Дэвид Муди - Screaming Eagles

“Didn’t think I’d be spending Christmas in Europe,” Grillo said.

“I didn’t think I’d be spending another Christmas in Europe,” Fahey replied.

“What was it like last year?”

“Like this. Krauts shooting at us. Us shooting at Krauts.”

“I haven’t even fired a shot yet. Think I’ll fit in after I kill my first German?”

“Brother, I hope you don’t have to shoot one, but you do, and you make sure the son of a bitch stays down,” Fahey said with a grimace.

Something cracked in the distance and Fahey suddenly bled confidence. He rolled over, tossed the blanket to the side, and put his M1 to his shoulder. Grillo tore himself away from the tree, ice ripping at his clothes as he peeled himself off his perch. He dropped next to Fahey and raised his gun and tried to spot movement.

“Where’d the noise come from?” he whispered.

“From shut up, that’s where,” Fahey whispered back.

Fahey scanned the tree line.

Grillo followed the man’s lead. Bootcamp was one thing—practicing shooting at targets, how to look downrange, how to aim, how to exhale and squeeze the trigger. It didn’t teach you how to deal with fear, but that was all he could think about now.

The morning was misty and that made visibility low. Plus, movement could come from any direction in a two hundred degree plus arc. The rest of the squad had the other sides covered, but even they could fall victim to a surprise attack.

Another twig snapped in the distance.

Grillo tensed and squinted his eyes. He should have been wearing glasses, but they kept fogging up in the chill air. He should have a pair of binoculars, but one of the other guys had the Baker’s only remaining pair. He should have been home in bed, warm and waiting for college to start, but instead he’d enlisted, and now here he was, in freezing temperature, laying in a cold hole in the ground, waiting for a man from another country to come try to kill him.

“Christ. It’s cold as a witch’s tit.” Fahey stated the obvious.

“What do we do now? I don’t see any movement. Should we go out there?”

“If Sarge don’t say scout, we don’t scout. If you see a guy in a metal helmet don’t look like ours, you lay into him,” Fahey said.

Grillo shivered. His gut was done up in a knot so tight he thought he was going to pass out. He inhaled and exhaled, but for some reason his head got foggy and stars danced before his eyes.

“I don’t feel good, can’t see,” Grillo muttered.

“Big dummy. Don’t suck in so much air. That’s just fear getting to you. You’re in the damn 101st airborne. You’re here to chew lead and kill Krauts. Now get it together. Just curl up and take some deep breaths. Think about a pretty girl taking off her dress, that always done it for me,” Fahey said.

Another twig snapped, and Grillo was sure he heard something brushing through the snow.

“Oh Christ, they’re coming for us,” Grillo said.

He followed Fahey’s advice and slipped into the foxhole. He took slow breaths, and thought about Louise. They’d had one night together before he’d shipped out. She had been shy, and slipped out of her clothes in the dark.

Then, warm and soft, Louise had slid into bed with him and let him work at her garters until he’d peeled the stockings off her long, smooth legs.

He tried to picture her big puff of blonde curls while she lay beneath him, but his thoughts kept getting interrupted by images of Germans coming out of the mist.

“Contact,” Fahey said and fired.

The M1 boomed next to Grillo.

He pushed his panic aside, sucked in a deep breath, and rolled to his stomach with his M1 ready and prepared to fire. He aimed at a vague white shape and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Then he remembered the safety and flicked it forward.

“Contact. Contact!” Fahey yelled and fired again. “Christ. My sight’s off or something.”

Grillo steadied his aim, centered the sights, and fired twice. Around him, the men of Baker company ran toward their location. Sergeant Pierce arrived first and dropped next to Fahey. He bore a Thompson submachine gun in one hand, his helmet in the other, and a pair of pineapples from each shoulder strap. The grenades bounced against his chest as he hit the dirt. Pierce lifted his weapon and scanned the forest.

Grillo sucked in a breath and swore quietly.

“Where?” Sargent Pierce asked.

“Grillo popped his cherry. Kraut dropped like a rock just beyond that fallen log,” Fahey said, and pointed north.

“Any more?” Sarge plopped his helmet on his head and left the straps hanging around his cheeks. He hadn’t had a shave in days, and looked rough around the edges. Dirt coated the front of his jacket, and was smeared on his face like camouflage.

“Don’t know. Krauts didn’t send a telegraph,” Fahey said.

“Okay, wiseass, got a job opportunity for you. Since you’re so smart today, why don’t you and Grillo go take a look?” Sarge said.

“Oh, Jesus, Sarge. I just got warm, here,” Fahey complained.

“If you’re warm, you’re the only one, Fahey,” Sarge said.

“Uh, fellas?” Grillo said.

The figure he’d shot twice got up on all fours. The enemy struggled to rise and then came to his feet. He had a pistol in one hand, but he didn’t lift it. The shape was a good hundred feet away, but Grillo wasn’t able to get a good look at the soldier’s face.

“Thought you killed him, Grillo,” Fahey said and tossed his smoking cigarette butt to the ground.

“I got it,” Sarge said.

“Wait, Sarge. He’s been whining ‘bout his first kill,” Fahey said.

“Fine. You two take care of that Kraut, and then I want a patrol out to fifty yards. Stay low and don’t get your asses shot off,” Sarge said.

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.

Three 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.