Slaughter City

by Len Levinson

  “All right, you scumbags!” he yelled. “On your feet!”

  The men stirred and snarled. They yawned, and some of them stumbled into dark corners to take leaks.

  “Let’s go!” Mahoney said. “We’ve got to report in!”

  Cranepool stood up, his hands holding his head. “Oh my God, I don’t think I can make it.”

  “You’ll make it—don’t worry.”

  Riggs staggered about, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. “Ooohhhhhh.”

  “Shaddup, you fucking asshole, and pick up that walkie-talkie.”

  Mahoney finally got the men organized. They unstacked the barrels in front of the door and left the cellar, climbing into the church, which was beginning to smell rank because of the dead German bodies. Leaving the church through a side door, they saw the first glimmer of dawn on the horizon. It was a chilly morning, and they huddled inside their field jackets, wishing they had some water to drink as they followed Mahoney back to the front lines.

  ~*~

  Patton strode into his conference room, his uniform neatly pressed and necktie positioned correctly between the points of his collar. His boots were freshly polished, and he slapped his riding crop against his leg.

  “How’s the attack going?” he asked Colonel Maddox, who was standing next to the map table with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Steady progress is being made on all fronts,” Maddox replied.

  “What about Metz?”

  “I have the latest positions marked on the map.”

  Patton strode toward the map table and looked down. He could see that the Hammerhead Division had taken approximately 20 percent of the city in the first day of fighting.

  “They’re not moving fast enough,” Patton said. “I’d better call Donovan and light a fire under his ass.”

  “The Germans are putting up stiff resistance,” Maddox said.

  “Then the Hammerheads will have to fight harder.”

  Patton marched toward the communications center, holding out his hand. The sergeant in charge handed him a telephone.

  “Get me General Donovan,” Patton said gruffly.

  ~*~

  Colonel Anton Meier sat behind his desk in Gestapo headquarters in Metz, drinking a cup of coffee made out of real coffee beans. His desk was littered with communiqués from SS units in the front lines of the Metz battle, and they disheartened him. The Americans were making slow but steady progress. It would only be a matter of time before they captured the city. Meier would become a prisoner of the Americans in a few days if he didn’t flee the city, and he had no intention of fleeing the city because Himmler would have him shot if he did.

  On the other hand, if the Americans took him prisoner, he would be in for a bad time. They’d find the torture chambers beneath the headquarters building and would be outraged by them. They’d also find mutilated corpses and maybe even some prisoners who’d managed to escape. The prisoners would tell horror stories about the activities of the SS in Metz under the command of Colonel Meier. They might put him before a firing squad right away or even turn him over to the French underground, which would be worse.

  Meier lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. The only thing for him to do would be to die at his post in Metz. That prospect didn’t bother him particularly because it would be a hero’s death. They might even erect a statue to him someday in his home town of Bremen. He was a fanatical SS man, and for him there were things worse than death, such as disgrace or treachery. Moreover, he belonged to a special sect of SS officers who practiced occult rites and believed in reincarnation, so he thought that his death wouldn’t be an end at all but a new beginning.

  His ace in the hole was the shipment of Zyklon B hidden in a basement room of Gestapo headquarters. Regardless of what General Neubacher had said, Meier fully intended to unleash the Zyklon B on the Americans when they got close enough to Gestapo headquarters. The Zyklon B was extremely deadly, and one good whiff of it could kill a man. It would kill everyone in the blocks surrounding Gestapo headquarters before it dissipated into the air. It might even kill everyone for miles around, and how wonderful that would be. Metz would become a vast cemetery, and in years to come it would be written that Colonel Meier of the SS had wiped out huge numbers of the Americans while sacrificing his life at the same time. The Fuehrer and Himmler would give speeches praising his name. There’d be parades and special ceremonies. City squares would be named after him. Songs would be composed about his heroic last stand.

  Meier couldn’t sit still behind his desk, so excited was he by the prospects of glory after his death. He rose and paced the floor, the cup of coffee in his hand, sipping and thinking about future party rallies at Nuremburg, where the Fuehrer would praise his great sacrifice. How Meier had loved those big party rallies. He’d been to every one of them since 1928, when he’d joined the party.

  The telephone on his desk buzzed, snapping him out of his reverie. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant Shroder is here to see you, sir.”

  “Send him right in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door opened, and Lieutenant Shroder marched into the office, wearing his black SS uniform and carrying his helmet underneath his arm. “Heil Hitler!” he cried.

  “Heil Hitler!” Meier looked Shroder up and down, pleased by what he saw. Shroder also was a fanatical SS man and an idealist like himself. He was blond, had a square jaw, and surely was a pure Aryan of the very finest quality. He was leader of one of the special killer squads organized by Meier to ambush and kill American soldiers. “Have a seat, Shroder,” Meier said.

  “I prefer to stand, sir!”

  “But you deserve a rest after all the fine work I’m sure you’re doing.”

  “No one should rest until this city is cleared of Americans,” Shroder replied.

  “Quite,” agreed Meier. “Well, I’ll stand, too, then. What have you to report?”

  “My squad has killed twenty-six American soldiers, sir.”

