Screaming Eagles

^TWENTY-THREE GRILLO

Private Grillo shook debris off his head. His helmet had been tossed a few feet away. His ears were stuffed with cotton, and blood leaked from his nose. Something had picked him up like a ragdoll and thrown him on the ground. Next to him, Captain Taylor lay on his back and blinked rapidly.

Poor Robinson had been loaded into the back of the jeep but now he lay on the ground with a huge hole in his middle.

Grillo grabbed his helmet and slapped it on top of his head, then tried to get up on all fours. The Thompson he’d been firing with was stuck under the side of the jeep. He grabbed the wooden stock and tugged a few times until it came loose.

He was rattled, and his side ached where he’d been hit earlier.

Grillo struggled to his feet and found he was about to be overrun.

One of the men behind him shot a German. Then a BAR fired at full auto and the line crumpled.

“Flip the jeep back over. Damage doesn’t look too bad,” Taylor said shaking debris off his helmet.

Men gathered around them and heaved the jeep back onto its wheels. They took cover behind the vehicle and fired at the oncoming Germans. A Kraut dressed in white crawled over the jeep to reach them. Owen, a machine gunner, grabbed the man and dragged him over, then drove his knife into his chest.

The German’s eyes had glassed over, and were almost entirely white. He snapped his head around and stared at Owen then, his lips peeled back from blood stained teeth. A keening howl came out of his mouth.

“Fucking die, you Kraut pig,” Owen said.

The German didn’t want to comply. He grabbed Owen’s hand and pulled him down. The two fought, Owen with big swinging fists, the German with slow, mechanical movements, even as his face was smashed into pulp.

Grillo aimed with the Thompson and tried to get a fix on the soldier’s head, but was afraid he’d hit Owen.

Captain Taylor got to his his feet, aimed into the mass of Germans and fired. Bullets tore into flesh, but the enraged mob didn’t seem to feel it.

“Someone see if the jeep is running. We’re getting out of here, men.”

Behind the wave of Germans were many more, and they had the same white eyes as the soldier Owen was fighting.

Owen was pushed over, and the German rode him like a cowboy, but his hands were wrapped around Owen’s neck. Grillo aimed, and took part of the Kraut’s head off. The body flopped to the side and didn’t move again.

“Son of a bitch bit me, son of a fucking bitch bit me!” Owen howled.

Wounded, Sergeant Pierce crawled into the jeep and tested the ignition. The jeep cranked over a couple of times and then the engine caught and puttered to life.

Taylor slid into the driver’s seat and Pierce, favoring his wounded leg, got in the passenger side. Owen managed to get his partner into position, and they rigged the machine gun up on the back of the jeep. Owen leaned into the stock while his partner fed in a round. The gun opened up in short bursts, damaging the line of Germans.

“Listen up, men. We’re falling back. I need to report this to command, but the damn radio’s gone. I’m not abandoning a single man. If you’re handling injured, get them on the jeep now,” Captain Taylor called.

Of the twenty or so men that had started the day in Baker, only eight or nine remained.

Grillo used the Thompson he’d borrowed from Sergeant Pierce. He aimed at a pair of advancing Krauts and shot them in half.

“At least they aren’t shooting at us anymore,” he said.

“Damn Krauts have lost their minds,” Pierce said. He shot a German in the head with his sidearm. “Grillo, in the back of the jeep. You’re one of the injured.”

“It’s not bad, Sarge, I can still shoot.”

“Shoot from the jeep.”

“Aye, Sarge,” Grillo said and wormed his way into the back. The crates of ammo had been tossed to the ground when the jeep was knocked over, so men swarmed over it and grabbed clips and magazines. Someone tossed him a couple for the submachine gun, as well as a pair of grenades.

He pulled the pin on one, lifted up, and flung it into into a mass of Germans. It exploded and sent bodies flying.

They’d been facing a force of a few, then dozens, but now hundreds were arriving from out of the mist. They wove between the trees like an eerie wave.

The jeep lurched into motion and turned an arc toward the way back to town.

“Hang on,” Captain Taylor said.

He kept the speed low and his men followed.

Owen had resorted to firing bursts as he followed. He’d had to use a piece of cloth under the barrel to avoid getting burned. The gun was heavy but he wielded it as if it were as light as an M1.

“Lay down a bunch of fire. Grenades. Create a line of hell. Then we’re going to make a run for it. Bastogne is only a couple of miles,” Captain Taylor said. “We’ll switch off in the jeep so the men can rest, but we’re going to have to double time it.”

Men called back affirmatives.

Grillo was nearly in a daze. He’d started the morning cold and in a hole. They’d been expecting to see Germans. They’d expected to hold their position. But this overwhelming force of crazy men fighting tooth and nail hadn’t been in the cards.

Grillo tugged out a grenade and timed his throw with that of the other men. Bursts of machine gun fire cut down many of the pursuing Germans, but some got back on their feet and came on mechanically.

Pineapples sailed into the air and landed among the Krauts leaving a wave of destruction. Limbs flew and clothing shredded.

Still the army came on, as the remains of the 101st ran toward Bastogne.