by Len Levinson
He heard footsteps approaching in the darkness. Turning, he saw Lieutenant General Hasso von Manteuffel, barely five feet, four inches tall, a former German pentathlon champion and commander of the Fifth Panzer Army in whose sector Model stood. Like Model, Manteuffel also doubted that the attack could push all the way to Antwerp and had argued for more modest objectives.
Manteuffel saluted Model. “Everything is going smoothly so far,” he said, standing stiffly and looking up to the taller Model, who nodded.
“Yes,” replied Model, who wore a monocle in his right eye. “Let’s hope that the Amis don’t get suspicious.”
“We’ve received no reports of changes in their dispositions.”
Model looked at his watch. It was two o’clock in the morning. “We have just a little more time to go. Let’s hope they stay unsuspicious.”
~*~
At Eighth Corps headquarters in Bastogne, Corporal Donald Riley of Abbotsford, Wisconsin, sat with headphones on in front of a radio set. He was sleepy and anxious because it was a few minutes after two o’clock in the morning, and his relief had not yet shown up. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the copy of Stars and Stripes spread open on the space in front of the radio set.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Riley turned around and saw Pfc Arnold Scheuer of Columbus, Ohio, his relief,
“What’re you sneakin’ up on me for!” Riley exploded.
“I’m not sneaking up on you.”
“About time you got here.” Riley stood and handed Scheuer the headphones.
Scheuer put them on and sat at the bench. “Anything going on?” he asked.
Riley gathered up his Stars and Stripes. “The krauts are on radio silence.”
“Did you report it?”
“Of course I reported it.”
“I wonder why they’re on radio silence.”
Riley looked askance at him. “You know what we do when we go on radio silence, don’t you?”
Scheuer shrugged. “We’re usually getting ready to attack.”
“Right.”
Riley turned and walked away. Scheuer took out pencil and paper because he intended to write his girlfriend back home. Then he turned the knob and scanned the airwaves, listening to the frequencies that the Germans usually used for transmission. He heard nothing except faint whistles and static. He picked up his pencil and wrote the date on the upper right-hand corner of the blank piece of paper. If the Germans were on radio silence, that was the problem of G-2 (Intelligence). Let them worry about it.
But in G-2, the report of radio silence was filed with the other reports of unusual activity behind the German lines. The consensus was that either the Germans were on maneuvers in the area, or they were trying to fool the Americans into thinking that an attack was about to be launched.
Chapter Four
At five-thirty in the morning, a thunderstorm of German artillery shells suddenly rained down on the American lines between Monschau in the north and Echternach in the south. In Clervaux, a few dozen shells landed near the MP station, blowing cobblestones into the air and shattering buildings. Mahoney had been fast asleep, and the initial shock wave of the explosions threw him out of bed. He grabbed for his carbine, but there was no carbine in his tiny cell. He looked at his watch, but the MPs had taken it from him.
“They’re coming!” screamed the German soldier down the hall. “They’re coming!”
Mahoney felt like a rat in a trap. His ears rang with, the sound of explosions, and the floor of the cell trembled beneath his feet. His cell had no window, so he couldn’t see what was going on. He was far enough beneath the ground to be safe from the artillery, but what if the building above him collapsed? He might suffocate in his basement cell.
“HEY!” he bellowed, getting to his feet. “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” He pounded on his cot and rattled the bars of his cell. “LET ME OUT!”
The German soldier down the corridor continued to scream and other soldiers scattered throughout the cellblock hollered and banged around. The artillery barrage intensified, and it sounded like hell had broken loose in the town above. A squad of MPs came down to the cellblock to see what was going on.
“UNLOCK THESE CELLS!” Mahoney yelled.
“Shut up!” one of the MPs said.
“What’s going on up there?”
“The krauts are sending us a little artillery, but it ain’t nothin’ to worry about. It should be over soon. You people down here had better calm the fuck down, if you know what’s good for you.”
Mahoney paced back and forth in his cell like a caged animal. The MPs left the cellblock and went back upstairs. The German artillery shells continued to fall like hail on the town of Clervaux.
~*~
Behind the artillery barrage, the tanks and men of the three panzer armies poured through the mountain passes toward the American positions in the Ardennes. The tanks were painted white, and the men wore white camouflage suits. There was a total of twenty-eight German divisions against six American divisions, and the German tanks and soldiers rolled easily over the American forward positions. The artillery barrage had destroyed most of the American communications network, so at first each isolated group thought that only it was under attack. The American units on the front lines fell back and coalesced, offering resistance wherever they could. They didn’t know it yet, but they were being swept up in one of the biggest land battles in the history of the world.
~*~
The German artillery continued to shell American strong-points after the assault was underway, and one of these strong points was the little town of Clervaux. Mahoney sat on his cot and looked at the dark ceiling as exploding shells caused a continuous roar in his ears. Although he had no idea of the scope of the German offensive, he knew that something serious was going on in the Clervaux sector at least.
He was hungry and wished he had a cigarette. He felt alone and vulnerable because usually in times of stress he was with his buddies in the Hammerhead Division. They worked together like a team and usually did okay, but here he was just an unarmed prisoner in a stockade.