  “Very good,” said Meier, puffing his cigarette. “And how many of your men have you lost?”

  “Only three, sir.”

  “An excellent ratio. Your girl is holding up well—what is her name?”

  “Heidi, sir.”

  “Yes, Heidi. How about her?”

  “She’s doing very well, sir. The Americans cannot resist her.”

  “I can understand why. She’s a lovely young thing. How fortunate you are to be able to spend so much time with her.”

  Shroder blushed. “Yes, sir. We have returned to base because we need more ammunition. Then we shall go out into the city again.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wear civilian clothes instead of uniforms?” Meier asked. “Don’t you think you’re more conspicuous in your uniforms?”

  “We are soldiers, sir, not terrorists. We prefer to wear our uniforms.”

  “I can understand that,” Meier said. “I’d do the same myself if I were you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Three days later, the railroad line between the center of the city and the American lines was repaired. The fighting still was bitter, and the Americans continued to make steady gains. That evening, Generals Neubacher and Knoedler visited the railway yards to inspect the preparations for the train attack to be made later in the night. It was raining again, and their boots stuck in the muck as they walked across the yard.

  They entered one of the huge buildings and in the dimness saw railroad cars being attached to two locomotives. Lieutenant Stahmer was supervising, and when he saw Neubacher and Knoedler, he rushed toward them and saluted.

  “How’s everything going?” Neubacher asked.

  “Excellently, sir.”

  “Do you have sufficient railroad cars?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be able to transport two battalions through the American lines.”

  “Very good. Are you sure the tracks are still intact, because the Americans bom
bed again today, you know.”

  “I have a work party out there right now.”

  Neubacher smiled and slapped Stahmer on the shoulder. “You’ve done a fine job, lieutenant. I suppose you’ll want to join the attack?”

  “Me?” asked Stahmer, because he wanted no such thing.

  “Yes. I imagine that since you’ve done so much work, you’d want to participate in the attack.”

  Stahmer smiled nervously. “That’s true—I would. But I have so many important and significant things to do that I don’t think I’ll have the time.”

  “Nonsense,” said Neubacher. “We’ll make time for you. After all, who would have more of a right to engage in this attack than you?”

  Stahmer tried to smile. “Thank you, sir. That would be most kind of you.”

  Neubacher smiled. “Think nothing of it. It’s the least we can do for you. Are the troops nearby?”

  “Yes, sir. In the buildings surrounding this yard. They can’t wait to get going.”

  “They’re the officer candidates, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re just about the best troops we have in Metz right now. If they can’t cut off the American supply lines, nobody can. When will you have everything in readiness, Lieutenant Stahmer?”

  “A few hours before dawn, sir. I’d guess two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Excellent. If there are any problems, contact me directly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all. Carry on.”

  ~*~

  The rifle shot rang out, and Mahoney noted the location of the muzzle blast. It was straight ahead and about two stories up in the air. The night became silent again. Mahoney crouched behind the pile of rubble and tried to figure a way to move forward without being seen.

  There was a sniper up there, shooting at whatever American targets were presented to him. Captain Anderson had sent Mahoney forward to get the sniper, who shot three men and one officer since dusk. Mahoney was selected because he was supposed to be good at this sort of thing.

  Mahoney’s face and hands were blackened with camouflage paint, and the shiny metallic parts of his carbine had been coated with the stuff, too. Mahoney paused behind the rubble, savoring his solitude, for he was usually surrounded by men looking to him for solutions to problems. Now he was alone in no man’s land, he and the sniper. One of them would be dead before long.

  He got down on his belly and began crawling, his carbine cradled in his arms. Beneath him was pavement covered with broken bricks and stones that bruised his elbows and knees. He crept behind walls standing alone in the nightmare landscape and beside piles of wood and bricks that had once been buildings. Occasionally, he saw an arm or a leg sticking out of rubble. Rain pinged off his helmet and dripped down his back. He thought of himself as a hunter on the trail of the most wily prey of all, another human being.

  The sniper fired again. Mahoney saw the muzzle blast out of the corner of his eye and kept moving, wondering if the sniper had killed another GI. Mahoney wondered what kind of man the sniper was to permit himself to occupy a lonely position in no man’s land and spend the night trying to kill men five hundred yards away.

  Mahoney crawled across a cobblestone street and around more piles of rubble. This part of the city had been devastated by artillery fire during the day, and thin trails of smoke rose all around him. Sometimes he’d touch piles of bricks that still were warm. Gradually, over a period of an hour, he covered the final distance and stopped fifty yards from the building where the sniper was holed up.

  It was five stories high, and huge slabs of its walls were missing. It stood alone, surrounded by piles of rubble and planks of wood sticking into the air. Mahoney couldn’t pinpoint which floor the sniper was on. He figured it probably was the top floor or even the roof, but he wasn’t sure. He hoped the sniper would fire again so he could see.

  Lying on bricks and stones, he gazed steadily at the building, waiting for the sniper to fire again. He wished he could have a cigarette and was getting hungry. Little dots of light appeared in his vision, and he realized he was straining his eyes. The manuals said that night fighters must keep moving their eyes around and never look directly at what they wanted to see because at night peripheral vision was more accurate than direct vision.

