by Len Levinson
Mahoney reached into his pocket and took out a Hershey bar. Breaking it in half, he gave one piece to the child in front of him and the other piece to the child in the next bed. The woman watched benevolently, as the children solemnly put the chocolate into their mouths and took bites. Then, as the taste of fine American chocolate rolled over their tongues, they smiled happily. The other children rustled in their beds and held out their hands, grinning with expectation.
But Mahoney had nothing to give them. “Sorry kids,” he said, “that’s all I’ve got.”
The kids continued to hold out their hands, their eyes pleading for candy. Mahoney wished he had a whole truckful of the stuff to give them. He looked at the woman, who nodded in understanding.
“The poor children,” she said. “And Christmas is coming, too.”
Mahoney blinked because he’d lost track of dates and time. “When’s Christmas?” he asked.
“Only four days,” she told him.
Mahoney left the hospital, wondering how he could steal some candy for the kids. He knew that every box of C rations contained a candy bar, so he thought he’d find out where the C rations were kept and have a little talk with the quartermaster. There were only about forty kids in the ward. It shouldn’t be too difficult to steal forty candy bars.
He stepped onto the sidewalk, and darkness already had fallen on Bastogne. Two columns of paratroopers double-timed by, and a lieutenant as tall as Mahoney pointed at him and shouted, “Hey soldier—what are you doing here?”
“Just visiting somebody,” Mahoney replied.
“Fall in at the end of this column!”
“Yes, sir.”
Mahoney unslung his M-1 and held it at port arms. When the end of the column came abreast of him, he ran into the street and joined the paratroopers. He could have protested and said he was part of General McAuliffe’s personal staff, but he knew that Bastogne was surrounded and thought he should do whatever he was asked.
He double-timed with the paratroopers through the streets of Bastogne. Shells exploded in the sky, casting eerie flashing lights on devastated buildings. Machine gun fire could be heard from points all over the city, and the ground heaved with the impact of explosions.
Mahoney’s ears picked out the sound of a shell whistling down on him.
“HIT IT!” the lieutenant screamed.
The paratroopers fled in all directions, diving into alleys, storefronts, and through windows. Mahoney landed in a cellar as the shell slammed into the street and exploded with a mighty roar, throwing cobblestones and huge chunks of frozen earth into the air.
The lieutenant blew his whistle, and the paratroopers reformed their column of ducks in the street. They double-timed again, holding their rifles at high port arms. They were a snappy bunch of tough, disciplined soldiers because paratroopers were a special elite in the Army and all of them were volunteers who wanted to be more than ordinary dogfaces.
Mahoney felt good to be among them because he’d been in an elite unit once, the Twenty-third Rangers, and they’d been efficient, professional soldiers who knew their way around a battlefield, unlike the draftees and eight balls who filled the ranks of line divisions like the Hammerheads. Mahoney had transferred out of the Rangers because he’d thought they got too many suicide assignments, but sometimes he thought he’d made a mistake, because the Hammerheads drew their share of difficult assignments too, and although the Hammerhead Division was a good outfit, it was nowhere near as sharp or as professional as a ranger or paratrooper unit.
Mahoney’s ears told him they were headed toward a scene of fierce fighting. The Germans must be trying to break through someplace. They turned a corner, and Mahoney saw a six foot barricade of bricks and rubble ahead. Paratroopers lay all over it, firing rifles and anti-tank weapons. American tanks and tank destroyers sat behind it, shooting their cannons and machine guns.
“HALT!” shouted the lieutenant.
Mahoney and the other paratroopers stopped.
“FALL OUT AND TAKE POSITIONS OVER THERE!”
The paratroopers broke ranks and ran toward the barricade. Nobody had to tell them not to bunch up or how to position themselves. They were crackerjack soldiers, and eagerly they climbed the barricade. Mahoney found a spot for himself and looked over the top.
He saw twenty German tanks and about a hundred German soldiers advancing across an icy plain toward the barricade. Between this attacking force and the barricade were destroyed German tanks and corpses, which meant that the Germans had tried to storm the barricade before without success.
