“We lost the tread. We’re going to be running around in circles,” Murph called.
Graves had felt it, and knew they were in a tight spot. With the enemy closing in on all sides, they’d have to act fast if they wanted to get out of here alive.
They might be able to hold out against the Germans if they could stay buttoned up, but there was no guarantee the crazed Krauts wouldn’t remember how to fight. A Panzerschreck team would be able to take their time, line up a shot, and decimate the tank in a few seconds, and they’d never see it coming, thanks to all of the tree cover.
Graves had an idea that would probably get them all killed anyway. He rotated the periscope and checked out the German truck.
“Murph, you still got your brother’s memento in your pack?” Graves asked.
Germans swarmed up the side of the tank and pounded at the hatches. Gunshots sounded, but lead struck the thick hull and buzzed away harmlessly.
“Of course. Wouldn’t go anywhere without it,” Murph said.
Worry etched the man’s face. Big Texas grabbed his Thompson and chambered a round. He dug out magazines and stuffed them into his pockets.
“How many grenades we got?” Graves asked.
The men did a quick inventory and came up with a nine and split them up while Graves outlined his plan.
“Pretty sure we’re all about to get killed,” Big Texas drawled.
“Maybe, but it’s better than sitting in this tank waiting for the Germans to carve us open like a tin can,” Graves said.
“Why don’t we play dead?” Gabby asked.
“We do that, and the Staff Sergeant is right," Murph interjected. "Someone’s going to want to check out this lonely American tank and see if there’s anything salvageable. They might just shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Alright, gentleman, and I use that word loosely,” Graves said.
“That wasn’t funny the first time you used that line, Staff Sergeant,” Murph said. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air.
“You’re going out with a Chesterfield in your mouth? That the plan?”
“Only way I’m going to die,” Murph said between tobacco-stained teeth. “Ain’t had a proper Camel in weeks.”
“You all know the plan,” Staff Sargent Graves said to his men. “Ready?”
The men nodded their heads and got into position.
“On three. One, two…” he barely got the last number out before they moved.
Graves slammed open his hatch and shot a Kraut in the face. The man had been in the process of slamming a rock against the hull like a goddamn caveman.
He tossed a grenade into a mass of Germans on the ground. They’d surrounded the tank and were clawing at each other to reach the armored vehicle. Graves ducked back into the tank as the pineapple exploded and shredded Kruats.
La Rue popped out of his portal and batted aside a Wehrmacht soldier, knocking him off the side of the tank. He fired with his Thompson and mowed down three of the men attacking the Sherman.
Gabby dug out his M3, “grease gun”, and opened his hatch. He cleared a few Germans, then clambered up on top of the tank. They made a beeline over the back, sliding over partially-shattered logs and the chains holding the extra armor in place.
The jagged wood tore at Graves’ clothing and cut his back.
He ignored the pain and kicked a Kraut in the face. He’d been coming up the rear of the tank, a Luger in hand.
Murph had already slithered out of the hatch in the floor of the tank. He used a gun and liberally fired at the legs of Germans crowding around the back of the Sherman.
Graves leapt onto the back of the German half-track and found three soldiers on the floor. They’d taken damage from gun fire and withered on the hard metal. He shot one in the head, but another grabbed at his foot and yanked. Graves smacked his head against the side of the vehicle and bit his tongue.
Big Texas came in swinging. He punched a Kraut in the face and shot another in the back.
Gabe slithered over the side of the half-track and got into the driver's seat.
Murph was the last. He rolled out from under the tank and came up shooting. Big Texas provided cover fire while Murph spun and shot a couple of Germans who were in pursuit.
“Glad they ain’t shooting us,” Big Texas said, and fired again.
“Damn wheels on the wrong side. Hey, I can’t speak Kraut--anyone know how to drive this thing?” Gabe said with a little hoot. The engine sputtered and died. On the second try, it roared to life.
Big Texas jumped out of the half-track and went to help Murph.
“Looks like you figured it out,” Graves said.
Graves swung around the German machine gun mounted on top of the half-track and aimed at the mass. He was unable to fire, however, because Big Texas and Gabby were in the way.
Big Texas used his gun like a club and cleared a path. Murph tossed his now-empty gun and went for his sidearm. He drew the .45 and blew a hole in a German soldier’s head.
Big Texas fought through the remaining Germans and grabbed Murph around the waist. He lifted the man, then launched himself at the half-track.
One of the soldiers figured out how to use his gun and fired a blast of bullets, striking his own men.
Big Texas stumbled and almost fell. He reached around like someone had tapped his back. Murph dropped to his feet and got a shoulder under his friend.
They ran to the half-track, and Graves helped Big Texas inside.
“Roll!” Graves called and slapped the top of the roof.
The vehicle’s gears ground, and the half-track lurched forward before slamming to a halt. Then Gabby figured out the controls and the truck rolled forward again, bashing into a group of Germans.
“You okay?” Graves said.
“It’s not bad,” Big Texas said.
He lay on the floor and sucked in a couple of breaths. Blood pooled on the metal underneath his body.
