Wind whipped the tree branches to a near frenzy, showering what few leaves remained down onto the soldiers crouched beneath.
Kirby shivered in the damp chill. "Might as well be snow instead a leaves. It's that damned cold."
The wind stole the private's whispered words, whisking them off into the black night. But Saunders didn't need to hear the actual words to know Kirby was complaining – again. For a fact, though, the sergeant couldn't blame the BAR man. Not tonight, this night of all nights to be out on a recon – All Hallow's Eve.
Saunders allowed his thoughts to wander. Back home the kids would be dressing up, attempting to out do each other in the originality of costume department. Louise, too old to go 'trick or treating,' would be dolling up for a Halloween party at her friend Olivia's house over on Greenleaf Street, just a few blocks from their own home on Crane. Saunders hoped she'd have a good time. Nah, he knew she'd have a good time. Louise was the life of any party what with her contagious laugh and bubbly personality. And dance? That girl could cut a rug, no doubt.
His memories of home, sweet, funny, endearing, temporarily overwhelmed his dread of this night, this black, endless night.
Suddenly, a scream of anguish so profound it sent the sergeant's heart racing and tore him from the comforting warmth of his recollections, forcing him to his feet, Thompson at the ready.
"Banshees! It's them banshees!" Kirby's voice was no longer a whisper. "My gramma told me about 'em! Back in Ireland they…."
"Shut up!" Saunders cut him off.
The squad members were all on their feet and in high alert, each soldier's gaze sweeping the dark for the source of the horrific scream. Each silently praying it didn't come again.
But it did, a loud, high-pitched shriek, closer than the last, much closer.
Littlejohn laughed, not loudly, more a low chuckle, catching Saunders, Caje, Kirby, Billy and Doc off guard.
Saunders turned slightly to glare up at Littlejohn. "What the hell's so funny?" The non-com's heart remained firmly lodged in his throat and he surprised himself by his ability to speak in any sort of coherent manner.
The big PFC wiped tearing eyes back across the cuff of his jacket. "Sorry, Sarge. But do you know what's makin' that sound?"
Saunders patience was wearing thin, but he kept his composure…with concerted effort. "No, and if you do, Littlejohn, spit it out."
A grin creased the dirty face. "It's a screech owl, Sarge. Just a screech owl. Nothin' to be scared of. Less a course you're a mouse."
Saunders shook his head. He felt pretty foolish, but then again, he had allowed his thoughts to wander and he got what he deserved – a scare and on Halloween.
After a bit of good-natured ribbing and sighs of relief from the men, Saunders motioned them back into position. Settling into a crouch, the sergeant rested the Tommy gun across his knees. Once again he stared off into the nothingness beyond. This time he did not allow his thoughts to wander.
The scream hit them from all sides, the force slamming the soldiers about like so many paper boats on a roiling sea. Flung to the ground hard, Saunders dropped the Thompson and attempted to cover his ears against the hideous assault to his senses, biting back the desire to add his scream to the mix. Opening his eyes he hazarded a quick squint into the gloom. He wished he'd kept his eyes shut for what he saw defied logic and reason. From out of the trees an army approached the cowering GIs – an army like no other, horrific and terrifying, an army of the ….
END