Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Read online

  “Fucking die, you Kraut pig,” Owen said.

  The German didn’t want to comply. He grabbed Owen’s hand and pulled him down. The two fought, Owen with big swinging fists, the German with slow, mechanical movements, even as his face was smashed into pulp.

  Grillo aimed with the Thompson and tried to get a fix on the soldier’s head, but was afraid he’d hit Owen.

  Captain Taylor got to his his feet, aimed into the mass of Germans and fired. Bullets tore into flesh, but the enraged mob didn’t seem to feel it.

  “Someone see if the jeep is running. We’re getting out of here, men.”

  Behind the wave of Germans were many more, and they had the same white eyes as the soldier Owen was fighting.

  Owen was pushed over, and the German rode him like a cowboy, but his hands were wrapped around Owen’s neck. Grillo aimed, and took part of the Kraut’s head off. The body flopped to the side and didn’t move again.

  “Son of a bitch bit me, son of a fucking bitch bit me!” Owen howled.

  Wounded, Sergeant Pierce crawled into the jeep and tested the ignition. The jeep cranked over a couple of times and then the engine caught and puttered to life.

  Taylor slid into the driver’s seat and Pierce, favoring his wounded leg, got in the passenger side. Owen managed to get his partner into position, and they rigged the machine gun up on the back of the jeep. Owen leaned into the stock while his partner fed in a round. The gun opened up in short bursts, damaging the line of Germans.

  “Listen up, men. We’re falling back. I need to report this to command, but the damn radio’s gone. I’m not abandoning a single man. If you’re handling injured, get them on the jeep now,” Captain Taylor called.

  Of the twenty or so men that had started the day in Baker, only eight or nine remained.

  Grillo used the Thompson he’d borrowed from Sergeant Pierce. He aimed at a pair of advancing Krauts and shot them in half.

  “At least they aren’t shooting at us anymore,” he said.

  “Damn Krauts have lost their minds,” Pierce said. He shot a German in the head with his sidearm. “Grillo, in the back of the jeep. You’re one of the injured.”

  “It’s not bad, Sarge, I can still shoot.”

  “Shoot from the jeep.”

  “Aye, Sarge,” Grillo said and wormed his way into the back. The crates of ammo had been tossed to the ground when the jeep was knocked over, so men swarmed over it and grabbed clips and magazines. Someone tossed him a couple for the submachine gun, as well as a pair of grenades.

  He pulled the pin on one, lifted up, and flung it into into a mass of Germans. It exploded and sent bodies flying.

  They’d been facing a force of a few, then dozens, but now hundreds were arriving from out of the mist. They wove between the trees like an eerie wave.

  The jeep lurched into motion and turned an arc toward the way back to town.

  “Hang on,” Captain Taylor said.

  He kept the speed low and his men followed.

  Owen had resorted to firing bursts as he followed. He’d had to use a piece of cloth under the barrel to avoid getting burned. The gun was heavy but he wielded it as if it were as light as an M1.

  “Lay down a bunch of fire. Grenades. Create a line of hell. Then we’re going to make a run for it. Bastogne is only a couple of miles,” Captain Taylor said. “We’ll switch off in the jeep so the men can rest, but we’re going to have to double time it.”

  Men called back affirmatives.

  Grillo was nearly in a daze. He’d started the morning cold and in a hole. They’d been expecting to see Germans. They’d expected to hold their position. But this overwhelming force of crazy men fighting tooth and nail hadn’t been in the cards.

  Grillo tugged out a grenade and timed his throw with that of the other men. Bursts of machine gun fire cut down many of the pursuing Germans, but some got back on their feet and came on mechanically.

  Pineapples sailed into the air and landed among the Krauts leaving a wave of destruction. Limbs flew and clothing shredded.

  Still the army came on, as the remains of the 101st ran toward Bastogne.

  * * *

  Twenty-Four

  Coley

  “We’re about to be overrun! What do we do, sir?” Tramble screamed.

