THE FRONT
SCREAMING EAGLES
Timothy W. Long
with David Moody
and Craig Dilouie
Contents
Also by Timothy W. Long
Copyright
Dedication
1. Grillo
2. Behr
3. Coley
4. Grillo
5. Taylor
6. Coley
7. Grillo
8. Graves
9. Grillo
10. Behr
11. Coley
12. Behr
13. Grillo
14. Taylor
15. Graves
16. Graves
17. Grillo
18. Behr
19. Coley
20. Grillo
21. Taylor
22. Graves
23. Grillo
24. Coley
25. Graves
26. Taylor
27. Behr
28. Graves
29. Grillo
30. Coley
31. Graves
32. Taylor
33. Grillo
34. Behr
35. Coley
36. Graves
37. Taylor
38. Behr
39. Coley
40. Graves
41. Coley
42. Grillo
43. Graves
44. Grillo
45. Graves
46. Coley
47. Taylor
48. Coley
49. Grillo
50. Coley
51. Grillo
52. Coley
53. Graves
54. Coley
55. Grillo
56. Coley
57. Grillo
Also by Timothy W. Long
Impact Earth Sample
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the co-authors
Also by Timothy W. Long
IMPACT EARTH: 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?
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* * *
“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
* * *
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.
B
auman 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. Th
e 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.
Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Page 1