Bloody Bastogne

by Len Levinson

  The rapist nodded his head, and Mahoney pushed him down into his seat. Mahoney stayed erect and looked each of his men in the eye to make sure they all knew he was serious. The cooks and bakers in the truck glanced at each other, wishing they were on a truck with different people. Engines growled, arid Mahoney turned to see the lead trucks pulling out. He sat in his seat as the truck lurched forward over the cobblestones.

  Next stop—the front, Mahoney thought.

  The convoy rolled slowly out of town. Armored personnel carriers with twin .50 caliber machine guns joined in from side streets along with four tank destroyers.

  The convoy gathered speed and roared down the road leading east. The soldiers tried to get low and hide their faces and hands from the bitter cold. Artillery shells fell on the road, and Mahoney figured the Germans must have had it zeroed in for days. Several times the convoy had to drive on the shoulder to get around shell craters. Mahoney felt strange to be among soldiers he didn’t know. He couldn’t rely on these men, and a few of them might in fact try to shoot him in the back. The cooks and bakers weren’t real soldiers and probably wouldn’t last long in a hot fight. If his jailbirds didn’t try to kill him, they’d probably go AWOL at the first opportunity.

  The truck rocked and bounced over the road. Mahoney cupped his hands over his ears because they stung with the cold, and he thought they might get frostbitten. Next time he was tapped for TDY someplace, he’d tell them to shove it. If he got out of the mess he was in, he’d never leave old Charlie Company again.

  “GET DOWN!” somebody shouted.

  The GIs tried to hug the steel floor of the truck as a squadron of German fighter planes dived down from the clouds at them, their machine guns chattering and lightning flashing on their wings. The gunners atop the personnel carriers swung their .50s around and opened fire, but the German planes kept coming, their bullets ripping into the convoy.

  Mahoney heard bullets hitting the truck and gritted his teeth as the planes passed by. Somebody screamed, and one of the cooks writhed and spurted blood.

  Mahoney raised his head. “Is there a medic on this fucking truck?”

  Nobody answered. Mahoney clawed men out of the way and saw the cook going into convulsions on the floor of the truck, blood pouring from his chest and back. The German bullet had gone clear through him, and Mahoney could see that nothing could be done. It’d only be a matter of time before the cook stopped moving and died.

  Mahoney looked up and saw the German planes turning around in a wide circle beneath the cloud layer. He realized they were going to make another pass.

  “Fire back at those planes!” he ordered. “It’s the only way to spoil their aim and keep them off us!”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” said Riegle, quivering with fear on the floor of the truck.

  Mahoney grabbed him by the back of the neck and squeezed hard. “Never mind what I am—just do what I say!”

  “Lemme go!”

  Mahoney tightened his grip, then let him loose. Mahoney unslung his carbine, rammed a clip into the chamber, and then slammed a round into it. The men loaded their rifles and carbines and pointed them toward the sky. The German fighter planes had reformed and were coming in low and steady for their second strafing run. Mahoney rested his elbow on the roof of the cab, aimed at the lead plane, and opened fire. The lead plane roared closer, and Mahoney followed it in his sights, swinging around and shooting at its belly and tail as it passed by. Then, he aimed at the next plane and pulled the trigger of his carbine, making it buck and stutter in his hands. The other men in the truck fired their weapons, the excitement of the action sweeping them away. German bullets whizzed down at the trucks, and another man in Mahoney’s group was torn apart by one of the big bullets. The last plane in the formation stitched bullets along the length of the truck and cut down two more men, but as it passed by, a trail of smoke could be seen pouring from the forward part of its belly.

  Mahoney jumped into the air. “We got him!” he yelled.

  “Yeah—we got him!” shouted baby face, waving his M-1 rifle in the air.

  “He’s going down!” said red mustache.

  The German plane banked to the side and dipped its port wing, as the machine gunners on the personnel carriers directed deadly streams of machine gun bullets at it. Mahoney watched the tracers from the personnel carriers zip through the air, and black smoke belched out of the plane as it rolled onto its side and fell. It exploded on contact with the earth, and Mahoney cheered along with the men on his truck.

