Slaughter City

by Len Levinson

  ~*~

  Mahoney lay on his stomach in the mud as German shells fell sporadically along the front occupied by the First Battalion. He looked at his watch, and it was a few minutes before midnight. Around him, the men of the first platoon glanced around furtively, hoping they would get moving soon because they were sitting ducks where they were. Corporal Cranepool was perched on one knee, peering through his binoculars at the German side of the river. If that was me, Mahoney thought, I’d get a bullet right between my eyes, but that fucking Cranepool can do anything he wants and never gets a scratch on him. God must be looking out for the little asshole.

  “Let’s go!” said one of the engineers, standing beside a stack of boats. “Let’s load it up!”

  Mahoney looked around and got to his feet. “You heard him!” he bellowed. “Get on the fucking boats and move out!”

  ~*~

  General Kretchmer marched into his conference room and saw all his staff officers gathered around the map table, mumbling and pointing at the little pins.

  “What’s the latest?” Kretchmer demanded as he approached the map table.

  Colonel Brunchmuller, his chief of staff, saluted. “The enemy bombardment has put much of our artillery out of action. We can only offer meager retaliation, sir.”

  “Hmmm,” said Kretchmer, wrinkling his brow as he looked at the map. That meant the Americans could assemble and cross the Moselle without much difficulty. He wondered why they hadn’t used their artillery last night. Perhaps they were trying to take me by surprise. “What about our forward units? What do they have to say?”

  “They’re receiving fierce shelling. They don’t dare show their heads.”

  Kretchmer’s eyes flashed with anger. “They’d better get up and start firing everything they have at the Americans. It’s their only chance.”

  “It’s hard to do that with bombs falling all around you.”

  Kretchmer thought of the Knights Cross with diamonds hanging from his neck. “It’s not that hard,” he said. “I’ll show them.” He turned to Nagle. “Have Goerdler bring my Kubelwagen around.”

  “But, sir,” said Nagle, “surely you’re not going out there.”

  “I am, and you are, too.”

  “Me!” shouted Nagle, horrified.

  “Yes, you.” Kretchmer turned to Brunchmuller. “You take command here until I return. Order all units to move to the river bank and stop the Americans from reaching this side. Any questions?”

  “What if the Americans make it across?” Brunchmuller asked.

  “They won’t make it across. We won’t let them. You have your orders. Carry them out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kretchmer took one last look at the map, gave the Hitler salute, and marched out of the bunker, determined to stop the Americans even if it cost his life.

  ~*~

  The team of engineers pushed the assault boat into the river, and Mahoney was on his way to the German side. He and Riggs were traveling with the first squad, and young Cranepool stood like George Washington in the bow of the boat, looking at the other side through his binoculars.

  “Get your fucking head down, you birdbrain!” Mahoney shouted.

  Cranepool ducked his head. Private Trask pulled on one of the oars, and Private, First Class Novak pulled the other one. The current was strong and dragged the boat downstream. Mahoney looked to his right and left and saw the other boats from Charlie Company also moving across the river. The far shore was ablaze with fires and artillery explosions, but some Germans fired their weapons, and bullets whistled through the air above and around the boats. An occasional mortar round fell, but it was nothing like two nights ago when Mahoney’s boat had been torn apart by machine-gun fire and he had to swim to shore holding his carbine in the air.

  American machine guns, set on high ground, raked the German positions, and the shells fell with increased intensity now that the GIs were underway. But the current was much worse tonight, and the soldiers had difficulty controlling the awkward assault craft. Boats crashed into each other, and men fell overboard. Other boats were spun around and around by the current and carried downstream to Luxembourg.

  “Keep it steady!” Mahoney shouted to Trask and Novak as Riggs giggled and the bow of the boat drifted dangerously to port. “Straighten this fucking boat out!”

  A huge log that had fallen into the river upstream sped beneath the surface like a submarine and struck Mahoney’s boat amidships. It crashed through the plywood and nearly took off Novak’s leg. The shock of the collision caused Private, First Class Berman to fall into the water, and Mahoney watched horrified as water poured into the boat.

