by Len Levinson
“All right,” Hughes said. “The Fifteenth goes first. I imagine you might want to put Mahoney’s company right up on the point.”
“Yes sir—-that had been my intention.”
“Good. Go to it, Simmons. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“We expect to make contact with the Germans sometime tomorrow,” Hughes said. “I want you to hit them hard and not stop for anything.”
“You don’t have to worry about my men hitting the Germans hard,” Colonel Simmons replied. “They’ll be going for broke all the way to Bastogne.”
Chapter Fourteen
Early in the morning, Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery strolled into the new office of General Courtney Hodges in Chaudfontaine. Montgomery wore a waist-length battle jacket and a red paratrooper beret at a jaunty angle. He was a slender sparrow of a man and was accompanied by several of his top aides, many of whom had been with him since Africa.
Monty rubbed his hands together as he approached Hodges at the map table. “Well,” he said, “we seem to have got ourselves into a difficult situation down here, haven’t we? What are the latest dispositions?”
Hodges, dignified and calm as always, pointed to the map and explained the deployment of his men. He told Montgomery that he thought the German attack had slowed considerably and that the time had come to counterattack.
“Oh no, no,” Monty said, shaking his head. “We can’t do that yet. First, we must tidy up our lines.”
“Tidy our lines?” Hodges asked.
“Yes.” Monty pointed to the positions of the American Eighty-second Airborne Division, which had already attacked the Germans near St. Vith and gained considerable ground. “You’ll have to pull back these units here so that we can straighten out our lines.”
“But why do we have to straighten out our lines?” Hodges asked, mystified by Monty’s order.
“Because you can’t win a big victory without a tidy show.”
Hodges stared at Monty as if Monty had just stepped off a spaceship from Mars. “But sir, those positions might be useful when it comes time to launch our counterattack.”
“I don’t think so,” Monty replied. “That salient is messy and dangerous. First we must sort out the battlefield and tidy up our lines, and then we’ll counterattack. Do you have anything else to report?”
“No, sir—I don’t think so.”
“Very well, then. Good day.”
Monty turned around and marched out of the office, followed by his aides. Supremely confident, his shoulders thrown back, he made his way out of the building to his command car, got in, and was driven away. GIs on the street recognized his famous face and red beret and waved. “Hiya Monty!” they shouted.
“Hello boys!” he replied, giving them thumbs up.
~*~
Mahoney had spent the night on the barricades, freezing his ass. In the morning, the paratrooper unit he had fought with was relieved, and he thought he’d better get some sleep someplace because he’d been on the go for three days in a row.
He had no idea of where to sack out because he’d never been assigned to a permanent unit. He decided that his best bet would be to return to General McAuliffe’s headquarters and find a cozy little nook there because the chances were that they’d have a fire going and it would be warm.
He dragged himself through the streets of Bastogne, his head aching from lack of sleep, and the city looked even worse than it had the day before. More buildings had been blown up, and more streets were impassable. Mahoney knew they couldn’t hold out much longer. If help didn’t come from someplace, they’d be slaughtered.
He was so sleepy that he walked into a broken telephone pole and knocked himself senseless. When he opened his eyes, he was on his knees with his shoulder lodged against the telephone pole. I can’t go on like this, he thought. I’ve got to lie down someplace.
Looking around, he saw a partially destroyed building. A little tin chimney had been rigged through one of the walls, and smoke wafted out of it. Mahoney staggered into the building and descended into the cellar, where a group of civilians were huddled around a small potbellied stove. They made room for Mahoney at the stove, but he found a vacant corner, collapsed into it, and closed his eyes. In seconds, he was snoring loudly.
~*~
The Hammerhead Division continued its drive to the north through little towns and vast expanses of farm country. The men of Charlie Company rode on the lead tanks, and shortly after twelve noon another village was spotted in the distance. The tank column slowed down and came to a stop.
The commander of the tank which Cranepool and his squad were riding on peered at the town through his binoculars.
