I The quiet study had a peculiarly English quality. It had something to do with the humidor and the blazing fire, and the soft green leather chair. Had those books ever been read? The Englishman in the middle of it all lit his pipe, again, and studied the report in front of him. A quiet knock on the door and it opened to allow a man to enter. The door was closed as quickly as it had opened; the hand of the doorman was burly and much thicker than a normal man's hand.
"Colonel Smythe?" The Englishman turned, slowly, and waved his guest to another chair by the fire. The man was tall and intense, in an American Army uniform which had become quite a common sight in the past couple of years. "What's with the gorilla at the door?"
"Hullo, Major Allison. Just Whitehall's idea of security. Brandy?" Allison shook his head `no.' Smythe took a long, small sip of his own. "I've been asked to brief you on the events in the Soviet Union surrounding yesterday's invasion of Sicily."
"Russia?" Allison adjusted his position in the chair, with a noisy leather and spring sound. He was more accustomed to hard American furniture, and the uniform still didn't feel right.
"Yes. Our sources in Rome tell us that support for Mussolini is crumbling. If we are successful in taking Sicily, there is every chance that Mussolini will topple and Italy will leave the war."
"That's terrific, Colonel. Patton's on his way to Palermo and Monty, er, General Montgomery, will soon be in Messina."
"Yes, if Patton doesn't beat him there. The problem is that Hitler knows this as well as we do. He almost canceled a major offensive - Operation Citadel - to send troops to Sicily. He was talked out of it, of course, but the word is that if Patton or Monty reach the foothills of Mt. Etna, he will call his "Valkyrie Squadron" from the Eastern front to `save' Sicily." The pipe lit, Smythe sat back and enjoyed the fire's effect on his creaking old bones.
"The `Valkyrie Squadron?'"
"Yes, Major. Five of the most fearsome paranormals in the world. If any of them had the power of flight the battle of Britain would have been lost in 1940. Now let me ask you a question: how many super-powered agents can you spare in Sicily?"
"If I'd known the heavy hitters were going to be there, I'd have assigned the entire Allied contingent. As it is, they're all engaged in direct combat right now. I can't pull any away, except..."
"Here's the point, Major: I've spoken with your General Eisenhower, and he quite agrees with me. If any of the `Hit Squad' are spotted in Sicily during this invasion, the thing's off. We're pulling out."
"But that's outrageous!" Allison struggled to sit up in the chair, "we're winning Sicily. How can Ike do that?" "
He can do that because he knows what Autumn Fog and Barbarossa and the rest have done to the Soviet Red Army. They are quite simply a force of nature, Allison. Unless we can match them power-to-power, the show is off until we can. Now, the question to you is: can you assure a balance of power in Sicily?"
Allison stood and walked to the bar, glancing at the steady rain through the window. Rain in July - what a country. "Mind if I take that drink now, Smythe?" His host nodded and he poured two fingers of Scotch and drank it quickly. "I'll level with you. I couldn't match the `Hit Squad' with our whole `Murderer's Row.' As it is I can give you one man. He's headed to the Pacific, but I'll pull him off the plane right now."
"A man? But surely..."
"We all want this invasion to succeed Smythe. You tell Ike to give this guy a chance. That's all I ask."
"That's a heavy gamble with two Allied armies. Perhaps the whole war will hinge on this invasion. Are you sure?"
"No," Allison picked up his hat and walked to the door, "but if Barbarossa himself had me right now, this is the guy I'd call for help." Allison rapped on the door and the impossibly large hand pushed it open. "I'll be in touch."
Smythe, left alone with his brandy and his fire, sniffed thoughtfully. "Americans," he said out loud.
II The Sicilian sky was bright and nearly cloudless. Elements of Patton's 7th Army struggled toward Messina, the city in the northeast corner of the triangular island, and the key to victory. To the southeast Mt. Etna loomed over the terrain like an angry school-master. Ahead lay the German Hermann Goering Division, the remnants of the legendary Afrika Corps, and the Italian Army.
On a rocky embankment overlooking a crossroads only 20 miles from the city, Bravo Company of the U.S. Army 45th Division waited for the rest of the army to catch up with them. They exchanged sporadic fire with the German troops on the other side of the road and prepared to push ahead when the armor caught up. The uneven terrain was a perfect defensive position. Since they had been on the move for two days straight, the men of Bravo were glad to be off their feet.
"Where's the counter-attack?" The low voice of Master Sergeant Moore cut through the afternoon haze. "We've never pushed this far without taking some heat back from them. It's like they're waiting for something."
"If they wait a little longer, they's gonna see our new tanks, right sarge?" The young private waved the flies away and dug his spoon into his k-rations - cold chipped beef. In the field, you eat when you can.
"Keep your voice down, Briggs. It won't be much longer - they're here now."
