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"Hellbound Heroes"
May. 19th, 2022 10:16 pm"Hellbound Heroes"
4/5-4/6/1945
I.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm an American!" yelled a terrified voice from within a cluster of trees.
On the dusty road, five men in worn-out civilian clothes whirled about without hesitation. Two Thompson Submachine Guns and a M 1918 Browning Automatic Rifle swung up to cover the spot where the voice had originated. The obvious leader, laden with gear strapped all around him and with a wool knit cap pulled down past his hairline, dropped his right hand to the .45 holstered on his belt but didn't draw. "Stay on your toes, men," he muttered. In a louder voice, he called, "Show yourself, buddy. Hands as high as you can reach."
Stepping out from the woods and moving toward the road came a tall man in a tattered, stained US Army uniform. He had his knapsack on his back, complete with sleeping bag tied around the top, but his empty hands weren't carrying any weapons.
"PFC Will Middaugh, First Attack Squad, Baker Company. We're based in Dover.. we WERE based in Dover. My whole Ranger squad was wiped out two days ago."
The leader of the men on the road scrutinized this stranger. "I know that base. Getting ready for big action. Baker Company, huh? Is Winslow Marsten still running things with a heavy hand, the old martinet?"
"Marsten?" came the reply. "We answer to Colonel Saul Dawling. I haven't heard of any Marsten."
"Come a little closer. That was a trick question. I know there's no Colonel Marston there. I was stationed at the Dover staging area a month ago." The man was frowning, studying the newcomer with cold appraisal. "I'm Major Benton Reid, OSS. These are my men, the Hellbound Heroes, all hardened resistance fighters who have lost everything."
"Except the need to kill Germans," said one of the squad.
"Stand down, Marcel. What happened to your Rangers, son?"
Middaugh finally lowered his hands and visibly untensed. He was a remarkably good-looking young man in his late twenties, with a full head of thick black and a movie-star profile. When he talked, perfect white teeth flashed through a week's growth of beard. "We walked right into a dozen Germans. Went around a bend of the road and there they were, so close you could touch them. Everybody jumped in any direction they could and started shooting as fast as we could."
"You seem unscratched," Reid observed.
"I slipped and fell into a ravine," Middaugh explained. "Hit my head, got knocked bad enough to be confused. I got up as soon as I could and climbed up the hill, but the surviving Germans were gone. They had looted everything they wanted from my boys, then laid their own dead out in neat rows. I guess some of their gravedigger details would be along to clean things up, so I started heading in this direction."
"Sounds to me like maybe somebody chickened out and ran for their lives, then came back once it was all clear," said Marcel.
"Are you calling me a coward?! You don't know what you're talking about! Put down that Tommygun and I'll bust your nose for you."
"Goddam prettyboy, you couldn't put a dent in a stick of butter!" Marcel yelled right back.
"Ease up, both of you," Reid ordered with understated authority that was obeyed. "For the moment, we'll give Middaugh the benefit of the doubt. Where are you from, son?"
"Colvert, West Virginia. About fifty miles from Wheeling, way out in the sticks. Sir," he added.
"Where's your weapon?"
"I left it down there. I was afraid you joes might take a shot at me before I could introduce myself.
"Go get it." Still watching the newcomer warily, Major Reid raised his left hand and made a rotary motion. "Head out. We need to put some distance behind us before nightfall. Middaugh, keep up. We eat at dusk."
All six men took off at a steady pace that ate up miles without wearing them down more than necessary. Once, they passed a farmhouse and barn that were little more than rubble.
"Nearest town is Brevalle, according to my maps," Reid told the new man. "Another two hours at this rate. Listen up, Middaugh. The big guy with the yellow sweater is called Black Bear because of his hairy chest. Without his shirt, he looks like a fur coat walking around. The codger with the white handlebar is tagged Walrus. You already locked horns with shorty Marcel, he was a schoolteacher before the Krauts rolled right over his city. Those three are French. Then there's the other American in this posse, my aide Corporal Normal Paley. Guy with blond hair. He got that white scar down his cheek from a ricochet, missed his eye by a tenth of an inch. His friends call him Scarface but you better wait until you get to know him better."
"I never got a nickname," Middaugh said. "Our sergeant sure called us a lot of other names, though. I learned more cussing from him than I thought existed."
As they marched on, weary silence descended on the so-called Hellbound Heroes. Finally, Marcel said, "I spoke out of line back there, Middaugh."
"That's all right," the new man replied. "You got good cause to be suspicious of people. I heard of Germans putting on uniforms taken from dead Americans and leading our boys into ambush."
"Hold up," Marcel said. "Something's moving over. Wait. Goddam, it's a pig, big and fat as you could wish for. And he's eating apples!"
Major Reid turned his head toward the oldest man in the squad. "Walrus, you're our best shot. Don't blow it."
The man with the white mustache unslung his BAR, took his time aiming and squeezed off two careful shots. The thud of that heavy body hitting the ground was lost in the echoes of the gunfire.
"Looks like we're going to be busy the rest of the afternoon," Reid observed. "Marcel, Scarface, carry that carcass deep in the woods. Way out of sight. Here's where growing up on a farm makes you useful, Black Bear. I want that shoat skinned and cleaned and cut up, I want everyone to eat their fill and then we'll char the rest to carry with us. We're set for grub for days now. Might as well load your pockets with apples while you can, as well."
With a pleased chuckle, Black Bear rubbed his broad hands together. "I can use every part of the little beast except the squeal."
Helping out as the team found a secluded clearing, Middaugh gathered wood and kindling. He wasn't excited about getting gorged on fresh ham as the others were. All he could think about was how soon he could sneak out that night and find a way to murder a few villagers.
