Fahey hadn’t moved, so he nudged his friend. When Fahey didn’t respond, Grillo looked at him.
The Italian still wore a surprised look on his face, even though half of the back of his head was gone.
Grillo choked back a gasp, then turned his weapon on the shitbirds that were closing on him. He fired half of his clip, and tagged one of the Krauts. The man fell to the side, screaming in pain.
One of Grillo’s squad mates zeroed in on the position and opened up with a BAR, silencing both men.
Sergeant Pierce came in hot and dove next to Grillo, scaring the crap out of him. Then a shell burst next to their location and made Grillo’s head ring. Chunks of wood and dirt rained down on them both.
“Fall back, Pierce said next to his ear. "We got movement all alone the line.”
Grillo shook his head. The man’s words had come out like he was talking underwater.
Pierce grabbed Grillo’s jacket and dragged him out of the hole. Grillo got the message and struggled to his feet. He and Sarge stumbled as another mortar went off near them, but managed to retreat twenty feet before Grillo went down again, thanks to a broken branch. Grillo twisted his knee, screeched in pain, then landed on the side that Doc had just dressed with gauze and sulfa.
Gunshots echoed, and bullets whizzed past their head. Sarge rolled over and fired his Thompson from between his legs, the submachine gun rat-a-tatting against the sounds of the German burp gun.
It was Grillo’s turn to drag someone, as the Sergeant fired until he was empty. Then he got to his feet, reloading as he ran, and the pair stumbled behind a tree trunk.
“Ah hell, Fahey,” Grillo said, to himself more than anyone else.
“It’s a damn shame, Private,” Sarge said. “Now return fire and take out a few in your friend's memory. Remember, the best revenge is a goddamn bullet for any Kraut that pops up. Did you know those bastards gunned down some of our guys outside of Malmade? Heard it from Robinson, who heard it from someone in Easy company.”
“Son of a bitch,” Grillo said, gritting his teeth.
He pushed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and fired off three rounds. The pursuing Krauts ducked.
A round punched the tree trunk to his left. He dropped down and pressed his back to it, and caught movement on that side.
“They’re trying to flank us, Sarge,” Grillo said.
“Keep their heads down. Fire a few rounds, and then I want you to make for the Alamo, you know where that is?”
“Yeah, Sarge. I know.”
“When you’re done firing, I want you to run like the devil himself is on your heels. I’ll lay down some suppressive fire, and I’m right behind you,” Sarge said next to Grillo’s ear.
Grillo popped up and fired until the clip went flying. There were three or four Krauts moving on them, but he and Fahey ducked. Grillo heaved himself to his feet, and with his knee screaming in pain, he bolted for the rally point behind Baker’s line.
True to his word, Sarge emptied half of his mag as he backed away from their position.
Then the pair were running for their lives.
* * *
Eighteen
Behr
Behr’s men had run into little resistance. They’d engaged a force of men like themselves, speaking German, and dressed in German military garb. They’d fallen just as quickly as the Anglo-Americans. Then they’d run into a mass of hundreds of men to add to their army.
His mind was nearly empty now, with the exception of a need to kill. It was like a thirst he couldn’t slake. The taste of flesh had become something he desired above all else. Men had fallen beneath him, screaming in horror, only to rise moments later and join them. Now there was a force of men ahead of him, surrounding a number of small houses, and they gestured for Behr and his men to join them.
Behr broke into a run and tossed his remaining weapon, a Luger, to the side. He reached for his knife, only to realize that he’d lost it somewhere along the way.
Behind him, hundreds followed. Dozens with the same blood lust he now felt.
Behr closed on a man who pointed at a hill and shouted gibberish.
The soldier was a ranking officer; that much was clear from his insignia. He was with the SS and his uniform was immaculate, even in the snow and mud.
The mist still lay heavy over the town, obscuring the number of soldiers ahead.
He dove onto the man and rode him to the ground. His hands were claws, frozen, but still able to dig into flesh and gouge out eyes. Someone tried to pull him off the screaming officer, but they too were driven down by the men behind Behr.
An officer started shooting, but it was too late for him. Bullets punched into another, but that didn’t stop the man. Nothing stopped these men.
Howling with fury, Behr launched himself at a young soldier who clutched a rifle next to his hip. Behr made short work of him.
Then the rest of his men arrived, and the slaughter was on.
* * *
Nineteen
Coley
The attack had shifted in a matter of minutes.
They’d been facing an overwhelming force of German infantry without the benefit of armor or artillery support. The men had been well-supplied with ammo, but now they were all down to a few clips, magazines, and grenades. When the enemy launched their next attack, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to hold out.
Even as he took a break and pressed his back against the cold, hard earth, he wondered if his position was being flanked and surrounded. Were it him issuing orders down below, that would have been his first command: get teams on either side, and surround them if possible.
Now the Germans were in complete disarray.
Coley’s team had five jeeps hidden in the woods, but little chance of getting up and making a run for them. Kraut machine guns would cut them down the second they left the confines of the well-fortified dugouts. They’d had days to create this position, and now it had paid off.