The sound of gnashing gears and the feel of trembling ground were the first indication that the armored column had arrived. Five Sherman tanks, factory-new when they arrived on the island, were dust-covered and scarred from combat. Without hesitation, they rumbled into the crossroads, covering all sides and peppering the German infantry positions with machine gun fire. The road itself was littered with the baggage and carts of the thousands of refugees who had fled the battle area, and the tanks toppled them into the shallow gullies alongside the road.
"Where's the kraut tanks?" Pvt. Briggs' spit. German infantry rarely operated without armored support nearby. Some of the German tanks they'd faced were like the reliable Sherman, some were much, much better.
"You're right, Briggs - they are waiting for something. Get Lieutenant Johnson." Briggs ran down the back side of the embankment, toward the center of their line, trying not to raise dust from his boots.
Silence. In war, there's nothing quite like it. Moore knew all about the long hours of fear and the short seconds of panic - he'd been with the 45th since the beginning in North Africa where Rommel kicked them around like amateurs before they'd straightened up.
The heat plumes from the idling tanks rose in the air and Moore thought about the Chevy sedan that waited for him at home. Sitting in traffic, waiting for a light. That used to seem hard.
"What's going on, Sergeant?" Briggs and Lt. Johnson scuttled over and hunched down behind the rock formation.
"Nothing, sir. I think we should take a crack at that infantry position. They may have pulled out without us seeing it. Nobody's even taking a shot at those tanks, and they're sitting ducks for a bazooka."
"You're right, Sergeant. I was just thinking the same thing. Take your platoon and give me a recon."
"Yes, sir." Moore raised his fist in the air and pumped it up and down twice, the signal to "form on me." Moore raised himself from the ground and shouldered his `grease gun.'
"Hold it!" Lt. Johnson's voice froze the platoon a step from their hiding places.
From the German position, five large human figures walked slowly onto the road. The sunlight gleamed on their metal tunics. As they approached the tanks it became obvious that they were at least nine feet in height, and nearly as thick as the Shermans.
The tanks held their fire, as the strangers wore no uniforms and could have been the local wrestling team for all they knew. Moore waved his men back to their positions on the ridge. One of the figures walked up to the lead tank and stood examining it for a moment. A call in a strange language seemed to rouse the titans.
"That could that have been Latin," thought Lt.Johnson, "I should have listened better in high school." At once, the huge man unsheathed his thick, pointed sword and raised it over his head. He shouted an ancient curse and struck the tank with the sword. The impact was deafening, and Sgt. Moore and his men were knocked off their feet a hundred yards away. The other four giants leaped on the Shermans, and began pummeling them with horrible effectiveness. The sound was as loud as an artillery barrage, and those men who could covered their ears and watched in awe.
The first sword blow had made a visible crease in the frontal - and thickest - armor of the lead tank. The five-pointed white American star was cleaved in two and the interior of the tank was opened. The driver's compartment was the first to be destroyed, and the blood of Specialist 3 Dwayne Hannover ran to the ground. To all appearances, the tank itself was bleeding.
Lt. Johnson looked on in horror, saying nothing. Stg. Moore, having once seen a super-powered individual in New York (he couldn't tell if he was a good guy or a bad guy and had never heard of him before or since), began firing his submachine gun. Other men in the unit did likewise. The sound of their bullets striking the metal suits - and even the skin - of the huge creatures was like a hailstorm on a tin roof, and had about as much effect.
Three tanks were soon shattered, and began burning as their ammunition set off their fuel tanks. The giants attacking them turned toward the infantry and in two great leaps covered the hundred yards to the top of the rock position. They were on the American soldiers before anyone could retreat, and took a bloody prize, killing a half-dozen before anyone could raise a gun. They laughed and spoke loudly to each other in their strange language as they each grabbed a soldier and snapped him backwards at the waist until there was no movement.
At the crossroads, the two remaining tanks had backed into a defensive position, and were turning their turrets to fire on the attackers. The lead giant sprung to a turret and with a chop of his great sword the cannon was removed. It was too late for the crew, who couldn't know their cannon was disabled and fired the round that killed them, the high-explosive shell detonating in the firing chamber and killing the crew instantly. The giant was flung into the ditch on the side of the road by the force of the explosion, and landed hard on a country horse-cart among the bodies of several refugees.
The last tank fired a high-explosive round into the roadbed before the giant, which succeeded in knocking him from his feet. The engine roared in a high pitch as the tracks dug into the soft Italian road and charged the stricken figure. The front of the tank popped into the air as it ran over the giant, who screamed in agony.
"Fall back!" Lt. Johnson screamed as he watched his men being torn to pieces by the creatures. "RTO!" The Radio-Telephone Operator, always a few steps behind the officer, ran forward, unstrapping the handset and cranking the generator handle on the large, heavy backpack.
