Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1)

by Timothy W. Long

  He’d managed to secure a thick coat and had placed his own Army-issued jacket over the top. The villagers in Bastogne had been kind enough to send along as many jackets as they could muster up. There weren’t enough to go around, so the Sergeant had probably traded something to get his.

  “They got one new guy, and I’m not sure when the rest of the replacements will be along. Germans caught us with our damn pants down. We’ve got Panzers all along the front line, and infantry advancing on our position,” Taylor said.

  He tossed his cigarette and ground the butt into the snow with his boot.

  The two men ducked when more fire erupted from the front line. Wayne and Cooper picked that moment to get back in the action and ran toward the shooting.

  “Thing about Airborne, they go looking for trouble,” Captain Taylor said, nodded at the company's Sergeant.

  “Wouldn’t know it, but those two argue like brothers. One time Wayne said something about Jake LaMotta that Cooper didn’t like. You’d have though they were insulting each other’s mothers. Had to pull ‘em apart.”

  More rounds kicked up dirt and snow, forcing the two men to drop low.

  “What’s this about a weird German?”

  “Oh. That shell-shocked Kraut? He tried to attack one of the guys guarding him and got shot. Sorry about that, I know we’re supposed to take prisoners and all. Thing is, Captain, word’s been spreading about…”

  “I know what’s been spreading. Guess the talk is all about Malmade?”

  “So it’s true?” the Sergeant asked.

  “It is. Sad to say. I should tell you, officially, that we treat prisoners the same way we’ve always treated them.”

  “I can say those words, but the boys are already talking about killing every SS they come across,” the Sergeant said. “They massacred our boys. Lined them up in the goddamn snow and shot them down. That deserves payback.”

  Captain Taylor tried to think of an argument.

  “So the Kraut with white eyes, do I need to take a look, Sergeant, or are we done here?”

  “That Kraut's dead. Thought he was gone the first time, but then he got up and attacked Hansen. Bit him. Weirdest thing I’ve seen.”

  “War’ll make you crazy,” Captain Taylor said. “Is Hansen alright?”

  “I think so. He said it wasn’t bad. He took some shrapnel at Normandy and shook it off. I guess a little bite ain’t gonna kill him. He’s huddled up in one of the foxholes if you want to talk to him” the Sergeant said. “Oh, sir, before you go. I’m sure things are bleak, but we sure could use some ammo and bandages.”

  Captain Taylor ducked as another mortar sailed through the air but overshot their position. It wouldn’t take long for the Germans to zero in on them though. The round exploded fifty feet behind them, dangerously close to Betsy.

  “I’m sure Hansen’s fine,” Taylor said. “I’ve issued orders to resupply ASAP. We didn’t expect to be back in the fight so fast, Sergeant. Have your men make every round count.”

  He felt around his belt and handed the man an extra magazine for his Thompson.

  “Thank you, sir.” The Sergeant nodded in way of a salute. No point in giving any potential snipers a target if he could help it.

  Captain Taylor counted to three, then leapt out of the foxhole and made for the jeep.

  Krauts executing soldiers and now biting his men. What in the hell was this war coming to? Malmade was going to be a sore on every soldier’s mind before much longer.

  * * *

  Fifteen

  Graves

  Gabe “Gabby” Woodward pounded up the road until he came across two Privates trying to dig a hole in the hard ground. He dropped beside the pair.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Damn dirt's hard as a rock. The mine was sticking out. We got the fuses set already.”

  “These are armed?” Woodward asked.

  “Yeah, I got them armed while Pyle here was digging.”

  “Try a different spot.”

  “Tried that, but it’s just as hard.”

  “Christ, gimme a shovel,” Woodward said. “Make a forty-five degree line so a tank runs over one for sure. Even if they get moving again, they might hit another one. If they’re in a straight line, chances are they get missed completely.”

