Timothy W. Long with David Moody and Craig Dilouie

THE FRONT

SCREAMING EAGLES

The Battle of the Bulge was one of the largest battle fought in World War 2 and cost the Allies 89,000 American casualties, 19,000 of those dead with another 23,000 captured or missing. This book is a work of fiction but the brave sacrifice of the greatest generation will never be forgotten.

ONE

GRILLO

Private Franklin Grillo sat on a hard cot and tried to put into words how he felt about his imminent departure. He’d been working on his letter for the best part of an hour. Back against the wall, legs cocked, and book firmly planted against his thighs. On the cover of Moby Dick, a novel he found as exciting as a cook book, he held a piece of paper and wrote with the whittled remains of a pencil.

It was dark outside, and some of the other graduates had gone out to have a drink and attempt to impress girls with stories of how they were shipping out to help with the war in Europe, or in the Pacific.

The name of the game was to get laid before they departed. Like a few others in his platoon, Franklin waited in his barracks, because he had a girl back home and didn’t want to give into temptation. At least, that was how he convinced himself that was the reason he was still here, and not out crawling bars like a tom cat.

Months and months of long training had turned some of the men into sourpusses like Private Elgin. The man had been happy as a clam when they’d arrived, but after his first crawl under barbed wire while machine-guns fired overhead, he’d decided that going overseas and killing Krauts might not be the best decision for him. He was ready to jump ship and go back to college, but the United States Army owned him. Over the course of training he’d stepped up and become an outstanding soldier.

Elgin was the first to lead the charge. His dark hair was slicked back with enough Dixie Peach Pomade to grease an M1 Garand. He’d applied so much cologne that it stunk up the entire barracks. Sarge had chased him outside. Smith, Kosinski, and Dyson had been hot on his heels, and loaded with enough bravado to think they could singlehandedly win the war.

The barracks had quieted down, allowing Grillo to write his mother and father. Next he’d write to Louise and tell her how much he loved and missed her. They’d been inseparable since high school, and she’d cried her eyes out when he’d told her he was shipping off to war.

She’d nodded and said she understood, but there was an undercurrent of anger at his decision. He could have stayed and gone to college, maybe even applied to officer school, but his brother James had died fighting in Africa when a Panzer round had exploded next to his foxhole. They’d sent his things home, but there was no body—something his mother had lamented for months.

The anger to go and fight had made his blood hot. He was going to go overseas and kill every Kraut he could to make it up to his brother.

So airborne had been his choice. When he’d done well enough in boot to qualify, he’d taken the opportunity to volunteer for jump school, but not before finishing up training in demolitions. Grillo wasn’t tall. He wasn’t a farm boy with bulging muscles. He was just an average guy who wanted to do his part. He wanted his parents to be proud and he wanted to be able to tell his children that he’d been there, overseas, and fought in the largest war in history.

Now his day had finally arrived.

He was to depart at 0600 hours and make his way to Europe on a ship that would take almost two weeks to reach the coast. From there he’d report to a base in Southern England, where he’d learn how to leap out of an airplane while loaded with a piece of cloth that would open and hopefully carry him and all of his equipment to a soft landing.

The more he’d thought about it, the dumber he’d felt. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane while people were shooting at you might not be the best career choice.

But it was too late now. He was getting in the war.

After spending a month in special training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, he was now a demolitions expert. That meant he’d carry explosives and a bazooka. He’d get a chance to cause mayhem. He’d also be packing a heavy load out when he dove from an airplane.

He set pencil to paper and thought about the hell he was going to rain down. The war might be winding to a close as the Allies pushed into Germany, but he would have plenty of opportunity to kill a few Krauts for his brother James.

“You nervous?” Bauman asked.

“A little, but I’m ready to ship out,” Grillo said.

He’d left his own bunk and carried a set of his own orders. He took a seat next to Grillo and studied his letter again.

Bauman was from Louisiana, and had a drawl to match. Only nineteen, he was one tough son of a bitch. After falling off an obstacle course wooden wall during trials, he’d insisted he was okay and managed to run the ten miles with his company. He hadn’t told anyone he was hurt until they’d finished the mission. Turned out he had a fractured ankle, and ended up in the infirmary for six weeks while it healed.

According to Bauman himself, the company commander, had looked the Private up and down while he’d lain on the ground in pain and proclaimed, “That, ladies, is a soldier.”

Bauman said it was the proudest moment of his life.

“You and me both, brother. I’ve had enough of sitting around. Put a BAR in my hands and I’ll put enough lead in Kraut ass to sink a battleship,” Bauman said.

Grillo smiled at his friend because that was exactly how he pictured Bauman in the coming months. Carrying a heavy Browning Assault Rifle between his teeth while wading into battle.

The two looked at each other in the wan light and tried not to appear nervous.

“Where you heading?”

“England. I’m one of the crazy ones. I’m going to jump school. What about you?” Grillo said.

“You are crazy. Think you’ll get to set foot in Germany?”

“That’s the plan. If I survive I hope to drop in on a few Krauts and shake a few hands,” Grillo grinned. “Company commander told me he heard from his sister—she’s a nurse—that they need a lot of guys over there. I ain’t so good at math, but it adds up. They lost thirty-five hundred at Normandy.”

“Christ, that’s a lot of bodies. Here’s my orders,” Bauman said, and offered his piece of paper.

Grillo took it and squinted at the words. He didn’t want to say anything, but Bauman couldn’t read a lick of English. He’d been clever about hiding his illiteracy, so Grillo went easy on him, as did the rest of the platoon.

“Going to fight Japs. At least you’ll be warm,” Grillo said.

Bauman nodded at his friend.

The door crashed open, and in strode Elgin. He made for his locker, while whistling what sounded like “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”

“Forget a rubber?” Bauman called.

“Forgot my comb. Can’t look like I just walked out of a tornado if I’m going to go home with a lovely young lady,” Elgin said. “Gotta look my best.”

He was tall and skinny, but he was also strong. He could do more pull-ups than anyone else in the barracks, and he’d won twenty bucks in a contest to prove it. Then he’d lost the money playing craps, and whined about it for three straight days.

“Might need more pomade. Looks like you got a hair out of place,” Grillo teased.

Elgin stopped for a look in the mirror and smoothed his hair back, then pushed the front forward till it bunched up.

“I look like a million bucks. Just sit there and pine after your girl. I’m going to go to Europe with a smile on my face,” Elgin said.

“Me too, because I won’t have to put up with that cologne,” Grillo replied.

Elgin grinned from ear to ear. “You’re going to miss me and you know it.”

Grillo nodded, because it was true. Life in a company of men itching to get to war wasn’t all he’d expected, but these were his brothers. He’d lay down his life for any one of them, even Elgin.

The overhead fan rotated in slow motion as Grillo lay back on his cot and thought about getting into the war. What laid ahead for him? From reading Stars and Stripes, he knew it was going to be hell out there. There were no illusions about the fact that he may very well die in the next month.

But he was going to be Airborne, an elite warrior. He’d been through the training, sweated and bled with his brothers, and proved himself to be able to think on his feet, as well as survive whatever the Germans threw at him. He’d missed the invasion of Normandy, missed the drive into Germany, but soon he’d be in Europe and fighting to free the world from Hitler’s insanity.

Elgin departed, and took his smell with him.

“I should be scared,” Grillo said to the ceiling.

“I should be scared too,” Bauman said, “but I’m not. I’m ready to fight.”

“Maybe we should go get a drink. Wouldn’t hurt to have a little Kentucky bourbon before we head out for war,” Grillo said.

Suddenly it seemed like a great idea. He swung his legs off his cot and went to retrieve his jacket. Just a drink with his friends before they all departed. He’d say his goodbyes one more time, and then in the morning, he’d sleep on the plane.

“Why not? Let’s go and toss a few back and talk shit about Elgin,” Bauman said.

The pair departed the barracks with a spring in their steps, knowing full well that it was probably the last time they would ever see each other.

TWO

BEHR

Pine trees overhead cast shadows on the cold hard ground as Sergeant Heinz Behr studied a tuft of undergrowth that had somehow survived the frigid cold. He dropped the envelope that had contained his division’s orders and tucked the letter itself into his jacket. No fire meant there was no way to burn the paper. He should’ve ripped it to pieces and buried it, but the ground was too hard.

His face was smooth-shaven, but it had come at the cost of applying a razor in the sub-zero weather. His cheeks and chin burned like they’d been scraped raw by a cheese grater. Just another indignity to bear while waiting for the next battle. It was important to keep up a front with his men, but in this war the effort seemed futile.

His combat clothing was stitched together in places, and his jacket was sodden. His boots dragged at the ground when he walked, and he couldn’t feel his toes. He’d long since given up on being disgusted at his own smell—that and that of his men. The last time he’d had a bath was sometime before the battle outside of St. Lo. He’d taken a bullet wound across his upper arm, but the medic had managed to stave off an infection. That or God had seen fit to allow him to keep his limb.

He took out the piece of paper and read the letter he’d received two days ago again.

1st Company, 9th Regiment, 2nd Fallschirmjäger Division

“Regimental Order Number 54, dated 16 December 1944. The Daily Order of the Supreme Commander West. Soldiers, your hour has come! At this moment, strong attack armies have started against the Anglo-Americans. I don’t need to tell you any more. You feel it yourselves. We gamble everything.”

There was an addendum added of the letter in hasty, handwritten script.

“As soldiers of the Third Reich, we will bestow upon you a serum of utmost importance. Our advanced science division will administer it before we begin our glorious attack. Contained in the serum is a drug that will give you unheard-of strength and prowess on the battlefield. Your soldiers can be assured that the effects are more powerful than Pervitin. All commanders are to ensure that their men have received the serum. You carry within you the holy obligation to give your all, to perform to the utmost, for our Fatherland and our Führer!”

Sergeant Behr had sworn off Pervitin after getting addicted to the pills for a six-month stretch while fighting on the Eastern Front. When he’d first tried the wonder drug, he’d sworn he’d never felt so alive and powerful on the battlefield. He’d been able to stay awake for almost twenty-four hours and had stayed alert during that time.

Then he’d crashed. Hard.

The next evening, he’d slept through an artillery barrage that had kept half of his men awake. Shells had roared all through the night while “screaming meemies”, aka the 30 cm Nebelwerfer 42, had laid down barrage after barrage. When he awoke, it was to a tremendous headache that no amount of coffee and aspirin could alleviate.

They’d passed the last half of a week by moving along roads behind Panzer tanks and half-tracks filled with men. A few minor engagements had ensued, but nothing like the resistance they expected in the coming days.

His men had performed admirably, but they’d also known when to find a ditch to dive in or tree to hide behind. The second night had been much like the first, except word had come down that the doctors were on the way with the new serum. Behr informed the men, and they looked at him as if he’d slapped them.

“We need no magic juice to fight. We fight for the Fatherland and that is enough,” they’d seemed to say, but no one questioned his orders. The men rarely argued with him, because they were scared of his acid tongue. They also feared being given an assignment less desirable than attacking Anglo-Americans.

They set up camp behind a screen of armor, and were ready for a fitful night. Planes roared overhead on occasion, but fog had moved in, making aerial missions next to impossible.

Now they were being ordered to accept an injection of unknown chemicals, and they had no choice in the matter.

A man in an SS overcoat moved among Behr’s men with the doctor in tow. They were creeping through the dark, and dragging a large wooden box. They stopped near his location and opened the container.

“Sergeant Behr,” the SS officer spoke in a reedy voice. “You will be the first. For the Fatherland, you will soon know untold power.”

The doctor grinned in the wan light. His face was pinched and he had a little rat nose. He’d attempted to grow a small moustache like the Fuhrers but it was a grey and thin giving him a comical look.

Knowing he had no choice, Behr unbuttoned his thick jacket with numb fingers. He worked at the buttons for a moment before the doctor assisted. Behr rolled up his sleeve and exposed his upper arm.

The stab was quick, and then it was done.

The man took out a fresh syringe and applied it to his corporal’s arm. Jaeger’s took it stoically.

Another medic joined the doctor, and together they made short work of the company.

Behr’s eyes closed as a lassitude took hold. He gazed at a puff of snow, and thought it might be moving. He smiled, because he suddenly felt warm, like he was sitting before a nice fire.

Around him, his men sighed in equal pleasure.

If this was the worst of it, he would be a happy soldier for the rest of the night and day. To feel warmth again was the best thing he could ask for right now.

He shifted his weapon and double-checked his load out. He had several extra magazines, and also carried a pair of grenades. Sergeant Behr clenched his teeth and thought of the enemy: the Anglo-Americans who had killed so many of his brethren. What he wouldn’t do to charge into a mass of them right now, shooting, slashing his bayonet, leaping on men and ripping out their hearts.

Behr’s pulse raced as he thought of blood. Hot blood spilling from the enemy. Piles of bodies left to rot.

He snarled.

Near him, his friend Corporal Jaeger let out an equally strange sound.

The night lit up as an artillery barrage erupted from the east. Behr stared up, eyes following the descending rounds as they smashed into the Americans’ positions.

The fight was on.

Behr motioned for his men, and together they moved into the night to find the enemy.

“HOW LONG WILL the effects last?” the SS officer asked the doctor.

“For about twelve hours, mein Herr. They will go into battle and kill many of the Anglo-American forces. Our men will not feel pain and they will not feel the cold.”

“And after? How will they cope?”

“They will need more of the serum to be sure. Those who survive.”

“I do not like this. We have wasted too many soldiers. Far too many sons will not be returning home since Normandy, and yet I see the Führer’s goal clearly. We must strike and it must be swift and without remorse. We must break their lines and send them scurrying.”

“The serum is not as bad as it sounds, sir, and it has been extensively tested. Would you like to taste its power?” the doctor asked.

The SS officer stared at the man and didn’t say a word. He merely turned away from the hideous doctor and led him on to the next company.

THREE

COLEY

Lieutenant Joseph Coley of the 394th Regiment, 99th Infantry Division was rocked out of a deep sleep by the world going up in flames. He rolled over, right into Corporal Travis Tramble. The next round landed in front of their position, and sounded like the end of the world.

Tramble pressed his hand to the side of his helmet and put his head in the dirt. Coley got a look at his Corporal’s shell-shocked face and wondered if he had the same terrified look on his own.

“What the hell is that artillery fire doing here?”

“Trying to kill us, I suspect,” Coley yelled over the din of exploding rounds.

They were in a dugout made a few days ago. Lieutenant Coley had overseen and helped his men dig the holes himself. They’d had to maneuver tree trunks over the openings to provide slits to shoot through.

As an Intelligence and Reconnaissance platoon, their job was to dig in and watch for enemy movement. This far in Belgium and close to the German border, the allies had enjoyed total supremacy, so this was supposed to be easy duty. He’d been asked to sit out here for just a couple of days, but that had stretched into four, and now they were under attack.

Trees blew apart, scattering chunks of wood at high speed, impacting the earth and the dugout. Pieces of debris struck the log shelter above and rained down on the two men.

Coley found the radio and pulled it out of the canister. He rang up regimental command and reported that they were under an artillery barrage.

“Say again?”

“We’re getting pounded here. It’s like every gun on the other side of the Siegfried opened up on us.”

“That can’t be right. We don’t have reports of any German movements in that area.”

“Does this sound like I’m playing a fucking prank?” Coley held the radio receiver up in the air for a few seconds.

Lieutenant Coley argued with the radio operator before being told to call back in fifteen minutes, when they’d have a better idea of what was happening.

He relayed the words back to Tramble.

“How ’bout we go back and put our boots up someone’s ass and see if they know what’s going on?” Trample yelled.

The explosions marched a chaotic pattern behind the men in the direction of the small town of Longvilly. Coley took the moment to dive out of his dugout and issue orders.

The eighteen men under his command were spread out in a long line, two hundred yards from the village. They’d been digging in and stockpiling ammo for half a week.

He found Private Shaw and Corporal Harpham and told them to go back to town and find a house to gather intelligence from. The men shot him quick salutes. When the artillery let up for a moment, they rolled out of their dugout and made their way through the knee-deep snow toward the barbed wire fence that cut a line across the slope leading into town.

Artillery fire went on for over an hour. At any second, Lieutenant Coley expected it to find their hole. It would be over quick; that was the only saving grace.

THE BOMBARDMENT HAD CEASED, and somehow, they were still in one piece. Holes the size of tanks were left over the field, and trees around them—once tall and proud—had been lopped off and tossed to the earth.

“Lieutenant. I see movement near the town,” Tramble said.

Coley took the man’s binoculars to assess the situation, and in the process got a look at the tank destroyers that had guarded the rear of Longvilly.

“Are they deserting us?” he wondered out loud.

The machines heaved over mounds of snow and disappeared into the tree line.

“Guess that answers that question,” Tramble said.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” Coley said.

The slope of the German soldiers’ helmets gave them away. They faded out of the mist and streamed toward the town. It wasn’t just a single German patrol either; there were at least a hundred men moving in a column.

He tried the radio repeatedly, and finally got through to command.

“You must be seeing things,” they told the Lieutenant. Again.

“Respectfully, we just hunkered down during two hours of artillery barrages. The entire goddamn Sigfried line just opened up on this location. Something big is brewing and we need orders.”

“Wait one,” the radio operator said, and clicked off.

“Son of a bitch. They’re still saying we’re just seeing things and the barrage isn’t happening,” Coley relayed the words.

“That’s a fine way to say good morning. What do we do?”

Ten minutes later, Coley got back on the radio, and repeated his requested his artillery support.

Explosions and gunfire came from the direction of the village. The men dug in around Coley, set up weapons and pointed them toward the houses below. They had a .30 caliber machine gun, as well as a .50 cal mounted on the back of a jeep. The jeep had been placed in a dugout and covered with logs and foliage, to keep it hidden from view.

That left them with five jeeps that had been hidden in the woods behind their position.

Coley and his men turned their gunsights on the town, and waited.

A pair of figures that had to be Private Shaw and Corporal Harpham dashed across the field, maneuvered under the barbed wire fence, and ran like the dickens. They wove through trees and ducked behind natural cover.

Coley lifted an M1 and aimed at the mass of soldiers near the village.

“Get ready to fire, men,” Coley called. “Pick your targets and drop as many as you can before they get wise to us.” His orders were relayed across the half-dozen dugouts. “Hold your fire until I say.”

“They ain’t seen us yet,” Tramble said.

“Yeah, and maybe they won’t.”

Coley wondered how they were going to fight off a force nearly twenty times their size without artillery support. He used his binoculars to watch the men gathering below.

A Belgian woman approached the Germans. She was young and pretty, and reminded Coley of one of his sisters. She spoke to a commander for a few seconds, and then pointed at the 99th’s position.

“Oh Christ. I’m gonna take her out,” Tramble said.

But he didn’t fire.

Coley held his breath while the two spoke.

Suddenly the German commander belted out orders, and his men dove into ditches on either side of the road.

A jeep roared up behind Coley’s position, and out spilled three men. They quickly unloaded a 60mm mortar and started getting set up in a dugout behind them.

“Guess our request for help was heard?” Coley asked the mortar team.

“Sir. We heard there might be some action here. Captain Phillips asked us to check it out, so we brought along help, just in case.”

The addition of the mortars was a big help, but it wouldn’t be enough to cause serious damage to such a strong force.

The Germans didn’t waste any time. Small arms fire erupted from their position. They were stretched out across the road, and had decent coverage. But Coley could make out figures. The minute they set up a flanking maneuver, the well-trained Krauts would take them out.

“Pick your targets, men.” Coley said, and his orders were relayed from dugout to dugout. “When I fire, give ’em hell.”

As far as motivational speeches went, it wasn’t the best. His men had trained with him for months, and they were a tight outfit. If he’d felt he’d need to stand up and shout orders like Patton, he’d have been a poor commander.

“Fire!” Coley yelled.

Coley picked out a figure dressed in white and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck and the soldier rolled away, grasping his back. Tramble had opened up with the .30 caliber machine gun and sent Germans scrambling. Bullets kicked up snow and found targets.

The Germans returned fire, and the fight for the hill was on.

FOUR

GRILLO

Two-and-a-half ton trucks rolled into the city of Bastogne. Private Grillo took in the idyllic little town and smiled at people going about their business. There were waves and nods, but most kept their heads down. Occupation probably did that to a town—or so Grillo surmised. When you were under the boot-heel of something like Nazi rule, life had to be a daily struggle.

He was packed inside the back of the truck, which had a cloth cover that did little to keep the cold, sleet, and snow out. He sat close to Private Manlien, who’d been chain-smoking from the moment they’d gotten into the vehicle.

“This the place?” Grillo asked.

“No, dummy. We’re in Paris. You’ve been living in a dream and this is the end. It’s all sweet French girls here, with flowing dresses and long legs,” Specialist Moreno said.

Moreno hadn’t shaved in a few days, so patchy bits of dark hair sprouted over his cheeks and neck. He wore a thick canvas jacket over his clothing, but like most of the men in the vehicle, he wasn’t prepared for the cold.

Grillo wasn’t any closer to getting used to all of the snow, and also wasn’t shy about his fellow soldiers pressing into him for heat. None of the men smelled that great. They’d had a few days of rest and relaxation, but then they’d been pulled out and directed to the Ardennes region, and no one had been near bathwater since their rapid load-in and departure.

Grillo and the rest of the company were horribly unprepared, and had little ammo or grenades. They’d been promised resupply upon arrival, but so far no one had seen a truck loaded with supplies.

Grillo was trained to blow stuff up. He was a decent shot with the M1A1 Bazooka and was at home with carrying the heavy metal tube, as well as ammo. He’d been issued an M1 Garand, five clips, and two grenades. One of the guys had already talked him out of a grenade, but he held onto his 8-round clips fiercely.

Tjarks was one of the older men in the group of replacements. He hugged his M1 like it was a girl. The man found a beat-up package of Mail Pouch chewing tobacco in his pack, dug out a clump, and jammed the wad into his mouth.

“That stuff taste good?” Grillo inquired.

“Tastes like home,” Tjarks said.

“Where’s home exactly? You got a Kraut name,” Daniels—a no-nonsense Protestant from Maryland—chimed in.

“It’s Dutch/German, but I’m from Crowley, Texas,” Tjarks drawled.

“Another Texan? I’ve run into a dozen of you fellas,” Daniels said. “Don’t they got no industry in Texas ‘cept sending boys off to fight?”

“We got industry like chewing tobacco and kicking Protestant ass,” Tjarks said.

He leaned out the back of the moving truck and spit.

Grillo stayed out of the ribbing, because Tjarks was as big as a house and Daniels was crazy. They’d had to pull over during the night, and he’d seen an American patrol approaching with German prisoners. Daniels had pulled a knife and threatened to start cutting off ears.

“I got industry too, Tjarks, like slitting Texans open,” Daniels said.

“Pipe down, both of you. Plenty of fighting when we get there,” Corporal Papaleo said.

Papaleo was one of the few men in the truck who’d seen action. In the Army for his second tour, he’d been busted down in rank due to disappearing in Italy—or so the rumor went. One of the guys had asked him about it once, but the look Papaleo had given the man had made him stop pestering the Corporal.

The truck came to a stop.

Grillo looked outside expectantly, half-imagining Germans pouring out of the trees.

“Rest stop, five-minute stretch, boys,” a Sergeant said, slapping the side of the truck and moving on to the next.

Grillo plopped down into slushy snow. His combat boots had been new a few weeks ago, but they were already showing signs of wear, and he’d only been in Europe for nineteen days.

He smacked his hands together and fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket.

The wind was bitter as it whipped up around Grillo and then died down again.

They’d stopped near an aid station. Men rushed into brown tents and carried supplies from trucks. A pair of jeeps covered in mud and snow sat kitty corner to the road. One had a windshield. The glass had been shot out of the second jeep on the passenger side, and the seat was splattered with blood.

“What about you, Grillo? Where you from? Not a Kraut, right?”

Grillo shook his head, but refused to get drawn into the petty talk. Instead his attention was taken up by figures moving out of the mist.

Grillo tossed his cigarette and backed up until he was pressed against the canvas covering the side of the truck. He lifted his M1 and placed the stock under his arm.

“What’s got you spooked?” Tjarks said, and then followed Grillo’s gaze.

The men around Grillo went on the offensive and raised weapons. Daniels dove behind a truck, landing in a pile of slush and aiming his BAR.

“Stand down,” Corporal Papaleo called as he moved among the men. “You’re a bunch of knuckleheads, you know that? That’s our guys.”

Grillo’s heart thumped like a bellows inside his chest. He hadn’t seen action yet and found that he wasn’t quite ready either.

They stood around next to the trucks as the men approached. As they came into full view, Grillo wasn’t the only one to take in a deep breath.

The men were covered in bandages and wounds. A pair of soldiers had another man between them, with his arms draped over their shoulders. The wounded soldier had a bandage over half of his head and was soaked in blood.

A soldier held his arm close to his chest. It was covered in bloody bandages because it appeared that he’d had part of his hand shot off, and the remains were wrapped in a red-soaked bandage.

“Jesus. Those guys look rough,” Grillo muttered.

“That’s why we’re here,” Corporal Papaleo said. “We’re relieving these men so they can get some rest and get fixed up.”

“How long until we need rest and to get fixed up?”

“We’re the 101st, son. We spit out lead and shit on Germans breakfast,” the corporal said, and clapped Grillo on the shoulder.

FIVE

TAYLOR

Captain Taylor sipped a cup of lukewarm cowboy coffee and tried to ignore the grounds. He swished the brew around his mouth and wished for the hundredth time that they had some kind of warmth—not for him, for his men.

Summoned to defend against a counter-offensive from the Germans, he’d been cursing the cold, lack of supplies, disorganization, and general piss poor mood since he’d arrived.

Around him sat regulars and replacements for the companies he’d deployed the night before. The men already looked tired, and they were all cold. Taylor had ordered more clothing and blankets be brought up for his men, but requests were slow in reaching the lines.

The townspeople had been helpful in providing some warm—and more importantly, dry—blankets, but they weren’t enough for the hundreds of men of the 101st who waited out in the cold.

He crumpled a message he’d received from command. Then he thought better of it and carefully smoothed the paper out, folded it and placed it in his pocket. Damn the SS to hell. Damn every one of them.

“Not much we can do about it, sir. We got the call so we got the duty,” his orderly, Corporal Krantz, said.

The kid wasn’t much younger than Taylor, but he had a smooth face and looked like he belonged in a high school classroom instead of sitting in Belgium taking care of him.

Taylor was waiting for someone, anyone, to arrive with a situation map. He’d been stuck out here, blind as a goddamn bat, while his men arrayed themselves against the Germans. His map was outdated and he wasn’t even sure of the disposition of all troops in the Ardennes. Now this news had come down.

“What’s the word on the 28th battalion, sir?” Krantz asked.

“Heard a few guys made it here. It was a massacre. Some companies suffered seventy-five percent casualties,” Taylor said. He didn’t speak of the other thing he’d just become aware of, because it was too heinous to contemplate. Inside, though, his blood seethed.

He frowned at the thought of so many men lost. Now he hoped the 101st didn’t suffer the same fate. His men were spread thin, and they were all under-supplied.

“That the word from them or from higher up?”

“Both,” Krantz said, and stared at the ground.

He was probably thinking one thing: Glad I wasn’t in that grinder. Men were brave, even stupid brave, but when you’re facing an overwhelming force with little ammo, you start praying to God and wishing you were anywhere but between gunsights or sitting in a tiny hole in the ground while the world exploded around you. It made the bravest of men want to run.

“How many made it to sick call?”

“About a dozen. Most are suffering frostbite, but one of the guys in Charlie took some shrapnel to the face. He’s not doing so good.”

“Who was it?” Taylor asked.

“Clines.”

“Christ.”

Clines had been with the division since Normandy, and had been in the thick of fighting. He’d shown exemplary bravery when his company had been tasked with taking out a battery of 88s. Taylor had recommended him for the Silver Star. He had an East Coast accent, and attitude to go with it. The fiery Italian had been begging to get reassigned to a division moving on Italy over a year ago, but his training had been far from over.

Captain Taylor hoped he wouldn’t be sending home another letter tomorrow morning—assuming the Krauts didn’t overrun this location in the night. If they were overrun and taken prisoner, what would that mean exactly? The men he’d just heard about had surrendered in good faith, and look at what had happened to them.

“The replacements got here yesterday, and they’ve been dispatched to the front lines,” Krantz said.

“Did we get enough men?”

“Not nearly, but they’ll help bolster defenses. Could be worse, sir. Could have gotten nothing. We had the typical foul-ups: guys sent to the wrong companies, or with the wrong ratings.”

“Sounds like business as usual in the United States Army,” Taylor said.

Mortars sounded in the distance, but it was hard to tell which side was taking a pounding.

“Be back soon, sir. Off to get some mess,” Krantz said and saluted.

Taylor returned the salute and took out his orders once again, even though he’d read them five times in the last twenty-four hours. Then he read the other message again. The men would know soon enough, so it might as well be he who passed the word.

The mornings here had started and with miserable blasts of frigid air and the sun making rare appearances. At least the clouds stayed overnight. If they cleared off, it would be at least ten degrees cooler, and he was already getting reports of soldiers freezing to death in the night. He’d slept fitfully himself, under a tent that barely qualified as an overhanging of cloth to keep fresh snow off the tiny chunk of ground he’d called his bed.

God curse this cold. His orderly had informed him the night before that it was going to be below zero degrees today. After twenty hundred hours, he’d given up worrying what the temperature was, because he couldn’t feel his face anymore.

The scraps of wood they’d scavenged was damp. It was hard to come by any that was dry because the people of this area had been burning what they could for months before the 101st had arrived.

Still they’d tried to get a roaring fire going, but it had popped and sizzled until early morning. At this rate, he was never going to be warm again. One of the villagers had offered his home, but Taylor slept in the on the ground, like his men.

A pair of GIs stormed out of the woods. They carried their M1s low, but they glanced over their shoulders as they advanced on the Captain’s position.

“Cooper, Wayne, what’s happening out there?”

Cooper had dark eyes that were large and always animated when he spoke. His face bore a six o’clock shadow underneath dirt and gunpowder discharge.

“Krauts hit us an hour ago with some artillery. Then a force of fifteen or twenty, but we managed to flank them. We killed a few, but the rest ran back toward Berlin,” Cooper said.

“Casualties?”

“That’s the thing, Captain,” Cooper said. “Didn’t take any. The Krauts didn’t shoot at us.” He tilted his helmet forward and scratched the back of his head. “It was like they were shell-shocked or something. We hit them, knocked out the whole force, but some got back up and kept coming at us. Took a whole lot of ammo to finish the job. Anyway, we captured one.”

“Good work. Any intel?”

“No sir. This is where it gets weird.” Cooper looked at Wayne.

Wayne shrugged and shook out a Chesterfield.

“Oh?” Captain Taylor said.

“The Kraut didn’t speak at all, sir. We even brought in Big Hoss to intimidate the guy, but he just sat there,” Cooper said.

“Then it got weirder,” Wayne interjected.

Taylor remembered Wayne for one reason in particular: he’d partially lost his voice in a battle, thanks to an unlucky encounter with some artillery shelling, and although he spoke loudly, his words had a hiss to them, like he’d been yelling for an hour.