"There's a radio code for this," Johnson mumbled as he tore through his notebook. "Where - okay! It says in case of super-powered attack, call zulu-zulu-zulu." It took a long second for the RTO to connect, but finally though the static the answer came.
"This is Allied Paranormal Command; what is your situation?" The voice was calm through the cracking line.
"This is Lt. Johnson, 45th Division, Bravo company. We're under attack. Five huge men in skirts with street-brushes on their heads."
"Bravo, this is AlPanCom. Are they using swords?"
"Yes, AlPanCom, they're, Jesus, they're killing us. They just smashed an armored cav platoon."
"Okay, Bravo, you've got Legionnaires. Roman Legion soldiers with super-strength and weapons. You need to fall back immediately. They have no distance weapons, so get out of reach and stay there. Have you ever studied magic? Do you believe in the Black Arts or know their language? Over?"
"Black what? Come back."
"Never mind. You're in Northern Sicily, right?"
"That's affirm." "
Hold on. Help's on the way. AlPanCom out."
Lt. Johnson looked at the dead receiver. "Well, they were a lot of help. Sergeant!"
"Sir!"
"Fall back in platoons to the last ridge."
"Yes, Si-" Moore was jarred from his feet by the unexpected speed of the Legionnaire's attack. Pinned to the ground by the foot of the enormous creature, Moore could feel the breath leave his body and his vision begin to fade. The glare of the sun in the sky above him, and the sneer of the behemoth killing him were to be his last vision in life.
Ten feet away two other Legionnaires chased the men of Bravo, leaping in front of their retreat and bringing them down in horrible, wet screams. At the crossroads, a Legionnaire pummeled the tank that was crushing his brother, taking the top off the turret with his sword like opening a can of rations. The troops of the German 15th Panzergrenadier Division rushed from their cover to counterattack the reeling Americans.
On the ground, the Sergeant knew it was over for him as he stared at the sky and tried to stay conscious. For a quarter-second the sun was blocked, and in that time Moore was certain the end had come. He heard a ugly, bone-breaking sound. He felt the foot crushing his chest jar suddenly, and then come off. The dust flew in a cloud and the rocks shook as the Legionnaire hit the ground like a tree hit by lightening. Dazed, Moore slowly sat up.
A man stood on the highest point of the ridge, maybe ten feet away, tall and straight among the criss-crossing bullets. When he gave orders his voice was like Churchill and FDR at once, and the sound traveled across the field somehow, so everyone could hear him. He raised his red-gloved fist in the air and pumped it twice. "FORM ON ME!" he boomed.
Moore lay back, nursing his shattered chest. It was okay now. Captain America had arrived.
III The soldiers of the 45th stopped in their tracks an looked back in awe. It really was Captain America on the ridge. His voice was so commanding that even the Legionnaires stopped and turned. When he gave the order to form, no man hesitated.
Keeping away from the Romans as best they could, Bravo Company reached the ridge at the same time the German Panzergrenadiers did, and there was an audible crash as the two sides started close combat assault on the run.
Cap swung a roundhouse at the first German who came close, and hit him solidly in the throat, breaking his windpipe. As he turned to face another, the two Legionnaires who had attacked Bravo Company bounded twenty feet in the air to land on him. Cap twisted out of their way at the last second, avoiding their crushing blows but so closely that he felt the hair of their legs brush past him.
"I've got to move this fight away from the infantry," Cap thought, "they can handle the krauts themselves if I can keep these Legionnaires away." Sweeping the leg from under one of the Legionnaires, Cap tumbled down the ridge to where the last Legionnaire was finishing off the tank that had crushed his comrade. As he crouched to leap on the tank, a Legionnaire landed a blow to his back, upsetting his jump so that Cap rolled to the feet of the waiting Legionnaire. The Roman grabbed Cap by the arm and lifted him. His expression was one of terrible anger and pain.
"What is this peacock that kills our brother?" The words of ancient Latin, the language of the Roman Empire, were translated in Cap's mind by the science of Doc Savage's electronic translator.
The two remaining Legionnaires, their faces covered with dust and their bodies stained with the blood of their victims and shards of metal from the incessant gunfire which had been poured on them, approached slowly. "This is not like the others, Centurion. He avoids our swords and his blows can hurt us. Still, it is a mere `human,' like the others. Kill it and then we will build a funeral pyre for our brothers."
"My name is Captain America," Cap's words - translated by Savage's device - surprised the Legionnaires, who had only heard a handful of humans speak their language. They took a step closer to see his face and hear his words. They ignored the sounds of battle behind them for a moment. "I represent the United States of America. If you surrender now I promise you will be treated humanely as prisoners of war."
"What!?" The Centurion was outraged, "this small thing promises to spare US?"