“What are we stopping for?” Cranepool asked.
“There’s supposed to be krauts in that town.”
The tanks stayed in place while word was passed back to General Hughes that the lead tank column was approaching a town held by the Germans. The commander of the tank units requested instructions on how to take the town.
General Hughes was riding in a jeep about midpoint in the column when the message came through on the radio. He didn’t have to think about it much because he’d been with Patton long enough to know that speed and surprise were the most important elements of success.
“We’re not going to waste any time in that town,” he told the tank commander. “Just go right through it with guns blazing, and don’t stop for anything.”
“What about the infantry on my tanks, sir?”
“You just leave them right where they are. Infantry soldiers would rather ride than walk no matter what the circumstances are.”
General Hughes’s orders were passed back and forth along the armored column, and finally they arrived in the tank on which Cranepool was riding.
“Well,” said the tank commander, a lieutenant named Pellegrini, “you guys had better hang on tight because our orders are to roll through the town as quickly as we can with all guns blazing.”
Cranepool tipped his helmet back and tried to figure out the implications of the order. He realized that he and his men would be sitting ducks atop the tank, and they wouldn’t be able to fight back because they’d be too busy trying to hang on.
“All right you guys!” he shouted, as the tank revved up its engine. “I want all of you to take off your belts and tie yourselves to this tank, so you can use your weapons when we get into that town.”
The tank column moved forward. Cranepool’s men worked feverishly to yank off their belts and strap themselves to the various fittings on the tank. Cranepool fastened his left thigh to the turret and positioned himself on one knee. The tank bounced up and down as it gathered speed over the icy road, and Cranepool wrapped his carbine sling around his left arm so he wouldn’t drop it by mistake.
The tank column with the Hammerheads aboard roared down the incline toward the town. The Germans saw them coming and got set behind their main defensive line, but there weren’t too many Germans because Hitler had deployed the weight of his Ardennes offensive to the center and north, while his southern flank consisted almost entirely of infantry, and they were spread out all over Belgium.
The tank column approached the barricade at the edge of town, and Cranepool felt the cold wind bite into his face and whistle through his epaulettes. The lead tanks raked the barricades with machine gun fire and shot their cannons at it. The Germans hadn’t been in the town very long and hadn’t time to build substantial fortifications, so after several volleys, a path was blasted through the barricade.
The air filled with bullets flying in all directions. Cranepool kneeled on the rocking tank and fired his carbine on automatic at the barricade that was coming closer every moment. The lead tanks broke through and kept going at top speed. Cranepool and his men were on the fifth tank, and as it approached the barricade, Cranepool took out a hand grenade, pulled the pin, waited until he was abreast of the barricade, and hurled it at the Germans.
The grenade sailed thro
ugh the air, and Cranepool lost his balance, falling to his side on the hard cold metal, but the belt on his leg kept him from rolling down the side of the tank. The grenade exploded, killing three Germans. Cranepool righted himself again, looked up, and saw German helmets in the windows of the one and two story buildings that lined the street. He and his men fired at the Germans as the tanks sped through the town, roaring around corners and accelerating down the straightaways. Germans toppled off the roofs and out of the windows of buildings as the tankers fired their machine guns and the infantry soldiers shot them with rifles. The Hammerheads threw hand grenades through windows, and some of them even managed to fire bazookas from atop moving tanks.
The Germans fired their anti-tank guns at the column of tanks, knocking several out of action. The soldiers atop them were killed instantly by the explosions, but the column continued to roll through the town.
Then, the tank in front of Cranepool’s took a direct hit, and flying shrapnel killed Private Sequira instantly. Lieutenant Pellegrini kept going, crashed into the destroyed tank, and pushed it out of the way. A German behind some bushes aimed his panzerfaust (an anti-tank weapon) at the tank and fired it, but the shell fell short, exploding and splattering Cranepool and his men with stones and dust. Private Richardson was hit in the forehead with one of the stones, and its force cracked open his skull. He collapsed onto the tank but didn’t fall off it because he’d tied himself to its ammunition rack. His blood trickled onto the o.d. green paint and dripped into the moving treads as the tank accelerated forward.
