Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1)

by Timothy W. Long

  Behr should have yelled at the man to get off his ass and fight, but he didn’t care anymore.

  Something had happened an hour ago. Something he didn’t want to think about.

  On some level, he was still Sergeant Behr. He was still the man who’d survived the assault at Normandy and fought with his men at Saint-Lô before being driven back. He’d been fighting in this damn war for three years. He’d been shot, stabbed, suffered from trench foot for six months, but he’d always been back on his feet and ready to lay down his life for the Führer and the Fatherland. Speaking of defeatism or becoming a deserter was the quickest way to a firing line.

  But now, there was something wrong. It was like the old Behr was back there screaming in rage, as if something bad was happening to his own mind and body. But he’d never felt better. He’d never felt this alive.

  His hands were covered in blood. His chin was sticky with it. He’d been like an animal when he’d leapt onto the halftrack. He’d seen battle rage many times, but he’d never succumbed to it before today.

  Something moved ahead. A lot of somethings.

  Behr’s lips drew back. He reached up and loosened something stuck between his teeth. The little glob of skin he pulled away was tossed on the ground, staining the snow pink. Behr shook his head, and then spit more blood.

  A house was surrounded by men in white and brown. One of the figures gestured at Behr and his men. Karl Ude had been carrying an MG-42 machine gun on his shoulder, but had shrugged it off and left it in the snow a few minutes ago.

  Ude snarled at the force and advanced.

  The other men joined him, moving into the open.

  A gunshot sounded, and one of the men fell.

  The rest ignored their fallen brother and broke into a run.

  More gunshots shattered the afternoon.

  A second company brought up Behr’s right flank, running toward the house and the group gathered next to it. The figures let out little cheers, like they’d been expecting friends.

  A man who’d been shot twice in the chest an hour ago struggled to his feet and ran toward the shooters.

  When Behr reached the location, he was too late. The slaughter was already underway, but that was okay, because a group of men dressed in white and camouflage were hiding behind another building.

  In the distance, another group moved over a hill. Many bodies were piled up next to a barbed wire fence.

  Behr’s mouth opened, and he snarled for blood.

  * * *

  Thirteen

  Grillo

  A round exploded to Grillo’s left, tossing him to the hard ground. He splayed his fingers and ended up scraping his palms in the process. Something burned on his side, but he ignored the pain and scrambled to his feet.

  Crouching next to him, Fahey grabbed Grillo’s arm and lifted him off the ground, urging him on.

  “Back to the line, find a hole and keep your damn head down!” Fahey yelled.

  Grillo didn’t have to be told twice. He stayed low and dashed beneath tree branches. Another mortar round exploded overhead, showering him with bark and wood. A piece of it dinged off his helmet, making his head ring.

  Fahey dove behind a tree that had a couple of large exposed roots and made himself small. Grillo landed next to him and sucked in a breath, thankful to be alive.

  “Stay down. Stay down!” Sarge yelled.

  Grillo got a glimpse of the man, standing as if he were unafraid of anything like exploding mortar shells, shouting at his men to get their goddamn heads down.

  The explosions continued, but they marched away from the company's position and back into the woods in the direction the white shapes had come from. Fahey must have noticed the weird placement of shots and got the message, because he grabbed Grillo’s sleeve again and pulled.

  Shaken, and terrified that at any second one of the mortar shells was going to land on top of him and turn his body inside out, Grillo struggled back into a crouching position and ran. He kept one hand on his helmet, securing it to his head, and the other around the body of his M1.

  The pair reached the line and dove behind a felled log.

  The explosions continued, but they were now fading into the near distance.

  “Christ! Damn Krauts are shelling their own guys,” Fahey said as he poked his head above the lip of the crater they’d converted into a foxhole.

  Grillo popped his own head up just in time to catch a man dressed in white taking a shell right next to his feet. What was left wouldn’t be fit to ship home in a box. An arm and a leg flew in opposite directions, and the bloody remains of the torso struck a tree.

