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  MORE PRAISE FOR W.E.B. GRIFFIN’S ALL-TIME CLASSIC SERIES,

  BROTHERHOOD OF WAR

  A sweeping military epic of the United States Army that

  became a New York Times bestselling phenomenon.

  “A MAJOR WORK…MAGNIFICENT…POWERFUL…If books about warriors and the women who love them were given medals for authenticity, insight and honesty, Brotherhood of War would be covered with them.”

  —William Bradford Huie, author of

  The Klansman and The Execution of Private Slovik

  “Brotherhood of War gets into the hearts and minds of those who by choice or circumstances are called upon to fight our nation’s wars.”

  —William R. Corson, Lt. Col. (Ret.) U.S.M.C.,

  author of The Betrayal and The Armies of Ignorance

  “Captures the rhythms of army life and speech, its rewards and deprivations…A WELL-WRITTEN, ABSORBING ACCOUNT.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “REFLECTS THE FLAVOR OF WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A PROFESSIONAL SOLDIER.”

  —Frederick Downs, author of The Killing Zone

  “LARGE, EXCITING, FAST-MOVING.”

  —Shirley Ann Grau, author of The Keepers of the House

  “A MASTER STORYTELLER who makes sure each book stands on its own.”

  —Newport News Press

  “GRIFFIN HAS BEEN CALLED THE LOUIS L’AMOUR OF MILITARY FICTION, AND WITH GOOD REASON.”

  —Chattanooga News-Free Press

  THE CORPS

  W.E.B. Griffin’s bestselling saga of

  the heroes we call Marines…

  “THE BEST CHRONICLER OF THE U.S. MILITARY EVER TO PUT PEN TO PAPER.”

  —Phoenix Gazette

  “A BRILLIANT STORY…NOT ONLY WORTHWHILE, IT’S A PUBLIC SERVICE.”

  —The Washington Times

  “GREAT READING. A superb job of mingling fact and fiction…[Griffin’s] characters come to life.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  “THIS MAN HAS REALLY DONE HIS HOMEWORK…I confess to impatiently awaiting the appearance of succeeding books in the series.”

  —The Washington Post

  “GRIFFIN’S BOOKS HAVE HOOKED ME…THERE IS NO ONE BETTER.”

  —Chattanooga News-Free Press

  “W.E.B. GRIFFIN HAS DONE IT AGAIN!”

  —Rave Reviews

  “ACTION-PACKED…DIFFICULT TO PUT DOWN.”

  —Marine Corps Gazette

  BADGE OF HONOR

  W.E.B. Griffin’s electrifying epic series

  of a big-city police force…

  “DAMN EFFECTIVE…He captivates you with characters the way few authors can.”

  —Tom Clancy

  “TOUGH, AUTHENTIC…POLICE DRAMA AT ITS BEST…Readers will feel as if they’re part of the investigation, and the true-to-life characters will soon feel like old friends. Excellent reading.”

  —Dale Brown, bestselling author of

  Day of the Cheetah and Hammerheads

  “COLORFUL…GRITTY…TENSE.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A REAL WINNER.”

  —New York Daily News

  “NOT SINCE JOSEPH WAMBAUGH have we been treated to a police story of the caliber that Griffin gives us. He creates a story about real people in a real world doing things that are AS REAL AS TODAY’S HEADLINES.”

  —Harold Coyle, bestselling author

  of Team Yankee and Sword Point

  “FANS OF ED MCBAIN’S 87TH PRECINCT NOVELS BETTER MAKE ROOM ON THEIR SHELVES…Badge of Honor is first and foremost the story of the people who solve the crimes. The characters come alive.”

  —Gainesville Times (GA)

  “GRITTY, FAST-PACED…AUTHENTIC.”

  —Richard Herman, Jr., author

  of The Warbirds

  TITLES BY W.E.B. GRIFFIN

  HONOR BOUND

  HONOR BOUND

  BLOOD AND HONOR

  SECRET HONOR

  BROTHERHOOD

  OF WAR

  BOOK I: THE LIEUTENANTS

  BOOK II: THE CAPTAINS

  BOOK III: THE MAJORS

  BOOK IV: THE COLONELS

  BOOK V: THE BERETS

  BOOK VI: THE GENERALS

  BOOK VII: THE NEW BREED

  BOOK VIII: THE AVIATORS

  BOOK IX: SPECIAL OPS

  THE CORPS

  BOOK I: SEMPER FI

  BOOK II: CALL TO ARMS

  BOOK III: COUNTERATTACK

  BOOK IV: BATTLEGROUND

  BOOK V: LINE OF FIRE

  BOOK VI: CLOSE COMBAT

  BOOK VII: BEHIND THE LINES

  BOOK VIII: IN DANGER’S PATH

  BOOK IX: UNDER FIRE

  BOOK X: RETREAT, HELL!

