Doom Platoon

by Levinson, Len

  “That’s what I said.”

  “But that’s impossible!”

  “Who in the fuck asked you for your opinion?”

  “But it’s fucking crazy.”

  “It’s an order. And we’re going to carry it out. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you mean, yeah?”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “That’s better. Take this map and compass. If anything happens to me, it’s your platoon and your mission. Where’s Stein?”

  “I’m right here, sergeant,” said Stein, his bazooka and walkie-talkie hanging from his shoulders. He was a frail little man who somehow had a considerable amount of stamina.

  “Stein, from now on you’re Corporal Banes’ runner. He’s the new acting platoon sergeant, got it?”

  “But I’m supposed to be the platoon leader’s runner, not the platoon sergeant’s,” Stein protested meekly.

  Mazursky glared at him. “What was that?”

  Stein looked at the ground. “Nothing, sergeant.”

  Albright was standing nearby, a skinny pickle from Cleveland, grinning.

  “What the fuck’s so funny?” Mazursky asked him.

  “Nothing, sergeant.”

  “Then wipe that stupid asshole smile off your face.”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  Mazursky looked at Banes and narrowed his eyes to slits. Banes had a lantern jaw, an aquiline nose, and his eyes were pale blue.

  “I’m gonna stay with the point squad,” Mazursky said. “You take Lieutenant Smith’s post with the anti-tank squad. Keep your fucking eyes open and stay awake. Get the men ready to move out.”

  “Yes, sergeant.” Banes adjusted the M-l slung over his right shoulder and walked away. “FALL IN!” he shouted.

  Mazursky looked down at Lieutenant Smith, who looked like a teenage boy. It was strange how dead soldiers always looked like little boys. In a few weeks Mrs. Smith would get a telegram from the Department of the Army. It would say that her husband had been killed in action. Mazursky wondered how she’d take it.

  He trudged to the first squad. The men carried more junk than before; they’d taken ammunition and C-rations from their dead. Nobody had to give them the order to do that. The good thing about combat veterans was that they generally knew what to do. The bad thing was that they cared more about saving their own skins than taking military objectives. Mazursky wondered how they’d react when they saw a German panzer division headed straight for them.

  He took his position at the center of the first squad and looked around. Albright was behind him, and the other squads were in their diamond formations. He took out his compass and faced the 270-degree azimuth that was supposed to take them to their defensive position on the Dillendorf road. Then he raised his right hand over his head and pointed in that direction.

  The second platoon moved out. They passed through the gently rolling hills and came to another meadow. There was a bombed out farmhouse and a barn that, miraculously, hadn’t been touched. It was that way with troops too. A hand grenade could blow four men into little pieces of meat, and the fifth man wouldn’t have a scratch on him. What a crazy fucking war.

  When Mazursky enlisted in 1935, he didn’t know there was going to be a war. He thought he was going to put twenty easy years in the Army and then retire on a pension that would amount to two-thirds of his base salary. He did all right for three years, but then in the beginning of his second enlistment he started boozing it up. There’d been a fight in Wrightstown, New Jersey, just outside of Fort Dix. Some corporal from the 101st Airborne cracked wise with him, and Mazursky nearly beat him to death. That produced his first court martial. There’d been three others since then. But those fucking paratroopers were always too cocky for their own good. Thought they were some kind of elite, just because they were dumb enough to jump out of airplanes. But he’d shown that fucking corporal a thing or two. That corporal would probably have headaches for the rest of his life. At least Mazursky hoped he would.

  Private Winfield, the new point man, pointed his finger to his left. Mazursky looked and saw something walking toward him over the snow. It was a little dog, about the size of a cocker spaniel. The dog was wagging his tail so hard the entire rear of his body was wagging with it. The dog walked up to Private Nowicki, stood on its hind legs, and pawed the air. Nowicki shrugged and kept on walking. Undaunted, the dog headed for Mazursky It was white with black spots, a mongrel of some kind, and had a black spot around its right eye which made it appear that he had a shiner. He was so skinny you could see every one of its ribs.

  The dog walked beside Mazursky, wagging its tail, and looked up mournfully at him.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  The dog kept walking and wagging.

  Mazursky looked back at Albright. “Take a can of sausage patties out of my pack, open it, and give it to the mutt.”

  “Hup sarge.”

  “WHAT!”

  “Sorry, sergeant. Yes, sergeant.”

  “You fucking stupid ridiculous bolo cocksucker!”

  As Mazursky continued walking, Albright ran closer, opened Mazursky’s pack, took out the can of C-rations, and opened it up. Then he stopped, emptied the can onto the snow, and buried the can. The dog began to gulp down the patties. Mazursky glanced back, wishing he were that dog. A dog didn’t have to carry a rifle. A dog didn’t have to stick a bayonet into anybody. A dog wouldn’t have to fight off a panzer division until noon.

  The second platoon moved into another stand of trees. He heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet, looked down, and saw the dog walking beside him. The fucking dog thought he’d found a friend. The trouble with friends was that sometimes they got killed before your eyes.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Mazursky growled at the dog.

  The dog kept walking beside him.

  Mazursky stamped his foot on the ground. “I said beat it!”

