Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Read online

  Behr’s eyes closed as a lassitude took hold. He gazed at a puff of snow, and thought it might be moving. He smiled, because he suddenly felt warm, like he was sitting before a nice fire.

  Around him, his men sighed in equal pleasure.

  If this was the worst of it, he would be a happy soldier for the rest of the night and day. To feel warmth again was the best thing he could ask for right now.

  He shifted his weapon and double-checked his load out. He had several extra magazines, and also carried a pair of grenades. Sergeant Behr clenched his teeth and thought of the enemy: the Anglo-Americans who had killed so many of his brethren. What he wouldn’t do to charge into a mass of them right now, shooting, slashing his bayonet, leaping on men and ripping out their hearts.

  Behr’s pulse raced as he thought of blood. Hot blood spilling from the enemy. Piles of bodies left to rot.

  He snarled.

  Near him, his friend Corporal Jaeger let out an equally strange sound.

  The night lit up as an artillery barrage erupted from the east. Behr stared up, eyes following the descending rounds as they smashed into the Americans' positions.

  The fight was on.

  Behr motioned for his men, and together they moved into the night to find the enemy.

  * * *

  “How long will the effects last?” the SS officer asked the doctor.

  “For about twelve hours, mein Herr. They will go into battle and kill many of the Anglo-American forces. Our men will not feel pain and they will not feel the cold.”

  “And after? How will they cope?”

  “They will need more of the serum to be sure. Those who survive.”

  “I do not like this. We have wasted too many soldiers. Far too many sons will not be returning home since Normandy, and yet I see the Führer’s goal clearly. We must strike and it must be swift and without remorse. We must break their lines and send them scurrying.”

  “The serum is not as bad as it sounds, sir, and it has been extensively tested. Would you like to taste its power?” the doctor asked.

  The SS officer stared at the man and didn’t say a word. He merely turned away from the hideous doctor and led him on to the next company.

  * * *

  Three

  Coley

  Lieutenant Joseph Coley of the 394th Regiment, 99th Infantry Division was rocked out of a deep sleep by the world going up in flames. He rolled over, right into Corporal Travis Tramble. The next round landed in front of their position, and sounded like the end of the world.

  Tramble pressed his hand to the side of his helmet and put his head in the dirt. Coley got a look at his Corporal’s shell-shocked face and wondered if he had the same terrified look on his own.

  “What the hell is that artillery fire doing here?”

  “Trying to kill us, I suspect,” Coley yelled over the din of exploding rounds.

  They were in a dugout made a few days ago. Lieutenant Coley had overseen and helped his men dig the holes himself. They’d had to maneuver tree trunks over the openings to provide slits to shoot through.

  As an Intelligence and Reconnaissance platoon, their job was to dig in and watch for enemy movement. This far in Belgium and close to the German border, the allies had enjoyed total supremacy, so this was supposed to be easy duty. He’d been asked to sit out here for just a couple of days, but that had stretched into four, and now they were under attack.

  Trees blew apart, scattering chunks of wood at high speed, impacting the earth and the dugout. Pieces of debris struck the log shelter above and rained down on the two men.

  Coley found the radio and pulled it out of the canister. He rang up regimental command and reported that they were under an artillery barrage.

  “Say again?”

  “We’re getting pounded here. It’s like every gun on the other side of the Siegfried opened up on us.”

  “That can’t be right. We don’t have reports of any German movements in that area.”

  “Does this sound like I’m playing a fucking prank?” Coley held the radio receiver up in the air for a few seconds.

  Lieutenant Coley argued with the radio operator before being told to call back in fifteen minutes, when they’d have a better idea of what was happening.

  He relayed the words back to Tramble.

  “How 'bout we go back and put our boots up someone’s ass and see if they know what’s going on?” Trample yelled.

  The explosions marched a chaotic pattern behind the men in the direction of the small town of Longvilly. Coley took the moment to dive out of his dugout and issue orders.

