by Len Levinson
The ground shook violently as a shell landed twenty-five yards away. Rocks and shrapnel bit into the deuce-and-a-half, and a piece of something ripped open a tire. The truck lowered a few inches and Mahoney thought that if all the tires were blown, the truck might drop down and crush them all.
The retreating French tanks entered the ranks of the advancing French tanks, and they all deployed themselves in an effort to stop the Germans. They made a long skirmish line, halted, and opened fire at the German tanks, which still were moving. The first fusillade knocked out a dozen German tanks, and the Germans themselves stopped and began to zero in on the French.
“We’re right in the middle of a fucking tank war!” Sergeant Goldberg said, burying his face in his hands.
“Calm down,” Mahoney told him. “And everybody be still.”
Sergeant Bates nervously reached for his pack of cigarettes.
“No smoking, you asshole!” Mahoney hissed. “Do you want the Krauts to see the flame from your lighter?”
Something told Mahoney that he’d never see Paris, and that his destiny would be to die in a French cornfield with his old pal Cranepool and a bunch of assholes he barely knew.
“Why have they stopped?” screamed General Felger, looking at the battle through his binoculars.
“Well, sir,” explained General Buchheim, “they appear to have run up against a wall of French tanks.”
General Felger lowered his binoculars, turned, and gazed coldly at short stout General Buchheim. “That should be a provocation to attack, not an invitation to stop and rest. I want my officers to be like mad dogs, attacking any opponent who dares to offer resistance. Order an all-out frontal attack, General Buchheim—and if it fails I shall relieve you of command.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Buchheim with a frown.
Major Lubel turned to General Felger. “May I say something, sir?”
“What is it?”
“I think you ought to reconsider that order, sir. If your attack fails, our lines may very well be breached by a French counterattack. I recommend a more strategic type of attack, sir, with a mobile reserve held in readiness in case of French counterattack.”
General Felger smiled haughtily at Lubel. “I have more experience fighting the French than you, Lubel. When subjected to a determined attack, they always turn tail and run. You’ll see that I’m right. General Buchheim—you have your orders. Carry them out.”
“Yes sir,” replied Buchheim, moving toward the field telephone.
Lieutenant Grévin nearly jumped out of his combat boots. “They’re attacking, sir!”
“I can see them,” General Duloc replied calmly.
They were standing at the edge of a woods at the top of a small hill where Duloc had moved his headquarters for a clearer view of the battlefield.
“It’s an all-out attack!”
“I can see.” Duloc watched the German advance for a few moments and made a quick decision. “Order the tank commanders to fall back slowly in a uniform line.”
“Fall back, sir?”
“Have you developed a problem with your ears, Lieutenant Grévin?”
“But why fall back, sir? Why not fight them? Paris lies directly in our path, sir! Why retreat now?”
“Because I said so. Carry out your order, Lieutenant.”
“Yes sir.”
Grévin moved toward the field telephones, and Duloc raised his binoculars again. He was a wily young general and his plan was to draw the Germans into a trap. They would think the French were retreating the way they always did; but at a crucial moment, when the Germans were least expecting it, Duloc would order a fierce counterattack right down the middle with simultaneous flanking movements around the ends. The Germans would be stopped and engulfed, and at the critical moment Duloc would commit his reserves. Duloc was certain that this plan would crush the Germans and open the road to Paris, where his wife and daughter lived.
Mahoney looked through his binoculars at the French lines and couldn’t believe his eyes. “They’re retreating!”
“Who’s retreating?” Denton demanded, raising his binoculars.
“The fucking frogs!”
Denton looked and quickly saw he was right. Turning, he looked the other way and saw the Germans advancing. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “The French are leaving us. We’re going to be cut off.”
Mahoney spat into the dust. “The fucking frogs don’t know how to fight,” he growled. “All they know how to do is run.”
Utter terror was on Denton’s face. “What are we going to do now?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Mahoney growled and then let loose with a string of curses that nearly peeled the paint off the truck.
General Felger laughed. “They’re running with their tails between their legs,” he said, looking through the slit in the bunker.
“You were right, sir,” General Buchheim said. “Look at them go.”
Major Lubel peered at the battlefield through his binoculars. “The battle isn’t won yet,” he said ominously.
Felger stamped his foot angrily. “Really Lubel—you go too far! We have routed the French and still you’re frightened!”
Lubel lowered his binoculars. “I’m not frightened sir,” he said through his teeth. “I’m only saying that the French have much of their forces intact and they have many military options still open to them.”
“Pah!” replied Felger with a wave of his hand. “You may have been a fine officer once, Lubel, and I respect the Iron Cross you wear on your tunic, but I think your experiences in the East have damaged your will to fight and make rational front line decisions. I think that when this campaign is over I shall recommend that you be declared unfit for combat duty.”
Lubel narrowed his eyes. “As you wish, sir.”
Felger turned to Buchheim. “It’s time to commit your infantry, General. Please issue that order in my name.”
