Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) (16 page)

T
he half-track
covered the retreating Allies. Gabby roared with anger as he laid down fire. They’d become trapped in a tiny alley with barely enough room to clear either side. But they slowed to a crawl, to effect a moving roadblock. The bastards kept on coming, no matter how many bullets he shot.

Murph had argued that he was a tank driver and should be in the driver seat. Gabby had said, “All yours. I’ll go shoot Krauts. Pain in the ass driving with the steering wheel on the wrong side, anyway.”

The men had swapped positions, and Gabby had been true to his word. He unleashed wave after wave of German lead back at the pursuing forces.

With boxes of ammo and weapons left by the Germans, they were able to provide a safe retreat. Villagers joined the army and moved among them, but never at a fast enough pace. They carried suitcases and boxes of belongings. Many clutched children close. An elderly couple tossed aside their items and insisted on holding hands as they wove among the refugees.

“This is so FUBAR, Staff Sergeant,” Gabby said as he reloaded the German machine gun with the last of the ammo.

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” Graves said.

“What about Big Texas? We left his body back there,” Gabby said.

“We can’t do anything about it now,” Graves said.

“I know. Just a shame. Should have kept him in the half-track with us. We’d have taken care of him as soon as we were safe.”

“If we manage to find a safe place, I’ll say a prayer for him. Right now I’m busy praying for us,” Graves said grimly.

T
he German POWs
had been kept under guard during the engagement, before Coley had made the argument that they could help. The Americans were naturally distrustful of the Krauts, and there had been many whispers about Malmade as well as murmurs that the men should be shot.

Von Boeselager had made the move to approach him and offer his comrades' services. Coley had to scratch his head and consider the German officer very carefully. A day ago, this asshole had been interested in shooting Coley’s men. Now they wanted to shoot at their
own
guys.

“You see how strange that sounds, right? You want weapons to fight your own men?”

“These are not sons of the Fatherland. These are not sons of
any
man. These are monsters,” von Boeselager had said as fire poured into the advancing force.

“You guys could turn your guns against us and escape,” Coley had said.

“And go where, Lieutenant? Where do we go after we escape? The only thing that awaits us then is death or collusion with those beasts. We will fight to survive, and surrender our weapons when asked.”

“Your word as an officer?”

“Yes. My word as an officer and a soldier of the Third Reich.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you,” Coley had said.

Lieutenant Coley didn’t have much time to think about the repercussions. Instead, he made the decision himself: he ordered them to be given weapons but limited ammo.

Later in the day, the decision proved to be a smart one.

“
Y
ou men
!” Taylor yelled. “Where’d you get that vehicle?”

The German half-track was a sight that almost sent him diving for cover. But someone had dropped a flag across the front, and there were GIs in the vehicle. They’d been driving down a small road and nearly run into an alley before stopping, backing up, and finding the road again.

“Long story, Captain,” a man carrying a German machine gun said. “I’m Staff Sergeant Graves, formerly a tanker attached to the 37th Tank Division, 4th Armored Division. We got overrun, and had to borrow this beauty.”

“You lost your tank?”

“Like I said, Captain. Long damn story.”

“Save it. I need transport to the southeastern entrance to Bastogne.”

“Hop in, Captain. We’re headed that way,” Graves said.

Taylor and Grillo slid over the back of the half-track and took seats while they made hasty introductions.

“We need to make a stop at the supply depot. I’ll point the way,” Taylor said.

“What about these civilians?” Graves said.

“This mission will save a lot of lives, provided we can get there in time,” Taylor said.

“Hear that, Murph? Got us a mission now.”

Murph grunted, but kept his eyes glued on the advancing horde.

V
on Boeselager
and his men didn’t turn their weapons on the Allies. They kept on task and followed orders. There was something about the way went about it, though; a cold relentlessness that reminded Coley he was seeing the German infantrymen in action for the first time, instead of trying to outflank or shoot them.

They worked closely together, and called out frequent smatterings of German. Coley was no linguist like some of the translators, but he’d studied German in school and could pick out a word or two here and there.

They’d fallen back to the remains of an old church, and stopped for a rest break. Coley and his men stood in one corner, von Boeselager and his men in another. The two forces kept a wary eye on each other.

“We got movement, Lieutenant,” Shaw reported. They’d dispatched a pair of scouts, and the men were now back, looking harried.

“How long ‘til they get here?”