“We got ya, Texas,” Graves reassured him.
Murph got on the machine gun and cleared the path ahead.
“No. They got me,” Big Texas said. Then his eyes fixed on the sky and he breathed his last breath.
* * *
Thirty-Seven
Taylor
Orders were orders. All of the commanders had been tasked with bringing back a POW. The medics wanted to find out what the enemy was up to and why they fought on after sustaining devastating wounds. Command wanted to interrogate the prisoners, but Taylor couldn’t figure out how in the world they were going to get any answers.
The mass of enemies numbered in the thousands. Gunfire rippled along their front line, but it was poorly-aimed, as if the guns were wielded by children.
The size of the army should have been able to overwhelm them in minutes, yet they appeared to possess no military tactics. Scouts had reported there were enemies closing in on all fronts, but those forces were nothing compared to the size of that which they faced head-on.
They raced across the frozen ground. One of his men slipped and fell on his ass, but he struggled back to his feet.
Taylor drew his sidearm and took careful aim. He put a bullet into a Kraut next to the soldier in white.
Grillo was on his left and Shaw on his right. They paused to fire, then ran to catch up.
There was a shattered Sherman on the battlefield that would provide cover. They made for the hulking mass of metal and slammed against it. Taylor sucked in big breaths and looked over the side of the vehicle.
They’d culled the herd a little, but not enough. He extended his arms, took aim and helped his men clear off the soldiers surrounding the man in white.
Soon the enraged enemies were close enough. Taylor made out that the man’s jacket wasn’t dark with dirt; it was stained with blood. He wore a white hood over his helmet and carried one of the new German machine-pistols they’d been seeing over the last few months.
“Captain. Those guys aren’t stopping,” Grillo said, after
shooting one of them in the chest, only to have him struggle back to his feet.
“If you can get headshots, do it. That seems to stop the sonsabitches,” Taylor advised.
He followed his own advice and took three rounds to blow a dickhead helmet off a German soldier’s head. The man dropped and didn’t rise again.
One of the approaching men lowered a machine gun and opened up. Bullets ripped across the tank and ricocheted into the air.
Taylor shot the man, then paused to reload.
“Four left, let’s go,” Taylor ordered.
The other German forces were on the move, and close behind their target. They’d have seconds to secure the man and drag him back to the Allies' own lines. Taylor fired again and hit the machine gun-wielding man in the neck. The man fell away and struggled across the ground, hands scrambling at the hard packed snow and ice.
Grillo used the butt of his M1 to smash in the face of one of the men. Shaw fired until he was empty, then went for his knife.
Dozens of Krauts closed in on the man in white.
Their target was well-armed but his limbs were still. He dragged out a potato masher and tossed, it but he hadn’t managed to rip the pull cord.
“It’s a dud,” Taylor reassured his men as the grenade rolled toward them.
Grillo picked it up and unscrewed the base closing cap, ripped the string, then tossed it at the advancing Germans behind their target. The three instinctively ducked as it exploded and tossed bodies around.
“Guess it’s not a dud,” Taylor grinned.
He grabbed the man in white and dragged him by the hood. He was young and clean-shaven, but his teeth were broken and coated in red. More blood had cascaded and dried down his white jacket.
The German fought back, ripping at the Captain’s hands. He nearly broke free, but Shaw hit him in the gut with the butt of his rifle.
There were still a pair of Germans to contend with, so on his left, Grillo fired, but the bullet went wide. He got another blast in, and the side of the man’s head blew apart in a mass of blood and gore.
Taylor kicked the man in the shin and he fell, dragging the Captain down.
Shaw helped Taylor back to his feet while Grillo provided cover.
“Sir, we need to hurry the hell up!” Grillo said.
Taylor didn’t need to be told. He knew they were about to be completely overrun.
In the distance, his men cheered them on while providing covering fire. A machine gun squad fired into the advancing ranks, causing devastation.
Taylor locked his eyes on his own men, and with Shaw helping secure the prisoner, they ran while Grillo covered their retreat.
Hot on their heels, they heard the pounding of feet.
* * *
Thirty-Eight
Behr
Sergeant Behr struggled to rise.
He’d been in the midst of the fight. Arms flailing, feet kicking, knees crushing, and teeth ripping, when an explosion had thrown him across the ground. Something wet had slapped against the ground next to his head.
Behr pulled himself toward a soldier in a dark canvas jacket who carried the weapons of the enemy. The soldier had still been twitching so Behr intended to finish him off.
If only his legs would react. Why wouldn’t they do as he asked? He wished to stand but he could not. When he tried to get onto his knees under him his body failed to respond.
He looked down and found the source of his frustration. Above his left knee his limb was missing and below his right hip his entire leg was gone. Blood pooled around his body as he tried to rise.
Next to his head he found what he was looking for. One of his legs. It had been shredded by shrapnel and then completely ripped off.
Behr had been growing colder by the second.
Very cold.
Behr blinked once then his eyes locked open and he passed from this world.