  Coley considered sinking into his hole and calling it quits. The problem was that it wasn’t in him to give up. Still, with the mounting horror, it would be a fitting way to call it a day.

  He and his men had been stuck in the snow for days. Then they’d faced several assaults and managed to turn back the German advances. But just when they’d been preparing for another one, the rules had changed.

  Now they were faced with something unspeakable: German soldiers who could take multiple rounds to the body and still get up and trudge up the hill.

  Even in normal clothing and with knee-high boots, the snow was a hindrance. The men coming at them shrugged off the cold and ignored the freeze. They slogged upward and closed on the line of dugouts.

  His men were down to their last few clips and magazines. The .50 cal had been silenced, and the .30 cal was out of ammo. The mortar team had dropped their last round. Soon the men would be fighting with bayonets and knives.

  The Germans didn’t even bother shooting back. They just came on in waves, some running, others sprinting, and some dragging shattered limbs.

  A man covered in blood and missing part of his jaw made it to Coley’s dugout. He staggered over the wooden defenses and fell into the hole. Coley pulled his .45 and shot the man several times in the head. Blood and brains splattered over the cold hard ground.

  They wouldn’t be able to hold this back, but he had a plan.

  Coley shouted orders, and four or five of his men jumped out of their holes and ran toward the woods behind the dugouts.

  Tramble shot a German dressed in white camo that was splattered with blood--his own or someone else's? There was no way to be sure. The Wehrmacht soldier lifted a handgun. Rounds went wild, and nowhere near Tramble.

  Tramble finished the man off by shooting out most of the German’s throat. He dropped to the ground and fell face-first into the red-splattered snow.

  They just kept coming by ones and twos. Then threes and fours.

  Some had become hung up in the barbed wire. They tried to rip free, and tore flesh to the bone.

  A large German wearing Fallschirmjaeger insignia leapt into Walder’s dugout. The men fought each other with fists. Walder shoved the attacker to the ground and ripped his knife free. He stabbed, driving his blade through the soldier’s hand and into his chest. Blood sprayed, but the German fought on.

  Walder tried to rip the knife free, but the German grabbed with his good arm and pulled Coley’s man on top of him. The two rolled around until Walder got the upper hand and bashed the man’s head into the hard ground until it was pulp.

  “Son of a bitch tried to bite me, sir,” Walder called.

  Tramble had been trying to get a bead on the Fallschirmjaeger that had taken down Walder. “I tried to get him, but I thought I’d end up hitting you.”

  “Thanks for not shooting me. Damn, that guy was out of his head.”

  Coley shot an approaching German three times and the clip flew out of the M1. He dug for another, but he was out. He’d meant to get a few more out of the replenished ammo box, but forgotten when they’d been attacked in force.

  Bodies lay all around the dugouts. Most were still, but a few shapes moved around.

  Engines rumbled behind them.

  The next wave arrived, and men had to get out of their dugouts to fight.

  Tramble went for his sidearm and put a .45-sized hole in a Kraut. The man fell backwards but struggled to roll over, so Tramble blew the back of his head off.

  Coley looked up and choked back a gasp. They were everywhere!

  “Alright men, I want an organized withdrawal,” Coley said.

  Hold at all costs didn’t include shooting unarmed and seemingly
unstoppable psychotic Germans.

  He’d started the day with eighteen individuals under his command; men he’d trained with from the beginning. The three mortar men had been late arrivals, bringing his force to twenty-one men.

  Now he was down to twelve.

  Five were working on the jeeps, but the rest of his men were about to be overwhelmed.

  A pair of men with working M1s paused to drop a couple of slathering Krauts. Blood flew and bodies fell--bodies that didn’t convulse or fall still. Bodies that continued crawling toward their location.

  “It’s not possible, sir. Those guys can’t be moving.”

  “I agree, but it doesn’t change the fact that there is something seriously FUBAR with those Krauts,” Coley said.

  A second group of Germans moved erratically toward them--a second group that was twice as big as the first. Heaven help them.

