“I’m gonna shoot that son of a bitch,” Tramble said.
“Hold your fire. The mortars stopped falling. I don’t know what kind of new shitshow is going on down there, but something doesn’t seem right.”
“Ain’t nothing right since we woke up this morning, Lieutenant.”
Coley would remember those words for a long time.
TWELVE
BEHR
They’d been moving toward a small village. His men had trudged through the snow in a rough formation. Jurgen Omert had fallen behind, at some point. The soldier had taken to nibbling at his fingers until they were bloody.
Behr had seen many of his comrades lose a little bit of themselves in the fights. He’d watched men huddle in balls and weep for their mothers. He’d seen brave men crying in pain and anger while wallowing in their own piss, but he’d never seen anything like what was happening to his company.
Behr should have yelled at the man to get off his ass and fight, but he didn’t care anymore.
Something had happened an hour ago. Something he didn’t want to think about.
On some level, he was still Sergeant Behr. He was still the man who’d survived the assault at Normandy and fought with his men at Saint-Lô before being driven back. He’d been fighting in this damn war for three years. He’d been shot, stabbed, suffered from trench foot for six months, but he’d always been back on his feet and ready to lay down his life for the Führer and the Fatherland. Speaking of defeatism or becoming a deserter was the quickest way to a firing line.
But now, there was something wrong. It was like the old Behr was back there screaming in rage, as if something bad was happening to his own mind and body. But he’d never felt better. He’d never felt this alive.
His hands were covered in blood. His chin was sticky with it. He’d been like an animal when he’d leapt onto the halftrack. He’d seen battle rage many times, but he’d never succumbed to it before today.
Something moved ahead. A lot of somethings.
Behr’s lips drew back. He reached up and loosened something stuck between his teeth. The little glob of skin he pulled away was tossed on the ground, staining the snow pink. Behr shook his head, and then spit more blood.
A house was surrounded by men in white and brown. One of the figures gestured at Behr and his men. Karl Ude had been carrying an MG-42 machine gun on his shoulder, but had shrugged it off and left it in the snow a few minutes ago.
Ude snarled at the force and advanced.
The other men joined him, moving into the open.
A gunshot sounded, and one of the men fell.
The rest ignored their fallen brother and broke into a run.
More gunshots shattered the afternoon.
A second company brought up Behr’s right flank, running toward the house and the group gathered next to it. The figures let out little cheers, like they’d been expecting friends.
A man who’d been shot twice in the chest an hour ago struggled to his feet and ran toward the shooters.
When Behr reached the location, he was too late. The slaughter was already underway, but that was okay, because a group of men dressed in white and camouflage were hiding behind another building.
In the distance, another group moved over a hill. Many bodies were piled up next to a barbed wire fence.
Behr’s mouth opened, and he snarled for blood.
THIRTEEN
GRILLO
A round exploded to Grillo’s left, tossing him to the hard ground. He splayed his fingers and ended up scraping his palms in the process. Something burned on his side, but he ignored the pain and scrambled to his feet.
Crouching next to him, Fahey grabbed Grillo’s arm and lifted him off the ground, urging him on.
“Back to the line, find a hole and keep your damn head down!” Fahey yelled.
Grillo didn’t have to be told twice. He stayed low and dashed beneath tree branches. Another mortar round exploded overhead, showering him with bark and wood. A piece of it dinged off his helmet, making his head ring.
Fahey dove behind a tree that had a couple of large exposed roots and made himself small. Grillo landed next to him and sucked in a breath, thankful to be alive.
“Stay down. Stay down!” Sarge yelled.
Grillo got a glimpse of the man, standing as if he were unafraid of anything like exploding mortar shells, shouting at his men to get their goddamn heads down.
The explosions continued, but they marched away from the company’s position and back into the woods in the direction the white shapes had come from. Fahey must have noticed the weird placement of shots and got the message, because he grabbed Grillo’s sleeve again and pulled.
Shaken, and terrified that at any second one of the mortar shells was going to land on top of him and turn his body inside out, Grillo struggled back into a crouching position and ran. He kept one hand on his helmet, securing it to his head, and the other around the body of his M1.
The pair reached the line and dove behind a felled log.
The explosions continued, but they were now fading into the near distance.
“Christ! Damn Krauts are shelling their own guys,” Fahey said as he poked his head above the lip of the crater they’d converted into a foxhole.
Grillo popped his own head up just in time to catch a man dressed in white taking a shell right next to his feet. What was left wouldn’t be fit to ship home in a box. An arm and a leg flew in opposite directions, and the bloody remains of the torso struck a tree.
The German soldiers continued their advance on the Americans’ location. They bore weapons in limp hands, and their heads were bent forward, almost as if in prayer. Another round landed between two men and they flew apart.
A pair of Airborne popped up and started laying down fire. Bullets flew as they emptied their M1s. On the MG42, Miller got the gun into position and poured hell on the approaching Wehrmacht.
Grillo reloaded his M1 and chambered a round. He got up in a kneeling position and pressed the stock to his shoulder. He sighted and shot a man in the chest. The guy stumbled back, but shook it off and came on. The Kraut next to him lowered a machine gun and sprayed bullets all over the damn place, making the men of Baker duck.
Grillo shifted his aim up and fired again, catching the soldier in the neck. Another round went wide.
The German flew off his feet and landed in a puff of snow and blood.
Fahey shot at the Wehrmacht from Grillo’s left. Round after round leapt out, until he was forced to reload.
“Shit, I’m out of ammo,” Fahey said.
“I got a few rounds left,” Grillo responded.
“Find Sarge and get us a couple of clips. He must have a stash.”
Grillo nodded but didn’t say what he wanted to: that he wasn’t exactly excited about running out in the open. But he was green, and it wasn’t worth arguing over. Sure, he’d like to tell Fahey to go get his own damn ammo, but Grillo didn’t.
He rose to his feet and gasped as his side burned. Something had struck him while he and Fahey had dashed to their new location.
“Gonna find doc while I’m up. Think I got shot,” Grillo said, and lurched up and out of the foxhole.
Fahey grabbed for him and caught the end of his thin jacket. “Where you hit? Is it bad?”
“Across my side, but it don’t hurt much. Maybe just a scratch,” Grillo said. He shook loose of Fahey and ran.
He was in open territory, and waited for bullets to either whiz by or find his flesh. To his relief, none of the approaching Germans shot him.
He ran in a zigzag pattern anyway, just in case there was a sniper out there waiting to take him out. He hit an exposed tree branch at an angle, and used the momentum to push himself off and speed into another quick turn, like he was playing football back home. Only when he played ball at home, no one shot at him.