by Len Levinson
Someone tapped Mahoney’s shoulder, and Mahoney turned around. A young greasy faced medic wearing a white armband was standing there. “Sergeant,” he said, “I think you’d better go back to the aid station and get that leg of yours taken care of.”
Mahoney looked down at his leg, which was still oozing blood. His pant leg was like cardboard due to dried and frozen blood. “It’s okay,” he said.
“It doesn’t look so good to me, Sergeant, and I don’t have any more sulfa. It’s liable to get infected, and then they’ll have to cut if off. You can’t expect a bleeding wound like that not to get infected sooner or later, and if you keep on losing blood, you’re going to pass out before long.”
Mahoney imagined himself in a bayonet fight, too weak to hold up his rifle because he’d lost too much blood. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Where’s the aid station?”
“Just a few blocks from here, near regimental headquarters.”
The medic gave Mahoney directions, and Mahoney tried to memorize them. He realized that his mind hadn’t been working too keenly for the past hour or two, and he didn’t know if it was because of the loss of blood or the brandy that he kept sipping whenever he got thirsty. He took his canteen from its case and had another sip while the medic was still talking to him.
“That smells like booze to me,” the medic said, twitching his nose.
Mahoney held out the canteen. “Have some.”
The medic took the canteen.
Mahoney looked around. “Somebody had better man this machine gun here because I got to go to the aid station.”
Three riflemen moved toward the gun, keeping their heads low because German machine gun bullets were whizzing through the open windows. Mahoney snatched his canteen out of the medic’s hands before he drained it dry, and just then, a German shell hit the side of the building. Chunks of plaster fell down from the ceiling. Mahoney waved his hands through the air to clear away the clouds of dust so that he could find the door. He passed through it and limped down a corridor to the rear of the building. He felt exhausted and was half-drunk from the brandy. Leaving the building through the rear door, he crossed a backyard, passed through an alley, and wound up on a street where no fighting was taking place. He followed the medic’s directions, and as dusk fell on the city, he soon came to the firehouse that was the regimental headquarters. Next to the firehouse was a former bakery shop that was being used as a field hospital.
Mahoney walked inside the hospital and saw soldiers lying everywhere. Medics and doctors rushed about, trying to examine wounds and save lives, and to Mahoney’s disappointment, all the nurses were gone. They must have been evacuated when the Germans got too close.
A medic walked up to Mahoney. “What’s your problem, Sergeant?”
Mahoney pointed to his leg. “The medic up front told me I’d better get this looked at before it got infected.”
“Can you stand on it all right?”
“How do you think I got here?”
“The bone probably isn’t broken. Have a seat, and I’ll get back to you.”
The medic dashed off, and Mahoney looked for someplace to sit. All the wall space was already taken, so he limped a few steps and sat between two soldiers who were swathed in bandages. He took out a cigarette and lit it up.
“You got an extra one of those, buddy?”
Mahoney looked up and saw a GI with his arm in a sling. “Sure.”
The GI kneeled, and Mahoney gave him a cigarette and a light.
“How’s it going out there?” the GI asked.
“The krauts have got about three-quarters of the town.”
“Shit, I can’t see why we don’t give them the fucking town and leave.”
Mahoney could have explained to the GI that in a war it wasn’t a good practice to give up ground, but he didn’t feel like making a speech. Instead, he puffed his cigarette and grunted. The GI took the hint and walked away. Mahoney closed his eyes and thought it would be nice to go to sleep in a nice warm bed someplace with clean sheets and a clean woman with big brown eyes like Madeleine.
“Hey, soldier!”
Mahoney opened his eyes and saw the medic.
“Come with me.”
Mahoney rose and followed the medic across the room. He wasn’t surprised that they’d called him right away because often the medics would treat first the men whom they could return to duty right away, instead of those who probably would never fight again.
~*~
Outside on the street, Captain Carlson, the officer with whom Mahoney had returned to Clervaux from the fight on the road earlier in the day, was walking toward the firehouse to speak with Colonel Knowland, the commanding officer of the Fifty-third Infantry Regiment in Clervaux.
Carlson was filthy, bedraggled, and greatly troubled. He carried his carbine at sling arms and looked at the sidewalk in front of him, trying to formulate the report that he intended to make to Colonel Knowland, whom he didn’t know very well and who was supposed to be a holy terror.
He would have had more to worry about if he’d been aware of the three German soldiers in American uniforms watching him from the window of a building across the street. They were Lieutenant Gurtner and Sergeants Muller and Grieser, and Muller was aiming an M-1 rifle at Captain Carlson’s head.
“Should I shoot him?” Muller asked.
Gurtner looked at Carlson through American binoculars. “No, he’s only a captain. There’s a colonel in that fire station. He’s the one we want.”
“Why don’t we go in after him?” Grieser asked. “He’s probably alone except for a few officers. All we have to do is open the door, toss in a hand grenade, and run away.”
Lieutenant Gurtner wrinkled his forehead and thought for a few moments. “You know, that might work,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The three Germans stood up and walked out of the room, heading for their jeep parked in a yard a few blocks away.
