SNAFU: Hunters

He seemed more alive than he had been, more vibrant and more vital as if finding those massacred shapes had somehow made his world a little brighter. I won’t say he had a spring in his step and he sure as hell wasn’t whistling, but he moved differently and seemed lighter on his feet.

And he smiled all the goddamn time. Not always a full smile, not always bright and sunny, but it was like that nasty grin of his was lurking just under the surface and you could feel it there, waiting to pounce.

We managed two days of peace and quiet before things went south.

Early morning on the third day we were walking and we were doing our best to be quiet in the early-morning light of a cloudy day when a rifle shot blew the helmet right off the captain’s head and took half his brain with it. I remember looking at his helmet as it bounced across the dirt road and looking at the bullet hole right through the front of it and thinking that it shouldn’t have been there, and that there shouldn’t have been hair and red sticking to the inside of it either. I didn’t really register that he was dead; I just looked at the damned helmet and tried to understand what had gone wrong.

I would have died right then, but Crowley was there and he hauled me backward and threw me into a ditch right around the time something blew a crater in the spot where I’d been standing.

“Pay attention!” He roared the words at me and moved, crouching low and grinning as he moved across the road and looked toward the woods about fifty yards away.

They were there. You couldn’t see them, but the flash from their muzzles let us know they were trying to kill us.

A bullet took Lorenzo in his chest and blew out his back. That was bad because Lorenzo was a good guy. It was worse because that same bullet also took out the radio pack Lorenzo was wearing. Just that fast we were cut off from any possible assistance.

Fifty yards away, and I swear to you that Crowley was looking at them. His eyes scanned the woods too intently. He took his time as the ground let off puffs of dirt where bullets came too close and as the rest of us tried to find a good position to shoot from while keeping ourselves intact.

I had trouble looking away from Crowley. I yelled at him to get to cover, same as he had yelled at me, but he either didn’t hear or didn’t care.  Instead he stayed where he was until he spotted whatever it was he was looking for and then he ran straight for the woods.

I thought it strange the sarge didn’t yell until I saw the man slumped in the road, both hands on his stomach and a dark stain marking his jacket and shirt alike.

Januski moved to help the sergeant. I looked back to Crowley.

I saw a bullet pound into his jacket along the shoulder. I don’t think it hit him, I didn’t think it then, either, but it blew the epaulette off the jacket as he charged, his long legs cutting the distance quickly.

He took the time to fire at the enemy. I give him that and nothing more. He did not duck. He did not dodge. He seemed utterly unconcerned about whether or not he lived.

All we could do was try to offer him covering fire or watch him die. I chose to offer as much help as I could and every time I saw a muzzle flash I aimed at it.

Crowley ran hard and fast and made the woods as quick as any track star I ever did see.

We couldn’t fire when that happened. We might have hit one of our own.

I can only tell you this. There was an explosion over in those woods that was large enough to shake the few remaining leaves from the trees and to split an old oak in that copse in half. After the explosion the gunfire slowed and then stopped.

Except for the sounds coming from Sergeant Marks as Januski tried to patch him up. There was an awful lot of silence. I don’t think I can explain how worrisome that is when you’re certain people are trying to kill you.

Crowley came out of the woods, hauling two men behind him. One man was struggling and thrashing, the other was either dead or unconscious and was being dragged along by his heel.

After about ten yards Crowley dropped the one who wasn't moving just long enough to beat the one trying to get away into a stupor. I could hear the punches from nearly forty yards away.

When the German stopped struggling, Crowley dragged his prisoners along with him.

They weren’t regular soldiers. Their uniforms were all black and they were older men, not soldiers but officers.

Not just officers, but SS. Hitler’s special elite according to what we’d heard. These were the guys the rest of the Germans were scared of.

Crowley scowled at us as he came back and threw the two men into the road.

The one he’d beaten on was breathing in rough gasps, and his face was swelling.

“Boys, I’m going to need you to keep a look out for a while.”

“What happened to the rest of them?” Lewis was a good egg, but not so bright.

Crowley looked at the kid for a long while and then spoke as if dealing with a child who refused to learn. “I killed them.”

“All of them?”