Death Train

by Levinson, Len

  She began to cry. Mahoney realized that she was distressed about something and he’d better try to soothe her, despite his natural tendency to dislike nuns and blame them for everything bad that ever happened to him. Examining her features, he noticed that she was an awfully pretty nun. He’d never seen a nun like her at St. Catherine’s on the East Side of New York.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Take it easy.”

  “I have no right to wear this habit,” she sobbed.

  “Sure you do. I’ll bet you’re kind and understanding and all that stuff. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re that way. I’ll bet you’ve done a lot of good things in your life. When you die you’re going to be right up there with the angels, kid.”

  She shook her head. “No I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have murder in my soul. I am a hypocrite, the worst kind of hypocrite in fact, because although I know I should not kill, I want to murder a German soldier with my bare hands. I want to gouge out his eyes with my thumb. I want to choke him and then kick his face.”

  “You’d make a good soldier, kid. You can be in my outfit anytime.”

  “I’m no good,” she said.

  “Cut it out, will you? I can’t take this anymore.”

  “I’ll go if you want me to.”

  “You don’t have to go anywhere—just shut your fuckin’ yap for a little while, okay?”

  Suddenly they heard the sound of the door opening upstairs. They both stiffened. Sister Marie reached out for Mahoney and pulled herself closer to him, because she was frightened and wanted to hide in his huge bulk.

  “Don’t move or say a word,” he whispered into her ear.

  She nodded to indicate she understood. One of the SS men had entered the house and was looking around the kitchen. He took a few steps inside, holding his rifle and bayonet before him, looking around. The house was still. He ought to search it but there might be a guerilla with a gun hidden somewhere, or maybe a bunch of them, and they might take him by surprise. He didn’t like being all alone like this, away from his comrades. It had only been one nun and she probably wasn’t in this house anyway.

  He backed up and left the house, closing the door behind him. Mahoney heard his footsteps through the ceiling and figured he was gone, but he thought he’d better remain still to make sure, and besides, he liked holding Sister Marie against him. He thought she was a knockout with a face as pretty as any movie star, and her body felt firm and curvaceous. His brain became inflamed when he realized that she was a beautiful young virgin, and that he had her alone in a cellar, and he could take her if he wanted to because she clearly was half out of her mind and wouldn’t put up a fight. He hugged her and kissed her pale cheek.

  She shuddered and held him tighter, for she too was sexually aroused. Normally she was able to overcome her sexual feelings—in fact, she seldom had them at all anymore—but she’d been knocked off her branch by the events of the past hour, and now her mind was tumultuous with strange thoughts. She wanted to escape from her mind and the vision of little dead Josette. She wanted to flee from the world and thought she could do so in the arms of this huge strong man holding her so firmly and kissing her so sweetly. He rolled her over onto her back and she thought yes, I don’t care, the world is coming apart at the seams and I might as well come apart with it. She felt his strong muscular body and wondered if maybe, in some strange way, it could save her from the savage world.

  She moved her legs apart, and Mahoney sank between them, his heart beating like a tom-tom. It’s really happening, he thought excitedly, she’s really going to let me do it—a nun—wow! And he was determined to take it as far as it would go. He put his hand down and raised her habit, running his palm along her black stockings and feeling her supple legs. She opened her mouth and he thrust his tongue inside, his head swimming with lust, and he thought holy shit, I’m going to do it to a nun!

  A nun.

  A wife of Jesus Christ the Savior. Mahoney went cold, as though somebody had laid him in a vat of ice cubes.

  A nun—how can I do it to a nun? Mahoney wasn’t much of a Catholic anymore but he still believed in God in a vague kind of way and he realized that God would put him right in the fucking broiler for this one.

  Sister Marie was gasping and writhing beneath him. Mahoney raised himself up. She looked up at him wide-eyed, her lips quivering with fear and desire, and he saw that the poor kid had gone half crazy. If he didn’t do the right thing she was going to be all crazy and he’d be in the broiler for eternity. It would be as hot as the furnace in that old locomotive he’d been riding in yesterday, maybe even hotter.

  “Sister Marie,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “I think we’d better pray, Sister Marie.”

  “Pray?”

  “Yes. You know. To God.”

  She thought for a moment, then remembered everything, the seven sacraments and the Apostle’s Creed, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, and Hail Mary-full-of-grace, and how she’d better grab hold of herself with all her strength while she still had a chance.

  “Pray with me, Sister Marie,” Mahoney said, getting onto his knees.

  “Yes—yes of course,” she stuttered.

  She knelt in front of him, and they faced each other, holding their hands in prayer. She looked at his broad shoulders and gnarled face and wondered if he was an angel who’d shown her purgatory and then led her back again.

  “Say the words, Sister Marie,” he said, struggling to prevent himself from throwing her to the ground again and ravishing her. “I think I’ve forgotten them.”

  “Don’t be silly—you haven’t forgotten them, Sergeant Mahoney,” she replied, her full composure returning. “Please say it with me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Mahoney grumbled.

