Standing at the Scratch Line by Guy Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

simple. Slick would create noisy diversion, which would force the soldiers to investigate. The soldiers would be picked off one by one. It was his intention to get as close to the vehicle as possible before firing his weapon. He preferred to kill quietly, with his knife if possible.
    As LeRoi picked his way through the debris and destruction of the demolished town, he was surprised at how things could be so different yet remain the same. Here he was a colored man from Louisiana, stalking white men in a little town in France. And yet it had a sameness about it, like when he was out on a raid against the DuMonts. If someone was to have told him a year and a half ago that he would be trained to kill and then ordered to go out and kill white men, he would have called the remark insane. But here he was. An alley between two roofless stone houses loomed ahead of him. LeRoi had to be careful moving about in the snow. It had been snowing for several hours without a break and the snow was now building into small drifts, making footing among the rubble very slippery. He slid the safety off his Bergmann and crouched down as he slowly continued forward.
    LeRoi had changed substantially since his induction into the army. His four and a half months on the front lines had had the biggest effect on him. Not only had he been trained to fight and kill efficiently, but he discovered that he liked it. There was a level of excitement in playing in the game of death that was thrilling to him. For the first time in his life, he woke up each morning with a sense of purpose. He had never told his bunk mates, but he preferred to be out on squad patrol, not because he liked to risk his life, but because he was in control and there was no one to order him about. He was left to his own ingenuity to kill the enemy any way possible, but sometimes he wished they were American whites.
    The end of the alley led to a corner of the town square. From the edge of the building to his left he could see through the falling snow that the same six men were still standing in front of the truck, smoking and talking. LeRoi could even hear an occasional laugh. They did not appear to be concerned with the need for alertness. He settled himself and waited for Slick’s diversion. He felt fortunate that the truck’s lights were facing away from him and that the truck was close enough for him to cover the distance in ten good strides. He unslung his Springfield and leaned it against the building, then pulled his two throwing knives from his boots and stuck them in his belt. He strapped two heavy, studded leather bands on his wrists. Experience had taught him that his defense was vastly improved in hand-to-hand combat when he could use his lower forearm to both attack and block. The Bergmann was checked and then slung so that the gun hung in the small of his back. He pulled his .45 government-issue automatic pistol and tested the slide. He liked to feel the gun’s weight in his hand. He was ready. Leaning back against the wall, he took deep breaths, trying to relax. The only sounds he heard were the harsh consonants of German in the town square as the men talked and the snow continued to fall.
    The Germans did not feel the need for caution because they were part of an augmented canine unit. They were in fact waiting for the return of four men and two dogs, who had been dropped at the edge of town to search the ruins for the local residents, known to fire upon German military units. Côte d’Saar was the last stop on their patrol route before returning to the garrison. No evidence of any resistance had ever been discovered in the region, so the soldiers had begun to take patrols lightly. When the loud metallic clattering began, emanating from the opposite side of town from which they had entered, the soldiers were momentarily confused. The headlights of the truck were turned off. After a few minutes of argument, four soldiers were sent out to investigate. Neither of the two