  The German soldiers continued their advance on the Americans' location. They bore weapons in limp hands, and their heads were bent forward, almost as if in prayer. Another round landed between two men and they flew apart.

  A pair of Airborne popped up and started laying down fire. Bullets flew as they emptied their M1s. On the MG42, Miller got the gun into position and poured hell on the approaching Wehrmacht.

  Grillo reloaded his M1 and chambered a round. He got up in a kneeling position and pressed the stock to his shoulder. He sighted and shot a man in the chest. The guy stumbled back, but shook it off and came on. The Kraut next to him lowered a machine gun and sprayed bullets all over the damn place, making the men of Baker duck.

  Grillo shifted his aim up and fired again, catching the soldier in the neck. Another round went wide.

  The German flew off his feet and landed in a puff of snow and blood.

  Fahey shot at the Wehrmacht from Grillo’s left. Round after round leapt out, until he was forced to reload.

  “Shit, I’m out of ammo,” Fahey said.

  “I got a few rounds left,” Grillo responded.

  “Find Sarge and get us a couple of clips. He must have a stash.”

  Grillo nodded but didn’t say what he wanted to: that he wasn’t exactly excited about running out in the open. But he was green, and it wasn’t worth arguing over. Sure, he’d like to tell Fahey to go get his own damn ammo, but Grillo didn’t.

  He rose to his feet and gasped as his side burned. Something had struck him while he and Fahey had dashed to their new location.

  “Gonna find doc while I’m up. Think I got shot,” Grillo said, and lurched up and out of the foxhole.

  Fahey grabbed for him and caught the end of his thin jacket. “Where you hit? Is it bad?”

  “Across my side, but it don’t hurt much. Maybe just a scratch,” Grillo said. He shook loose of Fahey and ran.

  He was in open territory, and waited for bullets to either whiz by or find his flesh. To his relief, none of the approaching Germans shot him.

  He ran in a zigzag pattern anyway, just in case there was a sniper out there waiting to take him out. He hit an exposed tree branch at an angle, and used the momentum to push himself off and speed into another quick turn, like he was playing football back home. Only when he played ball at home, no one shot at him.

  He ran into the path of Parker and Jones' foxhole and almost got shot by friendly fire.

  “Hey, watch it, rook. That’s a sure way to get your head shot off,” Parker called.

  Grillo waved, but didn’t stop to offer an excuse.

  A German machine gun opened up and pelted the area with lead.

  Sergeant Pierce grabbed Grillo as soon as he got close, and tugged him to the ground. Together they rolled into the Sarge’s foxhole.

  “What the hell are you doing up, Private?” Sarge bellowed.

  Pierce was a big guy and had a deep voice to match. He often shouted at the men of Baker Company, and offered to kick the ass of anyone tried to go against an order. But he was also a softy, and the other men spoke about him with some affection.

  He was from Missouri, and had a pair of baby girls back home. He said he’d do anything for them, including going overseas to fight a damn war. Said they were the apple of his eye and he missed them every day.

  Grillo had tried to picture the
big man sitting on the floor playing with his kids instead of crouching behind a tree and shooting Germans with his Thompson, but the image didn’t resolve in his head.

  “Me and Fahey are almost out of ammo. Got any more, Sarge?”

  “Happens I do. How come you guys are out already? Assault’s just started.”

  A pair of mortar rounds landed in the distance. Grillo ducked his head and pressed his helmet onto his head. Sarge scanned the area of impact and grunted.

  “We’re all short, Sarge, on account of getting called out here. We were supposed to get resupplied in Bastogne.”

  “Just giving you a ration of shit,” Pierce said with a half grin. “We’re all low on ammo and we can’t do much about it. Say, you notice the Krauts are shelling their own guys?”

  “I noticed something else,” Grillo said.

  “That Fahey is a chickenshit and makes you run around looking for more rounds?”

  Grillo gulped back a chuckle.

  “The Krauts are acting weird. They ain’t all firing on us, Sarge, and the ones that do shoot can’t hit a broad side of a barn.”