Cranepool held his carbine tight to his waist and sprayed buildings with automatic fire as the tank sped through the village. The tank turned a corner, and he glanced ahead to see the open road again. He fired a last burst of bullets at two Germans on a rooftop, and then his carbine went empty. He ejected the empty clip, slapped in a new one, and when he looked up again, his tank had cleared the village and was rolling through the countryside again.
~*~
On the lee side of a white King Tiger tank, General Fritz Bayerlein studied the map of Bastogne and tried to figure out tactics for taking the stubborn city. The cold wind whistled around him, carrying flakes of snow. Sergeant Kriesler mumbled into the field telephone, then turned to Bayerlein.
“It’s Field Marshal Model, sir.”
Bayerlein took the telephone, groaning softly because he knew he was going to be chewed out. “Bayerlein here,” he said.
“Bayerlein,” said Model, “the Fuehrer is furious over your inability to take Bastogne. It is inconceivable to him, and I must confess even to me, that you have not taken it yet, in view of your superiority in terms of numbers of tanks and men.”
“Sir,” Bayerlein replied, “the enemy has had time to build a strong defensive position in Bastogne, and they’re fighting like wild animals. Whenever we attack, we’re met with a wall of tanks.”
“Where are you attacking from?”
“The east, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Why don’t you sideslip around the city and attack from the south? You might be able to surprise them that way, and I suggest you send infantry in first to clear a way for the tanks, since you’re not having much luck the other way around. Do you think that might work?”
“It’s worth a try, sir. They must be running low on food and ammunition. They’ll have to crack sooner or later.”
“I hope it’s sooner, for your sake, Bayerlein. That is all.”
Bayerlein handed the phone back to Sergeant Kriesler and looked at the map again as he planned his new attack from the south.
~*~
Colonel James O’Neill, the chaplain of the Third Army, knocked on the door of Patton’s office. “Come in!” said the voice inside. Chaplain O’Neill entered the office, approached General Patton at his desk, and saluted awkwardly. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, I did,” said Patton. “Have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Neill sat on one of the chairs in front of Patton’s desk. He was a white haired man with fine, sensitive features, and he wondered what Patton wanted from him this time.
“Chaplain O’Neill,” said Patton, “I have a very important mission for you, but I have complete confidence that you’ll carry it out to the best of your ability. As you know, we’re attacking the Germans to the north of us, but we’re not moving as fast as I’d like because we don’t have air support, and we don’t have air support because the weather’s been atrocious. Therefore, when you leave this office, I want you to go to some quiet secluded spot and pray for good flying weather!”
Chaplain O’Neill didn’t know whether Patton was joking with him or not. “Sir,” he said, “it’s going to take an awfully thick rug for that kind of praying.”
“I don’t care if it takes a flying carpet,” Patton replied. “I want the praying done.”
“But sir, it isn’t customary for men of my profession to pray for clear weather so that people can kill each other more effectively.”
Patton pointed his finger at Chaplain O’Neill. “Are you here to teach me theology, or are you the chaplain of the Third Army?”
“I’m chaplain of the Third Army, sir.”
“Then get out of here, and start praying!”
“Yes, sir.”
Chaplain O’Neill stood, saluted, and marched out of Patton’s office. He made his way to his little chapel, knelt before the cross, and prayed for clear weather just as Patton had ordered him to do. Chaplain O’Neill couldn’t help feeling ridiculous, but orders were orders, and he obeyed like a good soldier.
Chapter Fifteen
Mahoney was awakened by the sound of a ferocious explosion. He opened his eyes and looked around as bits of the ceiling fell down and the people in the cellar screamed in panic. Mahoney grabbed his rifle and stood, squinting and trying to see the doorway through the clouds of dust. He held one hand in front of him and made his way to the door, passing through the outside corridor and climbing the stairs.
