Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1)

by Timothy W. Long

  “What’s the word on the 28th battalion, sir?” Krantz asked.

  “Heard a few guys made it here. It was a massacre. Some companies suffered seventy-five percent casualties,” Taylor said. He didn’t speak of the other thing he’d just become aware of, because it was too heinous to contemplate. Inside, though, his blood seethed.

  He frowned at the thought of so many men lost. Now he hoped the 101st didn’t suffer the same fate. His men were spread thin, and they were all under-supplied.

  “That the word from them or from higher up?”

  “Both,” Krantz said, and stared at the ground.

  He was probably thinking one thing: Glad I wasn’t in that grinder. Men were brave, even stupid brave, but when you’re facing an overwhelming force with little ammo, you start praying to God and wishing you were anywhere but between gunsights or sitting in a tiny hole in the ground while the world exploded around you. It made the bravest of men want to run.

  “How many made it to sick call?”

  “About a dozen. Most are suffering frostbite, but one of the guys in Charlie took some shrapnel to the face. He’s not doing so good.”

  “Who was it?” Taylor asked.

  “Clines.”

  “Christ.”

  Clines had been with the division since Normandy, and had been in the thick of fighting. He’d shown exemplary bravery when his company had been tasked with taking out a battery of 88s. Taylor had recommended him for the Silver Star. He had an East Coast accent, and attitude to go with it. The fiery Italian had been begging to get reassigned to a division moving on Italy over a year ago, but his training had been far from over.

  Captain Taylor hoped he wouldn’t be sending home another letter tomorrow morning--assuming the Krauts didn’t overrun this location in the night. If they were overrun and taken prisoner, what would that mean exactly? The men he’d just heard about had surrendered in good faith, and look at what had happened to them.

  “The replacements got here yesterday, and they’ve been dispatched to the front lines,” Krantz said.

  “Did we get enough men?”

  “Not nearly, but they’ll help bolster defenses. Could be worse, sir. Could have gotten nothing. We had the typical foul-ups: guys sent to the wrong companies, or with the wrong ratings.”

  “Sounds like business as usual in the United States Army,” Taylor said.

  Mortars sounded in the distance, but it was hard to tell which side was taking a pounding.

  “Be back soon, sir. Off to get some mess,” Krantz said and saluted.

  Taylor returned the salute and took out his orders once again, even though he’d read them five times in the last twenty-four hours. Then he read the other message again. The men would know soon enough, so it might as well be he who passed the word.

  The mornings here had started and with miserable blasts of frigid air and the sun making rare appearances. At least the clouds stayed overnight. If they cleared off, it would be at least ten degrees cooler, and he was already getting reports of soldiers freezing to death in the night. He’d slept fitfully himself, under a tent that barely qualified as an overhanging of cloth to keep fresh snow off the tiny chunk of ground he'd called his bed.

  God curse this cold. His orderly had informed him the night before that it was going to be below zero degrees today. After twenty hundred hours, he’d given up worrying what the temperature was, because he couldn’t feel his face anymore.

  The scraps of wood they’d scavenged was damp. It was hard to come by any that was dry because the people of this area had been burning what they could for months before the 101st had arrived.

  Still they’d tried to get a roaring fire going, but it had popped and sizzled until early morning. At this rate, he was never going to be warm again. One of the villagers had offered his home, but Taylor slept in the on the ground, like his men.

  A pair of GIs stormed out of the woods. They carried their M1s low, but they glanced over their shoulders as they advanced on the Captain’s position.

  “Cooper, Wayne, what’s happening out there?”

  Cooper had dark eyes that were large and always animated when he spoke. His face bore a six o’clock shadow underneath dirt and gunpowder discharge.

  “Krauts hit us an hour ago with some artillery. Then a force of fifteen or twenty, but we managed to flank them. We killed a few, but the rest ran back toward Berlin,” Cooper said.

  “Casualties?”

  “That’s the thing, Captain," Cooper said. "Didn’t take any. The Krauts didn’t shoot at us.” He tilted his helmet forward and scratched the back of his head. “It was like they were shell-shocked or something. We hit them, knocked out the whole force, but some got back up and kept coming at us. Took a whole lot of ammo to finish the job. Anyway, we captured one.”

  “Good work. Any intel?”

  “No sir. This is where it gets weird.” Cooper looked at Wayne.

  Wayne shrugged and shook out a Chesterfield.

  “Oh?” Captain Taylor said.

  “The Kraut didn’t speak at all, sir. We even brought in Big Hoss to intimidate the guy, but he just sat there,” Cooper said.

  “Then it got weirder,” Wayne interjected.

  Taylor remembered Wayne for one reason in particular: he’d partially lost his voice in a battle, thanks to an unlucky encounter with some artillery shelling, and although he spoke loudly, his words had a hiss to them, like he’d been yelling for an hour.

  “Okay,” Taylor said, and waited.

  Cooper and Wayne exchanged glances again. Wayne lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, then blew a stream of smoke upward.

  “Well, it was his eyes, sir. They weren’t right,” Cooper continued.