  The dog stopped, looked sadly at him, then continued walking.

  “Okay, it’s your funeral,” Mazursky muttered.

  They continued moving through the woods. Mazursky thought the road couldn’t be too far off, unless they were on the wrong azimuth and hopelessly off. It’d happened before to the second platoon. Mazursky had never met anybody who could be deadly accurate with those field compasses. Once during maneuvers at Fort Benning, Georgia a whole company had got lost for 48 hours. Today that company commander was probably peeling potatoes in some crazy mess hall someplace.

  Mazursky’s feet hurt and he felt hungry. He cursed the war and prayed that it would end in the next five minutes, although he knew that was impossible. His experiences since D-Day had convinced him that there would always be wars. Some greedy bastard wanted the real estate that belonged to his neighbor; that’s how they always started. And you couldn’t let them get away with it because then they’d want more and before you knew it they were demanding your own back yard. It was like when somebody started crowding you in a bar. If you let him get away with it he’d push you right out the front door.

  A tall hill loomed up ahead. Mazursky thought it might be a good idea if he went up there and looked around. Maybe he’d see the road. He pointed toward the ground and then dropped down. The second platoon hit the snow all around him. He turned to Albright. “Tell Banes to report.”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  Albright spoke into his walkie-talkie, and Mazursky looked at the dog lying down and wagging his tail beside him.

  “You think this is fun, huh?” Mazursky asked the dog.

  The dog wiggled ecstatically.

  “When they start shooting at us, we’ll see how long you hang around.”

  The dog yawned.

  “I guess we might as well give you a name. From now on you’re Private Shitface and you report directly to me, got it?”

  The dog pawed the snow. Mazursky smiled. Maybe it was a good thing for the platoon to have a mascot. Maybe it would bring good luck. And maybe it wouldn’t.<
br />
  “If you ever bark when you’re not supposed to, I’m gonna step right on your fucking head, got it?”

  The dog stopped wagging its tail and looked seriously at Mazursky, who was flabbergasted by the thought that maybe the dog had understood him.

  Banes came running, threw out the butt of his rifle, and let it cushion his fall. “You wanted me?” he asked, breathing hard.

  “Yeah, I wanted you. I’m going up on that hill over there and reconnoiter the area. You stay behind and take charge of the company. If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, proceed without me. If you see any enemy troops, don’t fire at them unless they start firing first, or unless you’re sure that they’ve seen you. Got it?”

  “Can I let the men eat?”

  “Can you let the men eat what?”

  Banes looked away for a second. “Can I let the men eat, Sergeant?”

  “That’s better. No, you can’t let the men eat. They’ll eat when and if we set up our defensive position on the Dillendorf Road.”

  “They’re awfully hungry, sir.”

  “So am I. But we can’t take the time. And besides, if they’re hungry, maybe they’ll move a little faster. If they eat they might want to slow down and have a nap. It’ll take their incentive away, got it?”

  “Yes sergeant.”

  “If you’re attacked, do you think you can handle it?”

  “Yes sergeant.”

  “You’d fucking better, because if you don’t, it’s nobody’s ass but your own.” Mazursky turned back to Albright. “Let’s go, shit-for-brains.”

  “Where are we going, sergeant?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  Mazursky got up, adjusted his carbine, took a chew of his unlit cigar, and stepped out toward the big hill. Albright walked to his right, and the dog to his left. After going only a short distance they could no longer see the second platoon, so thick were the woods. Mazursky’s feet crunched on the frozen snow and he wished he could snuggle next to a fire someplace. After the war was over he intended to move to a warm climate. Living in the snow was getting on his nerves.

  “Can I ask you something, sergeant?” Albright said.

  “No.”

  “But it’s important.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Albright looked sideways at him. He was nineteen years old, from Boston, and his face had been ravaged by acne. “I was thinking that maybe when we get back to the regiment you might put me in for corporal.”

  “Oh, were you really thinking that?”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “Who told you that you know how to think?”

  “Everybody knows how to think, sergeant.”

  “That’s bullshit. If everybody knew how to think the world wouldn’t be in the bad shape it is.”

  “But I’ve got three years in as a Pfc, sergeant.”

  “So what? There’s guys who’ve been a Pfc. longer.”

  “But I’m your runner. You should look out for me.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re the one who should look out for me.”

  “I do look out for you.”

  “I know. That’s why I want to keep you as my runner. You’re a good runner. But you might not be a good corporal.”

  “But sergeant, you’re holding back my military career.”

  “What military career?”

  “My military career. I been in the Army four years.”

  “So what? I been in for nine years.”

  “I should get a promotion. I do my job okay.”

  “That’s why I want you to keep doing it.”

  “But I should be a squad leader by now. I got lots of experience. I been watching you operate for six months, now.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not dead by now. Count your blessings, Fuckbright.”

  “But now that Corporal Dooley’s dead, there’s a slot for another corporal. Why can’t it be me?”

  “You really wanna know why?”

  “Yeah, I really wanna know why.”

  “You wanna know why what?”

  “I wanna know why, sergeant.”

