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"You got it. My people have yet to figure out a way to kill the bastard."
Ben let that slide for the time being. If Mike's boys and girls couldn't
come up with a way to kill Bruno, it simply couldn't be done.
"How long before Geneva is clean?"
"About a week," Ben replied. "Duffy and his people are being slowly
pushed our way by Ike. The French Resistance Force is growing, and it
won't be long before it will be a large enough army to take some of the
strain off us. Units of the FRF are already in place north and south of
us with more coming in. Just as soon as Geneva is declared clean, I'm
going to take my battalion and head west for a look-see."
Mike smiled. "Things getting too dull around here for you, Ben?"
Ben returned the smile. "My people are covering me like a blanket, Mike.
I can't get into any trouble in this city. But in about a week, all that
is about to change."
Ben left Dan in charge of the nearly completed task of clearing out
Geneva, and with his 1 Batt and armor pulled out and headed south toward
Grenoble. Dan raised no hell about him leaving, for he knew it would do
no good. Ike bitched and cussed over the air, but he knew it was falling
on deaf ears and soon said, "Oh, to hell with it!" and broke the connection.
Ben and his battalion rode for two hours over in-
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credibly bad roads without seeing a living being. All knew what had
happened to the people, but all were loath to speak the words: The
creeps had ranged out many miles from Geneva, in all directions, taken
prisoners whenever they could find them, and eaten them.
About thirty kilometers from the city, they left the main road when they
saw smoke coming from many chimneys in the distance. Ben halted the
convoy and sent scouts ahead to check it out. They came back shaking
their heads.
"They're in bad shape, General. Many of them are starving to death. The
gangs came through not long ago and took all the food. They don't have
anything in the way of medicines, either. Many of them are awful sick."
"Mean damn country for aniairdrop," Cooper commented. "And those winds
are really rough."
"There is a pretty good-sized valley just over the way," Beth said,
pointing. "We could use that for a DZ."
While the scouts checked the valley, Ben walked through part of the
village, growing angrier by the second. These were mostly old people,
unable to fend for themselves, and a few young women with half-starved
babies.
"Old people don't taste good," a Rebel who spoke fluent French told Ben.
"The creeps leave them alone. The gangs took all the young women to rape
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and then trade to the creeps . . . and some of the young boys, too," he
added. "The young men are used as slaves until they're worn out and then
traded to the creeps."
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"Tell them we're arranging to have food and medicine flown in," Ben
said. "Ask about Lyons."
"No creeps there," the Rebel said, after a moment of French too fast for
Ben to follow. His French was not all that good. "They pulled out to
beef up the bunch in Geneva. He says he heard that the cannibals pulled
out of the entire eastern part of France. Grenoble, Avigon, Marseille,
Toulon, Cannes, Nice. Some went to Geneva, but most of the others broke
up into small groups and ran for hiding."
"I hate to hear that," Ben said. "The bastards will be popping up
everywhere we go." He was thoughtful for a moment. Then his eyes met
those of Mike Richards, who had walked up in time to hear most of the
conversation. Mike spoke fluent French-and some five other languages and
a dozen dialects.
Mike nodded his head. "They planned it, Ben. Has to be. They figured
this was the only way to keep their movement alive. I don't think they
knew we were dropping in on them in Geneva. However, I do believe the
breaking up was planned the instant we hit the continent ... or perhaps
long before. That's guesswork."
"Pretty good guesswork, Mike. I agree. Shit!" Ben startled the old
Frenchman, who stepped back, wide-eyed. Shit was a word recognized
nearly worldwide. The other one rhymed with luck. Ben smiled and patted
the elderly man's bone-thin shoulder. "You'll be all right," he said, in
very bad French. "We'll take care of you."
The old man smiled and spoke in fast French. Mike laughed and gave the
man a bag of tobacco and papers. "What'd he say?" Ben asked.
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Mike said, "He said the Americans took care of us in '44, too. And then
the French government and many of the people, as usual, turned their
asses to their liberators. He was not one of those types of people. He
fought with the French Resistance and has the papers to prove it."
"My God, Mike. How old is this man?"
"He's almost ninety."
Jersey walked by and the old man grinned, his eyes following her. He
rolled his eyes, and said, "Oh, la-la!"
Jersey laughed and said, "At his age, he wouldn't know what to do with
it, anyway."
"Don't bet on it, cMrie," the old man said, in nearly flawless English,
just before his wife whacked him across the butt with a straw broom.
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Several Rebel doctors and medics dropped in with supplies and
immediately went to work. A small detachment of Rebel troops came in
with them, and the following morning, Ben and his 1 Batt pulled out.
Annecy was a looted and destroyed ghost town. The resort town of
Aix-les-Bains was lifeless. They drove along the shores of the
blue-watered and beautiful, mountain-rimmed Lac d'Annecy and continued
on toward Chambery. This was wild and lovely country, with dark forests,
deep valleys, and towering limestone cliffs. They found Chambery
virtually deserted, except for a small gang of punks that had fled for
their lives upon hearing of Bruno Bottger's orders of extermination.
"Carry your asses on," the punk leader told a scout,
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William W. Johnstone
the first Rebel to enter the city. Just as the words left his mouth, the
punk, a man who called himself Junkyard Doggy Woggy Do Da Day, found
himself on the ground, his mouth bloody from the butt of a rifle, and a
dozen Rebels pointing various types of weapons at him and his followers.
"Shitttt!" Doggy hollered. "How come you whup-pin' on me, man? You a
brother!"
The Rebel scout glared down at the punk in the snowy street. "I most
definitely am not your brother."
"Well," Junkyard Doggy Woggy said, spitting out part of a broken tooth,
"I din mean no disrespect. I thoughts you was part of that mean-assed
honky Duffy's army."
The scout smiled . . . sort of. "No, but I am part of the meanest-assed
army you're ever likely to see."
"The Rebels?" Doggy Woggy whispered.
"That's right."
"Shitttt!" He took a deep breath. "Don't nobody do nothin' stupid!" he
hollered to his people, his words echoing around the quiet streets of
the old town. "Lay down your guns and step out so's these nice people
can see you. And keep your hands high up in the air."
"A very wise thing to say," the scout told him.
"I figured so. Can I get up?"
"Slowly."
The scout could see that Junkyard was frightened, and he had every right
to be.
Junkyard Doggy Woggy cut his eyes as the tires on Ben's Hummer slowly
crunched over the snow. Doggy could vividly remember when he was a punk
back in Los Angeles; back when punks had more rights than law-abiding
citizens. Back when a brick used to bash some-
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