“Okay,” Taylor said, and waited.

Cooper and Wayne exchanged glances again. Wayne lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, then blew a stream of smoke upward.

“Well, it was his eyes, sir. They weren’t right,” Cooper continued.

“His eyes weren’t right? What in the hell are you tying to say, Private? Are you suddenly a doc now? Able to see a man’s eyes and know he’s not right?” Taylor asked. He was getting tired of these two pussyfooting around the subject.

“It’s not like that, sir. Wayne saw it too. His eyes turned white, sir. Like white as snow.”

Either these two had been in the field for too long, they were drunk, or they were looking for some R and R.

Playing the crazy card wasn’t going to work with Captain Taylor. He understood that men got scared when they came under fire from the enemy and sometimes their eyes played tricks on them. But Wayne and Cooper had been with him since Normandy and weren’t easily shaken, but a man could break after a while. He’d seen it too many times. Been on the edge himself too many times.

His men were usually straight shooters. He’d been in the field with this pair for too long to give them a full ration of shit.

“I need to speak with Sergeant Pierce in Baker anyway,” Captain Taylor said. “We’ll head over to Charlie’s position first so I can look at this German with the white eyes. This better not be some bullshit prank. I’m not in the mood, not after what I just learned about Malmade.” Captain

“Anything you care to share, sir?” Cooper pushed his helmet up over his eyelids.

Captain Taylor took a deep breath and then told the men what he’d learned.

If Cooper and Taylor had looked like they wanted to chew lead before, it was nothing compared to the way their eyes darkened now. Now they looked like they wanted to take on the entire German army themselves.

SIX

COLEY

The shooting died down a few minutes later, so Coley told his men to take a breather and conserve ammo.

A force of twenty Germans rose and walked toward the barbed wire fence.

“Pick your target carefully and wait for them to reach the fence,” Coley called to his men.

The Krauts in white camouflage approached with swagger, like they were on a country stroll. They carried their guns at the ready, but hadn’t fired them yet.

Coley waited until two of the men paused to inspect the barbed wire, and then gave his command to fire.

Gunshots echoed up and down the line, and the Germans took immediate casualties. Half of the approaching men in white dropped, or crawled back toward the ditch. The other half of the force tried to get over the obstacle and got hung up.

Coley’s force eliminated the men. They caught on the barbed wire or slumped to the ground. Men who were his age—men with families—were dead or wounded.

“Damn firing squad,” Tramble muttered and then opened fire again.

“Line ’em up,” Coley said.

A bullet whizzed past Coley’s ear and struck a log behind him. He shook his head, and then shot at a pair of Germans who were moving toward the fence like they hadn’t just seen their men get slaughtered. Behind him, the distinctive “whump” of a 60mm mortar sounded. A shell fell ten feet behind the road and tossed snow and dirt into the air.

The next round found a clump of Krauts and sent bodies flying.

Shots on their right flank drew Coley’s attention. The dugouts were spread out over twenty or thirty yards, so the last pair of soldiers would have to deal with it. Coley and his men were green but they had all trained with him, under grueling conditions. He knew the men well and trusted them to respond. Right now he needed to get command to help their position.

“A couple got around us, but McClure and Eagles took em out,” Tramble relayed to Coley.

“Tell them I said ‘good shooting’,” Coley said.

He was smiling because his mind had been reeling. There were now twenty men under his command and they faced an overwhelming force. If he didn’t get help soon, they were all going to die or be taken prisoner of war.

Now that they had faced their first assault, he felt much calmer. His men had performed admirably under intense pressure.

The Lieutenant rolled over and dug the radio handset out. He rang up command and again repeated his request for assistance.

“We are assessing the threat. You are to hold your position at all costs,” the man on the other end said.

“We could really use some help. We have a force of five or six hundred men in our sights. We can’t hold them forever,” Coley said.

“Hold at all costs,” the man repeated, and rang off.

Coley slammed the radio receiver down in frustration.

“Tramble, you go left and I’ll go right. Check the men for casualties,” Coley said, nodding at the corporal.

COLEY ROLLED into the first foxhole, and found Jones and Thomas lighting up cigarettes.

They had an arsenal of weapons at their disposal, including an extra M1 and an unwieldy BAR rifle. A satchel of grenades lay between the men. Eagles was left-handed, and the men had smartly positioned themselves so they could grab and throw.

“You guys okay?”

“Yes sir,” said McClure, a skinny kid from the Bronx. “Just scared to death.”

“I’m working on getting us support. We’re to hold this hill for the time being.”

“Understood, sir, but if those Germans keep waltzing up the hill like that, this battle will be over sooner than later,” McClure said.

“Let’s hope you’re right.

IN THE THIRD FOXHOLE, Coley found the first casualty. Dan Eagles had taken a round to the chest, but he was still moving. His partner, Private Dave Jones, applied a bundle of gauze to the wound.

“Jesus, Eagles, you hurt bad?”

“Pretty bad, but I can still fight.”

“I’ll get us a medical team on the double,” Coley promised.

COLEY RUSHED toward the last dugout. He caught movement ahead. A German soldier stepped out of the woods with his machine gun lowered. Coley let him have it and dropped the soldier. Coley rolled into the hole and appraised the situation. His men were doing fine and ready for more. He passed on more words of encouragement.

As he was preparing to make his way back to the center, his men started firing again.

The Germans approached the fence in force this time. There had to be fifty men heading their way.

“Watch the flanks, if they get around us we’re dead,” he reminded the two.

They shouted acknowledgment, then shot at the approaching Krauts in white.

COLEY CAME under direct fire a few seconds later. Bullets blew past his position but he kept moving. If he paused to find targets, he was a dead man. He found his dugout and dove inside. His helmet went flying and he hit the ground hard enough to expel all of the breath from his chest. He flipped over and stared at the sky for all of five seconds before getting back to business.

“Sir, all present and accounted for,” Tramble called. “No casualties on this side.”

“Same here. It’s a miracle,” Coley said.

He’d moved to a dugout behind Coley’s position and taken up position on the .50 cal on the back of the jeep. The big gun boomed, putting giant holes in the approaching force of Germans. The bullets were the same armor-piercing rounds used on the back of the B-17 bomber. They could separate a man from his limbs with one shot.

“Damn thing’s got no range of motion. I’m going to unhook it,” Tramble said.

“It’s gonna be hot as hell,” Coley warned.

Tramble grabbed the barrel and lifted, but dropped the gun back on the mount and thrust his hand into snow. “Ah, Christ that hurt,” Tramble said and ripped a handkerchief out of his pocket. He got the gun under the barrel and lumped into the dugout.

“Don’t burn that gun out,” Coley said. “Short bursts.”

“Do my best, sir, but there are a lot of Germans down there.”

Coley turned his attention back toward the road and found what looked like the entire Kraut division coming at their position.

SEVEN

GRILLO

Dear Mother and Father,

I’ve arrived in Europe, but not in the way I’d expected. Me and some of the other boys from my division were held up while they tried to decide what to do with us. I had hoped to see some action, but there were delays with our flight. So far I am the only paratrooper I know who has not dropped from an airplane yet.

It’s different in Europe. Not just the food and drinks, it’s the people. They have been under the stress of war for so long they hurry around like scared chickens. Remember that hen we had who would never come out of the coop, even when it was time to eat? A lot of people here are like that.

But they are also friendly, and treat us with respect. They call our names, call us liberators. I’ve tried to tell those I’ve talked with that I haven’t done anything, but they just smile and touch me. They shake my hands and they act like I’m kind of star.

Some of the people threw us some fruit. I don’t think they were throwing the fruit at us, but throwing it for us. I sure was appreciative.

How is Louise? I’m going to write her next, but if anything happens to the mail please tell her that she is in my thoughts every day. Tell her I miss her and I love her. I wish she knew just how much I miss her. I haven’t been gone more than three months but sometimes it seems like three years.

Tell father that I’m thinking of him as well. He was always a hard man, but he looked at me differently when I came home in my new Army uniform. I hope he’s proud of me.

I love you both and I’ll write again as soon as I have a chance.

-Franklin

PRIVATE GRILLO PERCHED next to a tree and finished scratching out his letter home with a stub of a pencil, on paper that was already worn.

Around him the world was relatively quiet in that there were no gunshots, no falling mortars, and no diving for foxholes as 88mm shells screamed in and shattered foliage, pounded earth, and killed or wounded his fellow soldiers in Able Company.

Two days in the cold and he was already cursing his decision to join the Army. He was also cursing whoever had fouled up his orders and sent him to this company as an infantryman instead of his specialization in demolitions.

Bare tree branches hung overhead, covered in snow and ice. Wood popped as a little bit of heat seeped into what had been a miserably cold night. Many of the trees were cut off about twenty feet off the ground, the splintered ends blackened thanks to tree burst mortars.

He hadn’t needed to be be warned to find a foxhole as soon as shelling started. That was part of basic, and after being with the 101st for a few days, he’d grown used to spending a lot of time prone, on the ground with his ass in the air. Standing around in shock as a rounds fell around you was a good way to get peppered with shrapnel.

Not that taking cover was any guarantee of safety. The first day, he and the other fresh recruit, Billings, had arrived to assist Baker Company. They’d come across a former hole where several soldiers had been caught as they’d huddled together. There was no way to tell if the red-colored snow was from flesh or scraps of clothing. The splatter of blood around the mortar blast told the whole story.

Grillo had slept in a shallow hole next to Private Fahey, a man who managed to snore like a freight train. He’d spent most of the night huddled next to his new friend, and shivered under a thin blanket.

When the 101st had been called in to support the 28th infantry from the German counter-offensive near the Belgium city of Bastogne, they’d been unprepared for the weather in more than one way. They were short on supplies, dressing for wounds, food, and of worst of all, ammo.

He’d been sitting in a barracks for weeks after his, waiting for orders. When they’d arrived, he and several other men had been hustled through processing, issued weapons, and put on a truck heading toward Germany. The day they’d departed had been bitterly cold, but somehow rain had fallen instead of snow.

The truck was fine for now. While he’d signed on to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, the reality was that it scared him to death. He’d never been good with heights, and there was something about falling that didn’t agree with his gut or constitution.

Too late to lament it now. He was here in Europe, on the border of Germany, and instead of marching in with guns blazing he was cowering with a few men, waiting for a German counter-assault.

His and Billings’ uniforms were newer than anyone else’s in the platoon, but that didn’t make them any warmer. His jacket felt threadbare, and his boots felt like they were frozen to his feet. The company’s doc had advised him to loosen the laces every hour and walk around, so he didn’t get a case of trench foot.

Grillo had spent a week in Great Lakes a few years ago while visiting his Uncle Steve, but that hadn’t prepared him for this biting chill. The wind had roared off the water and hit fifteen below one morning. Still, they’d gone out ice fishing, hadn’t caught a damn thing, and spent the rest of the weekend sitting around a fire playing cards and drinking beer.

The Ardennes was a different kind of cold. Everywhere he looked was snow. Tufts of plants poked up from the white here and there, but so did tree roots and chunks of earth. Under the light snow was ice that had to be broken through to reach the earth beneath so you could dig a hole to cower in.

He thought of his friend Eddie Elgin and wondered how the man was faring. He looked like a matinee idol, but those looks wouldn’t help him in the war. He’d be just another young soldier looking to put a bullet into an enemy.

Grillo would never say it out loud, but he missed the training base. He missed having a warm bed, even if he was tossed out of it at all hours of the morning for maneuvers, or just to do some PT.

Paths had been worn into the snow-covered ground the night before, but they were covered now by a fresh dusting of white. There was a fresh winter smell in the air thanks to the cold, but it was undercut by hints of exploded shells.

Fahey let out an epic fart, then rolled over and tugged the blanket up around his neck.

“Gonna give away our position with that kind of gas,” Grillo said. They were the first words he’d spoken since last night.

“It’s the Krations,” Fahey said. “Fill ya up, sure, but then you gotta deal with the other issues, like how that lousy food sits in your guts. I never missed home so much, even when we were rolling up on the beach at Normandy. Wait, I take that back. I missed home a lot that day.”

He was from Boston, and had the heavy accent to go with it. Fahey liked to talk about his father’s ‘cah’—a six-year-old Chrysler that burned through oil at an enormous rate—and how he wished he was at a ‘bah’ while a girl in a little red dress—whose name changed on a regular basis—talked to him about going back to her place.

“Krations aren’t so bad,” Grillo said, trying to convince himself it was true. “I like pork. I don’t like it every day, but I like it. Chocolate’s the best.”

“If we ever get on top of the enemy, Sergeant Pierce over there,” he said, gesturing toward one of the many holes in the ground, “knows how to mix up a couple of cans of meat over a cooking fire and make it taste a like a four-course meal. At least we got warm guts last night. Thought I was going to starve in the damn forest.”

Grillo nodded.

Fahey dug out a four pack of Chesterfields and shook one loose. He lit it with a match and sucked in smoke, but kept the glowing end cupped in his hand so he didn’t give away their position.

Grillo shivered, and thought about moving around. He’d been sitting here for over an hour, and the chill had sunk in. His clothes felt damp thanks to the cold, and he was pretty sure his jacket was frozen to the tree.

He held his M1 Garand to his chest like it was his best friend. It was loaded with a full-eight round clip and he had a few extra in his pouch. Not enough if they came under heavy fire, but the rest of the squad’s ammo was spread thin. Him being the new guy, they’d stripped most of his rounds when he’d arrived and passed them out among the other men.

Along with some ribbing, the guys had generally let him settle in. There were the usual shenanigans as they regulars broke him in, like asking him to walk the perimeter until he found his gig line. After the joking died down, him laughing it up with three others including Sergeant Pierce, they’d left him alone, because a mortar had exploded nearby.

“Didn’t think I’d be spending Christmas in Europe,” Grillo said.

“I didn’t think I’d be spending another Christmas in Europe,” Fahey replied.

“What was it like last year?”

“Like this. Krauts shooting at us. Us shooting at Krauts.”

“I haven’t even fired a shot yet. Think I’ll fit in after I kill my first German?”

“Brother, I hope you don’t have to shoot one, but you do, and you make sure the son of a bitch stays down,” Fahey said with a grimace.

Something cracked in the distance and Fahey suddenly bled confidence. He rolled over, tossed the blanket to the side, and put his M1 to his shoulder. Grillo tore himself away from the tree, ice ripping at his clothes as he peeled himself off his perch. He dropped next to Fahey and raised his gun and tried to spot movement.

“Where’d the noise come from?” he whispered.

“From shut up, that’s where,” Fahey whispered back.

Fahey scanned the tree line.

Grillo followed the man’s lead. Bootcamp was one thing—practicing shooting at targets, how to look downrange, how to aim, how to exhale and squeeze the trigger. It didn’t teach you how to deal with fear, but that was all he could think about now.

The morning was misty and that made visibility low. Plus, movement could come from any direction in a two hundred degree plus arc. The rest of the squad had the other sides covered, but even they could fall victim to a surprise attack.

Another twig snapped in the distance.

Grillo tensed and squinted his eyes. He should have been wearing glasses, but they kept fogging up in the chill air. He should have a pair of binoculars, but one of the other guys had the Baker’s only remaining pair. He should have been home in bed, warm and waiting for college to start, but instead he’d enlisted, and now here he was, in freezing temperature, laying in a cold hole in the ground, waiting for a man from another country to come try to kill him.

“Christ. It’s cold as a witch’s tit.” Fahey stated the obvious.

“What do we do now? I don’t see any movement. Should we go out there?”

“If Sarge don’t say scout, we don’t scout. If you see a guy in a metal helmet don’t look like ours, you lay into him,” Fahey said.

Grillo shivered. His gut was done up in a knot so tight he thought he was going to pass out. He inhaled and exhaled, but for some reason his head got foggy and stars danced before his eyes.

“I don’t feel good, can’t see,” Grillo muttered.

“Big dummy. Don’t suck in so much air. That’s just fear getting to you. You’re in the damn 101st airborne. You’re here to chew lead and kill Krauts. Now get it together. Just curl up and take some deep breaths. Think about a pretty girl taking off her dress, that always done it for me,” Fahey said.

Another twig snapped, and Grillo was sure he heard something brushing through the snow.

“Oh Christ, they’re coming for us,” Grillo said.

He followed Fahey’s advice and slipped into the foxhole. He took slow breaths, and thought about Louise. They’d had one night together before he’d shipped out. She had been shy, and slipped out of her clothes in the dark.

Then, warm and soft, Louise had slid into bed with him and let him work at her garters until he’d peeled the stockings off her long, smooth legs.

He tried to picture her big puff of blonde curls while she lay beneath him, but his thoughts kept getting interrupted by images of Germans coming out of the mist.

“Contact,” Fahey said and fired.

The M1 boomed next to Grillo.

He pushed his panic aside, sucked in a deep breath, and rolled to his stomach with his M1 ready and prepared to fire. He aimed at a vague white shape and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Then he remembered the safety and flicked it forward.

“Contact. Contact!” Fahey yelled and fired again. “Christ. My sight’s off or something.”

Grillo steadied his aim, centered the sights, and fired twice. Around him, the men of Baker company ran toward their location. Sergeant Pierce arrived first and dropped next to Fahey. He bore a Thompson submachine gun in one hand, his helmet in the other, and a pair of pineapples from each shoulder strap. The grenades bounced against his chest as he hit the dirt. Pierce lifted his weapon and scanned the forest.

Grillo sucked in a breath and swore quietly.

“Where?” Sargent Pierce asked.

“Grillo popped his cherry. Kraut dropped like a rock just beyond that fallen log,” Fahey said, and pointed north.

“Any more?” Sarge plopped his helmet on his head and left the straps hanging around his cheeks. He hadn’t had a shave in days, and looked rough around the edges. Dirt coated the front of his jacket, and was smeared on his face like camouflage.

“Don’t know. Krauts didn’t send a telegraph,” Fahey said.

“Okay, wiseass, got a job opportunity for you. Since you’re so smart today, why don’t you and Grillo go take a look?” Sarge said.

“Oh, Jesus, Sarge. I just got warm, here,” Fahey complained.

“If you’re warm, you’re the only one, Fahey,” Sarge said.

“Uh, fellas?” Grillo said.

The figure he’d shot twice got up on all fours. The enemy struggled to rise and then came to his feet. He had a pistol in one hand, but he didn’t lift it. The shape was a good hundred feet away, but Grillo wasn’t able to get a good look at the soldier’s face.

“Thought you killed him, Grillo,” Fahey said and tossed his smoking cigarette butt to the ground.

“I got it,” Sarge said.

“Wait, Sarge. He’s been whining ‘bout his first kill,” Fahey said.

“Fine. You two take care of that Kraut, and then I want a patrol out to fifty yards. Stay low and don’t get your asses shot off,” Sarge said.

Pierce climbed out of the shallow foxhole and strutted back to his own piece of heaven in the Ardennes forest.

Grillo aimed carefully, centered his sights on the soldier’s chest, and fired again. The first time, he’d shot a shapeless form that was probably intent on killing him and the rest of the men in Baker Company. Now Grillo was just finishing what he’d started.

The soldier dropped behind the log again.

Snow started to fall in light flakes. They caressed Grillo’s face and melted soon after, leaving little rivulets of water on his cheeks. He brushed a puff off his eyebrow and rose to his feet. Fahey took the lead. He carried his rifle at ready, stock against his shoulder, barrel aimed toward the enemy corpse.

EIGHT

GRAVES

Three Shermans cobbled together from the 2nd and 5th platoons, 741st Tank Battalion, fifteen infantry in a mixed unit, and an anti-tank company were facing the largest German assault they’d seen since Normandy. The tanks had backed into a copse of trees, barrels out, so they could wait for the force and perform a little ambush. Murphy had left his gunner station and gone out to help fix up some camouflage… such as it was, in this frozen forest.

The tank was covered in logs they’d cut down a few weeks ago and attached to its sides. The front was reinforced with a couple of slabs of concrete held on by chains they’d absconded with from a shattered building at the same time.

The Shermans might as well have been made of paper when facing a Panzer head-on. Murphy had seen too many of his friends die when fighting the enemy’s tanks.

German shells traveled upwards of 3,500 feet per second, and could reach the Americans with effectiveness at over 2,000 yards. The trick was to use the more maneuverable and lighter Shermans to the Krauts’ rear and hope you got a lucky shot.

Fuel was low, and the refueling station was a long ways off, so they’d have to be smart about how they handled the Krauts. But Staff Sergeant Michael “Gravedigger” Graves hadn’t survived the war this long by doing stupid stuff.

Until today.

Graves cupped his hands together and blew in them. He tucked his palms back inside his shirtsleeves and huddled next to “Big Texas”. Tom LaRue was large enough to take up the room of two men, but that hadn’t stopped him from being assigned to a Sherman. Somehow LaRue had figured out how to scramble in and out of a tank with the agility of a man half his size. He was a man that got his temper worked up at times but he was a cool as a cucumber when he was manning the gunner station.

Gabe Woodward sipped from a cup of ice he’d been blowing on in the hopes of making the snow melt faster. Gabby—as they’d called him from their first engagement, when he’d refused to shut the hell up about whatever little thought came into his mind—was the only one among them who was mostly warm.

They’d been stuck in a tiny village a few weeks ago, and he’d seen the writing on the wall, guessed that it wasn’t going to get warm anytime soon, and negotiated with some of the townspeople for a castoff German overcoat. He wore it under his army uniform, lest anyone mistake him for a Kraut and shoot his head off.

“Thing about surviving the cold is you gotta outthink it,” Gabe said. “When I was sixteen, me and my pops went up to Alaska to do some fishing and we got stuck in a snowstorm. Well as much as I’d like to say I had fun, it was one of the most miserable experiences of my life.”

“Listening to you talk, Gabby, is one of the worst experiences of my life,” LaRue said.

“Come on now, I’m just imparting my life experiences on y’all. Keeping us talking while we slowly freeze to death in this hunk of steel. Was a time I used to welcome the cold so I could sleep better at night. We had a wood stove that I had to keep stoked, and there was an art to it. Too much air and you’d be sweating. Not enough and Dad would be thumping me upside the head for being lackadaisical.”

“Can I thump him upside the head?” LaRue asked Staff Sergeant Graves. “I’ll be real gentle about it and promise not to knock out more than three teeth.”

“You try it and see what happens. You’re a big guy, Texas, but I was a boxer, and I’ll put you on your fat ass,” Gabby said.

The two men stared at each other, each willing the other to make the first move.

“Cut out the chatter, both of you, I’m listening for Germans,” Graves said.

The men simmered down, Gabby going back to sipping on his cup of ice, and LaRue closing his eyes and leaning back in his seat.

Murph clambered onto the tank and poked his head inside. The man’s face was covered in dirt, which he’d liberally applied with a little tree sap. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but Graves had to admit it worked. When Murph was in the trees, he was damn near invisible.

Murph was from a small town in Louisiana, and swore he’d been hunting game since he was ten years old. On more than one occasion, he’d had a hot meal for the men of the tanks, thanks to a clever snare he’d set during the night.

Last night he’d come up empty, but that was to be expected with all of the damn shooting going on in this region.

Mortars and screaming meemies had kept all of them awake, and now they faced another cold day of waiting to spring their ambush.

“You’re as ugly as the day is long,” ‘Big Texas’ Tom LaRue said.

“You’re one to talk. Face only a momma would kiss,” Murph said as he slid inside the tank and took up position at the gunner controls.

“I already know you want to kiss me. Seen it in your eyes on more than one occasion,” LaRue said.

“Shut up, all of you. I hear something,” Graves said.

The men quieted down and listened as well. LaRue pressed his ear to the side of the tank and plugged his other ear with a finger.

Graves popped out of the tank’s portal and scanned the area.

To his right was Momma Rose: a Sherman run by by a fresh-faced kid from Pennsylvania who was nick-named Bucky, thanks to his enormous front teeth.

Bucky looked young, but he had an old soul, and was all too happy to kill any German forces in his path. He was a ruthless tank commander, and the men under his watch were always willing to comply with his orders to run over a cowering German soldier out in the field.

Bucky was up top as well, looking for trouble, and even though there was a layer of fog, he had his binoculars pressed to his eyes as he scanned the area.

“You hear that?”

“I think so,” Bucky said. “We may have company.”

“Where’re the scouts?”

“Should be back with word in a few minutes. Time to warm the engines,” Bucky said.

Graves nodded and slapped the top of the tank. “Warm up the engine, Murph.”

“Ready to roll,” Murph called back from the cold interior.

The Sherman’s engine rumbled to life as her 470 HP engine turned over. The exhaust filled the tank’s interior, making the men cough before it cleared up. Next to her, Bucky’s M4 did the same thing, as did the third tank, commanded by a man named Charles Noble.

Noble was new to both of them, and stayed aloof. He was tall and gaunt and had a scar that ran from above his right eye to below his lower lip. He said a shell had penetrated his first tank while he was a gunner and killed everyone but him. His mangled hand had been partially put back into working order, but he tended to hide the damage in his sleeve when the tank commanders met over meals.

“This is how we’re going to play it. I want that engine killed in thirty seconds. We’re gonna sit here, cold, and wait for the Krauts to pass. They get hung up by those mines and we have full defilade. Got it?”

“Sounds good. Hitting Panzers on the ass end is a good way to kill em. Great plan,” Murph said.

“Stop being a smartass for a second and listen. After we hit them, we’re going to back up and hope they don’t make us a target. The woods are a hindrance, but they will also be an asset. These ponderous Kraut tanks are already struggling to make it over the crap roads around here.”

“Got it, Sarge.” Big Texas grinned.

Murph popped up to give the thumbs-up and caught Bucky looking down the road with concern etched on his face.

“Problem?”

“Yeah,” Bucky called back. “Trouble with the mines.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Ford can’t get the damn thing set in the dirt. He’s one of the replacements and said he knew what he was doing. It’s a couple of those Teller mines we swiped from the Krauts. Poetic justice and all.”

“Lemme up, Sarge. I know how to set em,” Gabby said. “Seen a guy do it before. Actually I saw a guy disarm one, but it’s the same thing.”

“We don’t have time,” Murph said.

“We can’t have the damn Krauts slipping away if this goes south. Gotta block this road,” Gabby said.

“Fine. But hurry. We don’t have long.”

Woodward slithered out of the tank and down the side, then hightailed it out of the brush.

The three tanks cut their engines and waited.

NINE

GRILLO

“Stay right behind me and call out anything, and I mean anything. Could come from the sides or even the back, if they get around Baker. Make sure it’s one of them and not one of our guys. Seen too many guys bite the dust due to friendly fire. That’s what they call it, friendly fire. Don’t seem to friendly to me,” Fahey muttered and set out across the snow-laden ground.

Grillo scrambled to his feet. His M1 in both hands, he followed in Fahey’s path. As they moved away from Baker’s position, he kept his eyes peeled, looking left and right. The mist had thickened, making it hard to make out anything but the skeletal trees. He stumbled over a rock and almost went down.

“Watch your feet, rook,” Fahey called over his shoulder.

Grillo nodded, but his companion didn’t see the gesture. Fahey moved with sure feet over the terrain, pausing now and then to lower to a crouch so he could scan the area.

They found the body behind the fallen log. Hoary moss hung frozen and forlorn from the wood. A small tuft of snow had built up around it, only to be flattened by the enemy’s arm.

Fahey poked the dead man with his rifle barrel.

“You got your first kill after all, rook. Guess you can start working on a medal now, get those points in so you can go home.”

“How many points you got, Fahey?” Grillo asked. Once you were in enough battles or amassed enough commendations or medals, you got to go home.

“Not enough to escape your non-stop questions,” Fahey said.

The figure of the German was dressed in a white jacket. Despite falling, he still wore a dickhead helmet, and there was dirt and blood covering the side of his face. Grillo dropped to a squat and considered the man he’d killed. Who had he been? Was he the son of a mother waiting for her boy to come home? Was he a guy who’d left his children without a father?

Grillo squinted. There was something wrong with the dead man’s face. His skin was sallow and sunken in around the cheekbones, just above the Wehrmacht insignia on his collar. He bore a round around his neck that ripped away a chunk of skin. One eye was open, and it was an odd shade of deep blue under a translucent white cornea.

The orb rotated and fixed on him. Grillo sucked in a breath.

“What’s wrong with this guy’s eyes? It moved, Fahey, Christ but it moved,” Grillo said, pointing.

“He’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with him. Wait, that’s not…”

Something whistled overhead. Fahey snapped his head toward the sky.

“Is that…” Grillo didn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Incoming!” Fahey called, and was echoed by his comrades back at the camp.

Grillo hit the ground right next to the dead German and covered his head with his arms, pulling his helmet down tight.

An explosion twenty-five feet to his right shook the ground and tossed earth into the air. Then another arrived right behind it and exploded farther away.

More rounds screamed through the morning air in a punishing assault that ripped at the earth. Trees exploded and rained shards of wood on them. Grillo curled up as more explosions shook the ground around him. He risked a glance and found the dead German moving toward him, arm stretched out, fingers bent into a claw.

Grillo recoiled in horror and scooted back a few inches as his thin boots scrabbled at the snow.

“We gotta get to a foxhole, now!” Fahey yelled.

An explosion, so close it lifted Grillo off the ground and set him back down almost on top of the German. The reek of the man made Grillo gag. Rot and gangrene, mixed with blood and earth.

The man’s hand reached for Grillo’s neck, but his fingers were cold, frozen, and could not close on Grillo’s flesh. His other hand fumbled for the Luger he’d held, but his fingers couldn’t seem to close around the grip.

“Jesus Christ!” Grillo yelled, shuddering, and rolling to his side.

He kicked out, using his boot to push the German away. The Wehrmacht soldier’s head turned to regard him, and that’s when Grillo saw the damage.

He’d hit the man, alright; hit him in the head, judging by the portion that was missing. His right eye was a mass of bloodless skin and shattered skull. Grillo even saw pink brain matter bulging out of the wound. How in the hell was the man still alive? Grillo had hit him with at least three rounds.

The man’s mouth moved, broken and rotted teeth clicking together as if he meant to eat Grillo right on the Ardennes forest floor.

Another explosion rocked the earth.

Fahey, now in a half-crouch, tugged at Grillo’s jacket and yelled, “Let’s go, rook!”

Grillo’s hands shook as he rotated his M1 and fired several times at the German.

Still the man reached for him.

Fahey finally got a firm grip. Grillo kicked away from the German as Fahey dragged him a few feet away.

In the distance, men screamed in pain and fear. Grillo suddenly remembered that they were under assault and his brothers in Baker Company probably needed his help. As Fahey pulled him away, his last shot caught the German in the head and he finally stopped moving. The M1’s clip flew out and the bolt locked open.

As the two men struggled to their feet on the shaking ground, Grillo caught a glimpse of the German biting at air one more time before going still.

The men ran for their lives.

Behind them came more shapes in white.

Fahey and Grillo dropped into their foxhole and scrambled to firing positions. Around them, the other men of the company opened fire.

Rounds burst through the morning air, tearing into the targets.

Grillo reloaded his M1 and aimed down the barrel. He shot a Kraut in the chest. The man crumpled and fell face-first into the snow.