  “I’ll tell you why.” Mazursky looked Albright in the eye. “Because I don’t think you can handle a squad. Being a corporal means more than getting another stripe and another ten dollars a month. It means you’ve got to be able to lead your men in battle. I don’t think you could lead men in battle. Who in the fuck would want to follow your orders if the shit hits the fan? If I get busted to private again I’m liable to wind up in your squad, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t be able to have much faith in you. So don’t ask me about it anymore.”

  Albright looked hurt. “How come you wouldn’t have any faith in me?”

  “You’re a skinny little fucked-up punk, that’s why. Would you want to be in a squad commanded by an asshole like you, or would you rather be in a squad commanded by Corporal Banes?”

  Albright wrinkled his forehead in thought.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Fuckbright.”

  “I’d rather be in Corporal Banes’ squad,” he admitted.

  “Who could blame you?”

  “Oh shit, sergeant.”

  “Stop whining, Fuckbright.”

  “You make me feel like shit.”

  “That’s because you are shit. A Pfc. in this man’s army is just a shit. Maybe you’d better keep that in mind.”

  “If a Pfc. is shit, then what’s a private?”

  “A private is like a piece of whale shit, and you know, there’s nothing lower than whale shit, because it’s right at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “So who’s gonna be the new corporal?”

  “I don’t know yet. MacDoodle I think.”

  “MacDoodle?”

  “Yeah. What’s the matter with MacDoodle?”

  “He’s a psycho, for crying out loud! He’s completely out of his mind! He’s just a bloodthirsty killer! Everybody’s afraid he’s going to go berserk some day!”

  Mazursky nodded and smiled. “And that’s why they’re all afraid of him, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s why he’ll be a good squad leader. It’s a very good thing to have your men afraid of you. You’ve got to make them more afraid of you than the enemy. Then they’ll do whatever you say. Got it?”

  Albright shrugged. “I think so, sergeant.”

  “If you stop being such a little punk candy ass, you might get to be a corporal someday. But I don’t think you can do it.”

  “I can do it,” Albright said in a deadly tone.

  “Bullshit.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I don’t believe in miracles anymore. I don’t believe in Santa Claus either.”

  Albright jutted out his lower lip. “I saved your life today,” he said.

  Mazursky harumphed. “And it’s a good thing you did, because where would you be without me, you little asshole?”

  Albright couldn’t think of a reply to that, because it was true, Mazursky was his god. He always felt safer when he was around Mazursky. He believed that Mazursky always knew the right thing to do. In fact, he’d had more faith in Mazursky than in Lieutenant Smith. He’d always been afraid that Lieutenant Smith would lead them into some kind of horrible situation someday, because Smith was an officer, and officers were full of shit. But Mazursky wasn’t full of shit. Mazursky had a good head on his shoulders. Albright respected Mazursky more than he respected his own father, who owned a little grocery store near Copley Square and bellyached all the time. Albright’s mother had run off with the salesman from a canned soup company when Albright was ten years old. Momma, why didn’t you love me more than you loved that fast-talking salesman?

  They came to the base of the hill and began to climb, bending forward and pulling themselves up with the help of the bare saplings that stood in the snow. The dog scampered up ahead of them. Albright was very hungry. When he’d fed the dog those sausage patties he’d wanted to steal one for himself, bu
t if he did Mazursky might have caught him and that would’ve meant a kick in the ass in front of the whole platoon, or worse, a rifle butt across the snout.

  “Are you paying attention?” Mazursky asked as they climbed the hill.

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I can’t help it how I look.”

  “Assholes like you worry about everything except what they’re supposed to be worrying about. Pay attention, got it?”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “You fucking horse’s ass.”

  Up the hill they went, breathing hard, ever on the lookout for Germans. There were twenty-foot boulders that they had to circumnavigate and little streams that they had to jump over. Mazursky noticed that his hunger was going away. There always comes a point where a stomach gets used to being empty. That lasts for a few hours, and then when it gets hungry again you have to feed it or else get headaches and the miss-meal cramps.

  Finally they reached the top of the hill. Breathing like racehorses after 12 furlongs at Belmont Park, they looked around. Straight ahead was the Dillendorf road, about half a mile away. It wound its way through forests and meadowlands. Mazursky took out his binoculars, map, and compass. He scanned the road, then looked at the map and tried to associate landmarks. He spotted the swamp that was near the hills where he was supposed to defend the road. The road turned in reality just where it turned on the map. If the second platoon had continued in the direction it was going, it only would have been a few miles off. Now he could hit the cliffs dead on. It shouldn’t take more than another half hour.

  Looking north on the road, he could see no traffic whatsoever. That was a good sign. In the distance he could see smoke pouring into the air above the German lines. The sound of bombardment had been going on steadily ever since 0530 hours that morning, and he’d been growing used to it. He looked at his watch; it was 0730 hours. Holding up the binoculars again, he peered through them at the woods to the north. He couldn’t see anything except a thick mass of trees, and then a meadow came into view. Streams of ants were moving across the meadow, only they really weren’t ants. They were Germans, at least a battalion of them, possibly two battalions.

  “Oh-oh,” murmured Mazursky.

  “Whataya see, Sarge?”