  He pointed out the spots he had in mind and the men complied. He dug in earnest, feeling like every second had him under a gun sight. If the Germans arrived and he wasn’t back in the tank, they’d have a hell of a time without him.

  The three men worked at different spots, trying to dig into the hard dirt. The ground wasn’t just hard; it was rocky. They’d fought over mud and snow, but this part of the road was higher than the land around it, and hadn’t been soaked through.

  “They’re coming,” one of the guys said. He couldn’t have been eighteen, looked like a damn kid. Woodward had run into a few guys who’d fibbed on their applications and got into the armed forces. Glory of war was high back in the states. He knew this all too well; it was why he’d joined up.

  “You sure about those fuses? Got the pressure plates off and them set?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Woodward hoped they were right, but didn’t have time to take the damn mines apart. He maneuvered his into place and grimaced at how it stuck out an inch.

  The ground rumbled underneath him.

  “We need to move. Cover them as best you can and get back with your units,” he called to the men.

  He pushed earth and rocks on top of the mine he was working on, then stood up to survey his work. He wasn't fooled for a second. If one of the Krauts were paying attention, he’d see the mounds and avoid them.

  The creaking of metal and the squeal of wheels against track told him he was out of time. The men had already disappeared into the woods, and that left him standing in the middle of a road alone, facing a tank company.

  Woodward said a short prayer, crossed himself, then ran back to the tank.

  As he waded into the woods and bushes, he thought he saw something. Between a pair of large pines, someone had been moving. No, not someone: a lot of someones. He ducked and waited, sticking close to a tree.

  The figures moved just fifty yards away. He squinted. The men were dressed in white, and clearly weren’t Allies. But the force was odd, somehow. They didn’t advance through the woods the way they would if they were hunting enemies.

  They ran, paused, dropped to the ground and sniffed, and then ran some more. They carried weapons and gear, but none of the men had rifles raised.

  “Like a pack of damn dogs,” Woodward whispered to himself.

  Then the force faded into the woods and was out of sight.

  * * *

  Sixteen

  Graves

  “Silence, I want complete silence.” Graves shouldn’t even have had to say it, but he wanted to be sure they were as quiet as a cemetery when the Germans arrived.

  The radio clicked next to his ear.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “Got reports of four Panzers and some infantry headed our way. Should run into our little surprise in about three minutes,” Bucky reported from the Sherman next to theirs.

  “Guess it’s time to get back in the war,” Graves said, and hung up.

  Woodward clambered up the side of the tank and slithered back inside.

  “Mission accomplished,” he said. “Saw some Krauts in the woods just now, but they moved away from us.”

  “Wehrmacht?”

  “Yeah, but they were crazy. Running around like wolves looking for something to eat,” Woodward said.

  “Did you step out for a nip?” Big Texas asked.

  “No I didn’t have a drink, dummy. I saw what I saw.”

  “Stick to the mission. If those wolves become a problem we’ll deal with them.”

  They waited in silence. Graves counted in his head while he watched the second hand on his beat up Timex. It ticked away like an inevitable timer cou
nting down their doom.

  One Kraut paying extra attention to this area, and it would all be over. The Panzers would make short work of the little force. The infantry guys would have a chance, because they could fade into the forest. The tanks wouldn’t be so lucky. They’d try to perform a retreating action but they’d likely end up on fire. How Murph and his crew had lasted this long was a mystery even to him. A Sherman up against a Panzer was a death wish.

  The rumble of the German military machine filled the morning air. It shook the ground, and consequently the Sherman that was glued in place.

  “Here they come,” Bucky’s voice came over the radio.

  “Roger. As soon as they pass, we fire.”

  “Roger. I’ll give the signal,” Bucky said.

  “Fine. Standing by.”

  The men waited as the intensity of the shaking continued. Graves had a couple of captured SS' medals stuck to the side of the tank. They shook against the side of the thick metal, and the picture of Betty Boop he kissed on a regular occasion fell off. Graves reached down to pick it up.

  “What’s your wife going to say about Betty?” Gabby asked.

