Screaming Eagles

^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.