  BADGE OF HONOR

  BOOK I: MEN IN BLUE

  BOOK II: SPECIAL OPERATIONS

  BOOK III: THE VICTIM

  BOOK IV: THE WITNESS

  BOOK V: THE ASSASSIN

  BOOK VI: THE MURDERERS

  BOOK VII: THE INVESTIGATORS

  BOOK VIII: FINAL JUSTICE

  MEN AT WAR

  BOOK I: THE LAST HEROES

  BOOK II: THE SECRET WARRIORS

  BOOK III: THE SOLDIER SPIES

  BOOK IV: THE FIGHTING AGENTS

  BOOK V: THE SABOTEURS

  BOOK VI: THE DOUBLE AGENTS

  PRESIDENTIAL AGENT

  BOOK I: BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT

  BOOK II: THE HOSTAGE

  BOOK III: THE HUNTERS

  The Lieutenants

  BROTHERHOOD

  OF

  WAR BOOK I

  BY W.E.B. GRIFFIN

  JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE LIEUTENANTS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 1982 by W.E.B. Griffin.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-4406-3752-0

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a divisi
on of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For Uncle Charley and The Bull

  RIP October 1979

  And for Donn.

  Who would have ever believed four stars?

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  I

  On 14 February 1943, strong German armored units sallied forth from passes in south-central Tunisia on the front of the II U.S. Corps, commanded by Major General Lloyd R. Fredendall, in an attempt to turn the flank of the British First Army (Lt. Gen. Kenneth A. N. Anderson) and capture the base of operations that the Allies had set up around Tebessa. In a series of sharp armored actions, the Germans defeated the Allies and forced a withdrawal by American troops all the way back through Kasserine Pass and the valley beyond.

  American Military History 1607–1953

  Department of the Army, July 1956

  (One)

  Near Sidi-Bou-Zid, Tunisia

  17 February 1943

  Two tanks, American, which showed signs of hard use, moved slowly down a path. The terrain was undulating desert. Not sand dunes, but arid, gritty soil, with crumbling, fist-sized rocks and sparse vegetation. The dips in the land were just deep enough to conceal a tank. The high spots did not provide for much visibility. You could see for a mile, perhaps more, but a tank could be concealed in a dip a hundred yards away.

  Major Robert Bellmon, riding in the open turret of the lead M4A2 “Sherman” tank, his tanned body outside the hatch, was a tall and rangy young man who had graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point in 1939. He wore the Academy ring, a simple gold wedding band, and an issue Hamilton watch. The issue band had rotted, and had been replaced by a band stitched from the tail of a khaki shirt by the battalion tailor.

  Bellmon wore a khaki shirt, a cotton tanker’s jacket with a zipper front and knit cuffs and collar, wool olive-drab trousers, and a pair of nonregulation tanker’s boots, which looked like a combination of dress low quarters, field shoes, and combat boots; their uppers reached ten inches up his calves. He also wore an old style tanker’s helmet, which was like a football helmet to which earphones had been riveted. A Colt Model 1911A1 pistol was suspended half under his arm in a shoulder holster, and a pair of Zeiss binoculars, inherited from his father, hung around his neck.

  Although he had stopped the tank and carefully searched the desert three minutes before, and only thirty seconds before had ordered Sergeant Pete Fortin, the driver, to get moving, he did not see the Afrika Korps Panzerkampfwagen IV until the muzzle blast of its 75 mm turret cannon caught his eye. A half-second later the tungsten-steel projectile slammed into the hull of his M4A2.

  The Sherman shuddered. There was an awesome roar, followed immediately by the horrible screeching sound of tearing metal, lasting no more than a second. The M4A2 turned to the right, halfway off the track it had been following, and stopped dead. It had moved no more than eight feet after being struck.

  The impact of the armor-piercing shell threw Bellmon against the edge of the commander’s hatch, catching him in the rib cage. It bruised him severely, knocking the breath out of him, and almost throwing him out of the commander’s turret.

  He heard a groan, which sounded somewhat surprised, from inside the tank, but couldn’t tell who it was. When he looked down, dense black smoke had already begun to fill the tank’s interior. Without really thinking about what he was doing, acting in pure animal reflex, he hoisted himself out of the turret. There was a wave of pain.

  He just had time to curse himself for getting out of the turret—his duty clearly was to have gone into the hull to help the others—when an intensely hot spurt of flame erupted upward from the turret. He knew what had caused it. Pieces of metal from the projectile, and pieces torn from the hull itself, had ripped into the brass cases of the 75 mm cannon ammunition, slicing them open and spilling their powder. Then the powder had caught fire. When unconfined powder burns, it does not explode. The explosion came a moment later, as intact shell cases and gasoline fumes detonated.