His orders said to hold out at all costs.
"All costs" meant sacrificing him and his men.
But something was happening, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
Private Walder had rolled out of his hole and over the lip into Coley and Tramble’s. He hunkered down and begged for cigarettes.
“Takes a special kind of stupid to mount the kind of attacks we’ve been seeing. It’s like a firing squad,” Walder said.
“Maybe they know they’re here to die and want to get it over with quickly,” Tramble said.
“They just kept running up to the fence like it was going to part for them like Moses at the Red Sea,” Walder said. He took off his helmet and scratched at his close-cropped head. “Now it looks like they’re attacking each other down there.”
“What’s wrong with your noggin?” Tramble said.
“Hope it ain’t lice. Been itching for days.”
“Probably not lice. I’m not sure they can survive in this cold,” Coley said.
“Sir, we haven’t showered in close to a week, and my head's been comfortably tucked inside my GI-issued helmet. If lice were smart they’d stick to me like glue,” Walder said.
“Why don’t you stick your head in some snow for a few minutes?” Tramble said.
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Not sure if a German bullet or all this itching would be worse to live with.”
Coley used his binoculars to watch the action in the village. Whatever was happening was blocked by houses and the fog.
Then there was a long, blood-curdling scream that made the hairs on Coley’s arms, neck, and head stand at attention. Figures burst from behind a small home and fought hand-to-hand. One of the soldiers drew a handgun and started firing.
The fighting spilled out onto the streets. The men embedded next to the ditches had been casting looks over their shoulders, unmindful of possible snipers on Coley’s team. Not that they had many rounds left, but one of his guys took potshots from time to time to remind the Kraut
s who controlled the hill.
One man fell onto another Wehrmacht soldier and drove him to the ground. Coley dropped his binoculars.
“Let me see,” Tramble said, grabbed the lenses, and pressed them against his eyes.
“Tell me I’m seeing things,” Coley said.
“Sir, if you’re seeing things, I’m seeing things. Some Kraut soldiers are attacking other Kraut soldiers. One of them just bit a guy, and there’s blood everywhere,” Coley said. “If they want to kill each other, that’s going to make our job a lot easier.”
Coley reached over and took the binoculars back.
A man in the foxhole next to him poked his head out, ducked down, and then back up again. Probably happy he didn’t get his noggin shot off. Around him, the men peered through slits or over the lip of their fortifications.
“Maybe they're turning into vampires,” one of his men offered.
“I saw that movie Nosferatu when I was a kid. Scared the bejesus out of me,” another man said.
Coley wiped his binocular lenses and peered into town again.
“More like the zombie movies I’ve seen,” Coley muttered.
There had to be eight hundred soldiers below, and they were in a state of chaos. They fired guns at each other. They fought hand-to-hand, and some were driven to the ground, screaming beneath flailing limbs. Blood spilled across the snow or splashed across buildings.
The chaotic fight grew as the Germans abandoned their positions at the sides of the road and ran to help their comrades. Soon the entire town was in a state of warfare as Germans attacked other Germans.
“This some kind of new propaganda tactic?” Tramble asked.
“Wish I had a bowl of popcorn,” Walder called from the dugout next to Coley’s.
“Should we start shooting them, sir?”
“Everyone pipe down. Let them sort out their differences, and we’ll figure out what to do with the survivors,” Coley said.
* * *
The men took turns standing up and stretching their legs. With no shots coming their way for the last half hour, they must have figured it was safe to smoke 'em if they got 'em.
Coley had been told by command that he was seeing things when he’d reported the Nazi force. Those words echoed in his head.
A group of Germans must have spotted the men on the hill. They made for the road with little military precision, moving in a tight mass instead.
Others took notice and followed. Around them, Germans continued to fight Germans.
“Get ready,” Coley said, and ducked down to retrieve his carbine.
“The machine gun’s busted,” Tramble said.
Coley took a look at the barrel and found it had bowed up.
“Told you to take measured bursts,” Coley admonished.
“Didn’t have time. Too many of them,” Tramble said.
Soon the mass was joined by more, until at least two hundred blood-splattered men had set eyes on Coley’s position. Someone fired and dropped one of the Germans, but the bastard staggered back to his feet and came on.
The Germans reached the fence, and the shooting started in earnest.
* * *
Twenty
Grillo
The bullets stopped flying. Grillo and the Sergeant rolled into a hole that was already occupied by specialist Robinson.
Nat had been more or less friendly with Grillo when he’d arrived with his pre-combat swagger intact. He’d told Grillo to stop looking so damn cocky, because the Germans could sense new guys. Thanks to seeing action right away, the hazing hadn’t been all that bad.
Nat Robinson didn’t look so good now. He clutched his belly, and even through his combat jacket, Grillo saw a lot of blood.
“Medic!” he screamed.
Sarge leaned over Robinson and tried to look at the wound.
“It’s bad, Sarge. I got hit bad,” Robinson said.
“Can you move? We’re heading for the Alamo,” Sergeant Pierce said.
“I can move. Gotta help me though, Sarge.”
Pierce got his arm under Robinson and struggled to get the man on his feet.
“Here they come,” Grillo said.
The Krauts advanced on their location. A handful of them had broken from the trees, and came at their location. They carried guns, but thankfully weren’t shooting yet. To Grillo, it seemed like the Krauts were running away from their own army.
“Grab my Thompson and shoot them. Keep us covered while I get Robinson out of this hole. Then we’re running again. Got it?”
“Got it,” Grillo said.
He picked up the sub-machine gun. Pierce handed him a pair of magazines and then, together, the three of them struggled toward the Alamo.
Bullets sprayed out of the trees as the Germans advanced. A burp gun sounded from somewhere to the east. Grillo wanted to bury himself in this damn foxhole and wait out the rest of winter like a bear. Just let the Germans do their thing, let them take this ground. He’d come up in the spring ready to fight. The thought brought a hysterical smile to his face.
A BAR opened up and a couple of Germans dropped, but that only urged the others on. Grillo tucked the stock of the machine gun next to his ribs--thankfully not on the side where he’d been wounded--and fired at the mass.
Sergeant Pierce moved, Robinson helping the man to the rear line.
“Come on Sarge, we got ya covered,” one of the men in the company yelled, and backed up his words by shooting a German soldier in the chest. The man dropped, but then struggled to his feet again.
“These guys wearing some kind of armor or something? Second one I zeroed in on who got right back up,” the guy said.
There were more white suits in the trees. Many more. They wove between trees and over stumps and mortar holes. They carried gear that included potato mashers, rifles and pistols.
A pair of soldiers joined Grillo and Pierce to help cover the retreat. Grillo fired until his weapon ran empty and he hastily reloaded. He kept moving. It was only later that he thought to ask the same question that had been troubling him earlier.
“Why aren’t the new fellas shooting back?”
“Shit if I know. Maybe they ran out of ammunition,” Sarge said, and urged the men on.
* * *
Sergeant Pierce expected a bullet to punch into him at any second. He’d grown used to the feeling of always being in someone’s sights, but it was not a pleasant feeling. As a Private first class, he’d fought at Normandy and advanced quickly through the ranks, thanks in large part to his ability to be lucky and not get shot.
He’d led an assault on a pill box that had decimated his squad, and managed to toss a grenade into the portal, eliminating the threat. That night he’d slept in the same spot, and tried to ignore the bloodstains on the wall and the smell of death and burned off explosives.
Now he was stuck in the Ardennes forest with just over five hundred other men, and he’d been asked to delay the Krauts for as long as possible. He was afraid that would only be a few hours at best.
Lines collapsed all around him, and he feared that he’d be surrounded, so with too many casualties, he’d made the hard decision to withdraw and regroup. Captain Taylor would understand. The man trusted his company commanders to make calls like this.
Something punched Pierce in the leg and made him stumble. He recovered and kept going, even though inside he was screaming that he needed to get to cover. He spun and fired again, then stumbled on his bad leg. Robinson hung around his neck and didn’t let go.
“You hit Sarge?” Robinson asked.
“You worry about you. Keep your hand on that wound and I’ll get us out of here.” Pierce replied.
Something was wrong--very wrong.
His limb wasn’t responding the way it should, but he didn’t have time to inspect the wound. Just press on, keep going, shoot back, and for god’s sake, don’t stop running and don’t let go of Robinson.
They were everywhere!
White and black clot
hed figures swarmed out of the woods and came at them. A BAR fired to his left and dropped some of the Krauts, but was quickly silenced.
Then it boomed again, from a new location.
The Germans weren’t even firing. They were just coming en masse.
* * *
Twenty-One
Taylor
Captain Taylor whipped the jeep around a bend in the road, and settled onto something that passed as a comfortable ride over the potholes, ice and snow. Betsy wasn’t much to look at, but she kept all four wheels on the road when he called for it. The fog hadn’t let up; it seemed to be increasing. He had to slow down to pick out landmarks and signs.
He’d asked Wayne to accompany him to his next visit, and was glad for the company. Wayne had an easy way about him, but smoked cigarette after cigarette.
The back of the jeep was loaded with a few boxes of ammo and Krations. Taylor had made a stop at a supply depot and used his rank to bully some goods for his companies. The officer had been a pain in the ass, but Taylor had been just as much of a pain. After a near-shouting match, the man had handed over a few crates like he was taking money out of his own pocket.
“How many of our guys bought it at Malmade, sir?” Wayne asked.
The wind whistled cold and bitter over the front of the jeep.
“I don’t know, but one is too many,” Captain Taylor replied.
Wayne shifted in his seat and went over his Thompson again. He’d checked his magazines several times now. It seemed to be a nervous habit. Maybe he expected them to run into a German battalion, and wanted to take it on by himself.
“Way I see it sir, we can’t kill enough of them. They broke the rules. We break the rules.”
Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Page 8
