by C T Glatte
He saw a pair of streaking enemy fighters flying parallel to the beach and realized they were flying straight toward a still airborne platoon of Legio. He watched a portion of the platoon suddenly pull up, their wings losing lift. As the others flew on, the stalled and quickly falling Korth, unslung their machine guns and engaged the incoming fighters.
Guth’s head expanded as both fighters took hits. The lead plane’s engine erupted in flame and it plummeted into the sea with a great splash. The second, arced upward trailing smoke, stalled and nosed toward the sea. Guth saw the pilot exit the aircraft, the chute barely opened before he splashed into the sea.
The stalled Korth slung their machine-guns with practiced precision, expanded their arms and resumed flight only yards above the sea. They glided to the edge of the water, pulled up and landed perfectly. It had been a long time since the Legios had engaged in combat but Guth was proud to see they hadn’t lost their edge.
His platoon spread out, weapons at the ready. Lt. Guth heard Major Korto’s voice in his head, “Forward slow, take the town and move inland.”
11
The next day Jimmy and Corporal Tom Grothing found Grothing’s Army unit as they were sifting through their smoldering base. The night before had been spent trying to work their way through throngs of fleeing civilians. More than once, Tom had been forced to pull his pistol to stop looters. It slowed their progress but by morning they finally entered the base.
Tom was devastated to see members of his company dead and wounded. As a medic, he immediately went to work. Jimmy helped for a while, until he noticed soldiers running toward idling trucks.
He slapped Tom’s shoulder. “Your unit’s about to leave. I wanna join them, get in the fight.” Tom nodded, finished bandaging an unconscious soldier’s head and pointed to a nearby building. “That’s the armory. Get a weapon for me too, I’ll meet you at the trucks.”
Jimmy nodded and dashed off. He burst through the door and was confronted by an older soldier with a large gut, holding a hand up. “Whoa there. Who are you?”
“I need a weapon for me and Corporal Grothing.”
He tried to push past the PFC but a beefy hand stopped him. “Corporal Grothing’s on leave and these weapons are Dog Company property. I don’t recognize you,” he looked him up and down, “Nor your uniform.”
Jimmy had enough. “Listen here, fat-ass. In case you haven’t noticed there’s a battle raging all around us. I need a weapon so I can help fight. Now step aside.”
The PFC’s face turned bright red and he spluttered, “You pissant little piece of shit, no one talks to me that…”
Jimmy balled his fist and punched the pudgy soldier before he could finish. The man’s nose flattened and blood gushed down his face and into his mouth. He sat down heavily, gasping and clutching his nose.
Jimmy stepped around him and pushed the chain-link door to the armory open and helped himself to two M1s, two full ammo pouches, and as many grenades as he could attach to his belt. The soldier was sitting looking at his bloody hands in disbelief. As Jimmy walked by, he spluttered, spraying blood onto his desk. His nasal voice followed Jimmy out the door. “Get back here! You broke my nose.”
Jimmy ignored him and noticed two of the five trucks had already left the compound. He saw Cpl. Grothing standing behind the nearest truck, urging him to hurry. Jimmy sprinted to him and handed him one of the M1s and an ammo pouch. He panted, “Thought medics were non-combatants.”
Grothing shook his head. “I think the rules have changed.” He pulled back the breech and smoothly slid in an eight-round clip. They mounted the back and Grothing slapped the side of the truck, which lurched forward.
Minutes later, it was apparent they weren’t going anywhere. The roads were clogged with panicked and fleeing civilians, tens of thousands of them. To move forward was like moving against an incredibly strong and unrelenting river current. No amount of honking or weapon wielding mattered. It seemed the entire population was fleeing, moving west.
Finally, the trucks pulled off the road and parked in a large abandoned lot and watched the flow of humanity stream by. Jimmy felt his body stiffening. He’d taken a beating in the bombing and the long hours beneath the rubble hadn’t helped. He ran his tongue over the sharp point of a tooth and remembered it being shattered by the Diner owner. That altercation seemed like years earlier but had only been the morning before. The same morning my mother died.
