Screaming Eagles (The Front, Book 1) Read Free Page B

away, grasping his back. Tramble had opened up with the .30 caliber machine gun and sent Germans scrambling. Bullets kicked up snow and found targets.
    The Germans returned fire, and the fight for the hill was on.
----

Four
    Grillo
    T wo-and-a-half ton trucks rolled into the city of Bastogne. Private Grillo took in the idyllic little town and smiled at people going about their business. There were waves and nods, but most kept their heads down. Occupation probably did that to a town--or so Grillo surmised. When you were under the boot-heel of something like Nazi rule, life had to be a daily struggle.
    He was packed inside the back of the truck, which had a cloth cover that did little to keep the cold, sleet, and snow out. He sat close to Private Manlien, who'd been chain-smoking from the moment they'd gotten into the vehicle.
    “This the place?” Grillo asked.
    “No, dummy. We’re in Paris. You’ve been living in a dream and this is the end. It’s all sweet French girls here, with flowing dresses and long legs,” Specialist Moreno said.
    Moreno hadn’t shaved in a few days, so patchy bits of dark hair sprouted over his cheeks and neck. He wore a thick canvas jacket over his clothing, but like most of the men in the vehicle, he wasn’t prepared for the cold.
    Grillo wasn't any closer to getting used to all of the snow, and also wasn’t shy about his fellow soldiers pressing into him for heat. None of the men smelled that great. They'd had a few days of rest and relaxation, but then they'd been pulled out and directed to the Ardennes region, and no one had been near bathwater since their rapid load-in and departure.
    Grillo and the rest of the company were horribly unprepared, and had little ammo or grenades. They’d been promised resupply upon arrival, but so far no one had seen a truck loaded with supplies.
    Grillo was trained to blow stuff up. He was a decent shot with the M1A1 Bazooka and was at home with carrying the heavy metal tube, as well as ammo. He’d been issued an M1 Garand, five clips, and two grenades. One of the guys had already talked him out of a grenade, but he held onto his 8-round clips fiercely.
    Tjarks was one of the older men in the group of replacements. He hugged his M1 like it was a girl. The man found a beat-up package of Mail Pouch chewing tobacco in his pack, dug out a clump, and jammed the wad into his mouth.
    “That stuff taste good?” Grillo inquired.
    “Tastes like home,” Tjarks said.
    “Where’s home exactly? You got a Kraut name,” Daniels--a no-nonsense Protestant from Maryland--chimed in.
    “It’s Dutch/German, but I’m from Crowley, Texas,” Tjarks drawled.
    “Another Texan? I’ve run into a dozen of you fellas,” Daniels said. “Don’t they got no industry in Texas ‘cept sending boys off to fight?”
    “We got industry like chewing tobacco and kicking Protestant ass,” Tjarks said.
    He leaned out the back of the moving truck and spit.
    Grillo stayed out of the ribbing, because Tjarks was as big as a house and Daniels was crazy. They’d had to pull over during the night, and he’d seen an American patrol approaching with German prisoners. Daniels had pulled a knife and threatened to start cutting off ears.
    “I got industry too, Tjarks, like slitting Texans open,” Daniels said.
    “Pipe down, both of you. Plenty of fighting when we get there,” Corporal Papaleo said.
    Papaleo was one of the few men in the truck who’d seen action. In the Army for his second tour, he’d been busted down in rank due to disappearing in Italy--or so the rumor went. One of the guys had asked him about it once, but the look Papaleo had given the man had made him stop pestering the Corporal.
    The truck came to a stop.
    Grillo looked outside expectantly, half-imagining Germans pouring out of the trees.
    “Rest stop, five-minute stretch, boys,” a Sergeant said, slapping the side of the truck and moving on to the next.
    Grillo plopped down into slushy snow. His combat