Big Texas came in swinging. He punched a Kraut in the face and shot another in the back.
Gabe slithered over the side of the half-track and got into the driver’s seat.
Murph was the last. He rolled out from under the tank and came up shooting. Big Texas provided cover fire while Murph spun and shot a couple of Germans who were in pursuit.
“Glad they ain’t shooting us,” Big Texas said, and fired again.
“Damn wheels on the wrong side. Hey, I can’t speak Kraut—anyone know how to drive this thing?” Gabe said with a little hoot. The engine sputtered and died. On the second try, it roared to life.
Big Texas jumped out of the half-track and went to help Murph.
“Looks like you figured it out,” Graves said.
Graves swung around the German machine gun mounted on top of the half-track and aimed at the mass. He was unable to fire, however, because Big Texas and Gabby were in the way.
Big Texas used his gun like a club and cleared a path. Murph tossed his now-empty gun and went for his sidearm. He drew the .45 and blew a hole in a German soldier’s head.
Big Texas fought through the remaining Germans and grabbed Murph around the waist. He lifted the man, then launched himself at the half-track.
One of the soldiers figured out how to use his gun and fired a blast of bullets, striking his own men.
Big Texas stumbled and almost fell. He reached around like someone had tapped his back. Murph dropped to his feet and got a shoulder under his friend.
They ran to the half-track, and Graves helped Big Texas inside.
“Roll!” Graves called and slapped the top of the roof.
The vehicle’s gears ground, and the half-track lurched forward before slamming to a halt. Then Gabby figured out the controls and the truck rolled forward again, bashing into a group of Germans.
“You okay?” Graves said.
“It’s not bad,” Big Texas said.
He lay on the floor and sucked in a couple of breaths. Blood pooled on the metal underneath his body.
“We got ya, Texas,” Graves reassured him.
Murph got on the machine gun and cleared the path ahead.
“No. They got me,” Big Texas said. Then his eyes fixed on the sky and he breathed his last breath.
THIRTY-SEVEN
TAYLOR
Orders were orders. All of the commanders had been tasked with bringing back a POW. The medics wanted to find out what the enemy was up to and why they fought on after sustaining devastating wounds. Command wanted to interrogate the prisoners, but Taylor couldn’t figure out how in the world they were going to get any answers.
The mass of enemies numbered in the thousands. Gunfire rippled along their front line, but it was poorly-aimed, as if the guns were wielded by children.
The size of the army should have been able to overwhelm them in minutes, yet they appeared to possess no military tactics. Scouts had reported there were enemies closing in on all fronts, but those forces were nothing compared to the size of that which they faced head-on.
They raced across the frozen ground. One of his men slipped and fell on his ass, but he struggled back to his feet.
Taylor drew his sidearm and took careful aim. He put a bullet into a Kraut next to the soldier in white.
Grillo was on his left and Shaw on his right. They paused to fire, then ran to catch up.
There was a shattered Sherman on the battlefield that would provide cover. They made for the hulking mass of metal and slammed against it. Taylor sucked in big breaths and looked over the side of the vehicle.
They’d culled the herd a little, but not enough. He extended his arms, took aim and helped his men clear off the soldiers surrounding the man in white.
Soon the enraged enemies were close enough. Taylor made out that the man’s jacket wasn’t dark with dirt; it was stained with blood. He wore a white hood over his helmet and carried one of the new German machine-pistols they’d been seeing over the last few months.
“Captain. Those guys aren’t stopping,” Grillo said, after shooting one of them in the chest, only to have him struggle back to his feet.
“If you can get headshots, do it. That seems to stop the sonsabitches,” Taylor advised.
He followed his own advice and took three rounds to blow a dickhead helmet off a German soldier’s head. The man dropped and didn’t rise again.
One of the approaching men lowered a machine gun and opened up. Bullets ripped across the tank and ricocheted into the air.
Taylor shot the man, then paused to reload.
“Four left, let’s go,” Taylor ordered.
The other German forces were on the move, and close behind their target. They’d have seconds to secure the man and drag him back to the Allies’ own lines. Taylor fired again and hit the machine gun-wielding man in the neck. The man fell away and struggled across the ground, hands scrambling at the hard packed snow and ice.
Grillo used the butt of his M1 to smash in the face of one of the men. Shaw fired until he was empty, then went for his knife.
Dozens of Krauts closed in on the man in white.
Their target was well-armed but his limbs were still. He dragged out a potato masher and tossed, it but he hadn’t managed to rip the pull cord.
“It’s a dud,” Taylor reassured his men as the grenade rolled toward them.
Grillo picked it up and unscrewed the base closing cap, ripped the string, then tossed it at the advancing Germans behind their target. The three instinctively ducked as it exploded and tossed bodies around.
“Guess it’s not a dud,” Taylor grinned.
He grabbed the man in white and dragged him by the hood. He was young and clean-shaven, but his teeth were broken and coated in red. More blood had cascaded and dried down his white jacket.
The German fought back, ripping at the Captain’s hands. He nearly broke free, but Shaw hit him in the gut with the butt of his rifle.
There were still a pair of Germans to contend with, so on his left, Grillo fired, but the bullet went wide. He got another blast in, and the side of the man’s head blew apart in a mass of blood and gore.
Taylor kicked the man in the shin and he fell, dragging the Captain down.
Shaw helped Taylor back to his feet while Grillo provided cover.
“Sir, we need to hurry the hell up!” Grillo said.
Taylor didn’t need to be told. He knew they were about to be completely overrun.
In the distance, his men cheered them on while providing covering fire. A machine gun squad fired into the advancing ranks, causing devastation.
Taylor locked his eyes on his own men, and with Shaw helping secure the prisoner, they ran while Grillo covered their retreat.
Hot on their heels, they heard the pounding of feet.
THIRTY-EIGHT
BEHR
Sergeant Behr struggled to rise.
He’d been in the midst of the fight. Arms flailing, feet kicking, knees crushing, and teeth ripping, when an explosion had thrown him across the ground. Something wet had slapped against the ground next to his head.
Behr pulled himself toward a soldier in a dark canvas jacket who carried the weapons of the enemy. The soldier had still been twitching so Behr intended to finish him off.
If only his legs would react. Why wouldn’t they do as he asked? He wished to stand but he could not. When he tried to get onto his knees under him his body failed to respond.
He looked down and found the source of his frustration. Above his left knee his limb was missing and below his right hip his entire leg was gone. Blood pooled around his body as he tried to rise.