* * *
Thirty-Nine
Coley
Tramble looked at Coley, eyes pleading. He touched his chest and bucked once, body lifting off the seat before settling down again. A bubble of blood formed on his lips then his eyes closed.
He didn’t move again.
“Stop shooting at us!” Coley tried to yell, but he’d been dazed after being tossed out of the jeep like a ragdoll.
Von Boeselager helped Coley up, and the men took shelter behind the vehicle. The others had come to a halt behind them, and men poured out of their transports and pointed guns in the direction of the Allied line.
To their left, the force of Germans had taken an interest in them, and some shifted to advance on their position.
Coley coughed and tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue. He poked his head over the side of the jeep to take in what was happening. They’d been fired on by their own men. If they stayed here for much longer, they wouldn’t stand a chance. They were already sitting ducks.
He made a hasty decision, and prayed it would work.
“Men. Stow your weapons and put your hands in the air. Yell 'surrender' at the top of your lungs and move toward the line in single file. I’ll take the lead.” Coley said then leaned to the side and spit out blood.
He knew he’d be the first one to get shot, but he set the example and slung the Thompson over his shoulder. He lifted his hands high in the air and stepped around the jeep, yelling that he was surrendering at the top of his lungs.
Behind him, a mass of Germans closed in. There were only twenty-five yards between the enemy and their location.
He walked at a fast clip and the rest of his men fell in line, yelling that they were surrendering, which was the stupidest fucking thing he’d ever heard in his life. Surrendering to their own forces was beyond madness.
Several men left their dugouts and advanced on the men, with guns lowered and ready to kill.
The first man to arrive was a Sergeant, who took in the men with a quick glance.
“Sir, thought you were the enemy. We’ve seen our guys working with the Germans back there.” The man nodded at the advancing force.
“We’ll deal with it later. Right now I need my men safe. We have POWs who may have vital information about what’s been happening. Tell your men to stop shooting. You already killed one of my Corporals.”
“Ah, Christ, sir. I’m real sorry about that.”
Coley was mad as hell. They’d shot Tramble, and now the man’s body was in the snow, and there was no way to go back for him.
“We didn’t know,” the man reassured him. He looked harried and exhausted. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his eyes were lined by dark bags.
Coley shook his head and didn’t say another word. He led the way as he struggled over packed snow to reach the Allied line. When they found a dugout to take cover in, his men spread out and joined the ranks. Von Boeselager and two of his men stuck close, but kept their hands on their heads.
Coley turned to look at his jeeps, and found they’d been completely swarmed by figures in white and brown. Some of them started shooting at the Allies, so the men around him returned fire.
Then the forest erupted as thousands of Germans advanced on their position.
* * *
Forty
Graves
Graves bounced up and down as the half-track ripped over a pocketed road until they came into view of the city. They were approaching from the north, and there were forces of the Allies clustered around the remains of the shattered walls and bombed-out buildings. Gunfire rippled along the line, and artillery started to boom from inside Bastogne.
From the western flank came a group of the enemies that was hard to fathom. Thousands of men poured out of the woods, scrambled over foxholes, and pounded over roads. The majority of the force were not returning fire. There were no carefully-placed machine gun squads covering the men. Mortars weren’t firing back. It was simply a mass of humanity assaulting a vastly outnumbered force, much like he’d seen assaulting their tank.
“My god. Do we even want to be rescued
?” Murph said from the driver seat.
Graves swung the big-mounted machine gun around and prepared to fire on the enemy.
Bullets ricocheted off the half-track, forcing Graves and Gabby to duck.
A bazooka sounded, and the explosive sailed past their vehicle.
“Murphy! Remember when I told you to bring your pack? Well get that damn flag out and wave it like it’s on fire!” Graves howled.
“If it was on fire, they’d shoot us all to death,” Murphy said.
Murph swung his pack off and dug around inside. His brother had been killed at Normandy, and he’d been carrying big American flag as a memento of his brother’s sacrifice.
He unfurled it in the whipping wind and held it aloft. Graves reached for the other side of the flag, but it flapped just out of grasp as more bullets whizzed around them.
Graves finally got his fingers around the other end, and together they lifted the flag over the top of the half-track as it raced toward the Allied line.
“We’re going to get shot,” Murph said over the roaring wind and engine.
Graves found it hard to argue. On the cold metal beneath them, the body of their tank gunner, Tom “Big Texas” LaRue lay in the cold. Murph was right: they’d likely join him, in the coming moments.
Rounds hit the half-track, and one pierced the American flag. Murph ducked, but Graves urged him back to his feet. They got up higher, stepping on the benches on either side of the half-track's interior slopped walls. The rounds stopped smacking armor.
They pulled in before a dug-in platoon of Army infantry.
It kept guns cautiously trained on Graves and his men.
Graves called down his identification, and cursed the lack of radio communications today. He’d left his notebook in the Sherman and he couldn’t remember the exact daily password. Lemon? Was it Tripoli? A harried officer who looked green greeted them. His uniform was spotless and his army jacket showed signs of little rolling around in the dirt, unlike most of his men.
Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Page 14
