Death Train

by Levinson, Len

  “Celestine was kind and understanding. She wouldn’t be mad.”

  “Oh no? Remember the time she slapped me?”

  “She didn’t slap you that hard.”

  “She could be very jealous. You didn’t know her the way I did.”

  Mahoney felt Odette’s warm body against his, and he started to get an erection. He wondered if he had time to knock off a quick piece before going to the bridge, and then cursed himself for having those thoughts when Celestine hadn’t even been dead for a full twenty-four hours yet, and he was in a monastery of all places. From afar he could hear the chanting of the bearded Carthusian monks who’d died so long ago. He pushed Odette away from him.

  “Listen, I’ve got to get going,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “To blow up a bridge.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to lose you, too.”

  Mahoney pecked her on the forehead and then turned, walking away from her as fast as he could because he knew if he lingered he’d touch one of her luscious breasts, and then one thing would lead to another. He’d feel awful afterwards and a little tired probably. Boxers didn’t screw before fights and Rangers shouldn’t either before going out to blow up bridges.

  He made his way to the part of the monastery where he and the others lived in the tiny little cells formerly occupied by the monks. Cranepool’s door was next to his and he knocked on it, but there was no answer. He knocked again, wondering where Cranepool was. The doors didn’t have locks so he pushed it open. He saw Cranepool lying face down on his cot. On the floor beside him was a letter of some kind.

  Mahoney shook Cranepool’s shoulder. “Hey asshole—get up!”

  “Leave me alone,” Cranepool moaned.

  “Leave you alone?” Mahoney asked, shaking Cranepool again. “I’ll never leave you alone. You don’t deserve to be left alone. On your feet—you scumbag. We’ve gotta go blow up a bridge.”

  “I’m not going,” Cranepool said into his pillow.

  Mahoney grabbed Cranepool by the hair and yanked his head off the pillow. “You wanna bet?”

  “Leave me alone!” Cranepool wailed.

  Mahoney stared at Cranepool in disbelief. The young corporal never had defied him in this manner before. He’d always followed orders cheerfully and quickly. He never asked dumb questions. What possibly could be wrong with him?

  Mahoney let go of Cranepool’s hair, and the corporal’s face fell back into his pillow. He lay motionless. Mahoney thought he heard a sniffle. He sat on the edge of Cranepool’s cot.

  “What in the dogshit is wrong with you?” Mahoney asked, trying to sound gentle and understanding.

  “Leave me alone,” Cranepool sighed.

  “I’d like to but I can’t. We’ve gotta go blow up a bridge. I need you, Cranepool. Don’t let me down.”

  “I want to die,” Cranepool said pathetically.

  “You’re not being sensible, Cranepool. No sensible person wants to die.”

  “I want to die,” Cranepool repeated.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, asshole?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I just can’t.”

  Mahoney thought he should whack Cranepool upside his head. Maybe that’d bring him to his senses. Then his eyes fell upon the letter lying on the floor. “You get some bad news, Cranepool?”

  Cranepool nodded his head and said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Somebody in your family die?”

  “No.”

  “When’d you get the letter?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “How come you got a letter? I thought there were no planes flying.”

  Cranepool groaned and rolled over, so he could see Mahoney. “The letter was dropped by mistake a few weeks ago with some supplies into another area and it took this long to get here.,,

  “You mind if I look at it, or is it personal?”

  “It’s personal but you can look at it if you want to,” Cranepool said weakly.

  Mahoney scooped the letter up off the floor and started to read it. It was hand-written on pink stationery and after a few sentences he realized it was the basic Dear John Letter. Cranepool’s girlfriend Betsy back in Ottumwa, Iowa, had found herself another nitwit and had decided to marry him.

  “Aw, I’m really sorry to find out about this,” Mahoney said consolingly, although he was neither sorry nor surprised. Soldiers got Dear John Letters all the time. Even he’d gotten a few, from women to whom he’d made false promises to marry. As far as he was concerned, Dear John Letters were a normal part of everyday Army life, similar to guard duty and pulling KP.

