by Len Levinson
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Cherbourg Harbor was the key to the success of the D-Day offensive. If the Allied Forces were denied it as a port of entry for vital armaments and supplies, their campaign would be strangled to death by starvation or Wehrmacht counter-attack. They dragged the man they called The Sergeant -- C. J. Mahoney, code-name: Parrot -- a rough, tough son-of-a-gun, fresh from the hospital and a wild affair with a virginal young nurse, back to the battlefront to save the harbor. His assignment was simple: with five men, break into an impregnable Nazi fortress guarded by a regiment. Then disarm the detonators that would blow Cherbourg Harbor -- and the Sergeant -- to hell and gone ...
HELL HARBOR
THE SERGEANT 2
By Len Levinson
First Published by Zebra Books in 1980
Copyright © 1980, 2014 by Len Levinson
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: January 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
The sound of shell burst and small firearms could be heard in the distance. Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney sat propped against a tree in a small forest beside a road. He was six foot two, huskily built, and wore French civilian clothes. A black beret sat low on his forehead and he chewed the unlit stub of a cigar. Bandages were tied around his left thigh, where he’d been shot three days ago in the French town of Rouget. He’d been hiding there with some maquis, when an SS Panzer battalion showed up. He’d stopped a bullet during the ensuing battle, but it wasn’t the first one he’d stopped and he doubted whether it would be the last.
Corporal Edward Cranepool, also in French civilian clothes, was on his knees behind a bush, peering through binoculars at the road. Leduc and Baudraye, two of the maquis, were opening their haversacks and taking out bread, cheese, and wine. They uncorked the wine and placed the bread and cheese on Baudraye’s jacket.
“Time to eat,” Leduc grunted.
In a crouch, his fingers nearly touching the ground, Cranepool moved silently toward the food, sitting beside Mahoney. Cranepool was twenty years old, tall and lithe, with straight blond hair.
“How’re you feelin’, Sarge?” Cranepool asked.
Mahoney ignored his question. “You see anything out there?”
“No.”
Mahoney threw the cigar butt over his shoulder and reached for the bottle of wine. His leg didn’t bother him too much and he could get around on it fairly well, but he couldn’t move quickly. In Rouget he’d radioed his headquarters in England and reported that he’d been hit, and they said he should try to make it back to friendly lines, since he’d be a sitting duck for the Gestapo if he hung around France any longer.
It was June 9, 1944. Mahoney had been shot on the morning of the Normandy Invasion. He’d been in France for three months, working with the maquis. Now England told him that the beachheads were secure and supplies were pouring in. It appeared as though the Germans would not be able to push the Allies out. But Mahoney knew that anything could happen in war. He’d fought in North Africa and Italy before being parachuted into France, and had tasted both victory and defeat. He’d seen friends get shot down right beside him. He was not at all sure that he’d survive the war.
Leduc chewed a piece of bread and looked at his map. “We are only about ten miles from Carentan,” he said.
“They’re gonna be awfully long miles,” Mahoney said, slicing off a slab of cheese with his knife.
“We’ll make it, Sarge,” Cranepool said optimistically.
Mahoney grunted. Sometimes he got tired of Cranepool’s Pollyanna bullshit, but Cranepool had saved his ass after he’d got shot two mornings ago, and Mahoney didn’t feel up to screaming at him just yet.
“I hear something,” Mahoney said.
Cranepool perked up his ears. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Go take a look.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
Cranepool crawled off with his binoculars, and Mahoney munched the cheese. It was genuine Port du Salut and smelled like dog shit, but Mahoney thought it was marvelous. The wine wasn’t bad either, and the bread—well, he’d never known how good bread could be until he’d come to France. He wished he could relax and enjoy the meal, but his leg ached and they were behind German lines. They had to stay alert and be ready to move out at a moment’s notice.
Cranepool came back, his binoculars in his right hand. “It’s a German column, Sarge.”
“How big?”
“Can’t tell yet. I could see a lot of trucks, or maybe they were tanks.”
“We’d better finish with chow before they get here.”
They wolfed down the food, passing the bottle around until it was empty. All the cheese disappeared, and most of the bread. Leduc wrapped the leftovers in cheesecloth and dropped them into his haversack. They all wondered when they’d eat again.
They got down on their bellies with their captured German submachine guns and peered through the summer foliage at the approaching column. The ground was wet from recent heavy rainfall and Mahoney could feel the dampness through his clothes.
The column rumbled closer. Mahoney took the binoculars from Cranepool and looked at it. There were eight personnel carriers coming along at a pretty fast clip, on their way to the front lines to reinforce German troops already fighting there. Mahoney had seen numerous small German units like this moving toward the front during the past few days. He imagined that they were giving the Allied armies little rest.
The column passed in front of them, splattering mud and stones on both sides of the road. Mahoney looked through the binoculars into the rear of the trucks and saw the soldiers sitting on the benches, their rifles between their knees and their heads down, trying to cop a little sleep. Probably they didn’t want to fight a war any more than Mahoney did, but somehow they all were in France trying to kill each other.