  He clasped his hands together and intoned the words with her:

  “Our Father, who art in heaven Hallowed be thy name . . .”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cranepool ran like a young leopard through the streets of Rouget, heading for the sound of the fighting. He’d eluded the SS men and now he was moving up to the front again. He was a crazy kid and remarkably naive about many things, but he knew his way around a war. Like a bloodhound he headed for the sound of explosions and gunfire. He wondered what had happened to Mahoney but was certain his old sergeant would handle himself okay. Mahoney would be back on the line even before he was. Cranepool thought Mahoney was the greatest man he’d ever met in his life, but he hadn’t met General Patton and Franklin Delano Roosevelt yet.

  Cranepool jumped over a fence and ran through an alley. He came to a street, looked around, and saw a battle. A group of townspeople were fighting the SS from behind barricades. Cranepool double-timed down the street and lowered his head as he drew closer. Then he dove between two Frenchmen and landed behind the barricade, slowly raising his head and peering around.

  The Germans had devastated a huge area in that section of the town, and it reminded Cranepool of an enormous city dump he’d once seen on the outskirts of Davenport, Iowa. The six remaining tanks were bunched together, moving in a direction away from where he was. SS men were fighting from various vantage points within the ruined area, charging the French who fell back, regrouped, and counterattacked. Bodies of men, women, and the SS were scattered throughout the area. “What a fuckin’ mess,” Cranepool thought, pushing his beret more firmly on his head.

  Ahead was a large group of SS men broken down into three platoons. As he watched, one of the platoons came out of the rubble and charged the barricades, the other two platoons covering them. The French ducked behind the barricades, looking at each other fearfully. They’d had no military training, and didn’t know how to deal with the problem. And they couldn’t fall back because there was no place to fall back to.

  Cranepool realized that if he didn’t take command pretty soon he’d have an SS man standing on his chest. “Hey—let’s go!�
� he screamed. “Fix bayonets! The right flank open fire on the enemy in the trenches—the left flank open fire on the Germans coming at us! Let’s go!”

  The French people didn’t move. They looked at each other and shrugged. They didn’t know Cranepool from Adam.

  Cranepool gnashed his teeth. He knew he’d have to show these people how to do it, and he’d have to set the example for them that Sergeant Mahoney usually set for him.

  “Like this!” he screamed, jumping up with his submachine gun, opening fire. “Let’s go!”

  His first burst caught the front wave of advancing SS men and sent them flying in all directions. But the Waffen SS were top-flight soldiers and they kept on coming. Cranepool fired burst after burst into their midst, before the SS platoons covering the attack spotted him and took aim. Bullets whizzed all around and ricocheted off the stones in front of him, but he held his ground and kept firing. He knew from his experience in Italy that you didn’t win a battle by hiding behind walls—you won it by pouring lead into the enemy and backing them down. “Let’s go!” he shouted. “We can take them!”

  The Frenchies looked at Cranepool and figured if he could do it and not get hit, so could they, which was exactly what he wanted them to think. As they came up from behind the barricades, the left flank began shooting at the Germans, and the right flank opened up on the advancing platoon.

  The fire was withering, and the attack stopped cold. The attacking SS men took cover behind the bodies of their own dead. Cranepool ducked down behind the barricade, licked his lips, tore a grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, and heaved it at the Germans. The grenade toppled lazily through the air and landed in the midst of the Germans. One of them picked it up and tried to throw it back, but it exploded in his hand, sending his arms and legs flying in all directions, launching his head straight up in the air. Cranepool threw another grenade, and then another. The stout Frenchman beside him threw one too, and so did another Frenchman down the line. The SS who were still alive retreated back to their two covering platoons, beyond the range of hand grenades.

  If only I had one sixty-millimeter mortar, Cranepool thought, firing his submachine gun at the retreating SS men and bringing one down. I could lob a few rounds right on those bastards and wipe them all out.

  As the SS men dived behind the rubble where their comrades were, a great shout of victory went up from behind the French barricades. They were commanded by a young lieutenant, who felt he needed some support. He called his captain at the other end of the field and asked for a tank, a machine gun crew, and a mortar team. He said he was facing a nasty pocket of enemy resistance, and if he could wipe it out there would be no more Frenchmen in that part of town.

  The request was received by a blond SS captain named Schroeder, who was sitting with Major Richter in a command post dugout on the other side of the battlefield. Schroeder said he’d send the support over immediately, switched off, and then switched on again to effect the troop movement. When he said the word “tank,” Richter’s ears perked up.

  “What was that you said, Captain?” Richter demanded.

  “I’m sending reinforcements back that way, sir,” Schroeder said, pointing in the direction of the emplacement where Cranepool was holed up with the Frenchmen.

  “You’re sending a tank back there?” Richter asked incredulously.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richter became stern, which made him look ridiculous with the white bandage on his nose, and when he opened his mouth you could see the gap between his teeth. “Countermand that order!” Richter said. “I want those tanks to keep going where they’re going!”

  “But sir . . .”

  “Don’t but sir me—I know what I’m doing.” Richter had a vision of the tanks bursting through the walls of the church, and wouldn’t let it go. “I said countermand that order, Captain!”

  Schroeder thought for a few moments, then set his jaw. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

  “What was that?” Richter screamed.