Grillo tracked another target and carefully squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched into the soldier’s shoulder and swung him around, so Grillo nailed him again.

Beside him, Fahey fired fast and accurately. He blew through a full clip and then reloaded.

“We’re almost out of ammo,” Grillo said.

“Get ready to fall back. Switch to your bayonet if you run out, and drop as many as you can.”

“These shitbirds aren’t shooting at us,” Grillo said.

“That’s great. We can use bayonets if we have to,” Fahey said.

Grillo didn’t mention how strange it was. He was actually relieved that the Krauts had decided to attack without weapons; he’d be a dummy to think otherwise. An unarmed enemy was easy enough to kill.

One of the targets that Grillo had shot rose to its feet, let out a roar and charged at Grillo’s location.

Grillo fired, but his gun jammed. He ejected the shell and aimed again but it was too late—the Kraut was already on their position.

Fahey saved him by shooting the charging man in the chest and dropping him.

“Thank you,” Grillo yelled.

“We gotta fall back. I’m out of ammo after this clip,” Fahey said, and shot another Kraut.

The soldier dropped but still struggled across the ground. He dug out a potato masher and worked at the ignitor until it blew up in his hands, sending bloody chunks flying.

“What in the heck is wrong with these Krauts?” Grillo said under his breath.

“Damned if I know,” Fahey said and reloaded his gun. “Don’t care, either. Shooting ducks in a barrel’s better than getting shot at by SS.”

TEN

BEHR

After the SS doctor had administered the serum, Sergeant Heinz Behr’s arm had throbbed painfully for a few minutes. The initial rush had built in intensity until his body felt like it was humming. Sounds were nearer and objects were clearer. At first he’d seen the world in hues of red but that too had faded.

Charging behind Behr, his men had simply stopped in the snow, as if they’d run out of energy. The great and powerful drug that would make them all über-warriors had run its course in a matter of five minutes.

Behr’s head was a mess. His mind was flooded with images of Anglo-Americans covered in blood, shooting at him and his men. His thoughts were dark as he thought about how the enemies would taste. His mood darkened, even worse than it had been earlier today when he’d huddled with his men in a hole. They hadn’t been particularly well-fed and there was no coffee to go around.

He wasn’t sure how long he and his men had been waiting in the cold, but it might have been minutes and it might have been hours. They’d stopped their advance when one of the other Sergeants had sat down and refused to move. An Obergrenadier lay next to him, holding his rifle tight against his chest. He keened under his breath and rocked side to side. Behr should know the man’s name, but it had completely escaped him.

Mortars rocketed overhead, seeking the Allied positions. Explosions rocked the ground and should have sent many of his men seeking cover, but instead they snarled like animals.

Sergeant Heinz stood up.

Behr’s head swam again, and he nearly dropped to his knees. He got a hand out and caught himself on a tree branch.

The enemies were scattered ahead, and they had to die.

A squad of soldiers were embedded nearby, putting fire on an enemy position. Behr’s rage grew by the second.

The enemy was ahead and they had to die.

One of the men turned and popped him a quick salute. He was young, barely old enough to shave his skin, but old enough to fight for the Fatherland. Behr was aware that the man was on his side. He was also aware that the child was scared to death. Fresh, hot, pulsing, his blood coursed through his veins as he struggled to hold up an MP40 and fire.

Behr’s eyes filmed over. He suddenly had trouble seeing anything but the red heat signature of the other soldier, but it was enough. He leapt off the ground, soared several meters, and landed on the boy. The young soldier cried out in surprise, and then in anger as Behr ripped out his throat with his bare teeth.

The others in his squad descended on the fighters with malice. Chunks of flesh flew as the men tore into any exposed skin.

Blood stained the snow, but it was all the same to Behr. Red.

Moments later, when the boy no longer moved beneath him, Behr rose to his feet. The slaughtered lay in piles. Fifteen bodies that had once been alive.

Behr needed more.

The enemy was ahead and they HAD TO DIE!

The Sergeant roared with fury toward the front lines.

Behind him, the men that had just been killed struggled to their feet. They rose: a ragged army of bloodstained ghouls that seethed with rage. Eyes that had been many different shades were now white.

The men in his company followed, howling in fury as they ran.

Behr’s force of a single squad grew as they came upon others.

A halftrack had survived the trek into the woods. It crept along at a snail’s pace as it tried to pick out targets in the distance.

Behr and several other men leapt onto the vehicle and fed.

The slaughter went on for hours.

ELEVEN

COLEY

The second wave of Germans fell almost as quickly as the first. Although larger and more intense, the rushing Krauts in their white, interspersed with mottled camouflaged troops, advanced up the hill.

The fog had barely let up as the day wound on, showing only occasional breaks for sunlight. The dugout was cold, and sensing that no change in the weather conditions was coming, Lieutenant Coley dreamed of lighting a fire.

There was enough wood around to get a good blaze going. If they did make a fire, at least they would die warm.

The Germans had held off from a third advance up the hill for several hours. The men milled around behind homes in the village below. Some showed themselves occasionally, but Smith—the company sniper—was on them and had fired at least one successful shot at a Kraut.

Coley moved among his men, reassuring them that he was doing everything he could to get support for them. The twenty men of the 99th Infantry had now been dug in for over six hours, and faced several waves of advancing soldiers.

“What do you think they’re planning?” Tramble asked for the third time.

“I don’t know, and I don’t like it. If I was in charge down there, I’d have men moving in for flanking attacks. I’d also have a tank ready. If they had a Panzer down there they’d have killed us a long time ago.”

“Makes you wonder what the Germans are up to, if they’re attacking without armor support,” Tramble said. “It don’t seem normal.”

Tramble cupped his cigarette to keep the glow hidden from any German snipers. Coley wasn’t the only one with a sharpshooter on hand. The Germans had taken a few potshots from extended range during the day. The perfect place would have been the location his two men had occupied to keep tabs on the situation while the Germans were still arriving.

When the pair had made it back to the emplacement they’d reported running into a Kraut patrol and getting off a few lucky shots before hightailing it back to this defensive position.

“Get a load of this,” Tramble said, and stubbed out his cigarette in the snow.

One of the Germans was approaching the fence with a white flag in hand.

“Hold your fire, men. They probably want to tend to their wounded,” Coley called out.

“What wounded? We killed every Jerry that came up the hill,” Private Owen yelled back.

The man walked up to the fence with his flag held high. Coley didn’t stand up, but yelled to him that they could tend to their wounded.

A half-dozen medics moved out from behind buildings and approached the battlefield.

During the last assault, some of the German soldiers had made it over the barbed wire fence and closed to within thirty yards of Coley’s position before being mowed down. The man who had approached the fence picked his way over the barbed wire gingerly, and moved to a wounded man. He leaned over and checked on the soldier, then helped him down the hill.

“Guess we missed one. Guy was good at playing dead,” Tramble muttered.

Other medics crossed the deadly barricade and tended to fallen comrades.

The man with the white flag moved to within twenty-five yards and got on all fours, looking over a man who’d been shot—or so Coley had thought—through the chest. The German had slumped over and not moved again.

The medic bent over, then got down in the snow and peeled the jacket back from the wounded soldier’s chest. He leaned close, and listened to the injured man.

“I don’t like this, sir,” Tramble said, and moved his aim to cover the medic.

“Hold on. He’s playing by the rules so far,” Coley said.

A pair of artillery shells fell behind the company’s dug in position and exploded, throwing snow and earth into the air.

“Son of a bitch. He’s got a radio,” Tramble said. “I saw it when he turned. He’s calling in our position.”

“Hey, hey!” Coley called to the German. “You using a radio?”

He felt stupid for doing it. For all he knew, the man couldn’t speak a lick of English.

The man continued helping the fallen German soldier and ignored Coley’s calls. When the medic shifted to the side, Coley got a look at a Luger in the Kraut’s jacket.

“Oh shit. You’re right,” Coley said.

Tramble aimed, but before he could fire and drop the man, screams came from the direction of the village.

“What in the hell?” Coley said.

A new force of Germans came out of the tree line near the village. They were dressed in a mixture of white and regular Infantry camouflage, but carried little weaponry.

They didn’t walk in columns, and they didn’t show any sign of military training. They moved at a fast clip, but when they spotted their comrades, some of them broke into a run.

The Nazi who’d been pretending to be a medic shook his head, rose, and ran back toward the fence, gesturing for the others to join him.

“I’m gonna shoot that son of a bitch,” Tramble said.

“Hold your fire. The mortars stopped falling. I don’t know what kind of new shitshow is going on down there, but something doesn’t seem right.”

“Ain’t nothing right since we woke up this morning, Lieutenant.”

Coley would remember those words for a long time.

TWELVE

BEHR

They’d been moving toward a small village. His men had trudged through the snow in a rough formation. Jurgen Omert had fallen behind, at some point. The soldier had taken to nibbling at his fingers until they were bloody.

Behr had seen many of his comrades lose a little bit of themselves in the fights. He’d watched men huddle in balls and weep for their mothers. He’d seen brave men crying in pain and anger while wallowing in their own piss, but he’d never seen anything like what was happening to his company.

Behr should have yelled at the man to get off his ass and fight, but he didn’t care anymore.

Something had happened an hour ago. Something he didn’t want to think about.

On some level, he was still Sergeant Behr. He was still the man who’d survived the assault at Normandy and fought with his men at Saint-Lô before being driven back. He’d been fighting in this damn war for three years. He’d been shot, stabbed, suffered from trench foot for six months, but he’d always been back on his feet and ready to lay down his life for the Führer and the Fatherland. Speaking of defeatism or becoming a deserter was the quickest way to a firing line.

But now, there was something wrong. It was like the old Behr was back there screaming in rage, as if something bad was happening to his own mind and body. But he’d never felt better. He’d never felt this alive.

His hands were covered in blood. His chin was sticky with it. He’d been like an animal when he’d leapt onto the halftrack. He’d seen battle rage many times, but he’d never succumbed to it before today.

Something moved ahead. A lot of somethings.

Behr’s lips drew back. He reached up and loosened something stuck between his teeth. The little glob of skin he pulled away was tossed on the ground, staining the snow pink. Behr shook his head, and then spit more blood.

A house was surrounded by men in white and brown. One of the figures gestured at Behr and his men. Karl Ude had been carrying an MG-42 machine gun on his shoulder, but had shrugged it off and left it in the snow a few minutes ago.

Ude snarled at the force and advanced.

The other men joined him, moving into the open.

A gunshot sounded, and one of the men fell.

The rest ignored their fallen brother and broke into a run.

More gunshots shattered the afternoon.

A second company brought up Behr’s right flank, running toward the house and the group gathered next to it. The figures let out little cheers, like they’d been expecting friends.

A man who’d been shot twice in the chest an hour ago struggled to his feet and ran toward the shooters.

When Behr reached the location, he was too late. The slaughter was already underway, but that was okay, because a group of men dressed in white and camouflage were hiding behind another building.

In the distance, another group moved over a hill. Many bodies were piled up next to a barbed wire fence.

Behr’s mouth opened, and he snarled for blood.

THIRTEEN

GRILLO

A round exploded to Grillo’s left, tossing him to the hard ground. He splayed his fingers and ended up scraping his palms in the process. Something burned on his side, but he ignored the pain and scrambled to his feet.

Crouching next to him, Fahey grabbed Grillo’s arm and lifted him off the ground, urging him on.

“Back to the line, find a hole and keep your damn head down!” Fahey yelled.

Grillo didn’t have to be told twice. He stayed low and dashed beneath tree branches. Another mortar round exploded overhead, showering him with bark and wood. A piece of it dinged off his helmet, making his head ring.

Fahey dove behind a tree that had a couple of large exposed roots and made himself small. Grillo landed next to him and sucked in a breath, thankful to be alive.

“Stay down. Stay down!” Sarge yelled.

Grillo got a glimpse of the man, standing as if he were unafraid of anything like exploding mortar shells, shouting at his men to get their goddamn heads down.

The explosions continued, but they marched away from the company’s position and back into the woods in the direction the white shapes had come from. Fahey must have noticed the weird placement of shots and got the message, because he grabbed Grillo’s sleeve again and pulled.

Shaken, and terrified that at any second one of the mortar shells was going to land on top of him and turn his body inside out, Grillo struggled back into a crouching position and ran. He kept one hand on his helmet, securing it to his head, and the other around the body of his M1.

The pair reached the line and dove behind a felled log.

The explosions continued, but they were now fading into the near distance.

“Christ! Damn Krauts are shelling their own guys,” Fahey said as he poked his head above the lip of the crater they’d converted into a foxhole.

Grillo popped his own head up just in time to catch a man dressed in white taking a shell right next to his feet. What was left wouldn’t be fit to ship home in a box. An arm and a leg flew in opposite directions, and the bloody remains of the torso struck a tree.

The German soldiers continued their advance on the Americans’ location. They bore weapons in limp hands, and their heads were bent forward, almost as if in prayer. Another round landed between two men and they flew apart.

A pair of Airborne popped up and started laying down fire. Bullets flew as they emptied their M1s. On the MG42, Miller got the gun into position and poured hell on the approaching Wehrmacht.

Grillo reloaded his M1 and chambered a round. He got up in a kneeling position and pressed the stock to his shoulder. He sighted and shot a man in the chest. The guy stumbled back, but shook it off and came on. The Kraut next to him lowered a machine gun and sprayed bullets all over the damn place, making the men of Baker duck.

Grillo shifted his aim up and fired again, catching the soldier in the neck. Another round went wide.

The German flew off his feet and landed in a puff of snow and blood.

Fahey shot at the Wehrmacht from Grillo’s left. Round after round leapt out, until he was forced to reload.

“Shit, I’m out of ammo,” Fahey said.

“I got a few rounds left,” Grillo responded.

“Find Sarge and get us a couple of clips. He must have a stash.”

Grillo nodded but didn’t say what he wanted to: that he wasn’t exactly excited about running out in the open. But he was green, and it wasn’t worth arguing over. Sure, he’d like to tell Fahey to go get his own damn ammo, but Grillo didn’t.

He rose to his feet and gasped as his side burned. Something had struck him while he and Fahey had dashed to their new location.

“Gonna find doc while I’m up. Think I got shot,” Grillo said, and lurched up and out of the foxhole.

Fahey grabbed for him and caught the end of his thin jacket. “Where you hit? Is it bad?”

“Across my side, but it don’t hurt much. Maybe just a scratch,” Grillo said. He shook loose of Fahey and ran.

He was in open territory, and waited for bullets to either whiz by or find his flesh. To his relief, none of the approaching Germans shot him.

He ran in a zigzag pattern anyway, just in case there was a sniper out there waiting to take him out. He hit an exposed tree branch at an angle, and used the momentum to push himself off and speed into another quick turn, like he was playing football back home. Only when he played ball at home, no one shot at him.

He ran into the path of Parker and Jones’ foxhole and almost got shot by friendly fire.

“Hey, watch it, rook. That’s a sure way to get your head shot off,” Parker called.

Grillo waved, but didn’t stop to offer an excuse.

A German machine gun opened up and pelted the area with lead.

Sergeant Pierce grabbed Grillo as soon as he got close, and tugged him to the ground. Together they rolled into the Sarge’s foxhole.

“What the hell are you doing up, Private?” Sarge bellowed.

Pierce was a big guy and had a deep voice to match. He often shouted at the men of Baker Company, and offered to kick the ass of anyone tried to go against an order. But he was also a softy, and the other men spoke about him with some affection.

He was from Missouri, and had a pair of baby girls back home. He said he’d do anything for them, including going overseas to fight a damn war. Said they were the apple of his eye and he missed them every day.

Grillo had tried to picture the big man sitting on the floor playing with his kids instead of crouching behind a tree and shooting Germans with his Thompson, but the image didn’t resolve in his head.

“Me and Fahey are almost out of ammo. Got any more, Sarge?”

“Happens I do. How come you guys are out already? Assault’s just started.”

A pair of mortar rounds landed in the distance. Grillo ducked his head and pressed his helmet onto his head. Sarge scanned the area of impact and grunted.

“We’re all short, Sarge, on account of getting called out here. We were supposed to get resupplied in Bastogne.”

“Just giving you a ration of shit,” Pierce said with a half grin. “We’re all low on ammo and we can’t do much about it. Say, you notice the Krauts are shelling their own guys?”

“I noticed something else,” Grillo said.

“That Fahey is a chickenshit and makes you run around looking for more rounds?”

Grillo gulped back a chuckle.

“The Krauts are acting weird. They ain’t all firing on us, Sarge, and the ones that do shoot can’t hit a broad side of a barn.”

“Probably in worse shape than us, so the Führer sent his guys out to kill us with knives in the night. We’ll send them to hell in no time,” Pierce said.

“Okay, Sarge.”

“Foul-ups happen. Could be the Germans are in the wrong location, so they’re falling under their own fire. Good for us, bad for them.”

A mortar shell landed dangerously close and showered them both with debris. Grillo dropped to the ground and pressed his back against the foxhole.

“Bad for us too,” Grillo muttered to himself.

Another round landed farther away than the last one, but he didn’t let his guard up. Most of the guys he’d met ducked, prayed, and waited out the shelling.

Grillo had tried that the the first few times, but he’d been so scared he’d thought he’d have to melt snow in an ammo can to wash his one and only pair of skivvies. Most of the veterans were cool under pressure and went about the task of killing Germans like they were going to the dentist to get a tooth pulled. They didn’t want to do it, but duty called.

Grillo, on the other hand, had trouble finding his courage and resolve. He’d wept on the ground silently, the first time, curling up in a ball and whispering his mother’s name over and over until it stopped.

He was still scared to death, but it was getting easier to put on a brave face and pretend like he was one of the guys.

“Sir. About that ammo?”

“Right. Run about twenty feet northeast. Hunter’s got a backpack full of bullets. You grab a couple of boxes and hightail it back to Fahey. You boys stay low. Keep track of your rounds, because the company is low. Not just you two, but everyone. I don’t know when we’re going to get resupplied.”

“Got it, Sarge,” Grillo said. “Where’s Doc? I think I got hit.”

“The hell didn’t you say so? Where’s the wound?” Pierce said.

“Across my side. I haven’t looked at it yet,” Grillo panted. “Do you see blood, Sarge? I read that some guys get their blood pumping and don’t even know they been shot until they drop dead. I don’t want to drop dead.”

“Lemme see,” the Sergeant said.

Grillo worked at the buttons on his jacket for a few seconds, fingers cold and unforgiving. It felt like he was using cold sausage to manipulate his clothing. Sarge helped, then peeled the sides apart. He whistled.

Grillo looked down and found blood. That’s when the pain hit.

It was like razor blades across his rib cage. He gasped, then lifted his shirt farther, expecting to see worse. He couldn’t take in the entire wound, though, because his clothing blocked his view.

“Oh Christ, I got it good,” Grillo said.

Sarge leaned over, poking at Grillo’s ribcage, then sat back up.

“Lucky son of a bitch. It’s a scratch, but it’s a deep one. Probably shrapnel from one of those shells. Get Doc to put some sulfa on it. Know where he is?”

“I think so,” Grillo said.

“Ah, hell,” Sarge said. He lifted his head and yelled “Medic!”

“What kinda scratch, Sarge? Did it go through my skin? Is it deep?”

“It’s not that bad. Just pipe down while I get some help.”

“Christ, Sarge, what if it’s real bad?”

Sarge sat down and looked Grillo in the eye. “I play straight, okay? You’re a rookie out here and the guys razz you and that’s okay. You’ll get to do the same some day. I don’t play around when it comes to matters of you facing a life-threatening wound. Just calm down while we get you attended to. The city of Bastogne isn’t far. They got an aid station, so we’ll get you taken care of.”

“Okay, Sarge. Just scared, you know?”

“I know, kid. We’re all fucking scared. Keep your wits and keep shooting back when you can.”

Sarge bellowed for the medic again.

Grillo touched the wound, and recoiled as more pain raced up his side. Was it the kind of injury that would get him sent stateside? He couldn’t be wounded and sent home now. He’d just gotten here.

His father had fought in the Great War. He would be disappointed if his son came home wounded before he’d completed his tour. Christ, his father would probably be furious. The old man was taller than Grillo and broader of shoulder. He was old as dirt, but he could swing a fist when the mood struck. The mood had indeed struck, until Grillo was sixteen and almost as big as his father.

The old man had been a mean drunk, but when he was sober, he was mostly kind and loving. Grillo would give just about anything to go back to that time right now. He’d be a good kid and make his parents proud, instead of running off with his friends to sneak booze and cigarettes.

He’d tried to join the Army when hostilities were well underway in Europe, but he’d been too young to enlist. Now he felt too old to be in this cursed forest.

That was the problem with the war effort: it was so easy for kids to get their blood up and want to go off and fight the Japs or Krauts. The reality was that this was life on the front: hiding in foxholes and shooting at people who wanted to kill you. He was under no illusions that a bullet couldn’t find him at any time; hell, one had found him already, if the wound on his side was any indication.

Just a sound of a gunshot and then searing pain.

The next bullet might find his chest or skull.

Grillo hunkered down and waited for the doctor to arrive, and prayed he wouldn’t bleed out before then.

FOURTEEN

TAYLOR

Captain Taylor drove the jeep through the woods at a fair clip. His companions—Cooper in the front and Wayne in the rear—kept watch, as well as whooped every time their Captain swerved around a tree or bounced over a hole in the ground. The fog had settled in as the morning wore on, and showed no sign of letting up. That meant that air cover wasn’t going to appear anytime soon.

Corporal Kranz should have been driving him but Taylor didn’t mind. Tearing around in his Jeep was one of the few joys of this war, that was, when someone wasn’t shooting at him and the vehicle. So he left his orderly behind to enjoy some hot chow.

The jeep was meant for this kind of terrain, but the weather had played foul with the engine, forcing them to take a few precious minutes to warm her up. Taylor called her Betsy, and had even painted the name on the side himself. One of the men had asked him what the name meant, but he’d kept his secret close.

She was named after his mother-in-law, a battleship of a broad who never really warmed to him. However, she’d taken care of he and his wife one summer, while he’d been out of work following college. She’d been tough but fair, and her fiery temper had done nothing but urge him on even harder to find a job.

Betsy strove around obstacle after obstacle. Taylor passed a line of men returning to the aid station, guns over shoulders, bandages around heads, arms, and legs. Some of the men saluted him and he nodded back, refusing to take his hands off the steering wheel for fear of the old bitch guiding him into a tree.

Taylor asked for a cigarette, and Wayne complied by placing it in his mouth and lighting it while the Captain kept his eyes glued to the rough terrain.

The air bit at his cheeks and forehead. Exposed to the chill, his nose had gone numb the minute he’d stepped out of his tent.

“Here, sir. We displaced during the night. Take a left and go slow. Some of the boys were a little trigger happy with a few mines.”

“Mines behind our line? What idiot did that?”

“Uh, that was us, sir. We were almost overrun, but managed to repel a counterattack. Lost Johnson to a burp gun. He took a round in the leg and it didn’t look too bad. Poor fella bled out in a few minutes. Anyway, sir, we thought we were goners, so we set a few traps.”

“If we run over a mine and my Betsy is destroyed, I’m going to be a very unhappy man,” Taylor said. Not to mention a dead one.

“Slow here, sir. See that big oak? The one with the sign on it? Go around.”

The sign had Mickey Mouse pointing a middle finger at a German swastika painted on a pair of old boards.

Taylor grinned and complied.

A minute later and they were at Charlie Company’s position.

Taylor hopped out of the jeep and grabbed his Thompson, then followed Wayne and Taylor. A couple of bullets shattered the still, but they didn’t land anywhere near the men. Taylor pointed his gun in the direction the shots had come from, but no targets presented itself.

Charlie Company had arrayed themselves in the snow and dug up what they could of sugar holes. A pair of men at a forward position pointed M1s at the forest and banged off a few rounds.

“Captain Taylor, damn glad to see you. Where are the reinforcements?” Sergeant Metz asked. “I heard Baker got some rooks.”

The man didn’t look like he’d had a wink of sleep in days. His eyes were red and the lines on his young face betrayed the look of a man aged by the war.

He’d managed to secure a thick coat and had placed his own Army-issued jacket over the top. The villagers in Bastogne had been kind enough to send along as many jackets as they could muster up. There weren’t enough to go around, so the Sergeant had probably traded something to get his.

“They got one new guy, and I’m not sure when the rest of the replacements will be along. Germans caught us with our damn pants down. We’ve got Panzers all along the front line, and infantry advancing on our position,” Taylor said.

He tossed his cigarette and ground the butt into the snow with his boot.

The two men ducked when more fire erupted from the front line. Wayne and Cooper picked that moment to get back in the action and ran toward the shooting.

“Thing about Airborne, they go looking for trouble,” Captain Taylor said, nodded at the company’s Sergeant.

“Wouldn’t know it, but those two argue like brothers. One time Wayne said something about Jake LaMotta that Cooper didn’t like. You’d have though they were insulting each other’s mothers. Had to pull ‘em apart.”

More rounds kicked up dirt and snow, forcing the two men to drop low.

“What’s this about a weird German?”

“Oh. That shell-shocked Kraut? He tried to attack one of the guys guarding him and got shot. Sorry about that, I know we’re supposed to take prisoners and all. Thing is, Captain, word’s been spreading about…”

“I know what’s been spreading. Guess the talk is all about Malmade?”

“So it’s true?” the Sergeant asked.

“It is. Sad to say. I should tell you, officially, that we treat prisoners the same way we’ve always treated them.”

“I can say those words, but the boys are already talking about killing every SS they come across,” the Sergeant said. “They massacred our boys. Lined them up in the goddamn snow and shot them down. That deserves payback.”

Captain Taylor tried to think of an argument.

“So the Kraut with white eyes, do I need to take a look, Sergeant, or are we done here?”

“That Kraut’s dead. Thought he was gone the first time, but then he got up and attacked Hansen. Bit him. Weirdest thing I’ve seen.”

“War’ll make you crazy,” Captain Taylor said. “Is Hansen alright?”

“I think so. He said it wasn’t bad. He took some shrapnel at Normandy and shook it off. I guess a little bite ain’t gonna kill him. He’s huddled up in one of the foxholes if you want to talk to him” the Sergeant said. “Oh, sir, before you go. I’m sure things are bleak, but we sure could use some ammo and bandages.”

Captain Taylor ducked as another mortar sailed through the air but overshot their position. It wouldn’t take long for the Germans to zero in on them though. The round exploded fifty feet behind them, dangerously close to Betsy.

“I’m sure Hansen’s fine,” Taylor said. “I’ve issued orders to resupply ASAP. We didn’t expect to be back in the fight so fast, Sergeant. Have your men make every round count.”

He felt around his belt and handed the man an extra magazine for his Thompson.

“Thank you, sir.” The Sergeant nodded in way of a salute. No point in giving any potential snipers a target if he could help it.

Captain Taylor counted to three, then leapt out of the foxhole and made for the jeep.

Krauts executing soldiers and now biting his men. What in the hell was this war coming to? Malmade was going to be a sore on every soldier’s mind before much longer.

FIFTEEN

GRAVES

Gabe “Gabby” Woodward pounded up the road until he came across two Privates trying to dig a hole in the hard ground. He dropped beside the pair.

“What’s the problem?”

“Damn dirt’s hard as a rock. The mine was sticking out. We got the fuses set already.”

“These are armed?” Woodward asked.

“Yeah, I got them armed while Pyle here was digging.”

“Try a different spot.”

“Tried that, but it’s just as hard.”

“Christ, gimme a shovel,” Woodward said. “Make a forty-five degree line so a tank runs over one for sure. Even if they get moving again, they might hit another one. If they’re in a straight line, chances are they get missed completely.”

He pointed out the spots he had in mind and the men complied. He dug in earnest, feeling like every second had him under a gun sight. If the Germans arrived and he wasn’t back in the tank, they’d have a hell of a time without him.

The three men worked at different spots, trying to dig into the hard dirt. The ground wasn’t just hard; it was rocky. They’d fought over mud and snow, but this part of the road was higher than the land around it, and hadn’t been soaked through.

“They’re coming,” one of the guys said. He couldn’t have been eighteen, looked like a damn kid. Woodward had run into a few guys who’d fibbed on their applications and got into the armed forces. Glory of war was high back in the states. He knew this all too well; it was why he’d joined up.

“You sure about those fuses? Got the pressure plates off and them set?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Woodward hoped they were right, but didn’t have time to take the damn mines apart. He maneuvered his into place and grimaced at how it stuck out an inch.

The ground rumbled underneath him.

“We need to move. Cover them as best you can and get back with your units,” he called to the men.

He pushed earth and rocks on top of the mine he was working on, then stood up to survey his work. He wasn’t fooled for a second. If one of the Krauts were paying attention, he’d see the mounds and avoid them.

The creaking of metal and the squeal of wheels against track told him he was out of time. The men had already disappeared into the woods, and that left him standing in the middle of a road alone, facing a tank company.

Woodward said a short prayer, crossed himself, then ran back to the tank.

As he waded into the woods and bushes, he thought he saw something. Between a pair of large pines, someone had been moving. No, not someone: a lot of someones. He ducked and waited, sticking close to a tree.

The figures moved just fifty yards away. He squinted. The men were dressed in white, and clearly weren’t Allies. But the force was odd, somehow. They didn’t advance through the woods the way they would if they were hunting enemies.

They ran, paused, dropped to the ground and sniffed, and then ran some more. They carried weapons and gear, but none of the men had rifles raised.

“Like a pack of damn dogs,” Woodward whispered to himself.

Then the force faded into the woods and was out of sight.

SIXTEEN

GRAVES

“Silence, I want complete silence.” Graves shouldn’t even have had to say it, but he wanted to be sure they were as quiet as a cemetery when the Germans arrived.

The radio clicked next to his ear.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“Got reports of four Panzers and some infantry headed our way. Should run into our little surprise in about three minutes,” Bucky reported from the Sherman next to theirs.

“Guess it’s time to get back in the war,” Graves said, and hung up.

Woodward clambered up the side of the tank and slithered back inside.

“Mission accomplished,” he said. “Saw some Krauts in the woods just now, but they moved away from us.”

“Wehrmacht?”

“Yeah, but they were crazy. Running around like wolves looking for something to eat,” Woodward said.

“Did you step out for a nip?” Big Texas asked.

“No I didn’t have a drink, dummy. I saw what I saw.”

“Stick to the mission. If those wolves become a problem we’ll deal with them.”

They waited in silence. Graves counted in his head while he watched the second hand on his beat up Timex. It ticked away like an inevitable timer counting down their doom.

One Kraut paying extra attention to this area, and it would all be over. The Panzers would make short work of the little force. The infantry guys would have a chance, because they could fade into the forest. The tanks wouldn’t be so lucky. They’d try to perform a retreating action but they’d likely end up on fire. How Murph and his crew had lasted this long was a mystery even to him. A Sherman up against a Panzer was a death wish.

The rumble of the German military machine filled the morning air. It shook the ground, and consequently the Sherman that was glued in place.

“Here they come,” Bucky’s voice came over the radio.

“Roger. As soon as they pass, we fire.”

“Roger. I’ll give the signal,” Bucky said.

“Fine. Standing by.”

