ALIEN INVASION

by Hallett, Peter

  “Yeah, it’s on the other side of the pit. If we try to get around it in the trenches we might be too late. We could easily get lost in these fucking things.” Kent itched his chin.

  “I don’t have any grenades. You?”

  “I have one, only one, so we better make it count.”

  “What’s your thinking?”

  Kent popped his head up over the trench again. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  Kent dropped back into the trench. “There’s a halftrack, it’s not far from here. One of the tracks has been blown off, but it looks to have some Jerry Cans on it. If I can get one, hopefully a full one, I’ll throw it in the mortar pit, then when the grenade hits, bye-bye krauts. Trouble is, I’ll be in the open and the men at the mortar will see me.”

  “How close is it to the krauts?” Concern was in his eyes.

  “Close enough for me to throw it at them, but almost close enough for them to shake my hand afterwards. So, too close. It’s also in the direction they’re looking beyond to aim their mortars.”

  “New plan?”

  “If we wait here for reinforcements, or most likely a lost Ranger or two, we could be too late. We need to act now.”

  “Rather you than me.” Jordan shook his head.

  “You’re not out of the water yourself.”

  “Meaning?” His eyes wide.

  “You have got to give me covering fire, you’re part distraction and part pitcher.”

  “The first I don’t like the sound of and the second I’m confused by.”

  “I’ll leave you my Thompson and then you’ll have two weapons to rain down a world of shit on them.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have this.” Kent drew the knife.

  “So you’re bringing a knife to a gun fight?”

  “Didn’t you say you play for a baseball team?”

  “Yeah. We’re terrible though.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me that.”

  “Why?” Jordan raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m leaving you my grenade. When the Jerry Can hits, throw the grenade, make sure it’s a strike.”

  “You do know I don’t pitch, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t. And I wish I didn’t now.” Kent handed the Thompson to Jordan. He removed some spare magazines from his webbing then the grenade. Jordan swallowed as he took them. Kent examined the knife and breathed out a long breath. “Make sure you keep your head low until I’m in position. I don’t want you dead before you can help me.”

  “That was a cheerful way of putting it. How will I know when you’re in position?”

  “All the men in the mortar pit will be shooting at me.”

  “How can I know that if I’m to keep low?”

  “You have ears.”

  “Yeah, but they’re being assaulted by a … what’s the word … war. I won’t be able to tell what sound is what.”

  “Okay, peek over every so often. Don’t get seen too early though.”

  “Trust me, I will make sure I don’t.”

  “I’m counting on you, Private.”

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “I’m going to use the right side of this T. Then I’ll crawl up to the halftrack, hopefully they won’t see me until I throw the can.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “If you keep up that attitude, when I get back I’m punching you in the mouth.”

  “Hopefully.” Jordan smiled. Kent did too and then he moved off down the right of the T, keeping low, the knife held out in front.

  Kent was soon confronted with four possible directions. He took a quick look over the trench wall closest to him and eyed the target so he could work out his position in relation to it. He took a left turn to be met with the sight of four German soldiers running in single file at him.

  Kent rammed the blade of the knife into the first man’s chest. The first Nazi fell and landed on the feet of the second one, causing the guy to stumble forward. Kent grabbed hold of the MP40 the second one was carrying and snatched the gun from his hands. He jabbed the knife into his face and as that man fell, the knife still sticking out of his eye socket, he revealed the fact that the other two were raising their rifles.

  The third one had his weapon knocked from his hands by the guy with the knife in his face as he fell past him. The fourth one at the rear couldn’t raise his weapon because of how close he was to the third, the barrel of the rifle just kept catching on his webbing.

  Kent unloaded the full magazine of the stolen MP40 into the third and fourth. Their bodies vibrated and jittered as they convulsed in a whirlwind of red before they fell on top of each other.

  The man with the knife in his face was still alive under the pile of death. Kent reached down and pulled the knife free. The Nazi screamed. Kent stomped his right boot down onto the German’s face, until he was dead and left with a red boot-shaped tread mark.

