by C T Glatte
He heard the crunch of a cracking skull. Joe went limp. Rex felt for a pulse and found one. “Sorry bout this,” he uttered. “Can’t have you keeping tabs on me.” He lifted the rock and was about to bring it down onto Joe’s head a final time. The cadre had trained him how to kill and he was one of their best students, but now that he was confronted with actually killing in cold blood—he hesitated. “Dammit,” he cursed.
Rex put the rock down, went to other backpack and pulled out a tightly wound length of thin rope. He quickly tied Joe’s arms and legs, then wrapped gauze and bandages around his bleeding head. Joe’s eyes lolled and rolled and he murmured something the translator couldn’t decipher.
He propped Joe up in a protected pocket formed by crisscrossing driftwood pieces. He left him a half-filled canteen and placed the hidden knife beside it. He checked the ropes. The cadre had trained them extensively in escape, particularly how to free oneself from ropes. He knew Joe would be able to escape, assuming his head-wound didn’t kill him first, but it would take time. Enough time for Rex to disappear.
He emptied Joe’s pack, taking the rest of the food and water. He stood over him and considered killing him. It was the right thing to do. Leaving him alive was an unnecessary risk and he knew The cadre would have killed him without a second thought. The thought made his decision even easier. I’m not one of them. “Good luck, Joe.” He turned and walked inland.
10
Private Hans Jowitzki was in the sixth LVT to motor its way off the troop-carrying Landing Craft Vehicles and churn toward the East Coast of the United States, towards a town called, Dover. He was huddled in the armored vehicle beside his fellow comrades, shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was from the fear or the cold, but either way, he wished he were anywhere else but there.
He glanced to his right and saw Sergeant Kline staring at him with an evil grin. “Don’t look so damned glum, Private. It’s a good day to die, don’t you think?” Jowitzki’s blank stare made him laugh uproariously. He slapped his back and Hans flinched. “Fine German soldier,” he teased.
Hans ignored him and looked straight ahead, concentrating on the helmeted head in front of him. He gripped his weapon tighter, happy to have the StG-44 machine-gun.
His unit had been issued the weapon just before shipping out but practiced with targets on the open sea while they traveled to their takeoff point. He was impressed with the accuracy and rate of fire. It was a little unwieldy, but worth the extra fire-power it brought to the battlefield. If I make it that far.
The boat shuddered as an incoming shell exploded nearby. Hans cringed and looked around the cramped space. He knew there was only one way out, through the massive front gate, but it wouldn’t drop until they hit the beach. It took all his resolve to stay calm. He heard someone praying and realized it was his own voice. Another shell landed nearby and he felt the craft list to the side slightly. Oh God, I’ll either burn or drown. He continued praying, something he hadn’t done since he was a boy.
He felt a hand on his right hip squeezing. He turned and in the dim light saw his long-time friend Carl’s eyes, barely visible beneath the brim of his helmet. Carl gave him a curt smile. “It’ll be okay, right?”
Hans had always been the strong one, always climbing higher, taking chances. Carl was his best friend, timid but always up for some fun. He’d watch Hans and if he were successful in whatever game or feat they were trying at the moment, he’d follow. This was different though. This was beyond skill, they’d die or live based only upon chance and it terrified him. Seeing Carl’s eyes though, he realized he had to put on a stoic face, if only to keep Carl from losing it.
Hans took a deep breath and nodded. He even managed a strained smile. “Sure thing, Carl. Sure thing.” He immediately felt better having someone to watch over.
They were two of the youngest soldiers in the company. They’d been in high school only the year before. They’d both joined up right out of school, hoping to become pilots, but the Army needed soldiers so they found themselves wearing the mottled gray camouflage of the infantry. A whirlwind of a year passed, full of screaming sergeants and endless training and now here they were churning toward a foreign, hostile shore.
