Doom Platoon

by Levinson, Len

  Private Mike Grogan caught a bullet in the head as he was trying to climb onto the bed of the truck. He fell back, and was passed by Sergeant Jones, Lieutenant Doyle and Private Karashevsky, who jumped onto the bed, pulled up the rear gate, and, kneeling behind the metal walls of the truck, sprayed bullets at the guards running toward them as the truck began to move away.

  Dexter rammed the accelerator to the floor. The truck engine whinnied like a horse and the truck sped over the airstrip apron toward the nearest road. Luftwaffe pilots and ground crews came out of nearby barracks to see what was going on, but were sent scurrying for cover by submachine gun bursts from Mazursky, Jones, and Doyle. The guards at the airstrip were each down on one knee, firing at the retreating truck.

  A lucky shot hit Private Karashevsky on his forehead, and ripped the top of his head off. He went flying backwards, his brains splattering Sergeant Jones and Lieutenant Doyle.

  They were speeding on the road to the front gate of the air base now, and the airstrip was out of range. Jones and Doyle lay down in the dirt on the bottom of the bed, while in the front seat, Dexter steered around corners and Mazursky was putting on the jacket and hat of the German soldier on the floor of the cab. The winter sun was setting on the horizon.

  Dexter drove out the front gate of the camp and soon they were on a lonely country road. In the distance they could hear the sounds of sirens.

  “Head east,” Mazursky said.

  “There’s no fucking road going east!”

  “If you come to one, take it.”

  In the gathering twilight Mazursky spotted a narrow dirt road up ahead.

  “Take that road,” he said, pointing.

  “Make up your fucking mind, will you?”

  “Do you hear those sirens?”

  “Of course I hear those sirens.”

  “In five minutes the Krauts will have every available vehicle swarming over these roads. We’ve got to get out of sight.”

  Dexter slowed up and turned onto the narrow dirt road. Branches scratched along the side of the truck. It was almost completely dark now.

  “Don’t turn on your lights whatever you do.”

  “What do you think I am—stupid?”

  “I won’t answer that. Stop after you get in about fifty yards.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Because we have to go back and cover up our tracks so that the Germans won’t know that we’ve turned onto this road, dipshit.”

  Dexter stopped the truck. Mazursky got out and walked to the back. “Let’s go,” he called to Jones and Doyle. “We’ve got to go back and cover our tracks.”

  They jumped out of the rear of the truck and ran back to the road, where they took branches and obscured their tracks with snow and mud. While they were working they heard an approaching vehicle. Hiding behind trees, they peeked at the German kubelwagen as it sped past. Then they came out of hiding, finished obscuring their tracks, and returned to the truck.

  Dexter drove the truck deeper into the woods, until the road narrowed so much he couldn’t go any farther. By then it was night, with a half moon and the milky way shining overhead. It would be a good night for bombing, and Mazursky hoped that would impede the krauts who were searching for them.

  “I can’t go any farther,” Dexter said.

  “Drive right into the woods as far as you can go. Turn left there between those trees.”

  Dexter didn’t ask any questions; he knew Mazursky wanted to hide the truck so that it couldn’t be spotted from the air. He steered between the trees, drove and skidded for twenty feet, and finally could go no further. He stopped the truck and turned off the engine.

  Mazursky dragged the unconscious German soldier out. of the front seat, took off all his clothes, and slit his throat. Then he put on the German’s helmet and clothes over his own clothes as Dexter, Lieutenant Doyle, and Sergeant Okie Jones clustered around him.

  Doyle was a short man with black hair and lively eyes. He wore a leather flight jacket and his visored officer’s hat. Jones was tall and gawky, a typical farm boy from the Ozark Mountains.

  “I think we should split up,” Doyle said, taking charge. “We’ll have a better chance that way. What do you guys think?”

  Jones spat at the snow. “I don’t think we’ll have much of a chance no matter what we do. If the Krauts don’t get us, the starvation will.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mazursky said. “There must be something to eat in these woods, and we might even run into a farmhouse someplace.”

  “More likely we’ll run into Germans,” Dexter replied, opening the chamber of his submachine gun and looking inside.

  “Well,” said Doyle, “I still think we ought to split up. Why don’t you two go together, and Sergeant Jones and I will go together. I think two will be better than one alone, because one can always cover the other if there’s any trouble. Also, two will be less conspicuous than four.”

  Mazursky cleared his throat. “You’re awfully conspicuous as it is in that officer’s hat, sir.”

  “I’ll have to get some German clothes from someplace, and so will all of us except you, Mazursky. It’s not going to be a picnic no matter how you look at it, but I’d rather be on the loose than in those cells. At least this way we’ve all got a fighting chance. Okay, let’s not waste any more time. Sergeant Jones and I will go in a westerly direction slightly to the south, and you two will go westerly slightly to the north. Good luck, and I hope we meet again someday.”

  They all shook hands, and then Lieutenant Doyle and Sergeant Okie Jones left in their designated direction through the forest, and after a few minutes, Mazursky and Dexter trudged in their direction.

  The forest was eerie in the moonlight and glistening snow. Mazursky and Dexter waded through the branches, their breaths making puffs of smoke. They were hungry and cold, but at least they were free for the time being.

