Timothy W. Long with David Moody and Craig Dilouie
THE FRONT
SCREAMING EAGLES
The Battle of the Bulge was one of the largest battle fought in World War 2 and cost the Allies 89,000 American casualties, 19,000 of those dead with another 23,000 captured or missing. This book is a work of fiction but the brave sacrifice of the greatest generation will never be forgotten.
ONE
GRILLO
Private Franklin Grillo sat on a hard cot and tried to put into words how he felt about his imminent departure. He’d been working on his letter for the best part of an hour. Back against the wall, legs cocked, and book firmly planted against his thighs. On the cover of Moby Dick, a novel he found as exciting as a cook book, he held a piece of paper and wrote with the whittled remains of a pencil.
It was dark outside, and some of the other graduates had gone out to have a drink and attempt to impress girls with stories of how they were shipping out to help with the war in Europe, or in the Pacific.
The name of the game was to get laid before they departed. Like a few others in his platoon, Franklin waited in his barracks, because he had a girl back home and didn’t want to give into temptation. At least, that was how he convinced himself that was the reason he was still here, and not out crawling bars like a tom cat.
Months and months of long training had turned some of the men into sourpusses like Private Elgin. The man had been happy as a clam when they’d arrived, but after his first crawl under barbed wire while machine-guns fired overhead, he’d decided that going overseas and killing Krauts might not be the best decision for him. He was ready to jump ship and go back to college, but the United States Army owned him. Over the course of training he’d stepped up and become an outstanding soldier.
Elgin was the first to lead the charge. His dark hair was slicked back with enough Dixie Peach Pomade to grease an M1 Garand. He’d applied so much cologne that it stunk up the entire barracks. Sarge had chased him outside. Smith, Kosinski, and Dyson had been hot on his heels, and loaded with enough bravado to think they could singlehandedly win the war.
The barracks had quieted down, allowing Grillo to write his mother and father. Next he’d write to Louise and tell her how much he loved and missed her. They’d been inseparable since high school, and she’d cried her eyes out when he’d told her he was shipping off to war.
She’d nodded and said she understood, but there was an undercurrent of anger at his decision. He could have stayed and gone to college, maybe even applied to officer school, but his brother James had died fighting in Africa when a Panzer round had exploded next to his foxhole. They’d sent his things home, but there was no body—something his mother had lamented for months.
The anger to go and fight had made his blood hot. He was going to go overseas and kill every Kraut he could to make it up to his brother.
So airborne had been his choice. When he’d done well enough in boot to qualify, he’d taken the opportunity to volunteer for jump school, but not before finishing up training in demolitions. Grillo wasn’t tall. He wasn’t a farm boy with bulging muscles. He was just an average guy who wanted to do his part. He wanted his parents to be proud and he wanted to be able to tell his children that he’d been there, overseas, and fought in the largest war in history.
Now his day had finally arrived.
He was to depart at 0600 hours and make his way to Europe on a ship that would take almost two weeks to reach the coast. From there he’d report to a base in Southern England, where he’d learn how to leap out of an airplane while loaded with a piece of cloth that would open and hopefully carry him and all of his equipment to a soft landing.
The more he’d thought about it, the dumber he’d felt. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane while people were shooting at you might not be the best career choice.
But it was too late now. He was getting in the war.
After spending a month in special training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, he was now a demolitions expert. That meant he’d carry explosives and a bazooka. He’d get a chance to cause mayhem. He’d also be packing a heavy load out when he dove from an airplane.
He set pencil to paper and thought about the hell he was going to rain down. The war might be winding to a close as the Allies pushed into Germany, but he would have plenty of opportunity to kill a few Krauts for his brother James.
“You nervous?” Bauman asked.
“A little, but I’m ready to ship out,” Grillo said.
He’d left his own bunk and carried a set of his own orders. He took a seat next to Grillo and studied his letter again.
Bauman was from Louisiana, and had a drawl to match. Only nineteen, he was one tough son of a bitch. After falling off an obstacle course wooden wall during trials, he’d insisted he was okay and managed to run the ten miles with his company. He hadn’t told anyone he was hurt until they’d finished the mission. Turned out he had a fractured ankle, and ended up in the infirmary for six weeks while it healed.
According to Bauman himself, the company commander, had looked the Private up and down while he’d lain on the ground in pain and proclaimed, “That, ladies, is a soldier.”
Bauman said it was the proudest moment of his life.
“You and me both, brother. I’ve had enough of sitting around. Put a BAR in my hands and I’ll put enough lead in Kraut ass to sink a battleship,” Bauman said.
Grillo smiled at his friend because that was exactly how he pictured Bauman in the coming months. Carrying a heavy Browning Assault Rifle between his teeth while wading into battle.
The two looked at each other in the wan light and tried not to appear nervous.
“Where you heading?”
“England. I’m one of the crazy ones. I’m going to jump school. What about you?” Grillo said.
“You are crazy. Think you’ll get to set foot in Germany?”
“That’s the plan. If I survive I hope to drop in on a few Krauts and shake a few hands,” Grillo grinned. “Company commander told me he heard from his sister—she’s a nurse—that they need a lot of guys over there. I ain’t so good at math, but it adds up. They lost thirty-five hundred at Normandy.”
“Christ, that’s a lot of bodies. Here’s my orders,” Bauman said, and offered his piece of paper.
Grillo took it and squinted at the words. He didn’t want to say anything, but Bauman couldn’t read a lick of English. He’d been clever about hiding his illiteracy, so Grillo went easy on him, as did the rest of the platoon.
“Going to fight Japs. At least you’ll be warm,” Grillo said.
Bauman nodded at his friend.
The door crashed open, and in strode Elgin. He made for his locker, while whistling what sounded like “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”
“Forget a rubber?” Bauman called.
“Forgot my comb. Can’t look like I just walked out of a tornado if I’m going to go home with a lovely young lady,” Elgin said. “Gotta look my best.”
He was tall and skinny, but he was also strong. He could do more pull-ups than anyone else in the barracks, and he’d won twenty bucks in a contest to prove it. Then he’d lost the money playing craps, and whined about it for three straight days.
“Might need more pomade. Looks like you got a hair out of place,” Grillo teased.
Elgin stopped for a look in the mirror and smoothed his hair back, then pushed the front forward till it bunched up.
“I look like a million bucks. Just sit there and pine after your girl. I’m going to go to Europe with a smile on my face,” Elgin said.
“Me too, because I won’t have to put up with that cologne,” Grillo replied.