The men waited as the intensity of the shaking continued. Graves had a couple of captured SS’ medals stuck to the side of the tank. They shook against the side of the thick metal, and the picture of Betty Boop he kissed on a regular occasion fell off. Graves reached down to pick it up.

“What’s your wife going to say about Betty?” Gabby asked.

“She’s never going to find out about my other girl,” Graves said.

The rumble of tanks came to a dull roar, then suddenly died down.

Graves scanned the area with his scope, swiveling left and right, but the road was still clear.

“See anything?” Bucky said over the radio.

“Negative. Maybe they got off the road?”

“Shit. This damn weather isn’t doing us any favors.”

“Stay sharp,” Graves said, and clicked off.

They waited in silence until Big Texas said, “I gotta take a leak.”

“Hold it,” Graves said, and continued to scan the area.

“Not sure I can.”

“Use a damn ammo tin like the rest of us,” Gabby said.

“Can’t pee while someone’s watching.”

Graves rolled his eyes. He leaned over and pressed his ear to the side of the tank. The tanks were still out there, judging by the dull rumble in the distance. Then the noise grew again.

“Here they come,” Bucky said over the radio.

“Roger,” Graves said.

“Gonna piss myself,” Big Texas said but stuck to his gunner station like glue.

As the noise of the approaching Panzers grew, Murphy closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.

SEVENTEEN

GRILLO

Doc leapt into the hole and kept his head down. “I was catching up on my sleep, Sergeant. What’s wrong?”

“Check out Grillo, here. Got stitched by some Kraut shrapnel,” Sergeant Pierce said, nodding at Franklin.

“Got me right here.” Grillo lifted his jacket and showed the wound. “But I don’t think it’s too bad, Doc.”

He lifted the side of his jacket and tugged his shirt up. The cold hit him immediately and made him shake, even though he felt like he was already frozen to the core.

Doc leaned over and did an inspection. Then he ripped open a bandage and shook it out.

“You don’t think it’s too bad? You suddenly a medical professional? Lay on your other side and hold this. Don’t let it touch the ground,” Doc said.

Grillo complied, and Doc took out a pack of sulfa and shook it over the wound. He wiped away a trickle of blood and looked closer.

“No sir,” Grillo said. “I’m not a medical professional. I just don’t want to die out here. Figure if I stay right with the Lord and keep my wits, I’ll make it.”

“Damn good advice, son. Now, I’ll tell you what’s what. It’s just a cut—a deep cut, but a cut just the same. You’re dammed lucky kid. Or maybe not so lucky. Any deeper and I’d have to send you back to the aid station. Always a chance you’d get sent home.”

“But I just got here,” Grillo said.

Doc winced and looked away.

Gunshots echoed up and down the line, including a German burp gun. The three men crammed into the sugar hole flinched and kissed the dirt.

Another explosion nearby shattered a tree and tossed the trunk to the ground. Shards of wood struck their position.

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.”

“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.

“Should we start shooting them, sir?”

“Everyone pipe down. Let them sort out their differences, and we’ll figure out what to do with the survivors,” Coley said.

THE MEN TOOK turns standing up and stretching their legs. With no shots coming their way for the last half hour, they must have figured it was safe to smoke ’em if they got ’em.

Coley had been told by command that he was seeing things when he’d reported the Nazi force. Those words echoed in his head.

A group of Germans must have spotted the men on the hill. They made for the road with little military precision, moving in a tight mass instead.

Others took notice and followed. Around them, Germans continued to fight Germans.

“Get ready,” Coley said, and ducked down to retrieve his carbine.

“The machine gun’s busted,” Tramble said.

Coley took a look at the barrel and found it had bowed up.

“Told you to take measured bursts,” Coley admonished.

“Didn’t have time. Too many of them,” Tramble said.

Soon the mass was joined by more, until at least two hundred blood-splattered men had set eyes on Coley’s position. Someone fired and dropped one of the Germans, but the bastard staggered back to his feet and came on.

The Germans reached the fence, and the shooting started in earnest.

TWENTY

GRILLO

The bullets stopped flying. Grillo and the Sergeant rolled into a hole that was already occupied by specialist Robinson.

Nat had been more or less friendly with Grillo when he’d arrived with his pre-combat swagger intact. He’d told Grillo to stop looking so damn cocky, because the Germans could sense new guys. Thanks to seeing action right away, the hazing hadn’t been all that bad.

Nat Robinson didn’t look so good now. He clutched his belly, and even through his combat jacket, Grillo saw a lot of blood.

“Medic!” he screamed.

Sarge leaned over Robinson and tried to look at the wound.

“It’s bad, Sarge. I got hit bad,” Robinson said.

“Can you move? We’re heading for the Alamo,” Sergeant Pierce said.

“I can move. Gotta help me though, Sarge.”

Pierce got his arm under Robinson and struggled to get the man on his feet.

“Here they come,” Grillo said.

The Krauts advanced on their location. A handful of them had broken from the trees, and came at their location. They carried guns, but thankfully weren’t shooting yet. To Grillo, it seemed like the Krauts were running away from their own army.

“Grab my Thompson and shoot them. Keep us covered while I get Robinson out of this hole. Then we’re running again. Got it?”

“Got it,” Grillo said.

He picked up the sub-machine gun. Pierce handed him a pair of magazines and then, together, the three of them struggled toward the Alamo.

Bullets sprayed out of the trees as the Germans advanced. A burp gun sounded from somewhere to the east. Grillo wanted to bury himself in this damn foxhole and wait out the rest of winter like a bear. Just let the Germans do their thing, let them take this ground. He’d come up in the spring ready to fight. The thought brought a hysterical smile to his face.

A BAR opened up and a couple of Germans dropped, but that only urged the others on. Grillo tucked the stock of the machine gun next to his ribs—thankfully not on the side where he’d been wounded—and fired at the mass.

Sergeant Pierce moved, Robinson helping the man to the rear line.

“Come on Sarge, we got ya covered,” one of the men in the company yelled, and backed up his words by shooting a German soldier in the chest. The man dropped, but then struggled to his feet again.

“These guys wearing some kind of armor or something? Second one I zeroed in on who got right back up,” the guy said.

There were more white suits in the trees. Many more. They wove between trees and over stumps and mortar holes. They carried gear that included potato mashers, rifles and pistols.

A pair of soldiers joined Grillo and Pierce to help cover the retreat. Grillo fired until his weapon ran empty and he hastily reloaded. He kept moving. It was only later that he thought to ask the same question that had been troubling him earlier.

“Why aren’t the new fellas shooting back?”

“Shit if I know. Maybe they ran out of ammunition,” Sarge said, and urged the men on.

SERGEANT PIERCE EXPECTED a bullet to punch into him at any second. He’d grown used to the feeling of always being in someone’s sights, but it was not a pleasant feeling. As a Private first class, he’d fought at Normandy and advanced quickly through the ranks, thanks in large part to his ability to be lucky and not get shot.

He’d led an assault on a pill box that had decimated his squad, and managed to toss a grenade into the portal, eliminating the threat. That night he’d slept in the same spot, and tried to ignore the bloodstains on the wall and the smell of death and burned off explosives.

Now he was stuck in the Ardennes forest with just over five hundred other men, and he’d been asked to delay the Krauts for as long as possible. He was afraid that would only be a few hours at best.

Lines collapsed all around him, and he feared that he’d be surrounded, so with too many casualties, he’d made the hard decision to withdraw and regroup. Captain Taylor would understand. The man trusted his company commanders to make calls like this.

Something punched Pierce in the leg and made him stumble. He recovered and kept going, even though inside he was screaming that he needed to get to cover. He spun and fired again, then stumbled on his bad leg. Robinson hung around his neck and didn’t let go.

“You hit Sarge?” Robinson asked.

“You worry about you. Keep your hand on that wound and I’ll get us out of here.” Pierce replied.

Something was wrong—very wrong.

His limb wasn’t responding the way it should, but he didn’t have time to inspect the wound. Just press on, keep going, shoot back, and for god’s sake, don’t stop running and don’t let go of Robinson.

They were everywhere!

White and black clothed figures swarmed out of the woods and came at them. A BAR fired to his left and dropped some of the Krauts, but was quickly silenced.

Then it boomed again, from a new location.

The Germans weren’t even firing. They were just coming en masse.

TWENTY-ONE

TAYLOR

Captain Taylor whipped the jeep around a bend in the road, and settled onto something that passed as a comfortable ride over the potholes, ice and snow. Betsy wasn’t much to look at, but she kept all four wheels on the road when he called for it. The fog hadn’t let up; it seemed to be increasing. He had to slow down to pick out landmarks and signs.

He’d asked Wayne to accompany him to his next visit, and was glad for the company. Wayne had an easy way about him, but smoked cigarette after cigarette.

The back of the jeep was loaded with a few boxes of ammo and Krations. Taylor had made a stop at a supply depot and used his rank to bully some goods for his companies. The officer had been a pain in the ass, but Taylor had been just as much of a pain. After a near-shouting match, the man had handed over a few crates like he was taking money out of his own pocket.

“How many of our guys bought it at Malmade, sir?” Wayne asked.

The wind whistled cold and bitter over the front of the jeep.

“I don’t know, but one is too many,” Captain Taylor replied.

Wayne shifted in his seat and went over his Thompson again. He’d checked his magazines several times now. It seemed to be a nervous habit. Maybe he expected them to run into a German battalion, and wanted to take it on by himself.

“Way I see it sir, we can’t kill enough of them. They broke the rules. We break the rules.”

Taylor sighed, because this was how the rest of the battalions were going to see things before much longer.

“You married, Wayne?” Taylor asked, trying to change the subject.

“No sir, but I got a sweetheart back home. Her name’s Macy and she’s cute as a button. Got a letter from her the other day. She said that we should get married when she gets back. Kinda forward of her, but I’m all for it. How about you, sir?”

“Married, kids, the works. Miss them like crazy.”

“They been saying the war’s going to be over any day now, but it don’t seem like it. Been saying that since I got here. Now Hitler’s marching right back into Belgium. What’s it going to take to get this guy to give up?”

“His painful death, I’d imagine,” Taylor said wistfully. Drop the 101st right into Berlin after flattening it with bombs. That’d take care of things fast… or get them all killed.

Taylor slid the jeep to a halt. There was gunfire in the distance.

He was still a few hundred yards out, and while not impassable, the road was about to become a big problem. Trees had fallen over it, creating a natural roadblock, and the snow was piling up quickly.

More shots, followed by mortars making impact.

“This is the place. I’ll try to get us closer. You keep an eye out, and if you see Krauts, call them. We can’t afford to let these supplies fall into the wrong hands.”

“You got it, Captain. I’ll shoot anyone that looks at us cross,” Wayne assured him.

They poked through the woods, following the remains of a trail that had been here long before the Allies had arrived. More rounds exploded in the near distance. A bullet whizzed by, but it was too high to judge if anyone was actually shooting at them or if it was just an errant round.

“Christ. That was close,” Wayne said.

“We’re almost there,” Captain Taylor assured the man.

They rounded a small hill that was covered in branches and a dusting of snow. Trees hung over this area, making the fog even harder to navigate. Taylor had to slow to a crawl or risk ramming into a tree.

A pair of men came into view. One had an arm draped over the other. Behind them, a few GIs fell back but covered the pair.

“Shit, we’re here,” Taylor said.

He snatched up his own Thompson sub-machine gun and dropped out of the jeep.

The injured man was Sergeant Pierce, a tough but fair soldier that Taylor had very little time with. The Sergeant was at home with leading his men into dangerous situations, and had become Taylor’s go-to when a special mission needed to be performed.

He’d had to disperse his men along a thinly-stretched line, and this was one of the points they’d expected resistance to come from.

True to form, the man was strutting out of the woods, wounded. He still managed to shout orders, even though he was plainly in a lot of pain.

“Wayne, see if you can help. I’ll check on the Sergeant.”

“No problem, sir,” Wayne said, like he was spitting stones.

Captain Taylor moved to Pierce’s side and got the man’s other arm over his shoulder.

“How many?”

“Not sure, sir, but they’re in force. Came out of the mist like demons. We dropped a few, but they hit us hard. Some of the damn Krauts are acting weird. Like they’re running away from their own army. We got ’em caught between us and their own guys. Maybe they’re out of ammo and want to engage in hand-to-hand. Problem is, we got guns.”

“Looks like they’re shooting back,” Taylor said.

“They are, sir, some of them. Others are just running at our lines. Damned if I understand it. Saw two Krauts take bullets to the chest, get back up, and keep on coming,” Pierce said.

“Where are you hit?”

“Leg, sir. Below the knee. I don’t think it’s too bad.”

“Got a jeep here, I’ll take you back to an aid station.

Wayne dropped behind a stump and opened fire. He emptied a magazine in slow, measured spurts, then reloaded.

Bullets whizzed around the men as Taylor got Pierce to the jeep. The kid who had been assisting Pierce helped move boxes of ammo around.

“Some of that’s for the company. Do you have time to distribute?”

From the front line came the screams of men, and more small arms fire. The mortars had fallen silent, but that didn’t mean they were done falling on this location. Captain Taylor lowered himself next to the jeep and peered over the hood. Steam rose into the morning air where hints of snow fell on the metal.

What had been a small assault was turning into something larger. Figures moved in the mist—a lot of figures.

An American machine gun squad got situated at his three o’clock and started hammering the oncoming German forces.

A mortar round landed twenty feet from the jeep and threw a man into the air. Another landed fifty feet away and shattered a tree. Pieces of wood flew at high velocity and caused more screams from his men.

Taylor dropped next to the jeep and broke out his map.

“What’s your name, Private?”

“I’m Grillo, sir. Just got here a few days ago,” the guy called back.

Private Grillo didn’t cower like some of the green recruits he’d seen over the last few days. He unslung a Thompson, took cover next to the jeep, and started returning fire.

Another mortar round landed and tossed chunks of earth around. Smoke rose from the holes, and the smell of explosives and frayed earth filled Taylor’s nostrils. The snow had been pure and white a few days ago. Now it was splattered with blackened debris and splashes of blood.

Pierce rolled over on his stomach and fired back from the rear of the jeep.

“Help me with this map, Grillo,” Captain Taylor said.

The kid nodded and dropped next to Taylor. He helped spread out the map while Taylor placed his finger on the surface and traced out their location.

“We shifted last night, sir. We’re here now,” Grillo said, and pointed.

“Perfect,” Taylor said. He leaned into the jeep, broke out his radio, and started screaming into it, requesting artillery support.

“Sir, we’re getting pounded,” Grillo said, and ducked as debris showered them.

Taylor nodded and spoke into the radio again.

“Stay tough, soldier. Relief is on the way.”

Taylor asked for Delta’s situation, hoping they could move on this location and flank the incoming Germans, but he couldn’t raise them.

“Sir, we’re pinned down here,” the voice came back.

Taylor popped up and returned fire again. The advancing Germans were right on their lines.

“I had ’em falling back to our Alamo, sir, but we’re not going to make it,” Pierce screamed over another mortar blast.

“Right. Get them rounded up. I’ll lead the way, but we’re falling back,” Taylor said.

Pierce screamed for his men to beat feet. A pair of guys lugging a heavy machine gun and ammo were already dashing around the jeep. They found a new location to provide defilade.

Three men tossed grenades from the trench slit they’d been shooting from, then ran. The explosions caused a half dozen Germans to drop and scream in pain.

“Grillo, provide cover while I get the jeep backed up,” Taylor said, nodding at the passenger side seat.

Then something slammed into Betsy and threw her into the air. Taylor found himself dazed and staring up at the sky as he was tossed back several feet. The hard ground knocked the wind out of him, and chunks of ice and branches bit into his back and ass.

The jeep landed on its side.

The man that Pierce had been carrying back was ten feet away and he was moving. A gaping hole in his middle stared back at the Captain.

“Oh, Christ, here they come,” one of the retreating men yelled.

TWENTY-TWO

GRAVES

Squealing wheels, metal on metal, and tracks rolling over the earth made a frightening symphony. Graves had been in enough battles to know that when the superior German tanks arrived, it was time to move. A Panzer could go toe-to-toe with several Shermans and still come out the victor.

The sound made his balls shrivel up and try to find his stomach. Sitting in a metal deathtrap with only three inches of welded hull between him and a high-velocity round would make any man shake. He forced the fear down and chewed on the butt of an extinguished cigarette so his men couldn’t see how terrified he was.

A few months ago, his Sherman had taken several glancing blows from both anti-tank and Panzer IVs. Each time they’d been hit, his heart had nearly jackhammered through his chest. But that was the nature of war: hours of sitting around waiting for something to happen, followed by seconds of split decisions that could end a soldier’s life.

Graves and his crew had a job to do, and they were by God going to do it.

The rumbling Panzers didn’t arrive all at once. The first tank poked forward around the bend in the road, then stopped. The port swung open and an SS officer popped out. He took out a pair of binoculars and scanned the area.

Graves kept an eye on the bastard with the tank’s periscope.

“They’re checking out the road,” Graves said.

“Come to poppa bear, you chickenshit,” Big Texas muttered.

“Wish ’em away, LaRue. I’m happy sitting here in the cold,” Graves said.

“We’re going to be sitting in a steel grave pretty soon,” Big Texas replied. “Way I see it, we’re doomed out here.”

“You’re always saying we’re doomed, and we’re still here. I think you have a death wish,” Murph chimed in.

“A death wish? Can’t fight Nazis without a death wish, ’specially when you’re in a tank. Surprised I’m still here,” Big Texas said.

“We can toss your ass out in the cold if you like your odds,” Gabby said.

“Quit the horseplay,” Murphy admonished.

The men settled down and got back to the task at hand.

The lead Panzer poked down the road, then accelerated toward their location. The foliage they’d dragged over the location would work for a few seconds, but as Murph had warned the men, it would only take one vigilant Wehrmacht soldier to give away the Allies’ position.

“Steady on that gun. Soon as they’re past, I’ll give the order,” Murph said.

“Aye, Sarge,” Gabby replied.

The rumble of Panzers grew in intensity.

Murph held his breath.

The first tank passed their hidey-hole without pausing. The second tank followed close behind, and two more were behind those. Then a fifth tank made the ponderous turn in the road.

“Shit on a stick. We got five now,” Graves said.

“Bucky, where’s that mortar team?”

“Should be in position. I’ll call for fire support again,” Bucky said over the radio.

The four men exchanged worried looks.

The last tank was almost upon them when the ground shook with an explosion.

Graves stared wide-eyed into the periscope, but it was hard to make out what had just happened. Smoke poured into the air some fifty yards away, meaning a Panzer had probably hit one of the mines.

“Hit em!” Bucky yelled into the radio.

“Traverse left, hit that son of a bitch,” Graves said.

“On the way,” Big Texas drawled, not taking his eyes off the gunner periscope.

The tank bucked as the shell fired. It struck the rear of the Panzer, but spun away. A group of Kraut infantry following close behind hit the dirt.

The anti-tank opened up and carved apart a Panzer like a can of Spam. The turret spun into the air as the tank exploded. Smoke rose, and somehow having survived the blast, one of the men inside clawed his way out. He was covered in flames and his face bled. His keening cry was chilling to Murph, who expected to go out the same way at any second.

“Hit him again,” Graves said.

“Already on it, Sarge,” Big Texas said.

The gun boomed again as the tank rumbled to life. They were lucky to have gotten off two shots, but needed to move the vehicle if they hoped to survive the next few minutes.

The second round struck low and shattered a wheel that had been holding a track in place. Metal flew and German infantry ducked.

The other tanks boomed as they sought to kill the Kraut squad. A man poked a stovepipe out of a copse of trees and fired on a Panzer. The bazookas round struck high, and didn’t do any perceivable damage. Germans opened up on the demolition specialists location with burp guns.

They in turn were greeted with machine gun fire and pineapple grenades.

Graves gritted his teeth. The ambush had been carried off perfectly, and for a split second it looked like the Americans had the upper hand. If they could kill the Panzers, the rest would be clean-up.

Then a Panzerschreck found one of the Shermans, and sent chunks of metal soaring.

Bucky’s tank rolled backwards, seeking the trees, but the other Sherman was shredded. It moved a few feet to the rear, then stopped, because the tread had come off. A Panzer spun its gun and finished off the Allies’ tank with a blast that shook the ground again.

Another M1A1 bazooka round sped from the trees and punched a hole in the ground where the German anti-tank team had been standing. Men and metal exploded in a cacophony of screams.

The American anti-tank gun fired again and shattered metal. The struck Panzer rolled forward, then at an angle. The turret opened and smoke poured out, followed by an SS officer and crew. The Allies cut them down as they tried to roll out of the combat vehicle.

There were still two operational Panzers, and enough German infantry to kill the entire team.

“Left stick, Left stick, fire!” Graves called.

“On the way,” Big Texas drawled, his voice rising an octave under stress.

“What I wouldn’t give for some air support right about now,” Graves said, wishing a couple of Mustangs would appear over the battlefield and flatten this bunch into the earth.

The round exploded harmlessly off the Panzer’s hull.

“Christ, he’s got us, right stick!”

The tank rumbled to the right. The Panzer fired and scored a glancing blow. If they hadn’t moved, the shell would have penetrated the turret and exploded inside, shredding the men. There wouldn’t have been enough to put in a box and send home.

The anti-tank spoke again but the shell missed.

“Did we lose the mortar teams?” Graves asked.

“On the way, Staff Sergeant. They ran into trouble,” Bucky said over the radio.

“Thank God,” Graves muttered.

The team of six only had a dozen 60mm rounds and two tubes, but they could use every ounce of help they could get.

A “whomp” sounded in the distance, and then a shell fell with a whistling sound that was sweet relief to Graves’ ears. The mortar round impacted where his tank had occupied space a few seconds ago. The explosive would probably cause little damage but it would make the Germans piss them selves. Bucky yelled over the radio to adjust fire.

Allied infantry exchanged fire with the Krauts. Small arms fire shattered wood and sent men reeling.

They’d disabled two Panzers, and sent one to hell. That left two operational tanks on either side. The odds were closing, but it was only a matter of time before the dominant German metal took control of the small battlefield.

The Sherman was partially hidden by a copse of trees, but it wouldn’t take long for the pursuing Panzer to find them.

Mortars fell among the German infantry, sending them scrambling across the snow-covered road. Bodies lay unmoving while men tried to drag the wounded off the tiny battlefield.

A Panzer fired and the shell struck Bucky’s tank.

“We’re hit!” Bucky said, and then the tank exploded in a huge fireball.

The American anti-tank team fired, and the Panzer who’d killed Bucky and his crew went up.

The remaining Panzer zeroed in on the anti-tank team and ended them with a high explosive round. The sound of secondary explosions followed as 37mm shells went up.

“Ah hell,” Graves said.

Gabe maneuvered the tank in reverse, trying to put distance between him and the Panzer.

Murph was already firing away from the machine gun port as German infantry tested the woods.

“Oh shit,” Graves said as the remaining Panzer zeroed in on their location.

“On the move, Sarge,” Murph said.

“Better light a fire. That’s not a Panzer. Jesus Christ, we need to get the hell out of here,” Graves said ominously.

TWENTY-THREE

GRILLO

Private Grillo shook debris off his head. His helmet had been tossed a few feet away. His ears were stuffed with cotton, and blood leaked from his nose. Something had picked him up like a ragdoll and thrown him on the ground. Next to him, Captain Taylor lay on his back and blinked rapidly.

Poor Robinson had been loaded into the back of the jeep but now he lay on the ground with a huge hole in his middle.

Grillo grabbed his helmet and slapped it on top of his head, then tried to get up on all fours. The Thompson he’d been firing with was stuck under the side of the jeep. He grabbed the wooden stock and tugged a few times until it came loose.

He was rattled, and his side ached where he’d been hit earlier.

Grillo struggled to his feet and found he was about to be overrun.

One of the men behind him shot a German. Then a BAR fired at full auto and the line crumpled.

“Flip the jeep back over. Damage doesn’t look too bad,” Taylor said shaking debris off his helmet.

Men gathered around them and heaved the jeep back onto its wheels. They took cover behind the vehicle and fired at the oncoming Germans. A Kraut dressed in white crawled over the jeep to reach them. Owen, a machine gunner, grabbed the man and dragged him over, then drove his knife into his chest.

The German’s eyes had glassed over, and were almost entirely white. He snapped his head around and stared at Owen then, his lips peeled back from blood stained teeth. A keening howl came out of his mouth.

“Fucking die, you Kraut pig,” Owen said.

The German didn’t want to comply. He grabbed Owen’s hand and pulled him down. The two fought, Owen with big swinging fists, the German with slow, mechanical movements, even as his face was smashed into pulp.

Grillo aimed with the Thompson and tried to get a fix on the soldier’s head, but was afraid he’d hit Owen.

Captain Taylor got to his his feet, aimed into the mass of Germans and fired. Bullets tore into flesh, but the enraged mob didn’t seem to feel it.

“Someone see if the jeep is running. We’re getting out of here, men.”

Behind the wave of Germans were many more, and they had the same white eyes as the soldier Owen was fighting.

Owen was pushed over, and the German rode him like a cowboy, but his hands were wrapped around Owen’s neck. Grillo aimed, and took part of the Kraut’s head off. The body flopped to the side and didn’t move again.

“Son of a bitch bit me, son of a fucking bitch bit me!” Owen howled.

Wounded, Sergeant Pierce crawled into the jeep and tested the ignition. The jeep cranked over a couple of times and then the engine caught and puttered to life.

Taylor slid into the driver’s seat and Pierce, favoring his wounded leg, got in the passenger side. Owen managed to get his partner into position, and they rigged the machine gun up on the back of the jeep. Owen leaned into the stock while his partner fed in a round. The gun opened up in short bursts, damaging the line of Germans.

“Listen up, men. We’re falling back. I need to report this to command, but the damn radio’s gone. I’m not abandoning a single man. If you’re handling injured, get them on the jeep now,” Captain Taylor called.

Of the twenty or so men that had started the day in Baker, only eight or nine remained.

Grillo used the Thompson he’d borrowed from Sergeant Pierce. He aimed at a pair of advancing Krauts and shot them in half.

“At least they aren’t shooting at us anymore,” he said.

“Damn Krauts have lost their minds,” Pierce said. He shot a German in the head with his sidearm. “Grillo, in the back of the jeep. You’re one of the injured.”

“It’s not bad, Sarge, I can still shoot.”

“Shoot from the jeep.”

“Aye, Sarge,” Grillo said and wormed his way into the back. The crates of ammo had been tossed to the ground when the jeep was knocked over, so men swarmed over it and grabbed clips and magazines. Someone tossed him a couple for the submachine gun, as well as a pair of grenades.

He pulled the pin on one, lifted up, and flung it into into a mass of Germans. It exploded and sent bodies flying.

They’d been facing a force of a few, then dozens, but now hundreds were arriving from out of the mist. They wove between the trees like an eerie wave.

The jeep lurched into motion and turned an arc toward the way back to town.

“Hang on,” Captain Taylor said.

He kept the speed low and his men followed.

Owen had resorted to firing bursts as he followed. He’d had to use a piece of cloth under the barrel to avoid getting burned. The gun was heavy but he wielded it as if it were as light as an M1.

“Lay down a bunch of fire. Grenades. Create a line of hell. Then we’re going to make a run for it. Bastogne is only a couple of miles,” Captain Taylor said. “We’ll switch off in the jeep so the men can rest, but we’re going to have to double time it.”

Men called back affirmatives.

Grillo was nearly in a daze. He’d started the morning cold and in a hole. They’d been expecting to see Germans. They’d expected to hold their position. But this overwhelming force of crazy men fighting tooth and nail hadn’t been in the cards.

Grillo tugged out a grenade and timed his throw with that of the other men. Bursts of machine gun fire cut down many of the pursuing Germans, but some got back on their feet and came on mechanically.

Pineapples sailed into the air and landed among the Krauts leaving a wave of destruction. Limbs flew and clothing shredded.

Still the army came on, as the remains of the 101st ran toward Bastogne.

TWENTY-FOUR

COLEY

“We’re about to be overrun! What do we do, sir?” Tramble screamed.

Coley considered sinking into his hole and calling it quits. The problem was that it wasn’t in him to give up. Still, with the mounting horror, it would be a fitting way to call it a day.

He and his men had been stuck in the snow for days. Then they’d faced several assaults and managed to turn back the German advances. But just when they’d been preparing for another one, the rules had changed.

Now they were faced with something unspeakable: German soldiers who could take multiple rounds to the body and still get up and trudge up the hill.

Even in normal clothing and with knee-high boots, the snow was a hindrance. The men coming at them shrugged off the cold and ignored the freeze. They slogged upward and closed on the line of dugouts.

His men were down to their last few clips and magazines. The .50 cal had been silenced, and the .30 cal was out of ammo. The mortar team had dropped their last round. Soon the men would be fighting with bayonets and knives.

The Germans didn’t even bother shooting back. They just came on in waves, some running, others sprinting, and some dragging shattered limbs.

A man covered in blood and missing part of his jaw made it to Coley’s dugout. He staggered over the wooden defenses and fell into the hole. Coley pulled his .45 and shot the man several times in the head. Blood and brains splattered over the cold hard ground.

They wouldn’t be able to hold this back, but he had a plan.

Coley shouted orders, and four or five of his men jumped out of their holes and ran toward the woods behind the dugouts.

Tramble shot a German dressed in white camo that was splattered with blood—his own or someone else’s? There was no way to be sure. The Wehrmacht soldier lifted a handgun. Rounds went wild, and nowhere near Tramble.

Tramble finished the man off by shooting out most of the German’s throat. He dropped to the ground and fell face-first into the red-splattered snow.

They just kept coming by ones and twos. Then threes and fours.

Some had become hung up in the barbed wire. They tried to rip free, and tore flesh to the bone.

A large German wearing Fallschirmjaeger insignia leapt into Walder’s dugout. The men fought each other with fists. Walder shoved the attacker to the ground and ripped his knife free. He stabbed, driving his blade through the soldier’s hand and into his chest. Blood sprayed, but the German fought on.

Walder tried to rip the knife free, but the German grabbed with his good arm and pulled Coley’s man on top of him. The two rolled around until Walder got the upper hand and bashed the man’s head into the hard ground until it was pulp.

“Son of a bitch tried to bite me, sir,” Walder called.

Tramble had been trying to get a bead on the Fallschirmjaeger that had taken down Walder. “I tried to get him, but I thought I’d end up hitting you.”

“Thanks for not shooting me. Damn, that guy was out of his head.”

Coley shot an approaching German three times and the clip flew out of the M1. He dug for another, but he was out. He’d meant to get a few more out of the replenished ammo box, but forgotten when they’d been attacked in force.

Bodies lay all around the dugouts. Most were still, but a few shapes moved around.

Engines rumbled behind them.

The next wave arrived, and men had to get out of their dugouts to fight.

Tramble went for his sidearm and put a .45-sized hole in a Kraut. The man fell backwards but struggled to roll over, so Tramble blew the back of his head off.

Coley looked up and choked back a gasp. They were everywhere!

“Alright men, I want an organized withdrawal,” Coley said.

Hold at all costs didn’t include shooting unarmed and seemingly unstoppable psychotic Germans.

