Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) (17 page)

C
oley dove
behind the remains of a low wall. The blast shook the ground, and flames rushed over his body. He rolled over and over, hoping his clothing wasn’t on fire. The heat had been so intense that the hairs on the back of his head had ignited, burning to the skin.

Von Boeselager smacked Coley’s back in places to put out small flames. All in all, Coley felt like a damn marshmallow that’d been held over a campfire.

The anti-aircraft gun had fallen silent. When Coley regained his feet, Audley and Higgins were already moving away from it.

Audley pointed at the remains of the army that had been stumbling down the street. “I don’t think there’s time to drag more ammo over here to reload the M4. We done enough.”

Piles of bodies and pieces of men blocked most of the access point.

“Right. Fall back, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Coley said.

His voice was hoarse. He remembered that he’d been screaming when the flamethrower had exploded.

He limped, but von Boeselager was there to help. He draped Coley’s arm over his shoulder, and together the mixed company retreated.

I
t wasn’t even
a question of his own safety. Graves had made up his mind the second he'd seen the two children. They were innocent victims of this war, and that was one of the reasons he was here: not just to fight, but to provide relief to the people of Europe.

He pounded over the hard road until he slipped and slid across a patch of ice. Murph had been close behind, and steadied Graves. They reached the children and snatched one up.

The Germans were mere feet away.

Something snagged his foot and he fell, but twisted to the side so he didn’t crush the child. She held onto him, eyes wide and terrified as Graves picked her up and turned to run.

Captain Taylor came to their side. He fired his Colt .45, and when he ran dry, he dug out a fresh magazine and slammed it home.

Three Germans attacked.

Graves had no choice but to fight. He got his foot up and kicked a soldier in the chest. The man had white eyes, and his mouth was covered in blood. Lips drew back from red-stained teeth. He was bigger than Graves by about thirty pounds. Graves freed an arm and punched the man in the face, but it was like hitting a side of beef. He got ahold of the Kraut’s jacket, twisted the soldier to the side, then rolled with the momentum, taking the enemy with him. He almost lost his hold on the girl but she put her arms around his neck and held on.

The Captain killed one of the men with a shot to the head.

The other German soldier got a grip on Graves’s pant leg and pulled.

The little girl said something in French that Graves didn’t understand. She had tears in her eyes and her voice was plaintive--begging him, if he had to guess, to get up.

“Ain’t going out like this,” he roared, and kicked the soldier in the head. He didn’t get a lot behind the blow because he was scared half to death and the action was almost mechanical.

The man got to his hands and knees, then pushed himself up until he stood, unsteady on his feet. The German soldier’s front was covered in blood and debris. His eyes were white and Graves struggled away, kicking his feet across the ground to get some distance.

Captain Taylor shot the man in the face, then turned his weapon on the soldier that had pushed Murph aside. Taylor fired, but his gun clicked on empty and he fell beneath the Kraut.

Graves managed to get back on his feet, and pushed the little girl behind him. Murphy carried the boy. He’d outpaced the men, but paused when he'd seen Graves and the Captain in trouble.

“Go!” Captain Taylor yelled.

A dozen Germans stumbled into the fracas and fell on the Captain. Taylor screamed, but fought tooth and nail to get loose. Half of his face was torn off, leaving muscle and teeth exposed.

“Blow it, blow it!” the Captain yelled.

There was nothing he could do. Graves spun, picked up the kid, and ran after Murphy like the devil was on his tail.

T
hey struggled
through the debris and found a side street, but there were dozens of enemies waiting, so they turned and double timed it. They rounded another corner and came into contact with a half-dozen enemies.

Coley and his men were caught by surprise, and one of the Germans under von Boeselager fell to gunfire. The Kraut had managed to loose an entire clip in their direction. The aim was bad--however, not bad enough to save von Boeselager’s man. He spun to the side, clutching at his shoulder.

Higgins kicked the first man in the chest. He fell back into the other soldiers. Audley dug a grenade out from inside his jacket and pulled the pin.

“Go!” he yelled, and tossed the pineapple.

They were only a few yards away when the explosion ripped the Germans to shreds.

Von Boeselager stopped and pointed at a German half-track taking up half the road. He said something in German to his men, and they changed course. Dozens of enemies found them, and closed in from two directions.

“There, a truck,” von Boeselager told Coley.

He nodded, and staggered toward the vehicle with his men close behind.

Someone stepped out of a doorway and shouted at Coley, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then he noticed what the guy was holding.

“Take cover!” Coley screamed.

C
aptain Taylor thrashed
under the Germans, then grew still. The soldiers lost interest in him and rose to their feet: cold, evil. SS mixed with German paratroopers and infantry. The force set their gazes on Grillo.

He saw a group of survivors a block away, moving toward them. Christ! He did not have time for this. He had to blow the building. Behind the men who’d killed Captain Taylor had grown a force of hundreds.

He yelled for the men to run, but it might be too late for them.

Grillo ducked back into the doorway, muttered a quick prayer, and twisted the detonator’s handle.

C
oley dove
into a building that had been a shop. He hit the floor, and then a massive explosion lifted him off the ground and tossed him like a ragdoll to the hard floor again.

The shelves had been nearly bared of stores. A few tins and bottles still stood, but after the explosion there was nothing on the wall anymore. They fell with a loud crash and broken plates and glass showered Coley.

Von Boeselager had hit the ground next to him. The two men stared at each other as dust settled.

Von Boeselager said something, but Coley’s ears were filled with cotton.

They stumbled out of the building just before it collapsed. Two buildings kitty-corner to him had their corners blown out.

Someone motioned for them to follow. He was dazed and didn’t know what else to do. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found that most of the men he’d been with were still standing, though most were covered in debris.