A door opened down the corridor, and he heard a cacophony of footsteps. MPs appeared in the corridor, and one of them inserted a key into the lock on Mahoney’s door.
“What’s going on?” Mahoney asked.
“Get out of there,” the MP said.
Mahoney stepped out of the cell into the corridor. He saw other cells being opened and other imprisoned GIs spilling into the corridor and looking around, curious as he was. A dozen MPs were bustling around, along with a captain and two lieutenants. The floor shook from the impact of explosions, and small pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling.
Mahoney and the other prisoners were herded together in the middle of the corridor facing the MP captain.
“You can hear what’s going on,” the captain said. “The Germans have launched an all-out attack in this sector, and we need everybody we can get at the front. You men will be issued weapons and marched forward along with everybody else. If you give a good account of yourselves, it will be taken into consideration at your pending court martial proceedings.”
The prisoners fell in and followed the MPs toward the door. Behind them, the German prisoner in his cell screamed in German, “I told you, but you wouldn’t believe me!”
They climbed a flight of stairs and entered the main floor of the MP station. The sound of the barrage was much louder, and MPs walked around crouched over. Some huddled behind windows, peering out fearfully.
Mahoney and the other prisoners were told to wait in one corner of the room while the captain and other MPs conferred in another corner. Mahoney looked out a window and saw the gray light of dawn against the building across the street. He was standing next to an old beefy faced corporal who hadn’t shaved for four or five days.
“Big fucking deal,” the corporal muttered. “We’ll go out and get killed, and it’ll be taken into consideration at our court martials. Fuck that shit. I�
�d just as soon stay in the stockade.”
“What’re you in for?” Mahoney asked.
The corporal shrugged. “I was drunk and disorderly a few days ago, and they say I hit an MP, but I don’t remember it.” He leaned closer to Mahoney and whispered, “You wanna bug out?”
“No,” Mahoney said.
The corporal made a face that indicated he thought Mahoney was a fool for not wanting to bug out, but Mahoney couldn’t bring himself to run away from the enemy. Mahoney wasn’t exactly an all-American boy, but he was no coward. He looked across the room to the MPs and spotted the swarthy one who’d hit him in the ribs with the billy club.
“Hey,” Mahoney said to the corporal, “do you know the name of that MP over there with the face like a rat?”
“They all look like rats to me.”
“The one third in from the left. He’s a Pfc.”
“That’s Santucci. Watch out for him. He’s a real prick of misery.”
“What’s your name?”
“Frazer.”
“I’m Mahoney.”
“What’s a Hammerhead doing up here in the Eighth Corps?”
“It’s a long story.”
A first lieutenant came over to them and looked at them with obvious distaste. “We’re going to the armorer now for weapons. Follow me, and keep your heads down. We’re going to be watching you birds pretty closely, and anyone who tries to run away will be shot down. Any questions?”
Nobody said anything.
The first lieutenant continued, “We’ll leave as soon as the steel helmets are brought up from downstairs. Are any of you in the combat arms?”
Mahoney, Frazer, and one other GI raised their hands.
“You three, step forward.”
Mahoney and the others advanced toward the first lieutenant. He looked them over, apparently not satisfied with what he saw. “What were you with?” he asked the private on the left.
“Infantry.”
“What about you?” the first lieutenant asked Frazer.
“I was a tanker,” Frazer said.
The first lieutenant sidestepped in front of Mahoney and noticed the master sergeant stripes on his arm. “What about you?”
“Infantry,” Mahoney said.
The lieutenant noticed Mahoney’s Hammerhead patch. “What are you doing here?”
“TDY.”
“Have you seen any combat?”
Mahoney nodded.
“I’m putting you in charge of these other men until further notice. What’s your name?”
“Mahoney.”
“I’m Lieutenant Baker.”
The MPs came up from the cellar with crates filled with steel helmets and helmet liners that they’d taken from the various GIs who’d passed through their prison. The helmets were distributed, and Mahoney loosened the headband in his all the way before putting it on. The old familiar weight felt good on his head now that artillery shells were falling everywhere.
The lieutenant moved off and conferred with the captain. An artillery shell landed in the street outside, and everybody dropped to the floor, looking around fearfully. A second artillery shell landed on the roof of the MP station, and although that was two stories up, it sent plaster and timbers crashing down to the first floor.
The MPs and prisoners crowded against the walls or tried to crawl under desks. Mahoney spat dust and wished they’d get moving. The worst thing to do was to stay in one place while an artillery barrage was going on. He wished he was back in his old platoon where he gave the orders.
Plaster and wood stopped falling to the floor. The room was filled with billows of white dust. The MP captain scrambled to his feet and told Lieutenant Baker to get his men moving.
“Let’s go!” said Lieutenant Baker to Mahoney and the other prisoners.
