Doom Platoon

by Levinson, Len

  Mazursky lit his last cigar, closed his eyes, leaned against a boulder, and thought of Sally Mae, the British girl he’d carried on with before leaving for Omaha Beach. Mazursky leapt to his feet, his mind switched into its combat mode.

  “Here they come!” he bellowed. “Let’s give them hell!”

  He stuck his carbine over the ledge, pointed down, and pulled the trigger. A spray of bullets cut down three German soldiers. He fired again and cut down two more. Stein threw down a German hand grenade, and quickly as he could, a second one. Nowicki blasted away with his BAR and so did Hartman and Ballard. Robinson threw his last hand grenade. So did Mac Doodle and Whitney. The Germans advanced through the smoke and fire, realizing there was little opposition left. Nowicki ran out of BAR ammunition and grabbed an M-l. Mazursky’s carbine jammed from the heat of too much rapid firing and he threw it to the ground. There were no more hand grenades at all. Ballard’s BAR ran out of ammunition. MacDoodle couldn’t find any more clips for his M-l. The Germans came up over the ledge and poured into their position.

  Mazursky pulled out his two Lugers, pushed off the safeties, and shot a German right in the face. He shot another German in the body, another in the head, another in the gut, but still they kept coming.

  Stein spun around and found himself facing a German soldier over six feet tall. Stein was five feet two, and knew that his last card was being played. “BLOOD AND GUTS!” he screamed, just the way they taught him in bayonet training, and lunged at the German, who batted Stein’s M-l out of the way easily, slammed him in the head with his butt plate, and ran him through. The German pulled his bayonet out and ran at Nowicki, while Stein dropped to his knees, clutched his bleeding chest. I didn’t even have a chance against him, Stein thought, tears of pain pouring from his eyes, as he fell forward onto his face.

  Nowicki fired an M-1 from the hip and caught the German in the throat, but another German standing to the side fired his rifle at Nowicki point blank and hit him in the shoulder. The force of the bullet knocked Nowicki against the barricade, and the German shot him again. The bullet cut through Nowicki’s jacket, through the letter from Shirley, and through his brave heart.

  Robinson was fighting for his life against two German soldiers, parrying and lunging with bayonets. He managed to stab one in the gut but his bayonet got stuck in there and while he was trying to pull it out the other German slashed down with his rifle and bayonet, cutting open Robinson’s jugular vein, and nearly severing his head from his body.

  Ballard, the old professional solider, was standing in the middle of a heap of German soldiers, swinging an entrenching tool with his left hand and brandishing a Colt .45 with his right. A German noncom standing a few feet behind him fired point blank and brought him down.

  Mazursky looked about him wildly, his back to the wall that led to the caves, firing the Lugers at German soldiers crowding around him, seeing his men falling, and at that point the Lugers ran out of ammunition. He bent over to get the rifle lying in the hands of a dead German, and something smashed him in the head.

  Hartman, who wasn’t far away, saw Mazursky go down, and became paralyzed by shock of it. In his momentary pause, two Germans ran him through.

  Whitney was shot in the head.

  MacDoodle was felled by a burst from a submachine gun.

  And then it was Deesing all alone, Deesing at the end of the ridge lunging and firing his rifle, surrounded by Germans. They retreated and he went after them, his mouth filled with the taste of blood, his mind crazed by the fury of battle. One of them came up behind him and whacked him over the head with his rifle butt.

  Deesing crumpled to the earth.

  It was exactly 1200 hours.

  Chapter Five

  Mazursky opened his eyes and found himself lying on a cot in a small walled tent. It was dark, the only light coming from a lantern hanging from the center post. Looking to the side, he saw other cots. Opposite him was a German with a rifle sitting in a chair. A few feet away was another German with a rifle sitting in a chair.

  Mazursky realized that he was alive and a prisoner of the Germans. He wondered how badly he’d been hurt. He had a terrific headache and felt a little dizzy. Raising his hands to his head, he felt bandages. Running his hands over his body, he could feel nothing else. Evidently he only had a head wound.

  The German opposite him stood up. “You are awake?” he asked with a thick German accent.

  “Yes.”

  The German spoke to the other guard, then left the tent. Mazursky lay back and wondered what’d happened to the other guys. At that moment the man on the cot next to him rolled over and faced him. Mazursky looked and saw Deesing with a bandage on his head.

  “Hi Sarge,” said Deesing weakly.

  “Hello fuckhead. How’re you feeling?”

  “My head hurts.”

  “So does mine.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “No, do you?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t have asked you.” Mazursky raised himself and looked over Deesing at the other cots. “Anybody else makes it from the second platoon?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who’re those guys in the other cots.”

  “I never saw them before in my life.”

  The German in the other chair stood up. “Stop talking, you two.”

