Bloody Bastogne

by Len Levinson

  The kid tapped his helmet; through the intense fire he’d managed to load Mahoney up again. Mahoney aimed straight up at the belly of the tank bearing down on him and turned the rocket loose. It hit the tank low and on target, and the tank bounced two feet in the air, smoke and fire blasting through cracks in its hull.

  “FALL BACK!” somebody shouted. “RETREAT!”

  Mahoney turned to the kid behind him. “Let’s go!”

  The kid looked like he was going to cry. “We’ll never make it!”

  “We won’t make it here either!”

  Mahoney sprang to his feet and ran like a racehorse despite the pain in his leg. He zigzagged and dodged as bullets flew over his head and kicked up ice near his feet. Glancing to his left and right, he saw other soldiers dashing back to the next barricade, which was on the main boulevard of the town and extended between the buildings on both sides of the street. Blood dripped down his leg, but he summoned up his deepest reserves of energy and galloped over the final yards of ground to the barricade, vaulting over it, catching one toe on a piece of debris at the top, and falling face first behind it. He managed to get his hands up before he hit the ground, saving his nose from being mashed into his face.

  Rolling over, his skin scraped from the palms of his hands, he got to his knees and tried not to think of the pain in his leg and the blood freezing on the bandage and his pant leg. He looked back to the German tanks and saw one of them burst into flame. The boulevard was littered with bodies of dead GIs, and Mahoney wondered what had happened to the kid. He glanced behind the barricade at red-faced GIs struggling for breath and realized with chagrin that the kid evidently hadn’t made it.

  Mahoney looked to the front again and saw a figure writhing on the road beside a crate of bazooka rockets. Mahoney raised his binoculars and could see the kid clawing the air, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Mahoney wanted to get him, but knew it would be suicide. The tanks were coming, and he wouldn’t have a chance.

  An anti-tank gun knocked out a tank that had been heading straight for the kid. Mahoney wished he had those rockets for the bazooka, but he’d never be able to get them. Or could he? The tanks appeared to be regrouping into something that resembled a flying wedge, and Mahoney thought he might be able to dash out there and get back if he moved quickly. Then, before his eyes, an anti-tank gun scored a direct hit on another tank behind the kid. Mahoney could see that those two knocked-out German tanks could provide a screen for him, because no other tanks could pass through them.

  It’s now or never, he thought. Laying the bazooka on the ground and leaning the carbine against the barricade, he uttered a silent prayer and leapt over the barricade. He swung his fists back and forth and ran as quickly as he could, not bothering to make zigzag lines and a low silhouette. He saw tanks moving and regrouping in the middle of the street, but to his front the kid was reaching out to him and next to the kid was the crate of bazooka rockets. Mahoney tried to stop suddenly when he neared the kid, tripped over his own feet, and pitched forward onto his face. Scrambling to his feet again, he picked up the kid and threw him over his shoulders. Then he bent his knees, tucked the crate of rockets under one arm, and headed back to the barricade.

  His leg ached more than ever, and he thought it was going to give way beneath him as he raised his knees high and sped to safety. On his shoulders the kid groaned and dripped blood onto Mahoney’s field jacket, Mahoney sucked wind and thought he didn’t have the strength to go on. The kid and the crate of rockets were too much for him. But he kept running anyway and noticed a curious thing. No one was shooting at him. Either the Germans were too busy with whatever they were doing and didn’t notice him, or they were going to let him make it. He’d never know which, but he reached the barricade anyway, dumped the kid over it, threw over the crate of rockets, and then collapsed over the top of it to safety.

  “Medic!” he yelled as he hit the ground.

  The old lieutenant colonel ran in a crouch behind the barricade toward Mahoney. “I saw that!” he said. “I’m putting you in for the DSC!”

  The kid was gasping, trying to stuff his intestines back into his stomach. Mahoney’s leg was drenched with blood.

  “Such courage!” the colonel said, pointing his finger in the air. “Such élan! What a magnificent—”

  A German bullet whacked the colonel on the cheek and blew away his jaw, mouth, and nose, spraying blood all over the street. The colonel stood for a second with his finger still in the air, then collapsed to the ground.

