Screaming Eagles

^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.