  “She’s never going to find out about my other girl,” Graves said.

  The rumble of tanks came to a dull roar, then suddenly died down.

  Graves scanned the area with his scope, swiveling left and right, but the road was still clear.

  “See anything?” Bucky said over the radio.

  “Negative. Maybe they got off the road?”

  “Shit. This damn weather isn’t doing us any favors.”

  “Stay sharp,” Graves said, and clicked off.

  They waited in silence until Big Texas said, “I gotta take a leak.”

  “Hold it,” Graves said, and continued to scan the area.

  “Not sure I can.”

  “Use a damn ammo tin like the rest of us,” Gabby said.

  “Can’t pee while someone’s watching.”

  Graves rolled his eyes. He leaned over and pressed his ear to the side of the tank. The tanks were still out there, judging by the dull rumble in the distance. Then the noise grew again.

  “Here they come,” Bucky said over the radio.

  “Roger,” Graves said.

  “Gonna piss myself,” Big Texas said but stuck to his gunner station like glue.

  As the noise of the approaching Panzers grew, Murphy closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.

  * * *

  Seventeen

  Grillo

  Doc leapt into the hole and kept his head down. “I was catching up on my sleep, Sergeant. What’s wrong?”

  “Check out Grillo, here. Got stitched by some Kraut shrapnel,” Sergeant Pierce said, nodding at Franklin.

  “Got me right here.” Grillo lifted his jacket and showed the wound. “But I don’t think it’s too bad, Doc.”

  He lifted the side of his jacket and tugged his shirt up. The cold hit him immediately and made him shake, even though he felt like he was already frozen to the core.

  Doc leaned over and did an inspection. Then he ripped open a bandage and shook it out.

  “You don’t think it’s too bad? You suddenly a medical professional? Lay on your other side and hold this. Don’t let it touch the ground,” Doc said.

  Grillo complied, and Doc took out a pack of sulfa and shook it over the wound. He wiped away a trickle of blood and looked closer.

  “No sir," Grillo said. "I’m not a medical professional. I just don’t want to die out here. Figure if I stay right with the Lord and keep my wits, I’ll make it.”

  “Damn good advice, son. Now, I’ll tell you what's what. It’s just a cut--a deep cut, but a cut just the same. You’re dammed lucky kid. Or maybe not so lucky. Any deeper and I’d have to send you back to the aid station. Always a chance you’d get sent home.”

  “But I just got here,” Grillo said.

  Doc winced and looked away.

  Gunshots echoed up and down the line, including a German burp gun. The three men crammed into the sugar hole flinched and kissed the dirt.

  Another explosion nearby shattered a tree and tossed the trunk to the ground. Shards of wood struck their position.

  Sarge dug out a couple of clips and tossed one to Grillo. “Make it count, kid. Aim, breathe, and kill. Got it?”

  “Yeah, Sarge, but what about the weird German who wouldn’t die?”

  “Is he dead now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. I guess he can meet Saint Peter, or the devil, for all I care. Probably get sent to Hell, mind doc’s words about that wound. Keep it clean and you’ll be okay.” Then Sarge was on his feet and over the lip of the crater. “Keep count of your rounds. I’ll be back soon unless I’m dead.”

  Something thumped from behind Grillo. Then it was repeated. Mortars streamed into the air, arched over their position, and plastered the the ground near the oncoming enemies.

  Grillo popped up and aimed at a shape in white. He was still a good sixty yards away, so Grillo waited. Like the Sarge said, wait it out and when they get close enough, open fire.

  Sergeant Pierce was already halfway to the forward firing line.

  * * *

  Sergeant Pierce fired from his hip as he ran. The Thompson submachine gun delivered a half dozen bullets in the direction a pair of Krauts were trying to move into a flanking position. They were being sneaky sons a bitches; they thought they had the drop on his company.

  But the men of Baker knew every trick in the book.