  A tubby little medic ran on bow legs toward the colonel. He kneeled beside him, took one look, felt his pulse, and shook his head. “He’s a goner,” the medic said. Then he hopped toward the kid, who was hollering and screaming and hugging his steaming guts. The medic jabbed a needle into the kid’s arm, and the kid relaxed.

  The German tanks had formed their wedge and roared their engines as they moved forward, firing their cannons at the section of the barricade in front of them. They wanted to bull their way through the barricade and speed through town, but the anti-tank gunners had other plans. They fired at the mass of tanks and couldn’t miss because the tanks were so close together. The ground shook with the violence of the explosions, and tanks farther back in the formation had to change direction to avoid hitting ruined tanks in front of them.

  Mahoney loaded his bazooka by himself, put it on his shoulder, and aimed at the treads of the tank closest to him. He pulled the trigger, and the rocket swooshed out, landing inside the tank’s tracks and blowing them off their runners.

  Mahoney turned to load his bazooka again and saw a grizzled old soldier behind him.

  “I’ll load it up for you, Sarge,” the old soldier said.

  Mahoney turned to the front again. Ruined tanks smoked and burned, and undamaged tanks tried to break through the barricades. The top hatch on one of the damaged tanks opened, and German tankers in black uniforms and berets jumped out. Mahoney dropped his bazooka, picked up the carbine, flicked it on automatic, held the butt against his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Fire and lead spit out the barrel, and the German tankers dropped their submachine guns and spun through the air, spraying blood onto the charred hulk of their tank and the icy cobblestones.

  Mahoney lifted the bazooka again. The old soldier behind him tapped his helmet. Mahoney aimed at the treads of a tank and fired, but his rocket bypassed the tank and crashed through a store window on the far side of the street, exploding and blowing yellow fire and chunks of debris into the street.

  The German tanks kept coming, and the American soldiers in front of them scattered out of the way. The tanks pushed through the barricade and shifted into high gear. The old soldier tapped Mahoney’s helmet, and Mahoney fired at the rear deck of one of the tanks. This time he didn’t miss, and the tank disappeared in a cloud of smoke. A split second later an anti-tank shell hit the same tank and pulverized it. When the smoke had cleared, the tank had become a pile of junk.

  “KRAUT SOLDIERS COMING!” somebody screamed.

  Mahoney looked down the street and saw a horde of German soldiers advancing with fixed bayonets. The old soldier tapped Mahoney’s helmet, and Mahoney aimed his bazooka into their midst. Pulling the trigger, he saw the projectile streak toward the Germans and plow down a number of them before hitting the pavement and exploding.

  Americans fired BARs and anti-tank shells at the charging Germans, but they kept coming anyway. Mahoney fired one more bazooka shell at them, blowing a hole in their front rank, but the German soldiers who hadn’t been killed or wounded didn’t falter and charged down the boulevard at the Americans.

  “FIX BAYONETS!” somebody yelled.

  Mahoney looked around and saw an M-1 rifle lying next to a dead GI. He picked up the M-1 and stuck his bayonet on the end because an M-1 was a longer, heavier weapon than a carbine and more formidable in close quarters.

  The Germans were quite close now, screaming and shouting and shaking their rifles and bayonets as they rac
ed toward the barricades.

  “FORWARD!” hollered an American officer, jumping over the barricade and charging toward the Germans. “FOLLOW ME!”

  His bold gesture inspired the GIs. They leapt over the barricades and followed the officer although many of them never had seen him before in their lives.

  Mahoney was one of the first over the barricade, bellowing like an elephant, enraged at the Germans for shooting him in the leg.

  “GET THE COCKSUCKERS!” Mahoney screamed.

  “SKIN THE FUCKERS ALIVE!” somebody else yelled.

