Hanging on

So you have maybe ninety Panzers-"
        "Ninety!"
        Blade went on as if he had not heard. "Approximately fifteen armored cars, ten self-propelled howitzers, four Jagd-panthers-that's the tank-hunting tank the krauts have-nine heavy-transport trucks carrying well-anchored 88-mm ack-ack guns to provide defense against air attack on the convoy. Then there are two big flatbed transports with high-range aerial searchlights to pick out targets for the 88s, forty-odd trucks carrying fifteen hundred infantrymen to secure what objectives the Panzers overwhelm, and an undisclosed number of motorcycle escorts and message men."
        "Has anyone there estimated the length of time they'll need to get across the bridge, sir? It's a narrow bridge, awfully narrow."
        "Twelve hours," Blade said. "Or more."
        Kelly swallowed hard. "Maybe we could tear down this bridge and build a wider one before they get here. We could do it if you'd get us the materials-"
        "Wouldn't do much good," Blade said. "That convoy isn't going to drive straight through. They'll need a rest about the time they get to you. Even if the bridge were wider, they'd stay overnight."
        "Why don't we bomb the convoy, sir?" Major Kelly asked.
        "It would be a high-risk proposition," Blade said, "taking a squadron of bombers that far behind enemy lines to hit a well-guarded convoy."
        "Yes, but-"
        "Command already decided to let them come ahead until they're in our territory where we have the advantage. We can take them out much easier and with fewer field casualties if they're closer to the front. Since your bridge was bombed this morning, I guess Command also decided to slow them down until a good defense can be readied. Otherwise, I can't tell you much."
        "How far behind the lines are we?" Kelly asked.
        "Only one hundred and sixty-two miles, Kelly!"
        "I don't suppose there's any chance that the front will have moved this far by the time the Panzers get here?"
        "You never can tell," Blade said. That meant no.
        "Sir, what can we do?"
        "I've given considerable thought to your problem," Blade said. "Is it possible to use the ruse you employed with the first Panzer unit?"
        "No," Kelly said, though it pained him to say it. "That was a small force that passed in half an hour. But this division, this big convoy is going to stay the night. We'd never make them believe we were Germans, sir, especially when none of us speaks the language." He felt hollow inside, eaten out by termites. In a moment, he'd fall down in a heap of dust. "Is it possible for us to be airlifted out of here, sir?"
        "No," Blade said. "That bridge must be kept open after the Panzers are across, so our own people can use it if the front suddenly breaks eastward."
        "If we're dead, we can't keep it open, sir." This seemed like an inescapable truth to Kelly, an argument so sound it would knock Blade off his chair.
        It didn't knock him off his chair. "I have faith in your ingenuity, Kelly," General Blade said. "I'm sure you'll pull through this with some clever plan or other." He cleared his throat, or perhaps he snarled at someone in his office, and he said, "Now, what supplies do you need? I think I can have them flown into you before dawn."
        Five minutes later, the Blade and Slade Show was over.
        Shortly before midnight, Major Kelly sat in his quarters and put mud on his head. His heart really wasn't in the treatment tonight. If they were all going to be killed a week from now, what did it matter if he was bald or hairy? Nevertheless, he smoothed the muck all over his head. By worrying about his hair, perhaps he was making a rebuff to death. Perhaps, in this simple ceremony, he was actually taking a courageous stand. Or maybe he just didn't have the guts to face up to what was coming.
        He was interrupted in the midst of these unpleasant thoughts and in the middle of his pate ministrations by Maurice and two tough-looking French kids who were about sixteen years old and deadly as sharks. His hair slicked back and glimmering in the dull light, his face shiny, grease beaded in the folds around his nose, wearing his customary baggy pants and dirty checkered shirt, smiling that dangerous smile that meant he smelled a profit, Maurice sat down on the end of Kelly's cot and said, "Bon soir!"
        Kelly, sitting at his table-desk with a headful of