  The other planes continued flying west to Clervaux, which Mahoney figured was in for a terrible pounding. Meanwhile, the convoy continued to make its way toward the fighting. Explosions ahead could be heard more clearly, and the men on Mahoney’s truck kept their heads low to stay out of the cold wind stream. The dead cook’s blood was congealing around his wounds, but the men were growing used to it.

  Twenty minutes later the convoy slowed down. Mahoney raised his head and saw soldiers ahead on both sides of the road. They were digging in behind rock and sandbag barricades on the flat ground beside the road or taking positions on the steep hills bordering the flat ground. Mahoney could see that the position would be a strong one because German tanks could advance only two or three abreast in the space between the hills. They wouldn’t be able to mass their strength very well, and the meager American forces should be able to hold them off until help arrived.

  The trucks stopped and officers ordered the men to unload. Mahoney and the others jumped down and stood around shivering, stamping their feet to get some warm blood moving into them. The trucks turned around and headed back to Clervaux.

  A captain wearing the patch of the veteran Twenty-eighth Division approached and said, “Come with me!”

  Mahoney and the others followed him to the right side of the line and up the hill to a cave thirty yards above the level of the road. He told some of the men to take positions in the cave, then deployed the rest up the side of the mountain and along the first ridge.

  Mahoney and his jailbirds wound up on the ridge. The officer told them he’d send up some bazookas and machine guns as soon as they arrived. He put Mahoney in charge and descended the hill.

  Mahoney stood on the ridge and looked in the direction of the German lines. He couldn’t see very far because it was a hazy, cloudy morning, but he could hear artillery explosions and small arms fire. He wished he had binoculars and some cigarettes.

  “Anybody got the time?” he asked.

  “It’s 0700 hours,” said somebody.

  The ridge was covered with ice and swept by cold winds carrying bits of snow. Mahoney lay on his stomach and felt the winter bite into his knees. Figures appeared on the road leading from the front, and as they drew closer, Mahoney could see that they were bedraggled American soldiers retreating. They stumbled along the road, carrying rifles, mortar tubes, and machine guns. American tanks came into view behind them, kicking up snow as they sped to safety. The soldiers on the road got out of the way so the tanks could pass. The tanks rolled past the fortifications and continued toward Clervaux.

  “Hey—why don’t they stop!” said the rapist.

  Red mustache chortled. “Who’s gonna stop them—you?”

  The retreating soldiers were held up by officers and ordered into positions on the barricades. Then engineers with big pancake mines were sent out, dropping them onto the road and narrow strips of snow covered field alongside the road. The Germans would be able to see the mines easily silhouetted against the snow, but they’d have to stop anyway to dispose of them. That would slow them down and make them easy targets.

  Everybody waited for the Germans to arrive. It would be the first time in combat for many of the green soldiers, and the veterans still hadn’t gotten over the horror of the Hurtgen Forest. Mahoney began to think that the Germans would break through without much trouble if they really came in force.

  Lieutenant Baker climbed to the ridge and spotted Mahoney. He walked toward him
and blew his whistle, making a circle above his head with his forefinger, indicating that everyone should assemble around him. The soldiers arose from the icy rocks and walked stiffly toward him.

  “All right men,” Lieutenant Baker said grimly, “We’re in a helluva fix here, and there are no two ways about it. The krauts are coming, and we’ve got to hold them off until reinforcements get here. If they break through, they’re liable to go all the way to Liederveld where we’ve got our big gas dumps. If the krauts ever get their hands on that gas, we might as well kiss this part of the world goodbye. We can’t let them get through—that’s all there is to it. Reinforcements are on the way as I said. We can hold them if we dig in and fight hard. Any questions?”

  Mahoney raised his hand. “When will the replacements get here?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Lieutenant Baker replied, his cheeks cherry red from the bitter winds. “Oh yes, there’s something else you’d better know about: We’ve received reports that there are krauts behind our lines wearing American uniforms and talking English as well as you or me. This means we’ve all got to be suspicious of strangers and not take anything for granted. Anything else?”