  Mazursky dropped onto his back again. It looked like he and Deesing were the only survivors of the second platoon. He was glad he wasn’t very friendly with any of them, otherwise he’d be broken up right now. Before the Normandy invasion he’d made the mistake of becoming friends with some of his men, and when they died he fell into a deep depression. He couldn’t help feeling bad about Ballard, though. Ballard had been an old professional soldier just like himself. It was only a quirk of fate that caused Mazursky to be the buck sergeant and Ballard to be the Pfc. because both of them had been busted many times, and it easily could have turned out the other way around.

  The German soldier returned to the tent and stood beside Mazursky. ‘Can you stand up?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  ‘‘Stand up!” the German ordered, brandishing his rifle.

  Mazursky threw off the covers and swung his feet around to the floor. He still had his boots on. Sitting, his head spun a bit, then settled down. Slowly he stood, feeling a little weak in the knees. He was wearing his field jacket, and his helmet was gone. It wouldn’t fit over his bandaged head anyway. He felt a little floaty, but otherwise all right.

  He looked at the German soldier. “Well, I’m up.”

  “March out of the tent.”

  Mazursky walked unsteadily to the opening of the tent, bent to pass through, and came up into a cold winter night. He looked at the sky but could see no moon or stars, and from afar he could hear an artillery battle. Around him were tents lined up in ranks, and across the clearing were four larger tents, which he took to be a command post of some type.

  The German pointed with his rifle at the four large tents. “Go there.”

  “Anything you say, champ.”

  Mazursky trudged across the crusty snow as the German followed him, his rifle pointed at Mazursky’s back. He looked toward the sound of the artillery barrage, and saw light flickering on the horizon. That must be the German front lines, and this was somewhere behind the German lines. He wondered how the 25th Regiment was doing. He hoped they’d made it all right and stopped the German advance on Dillendorf.

  They approached one of the large tents.

  “Go in,” the German said.

  Mazursky lowered his head and entered the tent. Raising up again, he saw a young German officer sitting behind a desk. The German officer was lean, had black hair, and wore a monocle in his right eye. He had on the green field uniform of the Wehrmacht, and Mazursky was glad it wasn’t the black uniform of the SS.

  The German officer rose from his seat and smiled. “Ah, Sergeant Mazursky,” he said. “Won’t you have a seat?” His Englis
h had a clipped German accent, and he pointed to a wooden chair beside his desk. A lantern on his desk illuminated the room.

  “Sure,” said Mazursky, sitting down.

  “I’m Lieutenant Kruger,” the German officer said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Shoot,” replied Mazursky, and then regretted his choice of words because the German soldier with the rifle was standing a few paces behind him.

  Kruger looked puzzled. “What do you mean by shoot?” he asked. “Surely you are not asking me to shoot you.”

  “It’s a slang expression. It means go ahead and ask your questions.”

  “A slang expression?” Kruger bent over a sheet of paper and wrote something. “I am just making a note of that,” he said. “I am trying to understand American slang expressions. There are so many of them.”

  “How about fuck you?” Mazursky asked. “You ever hear that one before?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. What does it mean?”

  “It means, I hope you’re feeling okay.”

  “Indeed? Well let me write that one down too.” Kruger wrote it down while Mazursky fought to keep from laughing. Then Kruger looked up at Mazursky, and took a silver cigarette case from a pocket in his tunic. “Cigarette?” he asked, opening the cigarette case and holding it before Mazursky.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigar on you, would you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I’ll have one.” Mazursky leaned forward, took a cigarette and put it in his mouth.

  Kruger leaned forward and lit it with a cigarette lighter that matched his cigarette case. He was the son of a wealthy industrialist, a graduate of Heidelberg University, an expert horseman, and an expert fencer.

  “Thanks,” said Mazursky, puffing the strange cigarette.

  “You are welcome, sergeant.”

  Kruger lit a cigarette for himself, then dropped the lighter in his pocket. The men puffed their cigarettes and blew smoke at each other for a few seconds. The guard, who was not a smoker, started coughing.

  Kruger leaned toward Mazursky. “You are a very brave man,” he said.

  “Who me?”

  “Yes. I understand you fought magnificently yesterday. And so did your men. You held up an entire armored column, but of course, only for a little while, so it all was quite futile. It was too bad that all of you except two had to perish.”

  “That’s war, I guess.”

  “You must have lost many friends, and I would like to extend to you my condolences.”

  “I wasn’t that friendly with them.”

  “Could you tell me the nature of your mission?”

  “My name is Frank Mazursky. I am a sergeant. My serial number is RA 11282203. Under the Geneva Convention, that’s all I have to tell you, with all due respect, sir.”

  Kruger nodded. “I understand how you feel, Sergeant Mazursky, but you see, there’s a problem. If you don’t answer my questions, I will have to turn you over to interrogators from the SS, and they don’t have very much respect for the Geneva Convention. They’ll get the truth out of you one way or another, so I think it might be easier for you if you just told it to me here while you have the chance. You have heard of our SS, haven’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You don’t want them to interrogate you, do you?”

  “No sir.”

  “What was your mission on the ridge?”

