Bloody Bastogne

by Len Levinson

“A person has to live. I prefer the Americans and the British because they’re not as cruel to us as the Germans, but I’m going to stay here regardless. What’s the point in running every time the town changes hands? If I did that, I’d be running back and forth all the time.”

  Mahoney drank some more brandy and puffed his cigarette. “Tell me about Madeleine.”

  “What do you want to know about her?”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “From Brussels, I think,” the bartender replied. “She’s a nice girl—provided you don’t cross her. She has a terrible temper just like you. Once she attacked one of the girls with a nail file and cut her face up.”

  Mahoney smiled. “That’s my baby.”

  “You are in love with her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I think she liked you. She was very upset when the MPs took you away. She told everybody that you’d fought the other soldier because he was bothering her, and I had the impression that she was very grateful.” The bartender winked.

  “She’ll probably show you a good time if ever you see her again.”

  “Think she’ll be back here?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to say about these girls. They’re all a bunch of gypsies.”

  “If she comes back,” Mahoney said, “tell her that I came by asking for her.”

  “I’ll tell her,” the bartender replied. “I’m sure she’ll be very glad to hear that.”

  An artillery shell exploded in another part of town, and Mahoney perked his ears up. The bartender looked at the ceiling. Another shell exploded in the distance, and then another.

  “The Germans are coming,” the bartender said.

  Mahoney pulled his canteen out of its cover. “I think I’ll fill this up before I leave.”

  He poured the brandy into his canteen, threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, and walked toward the door.

  “Good luck,” the bartender said.

  “You too,” Mahoney replied.

  Mahoney stepped onto the sidewalk wondering whether to participate in the defense of Clervaux or to head south where the Third Army was. He stood in a doorway and puffed his cigarette as shells fell on Clervaux with greater intensity. He decided that if he had to fight, he’d rather fight with his buddies, but he could never make it back to Third Army on foot, and he didn’t want to steal a vehicle that might be needed in the fight here. He also didn’t want to hide in a cellar like a rat until the battle for Clervaux was over. If the Germans took the town, he’d be in more trouble with them than he was in right now.

  The only thing to do was go to the front and be a soldier. He came out of the doorway and walked toward the east side of town, where the Germans most probably would attack. He’d seen maps of the area and knew that the Germans would have to go right through Clervaux if they wanted to advance deeper into Belgium, because the town was ringed by hills and mountains impassable to armor.

  A three-quarter ton truck turned the corner behind him and sped up the street. When the driver saw Mahoney, he hit the brakes, and the truck screeched to a halt. The driver stuck his head out the window. “Hey buddy—you want a lift?”

  Mahoney ran toward the back of the truck, and arms came down to pull him aboard. The truck started moving again, and Mahoney sat on the wooden bench on the left wall of the cargo space, looking at four big brawny GIs. They carried no weapons and hadn’t shaved for days.

  “Where are you guys coming from?” Mahoney asked as the small truck rocked from side to side.

  One of the soldiers pointed in a northerly direction. “We’re loggers,” he said. “We were working in the woods when they came for us.”

  “Loggers?” Mahoney asked. “You guys know how to fire rifles?”

  “Yeah,” said one of the others, “but they don’t have any rifles for us yet. If they can’t come up with any, we always can use these.”

  The soldier opened a big wooden toolbox, and Mahoney saw hatchets and axes inside.

  “I don’t know how good they’ll be against tanks,” Mahoney said, “but I suppose they’re better than nothing.”

  Mahoney looked out the rear of the truck, seeing bombs exploding among the buildings. Occasionally he saw a civilian scurrying down a street or a small group of GIs moving toward the front. Mahoney wondered why it had taken this long for the German armored column to reach Clervaux. He figured that GIs must have fought a few delaying actions along the way.

  Finally, the truck stopped. The driver came out to the back and said, “I can’t go any farther. Everybody out.”

  The loggers took axes and hatchets out of their toolbox and jumped down with Mahoney. In front of the truck were some GIs building a roadblock out of bricks and lengths of timber taken from ruined buildings nearby.