  “Hey Cranepool,” Mahoney said jovially, slapping the pfc on the shoulder, “you’re not going to let a little thing like this get you down, are you?”

  “I’m in love with her,” Cranepool replied in a tremulous voice, scrunching up his face.

  Mahoney took a cigarette from the pack on the floor beside Cranepool’s bed and lit it up. My life is turning into a fucking soap opera, he thought. Why can’t these people keep themselves under control the way I do?

  “Listen Cranepool,” he said, his voice more firm. “You’ve got to get over this, and right now. I need you to help me blow up a bridge.”

  “I want to die,” Cranepool wailed.

  ‘That’s liable to happen if you come with me on this bridge job. Let’s go.” He slapped Cranepool on the shoulder again. “Saddle up. We don’t have much time.”

  “I can’t,” Cranepool said.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No I can’t. I can’t move. The thought of Betsy kept me alive. Shoot me, Sarge. I don’t want to live anymore.”

  “I’d be happy to shoot you, if it weren’t for two reasons. One, I need you for the bridge job, and two, I’d get court-martialed.”

  “You could say I was going AWOL or something.”

  “Nobody would believe it, Cranepool. You’ve got a good record. Guys like you don’t go AWOL. But I ain’t got such a good record. Guys like me shoot other guys in anger sometimes. Guys like me wind up in the stockade, where I have been twice already, by the way. Now come on, let’s stop fucking around. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Cranepool shook his head pathetically. “I can’t, Sarge. I just can’t.”

  “You’ve got to forget about Betsy. She never loved you anyway.”

  Cranepool bolted upright. “She did too!”

  “Naw she didn’t. She probably was fucking other guys from the moment you left town.”

  “She was not!”

  “Sure she was. She was probably even blowing the milkman and stuff like that.”

  Cranepool jumped to his feet and crouched in front of Mahoney, waving his fists around wildly.

  “Stand up, Sarge. I’m afraid I’m going to have to punch you for what you just said.”

  Mahoney grinned and stood up, the cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. “Some guy is probably fucking her up the ass right now,” he said.

  Cranepool swung at Mahoney, who stepped to the side, grabbed Cranepool’s wrist, twisted it behind his back, and pushed his face hard against the stone wall.

  “Now listen to me, you stupid piece of shit,” Mahoney growled into Cranepool’s ear. “Your girlfriend Betsy is a dumb cunt and you’re an asshole for wanting to marry such a dumb cunt. You ought to be glad that you’re rid of her. She’d probably give you a fatal dose of the clap if you married her. Listen, you want to get laid? I can work something out with Odette—you know who Odette is, don’t you? The one with the big tits? She’ll give you a great blowjob, after we come back from the bridge. Is it a deal?”

  “Let me go!” Cranepool screamed, blood dripping from his nose.

  Mahoney twisted his arm a little more. “Okay you dumb fuck—if
you won’t listen to reason I’ll tell you what I’m gonna have to do.” With his free hand he took the Colt .45 from inside his shirt and cocked it next to Cranepool’s ear. “I’m gonna put a bullet right in your fuckin’ head, and then I’m gonna send a report back that you deserted in the face of the enemy and I had to shoot you. I’m gonna say that you were a coward and that they ought to bust you down to Private before they shitcan you.”

  “No!” yelled Cranepool.

  “Why not?” Mahoney said with a chuckle. “If you’re going to fuck me up, why shouldn’t I fuck you up too? Imagine what the folks in that ridiculous hometown of yours will say when they read in the local paper that you’re a disgrace to the human race? Imagine what Betsy will think? She’ll be glad she got rid of you. She’ll curse your name. She’ll throw up whenever she thinks of your ugly pimpled face. How does that grab you, you stupid piece of shit?”

  Cranepool gulped. “You wouldn’t do that to me, wouldja Sarge?”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  “I think you would,” Cranepool said, the realization dawning on him.