  “How about some chow?” Mahoney asked.

  “We’ve got C rations down on the road. Send two of your men with me to pick them up.”

  Mahoney sent baby face and AWOL with the lieutenant, then turned to the front again. The engineers had finished work, and Mahoney could see the mines lying on the road and snow. They covered an area nearly a hundred yards deep, and he figured the Germans ought to be stopped for a while by them. The tank destroyers were in position, and bazooka teams ringed the valley. It looked like a decent defense, but Mahoney didn’t think it would stop a lot of tanks for long. The best way to fight tanks was with other tanks, and all the American tanks had hightailed it to the rear.

  Baby face and AWOL returned, each with two crates of C rations. Mahoney opened the crates with his bayonet and passed out the smaller boxes inside. The men tore them open for the canned food and cigarettes. Mahoney took a box for himself and was gratified to find a package of Lucky Strikes, his favorite brand, inside. He opened a can of beans with the tiny can opener provided and dug in with his fingers because they hadn’t been issued mess gear. He hurried with his meal so he could have a cigarette.

  “Here they come!” somebody yelled.

  Mahoney looked toward the front but couldn’t see anything. Glancing around, he saw officers down at the roadblock with binoculars, and he figured they could see what he couldn’t. The Germans were coming. The shit was about to hit the fan again.

  “All right everybody—get down!” he said.

  The soldiers on the ridge got onto their bellies and squinted at the gray and white haze in front of them. It was a gloomy day with thick oily clouds covering the sky. Mahoney burped and lit a cigarette. He took out his bayonet and chipped some ice from the rock he was lying on, placing the ice in his mouth to slake his thirst.

  Then he heard the hum of engines. He looked down the road and saw a dark mass in the distance. Glancing up to the sky, he saw tiny black dots.

  “ENEMY PLANES!” somebody yelled.

  “Where’s our planes?” somebody else asked.

  “If their planes can fly, why can’t ours?” another soldier replied.

  The German planes were in two squadrons, and they peeled off for their strafing and bombing run. Their engines became louder and sent chills up Mahoney’s back. Didn’t somebody say that bazookas and machine guns would be sent to the ridge? Where in the fuck were they?

  The Germans bombed the minefield, hoping to blast a path for the tanks speeding down the road. They strafed the American positions from side to side, and Mahoney held his helmet onto his head with both hands, praying that somehow he wouldn’t get hit. Violent explosions shook the ground and blew soldiers into the air. Machine gun bullets zipped into the bodies of GIs lying on their stomachs. American machine gunners fired back, and Mahoney looked up to see one of the planes in a tailspin, black smoke trailing from its fuselage. The German tank column approached on the road. The tanks opened fire, and Mahoney found himself in a holocaust of explosions, flying shrapnel, smoke, and screams. He realized that the position on the ridge was too vulnerable, and if he wanted to live a little longer, he’d have to go someplace else.

  “LET’S GET OUT OF HERE!” he yelled, jumping to his feet.

  He ran across the ridge and down the incline as the world exploded all around him. In the corner of his eye, he saw a bunch of soldiers at the barricades on the road blown into the air. He needed shelter fast. He remembered passing some caves on the way up to the ridge and headed for the nearest one. A piece of flying shrapnel ripped into the outer thigh muscle of his leg, and he fell, rolling over and tumbling down the hill, hugging his carbine close to him because that was one thing he didn’t dare to lose.

  He landed, scraped and bruised, at the bottom of the hill. Blood oozed from the wound in his thigh. Looking up, he saw six German tanks forming a long skirmish line, evidently preparing to attack. They fired their cannons, and the planes continued to drop bombs and to strafe.

  “IN HERE!” somebody yelled.

  Mahoney turned around and saw the opening to a cave.

  Rocks had been piled in front of it, and he could see American helmets and the barrel of an anti-tank gun above the rocks. Mahoney got to his feet, ran eight steps, jumped, and soared over the rocks, landing inside the cave. He rolled over and looked around.