Mahoney lay still and watched the column move toward the horizon in the direction of Carentan. There must be a helluva battle going on if it could be heard this far away. Part of Mahoney wished he could be in it, because there was something about the chaos and violence of the front lines that he liked, and another part of him wished he was back in New York, his home town, drinking beer at the bar on the corner with his old friends, or maybe going to one of those whorehouses on Eighth Avenue.
The column was far away now, and Mahoney got to his feet with the help of his cane. “Let’s move out,” he said.
He slung his submachine gun over his shoulder and hobbled toward the road. Cranepool and the two maquis followed him, looking cautiously about them. They reached the road and began walking on it, ready to run and hide in the bushes at any moment. The need to concentrate constantly on possible sources of danger was exhausting, but they had to do it. In war you either paid attention, or you were dead.
Mahoney moved down the road with the help of the cane. He could have done without the cane, but it was a lot easier with it. It helped take some of his weight off his bad leg, and thereby diminished the pain. He thought the way he’d been wounded was strange. He and Cranepool had been in an exposed position, bullets were flying all around them, he got hit in the leg, and that fucking Cranepool didn’t have a scratch on him. Somehow it didn’t seem right. Mor
eover, Cranepool had fought at Salerno and Cassino and several other of the big battles in Italy, and had never been touched then either. Mahoney knew that the odds were starting to run against the kid. He was going to stop a bullet or a piece of shrapnel before long. Mahoney decided to stop thinking about that, because he liked Cranepool. Cranepool was a dopey kid, but he meant well. And he’d saved Mahoney’s ass in Rouget.
“How’re you feelin’, Sarge?” Cranepool asked, walking beside him.
“Keep your eyes peeled.”
“You been awful cranky today, Sarge.”
“Shut up and stay alert.”
Cranepool looked at the fields around him. This was flat farm country, not much different from Iowa, where he was from. He’d been raised on his father’s hog farm along with three brothers and two sisters, and had been working on the farm since he was little. The work made him strong and the country air made him healthy. He’d often gone hunting with his father and his brothers, so he knew about guns and how to move silently through the woods. On the rifle range at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, he’d qualified as an expert with the M-l and earned the highest score in his company. His company commander even had shaken his hand, but Cranepool wasn’t surprised. He knew he was a crack shot.
“I hear something,” Mahoney said.
Cranepool wrinkled his freckled nose. He wondered why Mahoney always heard things before he did.
“Off the road!” Mahoney ordered.
They dashed into the bushes, Mahoney taking huge hops with the aid of his cane. They got on their bellies and Mahoney looked through his binoculars. Far off in the distance he saw a little dot. It looked like a solitary automobile or truck, but as it came closer Mahoney could see that it was a motorcycle with a sidecar. He thought they’d just lie still and wait until it passed by, but then he remembered something.
“Hey, Cranepool,” he said, “Didn’t you tell me once that you used to own a motorcycle?”
“Sure—a Harley. It went like a son-of-a-bitch. I remember one time . . .”
Mahoney interrupted him. “Do you think you could drive a German motorcycle?”
Cranepool squinted and looked through the bushes. “Is that what’s coming down the road?”
“Yeah, you ever take a good look at one?”
“Sure. They’re very nice machines.”
“You think you could drive one?”
“You don’t say drive when you talk about motorcycles, Sarge. You say ride.”
“I’ll say what the fuck I wanna say. I asked if you think you could drive one.”
“I know I can. I had a chance to ride a couple of Germany Army motorcycles when I was in Italy. Like I said, they’re very nice machines. They’re much better than British motorcycles, but I don’t think anybody ever has made a motorcycle as good as the Harley.”
Mahoney spit into the ground. “Hey, Cranepool, I didn’t ask for a fucking motorcycle lecture.”
Leduc cleared his throat. He was a lean man of forty, with a mustache. “You are thinking maybe of capturing that motorcycle?”
“Yes,” Mahoney replied. “If Cranepool can drive the fucking thing, maybe he can get both of us back to the American lines faster than we’re going right now.”
Leduc turned down the corners of his mouth. “That sounds like a good idea to me.”
Mahoney looked through the binoculars and saw the motorcycle more clearly now. One German was riding it and the other was sitting in the sidecar. Mahoney guessed that they were couriers of some kind. They might even have some important papers with them.
“Okay,” Mahoney said, “when they come abreast of us, open fire and charge the bastards. Try not to do too much damage to the motorcycle. Any questions?”
Nobody said anything. Mahoney jammed a round into the chamber of his submachine gun and checked it out. He knew it was futile to have asked them not to damage the motorcycle, because they all were going to open fire and the bullets would go wherever they went. The main thing was to stop the motorcycle. They’d worry about the damage afterwards.
