Death Train

by Levinson, Len

  “I saw him try to shoot you sir, and I managed to get him first.”

  “You’re a sharp-eyed officer—I can see that. And you’ve saved my life. You won’t be sorry, Lieutenant. What’s your name?”

  “Lieutenant Wendt, sir.”

  “You’ll be a captain soon.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, sir.”

  “Return to your post.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant double-timed back to where he was, and Richter looked at Piecke lying on his side, the lower part of his face a mass of blood and grease. He must have been crazy, Richter thought. But at least I’m finally rid of him. Maybe now I can get a decent aide. He tried to kill me . . . how very strange.

  Richter was aware that bullets weren’t flying over his head anymore. The SS men must have pushed back the few townspeople with weapons. No one could stand up to the SS, he thought as he rose from the ground. He looked around and saw the tanks moving slowly in a column toward the church, demolishing all structures in their path.

  Nothing can stop us, Richter thought triumphantly. Soon this town will be no more.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mahoney, Cranepool, and Agoult ran through the back streets of Rouget, heading toward the fighting in the center of town. Mahoney carried the bazooka slung over his shoulder in two pieces, a German submachine gun held at the ready in his hands. Behind him Cranepool and Agoult were each carrying an end of the crate of the anti-tank rockets; their pockets were filled with hand grenades, which were also festooned from their lapels. Bandoliers of ammunition were slung from their shoulders.

  They moved quickly and silently through the alleys of the town. Whenever they had to cross a street, they hid in the shadows for a few seconds to make sure the way was clear. Multitudes of people were fleeing the center of town, their faces distorted by panic and terror. Many were dressed in nightclothes, hair messed, holding their children’s hands, and running wildly to safety.

  The three guerillas made their way toward the sound of the gunfire and the explosions. It was almost dawn, and the cloudy horizon was taking on a murky glow, but at least the rain had stopped. Mahoney held his submachine gun tightly as he plowed through bushes and leapt over fences. He was anxious to get into position and do something about those tanks. If they could be stopped, the SS men could be contained and the town saved.

  As they approached the center of the town through an alley between two houses, their narrow field of vision showed a tank and some SS men moving away from them. Mahoney thought fast and decided to break into one of the houses facing the tanks so he could fire down at the tanks from the second floor without any trajectory problems.

  Motioning to Cranepool and Agoult, he led them to the rear of a house that was stone on its first story and wood on its second. The back door was locked but he kicked it open with his big foot and entered a large kitchen. He heard a sound and swung his submachine gun toward it. Next to the sink crouched a woman and two small children.

  “Please don’t shoot,” the woman begged. It was too dark for her to see that Mahoney and the two with him weren’t wearing SS uniforms.

  “We’re French,” Mahoney said. “You’d better take your children and get out of here.”

  “I’m afraid,” she said trembling.

  “I’m not going to argue with you lady, but you and your children are going to be dead if you don’t get out of here fast.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  With his machine gun, Mahoney pointed toward the outskirts of town. “That way.” He looked at Cranepool and Agoult. “Follow me,” he said, leading them up the flight of stairs to the second floor. They entered a bedroom at the front and peered cautiously out the window. On the street below them they could see the SS tanks and troopers moving at an angle away from them. Mahoney spotted the church steeple in the distance but it didn’t occur to him that this was their destination.

  “We’ll do it from here,” Mahoney said. “Open this fuckin’ crate.”

  Cranepool and Agoult pried the wooden slats off the top of the crate as Mahoney unslung the bazooka. He screwed both halves together and pulled out the sighting mechanism. Then he looked around the bedroom. The covers had been flung violently off the bed; he imagined that its occupants had fled quickly. His eyes roved across the bedroom to the dresser, and opened wide when he perceived a box of cigars sitting on top of it.

  “Holy shit!” he said.

  “Whatsa matter!” Cranepool replied, alarmed.

  “Cigars!”

