The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) by Michael Panush Page A
Authors: Michael Panush
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fearsome main gun fired again, carving off a corner of the church, but missing the paratroopers. Candle didn’t bother to look behind at Charlie and Tiny. He trusted them and he had his own problems.
He and his rifleman hurried to the dark brown sides of the tank. The armor of the Tiger was thick, tough enough to take shots from Allied tanks without getting a scratch. Busting it open with grenades was not an option. But Sergeant Candle and his boys had a different idea. Mort hopped onto the side, clambering to the top. He still felt like his innards were mush from being blown back by the Tiger’s shot, but he stood his ground and Dutch joined him. Newt stood near the treads, keeping the German infantry back with his carbine and the last of his grenades.
“All right, Dutch,” Mort said, looking at the hatch and slapping down a tiny satchel charge. “Ready for shooting fish in a barrel?”
“Sounds like fun,” Dutch agreed.
Mort popped the satchel and it went off. It sent up a small line of smoke and cracked open the hatch. Mort and Dutch looked inside. A couple German tank operators looked back. Mort and Candle tossed in one grenade each. The explosions would rattle around inside the Panzer, cooking off the shells inside and reducing the men to shreds.
They hopped down from the tank as the explosion boiled up from inside. Metal split and greasy smoke poured out. “Back to the church!” Candle ordered, and they pounded across the ground. Now Sergeant Candle looked up, staring into the opening of the church, and the figures under the archway.
Tiny was leaning against the wall, a bandage slapped across his shoulder. His .30 cal lay on the ground, the ammo belt next to it. Charlie sat behind the gun, staring forward blankly. Candle ran to his side and knelt down, Dutch and Newt close behind. The German infantry were closing in. “You crazy, Charlie?” Candle demanded. “This ain’t no goddamn picnic! You’re gonna get your head—”
He noticed the red splotch on Charlie’s uniform and the sightlessness in his eyes. “Oh Christ,” Candle whispered. He had seen men buy it before, tons of men, in tons of places. But it never got any better. “Oh god.”
“He patched me up,” Tiny said, suddenly reaching for the .30 cal. He raised it, the ammo belt swinging as he lashed the string of bullets around his arm. “He took the shot and kept working until his hands went still. Until his hands went still!” He turned around to face the Waffen-SS soldiers and leapt to the top of the firing trench, the .30 cal blazing to life like a sudden storm.
There was no stopping him. Tiny didn’t bother with bursts. He kept shooting in an endless stream until the charging Nazi soldiers were ripped to pieces and turned to run, and he gunned them down before they could reach the cover of the woods. He shot the corpses, and shot the wounded. He kept shooting until the belt was gone and the heavy machine gun clicked empty and he was still squeezing the trigger.
Candle grabbed Tiny’s arm and pulled him back to the church. He got him inside and wrenched the gun from his hand, then gave him a long glare. Their eyes burned into each other. Tiny lowered his head. Newt and Dutch came back, carrying Charlie with them. They laid him down on one of the pews.
“Sarge!” It was Elkins. “Sarge, they’re falling back! They’re going into the woods!”
Slowly, Sergeant Candle turned around and risked a look out the stone window. He saw the SS infantry hurrying back, leaving their dead and the smoking remains of the Tiger tank behind. He sighed and looked back to his squad. “They’re licking their wounds,” he said. “We ought to lick ours. Go out there and get all the spare clips and guns we can find.” He looked at his Thompson. It was on its last magazine. “And don’t go far.”
They listened to him, hurrying outside in furtive crouches. Elkins came down from the steeple, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “We got
He and his rifleman hurried to the dark brown sides of the tank. The armor of the Tiger was thick, tough enough to take shots from Allied tanks without getting a scratch. Busting it open with grenades was not an option. But Sergeant Candle and his boys had a different idea. Mort hopped onto the side, clambering to the top. He still felt like his innards were mush from being blown back by the Tiger’s shot, but he stood his ground and Dutch joined him. Newt stood near the treads, keeping the German infantry back with his carbine and the last of his grenades.
“All right, Dutch,” Mort said, looking at the hatch and slapping down a tiny satchel charge. “Ready for shooting fish in a barrel?”
“Sounds like fun,” Dutch agreed.
Mort popped the satchel and it went off. It sent up a small line of smoke and cracked open the hatch. Mort and Dutch looked inside. A couple German tank operators looked back. Mort and Candle tossed in one grenade each. The explosions would rattle around inside the Panzer, cooking off the shells inside and reducing the men to shreds.
They hopped down from the tank as the explosion boiled up from inside. Metal split and greasy smoke poured out. “Back to the church!” Candle ordered, and they pounded across the ground. Now Sergeant Candle looked up, staring into the opening of the church, and the figures under the archway.
Tiny was leaning against the wall, a bandage slapped across his shoulder. His .30 cal lay on the ground, the ammo belt next to it. Charlie sat behind the gun, staring forward blankly. Candle ran to his side and knelt down, Dutch and Newt close behind. The German infantry were closing in. “You crazy, Charlie?” Candle demanded. “This ain’t no goddamn picnic! You’re gonna get your head—”
He noticed the red splotch on Charlie’s uniform and the sightlessness in his eyes. “Oh Christ,” Candle whispered. He had seen men buy it before, tons of men, in tons of places. But it never got any better. “Oh god.”
“He patched me up,” Tiny said, suddenly reaching for the .30 cal. He raised it, the ammo belt swinging as he lashed the string of bullets around his arm. “He took the shot and kept working until his hands went still. Until his hands went still!” He turned around to face the Waffen-SS soldiers and leapt to the top of the firing trench, the .30 cal blazing to life like a sudden storm.
There was no stopping him. Tiny didn’t bother with bursts. He kept shooting in an endless stream until the charging Nazi soldiers were ripped to pieces and turned to run, and he gunned them down before they could reach the cover of the woods. He shot the corpses, and shot the wounded. He kept shooting until the belt was gone and the heavy machine gun clicked empty and he was still squeezing the trigger.
Candle grabbed Tiny’s arm and pulled him back to the church. He got him inside and wrenched the gun from his hand, then gave him a long glare. Their eyes burned into each other. Tiny lowered his head. Newt and Dutch came back, carrying Charlie with them. They laid him down on one of the pews.
“Sarge!” It was Elkins. “Sarge, they’re falling back! They’re going into the woods!”
Slowly, Sergeant Candle turned around and risked a look out the stone window. He saw the SS infantry hurrying back, leaving their dead and the smoking remains of the Tiger tank behind. He sighed and looked back to his squad. “They’re licking their wounds,” he said. “We ought to lick ours. Go out there and get all the spare clips and guns we can find.” He looked at his Thompson. It was on its last magazine. “And don’t go far.”
They listened to him, hurrying outside in furtive crouches. Elkins came down from the steeple, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “We got
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