The Bavarian Gate By John Dalmas

“I’ve got no argument with that,” Macurdy answered. “People ought to stand up for their buddies. But if I’m not willing to stand up for myself, I’ve got no business being here.”

“Amen to that,” said their squad sergeant, who wore the name Rinaldi above his pocket. “You’re a good man, Macurdy, in more ways than one.” He shook Macurdy’s hand, and one by one the others followed, only Carlson abstaining. Rinaldi scowled. “What’s the matter, Carlson. You short on brains? Or just can’t admit you acted like dog shit?”

Carlson stalked out, but in the supper line spoke quietly to Macurdy: “I shouldn’t have cut your laces. I know it and everyone else knows it. But goddamn I was pissed when they railroaded Potenza! Six months for chrissake, for one lousy brawl! I’ve seen guys do lots worse in Phenix City and not even draw company punishment. And you couldn’t ask for a better trooper than he was.”

Macurdy didn’t point out the differences between Phenix City and London. He simply smiled slightly, as much as he thought Carlson was up to having just then. “It’s an imperfect world,” he said, “but Potenza will be back. If not to the 503rd, then to one of the other outfits forming up. And whoever gets him, they’ll have themselves a real fighting man.”

Carlson nodded soberly. “You got that right,” he said, then put out his hand and they shook on it.

Colonel Raff was a fanatic on endurance and toughness, and pushed his battalion mercilessly. In June, soon after landing, it had undergone intensive combat training by officers of the British 1st Airborne Division, and in July they underwent sixteen tough but valuable days at the Mortehoe Commando School. They became skilled in night operations, learned the proper way to silence sentries, became competent demolitionists, and could fire and field-strip German, Italian, and British weapons as readily as their own.

And the lessons they learned were passed on to replacements like Macurdy by the battalion’s own officers and noncoms. What they didn’t do for two months was jump out of airplanes. Transport planes were in short supply, and none were available to the battalion till after Macurdy had joined it. Then they jumped frequently, from altitudes as low as 350 feet. Once they jumped in Northern Ireland as part of joint English and American maneuvers.

Meanwhile Macurdy transferred his marksmanship with the S&W Model 10.38 caliber police revolver to the army’s heavy M1911A1 Colt.45 automatic.

It seemed to Macurdy that Varia’s invisibility spell would be very useful, even though it was less than completely reliable. But he didn’t know how she did it, except in a very general way. However, he’d had further input on invisibility spells later, from a tomttu named Maikel. Among other things, Maikel had said that intention was a key element. And Maikel’s spell, at least, had only to be cast once. It could then be activated and deactivated by consciously willing it.

Working from this basis of limited knowledge, Macurdy experimented when he could, until wearing his American uniform with its airborne insignia, he walked one evening through a well-lit pub full of British servicemen (engaged with their beer, girls, and conversations), and wasn’t noticed.

Obviously’ it was at least somewhat effective, but its parameters of protection were uncertain. Maikel’s could be seen through, at least by some, if a person knew where to look, and Varia’s wasn’t reliable in full sunlight. But almost certainly, his wasn’t the same as either of theirs.

Those were things he’d keep in mind. Meanwhile he soon had a reputation for his stealth at night. He avoided testing it by day. At night his skill could be written off as “natural”–an ability to move silently and skillfully in darkness and shadow. But by day? To explain his talent as sorcery didn’t seem wise.

In his fifth week in the 503rd, Macurdy was called into the office of Captain Grady, the company commander. Grady wasn’t the only officer waiting for him: a Lieutenant Netzloff was there. “Macurdy,” Grady said, “we’ve been looking through your service record. Everywhere you’ve been, your older has accumulated favorable comments and commendations. Lieutenant D’Emilio and Sergeant Boileau agree with them. So although you haven’t been with us long, I’m promoting you to corporal, to take over for a man we lost this morning.” He turned to Netzloff. “Lieutenant, he’s yours. Tell him what he needs to know.”

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