  Mahoney stormed across the room, grabbed a handful of the cigars, and stuffed them into his shirt. He took another one, tore off the cellophane wrapper, and stuck it into his mouth. Lighting it slowly, he sucked the delicious smoke into his mouth and sighed as he exhaled it. He felt as if he could take on the entire German Army now, single-handed.

  “We got the crate open,” Cranepool said, lifting out a rocket. From the street below came the sounds of explosions and gunfire.

  Mahoney stomped to the window, got on one knee, and put the bazooka on his right shoulder. He looked through the sighting device and adjusted it while Cranepool loaded a rocket in the back. Cranepool tied the rocket’s wires to the terminals on the back of the bazooka, and then tapped Mahoney on his beret, signifying it was ready to fire.

  “Get another rocket ready,” Mahoney said out of the corner of his mouth, “because we’re gonna fire two quick ones and then get out of here before they can spot us and zero in. And I hope you both know enough to stay out of the back blast.”

  Cranepool and Agoult stood to the side, and Mahoney put the crosshairs on a Panther tank in the middle of the column. Steadying himself, he took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. An electrical current ran through the wires and into the rocket setting it off. A huge swoosh filled the room; the back blast blew the bed to smithereens.

  Mahoney could see the rocket fly out the front of the bazooka and streak down toward the tank. He bit down on the cigar and twisted his head to the side in an effort to make the rocket home in on the tank. It headed directly to its target and Mahoney smiled as it made contact. The rocket exploded through a turret of the tank and in a split second the four crew members were incinerated. Smoke poured from gaps in the tank’s hatches; then it crumpled to the side, out of action.

  While the tank smoked and burned in the street, SS men ran around shouting orders. Cranepool inserted another rocket into the back of the bazooka and tied the wires to the terminals. Mahoney took aim at the tank that had stopped cold behind the one he’d hit, and pulled the trigger. Again, Mahoney watched the rocket’s descent. It roared through the armor just below the turret and set off its ammunition. The tank burst apart, sending bits of metal and the limbs of its crew members flying everywhere. An SS man not far away pointed his finger at the house Mahoney was firing from. Cannons on turrets rolled around to face the building.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Mahoney yelled. In a flash, he unscrewed the bazooka and clamped the two halves together, slinging them over his shoulder. Cranepool and Agoult grabbed up the crate of rockets and they all ran down the stairs. As they reached the kitchen an artillery shell hit the front of the house. There was a blaze of light; the house shook, and timbers fell from the ceiling. Mahoney, Cranepool, and Agoult dodged the debris and made their way to the door. Mahoney kicked it open and as they fled outside, four SS men came around the corner, but he saw them before they saw him. He opened fire on them, sending forth a hail of bullets that cut them down.

  ‘This way!” he shouted, leading them across the backyard and over the fence. Holding their heads low, they sped past lilac bushes and little gardens to another fence, hopped it, and found themselves in another yard. They kept moving in the same general direction as the tanks, because Mahoney wanted to head them off. Jumping into another yard, they heard an explosion from the direction of the street, which sounded as if another tank had been hit. Seconds later they heard yet another explosion; Mahoney
hoped that four tanks were out of action and only eight left to go, although he realized that eight tanks could wreak an awful lot of destruction.

  “Stop here!” Mahoney said.

  They stopped and crouched behind a newly whitewashed fence, Mahoney chewing his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. Cranepool’s face was flushed but he didn’t seem tired at all; Agoult was breathing a little hard but he too seemed all right; Mahoney felt strong as a bull.

  “You two stay here and take a break,” he said.

  “I’m gonna go reconnoiter the street. Don’t go anywhere—get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  Mahoney puffed his cigar and stood up cautiously. The dawn was brighter now and the town looked gray and eerie. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning buildings. Like a cat he jumped the fence, hugging the shadows as he moved toward the street that the tanks had been travelling on. Getting on his belly he crawled beneath bushes between two houses until the street came into view. Still puffing the cigar, he observed the tanks and SS men moving in the same direction as before, blowing up houses and rolling over them. They weren’t killing civilians anymore because all the civilians had fled from the center of town. Three tanks were out of action; the other bazooka crews must have got one of them.

