Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Page 5

  “Got it, Sarge.” Big Texas grinned.

  Murph popped up to give the thumbs-up and caught Bucky looking down the road with concern etched on his face.

  “Problem?”

  “Yeah,” Bucky called back. “Trouble with the mines.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Ford can’t get the damn thing set in the dirt. He’s one of the replacements and said he knew what he was doing. It’s a couple of those Teller mines we swiped from the Krauts. Poetic justice and all.”

  “Lemme up, Sarge. I know how to set em,” Gabby said. “Seen a guy do it before. Actually I saw a guy disarm one, but it’s the same thing.”

  “We don’t have time,” Murph said.

  “We can’t have the damn Krauts slipping away if this goes south. Gotta block this road,” Gabby said.

  “Fine. But hurry. We don’t have long.”

  Woodward slithered out of the tank and down the side, then hightailed it out of the brush.

  The three tanks cut their engines and waited.

  * * *

  Nine

  Grillo

  “Stay right behind me and call out anything, and I mean anything. Could come from the sides or even the back, if they get around Baker. Make sure it’s one of them and not one of our guys. Seen too many guys bite the dust due to friendly fire. That’s what they call it, friendly fire. Don’t seem to friendly to me,” Fahey muttered and set out across the snow-laden ground.

  Grillo scrambled to his feet. His M1 in both hands, he followed in Fahey’s path. As they moved away from Baker’s position, he kept his eyes peeled, looking left and right. The mist had thickened, making it hard to make out anything but the skeletal trees. He stumbled over a rock and almost went down.

  “Watch your feet, rook,” Fahey called over his shoulder.

  Grillo nodded, but his companion didn’t see the gesture. Fahey moved with sure feet over the terrain, pausing now and then to lower to a crouch so he could scan the area.

  They found the body behind the fallen log. Hoary moss hung frozen and forlorn from the wood. A small tuft of snow had built up around it, only to be flattened by the enemy's arm.

  Fahey poked the dead man with his rifle barrel.

  “You got your first kill after all, rook. Guess you can start working on a medal now, get those points in so you can go home.”

  “How many points you got, Fahey?” Grillo asked. Once you were in enough battles or amassed enough commendations or medals, you got to go home.

  “Not enough to escape your non-stop questions,” Fahey said.

  The figure of the German was dressed in a white jacket. Despite falling, he still wore a dickhead helmet, and there was dirt and blood covering the side of his face. Grillo dropped to a squat and considered the man he’d killed. Who had he been? Was he the son of a mother waiting for her boy to come home? Was he a guy who'd left his children without a father?

  Grillo squinted. There was something wrong with the dead man’s face. His skin was sallow and sunken in around the cheekbones, just above the Wehrmacht insignia on his collar. He bore a round around his neck that ripped away a chunk of skin. One eye was open, and it was an odd shade of deep blue under a translucent white cornea.

  The orb rotated and fixed on him. Grillo sucked in a breath.

  “What’s wrong with this guy’s eyes? It moved, Fahey, Christ but it moved,” Grillo said, pointing.

  “He’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with him. Wait, that’s not…”

  Something whistled overhead. Fahey snapped his head toward the sky.

  “Is that…” Grillo didn’t get to finish his sentence.

  “Incoming!” Fahey called, and was echoed by his comrades back at the camp.

  Grillo hit the ground right next to the dead German and covered his head with his arms, pulling his helmet down tight.

  An explosion twenty-five feet to his right shook the ground and tossed earth into the air. Then another arrived right behind it and exploded farther away.

  More rounds screamed through the morning air in a punishing assault that ripped at the earth. Trees exploded and rained shards of wood on them. Grillo curled up as more explosions shook the ground around him. He risked a glance and found the dead German moving toward him, arm stretched out, fingers bent into a claw.

  Grillo recoiled in horror and scooted back a few inches as his thin boots scrabbled at the snow.