  Kent wiped the blade clean on himself and placed it back in his webbing. With the barrel of the MP40 still smoking he searched in the mass of butchery for a spare magazine. He found one and loaded it in. He walked over the bodies, squishing pulverized flesh, and continued on.

  Kent stopped at the trench wall that he’d have to climb to go for the halftrack. He risked a peek over and saw the mortar crew fire off a new round. There was an officer in the pit along with two other soldiers. He had binoculars to his eyes and was directing the crew to targets.

  Kent ducked back low. He chambered a round in his MP40 and took a moment to prepare. He took four long breaths then pushed the MP40 over the top of the trench wall. He grabbed hold of the battered ground beyond and pulled up and out of the trench to be lying on his belly. He pulled the MP40 back into his chest, and held it tight. He was a crater away from the halftrack.

  As predicted he was soon spotted. Bullets started to cut up the dirt around him as he crawled toward the crater, toward cover. He raised his head enough to see Jordan stand up in the other trench. The private had the Thompson to his shoulder and he unleashed a storm of lead.

  The officer in the mortar pit ducked low with the crew. The two soldiers turned their fire toward Jordan, using the sandbags near them as cover. Kent stood and took just three steps before he jumped and crashed down face first into the shell hole, a mouth full of dirt, and the smell of burn attacking his nostrils.

  Kent crawled to the edge of the hole and was within reaching distance of the rear of the halftrack, two Jerry Cans fastened to it. He placed the MP40 on the ground, at his side, and removed the knife.

  He rolled from the hole and took cover behind the halftrack. Bullets started to ping off the vehicle. He willed them to not hit one of the cans. He looked around the halftrack and managed to see, just before a shot struck close to a cheek, Jordan as he stood up again and laid down some more covering fire.

  Kent ducked back into the cover the halftrack provided and cut the fastenings on both Jerry Cans. He kicked them into the crater and rolled from the halftrack down to them.

  He shook the first one he got his hands on. It was empty. He tossed it aside and checked the next one. Half full or half empty. Either way you looked at it, it was flammable.

  Kent unscrewed the cap then stuck the side of the can a few times with the knife. He stood and charged out of the crater. Jordan was still providing covering fire. Would it be enough? Would he have time to throw the grenade?

  Kent threw the Jerry Can then dove to the ground among a hail of bullets cutting up the section of dirt he was aiming for, puffs erupting in all directions. Kent landed as the Jerry Can did. He looked to Jordan. The grenade was already flying through the air.

  It was a strike.

  The grenade landed in the pit and exploded. Fire raged and engulfed any men that hadn’t been thrown from the mortar with the explosion. Debris landed on Kent, some sections of the sandbags, all of them still alight. He rolle
d onto his back and kicked them from him. He saw Jordan shoot a Nazi who had been flung by the explosion, he was half dead anyway, three limbs missing.

  Kent stood and crunched some of the dirt in his mouth before spitting it out. Jordan walked to his side and handed the sergeant his Thompson. Kent took it and slung it over his shoulder. The German officer stumbled out of the pit, fully ablaze, his arms flapping, screaming Pig Latin. Jordan locked him in the sights of his Garand. Kent placed his hand on the rifle and lowered it. Jordan gave him a questioning look.

  “Let the bastard burn. Save your ammo.” Kent spat then watched for Jordan’s reaction. It was minimal. He just nodded. “Let’s go find the artillery.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The artillery bunker was in sight. Kent and Jordan jumped down to lay prone in a crater already occupied by two other Rangers. They had their rifles to their shoulders and were firing into the open slit at the Germans inside.

  It was hard to tell how many were in the bunker, the fog of war was covering the battlefield in thick density. But judging by the rate of fire, Kent guessed at three. That meant four Rangers verses three krauts.