The mounted machine gun on top of the track opened fire, making Hans flinch. He could only see the bottom half of the gunner’s body, the rest sticking up from the cupola, leaning into the MG42 and firing short bursts. He turned back toward Carl. “Must be getting close,” he yelled over the machine gun’s din. Carl hunched and nodded. Hans licked his suddenly dry lips. “Wh-when the ramp drops, let’s stick together.” Carl met his eyes and nodded. The fear coming off him was almost palpable. “We’ll be okay if we stick together.”
The sudden sound of hammer blows on metal made talking or hearing impossible. Hans covered his ears. It reminded him of being inside a thin metal shed during an especially brutal hail storm. He remembered his father grinning and holding his shaking body close, calming him. His father wasn’t there to protect him now, and it wasn’t harmless hail, but enemy bullets smacking the metal skin.
The MG42 gunner lurched and fell inside the compartment. Blood sprayed the walls and dripped from the cupola. “Schiesse,” someone yelled.
Sergeant Kline gripped the man nearest the hole and pushed him forward. “Man the gun. Get up there, now!”
The private’s eyes were wide as plates but he gulped, nodded, leaned his StG-44 along the blood-spattered wall and stepped onto the metal platform. He reached up, finding the butt of the MG42, then stood. Hans watched his body as he worked the bolt and leaned forward and started firing. He wondered what he was seeing. What the hell was going on out there? How close were they? What were they facing?
The MG42 fired longer sustained bursts. Another explosion rocked them and Hans saw sea water enter through the cupola, mixing with the blood and sloshing on his boots. He gripped his weapon and glanced back at Carl who seemed to be muttering a prayer of his own.
The vehicle suddenly lurched and Hans thought sure they’d been hit, but instead the movement of the vehicle changed. The churning treads had found purchase on the rocky bottom and the LVT was transitioning from floating to driving. Any second now.
The MG42 kept hammering and he heard the gunner yelling something he couldn’t make out. He sounded as though he were either terrified or exultant beyond measure.
The LVT lurched to a halt and rocked on its chassis. This is it. Light suddenly filled the compartment as the front door dropped forward and clanged onto the rocky beach. “Go!” he heard Lieutenant Walsh yell.
Hans pushed the man in front who was pushing the next man and they spilled out the doorway. The scene was absolute chaos. Bullets whizzed and zipped past his head, smacking rocks and armor, caroming in every direction with bizarre noises.
Hans kept pushing the man in front—moving forward— his legs seeming to work on their own. Suddenly the soldiers back exploded in gore and Hans felt the warm blood wash over his face. He tripped over the body and went down hard, still clutching his weapon as though it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He felt a boot on his back as a fellow soldier ran over the top of him. His face ground into the rocks and he tasted salt water on his tongue. He looked up and got his first real glimpse of hell.
There were German soldiers everywhere, some crawling, some running, some torn apart. Bullets swept the beach, sending geysers of sand, rock and blood into the air. Mortar shell explosions erupted all around, sending men flying sideways or simply turning them to bits and pieces.
He looked beyond the beach and saw countless muzzle flashes. Someone close yelled, “Move! Move or die!” He didn’t know if it was directed at him, but his body responded and he pushed himself forward, keeping as low as possible.
A soldier ran past him screaming and firing his StG-44 from the hip. Hans thought he should get on his feet and join him, but changed his mind when the soldier’s gray mottled camouflage suddenly blossomed red and he dropped like his pupp
et strings had been cut.
He suddenly remembered Carl. He stopped crawling and looked behind. The LVT he’d come from was grinding backwards, the front door now closed, making room for the next wave. The MG42 was still firing and he wondered if the soldier had simply stayed on it, or given the gun up to a member of the crew. He wished he were back on it.
The sound of bullets hitting flesh snapped him back to the moment at hand. He didn’t see Carl anywhere. “Carl!” he yelled, “Carl!” There were mounded bodies between him and water and he wondered if one of them was his friend. He started to shake uncontrollably.
He saw his comrades stacked along a low depression further up and realized he was lagging behind. He didn’t want to move, but his training kicked in and he pushed forward on his belly, scraping the front of his helmet. His vision was fuzzy and he wiped tears from his eyes.
