Tom, it developed, had a knack for learning foreign languages; in the field, at least, if not in a classroom. What was more important-much more-was that he discovered he had the right temperament for the work. He liked the German soldiers, and they liked him. He was easy-going, unflappable, friendly-and fearless.

True, that fearlessness had yet to be tested in a gun battle. But there was not a man in Heinrich's contingent who doubted the outcome. Fear, they knew, came from the mind, not the bullet or the pike. In the way such men have, many had tried to intimidate Tom in the first weeks.

Size be damned! Size isn't everything. Toughness is a thing of the mind. So, in the first few weeks after Tom joined their ranks, Heinrich's toughest veterans tested his alpha-male mettle.

Heh.

Tom never had to raise a hand. He was accustomed to the ferocious intimidation on the football fields of the nation's top universities. In the line. And he had been very good at it. His body wasn't quite up to the standards of professional football, but his mind certainly would have been.

By the time the battle of Jena began, the thing was settled. Tough Tom-gut Thomas!-stood in the front line, in the center, where he belonged. His comrades took strength and courage, seeing his huge form standing there.

Because that was what won battles, in the end. Not firepower and fancy marksmanship. Strength and courage.

So, needless to say, no one ogled his wife. But once the other women were gone, scampering up the ridge, some gave vent to their true sentiments.

"The Americans are crazy," grumbled Ferdinand, one of Heinrich's lieutenants. "You watch-those silly bitches'll start screaming as soon as the first gun goes off."

Glumly, Ferdinand stared up the slope. The bulk of the American soldiers, he knew, were positioned just over the crest of the ridge. "Then those soft-headed American men will drop their own guns and spend all their time trying to calm the women down."

He shifted his gaze, now staring up the road. Perhaps half a mile away, Ferdinand could spot the first enemy horsemen coming into sight. "You watch," he concluded sourly, "we'll wind up doing all the fighting." He stroked the sleek shotgun in his hands, finding solace in that wondrous rate of fire.

Heinrich, examining the same horsemen, sucked his teeth. "Maybe," he grunted. He lowered the binoculars and looked up the ridge. He spotted Frank almost at once. Two women-girls, in truth-were standing next to him. One of those girls, Heinrich knew, was Frank's own niece. He and Frank had become very friendly, over the past few months, and Heinrich knew full well that Frank shared his own reservations. On the other hand…

"I admit the damn girl can shoot," Frank had told him once. Grudgingly, true. But given Frank's definition of "shooting," Heinrich understood just how much praise was contained in that sullen admission.

He looked away. "Maybe," he repeated. A slight smile came to his face. "Then again-maybe not."

At that very moment, as it happens, Jeff and Larry were heaping their own praise onto Mike and Frank. And there was nothing grudging or sullen about it. The two young men had just realized what Mike intended, by positioning most of his American troops on the reverse slope of the ridge, just below the crest. They would be invisible to the enemy there, until he summoned them forth.

"Man, that's slick, Mike!" exclaimed Larry.

Mike jerked a thumb at Frank. "Tell him, not me. He's the pro-I'm just following his advice."

The adulation was transferred to Jackson. "Just like Wellington at Salamanca," intoned Jeff.

"And Le Haye Sainte," agreed Larry sagely.

Frank scowled. "Common fucking sense, is what it is. I learned this trick from a sergeant in Nam. I think he learned it from the NVA. So who the hell is Wellington?"

Jeff and Larry goggled at him for a moment. Then, in a small voice, Jeff said: "He's the guy they named your favorite boots after."

Now, Frank was impressed. "Oh," he said. "Him. Good man! Whoever he was."

And, at that very moment, Gretchen struck the first blow against a different enemy. A much less concrete foe, in her case-and a much harder one to vanquish.

"All right," said Mathilde, one of the women in the shack. Her voice was hesitant, uncertain. She glanced quickly at the four other women huddled on pallets against the walls. Two of them were Mathilde's sisters; the other two, cousins. Both her cousins and one of her sisters were nursing babies.

Mathilde's own fears and doubts were mirrored in their faces.

"I do not ask you to take great risks," Gretchen said immediately. "Nothing you are too scared to do. But I think you will find everything much easier by tomorrow. After the battle is won, Jena's high and mighty notables will not be so quick to accuse anyone of witchcraft."

The women in the shack stared at her. They were still frightened, Gretchen saw. They had been frightened and nervous since the moment Gretchen approach Mathilde and one of her cousins. The two young women had been part of the crowd watching the American army march past. Gretchen had singled them out within a minute of Jeff's flamboyant departure. She had been guided less by instinct than by her own hard experience. She knew how to recognize desperate women-and, what was more important, women who still retained their backbones.

Frightened, yes; nervous, yes. But Gretchen knew her choice had been well-aimed. The women had still listened, as she spoke, with neither protest nor any attempt to drive her out of their miserable dwelling in Jena's worst slum.

Mathilde and her extended family were part of the great mass of poor women whom the war had driven into dire straits. All of them were refugees from the Palatinate, who had found a sanctuary in Jena. The adult men in the family were all dead or gone, except for Mathilde's crippled uncle. He was sleeping quietly in the next-door shack.

Mathilde and the prettiest of her cousins supported the family by prostitution. Jena was a good town for the trade, what with its large population of young male students, most of whom were from Germany's nobility and prosperous burgher class. But if Jena was a sanctuary, it was a precarious one. Women of their kind were only tolerated so long as they kept their place. For almost a century, since the witch-hunting craze began, it was wretched creatures such as they who were the first to be accused of witchcraft. The accusation was almost impossible to disprove, even if the area's notables were willing to listen to protestations of innocence-which, more often than not, they weren't in the least.

"Trust me," Gretchen stated. "After today, the notables will be much less full of themselves."

"You are so sure?" asked one of the cousins. Her voice, for all the meekness of its tone, held a trace of hope.

Gretchen gave no answer beyond a level gaze. But that was enough. For all their fears, the women in the shack were quite dazzled by her. They could tell she was one of their own kind. Yet the woman seemed so-so Sure. Confident. Poised.

Powerful. They had never seen a woman like that. Not once. Not from their own class…

"All right," said Mathilde again. This time, the words were spoken firmly. "We will do as you say, Gretchen. We will start here, with us. There are some others we can talk to, also." Mathilde glanced at her sisters and cousins. "Hannelore, I think. And Maria."

One of her sisters nodded. Mathilde's cousin Inga, the other prostitute, smiled. As if a dam had burst, she began to speak quickly and eagerly: