The tank bumped over something big and then rolled over it. When they were past Graves found they’d they’d hit a mortar tube and crushed it into the ground.
He got back on the .50 cal and fired until the gun jammed again. He fired in three-round bursts, taking out as many of the soldiers closing in on the tank as he could.
The Sherman rolled to a slow halt before spinning treads again.
“What are you doing?” Graves yelled down into the interior.
“Sorry! Thought we lost the left side again. It’s hooked on something and we’re thumping metal every time the tread goes around.”
“Jesus,” Graves said.
The tank picked up speed, but they’d brought on a number of Germans. One lunged for him, so Graves put a bullet in the soldier’s head.
The front-mounted gun blasted away for a few seconds, then went silent.
“I’m reloading!” Gabby called.
“Hurry the hell up. These crazy bastards are swarming us,” Graves urged him on, but it was too late.
Figures scrambled up the sides and front of the tank, all seemingly intent on tearing Graves apart. He fired his sidearm until he ran empty, then popped back in the tank and slammed the hatch closed… but not before one of the German soldiers got a hand around the opening.
Fingers fell as they were severed from the man’s hand and flopped onto the tank's floor. Graves spun the lock closed, then sat back in his seat. He was fully encased in a tomb of metal, and that tomb was covered in Germans.
He tried not to appear scared, but his reality had become a nightmare. He stared at the man’s fingers, then pushed them into a corner.
The Sherman burst out of the trees, brushing some of the bodies off the tank in the doing, judging by the thumps from above.
“Oh shit!” Murph swore, just before they ran into an abandoned German half-track.
* * *
Thirty-Two
Taylor
Captain Taylor didn’t get a wink of sleep. He’d spent the evening and night conferring with command. General McAuliffe was clear about one thing, though, out all of the talks: they needed to hold the town of Bastogne until relieved.
They’d met in the remains of a partially-bombed home to compare notes. Other officers had presented reports similar to Taylor's much to the consternation of the General, who said he’d put nothing past the damn Krauts.
The 506th had run into an ambush and lost nearly half of their men, due to the Germans' tenacity… and teeth.
“Teeth?” McAuliffe had asked.
“Teeth, sir. Some of them tried to use weapons, but they were like monsters. Animals. They were rabid. We were overwhelmed as we displaced. Foy was a complete loss. They came in by the thousands, ignoring gunfire and mortars. We decimated their force, but it did little, because there were always more of them. Ammo ran short and we retreated.”
Captain Edwards was an older man who’d been in the war for three years and was as hard as a piece of granite. If he’d been chased out of Foy, then things were worse than Taylor could have guessed.
“Men, this whole thing is nuts. Nuts!” The general looked each man in the eye as he spoke. “We’re cut off, but help is on the way. I can promise you that. Now, in the wake of this latest development, I have a lot of questions to answer. Command is breathing down my neck. They want some of these crazed German soldiers captured and brought in for questioning.”
The men were given orders, and told to make haste in preparing the town for assault. With a small contingent of artillery, and ammo running low, they would be hard-pressed to stop the Germans, but they would put up the best defense they could.
After the meeting, he’d been summoned to the seminary to check on his men. Owen was kept in a little room so he could be observed. When a pair of MPs had come for him, he’d flown into a rage and tried to bite the men. His eyes had gone completely white and even though he took damage in the ensuing shuffle, he shrugged it off like a heavyweight champ.
They’d had to beat the man to the ground, but he’d only become more enraged, and struggled until they'd secured him with rope.
There was no sign of his orderly, Corporal Krantz so Taylor put out the word that he was looking for him. With the confusion in town he may have been dispatched anywhere.
* * *
Taylor slumped against the side of a building and dug the remains of a Kration out of his bag. There was a can of pork, but it was practically frozen. He dug around and found a metal spoon one of the townspeople had donated. The wooden utensils they’d been used to using weren’t much good on frozen food, and broke easily.
The problem with the metal utensils was that there was no way to properly clean them, and dysentery was running rampant throughout the companies. Taylor found a clump of snow that looked more or less white, and scrubbed the spoon.
Across the street, a group of GIs helped clear the rubble from a house that had fallen to an artillery shell. A pair of villagers helped while an older woman wept as they hauled out the remains of her possessions. One of the men handed her a picture frame.
She sat down on what was left of a wall and stared at the picture. She ran her fingers over the surface and quietly sobbed.
A small terrier broke from cover and ran across the street. The woman rose and called to him. The dog settled down and came to her with its tail tucked between its legs. She picked up her dog and whispering soft words to the terrified creature.
Taylor rubbed at his eyes.
“Must be the cold,” he muttered to himself.
Halfway through his meal of crackers, a couple of olives, and some half-frozen pork, one of the men from Baker Company found him.
“Sir, we need you to look at something,” Grillo said.
It was the fresh recruit who hadn’t lost it under pressure. He’d helped his fellow soldiers, and was one of the reasons they’d gotten back to Bastogne. Concern etched the man’s face--boy’s face, really. Taylor was going to put in for Private Grillo to have a field promotion to Corporal.
“What’s happening, Private?”
“Sir. There’s a bunch of Krauts coming our way, and there’s a few Americans with them.”
“Prisoners?”
“No, sir. They're armed, and it looks like they’re siding with the enemy,” Grillo said.
“What in the Sam Hill?” Taylor said, and sucked down another chunk of half-thawed pork. “You sure about that?”
“Yes sir. Sergeant Pierce told me to find you.”
Taylor packed away his kit and slung his pack over his shoulder. He picked up his weapon and followed Grillo.
* * *
Thirty-Three
Grillo
Grillo returned with the Captain in tow and dropped back into his position.
Before he’d left the seminary the nurse had given him some Sulpha tabs and told him to take them. She had warned him to drink as much water as he could get ahold of. In the early morning light, the men of Baker had started a fire to warm food and make coffee, so he’d melted a few cups of snow and drank the water, trying to ignore the little chunks of dirt in the bottom of the tin can. The smoky remains of the small campfire had nearly burned out but several of the men had removed their gloves and put their hands so close to the embers it looked like they’d get burned.
His side itched where he’d been hit the day before, but it had a fresh dressing. He didn’t complain. If Sergeant Pierce could shake off a bullet to the calf, Grillo wasn’t about to be a crybaby.
He checked his weapons while Taylor and Pierce consulted.
The mass of men had been growing by the minute. The woods were a few hundred yards away, and in the midst of the trees, figures moved around mysteriously. Since the SS officer had poked his head out, they hadn’t seen a single distinct shape since.
The morning was broken by the sound of artillery. Grillo hit the ground and tucked his legs close to his chin before realizing some of the guys were laughing at him.
“That�
�s us,” Shaw said.
Sure enough. Three rounds landed in the trees and blew holes in the cover. They must have missed, because there were no screams from wounded.
A pair of machine gun squads had set up on either side of their position. One of the gunners got anxious and fired into the tree line.
“Hold fire until we see them,” Pierce called, and leaned over to study the map that Captain Taylor had laid out on the ground.
“There!” Grillo said.
A squad of fifteen or twenty men moved out of the trees, and some of them wore the unmistakable clothing of American soldiers.
“Hold your fire,” Taylor yelled.
The enemy had other ideas, and a couple of men started firing in the general direction of Grillo and the rest of Baker Company. But they were horrible shots, and bullets whizzed overhead or hit the ground in front of them.
The machine gun squad got trigger happy again and decimated the men. They fell as .30 cal bullets tore into them. Then, just like clockwork, some of the men struggled to their feet again.
“I said hold that goddamn fire!” Taylor called.
“Sorry, sir,” one of the machine gunners called back.
Taylor shook his head and directed his attention back to the men who had fallen. He took out a pair of binoculars and studied the bodies.
A GI wearing the insignia of the 101st was among them.
“Christ,” Taylor said.
“Maybe they stole uniforms to fool us? I heard the Krauts had guys speaking perfect English and dressed like our guys causing a bunch of shit behind lines,” Pierce said.
“That true Sarge?” Grillo asked.
“Hard to believe but it’s true. Germans caused all kinds of disruptions by posing as military police and redirecting the Allied forces down the wrong roads. They’d even gone so far as to change signs, pointing out directions to towns around the offensive.”
“Here they come,” Shaw interrupted.
Grillo settled back behind his emplacement--a small ridge of rocks and dirt--and aimed his M1.
Captain Pierce didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
The mass coming at them was like nothing they’d seen before. Hundreds, maybe thousands of men poured out of the woods and advanced on the town of Bastogne.
Captain Taylor finally gave the command, but he didn’t sound happy about it.
“Open fire, men, and make sure that every time you shoot you drop a body. Got it?” Taylor said.
Grillo blew out a breath of steam and prepared for the assault.
A dozen soldiers peeled away from the main force and came in like they were being chased by a demon. They outpaced the others and ran straight at the emplacement.
“See the asshole in white?" Taylor said, pointing at the squad of German soldiers. "I want him. We’ve been asked to bring back a prisoner, and that’s our man.”
“Got him, sir,” a man said from his dugout.
“Grillo, Shaw, Perkins. You’re with me. We’re going to bring that son of a bitch alive,” Taylor said, and leapt out of the dugout.
“Sir, I’ll go. You stay here,” Pierce said.
“You can’t run worth a damn, Sergeant. I respect your tenacity, but you’ll be dead if you try to run on that leg,” Taylor said.
“But sir, you’re a Captain,” Pierce argued.
“A Captain who’s been in this war for two years, Sergeant. I know what Im doing,” Taylor said.
“It’s your funeral, Captain,” Pierce said.
“Say something nice at my graveside,” Taylor said. He nodded at Grillo and Shaw. “Got it, men? Everyone but the guy in white, and if anyone shoots me, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
Very disappointed? If they shoot us, we’re going to be very dead. Grillo’s stomach lurched in fear again, but he pushed it aside and followed the Captain onto the open battlefield.
* * *
Thirty-Four
Behr
Behr’s world had finally found some semblance of sanity. His mind roared with anger and he raged to be let loose, but the SS officer had gathered the force as they’d moved through the woods. Now, with an army of men to rival anything he’d seen in the war, they would launch the attack.
His teeth hurt, because he wished them to be tearing into flesh.
The city lay ahead, and there were fresh bodies to add to the horde.
His senses were dulled to the point of feeling like his body was frozen. It reacted to his commands, but he was slower than he’d ever been in his life.
He carried his machine gun, but his fingers were so cold so that he was no longer able to fire.
Behr now gripped a knife, and intended to use it against the warm bodies.
So many bodies.
Finally, the SS officer pointed at the city and nodded.
Together with the men he’d gathered over the last day, he advanced on the city.
* * *
Thirty-Five
Coley
“This is not right,” von Boeselager said as they broke the line of trees.
“Sheeeeyit,” one of the men from another jeep called. “Ain’t nothing been right in days. I should be relaxing in a barracks right now and watching the same movie I’ve seen six times. I read a tourist brochure that said this was the perfect location for winter sports. Worst sports I’ve ever seen.”
Since yesterday morning, Lieutenant Coley had been in a bad spot, but he’d known what to do. He’d trained for months before being deployed to the Europe. Now, though, he was caught behind enemy lines and facing an overwhelming force.
Not to mention, he had German POWs in the jeeps and he had no idea where to take them. He wished the radios hadn’t been left in their haste to escape and the one that had been shot all to hell and was completely inoperable.
Some of the Krauts turned to investigate the sound of the jeeps. White eyes focused on the Americans. A few turned to engage, but they carried no weapons. A group peeled away from the mass of men and moved at a fast clip toward them, weapons lowered, dickhead helmets firmly over heads. Clothing covered in mud, blood, and filth.
“Sir?” Tramble said.
“Goddamn, that’s a lot of enemies,” Coley said. “Let’s get the jeeps turned around and back into the woods. We’ll lose them.”
“Lieutenant,” Owen called from the jeep behind his. “That’s Bastogne, and our guys are dug in around it.”
Three of his men hopped down from the jeeps and opened up on a squad of Germans that had taken an interest in them. They used the jeep for cover, and dropped Krauts with careful fire.
Coley dug out his binoculars and found an emplacement with men looking back toward him. They had a machine gun squad pouring lead into a mass of Germans. If he could get the men around this mess, he’d be able to come up on their right flank and offer assistance.
“Tramble. See that road that leads back into the woods?” Coley pointed to the east.
“Not much of a road," Tramble confirmed. "More like a trail.”
“Let’s make for it, and then we’ll cut out of the woods. In a few minutes we’ll be able to break free of the trees and close in on the city.”
“You got it, sir,” Tramble said, and dropped the jeep into gear.
Men hopped back into their jeeps and followed.
They ran into a clump of Germans a few minutes later, and drove around them. One of the men lowered a submachine gun and opened up, but his shots were way off target. Jones shot the man, and hit him in the midsection. The German sat down, but then struggled back to his feet.
Von Boeselager said something in German that sounded like his mother would box his ears if she’d heard him.
They wove around the Krauts, but they were now off the little trail. Tramble had to slow down to a crawl and pick out sections of snow-laden trees to drive between. He got them stuck once, and they lost a precious minute backing up out of a bowl and finding a new path.
The edge of the trees was ahead, but the space betw
een a pair of towering pines was too small. Tramble swerved to the right and hit a massive copse of blackberry bushes. The jeep ripped free and they carved a path, but not before Coley got one of his gloves nearly ripped off by a prickly thorn. He fought the brush and managed to get loose.
Clear ground lay ahead, but there were a number of Germans in the way. They’d assembled around a piece of mortar equipment, but they weren’t manning it. The series of tubes lay cold on the ground, but the Krauts seemed unable to figure out how to fire.
Von Boeselager shouted something in German. The men turned, and Coley shot one in the face. As they broke free of the forest, they swerved around the emplacement. One of the men in the jeep behind them tossed a grenade at the mortar crew and blew a hole in their ranks.
They were a quarter mile from the Allies, and with the exception of the harsh terrain, the path was clear.
Tramble pushed the jeep up to speed until they came into view of the town through the mist.
“We’re gonna make it, sir,” Tramble shouted over the roar of the engines.
Then he slumped in the seat, and the jeep tipped to the side as the Corporal fell across the steering wheel.
“Goddamnit!” Coley flew out of the jeep and landed against a clump of ground and snow. The breath left his body and he saw stars.
Von Boeselager fell next to him, and the two men stared at each other as Coley’s gun landed between them. The German soldier pushed the gun toward Coley, then put his hands close to his body.
The German wasn’t the problem. One of the men from their own line had shot Tramble through the chest.
* * *
Thirty-Six
Graves
Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Page 13
