Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) (5 page)

Pierce climbed out of the shallow foxhole and strutted back to his own piece of heaven in the Ardennes forest.

Grillo aimed carefully, centered his sights on the soldier’s chest, and fired again. The first time, he’d shot a shapeless form that was probably intent on killing him and the rest of the men in Baker Company. Now Grillo was just finishing what he’d started.

The soldier dropped behind the log again.

Snow started to fall in light flakes. They caressed Grillo’s face and melted soon after, leaving little rivulets of water on his cheeks. He brushed a puff off his eyebrow and rose to his feet. Fahey took the lead. He carried his rifle at ready, stock against his shoulder, barrel aimed toward the enemy corpse.

T
hree Shermans cobbled together
from the 2nd and 5th platoons, 741
^st
Tank Battalion, fifteen infantry in a mixed unit, and an anti-tank company were facing the largest German assault they’d seen since Normandy. The tanks had backed into a copse of trees, barrels out, so they could wait for the force and perform a little ambush. Murphy had left his gunner station and gone out to help fix up some camouflage… such as it was, in this frozen forest.

The tank was covered in logs they’d cut down a few weeks ago and attached to its sides. The front was reinforced with a couple of slabs of concrete held on by chains they’d absconded with from a shattered building at the same time.

The Shermans might as well have been made of paper when facing a Panzer head-on. Murphy had seen too many of his friends die when fighting the enemy’s tanks.

German shells traveled upwards of 3,500 feet per second, and could reach the Americans with effectiveness at over 2,000 yards. The trick was to use the more maneuverable and lighter Shermans to the Krauts' rear and hope you got a lucky shot.

Fuel was low, and the refueling station was a long ways off, so they’d have to be smart about how they handled the Krauts. But Staff Sergeant Michael “Gravedigger” Graves hadn’t survived the war this long by doing stupid stuff.

Until today.

Graves cupped his hands together and blew in them. He tucked his palms back inside his shirtsleeves and huddled next to “Big Texas”. Tom LaRue was large enough to take up the room of two men, but that hadn’t stopped him from being assigned to a Sherman. Somehow LaRue had figured out how to scramble in and out of a tank with the agility of a man half his size. He was a man that got his temper worked up at times but he was a cool as a cucumber when he was manning the gunner station.

Gabe Woodward sipped from a cup of ice he’d been blowing on in the hopes of making the snow melt faster. Gabby--as they’d called him from their first engagement, when he'd refused to shut the hell up about whatever little thought came into his mind--was the only one among them who was mostly warm.

They’d been stuck in a tiny village a few weeks ago, and he’d seen the writing on the wall, guessed that it wasn’t going to get warm anytime soon, and negotiated with some of the townspeople for a castoff German overcoat. He wore it under his army uniform, lest anyone mistake him for a Kraut and shoot his head off.

“Thing about surviving the cold is you gotta outthink it," Gabe said. "When I was sixteen, me and my pops went up to Alaska to do some fishing and we got stuck in a snowstorm. Well as much as I’d like to say I had fun, it was one of the most miserable experiences of my life.”

“Listening to you talk, Gabby, is one of the worst experiences of
my
life,” LaRue said.

“Come on now, I’m just imparting my life experiences on y'all. Keeping us talking while we slowly freeze to death in this hunk of steel. Was a time I used to welcome the cold so I could sleep better at night. We had a wood stove that I had to keep stoked, and there was an art to it. Too much air and you’d be sweating. Not enough and Dad would be thumping me upside the head for being lackadaisical.”

“Can I thump him upside the head?” LaRue asked Staff Sergeant Graves. “I’ll be real gentle about it and promise not to knock out more than three teeth.”

“You try it and see what happens. You’re a big guy, Texas, but I was a boxer, and I’ll put you on your fat ass,” Gabby said.

The two men stared at each other, each willing the other to make the first move.

“Cut out the chatter, both of you, I’m listening for Germans,” Graves said.

The men simmered down, Gabby going back to sipping on his cup of ice, and LaRue closing his eyes and leaning back in his seat.

Murph clambered onto the tank and poked his head inside. The man’s face was covered in dirt, which he’d liberally applied with a little tree sap. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but Graves had to admit it worked. When Murph was in the trees, he was damn near invisible.

Murph was from a small town in Louisiana, and swore he’d been hunting game since he was ten years old. On more than one occasion, he’d had a hot meal for the men of the tanks, thanks to a clever snare he’d set during the night.

Last night he’d come up empty, but that was to be expected with all of the damn shooting going on in this region.

Mortars and screaming meemies had kept all of them awake, and now they faced another cold day of waiting to spring their ambush.

“You’re as ugly as the day is long,” ‘Big Texas’ Tom LaRue said.

“You’re one to talk. Face only a momma would kiss,” Murph said as he slid inside the tank and took up position at the gunner controls.

“I already know you want to kiss me. Seen it in your eyes on more than one occasion,” LaRue said.

“Shut up, all of you. I hear something,” Graves said.

The men quieted down and listened as well. LaRue pressed his ear to the side of the tank and plugged his other ear with a finger.

Graves popped out of the tank's portal and scanned the area.

To his right was Momma Rose: a Sherman run by by a fresh-faced kid from Pennsylvania who was nick-named Bucky, thanks to his enormous front teeth.

Bucky looked young, but he had an old soul, and was all too happy to kill any German forces in his path. He was a ruthless tank commander, and the men under his watch were always willing to comply with his orders to run over a cowering German soldier out in the field.

Bucky was up top as well, looking for trouble, and even though there was a layer of fog, he had his binoculars pressed to his eyes as he scanned the area.

“You hear that?”

“I think so,” Bucky said. “We may have company.”

“Where’re the scouts?”

“Should be back with word in a few minutes. Time to warm the engines,” Bucky said.

Graves nodded and slapped the top of the tank. “Warm up the engine, Murph.”

“Ready to roll,” Murph called back from the cold interior.

The Sherman’s engine rumbled to life as her 470 HP engine turned over. The exhaust filled the tank's interior, making the men cough before it cleared up. Next to her, Bucky’s M4 did the same thing, as did the third tank, commanded by a man named Charles Noble.

Noble was new to both of them, and stayed aloof. He was tall and gaunt and had a scar that ran from above his right eye to below his lower lip. He said a shell had penetrated his first tank while he was a gunner and killed everyone but him. His mangled hand had been partially put back into working order, but he tended to hide the damage in his sleeve when the tank commanders met over meals.

“This is how we’re going to play it. I want that engine killed in thirty seconds. We’re gonna sit here, cold, and wait for the Krauts to pass. They get hung up by those mines and we have full defilade. Got it?”

“Sounds good. Hitting Panzers on the ass end is a good way to kill em. Great plan,” Murph said.

“Stop being a smartass for a second and listen. After we hit them, we’re going to back up and hope they don’t make us a target. The woods are a hindrance, but they will also be an asset. These ponderous Kraut tanks are already struggling to make it over the crap roads around here.”

“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.

“
S
tay 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 back. 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.”