  “His eyes weren’t right? What in the hell are you tying to say, Private? Are you suddenly a doc now? Able to see a man’s eyes and know he’s not right?” Taylor asked. He was getting tired of these two pussyfooting around the subject.

  “It’s not like that, sir. Wayne saw it too. His eyes turned white, sir. Like white as snow.”

  Either these two had been in the field for too long, they were drunk, or they were looking for some R and R.

  Playing the crazy card wasn’t going to work with Captain Taylor. He understood that men got scared when they came under fire from the enemy and sometimes their eyes played tricks on them. But Wayne and Cooper had been with him since Normandy and weren’t easily shaken, but a man could break after a while. He’d seen it too many times. Been on the edge himself too many times.

  His men were usually straight shooters. He’d been in the field with this pair for too long to give them a full ration of shit.

  “I need to speak with Sergeant Pierce in Baker anyway," Captain Taylor said. "We’ll head over to Charlie’s position first so I can look at this German with the white eyes. This better not be some bullshit prank. I’m not in the mood, not after what I just learned about Malmade.” Captain

  “Anything you care to share, sir?” Cooper pushed his helmet up over his eyelids.

  Captain Taylor took a deep breath and then told the men what he’d learned.

  If Cooper and Taylor had looked like they wanted to chew lead before, it was nothing compared to the way their eyes darkened now. Now they looked like they wanted to take on the entire German army themselves.

  * * *

  Six

  Coley

  The shooting died down a few minutes later, so Coley told his men to take a breather and conserve ammo.

  A force of twenty Germans rose and walked toward the barbed wire fence.

  “Pick your target carefully and wait for them to reach the fence,” Coley called to his men.

  The Krauts in white camouflage approached with swagger, like they were on a country stroll. They carried their guns at the ready, but hadn’t fired them yet.

  Coley waited until two of the men paused to inspect the barbed wire, and then gave his command to fire.

  Gunshots echoed up and down the line, and
the Germans took immediate casualties. Half of the approaching men in white dropped, or crawled back toward the ditch. The other half of the force tried to get over the obstacle and got hung up.

  Coley’s force eliminated the men. They caught on the barbed wire or slumped to the ground. Men who were his age--men with families--were dead or wounded.

  “Damn firing squad,” Tramble muttered and then opened fire again.

  “Line 'em up,” Coley said.

  A bullet whizzed past Coley’s ear and struck a log behind him. He shook his head, and then shot at a pair of Germans who were moving toward the fence like they hadn’t just seen their men get slaughtered. Behind him, the distinctive “whump” of a 60mm mortar sounded. A shell fell ten feet behind the road and tossed snow and dirt into the air.

  The next round found a clump of Krauts and sent bodies flying.

  Shots on their right flank drew Coley’s attention. The dugouts were spread out over twenty or thirty yards, so the last pair of soldiers would have to deal with it. Coley and his men were green but they had all trained with him, under grueling conditions. He knew the men well and trusted them to respond. Right now he needed to get command to help their position.

  “A couple got around us, but McClure and Eagles took em out,” Tramble relayed to Coley.

  “Tell them I said ‘good shooting’,” Coley said.

  He was smiling because his mind had been reeling. There were now twenty men under his command and they faced an overwhelming force. If he didn’t get help soon, they were all going to die or be taken prisoner of war.

  Now that they had faced their first assault, he felt much calmer. His men had performed admirably under intense pressure.

  The Lieutenant rolled over and dug the radio handset out. He rang up command and again repeated his request for assistance.

  “We are assessing the threat. You are to hold your position at all costs,” the man on the other end said.

  “We could really use some help. We have a force of five or six hundred men in our sights. We can’t hold them forever,” Coley said.

  “Hold at all costs,” the man repeated, and rang off.

  Coley slammed the radio receiver down in frustration.

  “Tramble, you go left and I’ll go right. Check the men for casualties,” Coley said, nodding at the corporal.

  * * *

  Coley rolled into the first foxhole, and found Jones and Thomas lighting up cigarettes.

  They had an arsenal of weapons at their disposal, including an extra M1 and an unwieldy BAR rifle. A satchel of grenades lay between the men. Eagles was left-handed, and the men had smartly positioned themselves so they could grab and throw.

  “You guys okay?”

  “Yes sir,” said McClure, a skinny kid from the Bronx. “Just scared to death.”

  “I’m working on getting us support. We’re to hold this hill for the time being.”

  “Understood, sir, but if those Germans keep waltzing up the hill like that, this battle will be over sooner than later,” McClure said.

  “Let’s hope you’re right.

  * * *

  In the third foxhole, Coley found the first casualty. Dan Eagles had taken a round to the chest, but he was still moving. His partner, Private Dave Jones, applied a bundle of gauze to the wound.

  “Jesus, Eagles, you hurt bad?”

  “Pretty bad, but I can still fight.”

  “I’ll get us a medical team on the double,” Coley promised.

  * * *

  Coley rushed toward the last dugout. He caught movement ahead. A German soldier stepped out of the woods with his machine gun lowered. Coley let him have it and dropped the soldier. Coley rolled into the hole and appraised the situation. His men were doing fine and ready for more. He passed on more words of encouragement.