  The eighteen men under his command were spread out in a long line, two hundred yards from the village. They’d been digging in and stockpiling ammo for half a week.

  He found Private Shaw and Corporal Harpham and told them to go back to town and find a house to gather intelligence from. The men shot him quick salutes. When the artillery let up for a moment, they rolled out of their dugout and made their way through the knee-deep snow toward the barbed wire fence that cut a line across the slope leading into town.

  Artillery fire went on for over an hour. At any second, Lieutenant Coley expected it to find their hole. It would be over quick; that was the only saving grace.

  * * *

  The bombardment had ceased, and somehow, they were still in one piece. Holes the size of tanks were left over the field, and trees around them--once tall and proud--had been lopped off and tossed to the earth.

  “Lieutenant. I see movement near the town,” Tramble said.

  Coley took the man’s binoculars to assess the situation, and in the process got a look at the tank destroyers that had guarded the rear of Longvilly.

  “Are they deserting us?” he wondered out loud.

  The machines heaved over mounds of snow and disappeared into the tree line.

  “Guess that answers that question,” Tramble said.

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” Coley said.

  The slope of the German soldiers' helmets gave them away. They faded out of the mist and streamed toward the town. It wasn't just a single German patrol either; there were at least a hundred men moving in a column.

  He tried the radio repeatedly, and finally got through to command.

  “You must be seeing things,” they told the Lieutenant. Again.

  “Respectfully, we just hunkered down during two hours of artillery barrages. The entire goddamn Sigfried line just opened up on this location. Something big is brewing and we need orders.”

  “Wait one,” the radio operator said, and clicked off.

  “Son of a bitch. They’re still saying we’re just seeing things and the barrage isn’t happening,” Coley relayed the words.

  “That’s a fine way to say good morning. What do we do?”

  Ten minutes later, Coley got back on the radio, and repeated his requested his artillery support.

  Explosions and gunfire came from the direction of the village. The men dug in around Coley, set up weapons and pointed them toward the houses below. They had a .30 caliber machine gun, as well as a .50 cal mounted on the back of a jeep. The jeep had been placed in a dugout and covered with logs and foliage, to keep it hidden from view.

  That left them with five jeeps that had been hidden in the woods behind their position.

  Coley and his men turned their gunsights on the town, and waited.

  A pair of figures that had to be Private Shaw and Corporal Harpham dashed across the field, maneuvered under the barbed wire fence, and ran like the dickens. They wove through trees and ducked behind natural cover.

  Coley lifted an M1 and aimed at the mass of soldiers near the village.

  “Get ready to fire, men," Coley called. "Pick your targets and drop as many as you can before they get wise to us.” His orders were relayed across the half-dozen dugouts. “Hold your fire until I say.”

  “They ain’t seen us yet,” Tramble said.

  “Yeah, and maybe they won’t."

  Coley wond
ered how they were going to fight off a force nearly twenty times their size without artillery support. He used his binoculars to watch the men gathering below.

  A Belgian woman approached the Germans. She was young and pretty, and reminded Coley of one of his sisters. She spoke to a commander for a few seconds, and then pointed at the 99th’s position.

  “Oh Christ. I’m gonna take her out,” Tramble said.

  But he didn’t fire.

  Coley held his breath while the two spoke.

  Suddenly the German commander belted out orders, and his men dove into ditches on either side of the road.

  A jeep roared up behind Coley’s position, and out spilled three men. They quickly unloaded a 60mm mortar and started getting set up in a dugout behind them.

  “Guess our request for help was heard?” Coley asked the mortar team.

  “Sir. We heard there might be some action here. Captain Phillips asked us to check it out, so we brought along help, just in case.”

  The addition of the mortars was a big help, but it wouldn’t be enough to cause serious damage to such a strong force.