  “Fuck!” he cried.

  Everybody looked at him as the boat began to sink into the swirling Moselle River. Riggs’s teeth chattered with fear, but he remained still because he was more afraid of Mahoney than he was of the river. Mahoney realized there was only one thing to do.

  “Over the side!” he yelled. “Let’s hit it!”

  He jumped up and was the first one to land in the water, which was ice cold and chilled him to the marrow of his bones. Riggs splashed beside him, and the other GIs dropped into the water all around the boat.

  Mahoney looked at Riggs and thought him more faithful than a dog. I wish I had ten more like him. “Forward!” he shouted. “Hit the fucking beach!”

  Mahoney and the men from the first squad held their weapons in the air as they kicked with their feet and stroked with one arm toward the shore. Then, suddenly, the American artillery bombardment ceased because some of their boats had reached the halfway point in the river and presumably would soon touch shore on the German side.

  “Oh-oh,” said Mahoney, struggling to make his way through the water.

  Sure enough, the fire from the German side gradually increased in intensity because the Germans were able to come up out of their holes and take aim without fear of having their heads blown off.

  Bullets zipped into the water all around the first platoon. Private Wilkerson screamed and writhed in the water as blood spurted out of his throat.

  Here we go again, Mahoney thought. Why didn’t I stay in that fucking hospital where I was safe from this shit?

  ~*~

  General Kretchmer’s Kubelwagen moved quickly over the forest trails. He held on to the windshield with one hand while gesticulating wildly with his other at the soldiers he saw nearby.

  “Forward!” he shouted. “Counterattack!”

  He saw a group of men cowering behind trees and jumped out of the Kubelwagen, running toward them and waving his hands. “Follow me!” he yelled. “Push the swine back!”

  He pulled his service pistol out of its holster and ran toward the river bank. “Fire your weapons! Keep firing all the time!”

  Captain Nagle got out of the Kubelwagen and ran after his commanding general. He drew his pistol also and rammed a round into the chamber, hoping he’d never have to use it because he’d been a staff officer throughout all of his career and never had been this close to fighting before. Up ahead, he watched General Kretchmer rallying the men and exhorting them to fire at the Americans. Now that’s a real combat commander, Nagle thought. Why can’t I be like that?

  He followed General Kretchmer and the men with him until they debouched from the woods and could see the river and the American boats upon it.

  “Don’t let them come ashore!” Kretchmer screamed. “Blow them out of the water!”

  The soldiers, half deafened from the artillery bombardment, saw their commanding general and thought that if he could run around like that, they at least could raise their heads and fire their rifles and machine guns. Even Captain Nagle was emboldened by the example set by Kretchmer and fired his pistol at one of the boats.

  “Open fire!” Nagle shouted. “Kill them all!”

  The German soldiers, their heads aching from the long bombardment, sighted their weapons on the American boats drawing close to the shore. There weren’t many Germans left, and thos
e still alive were severely disoriented, but they were determined to follow orders and do their duty.

  They’d beaten the Americans before, and they could do it again, they thought.

  ~*~

  In the Moselle River the GI boats moved backwards, sideways, and at weird angles as the rowers tried to make it to shore. The soldiers held their heads low in the gunwales now that the German fire had increased in intensity. Every one of the soldiers remembered Patton’s speech and knew they didn’t dare fail in their mission to occupy the east bank of the river. Some of them fired their rifles at the Germans, but the swift current and bobbing boats interfered with their abilities to aim straight.

  Captain Anderson’s boat was one of the first to hit shore, and he leaped on to the mud and rocks, firing his carbine from the hip.

  “Follow me!” he yelled. “Take the high ground!” The men in his boat followed him, their rifles and carbines blazing. To their left and right, other boats touched shore and disgorged their occupants, who charged into the midst of the Germans, cutting them down with weapons fire and pushing them back with the fury of their attack.

