Дэвид Муди - Screaming Eagles

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…”

They’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.

It was a quiet Seattle morning until the skies filled with fire: without warning, a catastrophic meteor shower caused buildings to crumble and the lights to go out. Out of the rubble, five ordinary people arose to find themselves manifesting undreamed-of abilities.

Will they be enough to do what the military cannot — stop a massive alien invasion before the entire West Coast is destroyed?