  * * *

  Coley and his men reached the line of trees and the rumbling jeeps hidden behind them. It would be a tight fit, but everyone would have a seat. Tree branches hung over the jeeps, creating good camouflage from aircraft. They’d created a barrier of fallen foliage to obscure them from patrols as well.

  The men had cleared a path out. Coley waited for all of his men to arrive. They were struggling through the snow and fighting when they had to, but it was a retreat. There was no way around the word.

  “Lieutenant. You gotta see this. Some of the Germans are shooting at their own guys,” Tramble said when he arrived, breathing heavy puffs of steam like a bellows.

  “Maybe they think the war's over and decided to shoot each other,” Coley joked.

  “Less for us to shoot, sir. I wish this was over. I’d love to go home and have a turkey dinner for Christmas,” Tramble said.

  “Speaking of turkey, what’s going on there?” Coley pointed.

  The two men stood next to a running jeep. Coley lifted his binoculars to make out what was happening.

  A group of Germans pursued another group; that didn’t make a bit of sense. The main group was at least a hundred strong, and they fired wildly, rounds sailing into the air. Some ran, but most moved almost mechanically.

  Tramble grabbed a Thompson from the back of a jeep and swung it around to fire at the Krauts.

  “Hold up. Something isn’t right,” Coley said. “I think they’re giving up.”

  Sure enough. Three Germans ran toward them. The men had their hands in the air, and weapons stowed over their shoulders. One of the men’s helmets flew off, revealing unkempt brown hair that was far from the Aryan blonde so desired in the Third Reich.

  One of Coley’s men fired, and dropped a German in his tracks. The bullet hit the soldier in the chest, and he was practically blown off his feet. The others shouted “Surrender, surrender!”

  Coley motioned for his guys to drop their weapons.

  “Sir, what in the hell?”

  A half dozen other soldiers pounded over the snow toward Coley’s position, breaking through snow and brushing past tree branches. They also had their hands in the air.

  A man who was clearly in charge approached Coley.

  “Surrender,” he said, simply, but glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide, fear etched on his face.

  “We don’t have room for you,” Coley said, looking over his pitiful transportation.

  The advancing army of snarling Germans came on. One of the Germans spun, went to one knee, and fired into the mass with a submachine gun. His comrades dropped.

  “Good, Christ, sir. Let’s go and let the Krauts kill each other.”

  “No, no,” the man in charge said in heavily-accented English. “We have information. There is great danger coming.”

  “Great danger? Like a bunch of Germans launching an assault?” Coley said.

  The rest of his men milled around, some piling into the jeeps and moving guns and ammo out of the way.

  “Fine. Tramble, collect guns and get them situated. They can sit on each other’s goddamn laps for all I care. We’ll get them to command and let them sort this out.”

  “Thank you, meinn Herr. Thank you,” the officer said, and saluted.

  Coley snapped a salute in return, and turned to get into his own jeep.

  The whole damn world had gone crazy this morning.

  * * *

  Twenty-Five

  Graves

  “What do you see, Staff Sergeant?” Big Texas asked nervously.

  “I see a King Tiger tank,” Graves said, because he didn’t want to bullshit his men. “Get us out of sight. Find a bunch of trees or a hill. Anything to hide behind. We can’t take that tank on by ourselves.”

  Murph hit the sticks, and the tank moved backward at speed, keeping the thicker front armor front and center. They wouldn’t be able to withstand a direct hit, but it was better than showing their tail.

  The engine roared as gasoline pumped into the power plant. Graves was slammed against the side of the tank, but leveraged himself back into his seat and peered out of the periscope. The Tiger paused in its hunt, and the big 88mm gun rotated on its axis as it sought their location.

  Graves opened the hatch and stood. He tried to pick out a location to hide in, but the trees were sparse here. The town of Bastogne was only a few miles to the west, but they might not have a chance of reaching it if they didn’t shake the King Tiger. Even if they actually managed to elude, it they’d still have to find a road.