  The two Rangers were on Kent’s right, as Jordan joined in the firefight with them on his left, taking aim with his rifle and firing in two shot successions. Kent tapped the one closest to him on the shoulder. “I count three,” Kent said.

  “That’s what we make it, sir!” the Ranger shouted back over the bangs of his weapon. “We could do with a grenade. You got any? We’re all out.”

  “Afraid not.” Kent saw movement in the slit through the fog. He fired off a short burst. The bullets just chipped away at the concrete and added more dust to the air.

  “What now?” Jordan asked.

  “I’m working on it,” Kent said. “We outnumber them. We’ll use that to our advantage.”

  “How?” the Ranger next to Kent asked.

  “I was thinking we–” Kent’s words were cut short as the Ranger next to him took a round to his face, his nose caved in, an eye bulged, and the bullet exited at the rear, flipping up a flap of hair-covered skin. The Ranger’s head fell into the dirt and blood started to pour from the hole.

  Three Rangers verses three krauts.

  Kent wiped some of the splash-back blood from his face and heard Jordan over his shoulder shout, “Shit!” The other Ranger in the crater tried to wipe some splash back away too, his hand was too shaky though, all he managed to do was smear it.

  “Finish that sentence, Sarge,” Jordan said.

  “There’s no point. We needed four men. Just keep fire on that bunker, will you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Here, take this.” Kent handed his Thompson over to Jordan. He watched the other Ranger for a few moments. The guy was wide-eyed, staring at the dead soldier that was in the shell hole with them. “Did you know this man, Private?”

  “Y ... yes.”

  “How well?”

  “Very.” He didn’t take his eyes off the body.

  “Tell me something about him.”

  “Like what?”

  “You choose.”

  “He … he was an artist.”

  “What type?”

  “The funny pages type. He’d just started working for a company in DC that produced stories about a man that can fly. A man that can stop bullets.” A tear ran down his face.

  “Will you ever forget that, or his name?”

  “Never.”

  “Then he isn’t dead.”

  The Ranger just nodded as more tears welled up.

  “Now I need your help. You need to lay some suppressing fire on that bunker, while I figure out a plan of attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” He placed his Garand back to his shoulder.

  “That’s fantastic, son. What’s your name, Private?”

  “It’s Clark.” He smiled. A bullet struck his shoulder. He dropped his rifle. Kent moved to drag him from the rounds slapping toward him in the dirt. He had to snatch his hand away as bullets thudded into his path and into Clark.

  Two Rangers verses three krauts.

  Kent watched as the young Ranger drew his last breath. “Don’t fear, son. You’re not dead.” Kent turned back to Jordan who had his hands over his head, dirt from nearby rounds landing on him.

  “Sarge, you got a new plan? Please tell me you have?” Jordan dodged to the side when he heard a loud bang that somehow managed to crack through the countless others. It was a good job he did. A bullet missed him by inches. He hadn’t even seen it. He didn’t even address it.

  “I have one, Jordan. It’s fucking crazy, but I have one,” Kent said as he looked back at the bunker, squinting his eyes.

  “That being?”

  “I want you to lay as much firepower on that bunker as you can.”

  “One man can’t do much.”

  “Can you hold here for awhile then?”

  “I … I guess so.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back. Keep those bastards busy.”

  Jordan placed the Thompson to his shoulder and laid down covering fire as Kent picked up a Garand from one of the dead men and ran back toward the mortar pit they’d destroyed. On the way past the still raging fire, he jumped over the flaming corpse of one of their victims, the flames licking the bottom of his boots.

  Kent dropped down into the trenches and climbed over the dead bodies littering the walkway and dodged in and out of a group of three Rangers. They were engaged in a firefight with some Germans Kent couldn’t see because of being ducked low under the trench wall.

  Kent entered the bunker after the curve and with his rifle raised took the left entrance into the main body. It was empty, apart from the bodies he’d left there. He dropped the Garand and ran to the MG42. He removed it from its mounted position then threw a belt of ammo for it around his neck. Finger by finger he removed the hand that was holding it and let it fall.