  “I can’t countermand that order, sir.”

  “Why not?” Richter demanded.

  “Because I have three platoons pinned down over there,” Schroeder pointed, “and they need support.”

  “They need support?” Richter scoffed. “Why do they need support? Are they afraid of a band of ragged Frenchmen?”

  Schroeder stiffened his spine. “Don’t you dare call my men cowards!”

  “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me!” Richter shrieked.

  Schroeder looked at Richter and thought the major was completely mad. Richter hadn’t made a rational military decision or given a sensible order since they’d arrived in the town. Schroeder decided to reason with Major Richter, and if Richter wouldn’t wake up, Schroeder would have to shoot him and carry on himself.

  “Sir,” Captain Schroeder began, “we’ve already lost six tanks and over a hundred men because we have not been proceeding strategically in this operation. We started fighting in the center of town, completely surrounded by the enemy, and we’ve been surrounded ever since. Instead of meeting all resistance head-on and wiping it out immediately, we’ve been moving in that direction,” he pointed to the church, “knocking down houses. I had to fight with you to send those three platoons to protect our rear and now I have to fight with you to support those platoons as the result of the enemy buildup to our rear. I don’t think ...”

  “That’s enough!” Richter shouted. “I don’t care what you think! You don’t understand what I’m trying to do here!”

  “All I’m saying sir is that you’ll be able to do what you want much more easily if you let me wipe out the pockets of resistance in this town. They’re inflicting too many casualties upon us. You’ll be able to meet your objectives much more easily if you’ll just let me handle the strategic situation.”

  Richter touched the bandage on his nose. “Do you really think so?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Very well then. Take whatever men you need, but I don’t want you to take the tanks.”

  “But the tanks will be crucial, sir.”

  “I think they’re on a crucial mission right now,” Richter retorted. “Are you saying that disciplined battle-hardened SS men can’t defeat French rabble without the aid of tanks?”

  Schroeder hesitated for a few moments. “Tanks are very useful, sir.”

  “I know they’re useful. That’s why I’m deploying them the way I’m deploying them. The tanks stay where they are. Is that clear?”

  To avoid a serious confrontation with Major Richter, Schroeder decided to try and deal with the problem with men and heavy weapons. He pressed the button on his field radio and countermanded the order regarding the tank, but left the rest of the strategy intact.

  Meanwhile, behind the barricades, Cranepool and the French were rejoicing. Someone found a bottle of wine and they were passing it back and forth. Cranepool had rallied them and given them a taste of victory, and now they were ready to fight harder. He had seen Mahoney do the same thing many times, and now he’d done it himself. He was proud.

  The stout man beside Cranepool handed over the bottle of wine, and Cranepool took a swig.

  “ViveL’Amerique!” the stout man said.

  “ViveLa France!” Cranepool replied.

  The Frenchman slapped Cranepool on the shoulder. “You’re a fine fellow—I can see that!”

  “So are you!”

  “Let’s drink to that!”

  “Good idea!”

  They passed the wine bottle back and forth; then the man on the other side of Cranepool requested it politely, and Cranepool handed it over. The stout Frenchman held out his hand.

  “What’s your name?” he asked Cranepool.

  “Just call me Cranepool,” the young corporal answered, shaking the stout man’s hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Jacques.”

  “Hello, Jacques.”

  “Hello, Cranepool.”

  Jacques looked at h
im. “You’re a helluva guy, you know that?”

  “I am?”

  “I was looking at you when you stuck your head up and started firing your gun. It took real courage to do that. The bullets were flying all around you, and you didn’t give an inch. You’ve got a lot of guts, young man.”

  “Well,” Cranepool said modestly, “sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

  “Where are you from in America?” Jacques asked.

  “A little town in the Midwest. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. It’s even smaller than this town.”

  Jacques dug his elbow into Cranepool’s ribs and winked. “I bet you’ve got a girl waiting for you back there, eh?”

  Cranepool shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. I had one, but she married somebody else.”

  Jacques looked sad. “Ah, what a pity, Cranepool. A fine young man like you. But some women are like snakes you know. Some women can’t be trusted.”

  “I guess that’s true, Jacques, but some of them are okay.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jacques said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll find another one.”

  “I already have,” Cranepool said happily.

  “Already?”

  “Yes—a French girl. She’s fabulous.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Louise.”

  “Ah—no kidding!” Jacques said. “Louise is my wife’s name!”

  “What a coincidence!”

  “What’s her last name?” Jacques asked.

  Cranepool wrinkled his brow. “You know—I never asked her!”

  Jacques laughed heartily. “In wartime everything is confused, I suppose.”

  “But she gave me a picture of herself,” Cranepool said, reaching inside his jacket.

  “Let me see it.”

  Cranepool handed the wrinkled old photograph to Jacques, who took one look and nearly collapsed. He was staring at a photograph of his wife!

  Cranepool however, didn’t catch his reaction because he’d turned around to see what was happening with the SS men. Figures were running across the rubble, apparently reinforcements for the SS men who’d launched the previous attack. As they came closer Cranepool perceived that they comprised a machine gun crew, a motor squad, and a rifle squad.