained explosion hardly louder than either of the shots. Flames engulfed the machine and the dead man as the whole bright bundle crashed headlong into the concrete bridge support.
        Major Kelly stood up in the jeep and drew his own gun, as did Lieutenant Beame. Slade, standing up in the back seat, already had his pistol out, of course, and he was jabbering about his success in nailing the kraut. Neither Kelly nor Beame said anything. They watched the retreating trucks, waiting for one of them to pull up and disgorge German infantrymen. Then it would be all over. At least, Major Kelly thought, Slade would get it. The whole thing might be worth dying for if Slade were killed too.
        The last of the transports had already come down on the roadway on the far side of the gorge and was making for the bend which would put it out of sight. The first motorcycle was close behind it. Surely, either the two soldiers in the motorcycle or the men sitting in the last of the open-end trucks would see the fire, begin to wonder…
        But the Germans kept moving away, rounded the bend, were gone. A minute went by. Two minutes. Five. When the Germans had not returned in ten minutes, Major Kelly knew they never would. By the time they saw the last motorcyclist was missing, they wouldn't know where to look for him. Amazing.
        Lieutenant Slade watched the smoldering motorcycle and the shapeless body sprawled within it. He smiled. "One more jerry that won't be shooting up American boys."
        "Why?" Beame asked.
        "Because he's dead," Slade said, perplexed by the question.
        "Why did you kill him?" Beame amplified.
        "What would my mother have said if I'd let them all go?" Slade asked.
        "Who?"
        "My mother!"
        "How would your mother ever