They ran out of the MP station to the cobblestone street which was filled with debris. Fires burned in some of the buildings, and civilians ran in all directions. Lieutenant Baker and his prisoners moved along swiftly, darting into doorways and falling onto their bellies in gutters whenever it sounded like a German shell or some screaming-mimis would land close by. Gradually, they made their way through the town and Mahoney wondered how far away the Germans were and how soon it would take for reinforcements to arrive. He realized that Patton had been right to worry about the weakness of the Ghost Front.
Finally, at the eastern edge of the town, they encountered clusters of soldiers and trucks parked in the streets. The soldiers huddled underneath the trucks, squeezed into alleys, or hid in cellars, their helmets and beady eyes visible through basement windows.
They came to a building that had a regimental flag hanging outside it. Lieutenant Baker told the men to wait for him and then went inside. Mahoney and the others sat on the sidewalk with their backs leaning against the building. For the first time, he became aware of the din of battle farther east. The Germans were heading this way—there was no doubt about it. If they wanted to strike deeper into Belgium, they’d have to come through Clervaux.
Mahoney looked around and counted the prisoners. One was missing already, and he realized that it was Frazer. The son of a bitch had flown the coop just like he said he would. It had been a foolish thing to do because if he got caught, they’d probably put him up against a wall and shoot him for desertion in the face of the enemy.
Lieutenant Baker came out of the building and told the men to follow him. He led them around the corner and into a building where rifles and ammunition were being issued in the basement. Mahoney was given a new carbine, still smelling of cosmoline. He was also issued a cartridge belt, bayonet, canteen, first aid packet, four bandoliers of ammunition, six hand grenades, and a field jacket with liner.
Armed to the teeth, Mahoney felt relieved. When all the prisoners were prepared for battle, Lieutenant Baker led them back to the building that had the regimental flag flying in front.
The streets in the area rapidly filled with soldiers. Some wore cooks’ hats and others had the pale features of clerks who spent all their time indoors. They were scraping together every available man, which meant that the front was cracking.
Mahoney and the other prisoners entered an alley that already was crowded with GIs. Artillery shells whistled overhead and exploded on the roofs of buildings all around them. The air was thick with dust and gunpowder smoke, and some of the men coughed.
Mahoney bummed a cigarette from one of the soldiers and then bummed a light. He took a few puffs and passed the cigarette to a young prisoner with blackheads and yellow crested pimples all over his face.
“What’s your name?” Mahoney said.
“Riegle,” the soldier replied between puffs.
“What’d you do?”
Riegle smiled, showing brown crooked teeth. “I shot an officer.”
Riegle handed the cigarette to another prisoner who had a scar on his chin and tufts of black hair growing out of his nose.
“What’d you do?” Mahoney asked him.
“AWOL,” the man replied.
Mahoney looked at the next man. “How about you?”
The man was tall and lanky with a rust mustache. “I tried to heist the 106th Division payroll,” he said with a wink.
“What about you?” Mahoney asked the next soldier, whose eyes turned down at the corners and appeared angry at everybody and everything.
“They said I tried to rape some fucking nurse, but she was lying.”
“Sure she was,” Mahoney replied. He looked at the last soldier. “How about you?”
The last soldier had blond hair and a pink innocent baby face. “I was with him,” he pointed to the one with the rust mustache, “on the payroll heist.”
Mahoney groaned. “What a bunch of winners you guys are.”
“What’d you do, Sarge?” asked baby face.
“I cut up some scumbag in a bar.”
“Don’t sound like you’re any better than us.”
The butt of the cigarette came back to Mahoney, and
he took the last puff, realizing that baby face had said the truth. Mahoney had been in one of the crack outfits in the Army, but now he was just another criminal in uniform. He wondered if the sergeant he’d cut up had died.
On the street, soldiers climbed into the cabs of trucks and started up the engines. Officers blew whistles and hollered that everyone should load onto the trucks.
“Let’s go,” Mahoney said to his crew of prisoners.
They moved quickly into the street and climbed into the back of a deuce and a half truck that had no canvas cover. The temperature was below freezing, and Mahoney knew it was going to be a very cold trip. They sat and waited as shells fell around them, and one landed in the street behind them, knocking a truck onto its side and throwing soldiers into the air.
“I’m getting out of here!” shouted red mustache.
He jumped up, but Mahoney rose with him and grabbed him by the throat. “You’re not going anywhere,” Mahoney told him, their noses almost touching.
Red mustache looked at Mahoney and stopped struggling. Mahoney threw him back into his seat.
“You fucking jailbirds are going to be soldiers from now on,” Mahoney said, “or else you’ll have to deal with me.”
The rapist snickered. “Hey Sarge, if you keep talking like that, you’d better not turn your back on anybody!”
Mahoney spun around, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked him to his feet. “What’d you say!” Mahoney bellowed in his face.
The rapist struggled to get loose, but Mahoney had a strong arm and held him tighter. “I asked you a question, lover boy!”
The rapist trembled with fear, and his eyes darted about wildly. “I didn’t say nothin’, Sarge.”
“Oh yes you did,” Mahoney told him. “You said you were going to shoot me in the back. Well you’d better not miss because if you do, I’ll break you in half.”