  The Germans didn’t waste any time. Small arms fire erupted from their position. They were stretched out across the road, and had decent coverage. But Coley could make out figures. The minute they set up a flanking maneuver, the well-trained Krauts would take them out.

  “Pick your targets, men.” Coley said, and his orders were relayed from dugout to dugout. “When I fire, give 'em hell.”

  As far as motivational speeches went, it wasn’t the best. His men had trained with him for months, and they were a tight outfit. If he'd felt he’d need to stand up and shout orders like Patton, he’d have been a poor commander.

  “Fire!” Coley yelled.

  Coley picked out a figure dressed in white and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck and the soldier rolled away, grasping his back. Tramble had opened up with the .30 caliber machine gun and sent Germans scrambling. Bullets kicked up snow and found targets.

  The Germans returned fire, and the fight for the hill was on.

  * * *

  Four

  Grillo

  Two-and-a-half ton trucks rolled into the city of Bastogne. Private Grillo took in the idyllic little town and smiled at people going about their business. There were waves and nods, but most kept their heads down. Occupation probably did that to a town--or so Grillo surmised. When you were under the boot-heel of something like Nazi rule, life had to be a daily struggle.

  He was packed inside the back of the truck, which had a cloth cover that did little to keep the cold, sleet, and snow out. He sat close to Private Manlien, who'd been chain-smoking from the moment they'd gotten into the vehicle.

  “This the place?” Grillo asked.

  “No, dummy. We’re in Paris. You’ve been living in a dream and this is the end. It’s all sweet French girls here, with flowing dresses and long legs,” Specialist Moreno said.

  Moreno hadn’t shaved in a few days, so patchy bits of dark hair sprouted over his cheeks and neck. He wore a thick canvas jacket over his clothing, but like most of the men in the vehicle, he wasn’t prepared for the cold.

  Grillo wasn't any closer to getting used to all of the snow, and also wasn’t shy about his fellow soldiers pressing into him for heat. None of the men smelled that great. They'd had a few days of rest and relaxation, but then they'd been pulled out and directed to the Ardennes region, and no one had been near bathwater since their rapid load-in and departure.

  Grillo and the rest of the company were horribly unprepared, and had little ammo or grenades. They’d been promised resupply upon arrival, but so far no one had seen a truck loaded with supplies.

  Grillo was trained to blow stuff up. He was a decent shot with the M1A1 Bazooka and was at home with carrying the heavy metal tube, as well as ammo. He’d been issued an M1 Garand, five clips, and two grenades. One of the guys had already talked him out of a grenade, but he held onto his 8-round clips fiercely.

  Tjarks was one of the older men in the group of replacements. He hugged his M1 like it was a girl. The man found a beat-up package of Mail Pouch chewing tobacco in his pack, dug out a clump, and jammed the wad into his mouth.

  “That stuff taste good?” Grillo inquired.

  “Tastes like home,” Tjarks said.

  “Where’s home exactly? You got a Kraut name,” Daniels--a no-nonsense Protestant from Maryland--chimed in.

  “It’s Dutch/German, but I’m from Crowley, Texas,” Tjarks drawled.

  “Another Texan? I’ve run into a dozen of you fellas,” Daniels said. “Don’t they got no industry in Texas ‘cept sending boys off to fight?”

  “We got industry like chewing tobacco and kicking Protestant ass,” Tjarks said.

  He leaned out the back of the moving truck and spit.

  Grillo stayed out of the ribbing, because Tjarks was as big as a house and Daniels was crazy. They’d had to pull over during the night, and he’d seen an American patrol approaching with German prisoners. Daniels had pulled a knife and threatened to start cutting off ears.

  “I got industry too, Tjarks, like slitting Texans open,” Daniels said.

  “Pipe down, both of you. Plenty of fighting when we get there,” Corporal Papaleo said.

  Papaleo was one of the few men in the truck who’d seen action. In the Army for his second tour, he’d been busted down in rank due to disappearing in Italy--or so the rumor went. One of the guys had asked him about it once, but the look Papaleo had given the man had made him stop pestering the Corporal.