He heard a great number of artillery shells falling in his vicinity and knew the Germans must be attacking again. Leaving the building, he saw that it was dawn and the street in front of him was filled with paratroopers running toward the center of the city. Looking to his left, he saw a horde of German soldiers coming round the bend.
He realized in an instant that the Germans had broken through someplace. An empty American armored personnel carrier fleeing down the middle of the street was hit by a German anti-tank shell, and its rear end was blown to shreds. Its driver jumped out of the cab and ran away.
Mahoney charged into the street, “Hold on!” he shouted to the fleeing paratroopers. “Stand your ground!”
But the paratroopers kept running. Their defensive lines had been breached, and they were falling back to new positions, although they couldn’t afford to give up much ground in a small, surrounded city like Bastogne.
Bullets ricocheted off the street and whizzed through the air as Mahoney tried to think of what to do. His eyes fell on the .50 caliber machine gun on top of the destroyed armored personnel carrier. It might be working, and if it was, it could stop the Germans long enough for the paratroopers to regroup and counterattack.
Mahoney ran into the street, pushing paratroopers out of his way. He leapt onto the back of the vehicle, climbed over the wreckage, and made his way to the .50 caliber machine gun on the roof of the cab. He looked it over, and it appeared undamaged. Leaning his rifle against the wall of the tiny enclosed spot where the machine gun had been mounted, he saw that the machine gun was loaded and that there were three crates of bullets on the floor.
Mahoney swung the machine gun around and looked down the sights at German soldiers swarming down the street toward him. He prayed the machine gun would work and pressed the thumb triggers. It fired thunderously, and the big bullets blasted out of the barrel. The bullets were almost twice the size of ordinary rifle or machine gun bullets and were designed to shoot down planes and pierce light armo
r. Each fifth bullet was a tracer so the gunner could see where he was firing.
Mahoney held the triggers down and swung the machine gun from side to side on its transverse mechanism. A hail of bullets illuminated by tracers flew down the street and ripped into the Germans, who were jammed together between the buildings that lined the street. The bullets were so powerful they could go through three or four Germans before they ran out of steam, and the front wall of attacking Germans collapsed before the hot lead, blood spurting out of their bodies.
Mahoney kept firing, the big machine gun shaking his entire body, and he shot down the second wave of Germans. But the rest of them kept coming. They were enthusiastic and felt heroic because they’d managed to storm the city’s outer defenses, but Mahoney’s bullets tore them apart and soon heaps of dead Germans lay in the street. The attack faltered.
Mahoney stopped a moment to give the machine gun a rest. “COME ON YOU COCKSUCKERS!” he screamed. “IF YOU WANT A FIGHT—HERE I AM!”
A German hiding behind a telephone pole fired a panzerfaust at the armored vehicle, and it hit low in back, blowing apart the metal armor and rear axle and jolting Mahoney so badly he was thrown against the wall of his little machine gun nest. His head would have been bashed in if he hadn’t been wearing a helmet, but he pulled himself together quickly and got behind the machine gun again.
Pressing the thumb triggers, the machine gun kicked and trembled on its stalk. In the corner of his eye, he saw some Germans trying to set up an anti-tank gun, so he swung the machine gun in that direction and poured lead into them until they all were lying on the ground with enormous holes in their bodies.
The German with the panzerfaust fired again, but this time his aim was wide, and his shell flew past the left side of Mahoney. However, Mahoney had seen him fire the weapon. Mahoney aimed his machine gun at the hapless German and directed a deadly stream of bullets at him. The German tried to hide himself behind the telephone pole, but the big bullets ripped the wood apart, and one bullet finally slammed into the German’s chest, knocking him off his feet. The rest of the bullets cut the telephone pole in half, causing the top half to fall on the dead German and break his bones.