He pushed off the ground and stretched his back. He searched the sky for planes and didn’t see any. They’d seen enemy and friendly planes all day, but none recently. Every soldier wanted payback and hoped they’d get a chance to shoot at a low enemy aircraft. Jimmy listened to them talk, puffing their chests out as though unafraid, but he’d been in combat and knew better. He shook his head, were Hank and I like that? Probably.
With night quickly approaching, Jimmy found Cpl. Grothing and sat beside him. “Think the flow will stem with nightfall?” he indicated the throngs of civilians still clogging the roads.
Grothing shrugged, “Sergeant Gooding seems to think so. We’re gonna try again in another hour. Even if we only make a mile, it’ll be better than sitting here.” He handed Jimmy a loaf of bread and block of cheddar cheese.
Jimmy took it gratefully and used his K-bar knife to carve a large chunk off each. Before shoving it in his mouth he asked, “How far we looking at — to the coast I mean.”
“As the crow flies less than a hundred miles, but that’s assuming the bridge is still there. It’s a lot less to the shores of Chesapeake Bay, but I haven’t heard of any landings there. It may be as far as we get though if the bridge is gone.”
“What bridge?”
Grothing looked at him as though he were simple. “The Chesapeake Bay Bridge, of course.” He shook his head. “I forget you’ve never been out here. It crosses Chesapeake Bay, spans about four and a half miles across and connects to the coastal region where the attacks are. If it’s gone, we’d have to take the long way around or hitch a ride on a boat.”
Jimmy considered, “Crossing a four and half mile bridge over water with enemy fighters around doesn’t sound like a good idea at all.”
Grothing nodded, “Yeah, that’s why the captain wants to cross it at night.”
Sergeant Gooding yelled from the center of the lot. “Rally on me.”
Jimmy pulled himself off the ground with a grunt and followed Grothing. Their numbers had swelled during the day with more wayward soldiers attaching themselves to the group. The GIs eyeballed one another, sizing each other up. Jimmy leaned close to Grothing’s ear, “Feels like a ragtag group we’ve got here.” The edge of Grothing’s mouth turned down and he nodded his agreement.
Captain Stewart, was tall and painfully thin. He wore wire rimmed glasses, which he had securely fastened to his head with a tight chord. He waited until the men were gathered then addressed them. “Most of you know me, but I haven’t met all of you yet. I’m Captain Stewart,” he indicated the beefy sergeant standing beside him eyeballing the men. “And this is Sergeant Gooding.” He looked at his watch. “In an hour, at 1600 hours, we’ll move out. We’ll use an alternate route, one with far less traffic.” He pointed over his shoulder at the steady stream of civilians. “As you can see, the damned civilians aren’t adhering to the plans the government spent so much time and money drilling into their heads over the past decade. They’re using the main roads, which means we’ll use the routes they’re supposed to be using and hopefully make our way to the Bay Bridge before morning.
“At last count we have thirty-two soldiers, ranging from cooks to grenadiers. The radios are jammed and confused, but from what I gathered there are large reinforcement columns headed our way. The general order for troops near the front is to hold the line and wait for relief. So, we’ll move to the Bay Bridge and add our strength to the bridge unit’s defenses. Any questions?” No one spoke, so he wrapped it up. “Stock up on ammunition. Sergeant Gooding will be putting bazooka teams togeth
er, so if any of you new men have expertise let him know and he’ll match you up with what you need. Dismissed.”
The men muttered among themselves and moved off to prepare for departure. Jimmy stayed put then stepped toward Sergeant Gooding and braced. Gooding looked up from his clipboard, “What is it PFC?”
“Just wanted you to know, I’m qualified expert with the Springfield sniper rifle.”
Sergeant Gooding looked his filthy uniform up and down and evaluated his swollen and cut lip. “Looks like you’ve been through the grinder, son.”
“Yes, sergeant. I was in a building that crumbled on me during the bombing yesterday.”
Sergeant Gooding squinted trying to read his name tape but it was too torn and muck covered. “PFC…”
“Private First Class Crandall.”
Gooding nodded. “You came in with Corporal Grothing. You’re with the 45th Division boys in Alaska?”
“I was here on leave when the attack happened.”