A German tank fired its cannon, and a length of the barricade not far from Mahoney was blown apart along with the paratroopers who’d been on top of it. Seconds later, an American anti-tank gun fired, and the tank seemed to shrink as it disappeared in an explosion and cloud of smoke.
Another tank fired at the barricade, scoring a direct hit, but it wasn’t enough to blow a path through it, and that’s what the Germans wanted to do. American anti-tank guns kept them back, and the German soldiers huddled behind their tanks. Mahoney looked through his sights for a German to shoot but couldn’t get a clear shot at any of them. He squeezed off a few rounds anyway, to make them keep their heads down.
The battlefield flashed with light as shells exploded and then went dark while the gunners loaded up again. American and German shells flew back and forth intermittently. Evidently, the Germans were getting ready to attack again. Then, out of the night came a swarm of German tanks, including some of the new King Tigers, to augment the German tank force already there. They all joined together and charged the barricade.
Mahoney fired his rifle at the onrushing tanks, although he knew his bullets would do no good. The tanks were such a formidable force that Mahoney figured they’d have to break through. American anti-tank gunners managed to knock out a few of the tanks, but the rest of them kept charging, their engines roaring. They fired their cannons at the barricades, and suddenly Mahoney felt the whole world exploding around him. His ears filled with thunder, and he felt himself falling backward as if he was made of paper.
He didn’t know how long he was unconscious, but when he opened his eyes he was in a crouch, half-covered with rubble. Looking around, he saw that twenty tanks had broken through the barricade and were loose in the outskirts of Bastogne. American anti-tank gunners tried to pick them off, but the tanks were at close range, and their machine guns ripped up the Americans.
Mahoney twisted and kicked, trying to get loose from the rubble. He worked himself free and stepped away from the mess, with bruises all over his body. His helmet felt strange, and when he touched it, he found a big dent over his forehead.
He heard shouting and turned to see German foot soldiers pouring through the holes the tanks had blasted through the barricades.
“FIX BAYONETS!” somebody shouted.
Mahoney pulled his bayonet and stuck it on the end of his rifle. He and the paratroopers in the vicinity ran toward the Germans to prevent them from penetrating too deeply into the city. The American paratroopers and German soldiers closed with each other and fought hand to hand. Mahoney stabbed wildly with his bayonet and slammed Germans with his rifle butt, thinking of the children in the hospital and how these Germans must be kept away from them. When he could get a clear shot, he fired his rifle at the Germans, and when the press of fighting became too tight, he used his knees and elbows.
Bayonets slashed his sleeves and the front of his jacket. German submachine gun bullets whizzed around him, and one grazed his helmet, leaving another dent. A German officer aimed a pistol at Mahoney’s nose, but Mahoney dove toward the German’s ankles as the bullet zipped over his head. He tackled the German officer, brought him down, and then jumped on him, grabbing him by the neck and squeezing.
The German officer gripped Mahoney’s wrists and tried to push him away, but Mahoney was too strong. The officer’s eyes bulged, and his tongue stuck out of his mouth. Mahoney squeezed with all his might and felt somethi
ng go snap in his hands.
A German clobbered Mahoney over the head with his rifle butt, and Mahoney toppled to the side. He rolled onto his back and blinked his eyes, trying to make the cobwebs go away. A gleaming German bayonet streaked toward his stomach, and Mahoney batted it out of the way with his forearm. The steel of the bayonet struck the pavement beside Mahoney and threw off sparks. Mahoney leapt up and grabbed the German’s rifle. The German tried to kick Mahoney away, and his boot whacked against Mahoney’s ribs, but it wasn’t enough of a blow to knock Mahoney out of the ballgame. Mahoney brought his own boot up and kicked the German hard between his legs. The German howled and let go his rifle, clutching his balls with both hands. Mahoney, enraged by the sneak attack this German had launched against him, took the rifle and rammed the butt into the German’s face.
When Mahoney pulled the rifle back, the German’s nose was flattened and his lips were split open. He went slack and dropped to the ground, but Mahoney cracked him once more before he landed.
