I already got a lot of good feedback from you guys on my opening WWII battle scene which I greatly appreciate. I was wondering if people with battle knowledge would critique what I now have. Opening scenes are so important in a novel. I'm not going to put it in quotes because I feel it's easier to read if not in a shaded area. Thanks ahead of time. Here it is:
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The burst of machine gun bullets, followed by the distinctive sound of a German Granatwerfer 34 mortar being fired, sent the Third Platoon of Charlie Company scurrying in all directions. The American soldiers had been plodding down the road toward the small southern Italian town when all hell broke loose. The mortar round exploded fifty feet from Corporal Boyd Harken with a thunderous BOOM! that shook the earth. The sting of shrapnel ripped his Army fatigue sleeve below his left shoulder and tore through the flesh. It also felt like someone had kicked him in the back of his thigh.
The spread out members of his platoon dashed for cover, all except the two forward soldiers. Kincaid and Johnston lay dead, their bodies riddled with bullets from Hitler's Buzzsaw, the name the American soldiers had given to the dreaded German MG 42 machine gun. It could fire so fast that it could literally saw you in half.
Boyd dived behind a mangled jeep lying on its side, remains of a previous effort by their fellow Allied soldiers to take the small Italian town. The jeep had been shoved out of the way to the edge of the road. That attempt had failed. Now it was Charlie Company's turn, specifically the Third Platoon. It was supposed to have been easy. Army Intelligence had said the Germans retreated to consolidate their forces for a stronger stand farther north where there was a strategic bridge. Nothing in this damn World War was easy. The intel was wrong. Kincaid's and Johnston's ripped apart lifeless bodies were a testament to that.
The Germans were there.
Boyd looked over his shoulder. More bodies lay on the ground. At 1,200 rounds per minute, you couldn't outrun the fast shooting machine gun. Sometimes you simply had to be lucky. Bullets whizzed over his head and ricocheted off the jeep.
Boyd shucked his backpack and checked his arm. Only a flesh wound. Had he also been hit in the leg? He twisted around to look. Then patted the area for blood. Confused at finding nothing, he wondered what had hit him and quickly scanned the area. He spotted a severed hand lying on the ground not far from him. The wedding band was silver with turquoise inlays. He recognized PFC Oliver Gilbert's ring and glanced back to where the mortar had exploded to see if Ollie needed help. Whatever was left of his friend was beyond help. He turned his attention back to the enemy, crawling on his belly to the corner of the jeep.
Boyd peeked around the jeep.
At the edge of town, sandbags were stacked waist high in the shape of horseshoes on both sides of the road. The flashes of a machine gun came from the one nearest Boyd. The distinctive sound of a mortar being fired came from the other one, followed by explosions. Another burst of machine gun fire caused Boyd to look behind him. One of his fellow soldiers was knocked backward and lay sprawled on the ground. He couldn't make out who he was, but he was also beyond help.
Boyd lay on his belly under the corner of the jeep with his legs straight out behind him and his toes pointing outward, heels together. He waited.
One shortcoming of the fast shooting machine gun was that it overheated. The machine gunners were equipped with spare barrels that could be replaced in around twenty seconds, giving its prey a brief reprieve. Seasoned Allied soldiers had learned to count as they rushed from one cover to another. That must have been what the German machine gunner was doing. Changing the barrel.
Boyd waited, breathing smoothly, staring at the sandbags through the M1 rifle's sight. Ignoring the sound of mortar rounds being fired, whistling through the air, and exploding behind him, he kept the meaty part of his index finger steady on the trigger. He waited. Continued to wait. The twenty seconds felt like a lifetime with the explosions all around him. At any time, his fate could be the same as Ollie's. Breathing evenly with the rifle pressed to his cheek, his eye was fixated on the top of the sandbags.
The machine gun appeared and then the head of the German popped up. Boyd fired. The bullet tore through the enemy's left eye and came out the back of his head. The MG 42 machine gun, fixed to a bipod, now pointed toward the sky with the slumped over dead German soldier's hand still clutching it. Boyd waited for another German to man the weapon. None appeared. That was odd. Machine gunners typically worked in teams.
Boyd jumped to his feet and charged the machine gun nest, clutching his M1 rifle in a tight fist, zigzagging, running as fast as his legs would carry him like he had on his high school track team. Bullets whizzed around him, leaving dust explosions at his feet. The shooter had an elevated position. Probably from a second story window or rooftop on the edge of town. He couldn't take the time to look. He needed cover. His heart raced as his legs pumped as fast as they could.
Another twenty yards to go. Ten. He dived behind the sandbags surrounding the machine gun nest for cover from anyone in the town. Not taking the time to catch his breath, he pulled the pin on a grenade and lobbed it across the road at where the mortar was. It sailed over the sandbags and an instant later exploded with bits of flesh and blood spraying the air.
Boyd looked over his shoulder. Now that he had neutralized the two nests, his fellow soldiers were running toward town. But the sniper was still there. He peeked over the sandbags to make sure there was no danger waiting on the other side and then ducked back down. Hunkering behind the sandbags, he laid the barrel of his M1 rifle on the top and raised up. He scanned the town through the sight. Just like shooting rabbits back home, he thought as he waited. It seemed like it had been ages since he was last in Texas.
There was a flash and then movement in a second story window. Boyd aimed and fired. The German soldier slumped forward and hung out of the window. His rifle fell from his dead hands and rattled on the sidewalk below.
There was pounding of combat boots behind him. Boyd spun around.
"Nice work," Sgt. Murphy said between gasps in his heavy Alabama drawl. "Hey, you're hit."