  As he was preparing to make his way back to the center, his men started firing again.

  The Germans approached the fence in force this time. There had to be fifty men heading their way.

  “Watch the flanks, if they get around us we’re dead,” he reminded the two.

  They shouted acknowledgment, then shot at the approaching Krauts in white.

  * * *

  Coley came under direct fire a few seconds later. Bullets blew past his position but he kept moving. If he paused to find targets, he was a dead man. He found his dugout and dove inside. His helmet went flying and he hit the ground hard enough to expel all of the breath from his chest. He flipped over and stared at the sky for all of five seconds before getting back to business.

  “Sir, all present and accounted for," Tramble called. "No casualties on this side.”

  “Same here. It’s a miracle,” Coley said.

  He’d moved to a dugout behind Coley’s position and taken up position on the .50 cal on the back of the jeep. The big gun boomed, putting giant holes in the approaching force of Germans. The bullets were the same armor-piercing rounds used on the back of the B-17 bomber. They could separate a man from his limbs with one shot.

  “Damn thing's got no range of motion. I’m going to unhook it,” Tramble said.

  “It’s gonna be hot as hell,” Coley warned.

  Tramble grabbed the barrel and lifted, but dropped the gun back on the mount and thrust his hand into snow. “Ah, Christ that hurt,” Tramble said and ripped a handkerchief out of his pocket. He got the gun under the barrel and lumped into the dugout.

  “Don’t burn that gun out,” Coley said. “Short bursts.”

  “Do my best, sir, but there are a lot of Germans down there.”

  Coley turned his attention back toward the road and found what looked like the entire Kraut division coming at their position.

  * * *

  Seven

  Grillo

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I’ve arrived in Europe, but not in the way I’d expected. Me and some of the other boys from my division were held up while they tried to decide what to do with us. I had hoped to see some action, but there were delays with our flight. So far I am the only paratrooper I know who has not dropped from an airplane yet.

  It’s different in Europe. Not just the food and drinks, it’s the people. They have been under the stress of war for so long they hurry around like scared chickens. Remember that hen we had who would never come out of the coop, even when it was time to eat? A lot of people here are like that.

  But they are also friendly, and treat us with respect. They call our names, call us liberators. I’ve tried to tell those I’ve talked with that I haven’t done anything, but they just smile and touch me. They shake my hands and they act like I’m kind of star.

  Some of the people threw us some fruit. I don’t think they were throwing the fruit at us, but throwing it for us. I sure was appreciative.

  How is Louise? I’m going to write her next, but if anything happens to the mail please tell her that she is in my thoughts every day. Tell her I miss her and I love her. I wish she knew just how much I miss her. I haven’t been gone more than three months but sometimes it seems like three years.

  Tell father that I’m thinking of him as well. He was always a hard man, but he looked at me differently when I came home in my new Army uniform. I hope he’s proud of me.

  I love you both and I’ll write again as soon as I have a chance.

  -Franklin

  * * *

  Private Grillo perched next to a tree and finished scratching out his letter home with a stub of a pencil, on paper that was already worn.

  Around him the world was relatively quiet in that there were no gunshots, no falling mortars, and no diving for foxholes as 88mm shells screamed in and shattered foliage, pounded earth, and killed or wounded his fellow soldiers in Able Company.

  Two days in the cold and he was already cursing his decision to join the Army. He was also cursing whoever had fouled up his orders and sent him to this company as an infantryman instead of his specialization in demolitions.

  Bare tree branches hung overhead, cov
ered in snow and ice. Wood popped as a little bit of heat seeped into what had been a miserably cold night. Many of the trees were cut off about twenty feet off the ground, the splintered ends blackened thanks to tree burst mortars.

  He hadn’t needed to be be warned to find a foxhole as soon as shelling started. That was part of basic, and after being with the 101st for a few days, he'd grown used to spending a lot of time prone, on the ground with his ass in the air. Standing around in shock as a rounds fell around you was a good way to get peppered with shrapnel.

  Not that taking cover was any guarantee of safety. The first day, he and the other fresh recruit, Billings, had arrived to assist Baker Company. They’d come across a former hole where several soldiers had been caught as they'd huddled together. There was no way to tell if the red-colored snow was from flesh or scraps of clothing. The splatter of blood around the mortar blast told the whole story.

  Grillo had slept in a shallow hole next to Private Fahey, a man who managed to snore like a freight train. He’d spent most of the night huddled next to his new friend, and shivered under a thin blanket.

  When the 101st had been called in to support the 28th infantry from the German counter-offensive near the Belgium city of Bastogne, they’d been unprepared for the weather in more than one way. They were short on supplies, dressing for wounds, food, and of worst of all, ammo.

  He’d been sitting in a barracks for weeks after his, waiting for orders. When they’d arrived, he and several other men had been hustled through processing, issued weapons, and put on a truck heading toward Germany. The day they'd departed had been bitterly cold, but somehow rain had fallen instead of snow.

  The truck was fine for now. While he’d signed on to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, the reality was that it scared him to death. He’d never been good with heights, and there was something about falling that didn’t agree with his gut or constitution.