Around Mahoney men were grunting and shouting, looking into each other’s blazing eyes and trying to rip out each other’s guts. Mahoney turned the German soldier’s rifle around so that he could use the bayonet and attacked the nearest German, a private who didn’t look much more than sixteen years old. The young soldier saw Mahoney coming, but he didn’t flinch or try to run away. Instead he stood his ground and tried to parry the thrust of Mahoney’s bayonet, but he didn’t have the strength. His parry only deflected Mahoney’s bayonet an inch or two to the side, and instead of receiving the bayonet in his heart, he got it right in the middle of his chest.
The bayonet went in to the hilt, and Mahoney couldn’t yank it out. He pulled the trigger of the rifle, but nothing happened. The young German must have emptied a clip and hadn’t had time to reload. Mahoney looked frantically on the ground for something to fight with and spotted a German submachine gun, his favorite weapon for close fighting.
He bent over to pick it up, but a German soldier appeared from the crowd of squirming, struggling soldiers around Mahoney and tried to harpoon Mahoney with his bayonet. Mahoney saw the metallic gleam just in time and pulled back. The bayonet streaked past his chest, and he grabbed the German’s rifle, wrenching it out of his hands and hitting him in the shoulder with a horizontal butt stroke.
The German lost his balance and stepped backwards. Mahoney went after him and slashed down with the bayonet, which hit the German in the face, sliced through his cheek, cut off his tongue, ripped apart his jaw muscles, and came out through his other cheek.
The German raised his hands and tried to hold his face together, as blood streamed through his fingers. Mahoney pulled his rifle back and then shot it forward, sinking the bayonet into the German’s stomach, then yanking it out easily as the German collapsed onto the sidewalk.
Mahoney looked around for the submachine gun. Another German soldier ran toward him, and Mahoney threw the German rifle at him, making him swerve out of the way. Mahoney scooped the submachine gun up from the ground, spread his legs apart, bent his knees, and fired at the German. The burst of bullets shattered the German’s ribs and lungs, and the German went flying backwards.
Mahoney held the submachine gun tightly because in close fighting you didn’t want to hit any of your own people. He fired it carefully, blowing away one German after another. The submachine gun shook in his hands, and he loved the feel of it and the way it demolished any German who stood in front of him.
Mahoney heard a series of ferocious explosions behind him. Glancing backwards, he saw one of the King Tigers and two other German tanks shattered and belching smoke. Then, before his eyes, another of the German tanks blew apart in a brilliant red flash.
Mahoney shouted victoriously. One of General McAuliffe’s mobile tank units finally had arrived at the trouble spot. He charged the Germans in front of him, tearing apart their faces and torsos with bursts of submachine gun fire, and they fell back because they could see their tanks retreating.
The two groups of soldiers separated, as the Germans retreated and the Americans tried to get out of their way. Mahoney looked around, saw that no tank was about to run him over, and dropped to one knee, firing the submachine gun at the fleeing Germans. He cut a few of them down, and then the submachine gun ran out of ammo. Looking around, he couldn’t see any other submachine guns, so he picked up an M-1 lying next to a dead American paratrooper.
He heard a terrific roar behind him and turned to see a German tank bearing down on him. He ran to the side, but another German tank was heading in that direction too. Everywhere he looked, he saw German tanks coming at him, and some of them were the monstrous King Tigers. They fired their cannons at the force of American tanks and tank destroyers pursuing them and rumbled angrily toward safety.
Mahoney didn’t know which way to run because German tanks were everywhere. He dodged one of them, and it passed by, spewing out a cloud of diesel smoke that made Mahoney cough. He ran by another tank, and then, twenty yards in front of him, one of the big King Tiger tanks was hit in the treads by an anti-tank shell.
Mahoney pulled a hand grenade out of his pocket because he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, the hatch on top of the tank opened, and a head appeared, because the tankers inside wanted to get out of the big, stationary target. Mahoney ran toward the tank, jumped onto its rear deck, and the German tanker turned around. Mahoney punched him in the mouth, threw the grenade down the hatch, and jumped off the tank, running as fast as he could toward safety.
