Buzzsaw Ridge
By J. L. Young

Winter’s wind bit down hard. It was so cold, my friend’s tears froze to his cheeks. Gangrene had taken to his wounds. Maggots were his only savior. Alas, it was too cold. I dressed the wound from the German’s buzzsaw and shared with him the last can of beans.

Our Seargent was killed several days ago by a grenade. Another was to be dispatched, but he has yet to arrive. Ammunition was nearly depleted. Our momentum slowed by a German cavalry column. The armor was too thick. It was a mess, but we succeeded.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friend’s eyes drift closed. “Stay with me, Ellis.” I tapped his face.

“I just want to sleep.”

“A warm bed is waiting for you on the other side of that ridge.”

“Bullshit.”

“You kiss your mamma with that mouth?”

“No, your sister.”

His brashness put me off, and then I chuckled. Causing him to do the same, but the searing pain from his wound aborted it.

A glance at the field to the east revealed a pair of men in German uniforms. Their breath looked like thick cigarette smoke. I tapped Ellis’s shoulder and pointed before aiming. “I got the right one.”

Silence came from Ellis. I glanced at him. His eyes stared blankly toward the sky. My eyes snapped toward the oncoming Germans. I filled the Garand’s iron sights with his chest. I squeezed the trigger and cycled the next round.

The Germans were now aroused by the gunshot. The right one hadn’t noticed the blood filling his woolen uniform. I aimed at the now crouched left German. The side of his head beneath his helmet exploded, painting the snow. I cycled my rifle. I was empty, switched to my Colt, and waited.

Cautiously, the wounded German approached. My cover concealed me. I leveled my sidearm and squeezed. A click seemed to echo through the world. It drew his gaze. He approached with his submachine gun aimed directly at me.

His eyes grew large as I leaped from the ground and took hold of his gun and elbowed him in the face. The gun shot a burst, throwing searing hot brass in my face. I gnashed my teeth, snapped the bones in his forearm, and drew my knife. I felt his weight slump down. Not realizing it until he fell, I had stabbed him twice under his ribcage and sliced his throat.

I fell back against a tree. The warm blood dripped from my hands. I took my eyes off the German and they settled on Ellis. “I got ‘em.”