  The SS men and tanks were scattered all around in a poor defensive position, and Mahoney could see some of the soldiers being picked off by guerilla fire. Occasionally he’d notice a detachment of SS men rush off in a particular direction as though they knew some guerillas were there, but the guerillas would fall back, move to a new position, and attack again. Mahoney wished for a hundred more men and six more bazookas, because the SS force could easily be surrounded. They didn’t seem to be using any sensible military tactics in their rampage through the town.

  Just then there was an explosion, and another tank blew up. Mahoney smiled. Four down and eight to go. One of the other explosions he’d heard before must have missed. You had to make every shot count in a fight like this, because you wouldn’t get many chances. He looked ahead, trying to find a good spot to set up his bazooka crew, and zeroed in on a row of houses behind the houses that faced the street. Any one of them might be good, but then he thought they’d be too far away and he might miss. It wasn’t good to be too cautious. He’d have to bring the bazookas right up on the line. Scanning the street he saw a big clump of bushes between two houses near a curve in the road. The bushes wouldn’t provide much protection but they’d be good camouflage. It looked like an ideal spot. He figured out how many houses away the bushes were, and plotted a route to get there.

  When he had everything arranged in his mind, he raised his submachine gun and took aim at a patrol of Germans firing into the houses across the street. He squeezed the trigger and the Germans did a funny little dance. One twisted lazily in the air, blood spurting from his chest, another tried to hold in the guts that were spilling out of his pants. A third ran away and a fourth dropped to the street, looking around for the source of the submachine gun fire. A fifth stood in the middle of the street, staring with wonderment at the bloody stump where his right arm had been.

  Mahoney snorted with satisfaction as he backed out of the bushes. When he was clear he got up and ran in a crouch across the yard. Jumping the fence, he landed a few feet from Cranepool and Agoult, who swung their submachine guns toward him.

  “It’s me, you assholes,” Mahoney grunted as he trudged toward them. “Saddle up. We’ve got some more tanks to wipe out.”

  The violent rapping sound of an explosion came from the street, and Mahoney thought it might be another tank knocked out by one of the other bazooka crews.

  “Hurry up,” he said, “because if we don’t get going there might not be any tanks left for us.”

  Cranepool and Agoult hoisted the crate of rockets, and Mahoney led them in the direction of the position he’d chosen.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In another part of town, Picard the landlord sat on a chair on the second floor of his house, looking out his bedroom window at the smoke and fire on the horizon. He was dressed in his pajamas and bathrobe, with his nightcap still on, for he’d awakened at the sound of the very first shots and had been watching from the window ever since. He saw the first explosions and the first fires, and had watched them spread. The Germans were wreaking havoc in the center of town, but Picard thought they were justified, for many of the town’s residents were opposed to the German occupation and did not appreciate the achievements of the great Adolf Hitler.

  Picard thought he heard a noise downstairs, but with all the explosions and gunfire, he supposed he might be hearing things that weren’t there. Squinting his eyes and peering through his glasses toward the center of town, he wondered how his two houses in that section were faring. Actually, he didn’t care if his property was damaged a little; it was about time that the fools in this town were taught a lesson. He’d sacrifice everything he owned if he thought it would help the Germans stop the Jewish-Bolshevism that threatened to engulf the world. And he knew that one day the Germans would congratulate and reward him for his part in the fight for a united Europe under the great Hitler.

  Now hearing the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned to see Louise and Baudraye enter his bedroom, their pistols drawn. Picard blanched and stood up.

  “Louise, my dear, what are you doing with that gun?” he asked in a quavering voice.

  “You die,” she said, pulling the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mahoney jumped the fence and as his feet landed he heard another explosion that sounded like a direct hit from a bazooka. He hoped this was so because the tanks worried him more than the SS men. Cranepool lowered the crate of rockets down to Mahoney, who waited until Cranepool and Agoult landed beside him, and then he handed the crate back.