  “Probably in worse shape than us, so the Führer sent his guys out to kill us with knives in the night. We’ll send them to hell in no time,” Pierce said.

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  “Foul-ups happen. Could be the Germans are in the wrong location, so they're falling under their own fire. Good for us, bad for them.”

  A mortar shell landed dangerously close and showered them both with debris. Grillo dropped to the ground and pressed his back against the foxhole.

  “Bad for us too,” Grillo muttered to himself.

  Another round landed farther away than the last one, but he didn’t let his guard up. Most of the guys he’d met ducked, prayed, and waited out the shelling.

  Grillo had tried that the the first few times, but he’d been so scared he'd thought he'd have to melt snow in an ammo can to wash his one and only pair of skivvies. Most of the veterans were cool under pressure and went about the task of killing Germans like they were going to the dentist to get a tooth pulled. They didn’t want to do it, but duty called.

  Grillo, on the other hand, had trouble finding his courage and resolve. He’d wept on the ground silently, the first time, curling up in a ball and whispering his mother’s name over and over until it stopped.

  He was still scared to death, but it was getting easier to put on a brave face and pretend like he was one of the guys.

  “Sir. About that ammo?”

  “Right. Run about twenty feet northeast. Hunter’s got a backpack full of bullets. You grab a couple of boxes and hightail it back to Fahey. You boys stay low. Keep track of your rounds, because the company is low. Not just you two, but everyone. I don’t know when we’re going to get resupplied.”

  “Got it, Sarge," Grillo said. "Where’s Doc? I think I got hit.”

  “The hell didn’t you say so? Where’s the wound?” Pierce said.

  “Across my side. I haven’t looked at it yet," Grillo panted. "Do you see blood, Sarge? I read that some guys get their blood pumping and don’t even know they been shot until they drop dead. I don’t want to drop dead.”

  “Lemme see,” the Sergeant said.

  Grillo worked at the buttons on his jacket for a few seconds, fingers cold and unforgiving. It felt like he was using cold sausage to manipulate his clothing. Sarge helped, then peeled the sides apart. He whistled.

  Grillo looked down and found blood. That’s when the pain hit.

  It was like razor blades across his rib cage. He gasped, then lifted his shirt farther, expecting to see worse. He couldn’t take in the entire wound, though, because his clothing blocked his view.

  “Oh Christ, I got it good,” Grillo said.

  Sarge leaned over, poking at Grillo’s ribcage, then sat back up.

  “Lucky son of a bitch. It’s a scratch, but it’s a deep one. Probably shrapnel from one of those shells. Get Doc to put some sulfa on it. Know where he is?”

  “I think so,” Grillo said.

  “Ah, hell,” Sarge said. He lifted his head and yelled “Medic!”

  “What kinda scratch, Sarge? Did it go through my skin? Is it deep?”

  “It’s not that bad. Just pipe down while I get some help.”

  “Christ, Sarge, what if it’s real bad?”

  Sarge sat down and looked Grillo in the eye. “I play straight, okay? You’re a rookie out here and the guys razz you and that’s okay. You’ll get to do the same some day. I don’t play around when it comes to matters of you facing a life-threatening wound. Just calm down while we get you attended to. The city of Bastogne isn’t far. They got an aid station, so we’ll get you taken care of.”

  “Okay, Sarge. Just scared, you know?”

  “I know, kid. We’re all fucking scared. Keep your wits and keep shooting back when you can.”

  Sarge bellowed for the medic again.

  Grillo touched the wound, and recoiled as more pain raced up his side. Was it the kind of injury that would get him sent stateside? He couldn’t be wounded and sent home now. He’d just gotten here.

  His father had fought in the Great War. He would be disappointed if his son came home wounded before he’d completed his tour. Christ, his father would probably be furious. The old man was taller than Grillo and broader of shoulder. He was old as dirt, but he could swing a fist when the mood struck. The mood had indeed struck, until Grillo was sixteen and almost as big as his father.

