Sneak attack, p.1
Sneak Attack, page 1
SNEAK ATTACK
By Todd McLeod & Eric Meyer
BOOK 7 OF THE HEROES OF THE 82ND AIRBORNE SERIES
SHORT FICTION
Copyright 2021 by Todd McLeod & Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
MY NEWSLETTER
If you’d like to receive my latest news, special offers, and free books then please sign up for my newsletter. It’s a great way of keeping up to date with my latest projects, as well as getting samples and free books throughout the year. Click on the link and join up today. You can also visit my official website and Facebook page, links below:
My official newsletter: subscribepage.com/EricMeyer
My official website: ericmeyer.co.uk
My Facebook Page: facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction/
Chapter One
“How the hell can any place be this cold?”
PFC Ray Cassidy grinned at his buddy, Harry Byrd. When he was growing up Ray had spent every spare moment in the outdoors, hunting, and occasionally fishing. Enjoying the fresh, clean air away from the cities and the busy turnpikes. Harry was different. A city boy, he disliked the outdoors, and if there was one thing calculated to make him dislike the outdoors more, it was snow.
Since hitting serious problems when they parachuted outside Nijmegen, they’d encountered little opposition, storming across Holland and into Belgium. Now they were close to the border with Luxembourg, and just a few miles away, the real prize, the border with Germany. In a few weeks they’d cross the River Rhine and push into the heart of the so-called Fatherland. When they entered the Third Reich, they’d be on the last leg of what had been a hard and bloody fight.
But in the meantime, they had another enemy. Snow. The area was thickly wooded, the boughs of the trees bending under the weight of thick snow. The ground covered in thick snow, the tracks almost impassable, and every few minutes a man would step into a hidden snowdrift and almost disappear.
“Cheer up, Harry, in ten days it’ll be Christmas. Nobody fights over Christmas. They’ll stand us down, we can find a cozy warm billet, and take it easy.”
He scowled. “I don’t care where they put us, as long as it’s warm. Say, how much further do we have to go?”
The platoon sergeant, John Logan, overheard the question. “The town of Bastogne is about five miles up ahead, and if we go much further we’ll find ourselves in Luxembourg.” He looked at the platoon commander. “How do you read it, Lt?”
Lieutenant Frank Bond shrugged. “I’m damned if I know where we are, but my guess is another couple of miles should do it. Before we start back, I’ll call a halt and take a short break. Trying to make progress through the snow is killing. It’s also pointless. We haven’t seen a single Jerry since we started this patrol. In my opinion it’s a complete waste of time.”
“Amen to that,” Logan murmured.
They plodded on for another hour, and in that time Cassidy, with his eye for range, estimated they’d made about a mile. Another hour before they turned around, and already the light was fading beneath a dark, leaden sky.
“It’s gonna snow again,” he said to Harry, and he grinned, “Better prepare yourself for the worst, buddy. The light’s fading, and we’ll be heading back in the dark.”
“Shit. I always hated the outdoors, only now I hate it even more.”
He and Harry were out front, and he glanced back at the platoon, strung out and all making heavy going through the snow. He had an idea, and he waited for the Lieutenant to catch up.
“The light’s fading, Lt. This is my kind of country, so how about I push on ahead and see how things are. Give the guys a break.”
Bond looked relieved. “You think you’ll be okay?”
“Sure I will.”
He shrugged. “I don’t believe there’s a Kraut within twenty miles, so this patrol is just routine. All the same, you need someone to watch your back. Private Byrd,” he called.
“Yessir.”
“You and Cassidy can go ahead, make sure the area’s clear, and report back. We’ll wait for you here.” He looked around and pointed to a clearing between the trees, overhung by low branches to form a natural shelter, “We’ll hunker down there and brew some coffee. Make it quick, and we’ll save you a cup.”
Harry kept a straight face. “That’s mighty generous of you, Lieutenant.”
Ray led the way, forcing the pace while Harry grumbled about getting the shit assignments. They rounded a bend in the track that took them out of sight of the platoon. Byrd was already dropping behind, so he waited for him, studying the ground in front of them. He’d seen a flock of birds take flight about four hundred yards ahead that alerted his hunter’s instincts. Something had spooked those birds, and he began to search the surface of the snow for animal signs. In a forest it would likely be deer, and probably wild boar. He saw no animal signs, but he saw something else that alerted him. Footprints. They were the first American patrol to come this way, and if they weren’t American, they had to be German.
Harry caught up, still grumbling, and he signaled him to silence. “Up ahead, you see it?”
“A warm peasant cottage with a fire blazing in the hearth?”
“Krauts.”
His expression changed, and they hadn’t survived since they parachuted into Normandy by failing to take the enemy seriously. He crouched low. “Where?”
“Footsteps up ahead, I’m guessing they’re close. Cover me, I’ll take a closer look.”
