Sarge dug out a couple of clips and tossed one to Grillo. “Make it count, kid. Aim, breathe, and kill. Got it?”
“Yeah, Sarge, but what about the weird German who wouldn’t die?”
“Is he dead now?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. I guess he can meet Saint Peter, or the devil, for all I care. Probably get sent to Hell, mind doc’s words about that wound. Keep it clean and you’ll be okay.” Then Sarge was on his feet and over the lip of the crater. “Keep count of your rounds. I’ll be back soon unless I’m dead.”
Something thumped from behind Grillo. Then it was repeated. Mortars streamed into the air, arched over their position, and plastered the the ground near the oncoming enemies.
Grillo popped up and aimed at a shape in white. He was still a good sixty yards away, so Grillo waited. Like the Sarge said, wait it out and when they get close enough, open fire.
Sergeant Pierce was already halfway to the forward firing line.
SERGEANT PIERCE FIRED from his hip as he ran. The Thompson submachine gun delivered a half dozen bullets in the direction a pair of Krauts were trying to move into a flanking position. They were being sneaky sons a bitches; they thought they had the drop on his company.
But the men of Baker knew every trick in the book.
Lindstrom and Hunter broke from cover and dove behind a fallen tree. Lindstrom carried a BAR over his shoulder. As soon as he was in position, he blasted at the two Krauts. 30.06 rounds punctured a shattered tree and blew chunks of ground upward. While the guys in white kept their heads in the dirt, Hunter hurled a grenade at them.
Hunter was bigger than the average Airborne, and he’d been a baseball pitcher before the war, so he was usually dead on. The grenade landed between the men and they tried to roll away. Snow and wood exploded upward and tossed bodies around. Lindstrom finished them off with a few bursts from the BAR.
Then the war was back on as at least a dozen Krauts moved on the Airborne’s position.
“Eyes front, make ’em count!” Pierce yelled as he rolled into a fresh mortar hole that still smoked.
Mortars fell and made it hell on earth. The worst thing about waiting out the rounds was waiting for your ticket to come up. Used for suppression, mortars were one of the scariest things he’d ever faced.
You could duck and hide all you wanted, but when God decided your time was up, he’d watch as one of the evil things found your hole and turned you inside out. If he was going to go, he hoped it was in one blast and not trying to crawl away from the pain dragging a limb along behind him.
Pierce covered his head and pulled his helmet as tightly as possible when the worst came.
Explosions all around as he tried to make himself small.
They pounded the snow-covered earth and threw dirt and chunks of trees into the air. A few rounds found treetops and shredded them throwing woodchips in all directions. The sound was like banging hammers against an anvil right next to his ear, and the smell of burned-off explosives was something he’d never forget: the reek of second-stage propellants and the acrid hints of ammonia.
They were probably popping off rounds with 8cm Granatwerfer 34 mortars, which could be extremely accurate.
Pierce hugged the ground and prayed.
When the rounds were done, he popped up and sprayed lead at a man coming toward him. The Kraut was moving in a weird pattern, like he was half-drunk. He’d probably gotten hit and didn’t even realize it, so Pierce finished him off.
The German soldier didn’t throw his arms up. He simply slumped to his knees and fell in the snow.
Then the man pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.
“What’s wrong with that son of a bitch?” Pierce muttered.
There was movement all around them, coming from the right flank and forward.
“Back, men. We’re gonna head for the Alamo,” he called.
His soldiers rose out of firing positions and began to retreat.
No, not retreat. This was a temporary setback. They’d set up a new line, meet up with Baker Company, and then rain hell on the Germans, by God they would.
Pierce shot the damned German again and again the man fell. The Sergeant covered his men’s retreat.
When he saw Hunter and Lindstrom’s foxhole he let out a curse.
It had been obliterated along with the men inside.
FAHEY MUST HAVE GOTTEN worried and gone looking for Grillo. The man came in low, almost hugging the ground, and rolled into the hole next to Grillo.
Grillo kept his head down until the mortars had stopped falling. Behind him, one of the guys yelled for a medic. Another keened and called for his mother. It was enough to make you old.
He poked his head up and acquired a target. The Kraut was sneaking along the line he and Fahey had followed. The man tried to be smart and stick to cover, but Grillo had him dead to rights.
He put his sights right over the man’s chest and fired twice. Both rounds struck, and the German slumped to the side, and didn’t move again.
Another mortar round landed too close and sprayed Grillo with dirt. He cringed and dropped low, but dirt and debris fell across his back.
“Christ, that was close,” Grillo said, and popped back up to aim down his barrel.
A pair of Germans moved on his position. One was dressed in white, while the other was in black. He aimed and fired at one and missed, and both dropped to return fire.
“They got us zeroed, Fahey. Should we fall back?”
A round exploded next to Grillo’s head, and so he prayed.
Fahey didn’t answer his question, so Grillo popped back up and laid down some fire. His M1 clicked empty and the clip flew. He dug out a fresh one, knocked it against his head to loosen any dirt to prevent a misfire, and slapped it home.
Fahey hadn’t moved, so he nudged his friend. When Fahey didn’t respond, Grillo looked at him.
The Italian still wore a surprised look on his face, even though half of the back of his head was gone.
Grillo choked back a gasp, then turned his weapon on the shitbirds that were closing on him. He fired half of his clip, and tagged one of the Krauts. The man fell to the side, screaming in pain.
One of Grillo’s squad mates zeroed in on the position and opened up with a BAR, silencing both men.
Sergeant Pierce came in hot and dove next to Grillo, scaring the crap out of him. Then a shell burst next to their location and made Grillo’s head ring. Chunks of wood and dirt rained down on them both.
“Fall back, Pierce said next to his ear. “We got movement all alone the line.”
Grillo shook his head. The man’s words had come out like he was talking underwater.
Pierce grabbed Grillo’s jacket and dragged him out of the hole. Grillo got the message and struggled to his feet. He and Sarge stumbled as another mortar went off near them, but managed to retreat twenty feet before Grillo went down again, thanks to a broken branch. Grillo twisted his knee, screeched in pain, then landed on the side that Doc had just dressed with gauze and sulfa.
Gunshots echoed, and bullets whizzed past their head. Sarge rolled over and fired his Thompson from between his legs, the submachine gun rat-a-tatting against the sounds of the German burp gun.
It was Grillo’s turn to drag someone, as the Sergeant fired until he was empty. Then he got to his feet, reloading as he ran, and the pair stumbled behind a tree trunk.
“Ah hell, Fahey,” Grillo said, to himself more than anyone else.
“It’s a damn shame, Private,” Sarge said. “Now return fire and take out a few in your friend’s memory. Remember, the best revenge is a goddamn bullet for any Kraut that pops up. Did you know those bastards gunned down some of our guys outside of Malmade? Heard it from Robinson, who heard it from someone in Easy company.”