  The German soldiers and GIs came together in the middle of the street and fought for their lives. Bayonets clashed and rifle butts slammed against helmets. Limping on his left leg, Mahoney ran toward a German corporal who lunged at Mahoney with his rifle and bayonet. Mahoney didn’t dodge or try to retreat backwards. He planted his left foot between the two feet of the German, parried the German’s rifle and bayonet to the side, and delivered a horizontal butt stroke to the side of the German’s head. He caved in the German’s head, and the German’s legs gave out underneath him.

  Mahoney jumped over the German and drove his rifle and bayonet forward, smashing through the guard of another German soldier and burying his bayonet in the soldier’s chest. The German’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he sank to his knees. Mahoney tugged to free his bayonet, but it wouldn’t come out of the German’s chest. He pulled the trigger of the M-1, and the German’s lungs and intestines blew apart, splattering Mahoney with blood and portions of the German’s organs. Mahoney raised his gory bayonet, saw another German soldier, and leapt toward him, pushing his bayonet toward the German’s stomach.

  The German parried Mahoney’s bayonet to the side and tried to slam Mahoney in the head with his rifle butt, but Mahoney ducked and brought his own rifle butt straight up, catching the German on the chin. The German’s head snapped back, and Mahoney punched him in the stomach with his rifle butt, and then, as the German fell backwards, brought his bayonet down and slashed the German from neck to hip bone. The German shrieked horribly and dropped to his knees.

  Mahoney kicked him in the face, and another German soldier jumped in front of Mahoney, trying to harpoon Mahoney’s head with the end of his bayonet.

  Mahoney sidestepped and feinted with his own bayonet. The German moved to parry Mahoney’s bayonet, not realizing it was a feint, and Mahoney shoved his bayonet into the German’s throat. Blood burbled out the German’s nose and mouth as he fell to the ground.

  Mahoney spun around and found himself face to face with an American soldier. They made a motion to charge each other, realized they were on the same side, grinned, and turned to look for more Germans. Mahoney saw a German officer facing the side, aiming his service pistol at a GI. Mahoney ran toward the officer and rammed his bayonet into the officer’s left kidney. The officer screamed and fired wildly into the air as Mahoney pulled his bayonet out and banged the officer in the head with his rifle butt. The officer collapsed onto the street.

  Mahoney stepped over him and a German rifle butt came crashing down out of the squirming melee in front of him. Mahoney flinched backwards and nearly dropped his rifle, but he managed to hang on and bang the German in the head with his rifle butt, but the German dodged at the last moment, and Mahoney only succeeded in knocking off the German’s helmet.

  The German had blond hair and classic Nordic features. He looked like a recruiting poster for the SS, but he wore an ordinary Wehrmacht uniform that was torn in a few places. He lunged at Mahoney with his bayonet, but Mahoney parried it out of the way. The German feinted, but he didn’t fool Mahoney. You had to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Mahoney. Exasperated, the German soldier feinted again, but that was what Mahoney had thought he’d do. Mahoney shot his bayonet forward and rammed it up to the hilt in the German’s chest. The German said oof and blood poured from his nose and mouth. Mahoney pulled his bayonet free and slammed the German’s bare head with his rifle butt. The German’s head cracked apart, and his blond hair became drenched with blood as he sagged to the ground.

  Mahoney looked up and saw more Germans running toward him, followed by a sea of tanks.

  “FALL BACK!” somebody shouted. “TAKE COVER!” Mahoney stepped backwards, still fighting off Germans, as he and the other GIs retreated to their barricade.

  Chapter Six

  Field Marshal Model frowned as he looked at the map in the trailer that was his mobile field headquarters. His panzer armies had struck deep into the American line, but few of them had attained the objectives designated for them at noon on the first day of the attack. The Americans were fighting with inexplicable bravery, and Model was becoming alarmed. He and everybody else in the German Army believed that the Americans had won all their previous battles due to their superior numbers and firepower, but in this offensive the Americans were both outnumbered and outgunned, and yet they hadn’t panicked and fled as everyone thought they would. The Americans were fighting hard and retreating in an orderly fashion. In some outposts on the Schnee Eiffel, the Americans had fought to the last man.

