Screaming Eagles

^THIRTY-ONE GRAVES

German soldiers continued to pour into the forest. When one of them spotted Graves, they quickly made for the tank. The men looked like they’d been through hell. Their overcoats and uniforms were covered in dirt and blood. Many had wounds on their faces. One man who staggered around like he was lost was missing most of his lower jaw. His tongue flapped up and down like he was tasting the air.

An officer walked at the head of the men, but he was in as bad a shape as the rest. Part of his ear had been blown off, and even though he carried a German machine gun, one of his hands was missing.

Graves got behind the .50 cal and worked the bolt, but it had become frozen in the night. He slapped the device a few times, but it wouldn’t come free.

Thankfully, the Germans hadn’t started shooting yet.

“Get me a cup!” Graves yelled into the tank.

La Rue dug out a metal tin and handed it up.

Graves unzipped his pants and fought through a couple of layers of clothing.

“Hey, boss. If you’re trying to intimidate the Krauts, shouldn’t I be up there?” Big Texas called.

Graves got the cup next to his pants and willed his bladder to comply. He’d just taken a leak a few hours ago, so there wasn’t a lot of piss, but what he managed to trickle out would have to work.

“Get us moving,” Graves said.

“On it, Staff Sergeant,” Murph said.

The tank lurched with a grinding of tread, then came to a halt. Graves was slammed forward and almost dropped the cup.

“You’re splashing piss on me!” Big Texas said.

One of the Germans lifted his gun and let loose a stream of bullets. They were fired in an erratic manner, most flying around the tank, but several rounds plinked across the solid steel.

Graves poured his urine on the bolt, then slammed it a few times until it came free.

The tank lurched again and rolled a few feet as Murph tested the tread. Too fast, and the quick repairs might leave them stuck.

Another Kraut fired and bullets whizzed around Graves.

He swung the big machine gun around and opened up.

The first rank of Germans fell to withering fire, but as the bullets found targets, the sounds seemed to alert the enemy. They poured out of the woods until their ranks grew. The men started to run toward the tank.

Big Texas was already maneuvering the main gun until it was pointed at the Germans.

“Punch a hole,” Graves said and fired again, sweeping away a half dozen soldiers.

More gunfire splattered the tank. Graves ducked down before his head was taken off.

“On the way,” Big Texas bellowed, and fired.

The tank bucked, and the round blew a hole in the ground in the center of the Germans. Bodies burst apart or were tossed to the unforgiving forest floor.

Graves fought a gun jam, got the shell loose, and then opened fire again.

The tank rolled away from the Krauts, hit a dip and bounced back out. Steel wrenched against steel. Graves worried the the tank would come off the tread again, but it managed to stay on.

Hundreds of Germans streamed around the tank. Gabby opened up with the Browning M1919A4, spitting 30.06 rounds across the mass.

“Get us out of here,” Graves shouted into the tank.

“Trying. We’re going to lose the tread if we run too fast,” Murph called back. “She’s pulling like a son of a bitch.”

“They’re getting too close,” Big Texas said. “I can’t get a clean shot at this range.”

Big Texas fired anyway, and decimated a squad of Germans in the rear of the advancing army. Limbs separated from bodies and blood misted. Bits of clothing and equipment flew into the air.

The Sherman swung to the right, putting less load on repaired tread until it had completed a semicircle. The tank came up to speed, but during the turn they’d managed to pick up a couple of soldiers. The men scrambled at the metal, trying to get hands onto the wood and concrete chained to the side of the hull.

Graves drew his sidearm and shot one in the face. The man still wore his dickhead helmet, but his mouth and most of his face were covered in dried blood. The man’s eyes were white, and unfocused. He seemed crazed with reaching Graves.

He fell away with a hole between his eyes, and rolled over a couple of times. The pursuing Germans ran right over his body without stopping to check on him.

The tank bumped over something big and then rolled over it. When they were past Graves found they’d they’d hit a mortar tube and crushed it into the ground.

He got back on the .50 cal and fired until the gun jammed again. He fired in three-round bursts, taking out as many of the soldiers closing in on the tank as he could.

The Sherman rolled to a slow halt before spinning treads again.

“What are you doing?” Graves yelled down into the interior.

“Sorry! Thought we lost the left side again. It’s hooked on something and we’re thumping metal every time the tread goes around.”

“Jesus,” Graves said.

The tank picked up speed, but they’d brought on a number of Germans. One lunged for him, so Graves put a bullet in the soldier’s head.

The front-mounted gun blasted away for a few seconds, then went silent.

“I’m reloading!” Gabby called.

“Hurry the hell up. These crazy bastards are swarming us,” Graves urged him on, but it was too late.

Figures scrambled up the sides and front of the tank, all seemingly intent on tearing Graves apart. He fired his sidearm until he ran empty, then popped back in the tank and slammed the hatch closed… but not before one of the German soldiers got a hand around the opening.

Fingers fell as they were severed from the man’s hand and flopped onto the tank’s floor. Graves spun the lock closed, then sat back in his seat. He was fully encased in a tomb of metal, and that tomb was covered in Germans.

He tried not to appear scared, but his reality had become a nightmare. He stared at the man’s fingers, then pushed them into a corner.

The Sherman burst out of the trees, brushing some of the bodies off the tank in the doing, judging by the thumps from above.

“Oh shit!” Murph swore, just before they ran into an abandoned German half-track.