  Lindstrom and Hunter broke from cover and dove behind a fallen tree. Lindstrom carried a BAR over his shoulder. As soon as he was in position, he blasted at the two Krauts. 30.06 rounds punctured a shattered tree and blew chunks of ground upward. While the guys in white kept their heads in the dirt, Hunter hurled a grenade at them.

  Hunter was bigger than the average Airborne, and he’d been a baseball pitcher before the war, so he was usually dead on. The grenade landed between the men and they tried to roll away. Snow and wood exploded upward and tossed bodies around. Lindstrom finished them off with a few bursts from the BAR.

  Then the war was back on as at least a dozen Krauts moved on the Airborne’s position.

  “Eyes front, make 'em count!” Pierce yelled as he rolled into a fresh mortar hole that still smoked.

  Mortars fell and made it hell on earth. The worst thing about waiting out the rounds was waiting for your ticket to come up. Used for suppression, mortars were one of the scariest things he’d ever faced.

  You could duck and hide all you wanted, but when God decided your time was up, he’d watch as one of the evil things found your hole and turned you inside out. If he was going to go, he hoped it was in one blast and not trying to crawl away from the pain dragging a limb along behind him.

  Pierce covered his head and pulled his helmet as tightly as possible when the worst came.

  Explosions all around as he tried to make himself small.

  They pounded the snow-covered earth and threw dirt and chunks of trees into the air. A few rounds found treetops and shredded them throwing woodchips in all directions. The sound was like banging hammers against an anvil right next to his ear, and the smell of burned-off explosives was something he’d never forget: the reek of second-stage propellants and the acrid hints of ammonia.

  They were probably popping off rounds with 8cm Granatwerfer 34 mortars, which could be extremely accurate.

  Pierce hugged the ground and prayed.

  When the rounds were done, he popped up and sprayed lead at a man coming toward him. The Kraut was moving in a weird pattern, like he was half-drunk. He'd probably gotten hit and didn’t even realize it, so Pierce finished him off.

  The German soldier didn’t throw his arms up. He simply slumped to his knees and fell in the snow.

  Then the man pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

  “What’s wrong with that son of a bitch?” Pierce muttered.

  There was movement all around them, coming
from the right flank and forward.

  “Back, men. We’re gonna head for the Alamo,” he called.

  His soldiers rose out of firing positions and began to retreat.

  No, not retreat. This was a temporary setback. They’d set up a new line, meet up with Baker Company, and then rain hell on the Germans, by God they would.

  Pierce shot the damned German again and again the man fell. The Sergeant covered his men’s retreat.

  When he saw Hunter and Lindstrom’s foxhole he let out a curse.

  It had been obliterated along with the men inside.

  * * *

  Fahey must have gotten worried and gone looking for Grillo. The man came in low, almost hugging the ground, and rolled into the hole next to Grillo.

  Grillo kept his head down until the mortars had stopped falling. Behind him, one of the guys yelled for a medic. Another keened and called for his mother. It was enough to make you old.

  He poked his head up and acquired a target. The Kraut was sneaking along the line he and Fahey had followed. The man tried to be smart and stick to cover, but Grillo had him dead to rights.

  He put his sights right over the man’s chest and fired twice. Both rounds struck, and the German slumped to the side, and didn’t move again.

  Another mortar round landed too close and sprayed Grillo with dirt. He cringed and dropped low, but dirt and debris fell across his back.

  “Christ, that was close,” Grillo said, and popped back up to aim down his barrel.

  A pair of Germans moved on his position. One was dressed in white, while the other was in black. He aimed and fired at one and missed, and both dropped to return fire.

  “They got us zeroed, Fahey. Should we fall back?”

  A round exploded next to Grillo's head, and so he prayed.

  Fahey didn’t answer his question, so Grillo popped back up and laid down some fire. His M1 clicked empty and the clip flew. He dug out a fresh one, knocked it against his head to loosen any dirt to prevent a misfire, and slapped it home.