  “We gotta get to a foxhole, now!” Fahey yelled.

  An explosion, so close it lifted Grillo off the ground and set him back down almost on top of the German. The reek of the man made Grillo gag. Rot and gangrene, mixed with blood and earth.

  The man’s hand reached for Grillo’s neck, but his fingers were cold, frozen, and could not close on Grillo’s flesh. His other hand fumbled for the Luger he’d held, but his fingers couldn’t seem to close around the grip.

  “Jesus Christ!” Grillo yelled, shuddering, and rolling to his side.

  He kicked out, using his boot to push the German away. The Wehrmacht soldier’s head turned to regard him, and that’s when Grillo saw the damage.

  He’d hit the man, alright; hit him in the head, judging by the portion that was missing. His right eye was a mass of bloodless skin and shattered skull. Grillo even saw pink brain matter bulging out of the wound. How in the hell was the man still alive? Grillo had hit him with at least three rounds.

  The man’s mouth moved, broken and rotted teeth clicking together as if he meant to eat Grillo right on the Ardennes forest floor.

  Another explosion rocked the earth.

  Fahey, now in a half-crouch, tugged at Grillo’s jacket and yelled, “Let’s go, rook!”

  Grillo’s hands shook as he rotated his M1 and fired several times at the German.

  Still the man reached for him.

  Fahey finally got a firm grip. Grillo kicked away from the German as Fahey dragged him a few feet away.

  In the distance, men screamed in pain and fear. Grillo suddenly remembered that they were under assault and his brothers in Baker Company probably needed his help. As Fahey pulled him away, his last shot caught the German in the head and he finally stopped moving. The M1’s clip flew out and the bolt locked open.

  As the two men struggled to their feet on the shaking ground, Grillo caught a glimpse of the German biting at air one more time before going still.

  The men ran for their lives.

  Behind them came more shapes in white.

  Fahey and Grillo dropped into their foxhole and scrambled to firing positions. Around them, the other men of the company opened fire.

  Rounds burst through the morning air, tearing into the targets.

  Grillo reloaded his M1 and aimed down the barrel. He shot a Kraut in the chest. The man crumpled and fell face-first into the snow.

  Grillo tracked another target and carefully squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched into the soldier’s shoulder and swung him around, so Grillo nailed him again.

  Beside him, Fahey fired fast and accurately. He blew through a full clip and then reloaded.

  “We’re almost out of ammo,” Grillo said.

  “Get ready to fall back. Switch to your bayonet if you run out, and drop as many as you can.”

  “These shitbirds aren’t shooting at us,” Grillo said.

  “That’s great. We can use bayonets if we have to,” Fahey said.

  Grillo didn’t mention how strange it was. He was actually relieved that the Krauts had decided to attack without weapons; he’d be a dummy to think otherwise. An unarmed enemy was easy enough to kill.

  One of the targets that Grillo had shot rose to its feet, let out a roar and charged at Grillo’s location.

  Grillo fired, but his gun jammed. He ejected the shell and aimed again but it was too late--the Kraut was already on their position.

  Fahey saved him by shooting the charging man in the chest and dropping him.

  “Thank you,” Grillo yelled.

  “We gotta fall bac
k. I’m out of ammo after this clip,” Fahey said, and shot another Kraut.

  The soldier dropped but still struggled across the ground. He dug out a potato masher and worked at the ignitor until it blew up in his hands, sending bloody chunks flying.

  “What in the heck is wrong with these Krauts?” Grillo said under his breath.

  “Damned if I know," Fahey said and reloaded his gun. "Don’t care, either. Shooting ducks in a barrel’s better than getting shot at by SS.”

  * * *

  Ten

  Behr

  After the SS doctor had administered the serum, Sergeant Heinz Behr’s arm had throbbed painfully for a few minutes. The initial rush had built in intensity until his body felt like it was humming. Sounds were nearer and objects were clearer. At first he’d seen the world in hues of red but that too had faded.