The ground erupted a few feet to his right and he cringed, feeling the heat of shrapnel lancing over his back. He kept pushing until he bumped into someone’s boots. He pushed forward working his way between the line of cowering soldiers clinging to the beach.
He rolled to his back staring at the broken overcast sky. He’d made it to relative safety, a slight depression near a seawall. He shut his eyes and murmured a prayer.
He heard Sergeant Kline’s voice over the din of enemy fire. “Open fire! Covering fire!”
Forgetting Carl for a moment, Hans rolled back to his stomach and pulled his legs beneath him. He put the StG-44 to his shoulder and rose up. He saw a concrete bunker only meters away spewing fire and he flicked the safety lever up and pulled the trigger. The weapon bucked in his hand and he pulled it tight into his shoulder. His bullets chipped rock and sparked against metal. He dropped down breathing hard. It felt good to fight back.
A mortar round exploded beside the man to his left, sending a shock wave that stunned him. He rolled on his back, the pounding in his head like nothing he’d experienced. The only sound, an intense ringing.
He opened his eyes and saw Sergeant Kline yelling something he couldn’t hear. He watched him run forward and Hans rolled back to his belly, intending to follow. He looked left and saw the staring eyes of the soldier he’d rolled in beside. He reached out, gripping his shoulder and his torso came away from his legs, spilling grayish intestines onto the bloody ground.
The scene terrified him and he lurched to his feet and ran forward firing from the hip. He yelled and fired until all thirty rounds were expended and his barrel glowed red. Something caught his ankle and he tripped and rolled sideways into a deep bomb crater. He struggled to get up and continue running but there was suddenly a weight on his chest.
“Get a hold of yourself, Private!” yelled Sergeant Kline. Sanity returned a moment later and he nodded and Kline moved off him. “Reload. We’re taking that bunker.”
Hans noticed other wide-eyed soldiers in the hole. Some were spread out near the top, others cowered in the bottom. He searched for Carl but didn’t see his friend. “C-Carl? Anyone seen Carl?” No one responded, only stared and gripped their weapons preparing for the next hellish moment.
Sergeant Kline pointed at Hans and three others nearby. “You four cover us. On my command unleash hell. We’ll flank right and take it out.”
Hans and the rest nodded their understanding. Hans snapped in a fresh magazine and crawled up the side of the wet, sandy hole. He went right up to the lip and peeked over. The bunker was a few meters away, off to the left. It continued to spew fire. He glanced toward the sea and saw more LVTs disgorging troops. He saw men fall, spinning and dropping as the MG cut them to shreds. Anger filled him. “I’m coming with you, Sergeant,” he growled.
Sergeant Kline didn’t object, only nodded. “On the count of three: one, two, three. Now!” Hans pushed himself down the crater wall as the three soldiers fired on the bunker, then ran up the side wall, right on Sgt. Kline’s butt.
Bullets whizzed past him, not from the bunker but the trench-line directly in front. He moved right, spreading out to make a harder target. He saw an enemy soldier only meters away rising up, aiming an M1. Hans didn’t have time to aim. He fired from the hip, but at this range, he couldn’t miss. The 8mm bullets stitched a line up the GI’s chest. He was hurled backwards, hitting the back wall. Hans leaped and landed in the trench. He rolled into the back wall and came up with his weapon ready.
He sensed someone charging his back, he spun and fired. At least one bullet lanced through the GI’s head, ending his charge. The soldier’s momentum carried his body into Hans and he collapsed under the dead man’s weight. He felt his breath leave his lungs as he hit the ground and he gasped like a guppy out of water, desperately trying to breathe.
Another GI was suddenly above him. Hans tried to move but it was useless, he was pinned. He’d die here. Hans closed his eyes, waiting for the shot that would end his short life. Will I hear it? Will I feel it? A moment passed and when he opened his eyes the soldier was simply gone.
Hans looked around stunned, the only sound, the ringing in his ears. He felt the dead body weight lighten and suddenly he could breathe again. He rolled to his stomach and threw up violently. He jolted when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun and saw his friend, Carl. “What happened to sticking together?” Carl asked.