  “I think we ought to keep moving at night and rest during the day,” Mazursky said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. We should put as much distance between us and that truck as possible.”

  They continued to make their way through the forest. They crossed frozen swamps, climbed hills, and descended into valleys. To slake their thirst they ate handfuls of snow. They saw lacelike clouds float across the half moon that hung in the sky, and they heard the hooves of deer that they startled.

  At 0100 hours in the morning they stopped to rest in a cedar forest. Sitting on their haunches at the base of some trees, they looked around them and saw that bark recently had been eaten off some of the trees, and on the ground there were little piles of deer shit.

  “Looks like deer come here,” Dexter said. “Wish I could get my hands on one of them. Deer make damn fine eating.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I never ate one,” Mazursky replied.

  “You fucking city slickers don’t know what’s good.”

  “Shut your rap, will you?”

  “We got to get something to eat pretty soon. I can’t go on like this.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “This is country, and there must be a farmhouse around someplace. Maybe we ought to climb a tree in the morning and see if we can find a farmhouse. That way maybe we can get some chickens and eggs.”

  “We also might get bullets in our ass. I think it’s best that we stay out of sight.”

  “If we don’t get something to eat pretty soon, we’re going to starve to death.”

  “Shut the fuck up, will you Dexter? You’re giving me a pain in my ass.”

  Mazursky and Dexter weren’t the only creatures anxious about food in that Cedar forest. In the tree above them was a wild cat similar to the bobcats found in the forests of North America. This cat came to that cedar forest because he knew deer also went there to feed on the cedar bark. He’d already killed seven deer there and tonight was looking for number eight. Instead there were two small creatures down there, and they weren’t eating bark. They were
making strange sounds. The cat could sense that they were good to eat. Licking his chops, he poised himself to strike.

  “How far do you think our lines are?” Dexter asked.

  “About a hundred miles, I’d estimate. We’ll know when we get close, because we’ll hear the shellfire.”

  “I don’t know how we’ll get through.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “They’ll shoot you if you leave that German uniform on. You’ll have to take it off.”

  “They’re liable to shoot us anyway, because we won’t know the password.”

  “So what are we trying to get back for?”

  “Because it’s our only chance.”

  At that moment the cat dropped down from his branch. Silently he passed through the air, his claws outstretched. He landed on Mazursky, sank his claws, and took a bite of Mazursky’s closest available surface, which happened to be the German helmet he was wearing. The cat’s teeth ground against the steel, Mazursky was paralyzed with pain and terror, and Dexter, recovering quickly, whacked the cat in the head with the butt of his submachine gun. Dazed, the cat tried to bite again, and bent his teeth once more. Dexter swung harder this time and caught the cat’s head between his rifle butt and Mazursky’s helmet. The cat went unconscious and Dexter pulled him off Mazursky. The cat dropped to the ground and Dexter beat his head in with the rifle butt, then turned to Mazursky who was bleeding from holes in his German uniform.

  “Are you okay?” Dexter asked.

  “That fucking no good cat!”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you can talk like that, I guess he didn’t hurt you. Let me take a look.”

  Dexter inspected the holes in Mazursky’ s uniform. He wasn’t bleeding too badly. The thick layers of clothing prevented the claws from going in too deeply. Mazursky stood up, and made fists.

  “Where’s that fucking cat?” he said, looking at the ground. “I’m going to stomp that son of a bitch into the ground!”

  Dexter pushed Mazursky away from the cat. “Calm down you stupid prick.”

  “Lemme at that cat!”

  “Keep your fucking hands off him!”

  “I’m not going to touch him with my hands! I’m going to kick his fucking ass!”

  “Oh no you’re not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s my supper.”

  “Supper?”

  “That’s right, you birdbrain. That cat is made out of meat, and meat is food.”

  Mazursky looked at the cat in a new light. “Hey, that’s right.”

  “You’re damn right it’s right.” Dexter kneeled beside the cat. “If only I had a knife.”

  “I think there’s a knife in one of these pockets,” Mazursky said, searching through the German uniform he was wearing. “Here it is.” He handed it to Dexter.

  Dexter opened the blade and ran his thumb over the edge. “Pretty sharp,” he said. He bent over the cat, stabbed the knife into the top of its stomach, and ripped down. Dark blood welled out of the deep gash. “Want a drink of blood?”

  “Do you think I’m a fucking vampire?”

  “Then I guess you won’t mind if I have some.” Dexter lowered his face to the gash, put his mouth against it, and drank the cat’s warm blood.

  Mazursky looked at him with a mask of horror and distaste on his face. “I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in all my life.”

  “Tastes good,” Dexter said, gulping down blood.

  “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “And it’s good for me, too. Are you sure you don’t want some.”

  “I’m not that hungry.”

  “In a few days you’ll be hungry enough to eat the ass end out of a skunk. In the mean time, do you think you’d like a little of this fine raw cat meat?”

  “I think I’ll try some. Can you cut anything like a steak out of it?”

  “Hey, this ain’t no fucking cow.”

  “I can see it ain’t no fucking cow.”

  “I can give you a chunk of its ass.”