  Charging behind Behr, his men had simply stopped in the snow, as if they’d run out of energy. The great and powerful drug that would make them all über-warriors had run its course in a matter of five minutes.

  Behr’s head was a mess. His mind was flooded with images of Anglo-Americans covered in blood, shooting at him and his men. His thoughts were dark as he thought about how the enemies would taste. His mood darkened, even worse than it had been earlier today when he’d huddled with his men in a hole. They hadn’t been particularly well-fed and there was no coffee to go around.

  He wasn’t sure how long he and his men had been waiting in the cold, but it might have been minutes and it might have been hours. They’d stopped their advance when one of the other Sergeants had sat down and refused to move. An Obergrenadier lay next to him, holding his rifle tight against his chest. He keened under his breath and rocked side to side. Behr should know the man’s name, but it had completely escaped him.

  Mortars rocketed overhead, seeking the Allied positions. Explosions rocked the ground and should have sent many of his men seeking cover, but instead they snarled like animals.

  Sergeant Heinz stood up.

  Behr's head swam again, and he nearly dropped to his knees. He got a hand out and caught himself on a tree branch.

  The enemies were scattered ahead, and they had to die.

  A squad of soldiers were embedded nearby, putting fire on an enemy position. Behr’s rage grew by the second.

  The enemy was ahead and they had to die.

  One of the men turned and popped him a quick salute. He was young, barely old enough to shave his skin, but old enough to fight for the Fatherland. Behr was aware that the man was on his side. He was also aware that the child was scared to death. Fresh, hot, pulsing, his blood coursed through his veins as he struggled to hold up an MP40 and fire.

  Behr’s eyes filmed over. He suddenly had trouble seeing anything but the red heat signature of the other soldier, but it was enough. He leapt off the ground, soared several meters, and landed on the boy. The young soldier cried out in surprise, and then in anger as Behr ripped out his throat with his bare teeth.

  The others in his squad descended on the fighters with malice. Chunks of flesh flew as the men tore into any exposed skin.

  Blood stained the snow, but it was all the same to Behr. Red.

  Moments later, when the boy no longer moved beneath him, Behr rose to his feet. The slaughtered lay in piles. Fifteen bodies that had once been alive.

  Behr needed more.

  The enemy was ahead and they HAD TO DIE!

  The Sergeant roared with fury toward the front lines.

  Behind him, the men that had just been killed struggled to their feet. They rose: a ragged army of bloodstained ghouls that seethed with rage. Eyes that had been many different shades were now white.

  The men in his company followed, howling in fury as they ran.

  Behr’s force of a single squad grew as they came upon others.

  A halftrack had survived the trek into the woods. It crept along at a snail's pace as it tried to pick out targets in the distance.

  Behr and several other men leapt onto the vehicle and fed.

  The slaughter went on for hours.

  * * *

  Eleven

  Coley

  The second wave of Germans fell almost as quickly as the first. Although larger and more intense, the rushing Krauts in their white, interspersed with mottled camouflaged troops, advanced up the hill.

  The fog had barely let up as the day wound on, showing only occasional breaks for sunlight. The dugout was cold, and sensing that no change in the weather conditions was coming, Lieutenant Coley dreamed of lighting a fire.

  There was enough wood around to get a good blaze going. If they did make a fire, at least they would die warm.

  The Germans had held off from a third advance up the hill for several hours. The men milled around behind homes in the village below. Some showed themselves occasionally, but Smith--the company sniper--was on them and had fired at least one successful shot at a Kraut.

  Coley moved among his men, reassuring them that he was doing everything he could to get support for them. The twenty men of the 99th Infantry had now been dug in for over six hours, and faced several waves of advancing soldiers.

  “What do you think they’re planning?” Tramble asked for the third time.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t like it. If I was in charge down there, I’d have men moving in for flanking attacks. I’d also have a tank ready. If they had a Panzer down there they’d have killed us a long time ago.”