Gooding pulled his chin into his neck. “Leave? From Alaska?”
Jimmy tilted his head and shrugged, “Family emergency.” The image of his mother walking alongside him the day before flashed through his mind and he suddenly felt heavy. “Private matter, Sergeant.”
Gooding shrugged his shoulders. “Well, guess it doesn’t matter.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a couple scoped Springfields over there. Pick one out and zero it in, but make it quick, we leave in an hour.”
The move east was slow, the trucks barely made it out of first gear. There were fewer civilians on the backroads, even though they were the routes they were supposed to be taking, but not so jammed that they couldn’t use them.
Jimmy sat in the back of a truck with his eyes shut. The trucks slow crawl forward, the seeping cold and occasional lurching stops didn’t make for great sleeping, but he felt himself slipping into semi-consciousness occasionally. His M1 was under the bench seat, the shiny new Springfield with the 7x scope propped between his knees. He’d fired fifteen rounds through it. He would’ve liked more time, but the weapon felt good in his hands and he was confident he could hit what he aimed at.
Beside him sat the GI he’d been paired up with, Private Stan Lodmont. He was rated a cook. While Jimmy zeroed the weapon, he used the time to give Private Lodmont a crash course in seeing and calling out targets. He listened and tried to pick up the skill, but it was completely new for him. Jimmy wasn’t thrilled with his spotter, he was noticeably nervous and they hadn’t even been shot at yet. He wondered how he’d hold up once the bullets started flying.
He thought about Hank, he’d been a great spotter. They were a good team. He smiled at the thought, then snapped his eyes open with a jolt when he remembered Hank’s dead eyes staring at him.
Lodmont noticed his jolt and asked, “You okay? You were mumbling and twitching a lot.”
“Mind your own business, private.” Lodmont didn’t answer but said something snide to the soldier to his right. Jimmy closed his eyes again and decided he wasn’t going to get to know Stan Lodmont. Kid won’t last long once it starts. The thought didn’t bring him pleasure but he’d seen too much death, too many better men die.
He felt as though only seconds passed when the truck lurched to a stop and Lodmont jabbed him in the ribs and whispered. “Wake up, we’re here.”
Jimmy looked around, slightly confused then reached for his M1 and asked, “Why you whispering?”
Lodmont shrugged. It was still pitch dark outside. He answered, “Because the others are.”
Sergeant Gooding appeared at the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. The hinges squeaked and he cringed and cursed under his breath then waved them to come out.
Jimmy jumped and felt his muscles protest as he landed. He felt like he was one hundred years old. He slung the Springfield over his right shoulder and held the M1 at port arms. He moved to the side, making way for the others. He smelled water and the hint of decay.
It wasn’t as dark outside the covered truck bed. There was a half-moon darting in and out of broken overcast and he saw the sparkling of water and heard it gently lapping the shoreline. There were a few darkened buildings along the banks, but not many. They looked abandoned, no lights, but he wondered if some were still occupied. He wondered if there were comfortable beds inside. He thought he could sleep for a week if given the chance.
He adjusted his pack and followed the others. They formed into loose lines and marched north for a quarter mile then halted. Jimmy’s instinct was to crouch and look for threats but the others stood and looked around, wondering what the hold-up was. Jimmy scanned the area but didn’t perceive a threat. Ahead he could see Captain Stewart and Sergeant Gooding talking with someone he didn’t recognize, another officer.
After a few minutes Gooding motioned them to gather round. “Okay men. We’ve linked up with the 67th Bridge Defense Brigade. They’re on both sides, in the bunkers. They haven’t seen any action so far. They were ordered to shut the bridge to civilian traffic a few hours ago, which must be why the last hour was less congested. Unfortunately, there are broken down vehicles blocking our trucks. We’re crossing the bridge on foot.” Jimmy looked at his watch. It was 0500. He figured it would be getting light this time of year around 0700. A four-and-a-half-mile hike shouldn’t be a problem if all went well.
Jimmy walked onto the bridge and walked past members of the Bridge Defense Brigade. Even in the low-light of the half moon, he could see their scowling faces.