He’d started the day with eighteen individuals under his command; men he’d trained with from the beginning. The three mortar men had been late arrivals, bringing his force to twenty-one men.

Now he was down to twelve.

Five were working on the jeeps, but the rest of his men were about to be overwhelmed.

A pair of men with working M1s paused to drop a couple of slathering Krauts. Blood flew and bodies fell—bodies that didn’t convulse or fall still. Bodies that continued crawling toward their location.

“It’s not possible, sir. Those guys can’t be moving.”

“I agree, but it doesn’t change the fact that there is something seriously FUBAR with those Krauts,” Coley said.

A second group of Germans moved erratically toward them—a second group that was twice as big as the first. Heaven help them.

COLEY AND HIS men reached the line of trees and the rumbling jeeps hidden behind them. It would be a tight fit, but everyone would have a seat. Tree branches hung over the jeeps, creating good camouflage from aircraft. They’d created a barrier of fallen foliage to obscure them from patrols as well.

The men had cleared a path out. Coley waited for all of his men to arrive. They were struggling through the snow and fighting when they had to, but it was a retreat. There was no way around the word.

“Lieutenant. You gotta see this. Some of the Germans are shooting at their own guys,” Tramble said when he arrived, breathing heavy puffs of steam like a bellows.

“Maybe they think the war’s over and decided to shoot each other,” Coley joked.

“Less for us to shoot, sir. I wish this was over. I’d love to go home and have a turkey dinner for Christmas,” Tramble said.

“Speaking of turkey, what’s going on there?” Coley pointed.

The two men stood next to a running jeep. Coley lifted his binoculars to make out what was happening.

A group of Germans pursued another group; that didn’t make a bit of sense. The main group was at least a hundred strong, and they fired wildly, rounds sailing into the air. Some ran, but most moved almost mechanically.

Tramble grabbed a Thompson from the back of a jeep and swung it around to fire at the Krauts.

“Hold up. Something isn’t right,” Coley said. “I think they’re giving up.”

Sure enough. Three Germans ran toward them. The men had their hands in the air, and weapons stowed over their shoulders. One of the men’s helmets flew off, revealing unkempt brown hair that was far from the Aryan blonde so desired in the Third Reich.

One of Coley’s men fired, and dropped a German in his tracks. The bullet hit the soldier in the chest, and he was practically blown off his feet. The others shouted “Surrender, surrender!”

Coley motioned for his guys to drop their weapons.

“Sir, what in the hell?”

A half dozen other soldiers pounded over the snow toward Coley’s position, breaking through snow and brushing past tree branches. They also had their hands in the air.

A man who was clearly in charge approached Coley.

“Surrender,” he said, simply, but glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide, fear etched on his face.

“We don’t have room for you,” Coley said, looking over his pitiful transportation.

The advancing army of snarling Germans came on. One of the Germans spun, went to one knee, and fired into the mass with a submachine gun. His comrades dropped.

“Good, Christ, sir. Let’s go and let the Krauts kill each other.”

“No, no,” the man in charge said in heavily-accented English. “We have information. There is great danger coming.”

“Great danger? Like a bunch of Germans launching an assault?” Coley said.

The rest of his men milled around, some piling into the jeeps and moving guns and ammo out of the way.

“Fine. Tramble, collect guns and get them situated. They can sit on each other’s goddamn laps for all I care. We’ll get them to command and let them sort this out.”

“Thank you, meinn Herr. Thank you,” the officer said, and saluted.

Coley snapped a salute in return, and turned to get into his own jeep.

The whole damn world had gone crazy this morning.

TWENTY-FIVE

GRAVES

“What do you see, Staff Sergeant?” Big Texas asked nervously.

“I see a King Tiger tank,” Graves said, because he didn’t want to bullshit his men. “Get us out of sight. Find a bunch of trees or a hill. Anything to hide behind. We can’t take that tank on by ourselves.”

Murph hit the sticks, and the tank moved backward at speed, keeping the thicker front armor front and center. They wouldn’t be able to withstand a direct hit, but it was better than showing their tail.

The engine roared as gasoline pumped into the power plant. Graves was slammed against the side of the tank, but leveraged himself back into his seat and peered out of the periscope. The Tiger paused in its hunt, and the big 88mm gun rotated on its axis as it sought their location.

Graves opened the hatch and stood. He tried to pick out a location to hide in, but the trees were sparse here. The town of Bastogne was only a few miles to the west, but they might not have a chance of reaching it if they didn’t shake the King Tiger. Even if they actually managed to elude, it they’d still have to find a road.

The Tiger fired, and a round screamed over the Sherman as Graves’ tank hit a small dip. A few inches lower, and the turret would have been obliterated along with him.

“Right stick, come around twenty degrees,” Graves called.

Murph worked the sticks and the tank complied, even as they came up to speed.

There was a copse ahead. If they could get behind it, they might be able to turn tail and run.

The Tiger rolled forward and cleared a pair of small trees in a rending crash of wood. Branches covered in snow crashed to the earth and were crushed under close to seventy tons of metal, engine, and deadly gun.

“Hit him!” Graves called, knowing it was practically hopeless, but he was at least going to go down fighting.

The Sherman’s gun bucked and a 75mm round found the King Tiger, but glanced off the thick armor’s side.

“Again!” Graves yelled.

“On the way,” Big Texas said as he worked the gun.

The next round got lucky and struck track. A piece of metal flew off and the Tiger floundered.

“Hard right stick!” Graves called.

Murph gave him what he asked for, and the King Tiger’s next round glanced off the Sherman’s armor. The sound was like someone took a cast iron pan and fired a .45 round into it right next to Grave’s ear.

“Punch up the engine. We hurt that Tiger, but it’s still gunning for us,” Graves called.

Then something genuinely odd happened.

A group of German infantry scrambled up the sides of the King Tiger. There were at least ten of them and they moved almost mechanically. They weren’t along for a ride; in fact, they started beating at the thick metal.

The tank commander popped out to yell at the men.

The Sherman rolled over a tree, and a low-hanging branch smacked Graves across the back of his head. He was jolted forward and almost dropped his binoculars. He managed to catch the strap and then lift them again. He braced himself against the front of the portal and felt the back of his head to find a gash. He brought his hand around and broke his view to find blood on it.

“I been bushwhacked,” he mumbled.

He shook it off, even though the back of his head throbbed in pain. He looked at the King Tiger again and found that the tank commander was being dragged out of his turret.

The officer batted at hands, but he was pulled completely out. The German infantrymen dragged the SS officer across the metal and then beat at him with knives, rocks, and fists.

One of the crazy Germans leaned into the tank, then fell inside but the turret was still rotating to track the Sherman.

“Left stick, left stick!” Graves yelled but the tank didn’t fire on them.

“What’s he doing?” Big Texas asked.

“That’s some shit,” Graves said.

Then the tank’s gun spoke again, and a round ricocheted off the Sherman’s track. Metal ground against metal, and parts of the wheels flew into the air. The left track kept turning, pulling them in a semi-circle.

Graves prepared to issue the order to abandon the tank. One more hit and they were all dead.

But the Tiger ground to a halt, and the gun didn’t fire again. Another Kraut leaned into the tank and fought someone. Then a second man dressed in white joined the first. He fell in up to his waist, legs sticking up into the air like a big middle finger. They wiggled as the man wormed himself inside.

“Should I light them up, sir?” Gabby said.

“Out, out, everyone out,” Graves ordered.

Hatches popped and his men piled out, rolled over the side of the tank, and got down next to the working tracks. Now stuck, the tank still steamed, and exhaust from the engine rose into the air.

Graves crawled out of the turret and down the side to join his men.

“See that little rise there? Run for it. We’ll use it as a foxhole and then make our way into the woods to elude the damn Tiger,” Graves said, and pointed in the direction he wanted his men to move.

They broke into a run, backs bent, guns in hands. Murph wore his winter jacket, but Big Texas and Gabby had barely had time to grab their weapons.

As they ran for cover, Graves expected the tank to explode at any second. That Tiger was going to zero in on the disabled Sherman and send it flying. The military transport would go up like a Ronson, and they’d be sprayed with shrapnel and flames.

They dove into the improvised foxhole and quickly maneuvered around to get heads over the lip to watch the German tank.

It hadn’t moved.

“Did I see what I thought I saw?” Big Texas drawled.

“If you saw Kraut soldiers attacking the tank commander and the tank crew, then you and I saw the same thing, buddy,” Graves said.

Figures swarmed over the tank as it lay unmoving. It had come to rest against a big pine and pushed the tree at a sharp angle. The tree gave up the fight and finally cracked in the middle, showering the ground with snow and dead leaves.

Someone screamed in the distance. Then the sound was echoed by that of another man. The Krauts on the tank spread out and moved away from the vehicle as they sought a new enemy.

“Maybe those are Americans in German clothes?” Gabby speculated out loud.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. If that were true, they would have told us so we don’t shoot our own guys.”

“What else makes sense? Germans fighting Germans? Hell, this war will be over by Christmas if that’s the case.”

“Pipe down, guys. Those Krauts are on the prowl and they’re headed this way.”

“We should get back in the tank and take them out, Staff Sergeant,” Big Texas said.

“What if one of those guys shoots us from the Tiger?” Gabby said.

“Just pipe down. We’ll move out soon. Murph. Drop a grenade in the tank so they can’t use it against us.”

“On it, boss,” Murph said.

Murphy moved low to the ground. He tugged a grenade off of his belt and approached the tank.

German soldiers caught sight of him and broke into a run.

“Covering fire,” Graves said, popping up and opening fire.

TWENTY-SIX

TAYLOR

It was a miracle the jeep even started. The mortar round had gone off close enough to throw the vehicle on its side, but Betsy was a tough old broad and shook off the blow. The door was dented in and wouldn’t open, but the men got around that by piling over the sides.

Grillo, laid down fire over the windshield as they backed up. The rest of the men stood or sat where they could, and jammed into the limited space. She was sluggish and veered to the left, thanks to a damaged axle or bent rim. No time to assess the damage now. She was running, and that was all they could hope for, under the conditions.

He had no idea how the other companies were faring. With any luck, not as badly as Baker.

They hit a log, and the jeep bounced up in the air. It came down hard, spilling one of the men out of the transport. He fell with a yell, so Captain Taylor came to a halt.

Seven Germans streamed out of the woods, thirty or forty yards ahead. They had their hands in the air, and one offered a white flag.

Wayne hopped off the back of the jeep and grabbed a BAR. He advanced on the men with the gun locked against his shoulder. The Germans carefully lowered their weapons, but they looked over their shoulders in fear as they walked toward Wayne’s position.

“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.

“What if we wait it out, hide in the tank and let the Germans pass, and return in the morning?” Gabby offered.

“I’d feel safer in there than out here,” Graves said.

He dashed back to the tank and crouched next to the side. He peered across the distance between him and the King Tiger. The Krauts had started to lose interest in the massive war machine and milled around instead, munching on the crew.

There was enough cover for them to make an escape without the Germans noticing. If they were going to make a run for it, this was the time.

“They aren’t even looking for us,” Murph said as they conferred next to the tank.

“We could mount up and shoot the shit out of them,” Murph said.

“Elegant,” Graves said.

But leaving a Sherman to the Krauts seemed like a horrible waste of resources. He could drop a grenade inside and draw the attention of dozens of enemies. He could leave the tank and take his men into the woods. Graves chewed on his lip before he made a decision: he returned to his men and gathered them in the little hole.

“Alright, everyone back in and button her up tight. Go in through the bottom. We’ll wait them out. Move low and keep the noise down. If they see us we’ll—as Murph put it—shoot the shit out of them and hope that Tiger doesn’t shoot the shit out of us.”

His crew returned to the tank and took every precaution to keep the noise down as they slid into their seats. The inside of the Sherman was cold, but there was no help for it now. If they were going to rejoin the fight, they’d have to reassess in the morning.

Graves tried the radio, but the antenna had been knocked out and he got nothing but static.

With evening approaching, the German soldiers wandered off. A couple passed the tank, but they took little interest in the cold vehicle, and moved into the woods. Graves and Big Texas kept their eyes glued to the periscopes for hours, just waiting for someone to wonder if the tank was still occupied.

“I miss ham,” Gabby said. “Mom used to make this glaze that tasted like sugar and bourbon.”

“Yeah. I miss your Mom’s glaze too,” Murph said.

“Why don’t you suck on a bullet. You ain’t never met my mom.”

“We all met her, just before the war. She was a good teacher, if you know what I mean,” Murph said, looking around the interior. He offered up winks, but the other guys just weren’t into ribbing Gabe right now.

“My mom’s in her sixties and as big as a barn,” Gabby said.

“I just closed my eyes and thought of Rita Hayworth.”

Gabby shook his head and let out a few choice curse words, until Graves told them to pipe down.

“Staff Sergeant. What’s our play?” Murph asked.

“We continue to act dead. In the morning we’ll assess the damage, repair the treads if we can, and hightail it back to command. Bastogne’s not far. If we can’t make contact we’ll make for the city, so get some sleep.”

The men were silent for a few minutes before Murph said, “I wish Gabby’s mom was here to keep us warm.”

Gabe Woodward came out of his seat and went for Murph’s throat.

Big Texas got between them.

“That’s enough. Last time I’m warning you,” Graves said. “I know this is not the ideal situation to be in but we’re alive and if we keep going at each other we’re going to make enough noise to draw the entire German army down on us. So just pipe down.”

The men settled down. Gabe with his arms crossed across his chest and Murph fighting a smirk.

Graves let the moment hold and then said, “besides, if Murph’s mom was here she’d be sleeping next to me.”

“That is not funny, staff-sergeant,” Murph said.

Big Texas was the first one to laugh then the other’s joined in. Graves grinned and sat back into the cold seat again.

As Graves drifted off he thought he heard footsteps outside, but in the dark he couldn’t make out anything more than indistinct sounds that might have been bushes or trees moving in the wind. Heart hammering in his chest, he did his best to calm his mind and catch a few winks.

IT WAS BARELY DAYBREAK when Graves popped the hatch and looked around the snow covered forest.

The King Tiger still lay dead in the distance. White piles had accumulated on the tanks and covered body parts and blood, but there were no corpses. He and Big Texas had done a scan of the area through their periscopes, but nothing moved out there. Gabby broke out a couple of Krations, and the men devoured them in relative silence.

Graves slid out of the portal, the rest of his men right behind. They covered each other as they got down to inspect the damage.

The morning air was crisp and smelled like fresh snow. Graves considered walking to the King Tiger and taking a look but he was afraid there might be men like his, huddled inside, waiting out the crazies.

“Look at that. Couple of hours and we can be back on the road,” Big Texas said and pointed at the damage.

“Seen a lot worse, that’s for sure,” Graves said.

Murph got put in charge of lookout while the rest of the crew worked on the tank.

“What’s gotten into those Germans we saw?” Gabe said.

“Way I see it, they’re sick of fighting for the Führer and they went crazy. Get a couple of nuts into one place, let them spread the delusions, and you got yourself a genuine pack of maniacs. Not saying they wasn’t maniacs before, just saying they’re in deep with all the other maniacs now,” Big Texas said, hitting them with one of his nuggets of wisdom.

Murph returned from walking their perimeter. “Hate to interrupt, but we got movement to the south.”

“Kinda movement?” Graves asked.

“Looks like a patrol, but I can’t make out if they’re ours or theirs,” Murph said.

“Gabby. Go with Murphy and check it out. Don’t shoot if you don’t have to,” Graves said.

He and Big Texas redoubled their efforts to get a pin hammered back into the tread. They’d covered a sledgehammer with multiple layers of clothing, but it still sounded like a church bell to Graves. It was as if they were just asking for Krauts to swarm them.

“Will this hold?” Graves said.

“Might hold, until we get it repaired. Might not. Only God knows for sure,” Big Texas said.

“Your optimism is always appreciated,” Graves said, and did little to cover his sarcasm.

“Calls ’em like I sees ’em, boss.”

Another half-hour of work, and they might be fully repaired. Or the tread might run right off, leaving them stuck in the slush. At least they’d be relatively safe inside the Sherman until someone showed up with a Panzerschreck and decided to say “good morning” by punching a hole in the side of the tank and killing the men inside.

Twenty minutes later, his men returned.

“They’re coming,” Murph said. “About fifty of the bastards. They’re well-armed.”

“Let’s get this beast rolling,” Graves said, hoping they’d done enough. If they had another hour or two, they could effect better repairs. As it was, they’d be lucky to get out of the woods alive.

The men piled inside the vehicle and fired up the Chrysler engine. The tank sputtered a couple of times, then roared to life. Graves kept his eyes plastered to the periscope until the Germans came into view.

“How we doing on fuel?” Graves asked.

“‘Bout twenty-five percent. We got plenty of range if the city’s that close,” Murph said.

Graves grunted and popped out of the tank’s turret to assess the threat. What he saw didn’t make his morning any better.

“Thought you said fifty?” Graves said, dropping back into the tank.

“That’s what we saw,” Gabby said. That damn mist is making it hard to see clearly, Staff Sergeant.”

“That, or you both need your eyes checked. There are at least two hundred Krauts advancing on our position,” Graves said.

TWENTY-NINE

GRILLO

Private Grillo spent a fitful night in a bombed-out house’s basement.

The city of Bastogne was an ancient town. Residents had piled their furnishings and goods into dray carts and left them in the town square despite military placard that read “Unattended Vehicles Will Be Impounded.”

Many windows had been shuttered and Bastogne’s power had failed, so most were left in the dark that was barely pushed back by lanterns and candles, a risky thing to do when a city was in danger of being bombed. However the weather hadn’t allowing any flights so the residents had used whatever was available to provide light.

He was surrounded by men from his company and elements of the 502nd who’d been injured around Foy. Grillo had visited the seminary where they were taking in the injured, and had his wound tended by a pretty Belgian nurse.

He only knew a few words of French, so used merci generously. She was a slim woman in a thick wool dress that did nothing to flatter her figure. Grillo hadn’t seen a woman in weeks and it was a nice change though she was nothing like his beauty back home. That reminded him he should write Louise soon.

Her hair was done up in a bun, and rather than facing the angry tongue of a no-nonsense nurse, she had an easy smile and reassuring words for every man she assisted.

Grillo came across a small room where a number of black soldiers were being tended to. The United Stats Army had rules about segregating negro units from white units. But huddled together in a basement those rules fell away. Curiosity got the better of him, so he poked his head in.

“Evening,” he said.

“You lost?” one of the men asked.

“No, Corporal,” said Grillo. “Just wondering why you’re all in here.”

“Army likes us to fight, but they don’t like us to be integrated,” the man said.

“What unit y’all with?”

“The 969th Field Artillery Battalion,” one of the other soldiers said. He’d been sat with his back against a wall, reading from a Bible. The man put a finger between the pages to mark his place and closed it. “You?”

“With the 101st,” Grillo said.

“So what’s it like to jump out of an airplane? Ask me, it’s crazy, but I ain’t never tried it.”

“I don’t know. I just got here a few days ago, and haven’t seen a combat jump yet,” Grillo said.

“Hear that, Auldey? He ain’t jumped yet. Told you they was busing in green recruits,” he said.

“They ain’t gonna let you into Airborne, man. Just give it up,” Auldey admonished his friend.

“I’ll get my chance. As soon as we break through and advance to Berlin I’ll get a shot,” Grillo said defensively.

“Think we gonna make it out of Bastogne? Gonna make it out of Belgium? Way I hear, they got us surrounded on all sides,” Auldey said. “We just waiting to die.”

A white officer poked his head in the doorway and fixed his eyes on the black solders.

“All hands, men. Time to man the guns,” he said.

Grillo shot the officer a quick salute. The men in the room rose to their feet and shuffled around, picking up gear and jackets. The officer looked Grillo up and down, then departed without a word.

“Well, okay, buddy. You men give ’em hell,” Grillo said, unsure what else to say.

“You too, buddy.”

Grillo moved on to find Sergeant Pierce.

GRILLO WOVE around cots and improvised beds. The seminary had been converted to a hospital and offered shelter to the wounded, but a direct impact from German artillery would probably bring the roof down on everyone in the space.

Pierce lay back on a cot with one leg dangling off the side of the little bed. He had his hand over his eyes, and was humming a tune.

“Sarge?” Grillo said.

Pierce sat up and looked Grillo over.

“How ya doing, Private?”

“Good enough to fight. I’m going back to find the company. You stuck here for a while?”

“Nah. I’m just resting up and enjoying the quiet for a few hours. I got it good in the calf, but the bullet went through. Leg’s kinda stuck without full mobility, but I’m not planning to sit out the war,” Pierce said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Sure, Sarge. I heard they got the whole city encircled.”

“Yeah, that’s the word. They got us completely surrounded,” Pierce said, and swung his legs off the cot. “Poor bastards.”

Grillo helped him to his feet, and together they went back into the cold.

THEY SET up in a trench a quarter mile from town. Ammo was still short, but they’d been given enough rounds to put up a fight. Figures moved in the mist and faded into and out of the woods. Some of the men took shots, but they’d been told that if they fired they’d better leave a corpse.

Bullets hit, but they didn’t always hit. The men were uneasy around Grillo, and muttered about the prowess of the new “über-soldier,” as some had started to call them.

“Look at that son of a bitch,” the man next to Grillo said. Wayne had been tagging along with Baker for most of the morning while he looked for his company. So far none of them had made it to Bastogne.

Grillo wished he had a pair of binoculars. The Germans were a swarm in the distance and well covered by the weather and foliage.

A man stood a few feet from a copse of trees. He was dressed in a black overcoat that bore the unmistakable SS emblem. One of the men took a shot at him, but he must have missed, because the officer faded back into the woods.

“That took balls,” Wayne said.

“He pops his head out and I’ll shoot him in the balls for real. Gonna have to be a sharpshooter to hit those little raisins,” one of the men said with bravado.

Grillo snorted and laid out a pair of clips. Once the enemy came, he didn’t want to be fumbling in his jacket.

After returning the the company, Pierce had demanded his Thompson back from Grillo. Grillo had lost his M1 in the assault and was without a gun.

“Better beg, borrow, or steal a new weapon, Private,”

Grillo had spent twenty minutes wandering around looking for a gun until he came across a row of bodies in the snow. He felt sick to his stomach doing it but a casualty didn’t need a weapon so he took an M1 that was leaning against a wall and returned to his position.

Pierce looked him over and said, “that’s the spirit.”

He was cold and scared to death. He’d only been in the war for a few days, and already he’d seen enough death and destruction to last a lifetime. Contrary to his dreams of heroic actions, he was now ready to get this war over with so he could go back home to Louise. Once they were married, he hoped to never pick up a weapon again for as long as he lived.

As he spent a few minutes daydreaming about Louise the attack bagan.

Sergeant Pierce told his men again not to waste ammo.

A machine gun team opened up on the Germans and decimated them. Then, hundreds of bodies began pouring out of the woods and swarming toward the front lines.

The 101st laid down fire. Grillo picked his targets carefully, but like he’d seen the previous day, even a shot dead center in a Kraut’s chest only took him off his feet for a few seconds before he was back up and moving. Better to get a headshot but hitting a moving target was anything but easy especially when it was the size of a cantaloupe.

The Germans continued pouring toward the city, and eventually overwhelmed a position just to the east. Grillo tried to shift fire and help the men in the foxhole, but they were completely engulfed. Two soldiers managed to get out and run toward the American lines.

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.

More gunfire splattered the tank. Graves ducked down before his head was taken off.

“On the way,” Big Texas bellowed, and fired.

The tank bucked, and the round blew a hole in the ground in the center of the Germans. Bodies burst apart or were tossed to the unforgiving forest floor.

Graves fought a gun jam, got the shell loose, and then opened fire again.

The tank rolled away from the Krauts, hit a dip and bounced back out. Steel wrenched against steel. Graves worried the the tank would come off the tread again, but it managed to stay on.

Hundreds of Germans streamed around the tank. Gabby opened up with the Browning M1919A4, spitting 30.06 rounds across the mass.

“Get us out of here,” Graves shouted into the tank.

“Trying. We’re going to lose the tread if we run too fast,” Murph called back. “She’s pulling like a son of a bitch.”

“They’re getting too close,” Big Texas said. “I can’t get a clean shot at this range.”

Big Texas fired anyway, and decimated a squad of Germans in the rear of the advancing army. Limbs separated from bodies and blood misted. Bits of clothing and equipment flew into the air.

The Sherman swung to the right, putting less load on repaired tread until it had completed a semicircle. The tank came up to speed, but during the turn they’d managed to pick up a couple of soldiers. The men scrambled at the metal, trying to get hands onto the wood and concrete chained to the side of the hull.

Graves drew his sidearm and shot one in the face. The man still wore his dickhead helmet, but his mouth and most of his face were covered in dried blood. The man’s eyes were white, and unfocused. He seemed crazed with reaching Graves.

He fell away with a hole between his eyes, and rolled over a couple of times. The pursuing Germans ran right over his body without stopping to check on him.

The tank bumped over something big and then rolled over it. When they were past Graves found they’d they’d hit a mortar tube and crushed it into the ground.

He got back on the .50 cal and fired until the gun jammed again. He fired in three-round bursts, taking out as many of the soldiers closing in on the tank as he could.

The Sherman rolled to a slow halt before spinning treads again.

“What are you doing?” Graves yelled down into the interior.

“Sorry! Thought we lost the left side again. It’s hooked on something and we’re thumping metal every time the tread goes around.”

“Jesus,” Graves said.

The tank picked up speed, but they’d brought on a number of Germans. One lunged for him, so Graves put a bullet in the soldier’s head.

The front-mounted gun blasted away for a few seconds, then went silent.

“I’m reloading!” Gabby called.

“Hurry the hell up. These crazy bastards are swarming us,” Graves urged him on, but it was too late.

Figures scrambled up the sides and front of the tank, all seemingly intent on tearing Graves apart. He fired his sidearm until he ran empty, then popped back in the tank and slammed the hatch closed… but not before one of the German soldiers got a hand around the opening.

Fingers fell as they were severed from the man’s hand and flopped onto the tank’s floor. Graves spun the lock closed, then sat back in his seat. He was fully encased in a tomb of metal, and that tomb was covered in Germans.

He tried not to appear scared, but his reality had become a nightmare. He stared at the man’s fingers, then pushed them into a corner.

The Sherman burst out of the trees, brushing some of the bodies off the tank in the doing, judging by the thumps from above.

“Oh shit!” Murph swore, just before they ran into an abandoned German half-track.

THIRTY-TWO

TAYLOR

Captain Taylor didn’t get a wink of sleep. He’d spent the evening and night conferring with command. General McAuliffe was clear about one thing, though, out all of the talks: they needed to hold the town of Bastogne until relieved.

They’d met in the remains of a partially-bombed home to compare notes. Other officers had presented reports similar to Taylor’s much to the consternation of the General, who said he’d put nothing past the damn Krauts.

The 506th had run into an ambush and lost nearly half of their men, due to the Germans’ tenacity… and teeth.

“Teeth?” McAuliffe had asked.

“Teeth, sir. Some of them tried to use weapons, but they were like monsters. Animals. They were rabid. We were overwhelmed as we displaced. Foy was a complete loss. They came in by the thousands, ignoring gunfire and mortars. We decimated their force, but it did little, because there were always more of them. Ammo ran short and we retreated.”

Captain Edwards was an older man who’d been in the war for three years and was as hard as a piece of granite. If he’d been chased out of Foy, then things were worse than Taylor could have guessed.

“Men, this whole thing is nuts. Nuts!” The general looked each man in the eye as he spoke. “We’re cut off, but help is on the way. I can promise you that. Now, in the wake of this latest development, I have a lot of questions to answer. Command is breathing down my neck. They want some of these crazed German soldiers captured and brought in for questioning.”

The men were given orders, and told to make haste in preparing the town for assault. With a small contingent of artillery, and ammo running low, they would be hard-pressed to stop the Germans, but they would put up the best defense they could.

After the meeting, he’d been summoned to the seminary to check on his men. Owen was kept in a little room so he could be observed. When a pair of MPs had come for him, he’d flown into a rage and tried to bite the men. His eyes had gone completely white and even though he took damage in the ensuing shuffle, he shrugged it off like a heavyweight champ.

They’d had to beat the man to the ground, but he’d only become more enraged, and struggled until they’d secured him with rope.

There was no sign of his orderly, Corporal Krantz so Taylor put out the word that he was looking for him. With the confusion in town he may have been dispatched anywhere.

TAYLOR SLUMPED against the side of a building and dug the remains of a Kration out of his bag. There was a can of pork, but it was practically frozen. He dug around and found a metal spoon one of the townspeople had donated. The wooden utensils they’d been used to using weren’t much good on frozen food, and broke easily.

The problem with the metal utensils was that there was no way to properly clean them, and dysentery was running rampant throughout the companies. Taylor found a clump of snow that looked more or less white, and scrubbed the spoon.

Across the street, a group of GIs helped clear the rubble from a house that had fallen to an artillery shell. A pair of villagers helped while an older woman wept as they hauled out the remains of her possessions. One of the men handed her a picture frame.

She sat down on what was left of a wall and stared at the picture. She ran her fingers over the surface and quietly sobbed.

A small terrier broke from cover and ran across the street. The woman rose and called to him. The dog settled down and came to her with its tail tucked between its legs. She picked up her dog and whispering soft words to the terrified creature.

Taylor rubbed at his eyes.

“Must be the cold,” he muttered to himself.

Halfway through his meal of crackers, a couple of olives, and some half-frozen pork, one of the men from Baker Company found him.

“Sir, we need you to look at something,” Grillo said.

It was the fresh recruit who hadn’t lost it under pressure. He’d helped his fellow soldiers, and was one of the reasons they’d gotten back to Bastogne. Concern etched the man’s face—boy’s face, really. Taylor was going to put in for Private Grillo to have a field promotion to Corporal.

“What’s happening, Private?”

“Sir. There’s a bunch of Krauts coming our way, and there’s a few Americans with them.”

“Prisoners?”

“No, sir. They’re armed, and it looks like they’re siding with the enemy,” Grillo said.

“What in the Sam Hill?” Taylor said, and sucked down another chunk of half-thawed pork. “You sure about that?”

“Yes sir. Sergeant Pierce told me to find you.”

Taylor packed away his kit and slung his pack over his shoulder. He picked up his weapon and followed Grillo.

THIRTY-THREE

GRILLO

Grillo returned with the Captain in tow and dropped back into his position.

Before he’d left the seminary the nurse had given him some Sulpha tabs and told him to take them. She had warned him to drink as much water as he could get ahold of. In the early morning light, the men of Baker had started a fire to warm food and make coffee, so he’d melted a few cups of snow and drank the water, trying to ignore the little chunks of dirt in the bottom of the tin can. The smoky remains of the small campfire had nearly burned out but several of the men had removed their gloves and put their hands so close to the embers it looked like they’d get burned.

His side itched where he’d been hit the day before, but it had a fresh dressing. He didn’t complain. If Sergeant Pierce could shake off a bullet to the calf, Grillo wasn’t about to be a crybaby.

He checked his weapons while Taylor and Pierce consulted.