  “Makes you wonder what the Germans are up to, if they’re attacking without armor support,” Tramble said. “It don’t seem normal.”

  Tramble cupped his cigarette to keep the glow hidden from any German snipers. Coley wasn’t the only one with a sharpshooter on hand. The Germans had taken a few potshots from extended range during the day. The perfect place would have been the location his two men had occupied to keep tabs on the situation while the Germans were still arriving.

  When the pair had made it back to the emplacement they’d reported running into a Kraut patrol and getting off a few lucky shots before hightailing it back to this defensive position.

  “Get a load of this,” Tramble said, and stubbed out his cigarette in the snow.

  One of the Germans was approaching the fence with a white flag in hand.

  “Hold your fire, men. They probably want to tend to their wounded,” Coley called out.

  “What wounded? We killed every Jerry that came up the hill,” Private Owen yelled back.

  The man walked up to the fence with his flag held high. Coley didn’t stand up, but yelled to him that they could tend to their wounded.

  A half-dozen medics moved out from behind buildings and approached the battlefield.

  During the last assault, some of the German soldiers had made it over the barbed wire fence and closed to within thirty yards of Coley’s position before being mowed down. The man who had approached the fence picked his way over the barbed wire gingerly, and moved to a wounded man. He leaned over and checked on the soldier, then helped him down the hill.

  “Guess we missed one. Guy was good at playing dead,” Tramble muttered.

  Other medics crossed the deadly barricade and tended to fallen comrades.

  The man with the white flag moved to within twenty-five yards and got on all fours, looking over a man who’d been shot--or so Coley had thought--through the chest. The German had slumped over and not moved again.

  The medic bent over, then got down in the snow and peeled the jacket back from the wounded soldier’s chest. He leaned close, and listened to the injured man.

  “I don’t like this, sir,” Tramble said, and moved his aim to cover the medic.

  “Hold on. He’s playing by the rules so far,” Coley said.

  A pair of artillery shells fell behind the company's dug in position and exploded, throwing snow and earth into the air.

  “Son of a bitch. He’s got a radio,” Tramble said. “I saw it when he turned. He’s calling in our position.”

  “Hey
, hey!” Coley called to the German. “You using a radio?”

  He felt stupid for doing it. For all he knew, the man couldn’t speak a lick of English.

  The man continued helping the fallen German soldier and ignored Coley’s calls. When the medic shifted to the side, Coley got a look at a Luger in the Kraut’s jacket.

  “Oh shit. You’re right,” Coley said.

  Tramble aimed, but before he could fire and drop the man, screams came from the direction of the village.

  “What in the hell?” Coley said.

  A new force of Germans came out of the tree line near the village. They were dressed in a mixture of white and regular Infantry camouflage, but carried little weaponry.

  They didn’t walk in columns, and they didn’t show any sign of military training. They moved at a fast clip, but when they spotted their comrades, some of them broke into a run.

  The Nazi who’d been pretending to be a medic shook his head, rose, and ran back toward the fence, gesturing for the others to join him.

  “I’m gonna shoot that son of a bitch,” Tramble said.

  “Hold your fire. The mortars stopped falling. I don’t know what kind of new shitshow is going on down there, but something doesn’t seem right.”

  “Ain’t nothing right since we woke up this morning, Lieutenant.”

  Coley would remember those words for a long time.

  * * *

  Twelve

  Behr

  They’d been moving toward a small village. His men had trudged through the snow in a rough formation. Jurgen Omert had fallen behind, at some point. The soldier had taken to nibbling at his fingers until they were bloody.

  Behr had seen many of his comrades lose a little bit of themselves in the fights. He’d watched men huddle in balls and weep for their mothers. He’d seen brave men crying in pain and anger while wallowing in their own piss, but he’d never seen anything like what was happening to his company.