“A force of a few hundred are heading in this direction. They ran down a bunch of villagers lugging boxes and crates. Took them all down, sir. Relentless. We tried to stop them, but we just didn’t have the manpower,” Shaw reported evenly. “Figure they’ll be here in a five minutes, unless we can drop a couple of artillery shells on them.”

“Our orders are to assist with the pullout of all forces. Let’s go, men,” Coley said.

They spread out and left the church, but quickly ran into a dozen SS. The bastards were covered in blood and debris. One of them carried a machine gun, and fired on Coley’s men. They fired back and took his head off.

“Double-time, let’s go,” Coley ordered, and led the small team towards the rear of the town.

H
e’d never seen so
much demolition in one place. He’d had the other men help him load rows of twenty-two pound satchel charges into the back of the half-track while Staff Sergeant Graves kept them covered with the Kraut machine gun. They’d outpaced the rest of the force fleeing the city, only to find themselves on a side road, and having to backtrack.

The trip through the rest of the city had been harrowing. They’d found clumps of civilians blocking entire roads. The people of Bastogne seemed to be trying to flee with all of their earthly possessions.

After a group of men, women, and children were run down and massacred by the crazed Germans, the villagers got the idea and abandoned their belongings in favor of a faster escape. It made for a frustrating journey.

“Here,” Captain Taylor yelled.

They’d run into a squad of Americans directing traffic out of the city. A deuce and a half rumbled next to a building. Men moved boxes out and stacked them on the ground. When Grillo got down from the German truck, he was relieved to see others with demolition patches on their uniforms.

“You the other guy?” a man named Lyris said.

Lyris’ uniform and thick field jacket looked like they’d just been pulled out of a bag. He even had creases on his pants.

“Yeah. 101st, Baker Company, but I got assigned to the wrong outfit. Demolition engineer.”

“Great. We got most of the explosives deployed, and Ankers over there,” he waved at a man who hunkered over a bale of wire, “is running cable. Can you get all of this into that building?” Lyris pointed at a two-story complex that probably housed apartments.

Grillo nodded, and took a few steps back to take in the the tall buildings. It’d work, but only if they could get the explosives set correctly. That, or put so much in place it would blow the structure into tiny pieces. The rubble wouldn’t stop the Germans, so they needed to drop the building correctly and create a wall. Then again, it might just destroy this entire block and a lot of civilians.

“How much help can you spare?”

“None," Lyris said. "You’re on your own. You got some strong backs in the Kraut truck. Load her up.”

Grillo nodded. “No problem, Sergeant Lyris. I’ll make it count.”

“Make it count, or just blow up a million Krauts. Don’t matter much to me either way."

Trucks rolled past them on their way out of Bastogne, with soldiers and civilians close behind. While the MPs tried to keep order, there was a panic that was setting in. Every face that passed them was harried. People looked over their shoulders in fear.

Grillo scrambled up the remains of the building that had been partially destroyed, and surveyed the route the Army was using to get everyone out of the city. He found a natural choke point and dropped back to the ground.

“Captain. I need a couple of guys,” Grillo said.

Captain Taylor nodded and pointed out Shaw, Wayne, and Hough. He knew Shaw and Wayne. Hough was from Able Company. He was about Grillo’s age, and looked as green as Grillo felt. He wondered what had become of the guys he’d arrived with on the back of the truck a few days ago. Were any of them still alive?

“You men. Corporal Grillo is going to need your help. We’re going to provide covering fire while you get that demo set up.”

“Don’t know nothing about blowing stuff up, sir,” Hough said and pushed his GI helmet back to wipe a line of sweat off his forehead.

“That makes two of us. Just do what Grillo needs and we’ll get out of this, right, Corporal?”

“Yes sir,” Grillo said.

Later, he’d wish he could take back those words.

C
oley
and his crew came across a pair of black soldiers struggling to get an M45 Quadmount anti-aircraft gun turned around.

“Need help?” Coley called.

“You bet, Lieutenant,” one of the men said. “I’m Audley and this is Higgins. We’re with the The 969th Field Artillery Battalion. We got overrun and lost our guns. Figured we’d requisition this fine piece of weaponry and setup a roadblock.”

“Damn fine figuring,” Coley said.

They gathered around the gun and maneuvered it the the edge of a street intersection, over some rubble, and down a short alley. The gun was monstrously heavy. It had a hitch and could be towed, but there was no time to get it attached to a truck.

“What happened to the crew for this beast?” Coley said.