  “You’re fucking-A I would. But listen to this one, dipshit. If you go back to being a good soldier and my right-hand man like you were this morning, I’ll put you in for some medals when all this shit is over. And you know Captain Di Pietro will back me up. Then you can go home to that shithole town of yours with all those medals on your chest, and Betsy will piss her pants. She’ll regret marrying that other guy. She’ll beg you to forgive her. And you can spit right in her eye and say: ‘Sorry bitch—it’s too late.’ How does that grab you, you dumb fuck?”

  Mahoney loosened his grip on Cranepool a little. Cranepool knitted his eyebrows together and thought over Mahoney’s proposition.

  “You’d really put me in for some medals, Sarge?”

  “Sure I would, kid. You’re a good soldier. I had real respect and admiration for you until about an hour ago when I found you lying in bed like an old douche-bag. Have we a deal or haven’t we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your choice is to be a dead coward or a live hero. If you do it my way, they might even send you back to the States on one of those War Bond tours with Lana Turner, and you might get to fuck her.” Mahoney didn’t bother to mention the possibility that Cranepool might wind up dead on the bridge job. No sense in confusing the poor kid.

  “Okay, I’ll do it, Sarge.”

  “Good man.”

  Mahoney let him go. Cranepool turned around and wiped the blood off his nose, smiling sheepishly. Mahoney slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Saddle up. We’re going to be leaving in a little while.”

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  “And burn that fuckin’ letter. You don’t need it anymore, got me?”

  “Right, Sarge.”

  Mahoney winked and walked out of the little room. He lumbered down the corridor to the next door and entered his own cell. Lighting the candle on the little table, he sat down heavily on his cot and took a deep breath. The shit you have to go through to fight a war. The Germans were bad enough, but the people on his own side were driving him out of his mind.

  He rolled up his pant leg and looked at where the dog had bit him. The pant leg was ragged and so was his calf but the blood had coagulated and it didn’t hurt very much. Mahoney had learned in the Kasserine Pass that you had to ignore pain if you could. Otherwise it would stop you, and a man who was stopped was a prime target for the German sharpshooters.

  This fuckin’ war, Mahoney thought to himself. He wished it could end soon so he wouldn’t have to worry so much about getting shot. He wanted to go back to New York and see his family. He also wanted to go to Times Square and have a good time.

  But he had to admit to himself that there was something about the war that he liked. Never in his life had he been able to kick ass as he had since the war started. He’d always been an angry person and now he had a legitimate outlet for the dark side of his nature. They’d even given him the DSC and the Silver Star, and made him a master sergeant twice.

  He rolled down his pant leg and looked at his arm. The fucking dog had bitten through his leather jacket and shirt, and there was some blood on the jacket, but it had protected him from serious injury. There was nothing like a good leather jacket, Mahoney always thought. The army ought to issue them to Master Sergeants.

  He ran his palm over his cheek and felt the stubble. He hadn’t shaved for three days and it would be nice to take a bath, but there was that bridge to blow up. Ever since he’d landed in France there always was something to blow up. He barely found time to take a shit. And he was hungry. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. Maybe he could run down to the mess hall and get some beans or something before he had to leave.

  There was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he grumbled.

  The door opened and Leduc was standing there.

  Behind him in the darkness were some guerillas carrying rifles and submachine guns at sling arms.

  “We’re ready to go,” Leduc said.

  “Okay-okay.” Mahoney stood up and put on his beret. His mouth tasted as though a dead German soldier was buried underneath his tongue. He slung his carbine over his shoulder. “Do I have time to stop at the mess hall?”

  “I brought you a piece of sausage and some bread.”

  “Good man.” Mahoney stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. Cranepool was there armed to the teeth, plus Cerizet and Baudraye. Mahoney took the length of sausage and chunk of bread. “Where are the others?”

  “In front with the explosives.”

  Mahoney grunted and bit off a piece of sausage as he headed down the corridor, with Cranepool and the others close behind him.

