Grantville Gazette, Volume 40 Read Free Page B

against a tree. He panted heavily and looked left and right. Where were his men? Where was Sergeant Greene? Had they all died? Sweat filled his eyes and his neck felt wet and mushy. He reached in and drew his hand back. Blood, a lot of it. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. I'm going to die . . . alone . He fought the urge to cry, stood upright and turned around the tree to run again.
    And there they stood. Two of them: German soldiers dressed head to toe in winter camo, difficult to see even this close with the wind and snow and sweat in his eyes; forward observers, perhaps. Rice put up his rifle and pointed it at the closest, the one screaming, " Runter! Runter! "The man motioned down with his rifle, while the one behind trained a pistol at Rice's chest.
    Rice couldn't understand the order, but the motion was clear. Slowly, he lowered his rifle and bent his knees as if he were going to sit down. Then he moved quickly, as he had been trained, bringing his rifle forward and pulling the trigger. The rifle kicked back against his shoulder, knocking him off balance, but the bullet hit the German square in the chest and put him down. One shot. One kill.
    The other fired his pistol but missed, as Rice fell back into the snow. He put his hand down to keep from falling all the way. He pushed himself up and aimed his rifle again. This time, he spoke.
    "Get down! Down, you fucking Kraut!"
    He had never screamed so loudly in his life, had never felt such anger and fear. The German must have felt it too, for he dropped the pistol and fell to his knees, arms in the air. " Bitte nicht s chießen! "
    On weak legs, Rice moved forward until he was but a few feet from the man. No, not a man. A boy. He saw that now. A mere child, much younger than Davis. His small, red-chapped face peeking out from underneath a thick, padded helmet. His frail, tiny arms raised in the air, thin and girlish. On his knees he didn't even come up to Rice's waist. He was a boy.
    But still a killer . And as Rice stood there, looking down at the boy, anger overtook his fear. He raised his rifle, aimed it carefully at the boy's chest, and fired.
    September, 1635, Grantville
    Mary Jo Blackwell and Sandra Sue Prickett sat in Ella Lou Rice's living room, sipping tea and sharing pleasantries. Ella Lou didn't know these women very well, but they came highly recommended by the Grantville library. "They know their stuff," the librarian told her. She would find out the truth of that soon enough.
    "More tea?" she asked, holding up the teapot with mildly cold hands. A month after John's death and the air already had a chill of autumn in it. Her old bones could not take the changing weather anymore, but she had opened the window a crack to oblige the hot-blooded youngsters sitting before her.
    "Please," Mary Jo said, holding up her cup.
    Ella Lou poured then set the teapot down next to the heirloom. "Thank you both for coming." She cleared her throat. "As you know, my husband John Thomas recently died. He was a veteran and served with distinction, being promoted to sergeant during World War Two, and then to Lieutenant afterwards." She picked up the silver heirloom and ran her thumb gently over the worn image on its front. "He got this during the war."
    She handed it to Sandra Sue and both ladies studied it, turning it over and over to see the details. "It's pretty old," Sandra Sue said. "It looks like the image of the Virgin Mary, perhaps holding the baby Jesus."
    "Yes," said Mary Jo, "and they're looking at something in the sky. Perhaps a cross or the face of God? It's hard to tell. Very religious, though. Catholic, maybe, or Lutheran. But we're not antiquities experts, Mrs. Rice, so don't take our word for the gospel. We're genealogists." Mary Jo laid it back down. "What exactly can we do for you?"
    Ella Lou breathed deeply, then said, "Ladies, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm quite old, and not long for this world. I'm trapped in this century against my will. I've