  Eight sorrowful-looking GIs were there. The highest rank was a sergeant first class, which meant Mahoney suddenly had become the top man in the position. His leg felt as if a burning coal was pressed against it. Getting to his knees, he pulled out his bayonet and cut away the cloth around the wound. Blood wasn’t spurting out, which meant that no artery was cut, and the bone evidently hadn’t been broken because he’d been able to run on it. It was a nasty flesh wound, but he’d had them before and knew they weren’t fatal. Opening his first aid pack, he took out the dressing and tore off the wrapper.

  “Don’t look too bad,” said a corporal nearby.

  Mahoney grunted as he tied on the dressing. Hopefully, it would hold the blood and cause it to coagulate. The cave echoed with the sound of explosions outside, and the tanks roared their engines.

  “What’s wrong with that anti-tank gun!” Mahoney said.

  The soldiers in the cave looked at each other in embarrassment.

  “Well,” said the Sfc, “we’re not sure exactly of how to fire the goddamn thing. None of us here has ever seen one of these things close up before. You see, we’re all from the Fourth Division band.”

  Mahoney groaned. He was stuck with a bunch of trumpet players and drummer boys. “Is there any ammo for it in here?”

  “In those boxes over there,” said a Pfc. “Don’t you think that maybe we should surrender?”

  “What for?” Mahoney asked. “We haven’t even fired the goddamn thing yet. Bring that crate of ammo over here.”

  Mahoney got behind the gun and looked through the sights. He gulped as he saw the German tanks moving into the mine field. They weren’t even going to take the time to send men to clear the mines away. They just were charging ahead, figuring they had so many tanks they could afford to lose a few.

  The musicians brought the crate over and laid it at Mahoney’s feet. They’d already removed the cover, and Mahoney plucked out one of the shells. He unlatched the back plate of the gun, loaded it, and took aim. He brought the crosshairs to rest on one of the lead tanks, but the tank was rocked by an explosion from a mine before Mahoney could pull the trigger. A tread blew into the air and the tank was unable to move forward, but its firing systems were undamaged, and its cannon fired a shell at the barricade.

  Something told Mahoney to look behind him. Sure enough, one of the musicians was behind the anti-tank gun, sitting on his haunches and looking mournful.

  “Get away from there!” Mahoney said.

&n
bsp; “Whatsa matter?” the musician asked.

  “I said, get the fuck away from there!”

  The musician crawled away, and Mahoney took aim at the damaged tank again. He pulled the trigger, and the anti-tank gun went light on its tripod for a second as the shell flew out, and the back blast hit rocks and pebbles like a hurricane. If that musician had stayed behind the anti-tank gun, the back blast would have blown him apart.

  The shell hit the tank in a ferocious thunderclap, and the tank disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.

  “Hey—you got it!” said the Sfc.

  Mahoney loaded another shell into the gun, took aim, and fired. His shot was wide, and the shell exploded into the snow. Then the cave was rocked by a German artillery shell landing near the entrance. The interior of the cave echoed the sound, and Mahoney thought his eardrums would burst from the horrible noise. He’d known that once he fired the antitank gun, the Germans would see it and fire back. Another German shell landed near the mouth of the cave, and again Mahoney had to cover his ears with his hands. When the smoke cleared, he looked out of the cave and saw the tanks moving steadily forward to breach the defensive line at the road. Mahoney wondered why the American tank destroyers weren’t doing anything. They should have been able to pick off the German tanks by now, but it appeared that the only tanks out of action had been damaged by mines and anti-tank or bazooka fire.

  The tank drivers gunned their engines and charged through the minefield. Two more were stopped, but the rest kept going and passed out of Mahoney’s line of vision. He didn’t want to stick his head out of the cave to see what was going on because he thought he’d lose it. However, it didn’t take much imagination to figure it out. The tanks had broken through the minefield and were rolling toward the sandbag positions on the road. He heard them crash through the sandbags, and their next stop would be Clervaux.

  A few of the disabled German tanks still had operational cannons and machine guns. Mahoney loaded up the anti-tank gun again, took aim at one of them, and fired. The tank blew apart, chunks of metal and lengths of men’s torsos flying into the air.