Lieutenant Fromkor Guth watched the invasion of the United States with fascination and longing. He leaned against the ship railing, his upper arms gripping and releasing in anticipation of combat. He watched the LVTs churning onto the beaches disgorging German and Scandinavian troops. He couldn’t help grinning as he watched the human’s fickle bodies being torn apart by bullets and bombs. A salvo of heavy shells from a German battleship arced over his head and he watched the explosions demolish buildings inland as though they were made of sand.
His lower arms caressed the heavy MG42 he’d take into battle. It wasn’t the trusty laz-blaster he was used to wielding. He wished it were, but without the mother-ship’s core operational, he and his Legio troopers were forced to use the human’s rudimentary and underpowered weapons. Despite the puny weapons, he and his platoon were ready to enter the fray and do some killing.
Major Korto’s voice boomed and clicked from behind. “Is your platoon ready, Lieutenant Guth?”
Guth’s head expanded giving the affirmative. “Ready and eager, sir.”
Korto’s head expanded and changed to a lighter red. “Good. The human’s third wave have pushed inland and established a beachhead, finally. It’s time to enter the battle.”
Lieutenant Guth’s head expanded more, displaying his pleasure and excitement. “We’ll launch on your command, Major.” Guth signaled his platoon and as one unit they marched to a huge steel platform eighty feet above the water. This particular ship had four such platforms and would be the launching points for the entire company.
Guth was the last to step onto the platform. He looked at his Legio troopers with pride. They’d slung their MG42s on their backs, their chests crisscrossed with bandoliers of ammo. They stood in tight ranks, shoulder to shoulder facing the carnage on the beach only five-hundred yards distant. Guth slung his own weapon and tightened the straps until it was centered down his back and tight. He barked, “Second Platoon! Prepare for launch.” With the precision of professional soldiers the platoon shifted into crouches and waited.
The last booming salvo from the ships quieted and the only sound was the combat on the beach. Lt. Guth glanced from his crouched position at Major Korto, and acknowledged through telepathy that his men were ready. Major Korto’s head expanded and he gave the order. “Launch platform one!”
Guth felt the metal platform beneath his feet vibrate slightly as though under immense tension. There was a whoosh as the hydraulics released massive force, sending the platform straight up for fifty feet then abruptly stopping.
Guth relished the intense pressure of the launch in his strong legs. When the platform reached its tether and stopped, the pressure changed to lightness and he felt himself flying throug
h this planet’s thin air. It wasn’t quite the same as flying on his home planet’s heavy air, but it was good to be flying again.
He stretched his four arms, feeling the thin skin between them catching the air and snapping tight. He, and his Second Platoon of the Legio Division troopers angled toward the beach in perfect formation. The wind and lift, although nothing like home, felt good and he relished every second of flight. In his subconscious he heard the other platforms firing as his brothers joined him.
The battle seemed to pause as the humans from both sides marveled at the sight of Korth entering battle. They glided over the sea, passing over stunned, upturned faces of soldiers on landing crafts. They were descending quickly, the thin air not able to keep their heavy bodies aloft for long. Guth angled downward, aiming for the cover of the sea wall littered with countless human bodies.
His platoon matched his move and soon they were slicing over the beach, only feet above the human soldiers. Guth’s head pulsed with pleasure, changing shades of red. He angled upward, feeling himself slow abruptly and his forked feet touched the sand and rock lightly. He immediately crouched and unsnapped his MG42, bringing the barrel forward. He saw a stunned GI, mouth agape and he fired, stitching the man from head to toe. Triumphantly, he bellowed, “Legios, engage!”
The volume of fire from fifty MG42s was devastating. Guth relished each kill, watching his bullets slice into flesh, tearing men apart. This was what he was born to do.
He stopped firing when he saw no more targets and crouched down, reloading the clunky weapon. Their sudden appearance in the midst of the Americans had created a gaping hole in their lines, which was quickly backed up with gleeful German soldiers. More Korth landed and engaged, opening up with concentrated machine-gun fire, creating more breeches.