  The map showed the panzer armies making impressive progress, but Model knew better. They should have gone much farther than they had. If the Ardennes offensive was to succeed, the panzer armies would have to move faster.

  His eyes fell on the town of Clervaux, one of the main problem areas in the advance. The town lay astride the principal road to the west, and the panzers were supposed to have passed through it at seven o’clock in the morning, but now it was one in the afternoon, and a small force of stubborn Americans were still holding out against a panzer division and two regiments of picked infantrymen.

  He wondered what the latest news was on the situation in Clervaux. Turning to his radio operator, he said, “Get me General Manteuffel immediately!”

  “Yes sir!”

  The radio operator fiddled with dials and spoke into his microphone, as Model readjusted the monocle in his right eye and looked at the map. He was worried that Hitler would call and ask how things were progressing. Hitler and Jodl had planned every step of this offensive themselves, and they wouldn’t be pleased if they knew it was falling behind schedule already.

  “Sir, I have General Manteuffel for you,” said the radio operator.

  Model took two long strides, plucked the headset from the radio operator’s hands, and put it on.

  “Manteuffel?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do we have Clervaux yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  Model made his voice stern. “When will we have it?”

  “Before the end of the day, sir.”

  “You’re aware that we were supposed to have had it early this morning?”

  “Yes, sir. The Americans are giving us a lot of trouble. We’ve tried everything, including aerial bombing, but they’re making us bleed for every inch of ground they give up. I haven’t faced a foe like this since Stalingrad.”

  “The Fuehrer will be furious if Clervaux holds up the advance much longer. Your career may be in more danger right now than you realize. You were supposed to be in Bastogne by nightfall.”

  “I’m doing my best, sir,” Manteuffel said testily. “If you don’t think so, you may relieve me of command.”

  “It hasn’t come to that yet,” Model replied. “But it might. Get a move on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Model returned the headset to his radio operator and walked back to his map table. The road from Clervaux, and indeed most of the roads in the Ardennes, led to Bastogne, the largest and most important city in the area. Unlike Clervaux, Bastogne could be bypassed geographically, but it could not be bypassed militarily because the garrison there would always be a threat to the rear of the German advance.

  Bastogne would have to be taken if the offensive were to succeed.

  Model placed his index finger on the city of Bastogne and set his jaw. Bastogne was the key to the entire offe
nsive. If it were not taken soon, the offensive would collapse, and if the offensive collapsed, Germany would have no further chance of negotiating a peace settlement with the Western Allies.

  How strange, Model thought, that such an out-of-the-way insignificant town should suddenly become so important to the future of Europe.

  ~*~

  In Bastogne, General Troy Middleton ate a baloney sandwich while looking at his map table. He knew he was facing the greatest crisis of his long military career. Although still out of contact with most of his units, enough of them had got through to give him a hazy picture of catastrophic reversals all across the Eighth Corps front. He’d spoken with General Hodges two more times about the situation, but Hodges was imperturbable as always. The Fifth Corps was attacking the Roer dams in the north, and Hodges was reluctant to break off the attack because if the Germans blew those dams, they’d flood Holland and stop all the American armor and troops in the area. Hodges said it would be foolish to send the Fifth Corps south on the basis of the scanty information that Middleton had provided.

  “It’s probably just a little spoiling attack to divert our attention from somewhere else,” Hodges had said.

  But Middleton didn’t think it was a little spoiling attack although he couldn’t prove it. His instincts told him that something big was going on, and it appeared headed for Bastogne. He knew very well that if the Germans wanted to advance to the Meuse, they’d have to take Bastogne because it was the most important road and rail center in the region.

  He placed his finger on the part of the map where Bastogne was located and bit off a piece of the baloney sandwich, wondering how long it would take for Hodges to send help to the embattled Eighth Corps.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun sets early in northern Europe in December, and at three-thirty in the afternoon, darkness was already falling on Clervaux. Mahoney lay in a cellar on a narrow side street, firing a .30 caliber machine gun at German soldiers while at another window an anti-tank crew was ravaging German tanks.