Free Souvenir by James R. Benn Page B

than the crests of the hills that uncoiled above the cleared land. The buzzing became louder, a constant drone increasing each second, until he could see the wings grow larger and waggle slightly. More cheers from the men around him, the replacements most excited of all, being treated to a big show their first day at the front.
    Jake knew what was wrong, knew in an instant that he must’ve heard an echo of the engines somehow, or seen the dots flit against a cloud without actually registering it. The planes were too far off to waggle their wings in greeting, unless they had just passed over the German lines, and they were giving the common flyer’s salute to ground troops, those poor fuckers beneath their wings. The artillery bombardment had been going on for quite a while now, long enough for the Germans up ahead to know they were going to be attacked, know that the Amis had to cross this open land to get into position. Plenty of time to call for air support, Luftwaffe fields in Germany were only minutes away—
    “Take cover!” Jake yelled from deep inside his lungs, pushing Clay off the road with him and burrowing into the snow-filled gulley. His cry spread and men were moving in every direction, scattering away from the road and praying they weren’t in the fighter’s sights. Not me, not me, not me, not me.
    Jake rolled into the gulley and saw the yellow noses of the Me-109s, heard the chatter of machine guns and cannon, saw the sparkling lights along the wing and from the nose of the low-flying planes. Tracer bullets, bright glowing lines of phosphorescence reaching out from the planes, guiding their aim, seeking out their victims.
    “Get down!” he yelled at the replacements. Caught in mid-wave, thinking they were greeting their own air cover, they stood in the road, three of them next to each other, shoulders touching, rifles raised over their heads, whoops of joy stuck in their throats, a sudden flash of fear and terror rooting them to the spot. Jake heard a roar, one explosion followed by another as three of the Me-109s focused on the halftracks, lighting up two of them, turning steel and flesh into pillars of fire.
    The fourth was strafing G.I.s in the field, kicking up tremendous geysers of snow and frozen dirt, lines of fire stitching the field with death as the pilot fought for control, trying to stay low and slow without plowing into the ground, trying not to get so caught up in targets that he forgot his altitude. He saw one last quarry below, a clump of Amis in the road, waiting, not scattering like all the others. He eased his stick a touch, kept his finger on the trigger and arced his fire into them, pulling up at the last possible second, barely clearing the tops of the pine trees, sending them swaying into his prop wash as he flew over the woods and climbed away from the sudden carnage.
    Jake saw it coming. They saw it coming. The Me-109 turned slightly and came straight at them, going right for them, singling them out for destruction. They didn’t believe it, weren’t able to handle the shifts from joy to terror to flight, couldn’t fathom how such a lethal machine appeared from nowhere and then darted towards them, deliberately, like a wronged and vengeful wasp.
    The fire was on them before they could blink an eye, raise a hand, do any of the useless things men did when hot steel was about to find them. One replacement was ripped in half, 20mm cannon shells severing him at the hips, his torso tumbling backwards, bright geysers of blood and strands of darker red spewing out from it. His legs, barely still connected, skidded down the snow-packed road, skewed in impossible directions. They came to rest twenty yards away, toes pointing to the sky, the tightly pulled, neatly tied laces a poignant, futile final preparation, a girding for battle that would outlast the girder. A second replacement was thrown backwards violently, as if a giant had him on a string and yanked him with all his might. One