As the name suggested, the Brigades had been formed to defend bridges and other vital infrastructure, including railroads and airports. Since they were pulled from the National Guard, they were mostly weekend warriors. The bunkers and defensive outposts were manned twenty-four-seven but it was essentially guard duty and didn’t attract the best soldiers. In fact, it was where most of the troublemakers ended up, and because of that, Bridge Brigades had gotten the nickname ‘Bridge Babies’ and were looked down upon by active duty soldiers.
Jimmy heard a soldier nearby spit toward a Brigade member and mutter, “Don’t forget your pacifier.” The GIs around him snickered. Jimmy saw the Brigade member start to move, but another soldier clutched his shoulder, holding him back.
Sergeant Gooding noticed the commotion and barked, “Knock it off back there.”
Private Lodmont turned back to Jimmy and grinned, “Pissant Bridge Babies.”
Jimmy shook his head, “You’ll be glad they’re there when the shit hits the fan, cook.” Lodmont turned quickly away and increased his pace pulling away from Jimmy. Jimmy sighed knowing he should be bonding with his new spotter but, he’s such an asshole.
The march across the bridge went well at first. The incessant civilian traffic had kept the roads clear and free of ice, but as they neared the middle, the wind kicked up spraying them with freezing bay water. The bridge iced up in spots making long sections difficult. Normally, there were deicers and gravel trucks keeping the roads passable, but there was no sign of them now.
Their march slowed and Jimmy looked at his watch nervously. He figured they were more than halfway across, but he still couldn’t see Kent Island. The only thing he could see was the incessant flashing in the East where the battle was still raging. There was an ever so faint lightening in the sky. He didn’t want to be on the bridge when the sun came up.
Finally, after another forty-five minutes of marching over ever-more treacherous ice, they were halted by more Bridge Defense Brigade members. Jimmy kneeled near a metal beam, one of hundreds, and looked south over the water. There was a definite lightening in the West. The sun would be up soon and he could feel the temperature dropping. He shivered and tucked his chin into the heavy wool coat. Walking had kept him warm, but it didn’t last long once he stopped moving.
Minutes ticked by and he wondered what the hold-up was. Captain Stewart was talking to another officer. Stop shooting the shit and get us off this deathtrap, dammit.
Jimmy cocked his head, lis
tening. He’d heard something that made him feel the chill even more. Was he imagining his worst fear? He focused his hearing, listening intently and when he was sure, he yelled, “I hear planes!”
Everyone spun, looking his way. Private Lodmont guffawed and was about to say something snide when he stopped and cocked his head. “I — I hear it too.” He suddenly pointed, “There!”
Jimmy saw them at the same time, a line of six aircraft about two thousand feet up, coming straight up Chesapeake Bay. He immediately recognized the yellow cowlings of enemy BF-109s. There was only one possible target, the bridge. Jimmy yelled, “Air raid!” He got onto his belly shifting his body toward the road keeping himself protected behind the thick metal beam.
He pulled the M1 off his shoulder and put it to his shoulder, leaning out and aiming at the lead plane which was arcing down and growing bigger every second. He released the safety and emptied his eight-round clip in seconds. With the ‘ping’ of an empty clip he pulled himself back behind the beam and pulled his helmet down over his ears and waited.
He didn’t have long to wait. The buzzsaw sound of heavy machine-guns and the sparking and clanging of bullets hitting metal filled the air. He pulled his legs tight to his chest and cowered. When the first plane passed with a roar, he reloaded the M1. The next plane strafed the section of bridge where it connected with Kent Island.
Jimmy saw the terrified eyes of his spotter, Private Lodmont. He looked ready to break and run. Jimmy held out his hand palm out and yelled, “Stay there, don’t move! Stay in cover!”
Lodmont looked at him with wild eyes but got the message and nodded. He screamed when the next plane opened up. The span between Jimmy and Lodmont sparked and seemed to come alive with a swarm of buzzing bees. A soldier across the road yelled and fell backwards hitting the guardrail and falling over the side. Jimmy didn’t know if he’d been shot or simply tripped, but either way he’d have a hard time getting to shore before freezing and drowning in the icy waters.