Дэвид Муди - Screaming Eagles

“Guess our request for help was heard?” Coley asked the mortar team.

“Sir. We heard there might be some action here. Captain Phillips asked us to check it out, so we brought along help, just in case.”

The addition of the mortars was a big help, but it wouldn’t be enough to cause serious damage to such a strong force.

The Germans didn’t waste any time. Small arms fire erupted from their position. They were stretched out across the road, and had decent coverage. But Coley could make out figures. The minute they set up a flanking maneuver, the well-trained Krauts would take them out.

“Pick your targets, men.” Coley said, and his orders were relayed from dugout to dugout. “When I fire, give ’em hell.”

As far as motivational speeches went, it wasn’t the best. His men had trained with him for months, and they were a tight outfit. If he’d felt he’d need to stand up and shout orders like Patton, he’d have been a poor commander.

“Fire!” Coley yelled.

Coley picked out a figure dressed in white and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck and the soldier rolled away, grasping his back. Tramble had opened up with the .30 caliber machine gun and sent Germans scrambling. Bullets kicked up snow and found targets.

The Germans returned fire, and the fight for the hill was on.

Two-and-a-half ton trucks rolled into the city of Bastogne. Private Grillo took in the idyllic little town and smiled at people going about their business. There were waves and nods, but most kept their heads down. Occupation probably did that to a town—or so Grillo surmised. When you were under the boot-heel of something like Nazi rule, life had to be a daily struggle.

He was packed inside the back of the truck, which had a cloth cover that did little to keep the cold, sleet, and snow out. He sat close to Private Manlien, who’d been chain-smoking from the moment they’d gotten into the vehicle.

“This the place?” Grillo asked.

“No, dummy. We’re in Paris. You’ve been living in a dream and this is the end. It’s all sweet French girls here, with flowing dresses and long legs,” Specialist Moreno said.

Moreno hadn’t shaved in a few days, so patchy bits of dark hair sprouted over his cheeks and neck. He wore a thick canvas jacket over his clothing, but like most of the men in the vehicle, he wasn’t prepared for the cold.

Grillo wasn’t any closer to getting used to all of the snow, and also wasn’t shy about his fellow soldiers pressing into him for heat. None of the men smelled that great. They’d had a few days of rest and relaxation, but then they’d been pulled out and directed to the Ardennes region, and no one had been near bathwater since their rapid load-in and departure.

Grillo and the rest of the company were horribly unprepared, and had little ammo or grenades. They’d been promised resupply upon arrival, but so far no one had seen a truck loaded with supplies.

Grillo was trained to blow stuff up. He was a decent shot with the M1A1 Bazooka and was at home with carrying the heavy metal tube, as well as ammo. He’d been issued an M1 Garand, five clips, and two grenades. One of the guys had already talked him out of a grenade, but he held onto his 8-round clips fiercely.

Tjarks was one of the older men in the group of replacements. He hugged his M1 like it was a girl. The man found a beat-up package of Mail Pouch chewing tobacco in his pack, dug out a clump, and jammed the wad into his mouth.

“That stuff taste good?” Grillo inquired.

“Tastes like home,” Tjarks said.

“Where’s home exactly? You got a Kraut name,” Daniels—a no-nonsense Protestant from Maryland—chimed in.

“It’s Dutch/German, but I’m from Crowley, Texas,” Tjarks drawled.

“Another Texan? I’ve run into a dozen of you fellas,” Daniels said. “Don’t they got no industry in Texas ‘cept sending boys off to fight?”

“We got industry like chewing tobacco and kicking Protestant ass,” Tjarks said.

He leaned out the back of the moving truck and spit.

Grillo stayed out of the ribbing, because Tjarks was as big as a house and Daniels was crazy. They’d had to pull over during the night, and he’d seen an American patrol approaching with German prisoners. Daniels had pulled a knife and threatened to start cutting off ears.

“I got industry too, Tjarks, like slitting Texans open,” Daniels said.

“Pipe down, both of you. Plenty of fighting when we get there,” Corporal Papaleo said.

Papaleo was one of the few men in the truck who’d seen action. In the Army for his second tour, he’d been busted down in rank due to disappearing in Italy—or so the rumor went. One of the guys had asked him about it once, but the look Papaleo had given the man had made him stop pestering the Corporal.

The truck came to a stop.

Grillo looked outside expectantly, half-imagining Germans pouring out of the trees.

“Rest stop, five-minute stretch, boys,” a Sergeant said, slapping the side of the truck and moving on to the next.

Grillo plopped down into slushy snow. His combat boots had been new a few weeks ago, but they were already showing signs of wear, and he’d only been in Europe for nineteen days.

He smacked his hands together and fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket.

The wind was bitter as it whipped up around Grillo and then died down again.

They’d stopped near an aid station. Men rushed into brown tents and carried supplies from trucks. A pair of jeeps covered in mud and snow sat kitty corner to the road. One had a windshield. The glass had been shot out of the second jeep on the passenger side, and the seat was splattered with blood.

“What about you, Grillo? Where you from? Not a Kraut, right?”

Grillo shook his head, but refused to get drawn into the petty talk. Instead his attention was taken up by figures moving out of the mist.

Grillo tossed his cigarette and backed up until he was pressed against the canvas covering the side of the truck. He lifted his M1 and placed the stock under his arm.

“What’s got you spooked?” Tjarks said, and then followed Grillo’s gaze.

The men around Grillo went on the offensive and raised weapons. Daniels dove behind a truck, landing in a pile of slush and aiming his BAR.

“Stand down,” Corporal Papaleo called as he moved among the men. “You’re a bunch of knuckleheads, you know that? That’s our guys.”

Grillo’s heart thumped like a bellows inside his chest. He hadn’t seen action yet and found that he wasn’t quite ready either.

They stood around next to the trucks as the men approached. As they came into full view, Grillo wasn’t the only one to take in a deep breath.

The men were covered in bandages and wounds. A pair of soldiers had another man between them, with his arms draped over their shoulders. The wounded soldier had a bandage over half of his head and was soaked in blood.

A soldier held his arm close to his chest. It was covered in bloody bandages because it appeared that he’d had part of his hand shot off, and the remains were wrapped in a red-soaked bandage.

“Jesus. Those guys look rough,” Grillo muttered.

“That’s why we’re here,” Corporal Papaleo said. “We’re relieving these men so they can get some rest and get fixed up.”

“How long until we need rest and to get fixed up?”

“We’re the 101st, son. We spit out lead and shit on Germans breakfast,” the corporal said, and clapped Grillo on the shoulder.

Captain Taylor sipped a cup of lukewarm cowboy coffee and tried to ignore the grounds. He swished the brew around his mouth and wished for the hundredth time that they had some kind of warmth—not for him, for his men.