The mass of men had been growing by the minute. The woods were a few hundred yards away, and in the midst of the trees, figures moved around mysteriously. Since the SS officer had poked his head out, they hadn’t seen a single distinct shape since.

The morning was broken by the sound of artillery. Grillo hit the ground and tucked his legs close to his chin before realizing some of the guys were laughing at him.

“That’s us,” Shaw said.

Sure enough. Three rounds landed in the trees and blew holes in the cover. They must have missed, because there were no screams from wounded.

A pair of machine gun squads had set up on either side of their position. One of the gunners got anxious and fired into the tree line.

“Hold fire until we see them,” Pierce called, and leaned over to study the map that Captain Taylor had laid out on the ground.

“There!” Grillo said.

A squad of fifteen or twenty men moved out of the trees, and some of them wore the unmistakable clothing of American soldiers.

“Hold your fire,” Taylor yelled.

The enemy had other ideas, and a couple of men started firing in the general direction of Grillo and the rest of Baker Company. But they were horrible shots, and bullets whizzed overhead or hit the ground in front of them.

The machine gun squad got trigger happy again and decimated the men. They fell as .30 cal bullets tore into them. Then, just like clockwork, some of the men struggled to their feet again.

“I said hold that goddamn fire!” Taylor called.

“Sorry, sir,” one of the machine gunners called back.

Taylor shook his head and directed his attention back to the men who had fallen. He took out a pair of binoculars and studied the bodies.

A GI wearing the insignia of the 101st was among them.

“Christ,” Taylor said.

“Maybe they stole uniforms to fool us? I heard the Krauts had guys speaking perfect English and dressed like our guys causing a bunch of shit behind lines,” Pierce said.

“That true Sarge?” Grillo asked.

“Hard to believe but it’s true. Germans caused all kinds of disruptions by posing as military police and redirecting the Allied forces down the wrong roads. They’d even gone so far as to change signs, pointing out directions to towns around the offensive.”

“Here they come,” Shaw interrupted.

Grillo settled back behind his emplacement—a small ridge of rocks and dirt—and aimed his M1.

Captain Pierce didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

The mass coming at them was like nothing they’d seen before. Hundreds, maybe thousands of men poured out of the woods and advanced on the town of Bastogne.

Captain Taylor finally gave the command, but he didn’t sound happy about it.

“Open fire, men, and make sure that every time you shoot you drop a body. Got it?” Taylor said.

Grillo blew out a breath of steam and prepared for the assault.

A dozen soldiers peeled away from the main force and came in like they were being chased by a demon. They outpaced the others and ran straight at the emplacement.

“See the asshole in white?” Taylor said, pointing at the squad of German soldiers. “I want him. We’ve been asked to bring back a prisoner, and that’s our man.”

“Got him, sir,” a man said from his dugout.

“Grillo, Shaw, Perkins. You’re with me. We’re going to bring that son of a bitch alive,” Taylor said, and leapt out of the dugout.

“Sir, I’ll go. You stay here,” Pierce said.

“You can’t run worth a damn, Sergeant. I respect your tenacity, but you’ll be dead if you try to run on that leg,” Taylor said.

“But sir, you’re a Captain,” Pierce argued.

“A Captain who’s been in this war for two years, Sergeant. I know what Im doing,” Taylor said.

“It’s your funeral, Captain,” Pierce said.

“Say something nice at my graveside,” Taylor said. He nodded at Grillo and Shaw. “Got it, men? Everyone but the guy in white, and if anyone shoots me, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

Very disappointed? If they shoot us, we’re going to be very dead. Grillo’s stomach lurched in fear again, but he pushed it aside and followed the Captain onto the open battlefield.

THIRTY-FOUR

BEHR

Behr’s world had finally found some semblance of sanity. His mind roared with anger and he raged to be let loose, but the SS officer had gathered the force as they’d moved through the woods. Now, with an army of men to rival anything he’d seen in the war, they would launch the attack.

His teeth hurt, because he wished them to be tearing into flesh.

The city lay ahead, and there were fresh bodies to add to the horde.

His senses were dulled to the point of feeling like his body was frozen. It reacted to his commands, but he was slower than he’d ever been in his life.

He carried his machine gun, but his fingers were so cold so that he was no longer able to fire.

Behr now gripped a knife, and intended to use it against the warm bodies.

So many bodies.

Finally, the SS officer pointed at the city and nodded.

Together with the men he’d gathered over the last day, he advanced on the city.

THIRTY-FIVE

COLEY

“This is not right,” von Boeselager said as they broke the line of trees.

“Sheeeeyit,” one of the men from another jeep called. “Ain’t nothing been right in days. I should be relaxing in a barracks right now and watching the same movie I’ve seen six times. I read a tourist brochure that said this was the perfect location for winter sports. Worst sports I’ve ever seen.”

Since yesterday morning, Lieutenant Coley had been in a bad spot, but he’d known what to do. He’d trained for months before being deployed to the Europe. Now, though, he was caught behind enemy lines and facing an overwhelming force.

Not to mention, he had German POWs in the jeeps and he had no idea where to take them. He wished the radios hadn’t been left in their haste to escape and the one that had been shot all to hell and was completely inoperable.

Some of the Krauts turned to investigate the sound of the jeeps. White eyes focused on the Americans. A few turned to engage, but they carried no weapons. A group peeled away from the mass of men and moved at a fast clip toward them, weapons lowered, dickhead helmets firmly over heads. Clothing covered in mud, blood, and filth.

“Sir?” Tramble said.

“Goddamn, that’s a lot of enemies,” Coley said. “Let’s get the jeeps turned around and back into the woods. We’ll lose them.”

“Lieutenant,” Owen called from the jeep behind his. “That’s Bastogne, and our guys are dug in around it.”

Three of his men hopped down from the jeeps and opened up on a squad of Germans that had taken an interest in them. They used the jeep for cover, and dropped Krauts with careful fire.

Coley dug out his binoculars and found an emplacement with men looking back toward him. They had a machine gun squad pouring lead into a mass of Germans. If he could get the men around this mess, he’d be able to come up on their right flank and offer assistance.

“Tramble. See that road that leads back into the woods?” Coley pointed to the east.

“Not much of a road,” Tramble confirmed. “More like a trail.”

“Let’s make for it, and then we’ll cut out of the woods. In a few minutes we’ll be able to break free of the trees and close in on the city.”

“You got it, sir,” Tramble said, and dropped the jeep into gear.

Men hopped back into their jeeps and followed.

They ran into a clump of Germans a few minutes later, and drove around them. One of the men lowered a submachine gun and opened up, but his shots were way off target. Jones shot the man, and hit him in the midsection. The German sat down, but then struggled back to his feet.

Von Boeselager said something in German that sounded like his mother would box his ears if she’d heard him.

They wove around the Krauts, but they were now off the little trail. Tramble had to slow down to a crawl and pick out sections of snow-laden trees to drive between. He got them stuck once, and they lost a precious minute backing up out of a bowl and finding a new path.

The edge of the trees was ahead, but the space between a pair of towering pines was too small. Tramble swerved to the right and hit a massive copse of blackberry bushes. The jeep ripped free and they carved a path, but not before Coley got one of his gloves nearly ripped off by a prickly thorn. He fought the brush and managed to get loose.

Clear ground lay ahead, but there were a number of Germans in the way. They’d assembled around a piece of mortar equipment, but they weren’t manning it. The series of tubes lay cold on the ground, but the Krauts seemed unable to figure out how to fire.

Von Boeselager shouted something in German. The men turned, and Coley shot one in the face. As they broke free of the forest, they swerved around the emplacement. One of the men in the jeep behind them tossed a grenade at the mortar crew and blew a hole in their ranks.

They were a quarter mile from the Allies, and with the exception of the harsh terrain, the path was clear.

Tramble pushed the jeep up to speed until they came into view of the town through the mist.

“We’re gonna make it, sir,” Tramble shouted over the roar of the engines.

Then he slumped in the seat, and the jeep tipped to the side as the Corporal fell across the steering wheel.

“Goddamnit!” Coley flew out of the jeep and landed against a clump of ground and snow. The breath left his body and he saw stars.

Von Boeselager fell next to him, and the two men stared at each other as Coley’s gun landed between them. The German soldier pushed the gun toward Coley, then put his hands close to his body.

The German wasn’t the problem. One of the men from their own line had shot Tramble through the chest.

THIRTY-SIX

GRAVES

“We lost the tread. We’re going to be running around in circles,” Murph called.

Graves had felt it, and knew they were in a tight spot. With the enemy closing in on all sides, they’d have to act fast if they wanted to get out of here alive.

They might be able to hold out against the Germans if they could stay buttoned up, but there was no guarantee the crazed Krauts wouldn’t remember how to fight. A Panzerschreck team would be able to take their time, line up a shot, and decimate the tank in a few seconds, and they’d never see it coming, thanks to all of the tree cover.

Graves had an idea that would probably get them all killed anyway. He rotated the periscope and checked out the German truck.

“Murph, you still got your brother’s memento in your pack?” Graves asked.

Germans swarmed up the side of the tank and pounded at the hatches. Gunshots sounded, but lead struck the thick hull and buzzed away harmlessly.

“Of course. Wouldn’t go anywhere without it,” Murph said.

Worry etched the man’s face. Big Texas grabbed his Thompson and chambered a round. He dug out magazines and stuffed them into his pockets.

“How many grenades we got?” Graves asked.

The men did a quick inventory and came up with a nine and split them up while Graves outlined his plan.

“Pretty sure we’re all about to get killed,” Big Texas drawled.

“Maybe, but it’s better than sitting in this tank waiting for the Germans to carve us open like a tin can,” Graves said.

“Why don’t we play dead?” Gabby asked.

“We do that, and the Staff Sergeant is right,” Murph interjected. “Someone’s going to want to check out this lonely American tank and see if there’s anything salvageable. They might just shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Alright, gentleman, and I use that word loosely,” Graves said.

“That wasn’t funny the first time you used that line, Staff Sergeant,” Murph said. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air.

“You’re going out with a Chesterfield in your mouth? That the plan?”

“Only way I’m going to die,” Murph said between tobacco-stained teeth. “Ain’t had a proper Camel in weeks.”

“You all know the plan,” Staff Sargent Graves said to his men. “Ready?”

The men nodded their heads and got into position.

“On three. One, two…” he barely got the last number out before they moved.

Graves slammed open his hatch and shot a Kraut in the face. The man had been in the process of slamming a rock against the hull like a goddamn caveman.

He tossed a grenade into a mass of Germans on the ground. They’d surrounded the tank and were clawing at each other to reach the armored vehicle. Graves ducked back into the tank as the pineapple exploded and shredded Kruats.

La Rue popped out of his portal and batted aside a Wehrmacht soldier, knocking him off the side of the tank. He fired with his Thompson and mowed down three of the men attacking the Sherman.

Gabby dug out his M3, “grease gun”, and opened his hatch. He cleared a few Germans, then clambered up on top of the tank. They made a beeline over the back, sliding over partially-shattered logs and the chains holding the extra armor in place.

The jagged wood tore at Graves’ clothing and cut his back.

He ignored the pain and kicked a Kraut in the face. He’d been coming up the rear of the tank, a Luger in hand.

Murph had already slithered out of the hatch in the floor of the tank. He used a gun and liberally fired at the legs of Germans crowding around the back of the Sherman.

Graves leapt onto the back of the German half-track and found three soldiers on the floor. They’d taken damage from gun fire and withered on the hard metal. He shot one in the head, but another grabbed at his foot and yanked. Graves smacked his head against the side of the vehicle and bit his tongue.

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.

Next to his head he found what he was looking for. One of his legs. It had been shredded by shrapnel and then completely ripped off.

Behr had been growing colder by the second.

Very cold.

Behr blinked once then his eyes locked open and he passed from this world.

THIRTY-NINE

COLEY

Tramble looked at Coley, eyes pleading. He touched his chest and bucked once, body lifting off the seat before settling down again. A bubble of blood formed on his lips then his eyes closed.

He didn’t move again.

“Stop shooting at us!” Coley tried to yell, but he’d been dazed after being tossed out of the jeep like a ragdoll.

Von Boeselager helped Coley up, and the men took shelter behind the vehicle. The others had come to a halt behind them, and men poured out of their transports and pointed guns in the direction of the Allied line.

To their left, the force of Germans had taken an interest in them, and some shifted to advance on their position.

Coley coughed and tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue. He poked his head over the side of the jeep to take in what was happening. They’d been fired on by their own men. If they stayed here for much longer, they wouldn’t stand a chance. They were already sitting ducks.

He made a hasty decision, and prayed it would work.

“Men. Stow your weapons and put your hands in the air. Yell ‘surrender’ at the top of your lungs and move toward the line in single file. I’ll take the lead.” Coley said then leaned to the side and spit out blood.

He knew he’d be the first one to get shot, but he set the example and slung the Thompson over his shoulder. He lifted his hands high in the air and stepped around the jeep, yelling that he was surrendering at the top of his lungs.

Behind him, a mass of Germans closed in. There were only twenty-five yards between the enemy and their location.

He walked at a fast clip and the rest of his men fell in line, yelling that they were surrendering, which was the stupidest fucking thing he’d ever heard in his life. Surrendering to their own forces was beyond madness.

Several men left their dugouts and advanced on the men, with guns lowered and ready to kill.

The first man to arrive was a Sergeant, who took in the men with a quick glance.

“Sir, thought you were the enemy. We’ve seen our guys working with the Germans back there.” The man nodded at the advancing force.

“We’ll deal with it later. Right now I need my men safe. We have POWs who may have vital information about what’s been happening. Tell your men to stop shooting. You already killed one of my Corporals.”

“Ah, Christ, sir. I’m real sorry about that.”

Coley was mad as hell. They’d shot Tramble, and now the man’s body was in the snow, and there was no way to go back for him.

“We didn’t know,” the man reassured him. He looked harried and exhausted. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his eyes were lined by dark bags.

Coley shook his head and didn’t say another word. He led the way as he struggled over packed snow to reach the Allied line. When they found a dugout to take cover in, his men spread out and joined the ranks. Von Boeselager and two of his men stuck close, but kept their hands on their heads.

Coley turned to look at his jeeps, and found they’d been completely swarmed by figures in white and brown. Some of them started shooting at the Allies, so the men around him returned fire.

Then the forest erupted as thousands of Germans advanced on their position.

FORTY

GRAVES

Graves bounced up and down as the half-track ripped over a pocketed road until they came into view of the city. They were approaching from the north, and there were forces of the Allies clustered around the remains of the shattered walls and bombed-out buildings. Gunfire rippled along the line, and artillery started to boom from inside Bastogne.

From the western flank came a group of the enemies that was hard to fathom. Thousands of men poured out of the woods, scrambled over foxholes, and pounded over roads. The majority of the force were not returning fire. There were no carefully-placed machine gun squads covering the men. Mortars weren’t firing back. It was simply a mass of humanity assaulting a vastly outnumbered force, much like he’d seen assaulting their tank.

“My god. Do we even want to be rescued?” Murph said from the driver seat.

Graves swung the big-mounted machine gun around and prepared to fire on the enemy.

Bullets ricocheted off the half-track, forcing Graves and Gabby to duck.

A bazooka sounded, and the explosive sailed past their vehicle.

“Murphy! Remember when I told you to bring your pack? Well get that damn flag out and wave it like it’s on fire!” Graves howled.

“If it was on fire, they’d shoot us all to death,” Murphy said.

Murph swung his pack off and dug around inside. His brother had been killed at Normandy, and he’d been carrying big American flag as a memento of his brother’s sacrifice.

He unfurled it in the whipping wind and held it aloft. Graves reached for the other side of the flag, but it flapped just out of grasp as more bullets whizzed around them.

Graves finally got his fingers around the other end, and together they lifted the flag over the top of the half-track as it raced toward the Allied line.

“We’re going to get shot,” Murph said over the roaring wind and engine.

Graves found it hard to argue. On the cold metal beneath them, the body of their tank gunner, Tom “Big Texas” LaRue lay in the cold. Murph was right: they’d likely join him, in the coming moments.

Rounds hit the half-track, and one pierced the American flag. Murph ducked, but Graves urged him back to his feet. They got up higher, stepping on the benches on either side of the half-track’s interior slopped walls. The rounds stopped smacking armor.

They pulled in before a dug-in platoon of Army infantry.

It kept guns cautiously trained on Graves and his men.

Graves called down his identification, and cursed the lack of radio communications today. He’d left his notebook in the Sherman and he couldn’t remember the exact daily password. Lemon? Was it Tripoli? A harried officer who looked green greeted them. His uniform was spotless and his army jacket showed signs of little rolling around in the dirt, unlike most of his men.

“I’m Lieutenant Calhoun. Mind telling me how in the hell you men ended up in a German half-track? In fact, how do we know you’re actually Americans?”

“What else would we be, sir?” Graves said in confusion.

“Had reports of German forces fucking around behind our lines. Changing signs around and pointing divisions in the wrong directions.”

“Well, we’re not Krauts,” Graves said, and fumbled around his pockets until he found his wallet and tossed it to the officer.

The Lieutenant flipped through it and tossed it back.

“You men want to help? Park that half-track there,” he said, pointing at a break in the wall. “And keep the Krauts from getting too close.”

“You got it, sir. Shouldn’t we report in first, though?” Graves asked.

“No time. We’re about to be overrun by thousands of Germans. Even if every man fired nonstop, we’d never pick them all off before we were swarmed.”

“So why fight at all?” Murph interjected. “We should be packing it in.”

“Because it’s about to bet ugly and we’re all that’s protecting the city,” the Lieutenant said.

“Whole damn war’s ugly,” Graves said, looking at the corpse of Big Texas.

FORTY-ONE

COLEY

They came at the front line like a mob. Hundreds of Germans mixed with Allied soldiers stalked across the ground. An army of flesh and clothes that couldn’t remember how to use their weapons. Hundreds led the charge, but there were many thousands behind.

Officers yelled across the assembled men to pick targets carefully. Coley and his squad had been on the run for over twenty-four hours. They hadn’t slept at all, and now they were being tossed right back into the cauldron.

The German POWs were placed under guard, but the men didn’t put up a fight. They kept their mouths shut and watched with grim faces as their own forces came at the Americans.

After a slim resupply effort, they had enough rounds to assist, but there weren’t enough bullets to go around. The artillery had shifted again, and began to rain hell on the enemy, opening up huge swaths of carnage while punching fresh holes in the ground.

Bodies and debris exploded and were tossed into the air. The sound of the bombardment reminded him of how they’d been awoken yesterday. He wanted to go find a hole to hide in, and come back when this was all over.

But he was an officer in the United States Army, and this was his place. Among his men. What didn’t fit into the equation were the automatons that were attacking. They’d seen this and he’d rushed back to report that they’d been attacked by a force of Nazis just like this.

His squad gathered around him and started to pour firepower on the advancing horde.

“S’like a bunch of damn zombies, sir!” Harpham shouted over the noise.

“Like a what?”

“Seen this movie a couple of years ago at the cinema, called King of the Zombies. These guys are acting like zombies.”

“You think Hitler invested technology in voodoo mysticism and this is the result?” Coley said.

“I don’t know a damn thing about voodoo, sir, but look at them. Most of the soldiers don’t fight, they just walk. Mindless. Like, you know, zombies.”

A blast of machine gun fire made them hunker down. A GI a few feet away slumped to the dirt with a hole in his helmet, and stared at the sky.

“That looks like bullets to me, Private,” Coley said.

“No tactics. No order. They’re just imitating what they did before they got turned,” Harpham said.

Voodoo? That was crazy talk.

But there was no denying what he was seeing. There was no way to hide from this force. During his brief engagement with German soldiers, they’d shown more or less sound tactics, but this was not even organized chaos.

Coley poked his head back over the top of the hastily-dug hole and put a requisitioned M1 to his shoulder. He aimed and fired until the clip sang as it sailed into the air.

The men around them loaded, fired, and loaded again, but it had little effect on the mass of men that were coming at them.

He dug out another clip, and thought very carefully about how much ammunition he had left. They weren’t going to be able to stop army. There simply weren’t enough men, weapons, and ammo.

FORTY-TWO

GRILLO

Grillo, Captain Taylor, and Shaw hit the dirt as rounds ricocheted around them. They’d managed to secure the POW, but the German was a handful. The man was strong but slow. It took the three of them to wrestle him over onto his stomach. A couple of MPs joined the effort and got the man secured before they hauled him off.

“Nice work, men,” Captain Taylor said.

Grillo sucked in deep breaths and wondered how much worse this was going to get. He peeked over the barricade and swore.

A lot worse.

There was no end to the advancing enemy. They came at the thin line and were cut down, but for every Kraut they shot, there were three to take his place. Grillo slung his M1 around and took careful aim.

He shot a pair of Germans, then shifted his aim, but there was an American soldier in his sights. He paused, unsure if he could shoot one of his own guys. Then someone did the deed for him, and the man dropped.

Shaw stated the obvious. “Jesus Christ. There’s too many of them!”

With the assistance of villagers, some of the Americans had started to build fortifications behind them, next to the low walls and buildings of the town.

Everything that could work as a barricade was added to the task. They dragged out dressers, tables, chairs, sections of fence, and chunks of buildings. The wall took shape, but there wasn’t enough manpower to create a barricade long enough to hold this force back.

Grillo fired until his gun ran empty, then dug out his last clip. He reloaded, and picked his targets more carefully.

Only twenty yards separated the men from the Krauts.

He heard a scream to his left, and hazarded a look: a forward foxhole filled with GIs—all of whom were packing it up to fall back—came under direct attack. A soldier dressed in white ran toward them, shrugging off several shots.

He fell onto the men and went after them with his hands and a knife. One of the American soldiers shot him in the head, but it was too late. A force of a dozen or more descended on the emplacement and overwhelmed them.

One of the GIs got free and ran.

The rest screamed and fought, but it appeared to be too late for them.

An officer ran from behind the barricade and yelled “Fall back!”

Grillo didn’t need to be told twice. He rose to his feet and with Shaw and Captain Taylor on either side, made for the city.

FORTY-THREE

GRAVES

Graves and his men dug out ammo cases from the back of the German half-track. They found a box of potato mashers and put it on the edge of the vehicle. GIs snatched them up and turned the explosives against the men who’d planned to carry them into battle against the Allies.

When they’d arrived, a couple of soldiers had placed Big Texas’s body on a stretcher and carried him away to join rows of others who lay next to the remains of an aid station. Cold lumps under the blankets and snow. Graves and his men didn’t have time to offer a proper goodbye. The battle was already under way.

Explosions ripped holes in the lines, but it was too little to stop the force.

The unmistakable sound of tanks came from the direction of the city. He turned and grinned as a pair of Shermans rolled onto the battlefield.

The vehicles tore across the ground and right into a group of Germans, then kept on going. The two machine gunners worked the front guns while a tank commander sticking out of their hatches laid into the Krauts with the .50 cal.

“Wish we were in one of those tanks. I’d do some serious ass-kicking and then hightail it back to the front,” Murph said.

“This is the front,” Graves observed.

“Ain’t no front like I ever seen,” Murph said.

Gabby worked on the Kraut machine gun mounted on the half-track until he figured it out, then fed it ammo. He opened up and ripped a forward line of Germans to shreds. The gun jammed, so he fought it with curses and then got it firing again.

“We’re falling back,” someone yelled.

Graves and Murph took one look at each other.

“Get us rolling, Gabby, Murph you’re back on the machine gun. And leave that American flag draped over the front so no one mistakes us,” Graves ordered.

“You got it. No sense in giving up a fine military machine like this beast,” Gabby said, and slapped the top.

The half-track backed up, then followed the Americans retreating back to the city.

FORTY-FOUR

GRILLO

The fighting wore on throughout the day. Piles and piles of enemy bodies made obstacles for the oncoming force, but it barely slowed down the relentless army.

Grillo was relieved when the word came to continue falling back into the city. Villages joined the fight, using whatever weapons they could get their hands on: kitchen knives, shovels, and one burly Belgian swung a sledgehammer left and right as he covered a score of retreating women and children.

He put up a fight, but was eventually taken to the ground. The people he’d been covering ran, but some of them weren’t able to get away.

Grillo and his men fired until they were out of ammo, but it was too late for the women and children. He fought back tears as he was ordered to withdraw. He came across a GI who’d been ripped apart and took the man’s Thompson and his ammo. His new M1 was out of ammo so he left it next to the corpse.

As he dug out a pair of magazines and one grenade, the guy reached for him. The presumably dead GI’s eyes had turned white, and he made a low, keening noise that hissed through his shattered throat. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and turned Grillo’s stomach upside down.

When he’d recovered from vomiting, Pierce and Shaw grabbed his arms and urged him on. Pierce had been limping along, aiding when he could, but his leg was clearly paining him.

Captain Taylor had been conferring with command when he found the remains of Able and Baker companies.

“Grillo. Is it true you’re a combat engineer?”

“Yes sir,” Grillo said. “Orders got fouled up on my way to Europe.”

“Perfect. We need you. As soon as we secure a ride, we’re planning a surprise for the Krauts.”

“Kinda surprise, sir?” Sergeant Pierce asked.

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now, would it? Okay, Corporal Grillo. You’re with me,” Taylor said.

“I’m a Private, sir.”

“Not any more. Field promotion. Congratulations,” Captain Taylor said, then sauntered off.

Grillo fought a smile and followed, but not before he wiped the vomit off his mouth.

FORTY-FIVE

GRAVES

The half-track covered the retreating Allies. Gabby roared with anger as he laid down fire. They’d become trapped in a tiny alley with barely enough room to clear either side. But they slowed to a crawl, to effect a moving roadblock. The bastards kept on coming, no matter how many bullets he shot.

Murph had argued that he was a tank driver and should be in the driver seat. Gabby had said, “All yours. I’ll go shoot Krauts. Pain in the ass driving with the steering wheel on the wrong side, anyway.”

The men had swapped positions, and Gabby had been true to his word. He unleashed wave after wave of German lead back at the pursuing forces.

With boxes of ammo and weapons left by the Germans, they were able to provide a safe retreat. Villagers joined the army and moved among them, but never at a fast enough pace. They carried suitcases and boxes of belongings. Many clutched children close. An elderly couple tossed aside their items and insisted on holding hands as they wove among the refugees.

“This is so FUBAR, Staff Sergeant,” Gabby said as he reloaded the German machine gun with the last of the ammo.

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” Graves said.

“What about Big Texas? We left his body back there,” Gabby said.

“We can’t do anything about it now,” Graves said.

“I know. Just a shame. Should have kept him in the half-track with us. We’d have taken care of him as soon as we were safe.”

“If we manage to find a safe place, I’ll say a prayer for him. Right now I’m busy praying for us,” Graves said grimly.

FORTY-SIX

COLEY

The German POWs had been kept under guard during the engagement, before Coley had made the argument that they could help. The Americans were naturally distrustful of the Krauts, and there had been many whispers about Malmade as well as murmurs that the men should be shot.

Von Boeselager had made the move to approach him and offer his comrades’ services. Coley had to scratch his head and consider the German officer very carefully. A day ago, this asshole had been interested in shooting Coley’s men. Now they wanted to shoot at their own guys.

“You see how strange that sounds, right? You want weapons to fight your own men?”

“These are not sons of the Fatherland. These are not sons of any man. These are monsters,” von Boeselager had said as fire poured into the advancing force.

“You guys could turn your guns against us and escape,” Coley had said.

“And go where, Lieutenant? Where do we go after we escape? The only thing that awaits us then is death or collusion with those beasts. We will fight to survive, and surrender our weapons when asked.”

“Your word as an officer?”

“Yes. My word as an officer and a soldier of the Third Reich.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you,” Coley had said.

Lieutenant Coley didn’t have much time to think about the repercussions. Instead, he made the decision himself: he ordered them to be given weapons but limited ammo.

Later in the day, the decision proved to be a smart one.

FORTY-SEVEN

TAYLOR

“You men!” Taylor yelled. “Where’d you get that vehicle?”

The German half-track was a sight that almost sent him diving for cover. But someone had dropped a flag across the front, and there were GIs in the vehicle. They’d been driving down a small road and nearly run into an alley before stopping, backing up, and finding the road again.

“Long story, Captain,” a man carrying a German machine gun said. “I’m Staff Sergeant Graves, formerly a tanker attached to the 37th Tank Division, 4th Armored Division. We got overrun, and had to borrow this beauty.”

“You lost your tank?”

“Like I said, Captain. Long damn story.”

“Save it. I need transport to the southeastern entrance to Bastogne.”

“Hop in, Captain. We’re headed that way,” Graves said.

Taylor and Grillo slid over the back of the half-track and took seats while they made hasty introductions.

“We need to make a stop at the supply depot. I’ll point the way,” Taylor said.

“What about these civilians?” Graves said.

“This mission will save a lot of lives, provided we can get there in time,” Taylor said.

“Hear that, Murph? Got us a mission now.”

Murph grunted, but kept his eyes glued on the advancing horde.

FORTY-EIGHT

COLEY

Von Boeselager and his men didn’t turn their weapons on the Allies. They kept on task and followed orders. There was something about the way went about it, though; a cold relentlessness that reminded Coley he was seeing the German infantrymen in action for the first time, instead of trying to outflank or shoot them.

They worked closely together, and called out frequent smatterings of German. Coley was no linguist like some of the translators, but he’d studied German in school and could pick out a word or two here and there.

They’d fallen back to the remains of an old church, and stopped for a rest break. Coley and his men stood in one corner, von Boeselager and his men in another. The two forces kept a wary eye on each other.

“We got movement, Lieutenant,” Shaw reported. They’d dispatched a pair of scouts, and the men were now back, looking harried.

“How long ’til they get here?”

“A force of a few hundred are heading in this direction. They ran down a bunch of villagers lugging boxes and crates. Took them all down, sir. Relentless. We tried to stop them, but we just didn’t have the manpower,” Shaw reported evenly. “Figure they’ll be here in a five minutes, unless we can drop a couple of artillery shells on them.”

“Our orders are to assist with the pullout of all forces. Let’s go, men,” Coley said.

They spread out and left the church, but quickly ran into a dozen SS. The bastards were covered in blood and debris. One of them carried a machine gun, and fired on Coley’s men. They fired back and took his head off.

“Double-time, let’s go,” Coley ordered, and led the small team towards the rear of the town.

FORTY-NINE

GRILLO

He’d never seen so much demolition in one place. He’d had the other men help him load rows of twenty-two pound satchel charges into the back of the half-track while Staff Sergeant Graves kept them covered with the Kraut machine gun. They’d outpaced the rest of the force fleeing the city, only to find themselves on a side road, and having to backtrack.

The trip through the rest of the city had been harrowing. They’d found clumps of civilians blocking entire roads. The people of Bastogne seemed to be trying to flee with all of their earthly possessions.

After a group of men, women, and children were run down and massacred by the crazed Germans, the villagers got the idea and abandoned their belongings in favor of a faster escape. It made for a frustrating journey.

“Here,” Captain Taylor yelled.

They’d run into a squad of Americans directing traffic out of the city. A deuce and a half rumbled next to a building. Men moved boxes out and stacked them on the ground. When Grillo got down from the German truck, he was relieved to see others with demolition patches on their uniforms.

“You the other guy?” a man named Lyris said.