  “Oh, we weren’t on no mission, sir. That just happened to be our position. We were sort of guarding the road, when all of a sudden we saw all those tanks coming. We didn’t think we could get away, so we had to stay and fight.”

  “Why didn’t you think you could get away? From your position, you should have seen the tanks coming from miles away’ “

  “But we didn’t. We didn’t expect any German tanks that far back. You took us by surprise.”

  Kruger smiled proudly. “We certainly did. We’ve pushed you Allies back by as much as a hundred kilometers in certain sectors. The tide of the war has changed, Sergeant Mazursky, but you needn’t concern yourself about that. Your fighting days are over. You’re a prisoner now. But tell me, why were you guarding the road so far in back of your lines. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “I was just following orders, sir. I just do what I’m told.”

  “Perhaps your headquarters knew that an attack was imminent?”

  “Search me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said search me.”

  Kruger looked puzzled. “You mean you want me to search through your clothing?”

  “No, that’s just more slang. It means I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” Kruger leaned forward and wrote that information on his pad. Then he looked at Mazursky again. “Do you know where the rest of your company is right now?”

  Mazursky wondered what information he could safely give, and what information might be harmful to the U.S. Army. “My company should be just a couple of miles to the southeast of where you found me, but if you’ve advanced 100 kilometers, I don’t know where they are right now.”

  “That’s where they were when you left them?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Kruger looked coldly at him. “It is true that we have advanced all along the Ardennes front, and we’ve gathered information on all abandoned allied positions. Let me consult my map here.” Kruger adjusted his monocle and looked at the map. He measured with a ruler. “Yes, there was a series of abandoned positions two miles southeast from the position where we found you. So that’s where you were, eh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “You haven’t been in touch with your company since?”

  “No sir.”

  “Not even by radio?”

  “No sir.”

  “Didn’t you think of contacting them when you saw the tanks coming?”

  “I tried to, but couldn’t get an answer.”

  “Why didn’t you send a runner?”

  “I figured if my company commander wanted to speak to me, he’d find a way.”

  “You certainly didn’t show much initiative, sergeant.”

  “I just follow orders, sir.”

  “I can see from your shoulder patch that you are a member of the Eighth Corps, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the commander of the Eighth Corps, can you tell me?”

  “Major General Troy H. Middleton.”

  “What division are you in?”

  Mazursky realized he was on a tightrope. He didn’t want to tell any information that the Germans didn’t have, but on the other hand he didn’t want to be tortured by the SS. He decided it was safe to mention the unit he was in. The main thing was not to say that they were now located outside of Dillendorf, where their mission was to defend the oil reserves stored in that town.

  “The 73rd Division, sir.”

  “What regiment?”

  “The 25th.”

  “Company?”

  “Charlie Company, sir.”

  Kruger consulted his map again. “25th Regiment, eh? Hmmmm. Well, we don’t know where they are. You don’t have any idea where they could have gone?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well, they’re probably defending some strategic position someplace to the rear of where you were. Do you have any idea of what that might be?”

  “No sir.”

  “Don’t you know where your division headquarters was located?”

  “No sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t need to know, so I never asked.”

  “Again, that shows an astonishing lack of initiative, sergeant. You’re a brave man, but you could never be a non-commissioned officer in the German army with your attitude.”

  “I don’t want to be a non-commissioned officer in the German army, sir.”

>   “Well, I wasn’t offering you the position.”

  “Wouldn’t take it anyway.”

  “I’m afraid you haven’t been very helpful to me.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Isn’t Mazursky a Polish name?”

  “Yes.”

  Kruger smiled. “Very interesting.”

  “What’s so interesting about it?”

  “I was on the Polish campaign in 1939. We won easily.”

  “That’s because you outnumbered the Poles and were better equipped. There would have been something wrong if you didn’t win easily.”

  “Of course, I’d expect you to apologize for the Poles, since you are one yourself.”

  “I’m not a Pole, I’m an American. I was born in America and both of my parents were born in America.”

  “Yes, but what is an American? Your country is a hodgepodge of all races and cultures. America is a myth. It is just a place where the criminals of the world have congregated.”

  Mazursky was getting mad, because he happened to be a patriot. However he didn’t want to blow his top because that might lead to the wrong end of the firing squad.

  “Well,” Mazursky said, “when this war is over we’ll see who’s a myth and who isn’t.”

  “Indeed we shall.” Kruger looked at the guard. “Take him away and bring me the other one.”

  Mazursky stood. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “You’ll be sent to a prisoner of war camp somewhere in Germany. It shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Good luck, sergeant.”

  “Same to you.”

  The guard marched Mazursky across the clearing toward the smaller tents. Mazursky hoped he hadn’t given any important information away to Kruger. He wondered about the POW camp he was going to. He hoped the food wasn’t too bad.

  They entered the tent. The guard motioned with his gun toward Mazursky’s bed. “Get back in bed.”

  Mazursky got back in bed while Deesing watched through his thick glasses. The guard looked at Deesing. “Come with me.”