  He ran back through the trenches. The group of Rangers he’d seen earlier now dead on the floor. He ran past the mortar pit, rounds whizzing at him from all directions, cutting up the uneven ground around him, making his run even more of a hardship.

  He fell, only to one knee. He stood again, kept a tight hold of the MG42 and ran to the crater Jordan was in. The private was in the middle of a reload when Kent landed next to him. He quickly took the belt of ammo from around his neck and started to load the gun.

  “I’m guessing you’re reinforcements,” Jordan said to him, as he tossed the Thompson, that now had no magazine attached, onto the top of a Garand. “I’m out of ammo for all of the three guns I have.”

  “I guess I am reinforcements then.” Kent forced a smile as he finished loading the MG.

  “You’re a superman, that’s what you are.”

  “Do you think you can handle this weapon?” Kent asked, holding it up to him.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, ram as many of these Nazi bullets down those Nazi throats as possible.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m going to run faster than a speeding bullet into the bunker.”

  Jordan swallowed and moved the MG42 into position. Kent slapped him on the top of his helmet and he let the gun roar at the shield of smoke in front of the bunker.

  Kent removed the Hitler youth knife from his webbing and stood. He ran straight into the fog. He saw tracers from the MG42 to his right and could hear the bullets cutting into concrete.

  The bunker appeared from within the mist. Kent increased his speed then dropped onto his side and slid at the slit, feet first, homerun style. A Nazi turned and aimed his rifle at Kent but it was too late. Kent’s feet smashed the German in the chest and knocked him over.

  The rest of Kent slid through the slit and he was soon on the bunker’s floor, he landed into a forward roll and came to a stop on his knees close to the Nazi he’d kicked. He plunged the knife into the kraut and spun to look at the other two.

  One was being ripped apart by Jordan’s MG fire. The German’s
body spun, while still upright, dead on his feet, the power of the weapon that was shooting him, and the bullets impacting him, stopping him from falling. The other German stood watching it, his back to Kent. Kent seized the opportunity and casually walked to the German as the other fell down, dead.

  Kent reached his arm around the German’s neck and slid the knife into his lower back. He didn’t die instantly. He kicked and croaked for a few moments. Once blood started to run from his mouth, he didn’t last much longer.

  Kent let the dead body drop to the floor. He turned to the artillery. It wasn’t there. There was a long tree trunk leaning on concrete, the end pointed out of the slit window at the front of the bunker, facing out to sea.

  Jordan came running into the bunker via the entrance at the rear. “That was amazing, Sarge. Now all we have to do is … blow … the …”

  “It’s not fucking here.” Kent bit his lower lip and wiped the blood off the knife with two pinched fingers. “You can bet none of them fucking are. They must have moved them. They set tree trunks in their place to fool our aerial recon.”

  “So what does this mean? All this was for nothing? We failed our mission?”

  “What is our mission?”

  “To land on the beach, to scale the cliffs, and to blow the damn artillery.”

  “Our mission is to win the war. So no, all of this wasn’t for nothing.”

  A massive explosion sounded outside the bunker. Kent and Jordan looked to each other then ran back outside. Smoke assaulted them there; dust was hanging in the air. They couldn't see more than a foot in front of them.

  Kent tried to wave some away. Jordan was coughing as he said, “What the hell was that? I can’t see shit.”

  “I have no idea, it didn’t sound like it came from our ships.” Kent pressed forward, still waving his hand, trying to clear a path.

  Clunk. His foot had hit something.

  He looked down to the ground. “I think this is what hit.”

  Jordan joined him. “What is it? A shell that hasn’t gone off?”

  “It doesn’t look like any shell I’ve ever seen.” Kent knelt down. The shiny metal-looking object was ploughed into the dirt. “I think we’re only seeing the top. It looks like the rest is dug into the earth.” Kent reached his hand out to touch it.