  The Tiger fired, and a round screamed over the Sherman as Graves' tank hit a small dip. A few inches lower, and the turret would have been obliterated along with him.

  “Right stick, come around twenty degrees,” Graves called.

  Murph worked the sticks and the tank complied, even as they came up to speed.

  There was a copse ahead. If they could get behind it, they might be able to turn tail and run.

  The Tiger rolled forward and cleared a pair of small trees in a rending crash of wood. Branches covered in snow crashed to the earth and were crushed under close to seventy tons of metal, engine, and deadly gun.

  “Hit him!” Graves called, knowing it was practically hopeless, but he was at least going to go down fighting.

  The Sherman’s gun bucked and a 75mm round found the King Tiger, but glanced off the thick armor’s side.

  “Again!” Graves yelled.

  “On the way,” Big Texas said as he worked the gun.

  The next round got lucky and struck track. A piece of metal flew off and the Tiger floundered.

  “Hard right stick!” Graves called.

  Murph gave him what he asked for, and the King Tiger’s next round glanced off the Sherman’s armor. The sound was like someone took a cast iron pan and fired a .45 round into it right next to Grave’s ear.

  “Punch up the engine. We hurt that Tiger, but it’s still gunning for us,” Graves called.

  Then something genuinely odd happened.

  A group of German infantry scrambled up the sides of the King Tiger. There were at least ten of them and they moved almost mechanically. They weren’t along for a ride; in fact, they started beating at the thick metal.

  The tank commander popped out to yell at the men.

  The Sherman rolled over a tree, and a low-hanging branch smacked Graves across the back of his head. He was jolted forward and almost dropped his binoculars. He managed to catch the strap and then lift them again. He braced himself against the front of the portal and felt the back of his head to find a gash. He brought his hand around and broke his view to find blood on it.

  “I been bushwhacked,” he mumbled.

  He shook it off, even though the back of his head throbbed in pain. He looked at the King Tiger again and found that the tank commander was being dragged out of his turret.

  The officer batted at hands, but he was pulled completely out. The German infantrymen dragged the SS officer across the metal and then beat at him with knives, rocks, and fists.

  One of the crazy Germans leaned into the tank, then fell inside but the tu
rret was still rotating to track the Sherman.

  “Left stick, left stick!” Graves yelled but the tank didn’t fire on them.

  “What’s he doing?” Big Texas asked.

  “That’s some shit,” Graves said.

  Then the tank’s gun spoke again, and a round ricocheted off the Sherman’s track. Metal ground against metal, and parts of the wheels flew into the air. The left track kept turning, pulling them in a semi-circle.

  Graves prepared to issue the order to abandon the tank. One more hit and they were all dead.

  But the Tiger ground to a halt, and the gun didn’t fire again. Another Kraut leaned into the tank and fought someone. Then a second man dressed in white joined the first. He fell in up to his waist, legs sticking up into the air like a big middle finger. They wiggled as the man wormed himself inside.

  “Should I light them up, sir?” Gabby said.

  “Out, out, everyone out,” Graves ordered.

  Hatches popped and his men piled out, rolled over the side of the tank, and got down next to the working tracks. Now stuck, the tank still steamed, and exhaust from the engine rose into the air.

  Graves crawled out of the turret and down the side to join his men.

  “See that little rise there? Run for it. We’ll use it as a foxhole and then make our way into the woods to elude the damn Tiger,” Graves said, and pointed in the direction he wanted his men to move.

  They broke into a run, backs bent, guns in hands. Murph wore his winter jacket, but Big Texas and Gabby had barely had time to grab their weapons.

  As they ran for cover, Graves expected the tank to explode at any second. That Tiger was going to zero in on the disabled Sherman and send it flying. The military transport would go up like a Ronson, and they’d be sprayed with shrapnel and flames.

  They dove into the improvised foxhole and quickly maneuvered around to get heads over the lip to watch the German tank.

  It hadn’t moved.

  “Did I see what I thought I saw?” Big Texas drawled.