  Chapter Six

  The black Mercedes-Benz limousine drove past the barracks and came to a stop fifty yards from the ruined radio tower. The back door opened and Major Kurt Richter of the Gestapo stepped out. He was tall and lean, wearing his black SS duty uniform with black boots. A scar blazed on his right cheek from a wound he’d sustained in a duel during his student days at the University of Heidelberg.

  Richter placed his hands behind his back and looked with disapproval at the radio tower. It would take at least a week to rebuild it, and normal communications would be disrupted until then. No engineers had been available to work on the tower today because they were repairing other facilities damaged by Allied bombing and guerilla raids. And even if engineers had been available, the materials to repair the tower might not be. Everything was in short supply. The Reich was in dire straits. But if the expected Allied invasion could be stopped cold on the beaches of France, Germany could focus its resources on the Russians in the East and have time to develop the wonderful new weapons Hitler was always talking about.

  Colonel Franz Hohlfelder came out of the hut near the radio tower, waving his arms angrily. He was a heavyset man of forty and the commander of the Signal Unit in the area. Although Hohlfelder outranked Richter, Hohlfelder was in the Army and Richter the Gestapo. This meant that Richter had the authority to have Hohlfelder shot or worse, shipped to a concentration camp.

  But today Hohlfelder was so mad he didn’t care. He stormed up to Richter, who calmly came to attention and gave the Hitler Salute.

  Hohlfelder didn’t bother saluting back. He pointed his sausage-like finger at Richter. “You are supposed to prevent this sort of thing!”

  “I?” Richter asked, lowering his arm slowly.

  “Yes, you!” Hohlfelder’s round Swabian face was red as a beet. His eyes were bloodshot and it looked as though he hadn’t had much sleep last night. “You—the fancy SS with your fancy uniforms—you’re supposed to prevent this sort of thing! And what do you do? Nothing! The SS isn’t good for a goddamned thing! You’re useless! You all ought to be lined up against a wall and shot!”

  Richter cleared his throat. “I think you’d better calm yourself, Colonel.”

  “Calm myself!” Hohlfelder exclaimed. “Why shoul
d I calm myself? What do I have to be calm about? My radio tower is lying before you in shambles. No one can tell me when it will be fixed. A modern army relies on modern communications, but this area has no modern communications and it is the fault of the SS!”

  Richter raised his eyebrows. “The fault of the SS?” he asked softly. “Really? Why, my dear colonel—you sound as though SS men blew up your radio tower.”

  “They might as well have blown it up, for all the good they’ve done!”

  “I understand we killed two of the terrorists.”

  “After the radio tower was blown up!”

  “Where are they?”

  Hohlfelder curled his upper lip. “What does it matter where they are? The damage has already been done!”

  “Where are they?” Richter repeated.

  “In the infirmary over there.”

  “Please take me to them.”

  “Take yourself to them—you son of a bitch!”

  Hohlfelder turned around and marched back to the communications hut. Richter took out his little black notebook and made a little notation. When he returned to his headquarters at La Roche-Guyon, the notation would be typed up and placed in Hohlfelder’s file. Hohlfelder didn’t know, but he was digging his grave with his mouth.

  Richter returned his notebook and pencil to his shirt pocket. He turned to the Mercedes-Benz and made a motion with his finger. Private Otto Piecke jumped out of the car and walked quickly to Richter.

  “Yes, Major!” Piecke said.

  “Come with me.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  His hands clasped behind his back, Major Richter strolled toward the infirmary, Private Piecke following at a respectful distance. Richter realized that in a way, Colonel Hohlfelder was right. The guerilla raids were becoming a serious threat to the war effort. But it was so hard to find the guerillas. They melted into the ground, it seemed. The waiter who served him breakfast this morning at the hotel might very well have been one of the Resistance fighters who blew up this radio tower last night. Or the bridge in Crecy. Or the ammunition dump in Caulaincourt.

  Richter and Piecke entered the infirmary. An orderly in a white uniform was standing near the door and nearly shit his pants when he saw the SS descending upon him. He snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir!” he cried.