The explosion had dropped tons of bricks and mortar on a large German force, stopping them in their tracks. Arms twitched where they stuck out of the rubble.

Feeling very much like the enemies they’d been fleeing from, he staggered and made for the half-track, he and von Boeselager holding onto each other for support.

They helped him, von Boeselager, Higgins and Audley, von Boeselager’s men, and the remains of the 99
^th
Intelligence and Reconnaissance division into the back of the vehicle. The truck lurched into motion, backed up, and turned until it found the road out of town.

Lieutenant Coley and von Boeselager sat across from each other. They were stuffed between a dozen men, and there was a small pair of children sitting on the laps of two men.

“This is a hell of a mixed force we got here. I’m Murph by the way,” a man wearing the insignia of a tanker said.

The men made introductions as they left the confines of the city. Coley was shaken. His back ached from diving into the building and his neck and the back of his head was burned.

“We headed for Assenois?” a tanker named Graves asked.

“Looks like it,” Coley said.

The tankers looked worn out, like they’d spent a week in the field. Both men had days' worth of stubble, and they didn’t smell that great. Not that Coley expected he and his men smelled anything but ripe. Him especially with the smell of burned hair wouldn’t depart no matter which way the wind blew past the half-track.

“Anyone want to speculate on what in the hell we just faced?” Murphy asked.

“I can offer some information,” von Boeselager said. “Although I do not understand it myself. Many of the men you faced have been subjected to an experimental serum. They were told that it would make them stronger and fast in the offensive. The effects, as you have seen, were disastrous.”

“You’re saying this is some kind of crazy, fucked-up Nazi medicine?” Graves asked.

“Yes. That is all I know,” von Boeselager said. Reluctantly, he reached in the front of his pants.

“Hey now, hoss. We don’t need to see that,” Murph said.

Von Boeselager withdrew a thin slip of paper and handed it to Coley. Coley shook it open and stared at the orders, but they were in German. The other German soldiers exchanged angry words, but von Boeselager talked them down.

“Anyone know any German?” He looked around the faces but no one took up the challenge.

“I will translate,” von Boeselager offered, taking the slip back and reading in a sonorous voice.

"Regimental Order Number 54, dated 16 December 1944. The Daily Order of the Supreme Commander West. Soldiers, your hour has come…”

T
hey’d dug
Grillo out from the remains of the doorway he’d used for shelter, and helped him into the back of the half-track. He wanted to lay on the floor, but there was a pool of blood in the way.

He struggled to sit up on the bench seat, then just pressed his head against the half-track’s wall. He’d lost his helmet in the house, but someone had brought it along. Soon he was crowded into a corner, as more and more men hopped into the vehicle. It was already moving while they were settled in.

A pair of scared children stared at him, so he stared back. The kids. They hadn’t perished in the explosion, but it had come at a high price. Captain Taylor had been a good man, and he’d been a company commander for a number of years. This was going to be a tough loss.

A pair of the black soldiers he met earlier were also in the half-track. He remembered Audley and offered the man a smile. Audley nodded back.

Sergeant Pierce took a seat across from him. Of all the men in Baker company, Pierce was the only one who’d made it this far. He assumed the rest of the men were spread out in the convoy that was departing the city.

If any of them still lived.

They’d just pulled out of the city and passed the last two tall buildings when the demolitions team blew them to smithereens. He instinctively ducked, but they were already far enough outside of the blast radius to avoid debris.

“You alright, Private Grillo?” Pierce asked.

“It’s Corporal now, Sarge. Captain gave me a field promotion.”

“Captain Taylor’s gone,” Pierce said, and looked down. “I’ll take care of the paperwork when we get where we’re going.”

“He fought bravely,” Grillo said, but the words felt hollow. Captain Taylor had died screaming, and then been covered with a building.

“Yeah. Lot of that going around,” Pierce said.

“I’m banged up, Sarge. Hurts everywhere. Is that normal?”

“Ain’t nothing normal about anything we’ve seen the past few days. I suggest you get some rest, Priv-- I mean Corporal. At this rate,
you’ll
be giving
me
orders in a few weeks.”

“Doubt it Sarge. I lost my rifle back there--
again
,” Grillo said, pointing toward the city. “I’m pretty sure they’ll bill me and tell me I’m a lousy soldier.”

“You’re a good soldier, and as brave as any man in the 101st. I’m proud to have you in my company, Grillo.”

Grillo accepted the praise, but he had nothing to say in reply, so he met Sergeant Pierce’s eyes and nodded once.

There was a Kraut siting a few men down from Grillo. He carried an M1 awkwardly between his legs. He turned to Grillo and handed him the weapon.

“For you, Corporal. It was not mine to begin with,” the man said.

“Ain’t that some shit,” Pierce said. “Armed Germans in a Kraut truck just handing us weapons.”

“He’s not such a bad guy,” a Lieutenant said. The man had been huddled between the German and a tanker. “He and his men helped us escape certain death.”

“Guess I’ve seen it all today, Lieutenant,” Pierce said, then leaned his back and closed his eyes.

Franklin Grillo turned his gaze back on the city of Bastogne. They’d been tasked with holding the area against a German counteroffensive, and they’d failed miserably. He’d been in Europe for less than twenty days. He hadn’t made a single jump, and his platoon was scattered to the four winds.

The city was in its death throes. Buildings had been collapsed, and a steady stream of soldiers and civilians poured out onto the streets in panic. Everywhere he looked, people were running. They tossed aside their belongings, and hitched rides on anything that had wheels. Men in military clothes double-timed it, or crowded into jeeps.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Behind them marched an army of the damned.