Byrd put his Garand rifle up to his shoulder and began searching the forest while Cassidy skirted the track, working his way forward toward the footprints. Before he reached them, something aroused his suspicion. A low mound, as if thick snow had covered a woodpile, not unusual in a thick forest, except for the dark slot in the center. He’d seen something similar on frequent occasions, and they were a feature of enemy pillboxes and strong points.
Is it possible? Are the Krauts nearer than we thought? Or am I imagining things?
There was one way to find out, and that was to take a closer look. He moved further uphill into the trees, and the snow was deeper, the going even harder. Although he was thankful for the cover provided by the thick trunks, and a moment later more thankful when the shooting started.
A stream of machine gun bullets chewed up around his boots, sending up spurts of white powder. He threw himself behind a large tree trunk and pressed his face flat into the snow as the German gunner found the range, walking a volley inches above his helmeted head. He’d been in action since D-Day, 6 June, and by December he’d learned to recognize the sound of an MG-42 machine gun. A continuous tearing noise, like a giant was ripping cloth, and he kept himself pressed flat until the burst ended.
“What the hell was that?”
He whipped his head around, and Harry had joined him.
“It’s an enemy bunker. They told us a few of the diehard Nazis could have stayed behind to hold up our advance.”
“We should bring up the rest of the platoon. If we’re gonna get past, we have to kill those bastards.”
“Harry, there isn’t time. We know where they are, and by the time the rest of them arrive, they’ll have moved to a new position. We have to handle this.”
“Two of us against a Kraut strongpoint? Forget it, they’ll make mincemeat of us.”
“We can do this. Sneak through the woods and hit them from behind.”
He shook his head, and Ray noticed his lips were blue with cold. “I hate the woods. I hate the snow, and I hate the cold. Why the hell are we here?”
“Because the 82nd ordered us to be here. Let’s go.”
He crawled uphill to the next tree and waited a few seconds for Harry to catch up. They were lucky. The Germans had either assumed they’d left or they were dead. Probably they were preparing to pack up to move to another ambush position, but the two troopers moved from tree to tree, from cover to cover, and no shots cracked toward them. They reached a position one hundred yards from the snow-covered mound and saw soldiers moving, but something was badly wrong. They wore American helmets and American uniforms.
“They’re ours,” Harry gasped, “Why did they shoot at us? We need to show ourselves so they can see we’re Americans.”
Ray was inclined to agree, until he remembered something. “Why were they using an MG-42?”
“I dunno and I don’t care. We need to talk with them and tell them not to shoot at their own side.”
He still didn’t like it. “You’re probably right, but I want to make sure. We’ll go down there but stay behind cover until we’re sure.”
“Jesus Christ, Ray, they’re our own people. As soon as they know we’re Americans, they won’t shoot.”
He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. “Why don’t we chec
He ignored Harry’s protests and led the way through the snow; using every part of the knowledge he’d learned back home in the States to cover the terrain. The gap closed between them and the strongpoint, but when Harry wanted to call across to let them know they were Americans, he stopped him.
“Cover me. I’ll get a bit closer.”
He didn’t wait for a reply but snaked through the snow until he was ten yards away. They’d constructed the machine gun nest open at the back. A simple structure designed to pour fire on anyone who approached from the west, and they could retreat east without obstruction. He saw them again. Four men in American uniforms, wearing American helmets, and two carried M3 Grease Guns. Standard equipment for the U.S. Army, but the other two men were picking up the machine gun that’d fired at them, and sure enough it was an MG-42. Both had cartridge belts strung around their shoulders, and had it not been for the helmets and uniforms, he’d have taken them for Germans. He was still puzzling it out when one man shouted to the other.
“Helmut, Karl-Heinz, wir müssen uns beeilen. Die Amerikaner sind nah!”
“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.”
Jesus Christ, they are Krauts! Dressed in American uniforms.
He snaked back to Harry and told him what he’d heard.
“I can’t believe it. What about our guy, Kurt Steiner? He speaks German, so maybe they’re like him, Americans speak German.”
“Harry, they’re Krauts. We have to warn the platoon. They can get a message out. There could be more of them. If they…”
He stopped, hearing a loud voice shouting through the trees. “Cassidy, Byrd, where the hell are you?”
Logan’s voice, the platoon must have heard the machine gun fire and come to investigate. They were walking along the track, and when they rounded the bend, the Germans would see them. They wouldn’t fail to take advantage of such a tempting target, and Cassidy pictured the machine gun firing sheets of bullets that ripped them apart. They had to prevent it.
“Harry, we’re going down there. We have to nail those bastards before they shoot up our guys.”
“Ray, they have a machine gun.”
“Not for long they don’t. Let’s go!”