  The old man had been a mean drunk, but when he was sober, he was mostly kind and loving. Grillo would give just about anything to go back to that time right now. He’d be a good kid and make his parents proud, instead of running off with his friends to sneak booze and cigarettes.

  He’d tried to join the Army when hostilities were well underway in Europe, but he’d been too young to enlist. Now he felt too old to be in this cursed forest.

  That was the problem with the war effort: it was so easy for kids to get their blood up and want to go off and fight the Japs or Krauts. The reality was that this was life on the front: hiding in foxholes and shooting at people who wanted to kill you. He was under no illusions that a bullet couldn't find him at any time; hell, one had found him already, if the wound on his side was any indication.

  Just a sound of a gunshot and then searing pain.

  The next bullet might find his chest or skull.

  Grillo hunkered down and waited for the doctor to arrive, and prayed he wouldn’t bleed out before then.

  * * *

  Fourteen

  Taylor

  Captain Taylor drove the jeep through the woods at a fair clip. His companions--Cooper in the front and Wayne in the rear--kept watch, as well as whooped every time their Captain swerved around a tree or bounced over a hole in the ground. The fog had settled in as the morning wore on, and showed no sign of letting up. That meant that air cover wasn’t going to appear anytime soon.

  Corporal Kranz should have been driving him but Taylor didn’t mind. Tearing around in his Jeep was one of the few joys of this war, that was, when someone wasn’t shooting at him and the vehicle. So he left his orderly behind to enjoy some hot chow.

  The jeep was meant for this kind of terrain, but the weather had played foul with the engine, forcing them to take a few precious minutes to warm her up. Taylor called her Betsy, and had even painted the name on the side himself. One of the men had asked him what the name meant, but he’d kept his secret close.

  She was named after his mother-in-law, a battleship of a broad who never really warmed to him. However, she’d taken care of he and his wife one summer, while he’d been out of work following college. She’d been tough but fair, and her fiery temper had done nothing but urge him on even harder to find a job.

  Betsy strove around obstacle after obstacle. Taylor passed a line of men returning to the aid station, guns over shoulders, bandages around heads, arms, and legs. Some of the men saluted him and he nodded back, refusing to take hi
s hands off the steering wheel for fear of the old bitch guiding him into a tree.

  Taylor asked for a cigarette, and Wayne complied by placing it in his mouth and lighting it while the Captain kept his eyes glued to the rough terrain.

  The air bit at his cheeks and forehead. Exposed to the chill, his nose had gone numb the minute he’d stepped out of his tent.

  “Here, sir. We displaced during the night. Take a left and go slow. Some of the boys were a little trigger happy with a few mines.”

  “Mines behind our line? What idiot did that?”

  “Uh, that was us, sir. We were almost overrun, but managed to repel a counterattack. Lost Johnson to a burp gun. He took a round in the leg and it didn’t look too bad. Poor fella bled out in a few minutes. Anyway, sir, we thought we were goners, so we set a few traps.”

  “If we run over a mine and my Betsy is destroyed, I’m going to be a very unhappy man,” Taylor said. Not to mention a dead one.

  “Slow here, sir. See that big oak? The one with the sign on it? Go around.”

  The sign had Mickey Mouse pointing a middle finger at a German swastika painted on a pair of old boards.

  Taylor grinned and complied.

  A minute later and they were at Charlie Company’s position.

  Taylor hopped out of the jeep and grabbed his Thompson, then followed Wayne and Taylor. A couple of bullets shattered the still, but they didn’t land anywhere near the men. Taylor pointed his gun in the direction the shots had come from, but no targets presented itself.

  Charlie Company had arrayed themselves in the snow and dug up what they could of sugar holes. A pair of men at a forward position pointed M1s at the forest and banged off a few rounds.

  “Captain Taylor, damn glad to see you. Where are the reinforcements?" Sergeant Metz asked. "I heard Baker got some rooks.”

  The man didn’t look like he’d had a wink of sleep in days. His eyes were red and the lines on his young face betrayed the look of a man aged by the war.