  “Keep moving!” said Captain Anderson. “Let’s go!” Anderson didn’t take cover because the German resistance was nothing like what it had been two nights ago when Charlie Company had been pinned down and nearly slaughtered right on the bank of the river. A German rose in front of him, brandishing his rifle and bayonet, and Anderson shot him in the chest.

  “Forward!” Anderson screamed. “Follow me!”

  ~*~

  Mahoney’s finger scraped the bottom of the shoreline, and he came up out of the water like a huge, angry water buffalo. He shook himself off, raised his carbine high in the air, and ran to the river bank, his big feet plunging in and out of the mud.

  “First platoon, where the fuck are you!” he bellowed.

  He looked around and saw chaos everywhere. Some GIs already were entering the woods, while others were fighting on the beach. Huge shell craters covered the ground, and dismembered Germans lay everywhere. Mahoney didn’t know where his platoon was; in the confusion of the river crossing, it had become mixed up with other units. All he had to command was Cranepool’s first squad and his runner, Private Riggs, who ran ashore behind Mahoney and jumped up and down like an excited monkey.

  “Up and at ’em!” Mahoney yelled. “Charge!”

  Mahoney flicked his carbine to the automatic setting and fired a burst straight ahead. German resistance was light—he could sense that immediately—and it made him mad because he’d come to fight and wreak vengeance on the Germans for what had happened yesterday.

  Cranepool and his squad followed Mahoney as he ran toward the woods. Mahoney leaped over shell craters and stomped on the faces of dead Germans. A German came out of a hole, waving his hands in the air and trying to surrender, but Mahoney gave him a carbine burst in the face, and the German sagged back into his hole, blood spouting from the sausage meat that his head had become. Mahoney jumped over him and looked through the rain and darkness for more Germans to kill. He saw flashes of muzzle blasts toward his left and headed in that direction. Bullets whistled past his ears, and he yanked a grenade from his lapel.

  “Hit it!” he yelled.

  He dove to the ground and hurled the grenade at the muzzle blasts. The grenade exploded, shaking the ground and filling the night with thunder. Mahoney was on his feet again, charging the carnage. He saw a big hole in the ground and movement within it. Firing his carbine on automatic, the movement became more frantic, like a lot of rats scurrying for shelter, and then his carbine made a big click because the clip was empty.

  In the ditch, a German officer, still barely alive, aimed his pistol at Mahoney, who dropped quickly to the ground. The shot rang out; a bullet passed inches above Mahoney’s helmet, and the German tried to fire again, but from out of the night came a walkie-talkie flying through the air, and it hit the German in the face. Mahoney leaped forward, grabbed the German officer by the throat, and squeezed with all his strength. The German tried to pull Mahoney’s hands away but didn’t have the strength. The German went limp. Mahoney let him go and picked up the walkie-talkie. He turned around and saw Riggs standing above him, cackling and jumping up and down.

  “Hit him right on the noggin!” Riggs said.

  Mahoney realized that the lunatic had probably saved his life. He climbed out of the hole and held the walkie-talkie to his ear; it was still working. He handed it to Riggs.

  “Good work, Riggs,” he said.

  “Hit him right on the noggin!” Riggs screeched excitedly.

  Mahoney looked ahead and saw Cranepool leading his platoon forward, shooting and stabbing Germans. To his right, he saw Corporal Mason with the fourth squad moving closer to Cranepool’s squad. My platoon’s coming together, Mahoney thought, feeding a new clip into his carbine. He rammed a round into the chamber and ran forward to join his men. Riggs followed close behind him, transfixed by all the blood and gore around him, thinking that somehow he had descended into the pits of hell.

  ~*~

  General Kretchmer saw his men falling back and wondered what he could do to turn around the debacle that was unfolding before his eyes. The Americans outnumbered his forces, who had been nearly wiped out by the bombardment, and the German soldiers left weren’t in much condition to fight. Standing near the edge of the woods, he saw some surrendering, holding their hands in the air, but the American soldiers shot them down and kept charging.