His grenade exploded inside the King Tiger, and a column of smoke shot straight into the air from the turret. Mahoney stopped to let another German tank pass, and when it came abreast of him, he tossed a grenade into its treads, then ran in a crouch behind the tank.
That grenade ripped the tank’s treads apart, so it couldn’t move anymore. Mahoney paused on the other side of the tank, took out a third grenade, and pulled the pin. As soon as the tank’s hatch opened, he lobbed the grenade inside and then resumed his dash for safety.
He dashed over the cobblestones and couldn’t throw more hand grenades at tanks because he didn’t have any left. Tanks roared by him like angry elephants, and he tried his best to stay below their machine gun fire, but despite his efforts, a few of the big bullets whizzed past him, and he almost could feel their heat against his face.
Finally, he ran clear of the retreating tanks and climbed up on a barricade, where he saw an anti-tank gun that had fallen onto its side, with dead paratroopers lying around it, evidently the victims of an exploding shell.
Fortunately, the shell hadn’t blown up the anti-tank ammunition. Mahoney fed a round into the back, closed the back plate, and took aim at one of the German tanks. He pulled the trigger, and the tank’s turret was blown away in a sudden blinding flash. Loading the anti-tank gun again, he fired at a big retreating King Tiger, but he’d aimed too quickly, and the shell flew over the tank, exploding harmlessly onto the ground.
The German tanks retreated until they were out of sight in the darkness. Paratroopers in the street and on the barricade cheered, and Mahoney took out a cigarette and lit it up. He felt exhausted, and his uniform was torn to shreds.
The crews of the American tanks and tank destroyers opened up their hatches and came into the cold night air to cheer along with the paratroopers. The mobile defense force had stopped the Germans this time, but what would they do if the Germans attacked in force at three or four points in the city at once?
Mahoney decided he didn’t want to think about that just then. He sat down on the barricade and puffed his cigarette, hoping help would arrive before things got worse in Bastogne.
~*~
The Hammerhead Division stopped for the night near the town of Arlon in southern Belgium. General Barton Hughes, the divisional commander, sat inside his command post tent, poring over maps and trying to determine the best routes for his regiments to take tomorrow.
His tent flap opened, and one of his clerks entered. “Sir,
Colonel Simmons would like to see you.”
“Send him right in.”
The clerk departed, and several seconds later, Colonel Simmons entered the small, enclosed space. He walked to Hughes’s desk and saluted, and Hughes pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”
Simmons was a tall officer with graying hair and a pot belly. He sat and looked at General Hughes, who was still poring over papers on his desk. Hughes puffed a pipe, and his face was covered with acne scars partially hidden by a big black mustache. He’d only commanded the Hammerhead Division for six weeks, taking over when the previous C.O. had been killed in action trying to lead some men up a hill. Simmons didn’t know what to make of Hughes, who could be a real hard ass at times, but who seemed to know what he was doing usually.
Finally Hughes looked up. “What’s the problem?” he said abruptly.
Simmons couldn’t help missing old General Donovan, who had usually greeted him with a smile and some bourbon whisky, but for Hughes he sat erectly and said, “Sir, some of the men in my regiment have asked me to speak with you. It seems that a sergeant from Charlie Company is in Bastogne right now on TDY, or at least they think he’s there right now, and they’d like you to send our regiment into Bastogne first, so they can get him out.”
Hughes shrugged. “He might not be there anymore.”
“The men know that, sir, but they want to get in there first anyway. They all think he’s still alive. I know him pretty well, and he’s one of those guys who always comes out of the horseshit smelling like a rose.”
Hughes was surprised that such a fuss was being made over one soldier. “What’s his name?”
“Master Sergeant C. J. Mahoney, sir.”
Hughes scratched his head. “Seems to me that name rings a bell.”
“He’s the divisional heavyweight champion, sir.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Hughes said. “Now I remember who he is. Wasn’t he one of our first men to enter Saarlautern?”
“That’s the one, sir.”
Hughes recalled meeting Mahoney briefly. He’d been a big mean looking son of a bitch. Hughes figured that if some of the men in the Fifteenth Regiment were anxious to rescue Mahoney, they might fight a little harder on the way to Bastogne.