  A young second lieutenant was supervising the construction of the roadblock. “Hey you men!” he shouted to Mahoney and the others. “Get over here and help out!”

  Mahoney walked toward the lieutenant and saluted smartly. “I’m sorry sir, but I’ve been ordered to report with my men to Captain Carlson at the front,” he lied.

  “All right,” said the lieutenant. “Move ’em out.”

  “Let’s go, men,” Mahoney said to the loggers.

  Mahoney led the loggers through the streets and could see that a defense was being established in depth. If the German tanks broke through one roadblock, they’d soon encounter another. Soldiers worked everywhere building fortifications and obstacles for the battle that was looming. Meanwhile, German artillery shells continued to fall on the town, and Mahoney didn’t think there’d be much of the town left when this battle was over.

  Finally, he and the loggers came to the edge of the town, where the biggest barricades were being constructed. Antitank guns and bazooka crews were deployed behind the barricades and in the buildings nearby. Machine gun nests were everywhere, and rifle soldiers threw bricks and wood onto the fortifications, their exhalations making gray clouds in the cold air.

  An old lieutenant colonel noticed Mahoney and the loggers. “What unit are you men with?” he asked.

  “No unit, sir.”

  “Then you might as well get to work right here.”

  Mahoney aimed his thumb behind him at the loggers. “These men don’t have any weapons.”

  “We’re expecting some to arrive soon. Meanwhile, there’s a lot to be done. Report to Captain Devine.” The lieutenant colonel pointed to an officer supervising some work nearby.

  Mahoney and the loggers walked toward Captain Devine, who wore a wool overcoat with the collar up. He turned as Mahoney approached, and Mahoney saluted him. Captain Devine appeared cheerful, as if he looked forward to the battle. Mahoney figured he was from West Point because West Point graduates often acted that way. Evidently it was supposed to be inspiring to the men.

  Captain Devine told them to work on the fortifications. “The krauts will be here pretty soon,” he said. “We’ll want to give them a warm reception.”

  Mahoney and the loggers joined the work gang. In the bitter cold, they carried bricks and debris, and threw them onto the wall being built on the edge of town. Mahoney grumbled and scowled because NCOs usually didn’t do coolie work like this. They just supervised it. But there was no time for that nonsense now. The Germans were coming, and they wanted Clervaux. Pausing to take a break, he drank some brandy from his canteen. As he was returning his canteen to its case, he heard a faint hum in the distance. He raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon. Tiny dots were spread across the sky.

  “GERMAN PLANES!” Mahoney shouted, running for his carbine, which he’d leaned against a stack of other rifles.

  The officers and NCOs with binoculars looked through them and saw what Mahoney had seen.

  “TAKE COVER!” shouted the old lieutenant colonel. “MAN YOUR GUNS!”

  Mahoney ran to the barricade and lay behind it as soldiers he’d never seen before flopped down on either side of him. The dots on the horizon became larger,
and soon the silhouettes of the aircraft could be seen. The machine gun crews opened fire, their tracer bullets making long red lines on the gray clouds. An anti-aircraft battery to the rear began pumping shells into the sky, and the German planes roared forward in attack formation. Orange sparks appeared along their wings as they opened fire, and their bullets ripped into the ground in long straight lines.

  Mahoney could hear the bullets whamming into the ground all around him. He pulled his elbows in to his sides in an effort to make himself smaller, and breathed through clenched teeth. Then the light bombers came, dropping their loads. The ground shook with deafening explosions, and groups of soldiers were blown into the air. A few of the soldiers who’d been clerks or other kinds of service personnel broke and ran to the rear, screaming in terror, but most of the men stayed where they were and prayed that somehow they’d survive.

  Some of the men running away were struck in the back and nearly broken in two by the power of the big German machine gun bullets. Mahoney looked up and saw planes as thick as hornets in the sky. Where’s our air force? he wondered. It looks like these bastards have caught us with our pants down.

  “HERE COME THE TANKS!” somebody yelled.

  Mahoney peered over the barricade and saw tanks all over the road and fields leading to town. They were charging at top speed, shooting their cannons as they came. A bazooka crew near Mahoney fired at the tanks, but the rocket fell far short.

  Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth. “Wait till they get closer!”

  The bazooka crew fired again, and that round fell short too. Mahoney realized that the men firing the bazooka probably hadn’t seen one since basic training back in the States and didn’t know what its effective range was. He’d have to go over and take charge.

  Mahoney cradled his carbine in his arms and crawled toward the bazooka crew. He heard an artillery shell whistling down on him and stopped cold, certain it was going to land on his head. He held his helmet tight and squinched his eyes as he prayed to the Lord for deliverance. The artillery shell smacked into the ground nearby and blew chunks of ice and frozen sod into the air. Some of the small pieces landed on Mahoney, and a chunk two feet wide crashed a few feet from his head.

  Mahoney resumed crawling toward the bazooka crew. The soldiers had stopped firing and were trying to stuff themselves into nooks and crannies to protect themselves from the mounting shell bursts, although the tanks were coming into range now and this was the time to fire the bazooka.

  Mahoney reached the bazooka and put it onto his shoulder while rising to one knee. “One of you guys load this fucking thing up for me!” he shouted.

  The soldiers wouldn’t move. They hugged their helmets to their heads and tried to hide. A bullet ricocheted off the top of the barricade, and they squirmed even more frantically. One of them wore an MP armband. Mahoney laid down the bazooka and pulled the man up by his arm. “Hey—I just gave you an order!”

  Mahoney found himself looking into the horrified face of Santucci, the MP who’d worked him over with a billy club.

  “You son of a bitch!” Mahoney screamed and punched him in the mouth with all his might.

  Santucci went out like a light. Mahoney wanted to pick him up and belt him again, but a German bomb came whistling down, and Mahoney dropped to his belly. The bomb exploded, blowing a length of the barricade into the air. Mahoney grabbed one of the other soldiers who was trying to claw his way deeper into the frozen ground. Mahoney held the soldier by the front of his field jacket and spoke so forcefully he spit all over the soldier’s face. “Load this fucking bazooka!”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the soldier said, trembling with fear.

  Mahoney placed the bazooka on his shoulder and aimed at one of the huge tanks advancing toward the barricade. The soldier behind him tapped Mahoney’s helmet, and Mahoney pulled the trigger. The rocket flew and landed directly on the tank’s turret. It exploded, and the tank became wreathed in smoke, but seconds later the smoke dissipated, and there wasn’t a scratch on the tank.

  “Holy shit,” Mahoney muttered, as the soldier loaded up the bazooka tube again. Mahoney took a good look at the tank and saw that it was bigger than any German tank he’d ever seen before. It had so much armor on its front that a bazooka shell did no damage. The only thing to do was to aim lower at the treads or let the tanks pass by and hit them in the rear where their armor was thinner and their ammunition racks were located. The soldier hit Mahoney’s helmet again, and Mahoney fired at the tank’s treads. He scored a direct hit, and the treads blasted apart, stopping the tank cold and causing it to tip toward its damaged side.

  Now the tank was a stationary fortress, and its turret swung around as its commander looked for a target.

  “Uh-oh,” Mahoney said, wondering which way to run.

  Just then, the tank was hit by an anti-tank shell, and once again it disappeared in an explosion and cloud of smoke. This time, when the smoke cleared, the tank was a pile of hot smoking scrap iron. The shell had pierced the tank’s armor!

  Near Mahoney, the crew of the anti-tank gun cheered.

  “Load me up again,” Mahoney told the soldier behind him.

  The soldier pushed another rocket into the tube and tied the rocket’s wires to the terminal posts. Mahoney aimed at the treads of another tank and pulled the trigger of the bazooka. The rocket flew forth slowly enough so that Mahoney could watch it, and it missed the treads of a tank by two yards.

  “Load me up again!”

  Machine gun fire raked the section of the barricade in front of Mahoney. Mahoney ducked instinctively, but the soldier behind him didn’t move quickly enough, and he received a burst in his chest, breaking apart his ribs and shattering his lungs. He fell backwards and was dead before he hit the ground.