~*~
Meanwhile, Captain Carlson entered the firehouse and made his way to the conference room, knocking on the door.
“Come in!” said a voice inside.
Carlson took off his helmet, revealing straight light brown hair, and entered the conference room. Colonel Knowland and four of his aides stood around the map table, under a kerosene lamp. Carlson walked to Colonel Knowland and saluted.
“Sir,” he said, “I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion, but I have something very important to discuss with you.”
Knowland scrutinized Carlson’s features and recalled seeing him at a distance at parades, meetings, inspections, and similar impersonal situations. “What’s on your mind, Captain?”
“Sir, I’m in the 112th Engineers, and as you know we’re supposed to blow bridges and other installations so the Germans can’t use them in the event that they take ground from us.”
“I know what engineers are supposed to do,” Knowland said with annoyance. “What’s your problem?”
“The gasoline dump outside Liederveld, sir. I’ve been wondering if anybody’s going to blow it.”
The colonel wrinkled his forehead and looked at his aides. “Do any of you know?”
They shook their heads. The colonel turned to Captain Carlson again. “That’s an engineering responsibility,” he said. “Why haven’t you asked Colonel Drake?”
“He was killed in action today, sir.”
Colonel Knowland’s face went loose. “Oh.”
“You see, sir,” said Carlson, “the whole battalion was rushed here to Clervaux early this morning. I don’t know if anyone was designated to blow that dump if the Germans get close to it.”
“Well,” replied Colonel Knowland, “they’re damn well going to get close to it. They’ll have this town in a few more hours, and then there won’t be anything between them and that gasoline dump. If they get their hands on that gas, they’ll go all the way to the English Channel.”
“That’s what I was thinking, sir.”
Colonel Knowland st
ood more erectly. “Captain, I think you’d better take some men and make sure that the gasoline dump doesn’t fall into the hands of the Germans. Do you have the means to blow it up?”
“There are explosives and caps hidden on the site, sir.”
“Maybe you’d better take some grenades or bazooka rockets along to make sure.”
“I’ll need transportation, sir.”
“Take whatever you need. There’s nothing more important in this sector than what you have to do.” He scribbled an authorization on a sheet of paper. “Use this if you have any trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get going,” Colonel Knowland said. “You can’t let the Germans get that gas.”
Captain Carlson took a step backwards and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
~*~
“That should keep you going for a while,” the doctor said to Mahoney. “Now all you need is a new pair of pants. Should I give you the name of my tailor?”
Mahoney grinned. “Naw, these’ll be okay.”
Mahoney pulled up his ragged, bloody pants, covering the fresh bandage the doctor had put on his wound. The doctor also had cleaned it out, put sulfa powder on, and sewn it up.
“You can return to duty now,” the doctor said. “Just make sure you have somebody take the stitches out in a few days. Any medic can do it.”
“Thanks Doc,” Mahoney replied. “You wouldn’t care for a shot of brandy by any chance, would you?”
The doctor’s eyes lit up. “Wouldn’t I?”
Mahoney handed him the canteen, and the doctor raised it to his lips. His Adam’s apple jigged up and down, and Mahoney became alarmed.
“Whoa there,” he said, grabbing the canteen and taking it back.
The doctor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was pretty good stuff.”
“You’re fucking right it is,” Mahoney said. “That’s why I want to keep some for myself.”
Mahoney left the little room and entered the space where the seriously wounded soldiers lay on the floor. He lit a cigarette, walked to the door, and descended the steps to the street. His leg felt much better because the doctor had given him a shot to kill the pain while he put in the stitches. The thunder of explosions could be heard more clearly now that he was outside. It sounded as though a fierce battle was being fought only a few blocks away.
He passed the firehouse and heard somebody shout “Mahoney!” Spinning around, he saw Captain Carlson coming down the steps.
“Hiya, Captain,” Mahoney said, reaching for his canteen. “Care for a drink?”
“A drink of what?”
“Brandy.”
Captain Carlson narrowed his eyes and examined Mahoney’s face. “Are you a little drunk, Mahoney?”
Mahoney burped. “Probably.”
“Oh shit.” Captain Carlson groaned. “Where are you headed?”
Mahoney pointed toward the fighting. “Back to the war.”
“I need you for something,” Captain Carlson said. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Meanwhile, lay off the brandy. There’s something important that must be done immediately, but first we need a jeep.”
As if by magic, a jeep turned a corner and headed straight for them. In it were three GIs. Captain Carlson watched it as it stopped in front of the firehouse and the three GIs got out.
“Where are you men going?” Captain Carlson asked.
The three GIs became flustered because they were Gurtner, Muller, and Grieser, the German commandos.
“We were told to report for duty here,” said Gurtner with a stutter in his voice.
“By who?”
“Our commanding officer.”
“What branch are you?”
“Ordnance.”
“Well, we don’t need any Ordnance men around here,” Captain Carlson said. “It’s much too late for that. But I need some men to help me with something important. You’re coming with me, and I’m requisitioning your jeep.”
The three GIs looked at each other nervously. Mahoney thought there was something peculiar about them, but he’d been drinking so much brandy he thought everything was peculiar.