“Yes sir.”
Felger raised his binoculars and looked down at the battlefield. It appeared that a great German victory was developing before him, and he knew that the Fuhrer would be very pleased.
“Here they come,” said Cranepool.
The ground trembled as though a million buffalo were running upon it. Mahoney didn’t need his binoculars now; he could look straight ahead and see the ranks of German tanks bearing down upon him. Their cannons spit lightning bolts as they fired at the retreating French, and French shells burst in their midst, throwing cornstalks and dirt into the air and occasionally blasting a tank to bits.
Major Denton’s hands trembled so severely he clutched them under his armpits. Sergeant Goldberg pressed his face against the ground and mumbled an old Hebrew prayer that suddenly had popped into his mind. Sergeant Bates was frozen with fear and Pfc Washington chewed his fingernails. Only Mahoney and Cranepool appeared capable of action; they watched the approaching tanks through slitted eyes, ready to run or fight, and ready to die.
Cranepool laid his grenades beside him in a row. “If any of those tanks come close, I’ll throw a grenade at the treads.”
“Don’t do that!” Denton screamed.
“Why not?” Cranepool said.
“You’ll attract their attention! We don’t want to attract their attention!”
Mahoney nodded. “He’s right. Stay calm and hope they go by without seeing us.”
The tanks roared closer. They split apart to go around the truck, and the American soldiers ducked their heads and hoped the Germans wouldn’t see them. Mahoney peeked out from behind a tire and saw that the tanks were all buttoned up, which meant their visibility was poor. He was confident that the German tanks would pass without seeing them, but he knew that German infantry probably would be on the way soon and then it would be a different story. “Fuckin’ frogs,” he muttered. “Left us out here to die.”
The tanks rumbled past the truck, some no more than a few yards away. Mahoney heard the terrible gnashing sound of tank treads and smelled the diesel s
moke pouring from the tank exhausts. The tanks fired their cannons, nearly deafening Mahoney who stuffed his fingers in his ears and grimaced, and French shells exploded throughout the area. Mahoney thought he was in the middle of the end of the world.
And still the German tanks kept coming, like huge gray monsters flattening everything in their paths. Mahoney figured there must be hundreds of them. Suddenly a French shell landed near a German tank and blew off its treads. The tank was only a few yards away from the truck, and Mahoney reached for his carbine.
“Oh-oh,” he said.
Cranepool picked up a hand grenade.
Major Denton balled up his fists. “I told you to leave those hand grenades alone!” he screamed.
“Leave him alone,” Mahoney growled. “Germans might come out of that tank.”
“Oh my God!” Denton said, pulling out his .45. “Be careful with that,” Mahoney told him.
Mahoney clicked his teeth nervously as he watched the tank.
It was stationary and smoke poured from the place where the treads had been. He couldn’t tell if its engine was still running because there was so much smoke and noise all around him. If he was the tank commander he’d sit tight and fire the cannon, but it was possible that the cannon had been damaged in the blast.
The turret of the tank opened, and Mahoney took aim with his carbine. “Don’t fire at them unless they see us,” he said, “but if they see us, we better open up with everything we have before they have a chance to signal that we’re here.”
Mahoney stared at the open turret so hard his eyes burned, but no heads appeared. A rolling tank passed between him and the disabled tank, blocking his view for a few moments; but when the tank passed, the hatch on the disabled tank was still open and no German was showing himself. I wonder what the fuck’s going on, he thought.
The rest of the tanks thundered past, and then they were behind the truck, chasing the French west to the coast. The disabled tank sat in the cornfield along with other German and French tanks that had been put out of the war. Maybe they’re just waiting for the other tanks to pass by before they come out, Mahoney thought.
A head wearing a black beret appeared in the hatch and looked around. It was no more than ten yards away and Mahoney could see that it was the head of a man who was blond and quite young.
“Remember what I said,” Mahoney whispered. “If they see us—open fire. I’ll give the signal.”
Major Denton cleared his throat. “Exactly what will the signal be, Sergeant?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“When I fire my carbine—that’ll be the signal.”
The men bestirred themselves and readied their weapons. Cranepool picked up a hand grenade and watched the German tank intently. Mahoney put the German tanker’s head in his sights and followed him as he climbed out of the hatch and shouted an order down into the tank. The German walked down the deck of the tank and jumped to the ground, as another head appeared in the hatch. The second German crawled out and then a third one, bleeding from a leg wound, climbed onto the deck of the tank. They jumped to the ground and joined the first German. All of them carried submachine guns.
They looked around. One of them took off his black beret and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Another spoke with the one who was wounded. He placed the wounded man’s arm around his shoulder and helped him walk. The three of them walked to the side of the tank closest to the truck and headed back in the direction they had come from.
The German with the wound and the one helping him were preoccupied with simply moving; but the other German, the one who’d left the tank first, was looking everywhere and moving stealthily, his submachine gun held ready. His head jerked about like a squirrel looking for acorns, and he glanced at the truck several times but didn’t see anything.