Lyris’ uniform and thick field jacket looked like they’d just been pulled out of a bag. He even had creases on his pants.

“Yeah. 101st, Baker Company, but I got assigned to the wrong outfit. Demolition engineer.”

“Great. We got most of the explosives deployed, and Ankers over there,” he waved at a man who hunkered over a bale of wire, “is running cable. Can you get all of this into that building?” Lyris pointed at a two-story complex that probably housed apartments.

Grillo nodded, and took a few steps back to take in the the tall buildings. It’d work, but only if they could get the explosives set correctly. That, or put so much in place it would blow the structure into tiny pieces. The rubble wouldn’t stop the Germans, so they needed to drop the building correctly and create a wall. Then again, it might just destroy this entire block and a lot of civilians.

“How much help can you spare?”

“None,” Lyris said. “You’re on your own. You got some strong backs in the Kraut truck. Load her up.”

Grillo nodded. “No problem, Sergeant Lyris. I’ll make it count.”

“Make it count, or just blow up a million Krauts. Don’t matter much to me either way.”

Trucks rolled past them on their way out of Bastogne, with soldiers and civilians close behind. While the MPs tried to keep order, there was a panic that was setting in. Every face that passed them was harried. People looked over their shoulders in fear.

Grillo scrambled up the remains of the building that had been partially destroyed, and surveyed the route the Army was using to get everyone out of the city. He found a natural choke point and dropped back to the ground.

“Captain. I need a couple of guys,” Grillo said.

Captain Taylor nodded and pointed out Shaw, Wayne, and Hough. He knew Shaw and Wayne. Hough was from Able Company. He was about Grillo’s age, and looked as green as Grillo felt. He wondered what had become of the guys he’d arrived with on the back of the truck a few days ago. Were any of them still alive?

“You men. Corporal Grillo is going to need your help. We’re going to provide covering fire while you get that demo set up.”

“Don’t know nothing about blowing stuff up, sir,” Hough said and pushed his GI helmet back to wipe a line of sweat off his forehead.

“That makes two of us. Just do what Grillo needs and we’ll get out of this, right, Corporal?”

“Yes sir,” Grillo said.

Later, he’d wish he could take back those words.

FIFTY

COLEY

Coley and his crew came across a pair of black soldiers struggling to get an M45 Quadmount anti-aircraft gun turned around.

“Need help?” Coley called.

“You bet, Lieutenant,” one of the men said. “I’m Audley and this is Higgins. We’re with the The 969th Field Artillery Battalion. We got overrun and lost our guns. Figured we’d requisition this fine piece of weaponry and setup a roadblock.”

“Damn fine figuring,” Coley said.

They gathered around the gun and maneuvered it the the edge of a street intersection, over some rubble, and down a short alley. The gun was monstrously heavy. It had a hitch and could be towed, but there was no time to get it attached to a truck.

“What happened to the crew for this beast?” Coley said.

“Don’t know, sir. Up and left, I guess,” Audley said and looked over the controls. “What you all doing with those Krauts?”

“They’re on our side for now,” Coley reassured the men.

Higgins and Audley looked the Germans over, and didn’t appear convinced.

“Know how to use it?”

“More or less. Point and shoot,” Audley said as he studied the machine. He flipped a switch and a battery powered engine hummed to life.

They got it lined up on a wide road, and Audley hopped in the turret and fiddled with the firing mechanism until the four guns moved on their electronically-powered axis.

“Just in time, here they come,” Coley said.

His men lined up alongside the big gun and took up weapons.

“Remember, Audley. Fire in bursts. Top guns, then bottom. Let ’em cool,” Higgins said.

“I know what I’m doing,” Audley said. “Sorta.”

A group of civilians pounded up the road, a force of Germans right behind them.

“Out of the way!” Coley yelled.

Seeing help, the civilians ran straight at the Americans.

“Ah, shit. Wait till they clear, Audley,” Higgins said.

“Ain’t gonna shoot no Belgians,” Audley said. “What are you, my mother?”

Coley’s men took aim and picked off Germans when they could. The civilians got the idea, and cleared a path.

Then the M4 Quadmount fired.

The top guns belted out .50 caliber rounds designed to shoot airplanes out of the air and decimated the forward ranks. The Germans didn’t drop; they blew apart. Blood misted and body parts flew. The Krauts didn’t change direction. They didn’t dive for cover. They stepped over their comrades’ bodies and kept up a pretty convincing imitation of a goosestep toward the gunner’s location.

Audley stopped firing the top two guns and opened up with the bottom pair. He fired quick bursts, then shifted aim slightly to take out more of the advancing army.

Along with von Boeselager and the remains of his squad, Coley and his men covered the side roads and popped rounds off at any flanking maneuvers. Not that Coley would call the mass of Nazis anything like coordinated.

He reached for another clip and found none.

“Shit, I’m out,” Coley said, patting at his pockets.

He backed up and went for his sidearm. A force of eight Germans had found a cross street and advanced on them. One of the men carried a flamethrower, but it wasn’t lit. He lowered it and pushed the trigger, but nothing happened.

“I got ’em, sir,” one of his guys said, and popped a grenade.

“No, wait!” Coley shouted, but it was too late. The grenade was already sailing toward the mass of men.

FIFTY-ONE

GRILLO

Grillo and his companions had mounted as many satchel charges as they could. Chaos was all around them, with villagers and soldiers alike streaming through the city. He had to carefully weave the primacord with square knots—a simple but frustrating task, thanks to the cold. His fingers were stiff, and his limbs ached from the long night and morning of fighting.

The twenty-two pound satchel charges had been arrayed against walls in two buildings so the blast would blow outward. With any luck, the rest of the walls would follow suit and collapse with the blast.

Grillo’s side itched where the bandaging had come loose. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to stop the irritating bindings from slipping any farther down his ribs.

“Clear the street!” Captain Taylor yelled, gesturing left and right.

Somewhere to the northeast, a huge gun pounded. Grenades exploded on the streets surrounding them, and small arms fire joined the cacophony.

Grillo backed up, playing out wire. He stumbled over a piece of rubble and landed hard on his backside. He got back up and continued his slow walk.

Captain Taylor joined Grillo, and helped string the wire.

“How we doing, Corporal?” the Captain said.

“Good, sir. Strange to be called Corporal,” Grillo said.

He wouldn’t have a chance to sew his new rank onto his uniforms for a while, assuming he even survived. At this rate, they were going to be overrun in minutes. The delaying action he was effecting would do little to stem the tide, but it might buy them some time.

Grillo played out more wire, and found the doorway they’d designated as their cover for the explosion. He picked up the detonator and attached the cord.

“We’re out of time, Corporal,” Taylor said, and pointed.

Grillo peeked out of the doorway and found hundreds of the crazed Germans flooding the main street.

“Should be ready, sir.”

“Wait,” Graves yelled. “There’s a pair of kids.”

He slid off the back of the half-track with one of the other tankers. They rounded the vehicle and ran toward the pair.

The little ones were no older than ten, and bundled up against the cold. They held hands as they picked their way over the rubble in the street.

“Get back here!” Captain Taylor yelled.

Grillo put his hand on the handle. Just a twist and he’d be creating one hell of a big bang. He’d also kill the two little ones, Graves, and the other guy. He looked at the Captain for orders, unsure if he’d be able to detonate the explosives even if Taylor gave the order.

FIFTY-TWO

COLEY

Coley dove behind the remains of a low wall. The blast shook the ground, and flames rushed over his body. He rolled over and over, hoping his clothing wasn’t on fire. The heat had been so intense that the hairs on the back of his head had ignited, burning to the skin.

Von Boeselager smacked Coley’s back in places to put out small flames. All in all, Coley felt like a damn marshmallow that’d been held over a campfire.

The anti-aircraft gun had fallen silent. When Coley regained his feet, Audley and Higgins were already moving away from it.

Audley pointed at the remains of the army that had been stumbling down the street. “I don’t think there’s time to drag more ammo over here to reload the M4. We done enough.”

Piles of bodies and pieces of men blocked most of the access point.

“Right. Fall back, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Coley said.

His voice was hoarse. He remembered that he’d been screaming when the flamethrower had exploded.

He limped, but von Boeselager was there to help. He draped Coley’s arm over his shoulder, and together the mixed company retreated.

FIFTY-THREE

GRAVES

It wasn’t even a question of his own safety. Graves had made up his mind the second he’d seen the two children. They were innocent victims of this war, and that was one of the reasons he was here: not just to fight, but to provide relief to the people of Europe.

He pounded over the hard road until he slipped and slid across a patch of ice. Murph had been close behind, and steadied Graves. They reached the children and snatched one up.

The Germans were mere feet away.

Something snagged his foot and he fell, but twisted to the side so he didn’t crush the child. She held onto him, eyes wide and terrified as Graves picked her up and turned to run.

Captain Taylor came to their side. He fired his Colt .45, and when he ran dry, he dug out a fresh magazine and slammed it home.

Three Germans attacked.

Graves had no choice but to fight. He got his foot up and kicked a soldier in the chest. The man had white eyes, and his mouth was covered in blood. Lips drew back from red-stained teeth. He was bigger than Graves by about thirty pounds. Graves freed an arm and punched the man in the face, but it was like hitting a side of beef. He got ahold of the Kraut’s jacket, twisted the soldier to the side, then rolled with the momentum, taking the enemy with him. He almost lost his hold on the girl but she put her arms around his neck and held on.

The Captain killed one of the men with a shot to the head.

The other German soldier got a grip on Graves’s pant leg and pulled.

The little girl said something in French that Graves didn’t understand. She had tears in her eyes and her voice was plaintive—begging him, if he had to guess, to get up.

“Ain’t going out like this,” he roared, and kicked the soldier in the head. He didn’t get a lot behind the blow because he was scared half to death and the action was almost mechanical.

The man got to his hands and knees, then pushed himself up until he stood, unsteady on his feet. The German soldier’s front was covered in blood and debris. His eyes were white and Graves struggled away, kicking his feet across the ground to get some distance.

Captain Taylor shot the man in the face, then turned his weapon on the soldier that had pushed Murph aside. Taylor fired, but his gun clicked on empty and he fell beneath the Kraut.

Graves managed to get back on his feet, and pushed the little girl behind him. Murphy carried the boy. He’d outpaced the men, but paused when he’d seen Graves and the Captain in trouble.

“Go!” Captain Taylor yelled.

A dozen Germans stumbled into the fracas and fell on the Captain. Taylor screamed, but fought tooth and nail to get loose. Half of his face was torn off, leaving muscle and teeth exposed.

“Blow it, blow it!” the Captain yelled.

There was nothing he could do. Graves spun, picked up the kid, and ran after Murphy like the devil was on his tail.

FIFTY-FOUR

COLEY

They struggled through the debris and found a side street, but there were dozens of enemies waiting, so they turned and double timed it. They rounded another corner and came into contact with a half-dozen enemies.

Coley and his men were caught by surprise, and one of the Germans under von Boeselager fell to gunfire. The Kraut had managed to loose an entire clip in their direction. The aim was bad—however, not bad enough to save von Boeselager’s man. He spun to the side, clutching at his shoulder.

Higgins kicked the first man in the chest. He fell back into the other soldiers. Audley dug a grenade out from inside his jacket and pulled the pin.

“Go!” he yelled, and tossed the pineapple.

They were only a few yards away when the explosion ripped the Germans to shreds.

Von Boeselager stopped and pointed at a German half-track taking up half the road. He said something in German to his men, and they changed course. Dozens of enemies found them, and closed in from two directions.

“There, a truck,” von Boeselager told Coley.

He nodded, and staggered toward the vehicle with his men close behind.

Someone stepped out of a doorway and shouted at Coley, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then he noticed what the guy was holding.

“Take cover!” Coley screamed.

FIFTY-FIVE

GRILLO

Captain Taylor thrashed under the Germans, then grew still. The soldiers lost interest in him and rose to their feet: cold, evil. SS mixed with German paratroopers and infantry. The force set their gazes on Grillo.

He saw a group of survivors a block away, moving toward them. Christ! He did not have time for this. He had to blow the building. Behind the men who’d killed Captain Taylor had grown a force of hundreds.

He yelled for the men to run, but it might be too late for them.

Grillo ducked back into the doorway, muttered a quick prayer, and twisted the detonator’s handle.

FIFTY-SIX

COLEY

Coley dove into a building that had been a shop. He hit the floor, and then a massive explosion lifted him off the ground and tossed him like a ragdoll to the hard floor again.

The shelves had been nearly bared of stores. A few tins and bottles still stood, but after the explosion there was nothing on the wall anymore. They fell with a loud crash and broken plates and glass showered Coley.

Von Boeselager had hit the ground next to him. The two men stared at each other as dust settled.

Von Boeselager said something, but Coley’s ears were filled with cotton.

They stumbled out of the building just before it collapsed. Two buildings kitty-corner to him had their corners blown out.

Someone motioned for them to follow. He was dazed and didn’t know what else to do. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found that most of the men he’d been with were still standing, though most were covered in debris.

The explosion had dropped tons of bricks and mortar on a large German force, stopping them in their tracks. Arms twitched where they stuck out of the rubble.

Feeling very much like the enemies they’d been fleeing from, he staggered and made for the half-track, he and von Boeselager holding onto each other for support.

They helped him, von Boeselager, Higgins and Audley, von Boeselager’s men, and the remains of the 99th Intelligence and Reconnaissance division into the back of the vehicle. The truck lurched into motion, backed up, and turned until it found the road out of town.

Lieutenant Coley and von Boeselager sat across from each other. They were stuffed between a dozen men, and there was a small pair of children sitting on the laps of two men.

“This is a hell of a mixed force we got here. I’m Murph by the way,” a man wearing the insignia of a tanker said.

The men made introductions as they left the confines of the city. Coley was shaken. His back ached from diving into the building and his neck and the back of his head was burned.

“We headed for Assenois?” a tanker named Graves asked.

“Looks like it,” Coley said.

The tankers looked worn out, like they’d spent a week in the field. Both men had days’ worth of stubble, and they didn’t smell that great. Not that Coley expected he and his men smelled anything but ripe. Him especially with the smell of burned hair wouldn’t depart no matter which way the wind blew past the half-track.

“Anyone want to speculate on what in the hell we just faced?” Murphy asked.

“I can offer some information,” von Boeselager said. “Although I do not understand it myself. Many of the men you faced have been subjected to an experimental serum. They were told that it would make them stronger and fast in the offensive. The effects, as you have seen, were disastrous.”

“You’re saying this is some kind of crazy, fucked-up Nazi medicine?” Graves asked.

“Yes. That is all I know,” von Boeselager said. Reluctantly, he reached in the front of his pants.

“Hey now, hoss. We don’t need to see that,” Murph said.

Von Boeselager withdrew a thin slip of paper and handed it to Coley. Coley shook it open and stared at the orders, but they were in German. The other German soldiers exchanged angry words, but von Boeselager talked them down.

“Anyone know any German?” He looked around the faces but no one took up the challenge.

“I will translate,” von Boeselager offered, taking the slip back and reading in a sonorous voice.

“Regimental Order Number 54, dated 16 December 1944. The Daily Order of the Supreme Commander West. Soldiers, your hour has come…”

FIFTY-SEVEN

GRILLO

They’d dug Grillo out from the remains of the doorway he’d used for shelter, and helped him into the back of the half-track. He wanted to lay on the floor, but there was a pool of blood in the way.

He struggled to sit up on the bench seat, then just pressed his head against the half-track’s wall. He’d lost his helmet in the house, but someone had brought it along. Soon he was crowded into a corner, as more and more men hopped into the vehicle. It was already moving while they were settled in.

A pair of scared children stared at him, so he stared back. The kids. They hadn’t perished in the explosion, but it had come at a high price. Captain Taylor had been a good man, and he’d been a company commander for a number of years. This was going to be a tough loss.

A pair of the black soldiers he met earlier were also in the half-track. He remembered Audley and offered the man a smile. Audley nodded back.

Sergeant Pierce took a seat across from him. Of all the men in Baker company, Pierce was the only one who’d made it this far. He assumed the rest of the men were spread out in the convoy that was departing the city.

If any of them still lived.

They’d just pulled out of the city and passed the last two tall buildings when the demolitions team blew them to smithereens. He instinctively ducked, but they were already far enough outside of the blast radius to avoid debris.

“You alright, Private Grillo?” Pierce asked.

“It’s Corporal now, Sarge. Captain gave me a field promotion.”

“Captain Taylor’s gone,” Pierce said, and looked down. “I’ll take care of the paperwork when we get where we’re going.”

“He fought bravely,” Grillo said, but the words felt hollow. Captain Taylor had died screaming, and then been covered with a building.

“Yeah. Lot of that going around,” Pierce said.

“I’m banged up, Sarge. Hurts everywhere. Is that normal?”

“Ain’t nothing normal about anything we’ve seen the past few days. I suggest you get some rest, Priv— I mean Corporal. At this rate, you’ll be giving me orders in a few weeks.”

“Doubt it Sarge. I lost my rifle back there—again,” Grillo said, pointing toward the city. “I’m pretty sure they’ll bill me and tell me I’m a lousy soldier.”

“You’re a good soldier, and as brave as any man in the 101st. I’m proud to have you in my company, Grillo.”

Grillo accepted the praise, but he had nothing to say in reply, so he met Sergeant Pierce’s eyes and nodded once.

There was a Kraut siting a few men down from Grillo. He carried an M1 awkwardly between his legs. He turned to Grillo and handed him the weapon.

“For you, Corporal. It was not mine to begin with,” the man said.

“Ain’t that some shit,” Pierce said. “Armed Germans in a Kraut truck just handing us weapons.”

“He’s not such a bad guy,” a Lieutenant said. The man had been huddled between the German and a tanker. “He and his men helped us escape certain death.”

“Guess I’ve seen it all today, Lieutenant,” Pierce said, then leaned his back and closed his eyes.

Franklin Grillo turned his gaze back on the city of Bastogne. They’d been tasked with holding the area against a German counteroffensive, and they’d failed miserably. He’d been in Europe for less than twenty days. He hadn’t made a single jump, and his platoon was scattered to the four winds.

The city was in its death throes. Buildings had been collapsed, and a steady stream of soldiers and civilians poured out onto the streets in panic. Everywhere he looked, people were running. They tossed aside their belongings, and hitched rides on anything that had wheels. Men in military clothes double-timed it, or crowded into jeeps.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Behind them marched an army of the damned.

The End

The series will continue with

THE FRONT: RED DEVILS

Coming soon from

David Moody

ALSO BY TIMOTHY W. LONG

IMPACT EARTH

BOOK ONE: SYMBIOSIS

It was a quiet Seattle morning until the skies filled with fire: without warning, a catastrophic meteor shower caused buildings to crumble and the lights to go out. Out of the rubble, five ordinary people arose to find themselves manifesting undreamed-of abilities.

Will they be enough to do what the military cannot — stop a massive alien invasion before the entire West Coast is destroyed?

Now available on Amazon Kindle.

IMPACT EARTH SAMPLE

PROLOGUE

Yuri Novitskiy awoke to pounding.

He tried to roll over, but remembered he was stuck in a cocoon that was Velcroed to a wall. Or, as Sheppard liked to call it, being mummified for eight hours. One of the hardest parts about living in zero-g was that it didn’t matter which direction you faced. There was no gravity to tell you which way was up and which way was down.

The familiar machine shop smell of the space station came back to him: a combination of oil, recycled air, and ionization particles. Then there were the constant noises of moving air and machinery humming away as the space station kept its occupants alive.

His thin door threatened to buckle as someone beat on it.

“Go away, zombie. I just closed my eyes,” he muttered, and tried to bury his face in the confines of his sleeping bag.

“Yuri. We need you, man, there’s an emergency.”

“Tell Oleg to take care of it. I am sleeping.”

The pounding ceased, and the door pushed open. Light flooded into his tiny space, illuminating his laptop, the floating paperback of a Tolstoy classic, and a package that had contained a Snickers—the greatest invention in the known world, as far as Yuri was concerned.

He looked at his watch, which was set to UTC, and shook his head. Why couldn’t the Americans take care of their own problem? It was always Yuri, we need this. Yuri, we need that. Yuri, you’re the only one who knows this system.

“Sheppard, what is so important that you must have Russia’s greatest mind awoken at…” He looked at his watch again. “It’s not even eleven. I’ve had less than an hour of sleep.”

“I’d tell you, bud, but you wouldn’t believe me. Trust me, Yuri, if this weren’t an emergency I’d be sound asleep too. You just gotta see this shit.” Sheppard’s lined face was split by a cocky smile.

“If this is another spore breakthrough, I am going to be very angry. You know what happened last time I got angry?”

“It’s not like that, Yuri. I promise. No prank this time.”

The prank war had begun with Sheppard appearing naked—with the exception of a well-placed cowboy hat over his genitals—riding an imaginary bull through the science pod.

Yuri had come back by playing a female voice that described how to perform a breast inspection for cancer into Sheppard’s radio while the man was on a space walk.

Ever the over-achiever, Sheppard had retaliated by breaking into a call Yuri made to his family back on earth, and had piped in a recording of how to do a proper testicle inspection.

There were the usual pranks after that, like switching the liquid salt with liquid pepper. One thing that wasn’t allowed in space was little particles of spice.

Yuri had ended the escalating war by crafting a little alien head out of PVC and a chunk of freeze-dried steak that hadn’t properly sealed before the trip to the space station. A few minutes with a knife had given it shape.

With liberal use of ketchup, he’d scared Sheppard half to death with his Alien movie imitation. The only downside had been cleaning up the little red drops that had drifted in zero gravity.

Yuri sighed and unzipped his sleeping bag. He caught a glimpse of his unshaven face and the wild, curly hair that rose about his head like a Jewish afro.

He could shave it like Sheppard’s, but he liked how it brought character to the station. Six people living 330 km above the earth on a vessel that orbited the earth every ninety minutes needed to have fun. He considered his clown hair fun, because it did not match his very Slavic and downturned features.

“We have to get to Cupola to see it.”

“It’s shuttered for the night.”

“Not now, it ain’t,” Sheppard said. “Bring a camera. The boys back home might take issue, so snap ’em while you can.”

“Such a rebel,” Yuri said, but he grabbed his compact anyway, just in case this was actually something interesting.

They zipped through habitation, hit a node, and then slid up toward Cupola. The other astronauts would all be asleep, except for Ryu. He enjoyed his all-night research, but really he just didn’t need as much sleep as the others. As a fisherman’s son, he hadn’t slept more than six hours a night as a kid. Now, nearly thirty years later, he was functional on four, but he could be downright wired on five.

Yuri nearly bashed his head on another laptop, and pushed the computer back on its rotating joint so it wouldn’t catch one of the other astronauts.

“I was working on that,” Ryu said from the corner of the space. He had a white blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and had blended right in with one of the spacesuits they’d had to store temporarily while he pulled out and went over a computer system.

Suzie had reported some anomalies on a spacewalk to secure a loose solar panel two days ago, and Yuri had spent two days going over the systems before realizing it was simply a miscalculation he’d made. Instead of explaining the mix-up, he’d informed the rest of the crew that he had fixed some code.

“Sorry. I almost hit it.”

“My apologies,” Ryu said. “You go to see it?”

“It?” Yuri asked.

“He doesn’t know,” Sheppard interjected.

“Better to sleep. Bad news can wait.”

“What does that mean?” Yuri asked.

“He’s just being melodramatic. Come on,” said Sheppard, tugging at Yuri’s shirt.

Ryu’s eyes held something like sadness. He showed occasional bouts of humor though he was normally very serious, but now was most certainly not one of those times. The Japanese man turned his gaze away and focused on the circuit board he’d pulled out of a spacesuit.

He moved along another corridor and caught a handgrip with the top of his foot, which was well calloused thanks to living on the ISS. Ironically, the harden skin on the bottom of his feet had fallen off.

They floated up the narrow passageway until they were in the nearly three-meter diameter portal that looked into space. Just as Sheppard had said, the shutters were open, which was indeed against protocol. It was important to maintain a standard nighttime environment, so the astronauts were on a regular sleep schedule.

They were over the Sahara, with the sun’s glare shining on their home below. The huge desert extended in every direction, but would soon give way to vegetated land, then ocean as they spun around Earth’s low orbit.

“There,” Sheppard said, and pointed to three o’clock.

Yuri sucked in his breath when he saw… it.

From their viewpoint, space had ceased to exist in the direction of the moon. Something blotted it out as wide as they could see.

“Chinese?”

“Not on your life. According to Houston it’s not theirs, and we know it’s not yours.”

“Ah, comrade, it’s been many years since the Soviet Union launch secret craft.” Yuri tried to think of an English word equivalent to what he was seeing, but could only come up with one thing. “It’s fucking huge.”

“What’s that?”

Another shape moved behind the anomaly, this one shimmering in and out like it was caught in a haze. The craft was black, with long, grey, pulsing lines like veins. It was elongated, and had to be at least sixty or seventy kilometers in length. It spun along one axis, but the rotation was slowing.

Then something ejected from its side.

“What in the—” Sheppard didn’t finish his sentence, because the smaller object emitted beams of light that swept over the first craft, the sun’s radiance reflecting off earth’s atmosphere causing a confusion of refracted images.

“It’s above us, but moving. How can it move like this?” Yuri wondered out loud. Remaining in apogee was an art. Sliding in and out was the stuff of science fiction.

An explosion lit their view. Yuri looked away, because the flash had been bright enough to remind him of catching a glimpse of the sun without a spacesuit’s visor down—something that could ruin your vision for good.

“Well, goodnight!” Sheppard exclaimed.

Ryu slid into the Cupola and didn’t utter a word.

Pieces leapt away from each object. Some accelerated the short distance to make impact with explosive effect, while beams leapt out and obliterated others. The ISS was rocked by one shockwave after another.

“This is no good,” Yuri said. He had the overriding desire to rush off and do a full systems inspection. The solar panels maintained a very tenuous grip on the space station due to the nature of zero-g, and shockwaves were not the kind of thing they were built to withstand.

Lights erupted in space behind them, and for the first time they got a look at the larger object.

Sleek: that was the best way to describe it. The object was oblong with rounded ends, like a giant cigar. There were no discernible lines except for the random veins. Ports snapped open to emit jagged objects that raced away, with points of light glowing from their rears.

The other craft was much smaller, but danced circles around the first. Its signature was not as smooth, but rounder, and there were a number of protrusions like blisters along the hull.

“India and Pakistan?” Yuri said, and knew immediately how silly it sounded. If those two nations ever got craft into space, he doubted they’d start a war up there. They were more likely to start nuking each other back on good old Earth. So what did that leave?

“That is some shit right there,” Sheppard said.

Yuri closed his mouth, raised his camera and took pictures as fast as the device could ready itself.

A massive shock raced along the smaller craft’s hull and it fell away suddenly, but not before a pod the size of a sports stadium broke away and became invisible. The larger craft hovered in place for a few seconds before withdrawing over the horizon of the space station until it could be seen no longer.

Another wave hit the ISS, and something snapped. Yuri didn’t hear it, but he felt it. The station thrummed and shook with something that was wrong.

“Not good,” Ryu said, and dove through the hatch.

Sheppard was next, and Yuri was right behind him. Alarms echoed up and down the passageways.

Yuri slid out of the lab and went to the Russian side of the space station. He floated in front of his computer and stared at the readout. His radio crackled to life, and a voice from home requested an immediate sitrep.

Yuri paused to collect his thoughts, then said something that they would never believe back home. When he was done he rejoined Sheppard and Ryu.

“Something else is moving. It’s that big round thing,” Yuri observed.

A second explosion occurred half a minute later, in the direction the first ship had departed from.

“What was that?” Sheppard yelled.

“I believe it is called revenge. Now both objects have gone,” Yuri replied. “No, not gone. They are in pieces.”

He stood stock still as he considered the implications. The planet Earth may have just been visited by aliens, but instead of coming in peace or for conquest, the two had eliminated each other from space.

He took a deep breath, and prepared to issue an order to evacuate the space station.

VICTOR

Victor was already having a bad day, thanks to the noisy downstairs neighbors who’d kept him and Laura up half the night. Then the sky opened up and tried to kill him.

Rain pelted the overhang in a steady rhythm that washed away the sounds of cars racing along 1st Avenue. The downfall came so fast and heavy that at times Victor wondered if a marching band had taken up residence above and decided to use the shelter’s roof as practice for a college football game.

He dared not look up, because his rain jacket had seen better days, and if a hint of wind caught his hood, he would likely end up with a face full of water. He wished he could have stayed in bed with Laura and ridden out the storm.

A woman hustled to the overhang. Her hood was black, and her face was barely visible in the dark confines. She carried a silver-colored coffee mug in one hand and a closed umbrella in the other. Tucked up under her arm, her purse displayed some kind of designer label—probably something Laura would like, if he could afford it.

She pressed herself next to Victor and looked up, like she’d never seen so much rain in her life. The woman pushed back, to the dismay of those jammed inside the tiny space. She ignored their sighs and curses and sipped her coffee while staring straight ahead.

If this kept up, Victor was sure to catch a cold, and that would mean fighting for a day off from work, which he could not afford. Victor’s boss Jacob didn’t believe in sick days, even if his employees were dead on their feet. No sense in arguing that it was a good idea to keep everyone else from coming down with the same thing.

To take his mind off his misery, he imagined sitting in his warm apartment, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other on his wife’s leg. They’d be sitting on the couch while a fire roared away in the fireplace ten feet away. Maybe the brats would even sleep late, and let them enjoy an hour of silence. Maybe he’d ask Laura to join him in bed for an intimate break, her legs wrapped around his waist while he stared into her jade-hued eyes.

A 4X4 barreled down the avenue and shattered his little daydream. It swerved near the curb and hit a puddle the size of Lake Michigan. Water flew in a wave and pelted everyone under the bus shelter.

A guy wearing a black pea coat and hustling down the street managed to turn his head and get his umbrella into the path of destruction, but it was too late, and he ended up wearing a gallon.

“Son of a bitch!”

He glared after the car, shook water off his now-soaking pants, and stalked toward the truck as it stopped at a red light.

What was the man going to do about the guy in the truck, anyway? Pull him out and beat the shit out of him? The truck spun hard to the right and was gone before the man was remotely close. He shook his fist, middle finger extended, and screamed profanity.

Victor’s already crappy day became worse, because his own pants were now completely soaked, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. That was exactly how his luck had gone from the moment he’d stepped out of the apartment.

His days always started early, but today he’d had to hustle a half hour early, thanks to a bus schedule change… that, and he couldn’t sleep, thanks to the assholes downstairs.

He knew Laura was right. He couldn’t stand his job much longer, but the market was dry right now, so he’d have to continue his construction job for the time being. Why even bother applying for something else? His inquiries had gone unanswered.

She’d harped on him for quitting school, reminding him over and over that he’d be somewhere right now if he hadn’t, and they wouldn’t be living paycheck to paycheck.

When he’d tried to leave the apartment this morning, he’d found himself blocked in.

The jerk on the first floor spent his days smoking weed. In the summer, when the back door had to be open to keep the upstairs apartment cool, the smell wafted up and filled Victor’s living room on an hourly basis. Even though it was improbably early, it seemed that the downstairs neighbor’s buddy had shown up, probably to sell him more pot, and in the process had impeded Victor’s car.