Finally Gurtner saluted. “Anything you say, sir.”
“All of us can’t fit in the jeep, so one of you will have to stay behind.” Captain Carlson looked at Grieser. “You report to the front.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grieser walked off. Captain Carlson looked at his watch. “We don’t have any time to waste. First we’ll pick up some hand grenades.”
“Where are we going, sir?” Gurtner asked.
“To the gas dumps at Liederveld. We’ve got to blow them up before the Germans get to them.”
Gurtner and Muller looked at each other significantly, but Captain Carlson didn’t notice because he was gazing into the distance and trying to figure out the best way to get to Liederveld. Mahoney noticed, but he didn’t trust his perceptions because he was half in the bag. To steady himself, he took out his canteen and swallowed down some more brandy.
Captain Carlson looked at him crossly. “I think you’d better lighten up on that stuff, Sergeant.”
“It takes away the pain in my leg, sir,” Mahoney replied, neglecting to mention that it removed all other feeling too.
Carlson turned to Gurtner. “What’s your name?”
“Stevens.”
“How about you?” Carlson asked Mullen
“Bradford.”
“Which one of you drives?”
Gurtner shot Muller a meaningful glance.
“I do,” said Muller.
“Then start driving.”
The four of them piled into the jeep. Captain Carlson sat next to Muller in front and Mahoney sprawled beside Gurtner in back. They drove a block to the armorer, and Captain Carlson went inside with Gurtner and Muller to get some hand grenades. Mahoney waited outside to make sure nobody stole the jeep.
He lay in the back seat, breathing heavily, his eyes half closed. The brandy was making him sleepy. He shouldn’t have drunk so much of it, but it was too late now. The only thing to do was have another drink. Taking out his canteen again, he unscrewed the top and raised it to his lips. He took two swallows and it was empty.
“Son of a bitch,” Mahoney said, screwing the top back on. A German artillery shell landed on the roof of a building across the street, and Mahoney thought, Gee, this stuff has a helluva kick.
Gurtner and Muller came out of the building with Captain Carlson behind them. Gurtner carried a crate of hand grenades, and Muller held some bandoliers of M-1 ammunition. Captain Carlson had a grenade launcher in his back pocket. They got into the jeep, and Gurtner drove away. An artillery shell landed twenty yards away, and they squinched their eyes as pieces of the cobblestones fell on their helmets. They heard the crackle of machine gun fire and ducked their heads.
“Get the hell out of here!” Captain Carlson said.
Gurtner slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the jeep lurched forward. He hooked a left at the next corner, and Mahoney looked back to see German tanks rolling onto the street behind him. The Germans had captured nearly all of Clervaux and would be hot on their heels all the way to Liederveld.
Captain Carlson also turned around to look at the German tanks and noticed the worried expression on Mahoney’s face.
“Think we’ll make it, Sergeant?” he asked.
“We’ve got to make it, sir,” Mahoney replied.
~*~
Mahoney slept as the jeep drove through the night. In the distance, to the rear of the jeep, the sky glowed red from the fires in Clervaux. Captain Carlson nervously looked at his watch. German tank columns weren’t far behind, and he wouldn’t have much time to blow up the gas tanks. He hoped the jeep wouldn’t break down.
The front wheel hit a bump and jolted Mahoney into consciousness. He looked around and saw the night passing by. Fir trees were clothed in coats of snow, and there was
no moon at all. His throat was parched, and he had a mild headache.
“You got some water in your canteen?” he asked Muller.
“Sure thing.”
Muller unsnapped his canteen from its case and handed it to Mahoney, who took a swig.
“Thanks,” Mahoney said, passing it back. “Where the fuck are we, anyway?”
Captain Carlson turned around. “We’ll be there in a few more minutes. How do you feel?”
“Ready to roll.”
The jeep threaded its way through the snow covered forest. It chugged up mountains and passed lakes covered with ice and snow.
“Take a right here,” Captain Carlson told Gurtner.
Gurtner turned off the main road and continued over a winding road up the side of a mountain. He turned a corner, and the gas tanks came into view on top of a ridge. They were thirty feet high, painted green, and surrounded by a high barbed wire fence that a German tank could go through without even pausing.
The jeep approached the barbed wire gate and stopped. Captain Carlson jumped out and walked toward the guardhouse. A head appeared in the window of the guardhouse, and a sleepy faced soldier opened the door.
“Halt—who goes there?” the soldier said, fumbling with his rifle.
“It’s Captain Carlson—open the goddamned gate!”
The soldier walked toward the latch. “Boy, am I glad to see you, sir. They left me here early this morning, and I haven’t been relieved since. What the hell’s going on?”
“The krauts are coming. After you open the gate, follow us in, and help out.”
“Yes, sir!”
Captain Carlson returned to the jeep, and the soldier opened the gate. Gurtner drove the jeep through it, and Captain Carlson told him to stop near the first gasoline tank. The guard caught up with them, and everybody got out of the jeep. Gurtner moved toward Muller because he wanted to tell him how to proceed. Together they had to take the Americans by surprise and kill them, so they could save the precious gasoline for the advancing panzer armies.