  The sniper fired again, and Mahoney saw exactly where he was: on the fifth floor and two windows in from the right. You’re as good as dead, you kraut fucker, Mahoney thought, crawling forward.

  He circled around so that he’d approach the building from the side where the sniper couldn’t see him. Then he moved stealthily toward the building. Closer and closer he came, and when he was almost there, the sniper fired another shot. Mahoney stopped cold and thought a bullet was entering his back, but it was only his imagination, and he continued crawling toward the building.

  He reached it and stood up, pressing his back to the wall. Listening and looking around, he heard only the crackle of rifle fire in the distance and an occasional explosion. Nothing moved in the darkness. He moved sideways around the corner and made his way to the back door of the building.

  Reaching the back door, he paused again for a few moments, then slipped inside. He saw a flight of stairs and climbed them silently to the main hall of the building. Ahead, he could see the front door. Another shot rang out above him, and he thought he’d better get that sniper quickly before he killed any more people.

  He climbed the stairs, holding his carbine so that it pointed straight ahead. Every few steps he stopped and listened, but he heard nothing. His progress was slow, but he’d learned in the Rangers that it was better to take your time than rush into a hail of bullets.

  He reached the first-floor landing and climbed to the second floor, thinking that people had once lived in this building, drinking coffee, listening to the radio, and fucking. Now it was deserted, and all the windows were gone. Piles of plaster were everywhere, broken loose from the walls by artillery shells landing nearby.

  He passed the second floor and went up to the third. The sniper fired again, and Mahoney wondered if he was aiming at targets or just trying to harass the Americans. Well, he wouldn’t do it much longer. Mahoney held his finger over the trigger of his carbine and tiptoed up the stairs.

  Finally, he reached the fifth floor. He stood in the shadows and counted off the doors, trying to figure out which room the sniper was in. All the doors had been taken off their hinges, maybe used for firewood by the German soldiers, so he moved down the hallway, peeking into apartments.

  The first apartment was vacant, and so was the second. Approaching the third, he smelled gunpowder and knew the sniper was in there. The building echoed with the sound of a rifle shot as the sniper fired again. Mahoney stood beside the doorway and peeked into the apartment. He saw the sniper kneeling in front of a window, taking a clip of bullets out of the pouch on his belt.

  Mahoney stepped sideways into the doorway and simultaneously pulled the trigger of his carbine. It was an automatic, and the bullets spit out at the German, who jumped into the air and spun around, howling wildly and dropping his rifle, trying to cover all the holes in his body. He fell to the floor.

  “Was ist los!” shouted a German voice.

  Mahoney realized suddenly that another German sniper was in the building, too. Dashing into the room with the German he’d just killed, Mahoney pressed his back to the wall and pulled a hand grenade from his lapel.

  “Hans?” asked a voice down the hall.

  Mahoney pulled the pin from the grenade and realized that two snipers must have been on that floor, and he cursed himself because he should have been able to tell from the muzzle blasts. But he’d made the mistake of thinking that only one German was doing all the shooting. At night, from a distance, both of the muzzle blasts looked as if they were coming from the same place.

  “Hans?” asked the wary voice again.

  Mahoney heard footsteps in the hall; the other German was coming to see what had
happened. Pulling back his arm, Mahoney tossed the grenade in the direction of the footsteps, then pressed his back to the wall again.

  The grenade exploded with a mighty roar, and the walls of the building trembled. Mahoney jumped into the hallway and saw the second German all over the walls and floor. His own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.

  Mahoney returned to the room where he’d shot the first sniper. The German lay sideways on the floor, his eyes wide open and staring. He’d been alive one moment and dead the next. It must have been quite a shock in that final split second before his lights went out. Not a bad way to go, Mahoney thought, kneeling beside the German and taking his gold watch off his wrist. I hope that when my time comes, I can go as fast.

  He searched the German’s pockets and found his wallet. Opening it, he took out some German money and noticed a photograph of a beautiful blonde woman. On the bottom was inscribed in German: To my darling Hans, from Frieda.

  Mahoney looked at the dead German, who was no more than twenty years old. Well, Mahoney thought, you sure got some good poontang in your short life. He put the wallet back in the German’s pocket and left the room. Descending the stairs, he left the building and moved quickly through the night, heading for Charlie Company so that he could report to Captain Anderson that the snipers in that building were out of action.

  Mahoney’s return was much quicker than his trip to the building. He was challenged by sentries, gave the correct countersign, and slid down a ditch, crossed some railroad tracks, and ascended the other side of the ditch, making his way to the railroad station that Captain Anderson was using as his command post for the night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was three o’clock in the morning in Metz’s big railroad terminal. It was raining again, and the two battalions of shock troops were loading on to the freight and passenger cars hooked up behind the two locomotives. General Neubacher and Colonel Knoedler, accompanied by Lieutenant Stahmer and Colonel Gunther Heiden, the latter designated as commander of the military force, strolled alongside the trains, looking at the men who would turn the tide of battle in Metz.