Mortars fell among the Germans, but they just shrugged off the damage, got back to their feet, and came on.
“Get the Captain, someone get the Captain!” Wayne yelled. He pointed at a group of men stumbling toward them, and let out a gasp.
They were American infantry, and Grillo and his men were shooting at them.
THIRTY
COLEY
Coley’s men spent an exhausting night evading Germans. They wove between lines, hid the jeeps behind hills and inside copses of trees when they had to, and drove like the devil was on their tails when the opportunity presented itself.
His men were tired, and keeping the German prisoners under cover was getting on everyone’s nerves. Tramble wanted to shoot them, and Shaw wanted to push them off the jeep and move on without the burden.
But freed German soldiers would only rejoin mixed unit regiments, causing problems—and likely the deaths of Allied soldiers, if set loose. It was either kill the men outright or bring them along until they reached command and could turn their prisoners over.
With the exception of one man, they spoke little English. He spoke surprisingly good English, though heavily accented, and even knew some slang. His name was Erwin von Boeselager, of the 9th Regiment, 3rd Fallschirmjaeger Division, and he was from a small town outside of Munich called Dorfen.
“Where are you from?” von Boeselager asked Tramble.
“I’m from the great state of Massachusetts,” Tramble said.
“Ah. Which city are you from?”
“It’s near a town called Boston. You’ve never heard of it,” Tramble said, clearly uncomfortable answering the Kraut’s questions about his hometown.
“Boston, yes. I am familiar with this name. What is the name of your city?”
“Why are you so curious? I couldn’t tell you the difference between Munich and Dusseldorf,” Tramble said.
“I am familiar with this area you speak of,” the German said.
“It’s a city called Chelsea,” Tramble said with annoyance.
“Ah yes. Chelsea is attached to the city of Boston by the Chelsea Street Bridge,” von Boeselager said.
“Hey Tramble, get a load of this guy. He’s been to Boston,” Shaw teased.
“How the hell do you know that?” Tramble asked the prisoner.
“I was trained to work in that city after the war,” von Boeselager said and then went on to mention which cross streets met at the cities civic center.
Coley shook his head, and Tramble grew silent after the POW’s admission. Were the Nazis so goddamn cocky that they had already started breaking the country into sections that would have to be managed after the war? Good luck setting foot on American soil. His countrymen would fight until the last breath.
“This guy’s full of crap,” Shaw said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, the German army is about to be in charge of a bunch of rubble by the time this war is over,” Tramble said.
“Perhaps you are right. Our own men are attacking each other. How can we fight wars on many other fronts while we fight our own? I wish only to return to my family in Dorfen when it is all over,” the German said.
Coley had to agree with the man. Something had changed with the German war machine. They were no longer acting like soldiers. Rather, they were acting like mindless robots, like something out of a Saturday matinee at the old movie theater in town.
As dawn approached, they came into sight of the town of Bastogne. They broke a line of trees with Coley’s jeep, poking forward in cautious maneuvers. If the town had been overrun, they’d be blown to kingdom come.
If it was still under Allied control, they’d have a chance to evade the Germans for the last time.
The problem was they’d hit a patch of ground that was swarming with Krauts. During the night they’d come across countless abandoned tanks and artillery pieces left in the snow. The men who should have been using the war machines were nowhere to be found.
It was strange that most of the artillery had fallen silent as well. For the last day, the skies had been illuminated by nonstop barrages. The unmistakable noise of explosives shaking the ground in the distance was also no more.
Then something whistled in the distance and impacted to the east. Like he’d jinxed the silence with his thoughts.
More artillery opened up and pounded the ground.
“I think that’s ours,” Coley muttered.
“Hope so. Hope someone’s giving he Germans hell,” Shaw said.
Von Boeselager sat quietly in the seat as the jeep broke a line of trees. Coley swore and slammed the vehicle to a halt. The small convoy behind him came to a stop, the last vehicle almost smashing into his rear end.
“Oh shit, Lieutenant!” Tramble said and stood. He snatched up a Thompson and worked the bolt handle.
Coley swore loudly and made a command decision. They had every opportunity to back up and try to escape into the woods. They might be able to outpace the enemy, but they might also be quickly overwhelmed. But the chance to rejoin the allies was tantalizingly close.
Except for the fact that they’d driven right into a mass of thousands of Germans.
THIRTY-ONE
GRAVES
German soldiers continued to pour into the forest. When one of them spotted Graves, they quickly made for the tank. The men looked like they’d been through hell. Their overcoats and uniforms were covered in dirt and blood. Many had wounds on their faces. One man who staggered around like he was lost was missing most of his lower jaw. His tongue flapped up and down like he was tasting the air.
An officer walked at the head of the men, but he was in as bad a shape as the rest. Part of his ear had been blown off, and even though he carried a German machine gun, one of his hands was missing.
Graves got behind the .50 cal and worked the bolt, but it had become frozen in the night. He slapped the device a few times, but it wouldn’t come free.
Thankfully, the Germans hadn’t started shooting yet.
“Get me a cup!” Graves yelled into the tank.
La Rue dug out a metal tin and handed it up.
Graves unzipped his pants and fought through a couple of layers of clothing.
“Hey, boss. If you’re trying to intimidate the Krauts, shouldn’t I be up there?” Big Texas called.
Graves got the cup next to his pants and willed his bladder to comply. He’d just taken a leak a few hours ago, so there wasn’t a lot of piss, but what he managed to trickle out would have to work.
“Get us moving,” Graves said.
“On it, Staff Sergeant,” Murph said.
The tank lurched with a grinding of tread, then came to a halt. Graves was slammed forward and almost dropped the cup.
“You’re splashing piss on me!” Big Texas said.
One of the Germans lifted his gun and let loose a stream of bullets. They were fired in an erratic manner, most flying around the tank, but several rounds plinked across the solid steel.
Graves poured his urine on the bolt, then slammed it a few times until it came free.
The tank lurched again and rolled a few feet as Murph tested the tread. Too fast, and the quick repairs might leave them stuck.
Another Kraut fired and bullets whizzed around Graves.
He swung the big machine gun around and opened up.
The first rank of Germans fell to withering fire, but as the bullets found targets, the sounds seemed to alert the enemy. They poured out of the woods until their ranks grew. The men started to run toward the tank.
Big Texas was already maneuvering the main gun until it was pointed at the Germans.
“Punch a hole,” Graves said and fired again, sweeping away a half dozen soldiers.