Eyeing Macurdy's immobilized arm, the trooper frowned, then rolled half over and fished out two.

"That all you got?" Macurdy asked.

The man started to reply, then instead, took three from his grenade bag for himself and gave Macurdy the rest. For just a moment he watched as Macurdy crept over the rim, toward the Germans, and seemed to disappear.

Bullets did not respect invisibility spells, so Macurdy crawled along on his good side, directly toward the Germans, pushing mainly with his left leg, chagrined at how tired he felt, though he drew on the Web of the World. Once a bullet clanged against his helmet, a glancing blow that made his head swim and his heart race. Eventually he reached the German positions. Now the bullets that threatened him were American, but mostly aimed fire, and not nearly as numerous as the Germans were pumping out.

Approaching a machine gun nest, he rolled onto his back, left-handedly dug out a grenade, and pulled the pin with his teeth. Then, ignoring the American fire, he rolled to his knees, released the charging lever, paused, raised his body, side-armed the grenade into the machine gun nest, and dropped onto his left side again.

The grenade roared, then he crept to the next machine gun nest and repeated the action.

While tossing a third, a mortar round landed close behind him, this one American; an airborne mortar crew had arrived and was attacking the Germans from behind. Concussion shredded the back of his blouse, at the same time that a fragment struck him in the back, breaking his shoulder blade, another punctured a lung, and a third mangled a buttock. Then he lay unconscious, unaware that his final grenade toss had been successful.

He was lucky the shock had disrupted his invisibility spell. Even so, he very nearly died.

Three days later he awoke in a base hospital. In the dream he'd awakened from, Varia and Melody and Mary and Vulkan all had been caring for him. A day later, General Ridgeway, 82nd Airborne commander, came through the ward with an aide and a surgeon, stopping to talk briefly with the airborne patients who were awake. At Macurdy's bed he looked at a clipboard and smiled. "How are you feeling, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Getting by," Macurdy murmured.

"Colonel Massey here"-the general indicated the doctor-"says he's sending you to England to get your shoulder blade reconstructed. Meanwhile I have a brief report written and signed by a Lieutenant Maye, describing what you did. You're as lucky as you are brave. When things get a little more organized, I expect you'll hear more about it."

"You'll be glad to know your people held the bridge, but it was touch and go for a while. The Germans got panzers there ahead of our Shermans."

Macurdy's eyes had closed before the general finished.

PART THREE

Actor Without A Script

20

Das Weutische Projekt

The hospital's sitting room for convalescents held about twenty men ust then, some in summer khakis, most in pajamas, playing cars, checkers, or chess, reading, or just listening to the BBC. When the visitor crossed the room toward him, Macurdy knew him at once. The last time he'd seen him, the man had worn a German uniform and cropped hair, and been half scalped. Now he was dressed as an army officer, his hair longer than regulation, and he looked fit.

The man grinned. "Remember me, Macurdy?"

"Tunisia, last winter. `Vonnie,' you said. Captain William Von Lutzow."

Von Lutzow laughed. "You lit my cigarette with your finger, warmed me, healed me, and made us-what? Invisible? On top of all that, you hunted feldgrau with a trench knife; at least that's what your men claimed. I talked with some of them before I left Gafsa."

Macurdy shrugged. "I went off with Cavalieri a couple times, trying to be useful. There was a kind of thrill in it. But I never knifed a feldgrau. I suppose someone said, "I wonder what he's doing out there?', someone else made a guess, and a reputation was born." He paused. "That was a good platoon. Like brothers.

"Your new platoon must have been pretty damned good, too, considering what it did."

"How do you know what it did?"

"I researched you." Von Lutzow looked like the cat that got the cream. "I also know that Ike draped a Distinguished Service Cross around your neck for that night on Sicily. That's one hell of an honor."

Researched you. The words did not reassure Macurdy. His green-hazel eyes studied the captain. "How did you find me? And why? You connected with the provost marshal?"

Von Lutzow laughed. "Don't worry about that; it's already taken care of. We need to talk, you and I. Privately." He gestured, indicating the other convalescents in the room, some of them listening. "How'd you like to get out of here? Take a ride; eat in a restaurant. I've cleared it with your doctor."

Macurdy stood up, curious about where this was leading. "I could stand a change. Is this going to be your treat? I'm broke. My pay status is screwed up."

"That's taken care of too. Your back pay will catch up with you next payday."

"Huh!"

After he'd changed his slippers for shoes, Macurdy followed the captain outside and got into a jeep with him. Von Lutzow started it, then drove out the long driveway to the road. A country road; four years earlier, the hospital had been the palatial residence of a British earl. "You're walking well, Macurdy," he said, "for someone who had a chunk torn out of his ass by a piece of steel." He turned an intent eye on his passenger. "And that was about a month after a truck drove over your leg. According to Doc Alden, your leg looked like a giant purple watermelon."

Von Lutzow was enjoying himself; he grinned at Macurdy. "The doc here tells me I arrived just in time. Says if I'd come a week later, I'd have missed you- you'd have been off to rehab. He says your recovery has been nothing short of miraculous." He laughed. "Why is it I'm not surprised? Your right arm even healed to the same length as the left; that impressed him as much as anything. When they brought you in, they figured you might be ready to leave in four months. It's been less than one."

"How did you do that?"

Macurdy shrugged, a bit uncomfortable. "With mirrors," he said, then added, "honest to God." Quick-healing the shattered shoulder blade, after surgery, had involved holding a shaving mirror in his good hand to look at his back in a bathroom mirror. Then he'd manipulated the lines of force with his eyes and mind.

Von Lutzow gazed at him appraisingly. "I thought maybe it was your Aunt Varia. The guys in your platoon told me more about her than you did. They half believe in her, you know? And me? I believe in her all the way. Three-fourths at least."

Macurdy sidestepped the subject. "You were going to tell me how you found me," he said, "and why. I can kind of see the how-you knew I was with the 509th, they told you the outfit my mail had been forwarded to, and someone referred you to Doc Alden… That still leaves why."

Von Lutzow replied in German. "Because my outfit wants to recruit you."

Macurdy answered in Klara's baltisches Deutsch. "Have you cleared this with Division?"

Still in German, Von Lutzow replied, "You're not in the 82nd anymore. You've been assigned to ETOUSA-headquarters for the European Theater ofOperations U.S. Army. The whole shebang. It's also known as the paperwork capital of England and the chickenshit capital of the world. Which it needs to be."

Macurdy frowned. ETOUSA didn't sound like, anyplace he'd like to be. "And that's your outfit? I thought you were in G-2, some kind of spy."

"We're entirely separate from G-2. We're the OSS-the Office of Strategic Services. You'd like it; it's a good outfit, even more unconventional than the airborne." Von Lutzow cocked an eye at his passenger. "And it has an absolute minimum of chickenshit."