“Son of a bitch,” Grillo said, gritting his teeth.
He pushed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and fired off three rounds. The pursuing Krauts ducked.
A round punched the tree trunk to his left. He dropped down and pressed his back to it, and caught movement on that side.
“They’re trying to flank us, Sarge,” Grillo said.
“Keep their heads down. Fire a few rounds, and then I want you to make for the Alamo, you know where that is?”
“Yeah, Sarge. I know.”
“When you’re done firing, I want you to run like the devil himself is on your heels. I’ll lay down some suppressive fire, and I’m right behind you,” Sarge said next to Grillo’s ear.
Grillo popped up and fired until the clip went flying. There were three or four Krauts moving on them, but he and Fahey ducked. Grillo heaved himself to his feet, and with his knee screaming in pain, he bolted for the rally point behind Baker’s line.
True to his word, Sarge emptied half of his mag as he backed away from their position.
Then the pair were running for their lives.
EIGHTEEN
BEHR
Behr’s men had run into little resistance. They’d engaged a force of men like themselves, speaking German, and dressed in German military garb. They’d fallen just as quickly as the Anglo-Americans. Then they’d run into a mass of hundreds of men to add to their army.
His mind was nearly empty now, with the exception of a need to kill. It was like a thirst he couldn’t slake. The taste of flesh had become something he desired above all else. Men had fallen beneath him, screaming in horror, only to rise moments later and join them. Now there was a force of men ahead of him, surrounding a number of small houses, and they gestured for Behr and his men to join them.
Behr broke into a run and tossed his remaining weapon, a Luger, to the side. He reached for his knife, only to realize that he’d lost it somewhere along the way.
Behind him, hundreds followed. Dozens with the same blood lust he now felt.
Behr closed on a man who pointed at a hill and shouted gibberish.
The soldier was a ranking officer; that much was clear from his insignia. He was with the SS and his uniform was immaculate, even in the snow and mud.
The mist still lay heavy over the town, obscuring the number of soldiers ahead.
He dove onto the man and rode him to the ground. His hands were claws, frozen, but still able to dig into flesh and gouge out eyes. Someone tried to pull him off the screaming officer, but they too were driven down by the men behind Behr.
An officer started shooting, but it was too late for him. Bullets punched into another, but that didn’t stop the man. Nothing stopped these men.
Howling with fury, Behr launched himself at a young soldier who clutched a rifle next to his hip. Behr made short work of him.
Then the rest of his men arrived, and the slaughter was on.
NINETEEN
COLEY
The attack had shifted in a matter of minutes.
They’d been facing an overwhelming force of German infantry without the benefit of armor or artillery support. The men had been well-supplied with ammo, but now they were all down to a few clips, magazines, and grenades. When the enemy launched their next attack, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to hold out.
Even as he took a break and pressed his back against the cold, hard earth, he wondered if his position was being flanked and surrounded. Were it him issuing orders down below, that would have been his first command: get teams on either side, and surround them if possible.
Now the Germans were in complete disarray.
Coley’s team had five jeeps hidden in the woods, but little chance of getting up and making a run for them. Kraut machine guns would cut them down the second they left the confines of the well-fortified dugouts. They’d had days to create this position, and now it had paid off.
His orders said to hold out at all costs.
“All costs” meant sacrificing him and his men.
But something was happening, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
Private Walder had rolled out of his hole and over the lip into Coley and Tramble’s. He hunkered down and begged for cigarettes.
“Takes a special kind of stupid to mount the kind of attacks we’ve been seeing. It’s like a firing squad,” Walder said.
“Maybe they know they’re here to die and want to get it over with quickly,” Tramble said.
“They just kept running up to the fence like it was going to part for them like Moses at the Red Sea,” Walder said. He took off his helmet and scratched at his close-cropped head. “Now it looks like they’re attacking each other down there.”
“What’s wrong with your noggin?” Tramble said.
“Hope it ain’t lice. Been itching for days.”
“Probably not lice. I’m not sure they can survive in this cold,” Coley said.
“Sir, we haven’t showered in close to a week, and my head’s been comfortably tucked inside my GI-issued helmet. If lice were smart they’d stick to me like glue,” Walder said.
“Why don’t you stick your head in some snow for a few minutes?” Tramble said.
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Not sure if a German bullet or all this itching would be worse to live with.”
Coley used his binoculars to watch the action in the village. Whatever was happening was blocked by houses and the fog.
Then there was a long, blood-curdling scream that made the hairs on Coley’s arms, neck, and head stand at attention. Figures burst from behind a small home and fought hand-to-hand. One of the soldiers drew a handgun and started firing.
The fighting spilled out onto the streets. The men embedded next to the ditches had been casting looks over their shoulders, unmindful of possible snipers on Coley’s team. Not that they had many rounds left, but one of his guys took potshots from time to time to remind the Krauts who controlled the hill.
One man fell onto another Wehrmacht soldier and drove him to the ground. Coley dropped his binoculars.
“Let me see,” Tramble said, grabbed the lenses, and pressed them against his eyes.
“Tell me I’m seeing things,” Coley said.
“Sir, if you’re seeing things, I’m seeing things. Some Kraut soldiers are attacking other Kraut soldiers. One of them just bit a guy, and there’s blood everywhere,” Coley said. “If they want to kill each other, that’s going to make our job a lot easier.”
Coley reached over and took the binoculars back.
A man in the foxhole next to him poked his head out, ducked down, and then back up again. Probably happy he didn’t get his noggin shot off. Around him, the men peered through slits or over the lip of their fortifications.
“Maybe they’re turning into vampires,” one of his men offered.
“I saw that movie Nosferatu when I was a kid. Scared the bejesus out of me,” another man said.
Coley wiped his binocular lenses and peered into town again.
“More like the zombie movies I’ve seen,” Coley muttered.
There had to be eight hundred soldiers below, and they were in a state of chaos. They fired guns at each other. They fought hand-to-hand, and some were driven to the ground, screaming beneath flailing limbs. Blood spilled across the snow or splashed across buildings.
The chaotic fight grew as the Germans abandoned their positions at the sides of the road and ran to help their comrades. Soon the entire town was in a state of warfare as Germans attacked other Germans.
“This some kind of new propaganda tactic?” Tramble asked.
“Wish I had a bowl of popcorn,” Walder called from the dugout next to Coley’s.