  From the yard behind the clump of bushes he’d picked out, the explosions and gunfire sounded as though the battle was getting hotter. Mahoney, chewing his cigar stub, led them across the yard to the bushes, where they got down on their bellies and crawled. Though the branches scratched their faces and the backs of their hands, they finally reached a point where they could see the street.

  The two front tanks had been knocked out by bazooka fire; the remaining Panthers were trying to move through houses and yards across the street, blasting a path before them. It was clear to Mahoney that they were trying to move in a specific single direction, although he had no idea why. The sun had risen higher but the morning was still gray because of the heavy clouds. According to Mahoney’s count, five tanks had been knocked out. In a way it was amazing that his guerilla bazooka teams had done so well, but in another way it was understandable— because the Germans just weren’t using sound military tactics. They were simply plowing through the town, not protecting their flanks or rear very well, and not fighting strategically.

  Mahoney coupled the two halves of the bazooka together. While he sighted through the crosshairs, Agoult handed a rocket to Cranepool who fed it into the rear end of the bazooka. The tanks and SS men were all facing the other way so Mahoney thought this shot was going to be a piece of cake. He aimed at the rear of the tank directly in front of him, pasting the crosshairs on the center of its mass. The tank was rumbling slowly over the stones and wood of a ruined home as Mahoney pulled the trigger. The bazooka went light on his shoulder for a moment as the rocket shot out. He watched it go—and cursed as it sailed over the tank and exploded some distance in front of it.

  “Son of a bitch!” he cursed.

  While Cranepool loaded him up again, Mahoney noticed some SS men looking back in his direction. “Oh-oh,” he muttered, aiming lower this time.

  The rocket swooshed forward and Mahoney gritted his teeth, hoping it would land squarely. It hit the rear deck of the tank and exploded, knocking the tank forward and melting the flesh off the bones of the crew inside. While smoke billowed from the huge hole, Mahoney noticed an SS man p
ointing in his direction and shouting.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Mahoney said, backing out of the bushes, dragging the bazooka with him. The SS men in the street started firing; bullets whizzed around Mahoney’s head and one of them brought down Agoult. Mahoney got low to the ground, yanked a hand grenade off his lapel, pulled the pin, and lobbed it into the street. As it exploded in front of the SS men Mahoney scrambled out of the bushes with Cranepool close after him. They left the bazooka, rockets, and Agoult behind because to linger was to die. When they were clear of the bushes they ran to the rear of the house, pressing their backs against it. Mahoney peeked around the house. The SS men were advancing steadily toward the bushes, firing as they came. He took another hand grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the bushes. It landed near the rockets and went off with a deafening roar, detonating the rockets and letting fly a hail of shrapnel that cut down several of the advancing SS men.

  “Now!” Mahoney shouted.

  He and Cranepool ran across the yard and jumped the rear fence. They sped between the houses, then came to a street on which there were seven SS men. Mahoney and Cranepool dove to the sidewalk, both of them scrambling for hand grenades. They pulled the pins and threw them. The SS men dodged to the ground, but the grenades were already exploding, shaking the pavement and making mincemeat out of the Germans. Mahoney and Cranepool kept running. When they paused to catch their breaths, they heard whistles blowing and Germans shouting all around them.

  “I think they’re after us,” Mahoney said.

  “Certainly sounds that way,” Cranepool agreed.

  “Maybe we’d better split up.”

  “If you say so, Sarge.”

  “Lay low for awhile and then when things are quiet come out again.”

  “Right.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  Mahoney ran to the left and Cranepool went to the right. They didn’t know where they were going but they were going anyway. The main thing was to keep moving in a zigzag pattern, making a low silhouette. Mahoney jumped a fence and landed behind three Germans facing the other way. As they turned around he opened fire. He got them all, spraying them with hot lead, sending them spinning through the gray morning, their blood splattering the grass.