Just then an ant that had been crawling up the back of Sergeant Goldberg’s shirt crossed the bridge to his neck, and Sergeant Goldberg reflexively reached back and slapped it.
The German froze and looked in the direction of the truck. Mahoney held his breath. The German bent over and squinted underneath the truck, then pointed to it and shouted.
The Germans dropped to the ground, and Mahoney opened fire. His first bullet kicked up dirt in front of the German who’d spotted them and his second whizzed over the German’s head. All the .45’s bullets went wild, and then Cranepool threw one of his hand grenades and shouted, “Get down!”
The hand grenade toppled lazily through the air and fell in the midst of the Germans. One of them grabbed it and prepared to throw it back, when it exploded. All three Germans disappeared in a red flash explosion, and when the smoke cleared they were torn to shreds.
“Good work,” Mahoney said with a grin. “I’m gonna see if any of those submachine guns are still working.”
Mahoney crept out from underneath the truck and ran bent toward the Germans, dropping to his knees when he came to the first submachine gun. It was blackened and covered with dirt but he worked the bolt and it was okay. He took some long clips of ammunition from a pouch on a bloody German torso, stuffing them into his shirt. He spotted another submachine gun for Cranepool and he worked the bolt once to make sure it was in good shape.
Then something told him to look up. He sucked wind when he saw advancing ranks of German foot soldiers in the distance. Not wanting to make any sudden movements, he lowered himself slowly to the ground and crawled back toward the truck. Major Denton was motioning frantically to him.
Mahoney slithered like a snake toward the truck, dragging the submachine guns with him. He had known that sooner or later the Germans would send their infantry in to mop up. Mahoney realized that he and the others probably were going to get mopped up too unless a miracle happened. He grabbed a stalk of corn that had several ears on it. At least we’ll die with something in our stomachs, he thought grimly.
He crawled underneath the truck and Major Denton bent over him. “German soldiers are coming!” he said in a choked voice.
“I saw them,” Mahoney replied. He handed the submachine gun and a handful of clips to Cranepool, then tore an ear of corn off the stalk and threw it to Denton. “It’s time for chow, boys.”
Denton looked at the ear of corn. “How can you think of food at a time like this?” he screamed.
Mahoney shrugged. “Give it to Cranepool then.” Mahoney threw an ear to Goldberg.
Denton handed the ear to Cranepool, looked at the advancing Germans, then back at Mahoney. “What do you think we should do, Sergeant?” he asked with overtones of profound anxiety.
Mahoney threw an ear of corn to Sergeant Bates. “Surrender, I suppose.”
“Surrender?” Denton asked, blinking.
“You got a better idea?”
“Me?” Denton chewed his lower lip. “I don’t think so.”
“We can’t fight them all,” Mahoney explained, throwing an ear of corn to Washington. “If they see us, the only thing to do will be to surrender. Anybody wearing anything white?”
Nobody said anything. Even their underwear was O.D. green.
“Well,” Mahoney said, “If they see us I guess we’ll just have to hold our hands high in the air and smile in a friendly way.” With a shrug he ripped the green husk off the ear of corn, wondering what German POW camps were like.
At the French command post, General Duloc was poised on the balls of his feet as he peered through his binoculars at the battlefield. He smiled when he saw the Germans charging madly forward. The center of his line was pulling back slowly now, but the flanks were holding. The Germans were rushing headlong into a trap that would snap shut on them. And Duloc decided that the time had come to set it in motion.
“Lieutenant Grévin?” he said, still looking at the battlefield, because he didn’t want to miss anything.
“Yes sir.”
“Order the counterattack.”
“Yes sir.”
Mahoney and the others gnawed their corn hungrily and watched the advancing German line of
infantry. It was around eight hundred yards away, but advancing steadily. Mahoney could see the sunlight glint on German bayonets, and he wondered if his blood would stain one of those bayonets before the sun went down today.
Mahoney didn’t feel very optimistic about the outcome of the afternoon. The French had run like cowards and the Germans probably would shoot him and the others. Mahoney had shot Germans who’d tried to surrender and he imagined that Germans often did the same thing. Who wanted to be bothered with prisoners of war? You had to feed them and assign people to guard them, and it was too much trouble.
Mahoney picked a grenade from the ground and dropped it into his back pocket. He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair, trying not to think that he might be killed in the next few moments. He glanced behind him and saw the German tanks far in the distance, still chasing the French. This hasn’t been one of my better days, Mahoney thought.
“Well,” he said aloud, “we might as well get rolling. You ready Cranepool?”
“I’m ready, Sarge.”
Mahoney waved vaguely to the others. “See you later, guys.”
Major Denton solemnly extended his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant.”
“Fuck you,” Mahoney replied. “Let’s go, Cranepool.”
They crawled out the right side of the truck and stood up, looking at the Germans who were a hundred and fifty yards in front of them. Brushing the dirt off their clothes, they walked toward the Germans waving their hands in the air.