  Kretchmer felt sick and dizzy and didn’t know what to do, although he knew he had to do something quickly. The Americans were charging up the river bank and would envelop him soon. He should get the hell out of there while he had the chance, but he didn’t want his men to see him running away, and he realized that he’d never be able to live with himself if he retreated ignominiously from the field of battle. The only thing to do was stand and fight and set an example for the German soldiers of the future.

  He checked his pistol and saw that he had several bullets left in the chamber. He tightened the strap of his helmet and stepped forward resolutely to fight his last battle. He heard running footsteps to his right and turned in that direction. It was Captain Nagle, a panic-stricken expression on his face.

  “Sir, the battle is lost!” Nagle said, trying to catch his breath. “You must order a retreat!”

  “Never,” Kretchmer replied. “We counterattack at once!”

  “Counterattack!” Nagle said. “With what!”

  “With the forces at our command.”

  “But, sir!”

  “I have given you an order, Captain Nagle. Follow me.”

  Nagle was unable to move. Part of him was a trained, disciplined German officer, and the other part was a human being who wanted to escape certain death.

  “Nagle,” Kretchmer said above the roar of battle, “we all die eventually, but you have a choice between dying with honor or dying like a coward with a bullet in your back. Think of your mother and father, Nagle. What would they want you to do?”

  “They’d want me to come home alive,” Nagle replied with a catch in his throat.

  Kretchmer gave Nagle a look of utter contempt, then turned and walked swiftly toward the fighting in front of him.

  “Hold fast!” he shouted. “Hurl them back!”

  ~*~

  Private, First Class Butsko and his third squad had come ashore downriver from Mahoney and were fighting their way toward the woods, making good progress against scattered resistance. They fired at everything that moved and took no prisoners as they jumped over trenches and shell holes, screaming battle cries and seeking revenge for their buddies who’d been killed yesterday.

  They heard a German mortar round coming in on them and hit the dirt. It exploded to their front, covering them with muck and pebbles, but before all the debris hit the ground, they were on their feet again and charging forward.

  Through the smoke, Butsko was surprised to see a German officer of high rank, to judge fro
m the ribbons and braids on his uniform. The officer was leading six German soldiers in what appeared to Butsko as a suicide charge.

  “Get those cocksuckers!” Butsko hollered, firing from the hip as he advanced.

  His men shot down two of the Germans, and Private Braxton was hit with a German bullet in the gut, tripping and falling, doubled up, into a shell crater. The third squad and the Germans came together and clashed hand to hand.

  Butsko was out in front because he loved violence and infighting. He pushed his rifle forward and smashed through the futile parry attempt of a German soldier, sinking his bayonet into the German’s chest. The German howled in pain and horror as Butsko pulled back on his rifle and yanked the bayonet out. A geyser of hot blood followed it, and the German sagged to the ground.

  Butsko turned, bashed another German in the head with his rifle butt, and when the German fell backward, Butsko ran him through the gut with his bayonet. “That’s for Sergeant Cooley,” Butsko growled, pulling the bayonet out. He looked up and saw the high-ranking German officer in front of him, pointing his pistol at him. Butsko could see that the officer was an old man close to sixty, lean as a rail. Butsko wasn’t afraid and didn’t even close his eyes. He just gritted his teeth and waited for the bullet that would blow him to hell.

  It never came. The officer pulled his trigger, but his pistol was empty. As soon as he realized that, he charged Butsko, shouting something in German, and tried to smash Butsko in the face with the barrel of his pistol. Butsko leaped to the side quickly as a cat and whacked the officer in the head with his rifle butt. There was a loud slamming sound, and the officer went flying through the air, landing on his back inside a ditch.

  Butsko charged after him, dropping into the ditch. He saw the old officer sprawled unconscious on the ground, and Butsko raised his rifle and bayonet to harpoon him through the heart.

  “Hold it, Butsko!” shouted a voice behind him.

  Butsko turned around and saw Captain Anderson standing at the edge of the ditch. Blood dripped from the bayonet on Anderson’s carbine, and his left sleeve had been torn off just below the elbow. Anderson jumped into the ditch beside Butsko and looked at the old officer, who was bleeding from the ear and mouth.