  The truck came to a stop.

  Grillo looked outside expectantly, half-imagining Germans pouring out of the trees.

  “Rest stop, five-minute stretch, boys,” a Sergeant said, slapping the side of the truck and moving on to the next.

  Grillo plopped down into slushy snow. His combat boots had been new a few weeks ago, but they were already showing signs of wear, and he’d only been in Europe for nineteen days.

  He smacked his hands together and fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket.

  The wind was bitter as it whipped up around Grillo and then died down again.

  They’d stopped near an aid station. Men rushed into brown tents and carried supplies from trucks. A pair of jeeps covered in mud and snow sat kitty corner to the road. One had a windshield. The glass had been shot out of the second jeep on the passenger side, and the seat was splattered with blood.

  “What about you, Grillo? Where you from? Not a Kraut, right?”

  Grillo shook his head, but refused to get drawn into the petty talk. Instead his attention was taken up by figures moving out of the mist.

  Grillo tossed his cigarette and backed up until he was pressed against the canvas covering the side of the truck. He lifted his M1 and placed the stock under his arm.

  “What’s got you spooked?” Tjarks said, and then followed Grillo’s gaze.

  The men around Grillo went on the offensive and raised weapons. Daniels dove behind a truck, landing in a pile of slush and aiming his BAR.

  “Stand down,” Corporal Papaleo called as he moved among the men. “You’re a bunch of knuckleheads, you know that? That’s our guys.”

  Grillo’s heart thumped like a bellows inside his chest. He hadn’t seen action yet and found that he wasn’t quite ready either.

  They stood around next to the trucks as the men approached. As they came into full view, Grillo wasn’t the only one to take in a deep breath.

  The men were covered in bandages and wounds. A pair of soldiers had another man between them, with his arms draped over their shoulders. The wounded soldier had a bandage over half of his head and was soaked in blood.

  A soldier held his arm close to his chest. It was covered in bloody bandages because it appeared that he’d had part of his hand shot off, and the remains were wrapped in a red-soaked bandage.

  “Jesus. Those guys look rough,” Grillo muttered.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Corporal Pa
paleo said. “We’re relieving these men so they can get some rest and get fixed up.”

  “How long until we need rest and to get fixed up?”

  “We’re the 101st, son. We spit out lead and shit on Germans breakfast,” the corporal said, and clapped Grillo on the shoulder.

  * * *

  Five

  Taylor

  Captain Taylor sipped a cup of lukewarm cowboy coffee and tried to ignore the grounds. He swished the brew around his mouth and wished for the hundredth time that they had some kind of warmth--not for him, for his men.

  Summoned to defend against a counter-offensive from the Germans, he’d been cursing the cold, lack of supplies, disorganization, and general piss poor mood since he’d arrived.

  Around him sat regulars and replacements for the companies he’d deployed the night before. The men already looked tired, and they were all cold. Taylor had ordered more clothing and blankets be brought up for his men, but requests were slow in reaching the lines.

  The townspeople had been helpful in providing some warm--and more importantly, dry--blankets, but they weren’t enough for the hundreds of men of the 101st who waited out in the cold.

  He crumpled a message he’d received from command. Then he thought better of it and carefully smoothed the paper out, folded it and placed it in his pocket. Damn the SS to hell. Damn every one of them.

  “Not much we can do about it, sir. We got the call so we got the duty,” his orderly, Corporal Krantz, said.

  The kid wasn’t much younger than Taylor, but he had a smooth face and looked like he belonged in a high school classroom instead of sitting in Belgium taking care of him.

  Taylor was waiting for someone, anyone, to arrive with a situation map. He’d been stuck out here, blind as a goddamn bat, while his men arrayed themselves against the Germans. His map was outdated and he wasn’t even sure of the disposition of all troops in the Ardennes. Now this news had come down.