"You take it too seriously, brother," the Roman laughed, "please. We will tell this story to our grandchildren to make them laugh when they scrape their knee. Ask it what its terms are for surrender."
Cap, hanging from his arm where the Centurion held him off the ground with ease, caught the laughing Roman with his eye and the giant stopped laughing.
"No conditions," Captain America said, "surrender is unconditional."
There was a moment of stunned silence as the Legionnaires understood that this small, frail creature at their mercy was deadly serious. "Kill it and we will rejoin the battle! Our Gallic allies begin to retreat before these `Americans.' We can waste no more time here."
The Legionnaire raised his sword to deliver the killing blow to the helplessly dangling Captain America. He aimed his studied and skilled sword-arm to strike the chest of his victim. In a flash the sword came forward like a jackhammer, but it was a half-second slower than Cap's indestructible shield. It glanced a degree to the right, losing little of its power, and Cap kicked the Legionnaire's arm toward the Centurion who held him. The Sword penetrated both armor and skin, and buried deep in the chest of its unintended victim. He screamed his final agony and doubled over. The two remaining Legionnaires roared in their anguish and rage.
Unfortunately for them, neither the Roman Army nor their present-day masters had trained them to defend their nerve centers and vital organs from an expert attack. While the Legionnaire pulled his sword from the Centurion's chest and watched his dead comrade slump to the ground, Cap rolled to his feet and planted five shield blows in succession to his vital organs. The Legionnaire teetered for a moment, tried to raise his arm, found that he couldn't, and slumped to the ground, unconscious.
"You are a wily foe, barbarian," the last Legionnaire stood to his full height, towering three feet over Captain America's head. "You will make a worthy trophy in the encampment. When Pluto greets us in the underworld, my brothers and I will toast this day."
Cap feigned to his right and rolled left, swinging his shield at the Legionnaire's midsection. The giant anticipated the move and caught Cap with a solid blow to his left side, sending him hard into the dirt. He followed quickly with a sword stroke that Cap barely avoided.
"Your tricks will not save you. You have destroyed my company. I will not rest until you are dead. In this body I do not tire, but I see your breathing has become labored. You sweat like a plebeian. Your time has come."
The Legionnaire was right. Fighting super-powered foes was unbelievably exhausting, even for the world's greatest fighter. Cap rested on one knee and caught his breath as the creature spoke. Then he rose proudly and addressed the creature.
"You may kill me and you may not, but either way you're going to lose. I come from a nation of free men, and if I go down ten more will follow in my place. Where I come from freedom and Liberty are cherished over life itself. I will die for what I believe in. And if I do you'll have to kill the ten who replace me, and the hundred who replace them."
"Nice words, human, but where are your ten to save you now?"
"Here!" From the top of the ridge Private Meyer Briggs thumped his chest with his fist and winked at Cap. Behind him Corporal Anthony Phillips stepped forward.
"Here!" He called. From behind him the rest of Bravo Company advanced and yelled "Here!" declaring their freedom in defiance of the unnatural creature. With the Legionnaires concentrating on Cap the German troops had been defeated, their soldiers either captured or killed. Soon the ridge was lined with American soldiers, each shouting in turn: "Here!"
"I see the day is lost to me, human. You may take the field, but I will soon return with my Cohort."
The Roman bounded back in the direction of Messina, and was out of sight in four mighty leaps.
The men of Bravo raised a cheer. Captain America looked up at the motley assortment of men. Some were city street-toughs, some were country bumpkins, others were silver-spoon rich kids. None of that mattered. Cap had never felt so proud.
IV On a warm Italian evening at a small airstrip just outside Reggio di Calabrio on mainland Italy, only a few miles across the water from Messina, a German transport aircraft made its way sluggishly to the ground. It landed heavily, bouncing three times on the runway. As it approached the small terminal, it was redirected toward the lone hangar. German troops of the Waffen SS rolled a tall stairway to the plane as it came to a stop and its engines sputtered out.
The door popped open and several officers walked out just fast enough to not be accused of fleeing. The stench that exited with the cabin air was almost visible and stopped the veteran SS troops cold. They waited by the door covering their faces with their sleeves.
Finally, a figure stepped out of the plane. He bent his head low and turned his body sideways to make it through the door. The stairway creaked audibly as it bore his weight. Once out, he stretched his arms in the air and let out a deep sigh that was somehow awful. He sucked the pure night air in his enormous nostrils and let it out. The SS men scampered down the stairs, knowing something was deeply, deeply, wrong.
A man no taller than the creature's armpit stepped gingerly from the plane behind him. His SS Colonel uniform was perfectly pressed and displayed an impressive array of medals. As he rubbed his slender hands with an extremely rare cream, he smiled.
Barbarossa had arrived in Italy.