“What’s that? You want to give up and get a warm meal?” Wayne called with his hand cupped to his ear.
“Surrender,” one of the men called.
“Come closer,” Wayne said.
The men closed to in at a quick trot. They kept their hands in the air.
“You assholes heard of Malmedy?” Wayne asked.
He aimed and then opened up. The BAR spit rounds in full auto. The Germans looked surprised as they came under the hail of bullets. Blood exploded outward and bodies fell.
“That’s enough,” Sergeant Pierce said.
Wayne strode back toward the jeep with the BAR’s stock against his hip.
“What?” He shrugged his shoulders as he got back into the jeep with the rest of the men.
“Officially, we don’t shoot surrendering Krauts,” Taylor said.
“Officially neither do they, sir. But after what happened to POWs at Malmady, I won’t be losing any sleep.”
“We could have taken them prisoner. Now every German that comes out of those woods is going to be looking for us,” Pierce said.
“Anyone that comes out of those woods is a crazy, Sarge,” Wayne said. “Those guys are doing a good job of killing each other off. I just saved them the effort.”
“We’re in no position to take prisoners right now,” Taylor said, and put the jeep back in gear. He hit the gas, and the laden vehicle sluggishly spun around in a break in the trees, turned toward Bastogne, and put pedal to metal. “That said, don’t shoot any more prisoners of war.”
Betsy struggled in the mud and snow, but got her wheels rolling.
“Something’s wrong,” one of the men muttered from the back.
“Yeah, we’re running away from surrendering Krauts, Owen,” Pierce said.
“No, I don’t feel right. I feel like I’m on fire,” Owen said.
Taylor glanced over his shoulder and found that the Private was shaking. His face was flushed and his eyes were glazed. He looked at the men around him like they were strangers.
Taylor had seen battle get to guys before, and hoped Owen wouldn’t become a problem.
They passed the Mickey Mouse sign a few minutes later, and the city of Bastogne came into view.
There was rubble as far as the eye could see. Buildings had been damaged—and in some cases, flattened—by the Germans. Men moved around the roads, but they were in a hurry to get into position. Taylor wondered if the entire German army had made it this far so quickly.
“Don’t feel right. Don’t feel right,” Owen muttered, over and over again.
“You’re going to be okay, buddy,” Wayne said. He’d taken a spot behind Captain Taylor, and patted Owen’s hand.
Taylor sped into the town and brought the jeep to a halt. Men piled out, but not before Wayne gave a yelp of pain.
“Son of a bitch bit me. What’s wrong with you?”
Owen turned on Wayne and attacked him. He rode the man out of the jeep until they both rolled across the ground. Wayne fended Owen off, but he was crazy. He flailed his arms as he attacked.
Grillo moved swiftly, using the butt of the Thompson to knock Owen on his ass. He turned from the ground and gazed at Grillo like he’d never seen him before.
Taylor drew his .45 and aimed it at Owen.
“Enough. You stop right now, Private, or I’ll put a bullet through your head,” Taylor said.
He didn’t want to shoot the man. If they could get him under control, they’d be able to get him somewhere they could reason with him. But he’d attacked one of the men under his command, and that was an offense that could get him court martialed. That was if the men didn’t beat him to a pulp first.
Owen shook his head, and stared at his hands like they belonged to a stranger. He looked up at Taylor’s gun and struggled to his feet.
“I mean it, Owen. I’ll shoot you and spare the Krauts the trouble,” Taylor said.
Wayne grabbed Owen from behind and dragged him back. He thrashed in the grip and kicked back with his legs. Owen took him to the ground and several others fell on them. Owen was a like a wild man fighting tooth and nail.
They managed to get him subdued but it wasn’t easy. Owen didn’t care about his own limbs, didn’t protect himself from the blows, he fought like a crazy person.
“Son of a bitch has lost his mind,” Grillo said.
“Find somewhere to lock him up, and get those wounds tended to. I don’t have time for this bullshit,” Taylor said, and put his gun back in its holster, happy that he hadn’t had to shoot the man.
He’d deal with Owen in the morning. For now, he needed to report what he’d seen to command.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BEHR
Behr and his men finished with the soldiers around the village and set off after the people fleeing in jeeps, but the vehicles outpaced his soldiers in minutes. Behr turned his gaze back on the town below and decided there might still be men to fight down there.
Figures in uniforms, overcoats, and white fought each other to the death. There was confusion and there was screaming.
Behr stumbled among the men. He found a submachine gun and used it, but his hands didn’t respond the way they’d used to. He didn’t take any effort to aim, and instead relied on bursts of fire. When he ran out out ammo, he dropped the weapon and grabbed another.
Snow made a hindrance to his already-sluggish limbs, but he pushed on. The warmth of the men drew him. The ones who were not like him. They needed to and fight alongside Behr for the Fatherland. Anything less would be defeat.
After getting shot in the shoulder, he took a man to the ground.
He looped his arm around another soldier and ripped out the screaming man’s throat.
He tore at a young soldier’s face until one of the man’s eyes was mush in his mouth.
Each time he rose, there was another soldier ready to join their ranks.
Behr eventually came to a halt before an imposing figure.
The man was taller than the soldiers who surrounded him, and dressed in a thick black overcoat. Even Behr’s shattered mind recognized a superior, but not one that gave off the red glow that so enticed him to enact violence. He gave a salute that was slow, but acceptable: hand raised, arm eye level, and hand tilted upward. He knew he was performing the action by rote. He’d performed the salute thousands of times before this moment, so it was mechanical.
Other soldiers gathered around him and offered the same salute to the SS officer.
He had a name and Behr had known it, an hour or maybe a day ago. Now it didn’t matter. This was their commander, and Behr would follow him into the gates of Hell, if that’s what was required.
The SS officer turned from the men and pointed to the west. His mouth was a mass of wounds, with bloody lips drawn back over a shattered set of teeth. One of his eyebrows had been ripped away, the skin torn all the way down his face to his mouth, and it produced a constant snarl.
They followed his gesture and turned as one. He moved among them, the sea of soldiers parting like a wave. When he reached the edge of the town, he kept walking.
The soldiers followed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
GRAVES
“Staff Sergeant, the tank’s treads are still on,” Murph said when he came back.
Murph attached his unused grenade back to his belt.
“Shit,” Graves said.
They’d abandoned it when faced with the King Tiger. Now that it was knocked out and didn’t seem to be shooting, they might have a chance to retreat gracefully. That was, if it wasn’t too damaged and could still drive.
He chewed on his cheek for a few seconds while his men leveled weapons in the direction of the Germans attacking their own tank.