  “A chunk of its ass? I ain’t eating no cat’s ass.”

  “How about a shoulder?”

  “Isn’t there a regular piece of meat that you can slice off?”

  “I think I can cut you something.”

  Dexter cut into the cat’s leg in three places, got a grip on its skin, and pulled it away. This left a length of bare flesh on its haunch uncovered. He sliced off a strip of meat and handed it to Mazursky. “Here.”

  Mazursky took it with the tips of his fingers and wrinkled his nose. “Looks awful.”

  Dexter was cutting off a piece for himself. “Eat it and shut up.”

  Mazursky raised the meat to his nose. It had no smell at all. He bit into it, and it was gristly and slimy. He spit out the blood and juice that had got in his mouth.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Dexter asked.

  “I can’t eat this stuff,” Mazursky said, laying his piece of meat on the incision that Dexter had made.

  “I can.” Dexter raised his piece to his lips and took a bite. He rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “It tastes real good. Almost as good as possum.” Then he chewed and swallowed.

  “Dexter, anybody who’d eat that would eat shit.”

  “Starve to death, see if I care.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, that’s not food.”

  “So starve to death.”

  Mazursky ate a handful of snow. It filled him up a little. He ate another handful. It filled him up more. Dexter finished his piece of meat and then started on Mazursky’s.

  “It’s delicious,” Dexter said, chewing happily. “If you had this in a New York restaurant it’d cost you fifty dollars a plate.”

  “That don’t serve shit like that in New York restaurants. They don’t even put shit like that in hot dogs.” He took another handful of snow. His mouth still tasted horrible from the cat meat.

  “In a few days you’re going to wish you had some of this.”

  “Bullshit. I’m going to find me some real food.”

  “This is real food.”

  “That’s shit food. Mazursky don’t eat shit food.”

  “Where are you going to get real food?”

  “I’ll find some—don’t worry about it.”

  “I think you’re going to starve to death. If you do, I’m not going to take the trouble to bury you. I’ll just leave you for his cousin.’’ He pointed his thumb at the cat.

  “Mazursky will never starve to death. Mazursky is going to have a good hot meal tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Maybe you can hitch a ride into Berlin and have dinner with Hitler.”

  “Maybe you can go fuck yourself.”

  Dexter cut off another piece of meat and took a bite. Then he spat violently. “A little fur was on that piece.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t swallow it anyways, you scumbag.”

  Dexter cut another piece and carefully trimmed off the fur.

  “I wonder how that Air Corps officer and the hillbilly are doing?” Mazursky asked, chewing another handful of Snow.

  “They’re probably doing about as good as we’re doing.”

  “I can’t wait to get back to my outfit. We had a good mess sergeant.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t think he knew a piece of bacon from a string bean.”

  “You know what I could go for right now, Dexter? A big bowl of beef stew, with bread just the way my mother used to bake it, and lots of butter, and a bottle of Knickerbocker beer.”

  “They say that when guys are starving to death they start talking about food that way. I think you’re starting to starve to death. Are you sure you don’t want some of this delicious cat.”

  “Shove it up your ass.”

  “I wish there was some way to bring with us what we don’t eat.”

  “That’s your problem. I told you that
I’m going to have a good hot meal tomorrow.”

  “Sure. And a bottle of Knickerbocker beer.”

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I’ll show you.”

  “Sure you will.”

  Dexter leaned back and stuck a dirty fingernail into his teeth, picked out a piece of gristle, put it on his tongue, and swallowed it. “Well, that’s enough for now,” he said. “Don’t want to make a pig of myself. Don’t want to get sick.” He took a handful of snow to wash down his meal. “I feel like a new man.”

  “You’re disgusting, Dexter. All you guys in the tank corps are animals. Everybody knows that.”

  Dexter looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “Who said I’m in the tank corps?”

  “Didn’t you say you were in the 7th Cav?”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t my regular unit. You see, I was wounded in my regular unit, and when I got out of the hospital, they put me as a replacement in the 7th Cav, because they were on the front lines then and taking a shellacking. I was one of the tank support troops when I got taken prisoner.”

  “What was your regular outfit.”

  Dexter puffed out his chest. “The 53rd Airborne Division.”

  “What!”

  “That’s right,” Dexter said proudly.

  “You’re a fucking paratrooper?”

  “All the way,” replied Dexter.

  “I knew there was some reason why you were all fucked up, and now I know. You’re a goddamn asshole paratrooper.”

  “What are you, Mazursky? Just another dogface infantry soldier?”

  “Your goddamned right! And proud of it!”

  “How can anybody be proud to be in the infantry when any damn nitwit who can walk and pull a trigger gets put into the infantry?”

  “How can anybody with any brains want to jump out of airplanes?”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous of what? Of being crazy?”

  “We’re the elite troops and you’re just jealous.”

  “Elite troops! Are you fucking kidding?”

  “They always send the paratroopers to the toughest spots because we’re the best.”

  “And then the infantry has to come and bail you out. The paratroopers are a joke, for crying out loud. The Germans shot you right out of the air in Normandy. I should have known that anybody who’d eat a cat would also jump out of an airplane.”