That had led to a near-fight, when the Cubans visiting the apartment had told him to go get fucked. The only thing had that stopped him from storming into the apartment and probably getting beaten to a pulp was the fact that Laura had been upstairs with the brats.

So this morning, he’d had to walk to the bus stop instead of driving to a park and ride, just to avoid a confrontation. Of course the bus had been late, packed to the gills, and had gotten him to Seattle just in time to miss his connecting ride.

September had a mean streak this year that didn’t want to let up. As the month marched toward October, it brought nothing but vicious storms, clouds, and cold, and Vic wanted nothing more than to stay in bed until June.

Seattle weather was notoriously wet. Ask someone about living in the state of Washington, and they inevitably mentioned that it rained all of the time, which wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

A bus finally moved through the intersection and came into view. The bright numbers displayed on the side display told him that it wouldn’t get him anywhere near his job.

How could both be so late on a Wednesday morning?

An angry man who’d been shaking his fist stormed toward the bus, was cut off by a pair of teenage girls in bright rain slickers, and sighed loud enough for even the bus driver to hear. The girls leaned close together as they ran up the bus’s stairs, oblivious to the dude’s anger.

The bus pulled away, and Victor was left with a dozen other miserable commuters, who checked their watches or phones while they waited. None of them moved an inch to let him into the bus shelter, so he stood and waited. Stood and waited. Christ on a crutch, was he sick of standing and waiting.

Another bus made the turn from 5th Avenue, and for a split second he thought it was his, but the numbers changed to TERMINAL and it sped away toward home base.

Miserable, Victor turned his attention back to the crossroad. Any second now, any second, and his bus would come around the corner.

His cell phone buzzed against his leg. Shifting his backpack around, he reached beneath his jacket and dug out the device. As he lifted the phone, his wet fingers lost their grip and the device clattered across the ground.

Even through the sound of the heavy rain, he knew what that cracking noise meant. He leaned over to pick his phone up, and nearly fell straight into the deluge. Water staccatoed across his back and hood, but he stood up, otherwise none the worse for wear.

The same could not be said for his phone.

Victor got a look at his shattered screen and lack of power, and found he was no longer in the mood to be a nice guy. He backed into his old spot, oblivious to the cries of indignation from the woman he pushed out of his way.

“That was rude,” she said.

Victor ignored her and stared straight ahead, just as she had done a moment ago. He could passive-aggressive with the best of them.

Whoever had called would have to wait until Victor arrived at the work site and could get to a working phone. Assuming he could see the number on his broken phone screen.

As another bus came into view, he realized it was his and moved back into the rain, but not before the angry woman with the fancy purse could dash around Victor and cut him off. She seemed to delight in stepping in front of him, judging by the way she straightened her back.

His phone buzzed again. He stared at the dead screen and realized there was a little bit of life left in the device. After trying several times to push the answer icon, the phone finally relented.

“Hello?” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Laura?”

“Victor? Did you see it?”

“Laura? What’s wrong?”

“It’s all over the news, baby. Please…”

“Oh hon, you wouldn’t believe the morning I’m having… Hello?”

The call cut off. He tried to call her back, but the remains of his screen refused to cooperate with his fingers.

The bus windows were completely fogged over from condensate. It rolled to a stop, tires kissing the curb, and the door shot open, letting out a blessedly warm blast of air.

People streamed out, but just when he thought his line was going to move, a mother with two small children moved to the front and asked the bus driver a question while the little ones—no older than three and four—tried to go in two different directions.

She got her hands on them, but her bag fell off her shoulder, items spilling across the floor. She yelled at her kids, apologized to the bus driver, and shoved things back into her purse as quickly as possible. An older gentleman grabbed a tube of lipstick off the floor and offered it to her.

Rain continued to pour into Victor’s jacket, and he decided that he was never getting on this damn bus; he was going to stand here, trapped in purgatory until the day was done. He was concerned about Laura’s call, but whatever she been talking about probably wasn’t going to effect him in the city. He’d just call her as soon as he was on his lunch break.

The busy woman with two children managed to catch both kids’ hands and help them down the two stairs. The pair were dressed in miniature, colorful rain gear, complete with knee-length yellow slickers.

The woman who’d cut him off stepped onto the bus and—of course—had to pause to find her bus pass.

Victor’s considerable patience came to an end as he groaned out loud, “Oh, come on.”

What came on wasn’t the lady moving her ass, though; it was a massive boom that thundered around them.

“What was that?” she said, and actually took a step back down the stairs.

He didn’t make it on the bus.

Instead, the impossible happened: the dark sky opened, pushing fat grey clouds out of the way. Bright light replaced the haze, casting the city in bright hues of yellow and orange. Oddly, rain continued to strike his jacket and hood in a rapid-fire pattern.

Victor raised his head. His hood was blown back, and rain hit his face and rolled down his neck, but it didn’t matter now.

As the clouds were shoved aside, a section of sky revealed itself, now bright red. The rain faded to a mist, and then was completely gone.

Around him, the city was silent… until a driver ran a red light and was promptly crushed by a semi that had the right of way. The car screeched across the asphalt until both vehicles rammed into a concrete divider.

Brake lights lit up as cars slammed to a halt. Accidents all around him as heads gawked upward.

The rude woman who’d cut him off leaned her head back and almost tripped off the first step. For all his earlier anger, Victor reached out mechanically and got his hand in the middle of her back. She stumbled into him, didn’t acknowledge his action, and took a step to the side while still staring upward.

Voices rose in alarm from every direction as the shapes crossed the sky. Hands frantically wiped across bus windows as the occupants struggled to look out and up. One of the passengers wore a pair of oversized headphones, and nodded, eyes closed, oblivious to the madness that was occurring.

Victor panicked, grabbing his phone and beating it against his palm. Laura! He had to reach her and tell her that he loved her, just one more time. When was the last time he’d even said the words out loud instead of shooting a “Back atcha” or “Me too” whenever she said that she loved him? Too long; far too long, was his guess.

But his phone was barely responsive beneath a spider web of shattered glass.

The woman who had seemed intent on making his day terrible had her phone out, and he nearly ripped it from her, but she dashed away, her travel mug sloshing coffee.

“What do I do now?” he muttered, and looked at the bus. The driver stared back at him in shock.

“What’s going on out there?”

“I don’t know, man. Something in the sky. Look up,” Victor yelled.

The bus driver slipped out of his seat and then down the stairs. He craned his neck back and gasped.

A roar built, then intensified until Victor had to slap his hands against his ears. The driver did the same, and staggered back onto his bus.

Victor opened his mouth to cry out in terror, but if any sound came out, it was washed away by the screaming horror above. Day became brighter still as the object continued its march across the sky. It was so large, it defied thought. As it ripped the morning apart, it did so on a trail of fire that scorched the atmosphere.

The sound reached a crescendo and then started to fade. Victor made for the bus, but the driver was having none of that. He panicked, dove into his seat and slammed the door closed. The bus lurched forward, rolled onto the curb and then rumbled off with a trail of smoke belching from its exhaust.

The departing bus left the curb with a crunch, sped through a red light and smashed into another bus that had been forced to stop in the middle of an intersection.

Whatever the object in the sky was, Victor had to find somewhere to hide. He looked around in a dread and found a few concrete barricades that were being used to keep cars from cheating a parking lot out of money. He rushed to one and crouched behind it. Another man followed him and did the same. Victor looked into the guy’s eyes and they exchanged an unspoken glance filled with fear and revulsion.

The sky was still as bright as a summer day, and across it roared the object, until a shadow passed over the entire city. Smaller balls of flame followed behind, but veered until they were aimed at the ground below.

Victor screamed as a flaming object the size of a small car bombarded the city.

He should run, but what if he ran into wherever the thing struck? He was terrified, stuck in place. Every ounce of willpower was trying to convince him to haul ass to anywhere but here.

“This is not fucking good!” the man next to him yelled.

A small object fell like a lead weight and smashed into the building they were cowering in front of.

Victor thanked his luck and God.

Then something punched him in the back, and he was propelled into the concrete barrier. He didn’t have time to question what had struck him before he fell, limply. Just like that, consciousness was gone.

Victor came to, and regretted it.

The world rumbled around him, but along with the noise came a sensation like he was on a slide and about to fall off the edge of the world. His shoulder hurt like crazy! He reached for it and found blood, and an object protruding from the wound.

Rain pelted him in the face, so it became a struggle to keep his elbow over his eyes while feeling at the damage. He gave up soon enough, because touching the protrusion caused pain to race up and down his arm, neck, and chest.

“You okay, buddy?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

Where was he? Hospital? Hell? Purgatory?

Vic looked around and found that he’d been dragged under the overhang of a building. This part of the city wasn’t well-known to him, because he usually just caught his bus and didn’t stick around any longer than he had to.

Someone grabbed his leg near his ankle, and then he was pulled again. At least that explained the feeling of riding a slide.

“Stop!” he yelled.

“We’re almost there. Sorry, buddy, I didn’t know what else to do. You were lying on the sidewalk in the rain, with blood pouring out of your shoulder. You okay? I tried to call an ambulance, but they didn’t pick up.”

Blood? Ambulance? Then it came back to him. The object in the sky, and something falling toward him. Something silvery that caught the sun’s reflection and temporarily blinded him.

“The asteroid? Did it hit?” he asked, though he knew the answer already, since he was still alive and breathing.

“I don’t think it was an asteroid, but whatever it was passed over the city and kept heading toward the coast. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

The man was in his early fifties, going by his appearance. Grey beard, and hair to match, which had well and truly receded into a bowl cut. His eyes were sharp, though, and that made Victor feel a hell of a lot better.

“What happened to me?”

“I don’t know, buddy, but I’m real sorry to say this is all I can do. I gotta figure out how to get back to my family. You understand, right? You got a family?”

“I do, but please don’t leave me, man. I’m bleeding.”

“Not much. I’d stay, I really would. You have a cell phone, right?”

“I dropped it and the screen broke.”

“Bad luck.” He looked up and caught the eye of an Asian woman hurrying past.

“Miss, miss!” the man called. She looked at them and doubled her step.

The old guy got to his feet and rushed after her. He moved into her path and spoke with the diminutive figure.

“He’s hurt. Call an ambulance, please!” he said, and then the guy was off like a shot.

“Oh, fuck me,” Victor said. He knew the woman wasn’t going to stick around and help some stranger. She’d be off just like the older guy, but was Victor any better? If someone stopped him on the street and begged him to call 911, would he do it, or make it anyone’s problem but theirs?

Something buzzed around in the back of his mind like an annoying fly. Strange. Victor was overcome by lethargy. No. Something was talking to him back there. Something—or someone—and it was genuinely bizarre.

Much to his surprise, the woman came toward him. Her step was tentative, and when she got closer, he saw that she was young and cute. If this was about to be his Mother Teresa, at least he was in good company. She had short, dark hair that covered one eye. Must be weird having one eye always behind a veil, Victor reflected.

“You okay?” she asked as she leaned over and looked at the blood. Her lips pulled back in a gasp.

“No, I’m not okay. Please call 911. Something’s stuck in my shoulder.”

She knelt beside him even though it was into a puddle, and touched his jacket. She slid the zipper down so she could slip the coat open, then pulled the left side open until she could see his wound.

“Nothing here. Blood,” she said, and their eyes met.

“It must have come out. Christ, it hurts so bad! I don’t guess you have some Tylenol or something stronger on you?” He tried to sound flippant, but he hurt too much to be in a humorous spirit.

The buzzing wouldn’t go away, and it was driving him crazy. He clenched his eyes and rubbed his temples. Was he dying? Was this how his world ended? Bleeding out on a sidewalk in Seattle?

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and looked at it. Oh no, if she was sneezing on that thing, he didn’t want it on his flesh. She might be a looker, but that wouldn’t save him from an infection.

She dug around in her bag and came out with a package of tissues. The girl pulled out a wad of them, then slipped her cold hand inside his shirt until she had the tissues over the wound. She pressed down hard enough to make him see stars.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” he gasped, again and again.

“Sorry,” she said, and she did look sorry. She looked downright miserable as she took his hand in hers and guided it to the wound. “Hold here. Help comes.”

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Kimiko. I’m Kimiko. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re very kind, but I can’t imagine this is in any way nice,” he said.

She looked at him quizzically, but he didn’t offer any follow-up questions. What was wrong with him? He’d been stabbed by something, left to bleed out, and all he could think about was being a smartass.

She glanced over her shoulder and up at the sky, worry etched on her face.

“You know, finding a guy on the ground with all this stuff going on overhead. It’s just nice of you to stop. Thank you for helping me.”

“You are welcome.” She smiled and pushed a wet strand of black hair out of her eyes, leaving a streak of his blood across her brow.

“Oh no. I’m sorry,” he said.

His words sounded hollow, and he had the urge to take the tissue from his shoulder and wipe her face. Then something lurched inside him, near the wound, and pain made him nauseous. It started in his shoulder and sent pulsing waves along his spine and sides. He tried to wave at her face, unthinking, only to find that his arm wouldn’t respond.

Kimiko had her phone out, and dialed over and over again. She hunched over and used her jacket’s hood to keep the phone from getting soaked.

“Oh, oh! Answer,” she said, and handed him the phone.

Victor gave her a tight smile, took the phone in his left hand, and slowly tilted his head to avoid straining the damaged muscle too much, but it wasn’t enough: he saw stars. He wanted to bite down on his tongue. His teeth ached as the pain overrode all other senses.

The buzzing was still in the back of his head. It whispered to him, and tried to reassure him, but there were still no words, just the feeling of peace.

Something wrenched in his arm again and he cried out. He reached out and grabbed hold of the curb, squeezed, and wept as the waves of pain built and washed over his body.

Then the ache faded and he felt—better? Not better; he felt different. It was the same feeling he used to get when he’d been a runner. After the first few miles, he’d reached a state of mind that was almost like ecstasy. It was called “runner’s high,” but that made absolutely no sense.

“Sir? Hello?” A female voice on the phone said.

“Ah crap, sorry, sorry. My name is Victor Barnes and I’m at the corner of…” He kept talking until he felt like he was going to pass out. Ten minutes later, the glare of flashing lights and the sound of a siren brought him out of his near-fugue state.

“Saved at last.”

When he looked around, Kimiko was nowhere to be found, nor was the phone he’d been talking into. At least she’d stuck around until she knew help was on the way.

The Victor noticed that the small section of curb he’d been clutching in pain had been crushed into chunks of concrete and powder.

BRYON

Bryon had gotten away with a free day at home yesterday, but now he was back at school and his morning had been a hair’s width shy of being the worst of his life.

His report was due in second period English, and after blowing off school to spend the day gaming yesterday, he was going to have to scramble to keep up. His teacher had not been impressed that he’d picked a couple of comic book writers as his literary heroes, but he’d worked on his paper for weeks, and didn’t think he should have to write about novelists.

Comic book writers were every bit as important to literature as some stuffy jerk who liked to spend pages on flowery speeches and anything but tight dialog that carried a story forward.

His books were filled with action, sly looks, and occasional speeches, but only when absolutely necessary.

His class was probably going to be empty today. There had been talk on the news of an explosion or something in Seattle, but his mom was making him go to school anyway, because she had to work and didn’t have a sitter available.

Bryon had argued that he didn’t need a sitter. He was sixteen and would be taking driving lessons soon, but she had not relented. He hadn’t told her that a few times a month he blew off school, snuck back home to play video games, and then forged an excuse letter to turn in to the front office.

“Mom, what if they send us home?”

“I’m sure they won’t,” she’d said. She’d zipped up the side of her skirt and smoothed down the sides.

His mother, Anne, could be very sweet, but not in the morning, and especially not before she’d had her first cup of coffee. She always looked harried, though, because she never managed to leave the house on time. She screamed out of the garage with a piece of toast hanging out of her mouth and a mug tucked into her car’s drink holder. She worked at a stock firm, but she was a receptionist, and had to answer to five different bosses throughout any given day.

Bryon was pretty sure one of her married bosses was seeing her on the side, because she always cast furtive glances Bryon’s way when she got late-night texts. Sometimes she had to run out for an “errand” that took an hour or more.

Bryon kept his mouth shut. As for his judgment he kept that to himself, but if she was sleeping with some old married guy and they got caught, she was going to lose her job.

“But what if the thing in Seattle is really big and they cancel school?” he’d whined. As much as he loved the subject of his report, he didn’t relish getting in front of his class and being embarrassed when they made fun of him for his chosen subject.

“It’s nothing. Eat your eggs and go, shoo,” she’d said, and leaned over to kiss the top of his head like he was five again.

Jeez, mom.

The walk to the bus stop was annoying, because rain had started up a minute after he’d left the house, and didn’t shown any sign of quitting. His hood had seen better days and kept getting blown off of his head.

He considered going back home, but it was risky to take two days off in a row. The chance of them calling his mother increased every time he played hooky, so he kept his free days to a minimum.

Bryon stood at an intersection and got splashed by an old blue Ford sedan rushing by. It might have even swerved to hit the puddle. Jerk!

The sky was getting brighter by the second, as if the sun was about to appear, but the cursed rain just would not let up! He hated it, hated school, hated the kids that teased him. He hated that he had to walk a mile to a bus stop because the district had to cut back on stops to save fuel.

He stepped off the curb, and something punched him in the side.

Bryon swung around, thinking that a bully had shot him with a rubber band or maybe even one of those airsoft guns.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and dropped his backpack. He put his cold hand under his shirt and felt around for damage. His hand rubbed over his back and butt cheek. He tried to look over his shoulder, keep his head down so rain didn’t drench his hood, and turn all at the same time, and nearly ended up on his face.

He pulled his hand out from under his shirt and saw red. Lots of red. He was bleeding? Jesus Christ on a jalopy!

That should’ve been the clue right there that this day would be a complete wash. First the news of an explosion near the freeway, then all the damn rain. His mother still didn’t believe that school would be canceled, or that his few friends had reported on Twitter with gleeful tweets stating they were “Off ‘cause Dad freaked about stuff blowing up. Snow day in September!”

Bryon dropped his backpack and lifted his shirt. He found red smeared across his back and some soaked into his shirt, but he needed a mirror to see what kind of damage had been done.

He wanted to freak out and return home, but when he ran his hand over the area that had been stung, he didn’t feel a wound, just a little bit of a bump, and then even the pain was already fading.

He was embarrassed by the fat that rode his waist like a tire’s inner tube. He hated that he couldn’t see his junk because it was under a belly big enough to stuff a rack of ribs and half a cake into, like he’d done on his birthday a few months ago.

Mom had said not to overeat, but Bryon hadn’t been having any of that on his birthday, and had gorged himself with abandon. Then he’d felt sick for the rest of the night.

Bryon dug around, but there didn’t seem to be any fresh blood. He was all too familiar with how even a little could spread around and feel like a gallon. He’d popped enough zits in his day to make a full coat of warpaint.

Bryon held his hand out and let water run over it, washing his blood onto the sidewalk. His eyes followed the flow to the ground, and then around his Nikes. By then, the crimson was diluted enough not to matter.

“Whatcha doin, fatass?”

Jesus! Rod Steckman was the worst of the bullies, and today of all days he’d decided to cross paths with Bryon.

Rod took any chance to pick on Bryon, any chance at all, whether it was slamming him into a locker—no mean feat considering Bryon’s weight—or spitting in Bryon’s hair. He had a group of cronies—on the football team, no less—and if it got any more cliché than that, Bryon didn’t know what else would qualify.

They’d once surrounded Bryon and made him crawl around while snorting like a piggy. The guys had pelted him with food, books, paper, trash—anything they could get ahold of.

Bryon had lost it and cried until they’d left him alone. One of the guys had been unzipping his pants, threatening to piss on Bryon, but a teacher had intervened and chased the kids off. He hadn’t exactly been nice to Bryon, either; more like a father scolding a child about being nicer to people if Bryon wanted to be treated with respect. The entire experience had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he’d stopped reporting the bullying to the school staff.

What he dreamed about was taking a bat to Rod Steckman and beating the jerk black and blue. He’d read articles on the internet that offered advice on how to deal with bullies. Some of them spoke of standing up to tormenters, because once you took a stand, they backed down.

He didn’t want to just take a stand; he wanted to hurt Steckman and his cronies. The Vulture could handle this guy with one hand tied behind his back.

Bryon launched himself forward, pretending like he hadn’t heard the bully. Rod picked on the guys who didn’t fight back, just like a bully. Bryon had plans for him, someday.

He was going to stand up to him by delivering a line like Batman, something along the lines of: “I’ll break you in half,” even though The Vulture came up with better dialog. He’d be all menace and hate, then he’d throw a pair of haymakers that would put Rod on his ass.

He’d hit the jerk so hard that teeth would fly and Rod would slide across the school hallway—because all of his fantasy fights took place in the school hallways. That way the girls could see what a badass he was.

Today was not his day to have a battle, but he did intend to fight back, one day, after he’d lost some of his girth and learned how to actually throw a punch. Right now Bryon had to get his project to school in one piece.

“I was talking to you, fatass!”

Rod’s voice was closer. Bryon pressed on, swinging his arms faster and faster as he launched into hyper mode. He only had another block to go before he could hop on the Metro bus so he could avoid the public school bus and the ridicule attached to riding the yellow behemoth.

More importantly, he would be at a bus stop where other commuters could be his silent sentinels.

A swish of air, and then Bryon was flung forward. Rod was on a bicycle, and when he was close enough, he grabbed Bryon’s backpack and pulled.

Then Rod was past, with his close-cropped hair gleaming with rain water, his giant American flag sewn onto the back of his old Levi’s jacket, his NRA patch on one shoulder and pot leaf on the other, his legs pumping as he howled laughter. Rod looked back as he pedaled away, and shot a middle finger in Bryon’s direction.

Bryon had gotten his hands out as he’d fallen—that was instinct. He’d had his head up, but impact with the ground had never actually happened.

As he’d been tossed toward the sidewalk, a tremendously painful pinching had occurred where he’d been stung a moment before, and his back had wrenched in agony as a muscle had spasmed, and pain had ripped through his right leg all the way down to his foot. The torment had raced up his side, and it had felt like his heart had been clenched in a tight fist.

But he hadn’t struck the ground. He hadn’t torn the skin off his palms, his jacket hadn’t been soaked by the standing water, and the breath had not been knocked out of his body.

Bryon stared down at the concrete, a few inches from his face. He looked from one hand to the other, where his outstretched fingers hovered nearly half a foot off the ground. Then he looked down, and his mind was truly blown.

Bryon was floating.

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AFTERWORD

I’m an indie author and I work very hard on my books. I love hearing input from readers and the best way to provide that is via a review.

When you leave a review on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, or where ever you purchased a book, it helps other readers. This also helps the author out more than you can imagine.

So please, friends, if you can spare a few minutes of your time, go and review THE FRONT: SCREAMING EAGLES on amazon.

CLICK TO REVIEW

Be honest and know that I read every review and use feedback to better my writing as well as have a positive impact on future novels.

Watch for THE FRONT: SCREAMING EAGLES from David Moody in early 2016.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Front series came to life after a convention, back in May of 2015, when Craig DiLouie and I were enjoying a few libations. We’d been attending Crypticon Seattle and began to discuss the future of the zombie genre. Our talk soon turned to creating something World War II era since we were both interested in that time period as well as the millions of brave men and women who fought and gave their lives in the war.

We approached David Moody and asked him to join our project as the third author. We fully expected him to shoot us down but much to our delight he said yes. THE FRONT will span six books with us alternating authors. David Moody will write the second novel: SCREAMING EAGLES. Craig DiLouie will write the third volume titled BERLIN OR BUST.

The first book was the result of months of studying source material. While I have tried to keep events historically accurate I did have to change a few things to make everything work.

In THE FRONT I’ve written an homage to one of the most decorated platoons of World War 2. On December 16th, 1944, the 18 men of the 99th’s Intelligence and Recognizance Infantry Division, faced a force of over 500 German paratroopers. They managed to hold a hill that overlooked the village of Lanzareth (not Longvilly as I wrote in the book) for 10 hours.

They were commanded by a 20-year-old Lieutenant named Lyle Bouck. The amazing part was that the entire group of men were green and yet they delayed the German advance by up to 20 hours despite begging for artillery support and being told they were “seeing things”.

The 99th had no artillery support with the exception of a 60mm mortar despite repeated calls for help. At full strength the company numbered 22 men with the mortar (a late arrival on the morning of the attack). They suffered only minimal losses. One of the mortar team members was struck and died. They had almost no medical supplies and no morphine.

During the battle, one of the men, Private Louis Kalil, was hit in the face by a rifle grenade. Luckily it didn’t detonate. Kalil later said that he could feel his teeth embedded in the roof of his mouth and tongue. His face was fractured in 3 places.

He fought on throughout the rest of the day.

The idea that a force of over 200,000 German troops were staging an offensive through the Ardennes forest was too lubricious for the allied command to believe and they were slow to respond. Making matters worse, Hitler picked a time when there was bad weather and there was massive fog. This grounded the superior Allied air cover and left a corridor for the Germans to attack through. As they advanced, the Allied lines “bulged” outward as they tried to keep from getting flanked.

The men of the 99th were eventually taken prisoner of war. The platoon was at one point lined up against a wall and thought they were going to be executed by the Germans. An officer intervened at the last minute and the men were spared. Most sat out the rest of the war in POW camps.

It was not until 1981 that this platoon received the recognition they deserved and were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism.

While THE FRONT is a fictional story that involves real world events with zombies, I can’t ever say enough about the brave soldiers who fought in World War II.

I relied on a large number of history books for this novel and I encourage you to seek some of them out if you are interested in The Battle of the Bulge.

Source Material:

• The Guns at Last Light: The War in Western Europe, 1944-1945 by Rick Atkinson

• The Battered Bastards of Bastogne – George Koskimaki

• Company Commander: The Classic Infantry Memoir of WWII – Charles B. MacDonald

• Snow and Steel: The Battle of the Bulge, 1944-45 – Peter Caddick-Adams

• The Longest Winter: The Battle of the Bulge and the Epic Story of World War II’s Most Decorated Platoon – Alex Kershaw

Documentaries and movies:

• The War – A Film by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick

• The World at War series

• The Winning of World War II: Road to Victory

• Band of Brothers

• Saving Private Ryan

• Battle of the Bulge

• The Longest Day

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Timothy W. Long has been writing tales and stories since he could hold a crayon and has read enough books to choke a landfill. Tim has a fascination with all things zombie, a predilection for weird literature, and a deep-seated need to jot words on paper and thrust them at people. Tim spent time in the US Navy, worked for a major game corporation, an aeronautics company, and he has been in the IT field for the last 15 years as an engineer before becoming a full time author. He is an active member of Horror Writers Association, SFWA, and International Thriller Writers.

Tim is the the author of 12 novels including the bestselling, AMONG THE LIVING, and the sequel AMONG THE DEAD. His other works include the zombie book BEYOND THE BARRIERS and the deserted island ‘zombedy’ THE ZOMBIE WILSON DIARIES, and his latest, the enormously successful Z-RISEN series of military styled zombie books.

Tim resides outside of Seattle where he spends time with his partner in crime, Amanda, as well as 2 children, 2 dogs of various sizes and dispositions, and a near constant supply of overpriced and overcooked coffee beans.

@TimWLong

TimothyWLong

timothywlong.com

ABOUT THE CO-AUTHORS

David Moody grew up on a diet of trashy horror and pulp science fiction. He worked as a bank manager before giving up the day job to write about the end of the world for a living.

He has written a number of horror novels, including AUTUMN, which has been downloaded more than half a million times since publication in 2001 and spawned a series of sequels and a movie starring Dexter Fletcher and David Carradine.

Film rights to HATER were snapped up by Guillermo del Toro (Hellboy, Pan’s Labyrinth, Pacific Rim) and Mark Johnson (Breaking Bad). Moody lives with his wife and a houseful of daughters and stepdaughters, which may explain his pre-occupation with Armageddon. Find out more about Moody:

http://www.davidmoody.net/

www.infectedbooks.co.uk

Craig DiLouie is the author of SUFFER THE CHILDREN (Simon & Schuster, May 2014) and the bestselling zombie novels TOOTH AND NAIL (START/Salvo Press, April 2010), THE INFECTION (Permuted Press, February 2011), its sequel THE KILLING FLOOR (Permuted Press, April 2012), and the RETREAT series with Joe McKinney and Stephen Knight.

He has also authored the CRASH DIVE series, a WWII submarine thriller; THE GREAT PLANET ROBBERY, a military sci-fi comedy; and PARANOIA, a psychological thriller.

As a technical writer, he has also written several non-fiction books about lighting and electrical design.

Craig blogs about apocalyptic and horror books and films regularly at:

www.craigdilouie.com.

COPYRIGHT

“THE FRONT: SCREAMING EAGLES” By Timothy W. Long Copyright 2015. Timothy W. Long All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Edited by: Melodie Ladner Cover art by: Eloise J. Knapp

http://www.ekcoverdesign.com

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Content

Timothy W. Long with David Moody and Craig Dilouie
THE FRONT
SCREAMING EAGLES

ONE GRILLO

TWO BEHR

THREE COLEY

FOUR GRILLO

FIVE TAYLOR

SIX COLEY

SEVEN GRILLO

EIGHT GRAVES

NINE GRILLO

TEN BEHR

ELEVEN COLEY

TWELVE BEHR

THIRTEEN GRILLO

FOURTEEN TAYLOR

FIFTEEN GRAVES

SIXTEEN GRAVES

SEVENTEEN GRILLO

EIGHTEEN BEHR

NINETEEN COLEY

TWENTY GRILLO

TWENTY-ONE TAYLOR

TWENTY-TWO GRAVES

TWENTY-THREE GRILLO

TWENTY-FOUR COLEY

TWENTY-FIVE GRAVES

TWENTY-SIX TAYLOR

TWENTY-SEVEN BEHR

TWENTY-EIGHT GRAVES

TWENTY-NINE GRILLO

THIRTY COLEY

THIRTY-ONE GRAVES

THIRTY-TWO TAYLOR

THIRTY-THREE GRILLO

THIRTY-FOUR BEHR

THIRTY-FIVE COLEY

THIRTY-SIX GRAVES

THIRTY-SEVEN TAYLOR

THIRTY-EIGHT BEHR

THIRTY-NINE COLEY

FORTY GRAVES

FORTY-ONE COLEY

FORTY-TWO GRILLO

FORTY-THREE GRAVES

FORTY-FOUR GRILLO

FORTY-FIVE GRAVES

FORTY-SIX COLEY

FORTY-SEVEN TAYLOR

FORTY-EIGHT COLEY

FORTY-NINE GRILLO

FIFTY COLEY

FIFTY-ONE GRILLO

FIFTY-TWO COLEY

FIFTY-THREE GRAVES

FIFTY-FOUR COLEY

FIFTY-FIVE GRILLO

FIFTY-SIX COLEY

FIFTY-SEVEN GRILLO

ALSO BY TIMOTHY W. LONG

IMPACT EARTH SAMPLE

AFTERWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE CO-AUTHORS

COPYRIGHT