( the rest of the story )
4/5-4/6/1945
I.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm an American!" yelled a terrified voice from within a cluster of trees.
On the dusty road, five men in worn-out civilian clothes whirled about without hesitation. Two Thompson Submachine Guns and a M 1918 Browning Automatic Rifle swung up to cover the spot where the voice had originated. The obvious leader, laden with gear strapped all around him and with a wool knit cap pulled down past his hairline, dropped his right hand to the .45 holstered on his belt but didn't draw. "Stay on your toes, men," he muttered. In a louder voice, he called, "Show yourself, buddy. Hands as high as you can reach."
Stepping out from the woods and moving toward the road came a tall man in a tattered, stained US Army uniform. He had his knapsack on his back, complete with sleeping bag tied around the top, but his empty hands weren't carrying any weapons.
"PFC Will Middaugh, First Attack Squad, Baker Company. We're based in Dover.. we WERE based in Dover. My whole Ranger squad was wiped out two days ago."
The leader of the men on the road scrutinized this stranger. "I know that base. Getting ready for big action. Baker Company, huh? Is Winslow Marsten still running things with a heavy hand, the old martinet?"
"Marsten?" came the reply. "We answer to Colonel Saul Dawling. I haven't heard of any Marsten."
"Come a little closer. That was a trick question. I know there's no Colonel Marston there. I was stationed at the Dover staging area a month ago." The man was frowning, studying the newcomer with cold appraisal. "I'm Major Benton Reid, OSS. These are my men, the Hellbound Heroes, all hardened resistance fighters who have lost everything."
"Except the need to kill Germans," said one of the squad.
"Stand down, Marcel. What happened to your Rangers, son?"
Middaugh finally lowered his hands and visibly untensed. He was a remarkably good-looking young man in his late twenties, with a full head of thick black and a movie-star profile. When he talked, perfect white teeth flashed through a week's growth of beard. "We walked right into a dozen Germans. Went around a bend of the road and there they were, so close you could touch them. Everybody jumped in any direction they could and started shooting as fast as we could."
"You seem unscratched," Reid observed.
"I slipped and fell into a ravine," Middaugh explained. "Hit my head, got knocked bad enough to be confused. I got up as soon as I could and climbed up the hill, but the surviving Germans were gone. They had looted everything they wanted from my boys, then laid their own dead out in neat rows. I guess some of their gravedigger details would be along to clean things up, so I started heading in this direction."
"Sounds to me like maybe somebody chickened out and ran for their lives, then came back once it was all clear," said Marcel.
"Are you calling me a coward?! You don't know what you're talking about! Put down that Tommygun and I'll bust your nose for you."
"Goddam prettyboy, you couldn't put a dent in a stick of butter!" Marcel yelled right back.
"Ease up, both of you," Reid ordered with understated authority that was obeyed. "For the moment, we'll give Middaugh the benefit of the doubt. Where are you from, son?"
"Colvert, West Virginia. About fifty miles from Wheeling, way out in the sticks. Sir," he added.
"Where's your weapon?"
"I left it down there. I was afraid you joes might take a shot at me before I could introduce myself.
"Go get it." Still watching the newcomer warily, Major Reid raised his left hand and made a rotary motion. "Head out. We need to put some distance behind us before nightfall. Middaugh, keep up. We eat at dusk."
All six men took off at a steady pace that ate up miles without wearing them down more than necessary. Once, they passed a farmhouse and barn that were little more than rubble.
"Nearest town is Brevalle, according to my maps," Reid told the new man. "Another two hours at this rate. Listen up, Middaugh. The big guy with the yellow sweater is called Black Bear because of his hairy chest. Without his shirt, he looks like a fur coat walking around. The codger with the white handlebar is tagged Walrus. You already locked horns with shorty Marcel, he was a schoolteacher before the Krauts rolled right over his city. Those three are French. Then there's the other American in this posse, my aide Corporal Normal Paley. Guy with blond hair. He got that white scar down his cheek from a ricochet, missed his eye by a tenth of an inch. His friends call him Scarface but you better wait until you get to know him better."
"I never got a nickname," Middaugh said. "Our sergeant sure called us a lot of other names, though. I learned more cussing from him than I thought existed."
As they marched on, weary silence descended on the so-called Hellbound Heroes. Finally, Marcel said, "I spoke out of line back there, Middaugh."
"That's all right," the new man replied. "You got good cause to be suspicious of people. I heard of Germans putting on uniforms taken from dead Americans and leading our boys into ambush."
"Hold up," Marcel said. "Something's moving over. Wait. Goddam, it's a pig, big and fat as you could wish for. And he's eating apples!"
Major Reid turned his head toward the oldest man in the squad. "Walrus, you're our best shot. Don't blow it."
The man with the white mustache unslung his BAR, took his time aiming and squeezed off two careful shots. The thud of that heavy body hitting the ground was lost in the echoes of the gunfire.
"Looks like we're going to be busy the rest of the afternoon," Reid observed. "Marcel, Scarface, carry that carcass deep in the woods. Way out of sight. Here's where growing up on a farm makes you useful, Black Bear. I want that shoat skinned and cleaned and cut up, I want everyone to eat their fill and then we'll char the rest to carry with us. We're set for grub for days now. Might as well load your pockets with apples while you can, as well."
With a pleased chuckle, Black Bear rubbed his broad hands together. "I can use every part of the little beast except the squeal."
Helping out as the team found a secluded clearing, Middaugh gathered wood and kindling. He wasn't excited about getting gorged on fresh ham as the others were. All he could think about was how soon he could sneak out that night and find a way to murder a few villagers.
( the rest of the story )
