Screaming Eagles

^NINE GRILLO

“Stay right behind me and call out anything, and I mean anything. Could come from the sides or even the back, if they get around Baker. Make sure it’s one of them and not one of our guys. Seen too many guys bite the dust due to friendly fire. That’s what they call it, friendly fire. Don’t seem to friendly to me,” Fahey muttered and set out across the snow-laden ground.

Grillo scrambled to his feet. His M1 in both hands, he followed in Fahey’s path. As they moved away from Baker’s position, he kept his eyes peeled, looking left and right. The mist had thickened, making it hard to make out anything but the skeletal trees. He stumbled over a rock and almost went down.

“Watch your feet, rook,” Fahey called over his shoulder.

Grillo nodded, but his companion didn’t see the gesture. Fahey moved with sure feet over the terrain, pausing now and then to lower to a crouch so he could scan the area.

They found the body behind the fallen log. Hoary moss hung frozen and forlorn from the wood. A small tuft of snow had built up around it, only to be flattened by the enemy’s arm.

Fahey poked the dead man with his rifle barrel.

“You got your first kill after all, rook. Guess you can start working on a medal now, get those points in so you can go home.”

“How many points you got, Fahey?” Grillo asked. Once you were in enough battles or amassed enough commendations or medals, you got to go home.

“Not enough to escape your non-stop questions,” Fahey said.

The figure of the German was dressed in a white jacket. Despite falling, he still wore a dickhead helmet, and there was dirt and blood covering the side of his face. Grillo dropped to a squat and considered the man he’d killed. Who had he been? Was he the son of a mother waiting for her boy to come home? Was he a guy who’d left his children without a father?

Grillo squinted. There was something wrong with the dead man’s face. His skin was sallow and sunken in around the cheekbones, just above the Wehrmacht insignia on his collar. He bore a round around his neck that ripped away a chunk of skin. One eye was open, and it was an odd shade of deep blue under a translucent white cornea.

The orb rotated and fixed on him. Grillo sucked in a breath.

“What’s wrong with this guy’s eyes? It moved, Fahey, Christ but it moved,” Grillo said, pointing.

“He’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with him. Wait, that’s not…”

Something whistled overhead. Fahey snapped his head toward the sky.

“Is that…” Grillo didn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Incoming!” Fahey called, and was echoed by his comrades back at the camp.

Grillo hit the ground right next to the dead German and covered his head with his arms, pulling his helmet down tight.

An explosion twenty-five feet to his right shook the ground and tossed earth into the air. Then another arrived right behind it and exploded farther away.

More rounds screamed through the morning air in a punishing assault that ripped at the earth. Trees exploded and rained shards of wood on them. Grillo curled up as more explosions shook the ground around him. He risked a glance and found the dead German moving toward him, arm stretched out, fingers bent into a claw.

Grillo recoiled in horror and scooted back a few inches as his thin boots scrabbled at the snow.

“We gotta get to a foxhole, now!” Fahey yelled.

An explosion, so close it lifted Grillo off the ground and set him back down almost on top of the German. The reek of the man made Grillo gag. Rot and gangrene, mixed with blood and earth.

The man’s hand reached for Grillo’s neck, but his fingers were cold, frozen, and could not close on Grillo’s flesh. His other hand fumbled for the Luger he’d held, but his fingers couldn’t seem to close around the grip.

“Jesus Christ!” Grillo yelled, shuddering, and rolling to his side.

He kicked out, using his boot to push the German away. The Wehrmacht soldier’s head turned to regard him, and that’s when Grillo saw the damage.

He’d hit the man, alright; hit him in the head, judging by the portion that was missing. His right eye was a mass of bloodless skin and shattered skull. Grillo even saw pink brain matter bulging out of the wound. How in the hell was the man still alive? Grillo had hit him with at least three rounds.

The man’s mouth moved, broken and rotted teeth clicking together as if he meant to eat Grillo right on the Ardennes forest floor.

Another explosion rocked the earth.

Fahey, now in a half-crouch, tugged at Grillo’s jacket and yelled, “Let’s go, rook!”

Grillo’s hands shook as he rotated his M1 and fired several times at the German.

Still the man reached for him.

Fahey finally got a firm grip. Grillo kicked away from the German as Fahey dragged him a few feet away.

In the distance, men screamed in pain and fear. Grillo suddenly remembered that they were under assault and his brothers in Baker Company probably needed his help. As Fahey pulled him away, his last shot caught the German in the head and he finally stopped moving. The M1’s clip flew out and the bolt locked open.

As the two men struggled to their feet on the shaking ground, Grillo caught a glimpse of the German biting at air one more time before going still.

The men ran for their lives.

Behind them came more shapes in white.

Fahey and Grillo dropped into their foxhole and scrambled to firing positions. Around them, the other men of the company opened fire.

Rounds burst through the morning air, tearing into the targets.

Grillo reloaded his M1 and aimed down the barrel. He shot a Kraut in the chest. The man crumpled and fell face-first into the snow.

Grillo tracked another target and carefully squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched into the soldier’s shoulder and swung him around, so Grillo nailed him again.

Beside him, Fahey fired fast and accurately. He blew through a full clip and then reloaded.

“We’re almost out of ammo,” Grillo said.

“Get ready to fall back. Switch to your bayonet if you run out, and drop as many as you can.”

“These shitbirds aren’t shooting at us,” Grillo said.

“That’s great. We can use bayonets if we have to,” Fahey said.

Grillo didn’t mention how strange it was. He was actually relieved that the Krauts had decided to attack without weapons; he’d be a dummy to think otherwise. An unarmed enemy was easy enough to kill.

One of the targets that Grillo had shot rose to its feet, let out a roar and charged at Grillo’s location.

Grillo fired, but his gun jammed. He ejected the shell and aimed again but it was too late—the Kraut was already on their position.

Fahey saved him by shooting the charging man in the chest and dropping him.

“Thank you,” Grillo yelled.

“We gotta fall back. I’m out of ammo after this clip,” Fahey said, and shot another Kraut.

The soldier dropped but still struggled across the ground. He dug out a potato masher and worked at the ignitor until it blew up in his hands, sending bloody chunks flying.

“What in the heck is wrong with these Krauts?” Grillo said under his breath.

“Damned if I know,” Fahey said and reloaded his gun. “Don’t care, either. Shooting ducks in a barrel’s better than getting shot at by SS.”