“Don’t know, sir. Up and left, I guess,” Audley said and looked over the controls. “What you all doing with those Krauts?”

“They’re on our side for now,” Coley reassured the men.

Higgins and Audley looked the Germans over, and didn’t appear convinced.

“Know how to use it?”

“More or less. Point and shoot,” Audley said as he studied the machine. He flipped a switch and a battery powered engine hummed to life.

They got it lined up on a wide road, and Audley hopped in the turret and fiddled with the firing mechanism until the four guns moved on their electronically-powered axis.

“Just in time, here they come,” Coley said.

His men lined up alongside the big gun and took up weapons.

“Remember, Audley. Fire in bursts. Top guns, then bottom. Let 'em cool,” Higgins said.

“I know what I’m doing,” Audley said. “Sorta.”

A group of civilians pounded up the road, a force of Germans right behind them.

“Out of the way!” Coley yelled.

Seeing help, the civilians ran straight at the Americans.

“Ah, shit. Wait till they clear, Audley,” Higgins said.

“Ain’t gonna shoot no Belgians,” Audley said. “What are you, my mother?”

Coley’s men took aim and picked off Germans when they could. The civilians got the idea, and cleared a path.

Then the M4 Quadmount fired.

The top guns belted out .50 caliber rounds designed to shoot airplanes out of the air and decimated the forward ranks. The Germans didn’t drop; they blew apart. Blood misted and body parts flew. The Krauts didn’t change direction. They didn’t dive for cover. They stepped over their comrades' bodies and kept up a pretty convincing imitation of a goosestep toward the gunner’s location.

Audley stopped firing the top two guns and opened up with the bottom pair. He fired quick bursts, then shifted aim slightly to take out more of the advancing army.

Along with von Boeselager and the remains of his squad, Coley and his men covered the side roads and popped rounds off at any flanking maneuvers. Not that Coley would call the mass of Nazis anything like coordinated.

He reached for another clip and found none.

“Shit, I’m out,” Coley said, patting at his pockets.

He backed up and went for his sidearm. A force of eight Germans had found a cross street and advanced on them. One of the men carried a flamethrower, but it wasn’t lit. He lowered it and pushed the trigger, but nothing happened.

“I got 'em, sir,” one of his guys said, and popped a grenade.

“No, wait!” Coley shouted, but it was too late. The grenade was already sailing toward the mass of men.

G
rillo
and his companions had mounted as many satchel charges as they could. Chaos was all around them, with villagers and soldiers alike streaming through the city. He had to carefully weave the primacord with square knots--a simple but frustrating task, thanks to the cold. His fingers were stiff, and his limbs ached from the long night and morning of fighting.

The twenty-two pound satchel charges had been arrayed against walls in two buildings so the blast would blow outward. With any luck, the rest of the walls would follow suit and collapse with the blast.

Grillo’s side itched where the bandaging had come loose. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to stop the irritating bindings from slipping any farther down his ribs.

“Clear the street!” Captain Taylor yelled, gesturing left and right.

Somewhere to the northeast, a huge gun pounded. Grenades exploded on the streets surrounding them, and small arms fire joined the cacophony.

Grillo backed up, playing out wire. He stumbled over a piece of rubble and landed hard on his backside. He got back up and continued his slow walk.

Captain Taylor joined Grillo, and helped string the wire.

“How we doing, Corporal?” the Captain said.

“Good, sir. Strange to be called Corporal,” Grillo said.

He wouldn’t have a chance to sew his new rank onto his uniforms for a while, assuming he even survived. At this rate, they were going to be overrun in minutes. The delaying action he was effecting would do little to stem the tide, but it might buy them some time.

Grillo played out more wire, and found the doorway they’d designated as their cover for the explosion. He picked up the detonator and attached the cord.

“We’re out of time, Corporal,” Taylor said, and pointed.

Grillo peeked out of the doorway and found hundreds of the crazed Germans flooding the main street.

“Should be ready, sir.”

“Wait," Graves yelled. "There’s a pair of kids.”

He slid off the back of the half-track with one of the other tankers. They rounded the vehicle and ran toward the pair.

The little ones were no older than ten, and bundled up against the cold. They held hands as they picked their way over the rubble in the street.

“Get back here!” Captain Taylor yelled.

Grillo put his hand on the handle. Just a twist and he’d be creating one hell of a big bang. He’d also kill the two little ones, Graves, and the other guy. He looked at the Captain for orders, unsure if he’d be able to detonate the explosives even if Taylor gave the order.