Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) by David Moody, Craig DiLouie, Timothy W. Long Page B
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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
T hey’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
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
T hey’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
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