  Mahoney lay on the ground until the machine gun fire moved to another part of the barricade. Then he raised himself and looked at the German tanks. They were closer, and he could see the black crosses distinctly on the turrets. Glancing around, his eyes fell on Santucci, the MP.

  “You—load me up!” Mahoney said.

  Santucci shook his head, and a trickle of blood ran from his nose where Mahoney had slugged him before. “I don’t take orders from stockade rats!”

  “Oh no?”

  Mahoney punched him again, and Santucci collapsed.

  “I’ll load you up, Sergeant,” said a youthful voice.

  Mahoney turned and saw a kid with freckles on his nose. He looked sixteen years old and probably had lied about his age when he’d enlisted.

  “Do it,” Mahoney said.

  Mahoney placed the bazooka on his shoulder. Men screamed farther down the line, and Mahoney saw a big fat German tank rolling over the barricade. The freckle-faced soldier tapped Mahoney’s helmet, and Mahoney swung the bazooka around, aiming it at the rear of the tank. He licked his lips and pulled the trigger, watching the rocket speed through the air toward the tank. It slammed into the tank’s rear deck and burst apart in a violent explosion. When the smoke cleared, the tank was stopped and smoke poured out of the black hole.

  “Hey Sarge—we got him!”

  Machine gun bullets whistled past their ears and both of them dived toward the ice and snow on the ground. Mahoney saw in the corner of his eye another tank breaching the barricade, firing its cannon at a building where a GI machine gun nest had been set up. Hearing the roar of an engine to his left, he looked and saw that tank rumbling over the barricade as soldiers ran in all directions to get out of its way.

  Mahoney wanted to raise his head and try to knock out one of the tanks with his bazooka, but the barricade in front of him was being peppered with machine gun fire. Mahoney looked at the tank and cursed it when suddenly it exploded in an orange burst. For a split second, Mahoney thought his curse had destroyed the tank, but then common sense overtook him, and he realized that one of the anti-tank guns must have hit it.

  The machine gun fire moved away from his barricade. Mahoney got to one knee again, feeling
pain from the wound in his leg that he’d sustained earlier in the day. He looked down and saw blood seeping into the bandage. His movements and scraping against the ground must have opened the wound. He swore as the freckle-faced soldier loaded up the bazooka. Mahoney aimed it at the other tank that had broken through, but from out of nowhere, a GI ran at the tank with a hand grenade, stuffed the grenade into the treads of the tank, and sped off. The soldier dived to the ground, and the grenade exploded, ripping apart the tank’s tread. The tank stopped, and its turret turned around as the tank commander looked for the soldier who’d done the damage. Mahoney wondered how the German tankers felt, knowing they were stationary targets. But they weren’t stationary targets for long. An anti-tank shell hit them, WHAM, and the tank and crew were out of the war for good.

  Mahoney turned to the front again and went pale at the sight of a German tank only twenty yards away, heading straight for him.

  “LOAD ME UP!” Mahoney screamed.

  The freckled-faced soldier tried to keep his trembling hands under control as he inserted the rocket into the tube and tied up the wires. Mahoney got as low as he could, aimed at the underbelly of the tank, and fired the rocket. It shot forward and hit directly where Mahoney had aimed it, exploding and blowing the tank’s turret into the air.

  Another tank was beside the tank Mahoney had hit, and its machine gun swung to the side as lightning shot out of its barrel.

  “Get down!”

  Mahoney dropped as bullets whizzed over his head. Looking behind him, he saw the kid hugging the ground too.

  “I’m still here, Sarge,” he said.

  Several tanks breached the barricade and turned to the side to fire at the men behind it because the tankers knew by now that they didn’t dare bypass live, armed GIs. The anti-tank emplacements in the buildings fired broadside at the tanks, knocking one after the other out of action, but the undamaged tanks rolled over GIs and fired their machine guns across the barricades.

  Mahoney knew that the barricade was no longer a viable fortification, and more tanks breached the barricade because the GIs were too busy dodging bullets to shoot their bazookas at the tanks. Mahoney was afraid to run because he’d be an easy target for the tank’s machine gunners, but if he stayed where he was, a tank would roll over him and grind him into the ground.