They didn’t bother with concealment. All that would save the platoon was speed. They catapulted to their feet and waded through the snow. The Germans didn’t notice them at first. They were busy getting ready to deploy the machine gun, and in seconds First platoon, B Company, 82nd Airborne Division would cease to exist. Five yards out a head turned, saw them, and shouted a warning in guttural German. Ray squeezed the trigger of his Garand and put a bullet into the man’s chest. He dropped his Grease Gun, but the other three were fast, turning to face the new threat, and the other Grease Gun spat a volley of bullets that would have sliced him in half if he hadn’t tripped on a tree root hidden by the snow and fallen.
Harry threw up his Garand and put four bullets into him, and he pitched to the ground. But the other two had propped the MG-42 on the roof of their bunker, the barrel turning to point in their direction. They were close, so close, and whoever got off the next few shots would come out on top.
He made a superhuman effort, bounded to his feet, and dived the last few yards. He launched from slightly above them like a pouncing leopard. They saw his form plummeting toward them and hesitated for a vital split second. It was all he needed, and he hit them with such force, he flung them both back into the snow. They disengaged themselves from his grasp and sprung to their feet, both men reaching for their sidearms. Too close to take a shot, he used his rifle like a club, swinging it around. He was pissed that the enemy would try something so low down and sneaky as to masquerade as Americans.
His first blow collided with the helmet of the nearest man, but the steel protected him, and he whipped up his pistol to shoot. From behind, Harry squeezed off a shot that nicked the German on the left shoulder, but he stepped aside so Cassidy blocked Harry’s aim, and once again brought up his gun. Ray noticed it was a German gun, a Walther P38. Not that it made any difference, not when you were on the receiving end of a bullet. In desperation, he threw himself to one side, bringing his boot around to sweep the German’s legs aside, and he fell in the snow.
He leapt on top of him, hearing Harry shout, “It’s okay, I got the other one.”
He concentrated on his opponent, man on man, and the guy was big and tough. Maybe one of those German paratroopers led by Otto Skorzeny, the guy who’d rescued Mussolini in a daring operation, and the word was they took no prisoners. They were ruthless, dedicated Nazis, and Ray knew he was in trouble when the guy kicked out and his boot connected a massive blow to his chest. Lightning bolts of pain tore through him, and he was in a fight for his life.
He struggled to his feet, and the German grinned, holstered the P38, and closed with his big fists swinging toward him. He avoided the first two blows, but the guy knew how to hit, knew how to hurt, and the third punch slammed low in his belly. He dropped to one knee, fighting for his breath. The German snarled something he didn’t understand as his left hand reached out to grab Ray’s throat, the right bunched up ready to deliver the killer blow.
It never landed. He’d seen it lying on the ground, and he seized the opportunity. From the kneeling position he allowed himself to fall sideways, reaching out his hand to scoop up the dropped M3 Grease Gun. In a single flowing motion, he brought it up, finger inside the trigger guard, aimed at the German whose eyes widened in shock and fear. “This is what we do to enemy soldiers that try to get away with pretending to be Americans.”
He squeezed the trigger and sent a half-dozen bullets into the soldier’s belly. Blood fountained from the gaping wound, and he started to fall backward like a huge, toppled oak. He was done for, and he jerked his head around to check on Harry, who was in trouble. His opponent, another huge, muscular German, was pummeling the crap out of him, and it looked like Byrd was all in, with no way to counter the ferocious assault. He went down, falling backward, and the German snarled something as he stepped forward, hands reaching down to finish him.
The range was short, and Cassidy pointed the M3 and fired. Keeping the trigger until the magazine was empty. He fell, his blood staining the snow red, and Harry slowly got to his feet. He looked at Ray. “Like I said, I hate the snow.”
Chapter Two
They checked the bodies for signs of life, and when Lieutenant Bond appeared at the head of the platoon, they told him they were all dead.
He frowned. “That’s strange, Germans wearing American uniforms. How did they think they’d get away with it?”
The Sarge grunted. “They nearly did get away with it. Cassidy and Byrd came close to being cut in half by the MG-34.”
“I guess they did. You did well, men, but now it’s all over. We never did get that coffee brewed, but when we get back to Company HQ, I’ll talk to the cookhouse, persuade them we need some hot food in our bellies. It’s damn cold out here.”
“Is that wise?”
He looked at Logan. “What you mean is that wise? We’re all freezing our asses off.”
“I meant returning to Company HQ. What if there are more of these Krauts? Shouldn’t we push forward and recce deeper into the forest.”
“You think there could be more of them? It’s against all the rules of war, Sergeant.”
Cassidy had heard enough. “Lt, since when have the Jerries given a shit about the rules of war? We’ve got them on the back foot, and they’ll do anything to stop us pushing them back all the way into the Third Reich. Sergeant Logan is right, there could be more of them.”
He took off his helmet and scratched his head, shivering as cold air hit him head on, and replaced his helmet. “I don’t know. Our orders were to go this far and report back.”
“If there are more Jerries masquerading in our uniforms, they’ll want to know about it. Lt. We have to check it out.”
He looked around the dark gloom of the forest. Like it was about to sprout Germans, and he didn’t look happy. “They told us to…”