  Bellmon felt himself flying through the air. He landed on his back upon the rocky ground, his shoulders striking the ground first, throwing him into a backward somersault, and knocking what was left of the wind in his lungs out of him. When he came to rest, he was conscious, but was incapable of movement.

  He was dimly aware of a second shot from a tank cannon, a sharp cracking noise, followed immediately by a heavier thump. Despite the pain in his ribs, he tried to get control of himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another. And another.

  Finally he was able to roll onto his side to see what had happened to the second M4A2, the other tank which had come out with him “to locate and assist the 705th Field Artillery Battalion.” It was immobile. There was no one in the turret, and oily smoke oozed out around the fuel tanks and the turret ring. No one had gotten out of that one.

  He heard the sound of a tank engine. He let himself fall slowly onto his face. He would play dead, though it was a slim chance at best. The crew of the German tank would more than likely give him a burst with the 7.93 mm machine gun. Prisoners were a nuisance in fast-moving tank warfare.

  He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe very slowly. His only hope was to make them think that he had been killed when his tank blew up. If he tried to surrender, all he would do would be to give them a better target.

  The PzKwIV ground to a halt near him. It was now the standard German medium tank, an efficient killing machine, into which had been incorporated all the lessons the German Panzertruppen had learned in France and Russia and here in Africa. Bellmon would have been willing to admit, privately, that it was a better tank than the Sherman.

  He knew the German tank commander was watching him. Then he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gritty soil.

  “Was ist er?”

  “Ein Offizier, Herr Leutnant. Mit einen gelben Blatt.”

  “Ein Major?” the first voice said. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” the self-confident voice above him said, matter-of-factly. “He’s breathing. Playing dead.”

  Good God, is my pretense that transparent?

  There was the sound of more booted feet on the gritty soil.

  “Please do not make it necessary for me to kill you, Herr Major,” the first voice said.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. Bellmon opened his eyes and found himself looking into the muzzle of a .45 Colt automatic. It was in the hands of a young, blond, good-looking lieutenant of the Afrika Korps. He wore the black tunic of the Panzertruppen above standard gray Wehrmacht trousers. He smiled at Bellmon. Then he reached down with his free hand and took Bellmon’s .45 from his shoulder holster.

  “You may sit up, please, Major,” he said. His English was British accented. “Are you injured?”

  Bellmon sat up. The lieutenant handed Bellmon’s .45 to the soldier with him. Another nice-looking, clean-cut, blond-headed boy, Bellmon thought.

  “Will you also give me, please, the holster?” the lieutenant asked. Bellmon pulled it over his head and held it out. The soldier held his Schmeisser 9 mm machine-pistol between his knees, took Bellmon’s shoulder holster, and put it over his head.

  “Make sure that isn’t loaded,” the lieutenant cautioned. The soldier took the magazine from the butt of the .45, saw that it was full, emptied it, and then put it back in the pistol, and then slipped the pistol into the holster.

  “The Colt is a very fine pistol, Major,” the lieutenant said.

  Bellmon didn’t reply.

  “Hel
p the major to his feet,” the lieutenant said.

  “Are you going to see to my men?” Bellmon asked, getting painfully to his feet unaided.

  The lieutenant actually looked unhappy as he made a sad gesture toward the two American tanks. They were both burning steadily. There was the smell of burned flesh. Bellmon willed back a spasm of nausea. He would not, he vowed, show weakness before his captors.

  The soldier took his arm and led him to the PzKwIV.

  “Please to get inside, Herr Major,” the lieutenant said.

  Bellmon climbed over the bogies, the wheels around which the track of the tank moved, and by which it was supported. A two-piece hatch in the side of the turret was open. The sweat-soaked face of an older man—probably the platoon sergeant, Bellmon judged, because there was something about him that told him he wasn’t an officer—looked out at him. Bellmon lowered his head and started to crawl into the turret.

  “Nein,” the face said to him. “Fuss vorwärts.”

  Bellmon pulled his head back out, turned around, and backed into the turret hatch.

  Inside the hull, which was more cramped than the hull of an M4A2, he was motioned to sit down on the floor. One of the crewmen (the driver, probably, he thought) came up with a length of field telephone wire. He looped it around Bellmon’s ankles, and then around his wrists, and tied his wrists to his ankles.

  Then he climbed out of sight. In a moment, there was the clash of gears, and the PzKwIV turned on one track, then went back in the direction from which it had come, to the east, toward the German lines.

  I am alive, Bellmon told himself. Bruised, a little groggy, but not really injured. This is where I am supposed to think that I will live to fight another day.

  He became aware that tears were blurring his vision and running down his cheeks. Was it shock? Was he weeping for Sergeant Pete Fortin and all the others? Or because the worst thing that could happen to an officer, capture, had happened to him? Did it matter? He lowered his head on his knees so that his captors would not see him crying.