Screaming Eagles

^FIFTEEN GRAVES

Gabe “Gabby” Woodward pounded up the road until he came across two Privates trying to dig a hole in the hard ground. He dropped beside the pair.

“What’s the problem?”

“Damn dirt’s hard as a rock. The mine was sticking out. We got the fuses set already.”

“These are armed?” Woodward asked.

“Yeah, I got them armed while Pyle here was digging.”

“Try a different spot.”

“Tried that, but it’s just as hard.”

“Christ, gimme a shovel,” Woodward said. “Make a forty-five degree line so a tank runs over one for sure. Even if they get moving again, they might hit another one. If they’re in a straight line, chances are they get missed completely.”

He pointed out the spots he had in mind and the men complied. He dug in earnest, feeling like every second had him under a gun sight. If the Germans arrived and he wasn’t back in the tank, they’d have a hell of a time without him.

The three men worked at different spots, trying to dig into the hard dirt. The ground wasn’t just hard; it was rocky. They’d fought over mud and snow, but this part of the road was higher than the land around it, and hadn’t been soaked through.

“They’re coming,” one of the guys said. He couldn’t have been eighteen, looked like a damn kid. Woodward had run into a few guys who’d fibbed on their applications and got into the armed forces. Glory of war was high back in the states. He knew this all too well; it was why he’d joined up.

“You sure about those fuses? Got the pressure plates off and them set?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Woodward hoped they were right, but didn’t have time to take the damn mines apart. He maneuvered his into place and grimaced at how it stuck out an inch.

The ground rumbled underneath him.

“We need to move. Cover them as best you can and get back with your units,” he called to the men.

He pushed earth and rocks on top of the mine he was working on, then stood up to survey his work. He wasn’t fooled for a second. If one of the Krauts were paying attention, he’d see the mounds and avoid them.

The creaking of metal and the squeal of wheels against track told him he was out of time. The men had already disappeared into the woods, and that left him standing in the middle of a road alone, facing a tank company.

Woodward said a short prayer, crossed himself, then ran back to the tank.

As he waded into the woods and bushes, he thought he saw something. Between a pair of large pines, someone had been moving. No, not someone: a lot of someones. He ducked and waited, sticking close to a tree.

The figures moved just fifty yards away. He squinted. The men were dressed in white, and clearly weren’t Allies. But the force was odd, somehow. They didn’t advance through the woods the way they would if they were hunting enemies.

They ran, paused, dropped to the ground and sniffed, and then ran some more. They carried weapons and gear, but none of the men had rifles raised.

“Like a pack of damn dogs,” Woodward whispered to himself.

Then the force faded into the woods and was out of sight.