The motorcycle came roaring down the road, and the four men behind the bushes tensed with anticipation. They caught the rider and passenger in their sights and followed them as they came closer. Finally the motorcycle was directly in front of them, and Mahoney pulled the trigger of his submachine gun. It bucked and stuttered in his hands as a stream of bullets left its barrel and those of the submachine guns of Cranepool, Leduc, and Baudraye. The bullets descended like a rainfall of steel on the two German soldiers, ripping apart their uniforms and entering their bodies. The front wheel of the motorcycle wobbled and the rider leaned to the side, blood dripping from his nose and eyes. The motorcycle went off the road and into the gully on the far side, climbed up the gully, and became entangled in some bushes, its motor stalling and smoke issuing from its exhaust pipe.
“Up and at ’em!” Mahoney shouted.
The four of them charged through the bushes and onto the road, Mahoney leaving his cane behind. The motorcycle rider was lying in the gully and the passenger hung out the sidecar.
Mahoney looked at Leduc. “You and Baudraye strip off their uniforms.”
“Yes, Perroquet,” said Leduc, using Mahoney’s code name, the French word for parrot. Mahoney had acquired the name because of his ability to learn and mimic foreign languages quickly.
Mahoney turned to Cranepool. “See if you can get that motorcycle going.”
Baudraye, a big burly Frenchman, pulled the German out of the sidecar and began removing his clothes. Leduc did the same thing with the German in the street, and Cranepool grabbed the handlebars of the motorcycle, tugging the vehicle backwards until it was free from the bushes. Mahoney leaned against a tree, his leg aching from the exertion, and watched Cranepool wheel the motorcycle into the gully and up to the road. The kid didn’t look it, but he was strong as a mule.
“Wheels are okay, Sarge!” Cranepool called back.
Cranepool parked the motorcycle in the road and looked it over. There were dents and scratches but it seemed to be all right. He straddled it, turned the switch on, and kicked down the starter. Nothing happened.
“Uh-oh,” Cranepool said.
“Get that fuckin’ thing going!”
“I’m trying, Sarge.”
Mahoney wished he had another cigar, but he was out of them. He took out a French cigarette and lit it with a match. Inhaling the harsh smoke, he looked down at his leg and could see blood seeping through the cloth of his pants. Fucking holes had opened up again. He thought they’d been hurting a little more than usual.
Leduc and Baudraye stood beside the motorcycle with the German uniforms over their arms and watched while Cranepool squatted beside the engine and snooped around. He found a broken sparkplug wire and spliced it together. The magneto had a bad dent in it but didn’t appear to be damaged internally. The exhaust pipe was cracked, but that shouldn’t make any big difference.
Cranepool mounted the motorcycle again and said a little prayer. He pumped the starter pedal a few times, then kicked it down. The motorcycle engine grumbled to life. Cranepool cheered and twisted the handlebar grip that also was the accelerator. The engine roared heartily. It was a BMW and could take a lot of punishment. Cranepool listened to it and realized that the timing was off a little, but not enough to matter. They only had to go about ten more miles.
“It’s workin’ Sarge!” he said happily.
Mahoney pushed himself away from the tree and limped toward the motorcycle. “Put on one of them uniforms!”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Mahoney and Cranepool put on the German uniforms, which were much too small for both of them. Cranepool’s arms extended several inches from the sleeves and he had no hope of pulling on the boots, but at least he could button up the tunic, which Mahoney couldn’t.
Mahoney put the German helmet on his head and tied the strap under his chin. “I guess this will have to do,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
&
nbsp; Cranepool straddled the motorcycle that trembled with the beat of its engine. Mahoney turned to Leduc and Baudraye and shook their hands.
“Well, thanks for everything,” he said.
“Good luck, Perroquet.”
“Good luck to the both of you. I hope that someday we can meet again.”
“God willing we shall.”
The two Frenchmen shook hands with Cranepool, and Mahoney got into the sidecar, sitting on the little seat. There wasn’t much room in there for a man his size, and he had to bring his heels close to his fanny, which made his leg ache more. He and Cranepool pulled the goggles down over their eyes.
The Frenchmen stepped back and Cranepool dropped it into first. He let out the clutch, twisted the accelerator, and the motorcycle moved forward. It gathered speed and Cranepool shifted into second. The motorcycle zoomed down the road, the sidecar jouncing around, and Mahoney held his submachine gun tightly in his hands, hoping there wouldn’t be much trouble ahead, because he wasn’t feeling too well. He’d lost a lot of blood during the past few days and had become weak and woozy.
“How’re you doin’, Sarge!” Cranepool yelled over his shoulder.
“Keep your fuckin’ eyes on the road!”
“Hup, Sarge!”
The wind whipped Mahoney’s face, and the countryside whizzed past his eyes. The bouncing of the sidecar made his stomach queasy and he thought he might vomit his lunch. I hate this fucking war, he thought.
It wasn’t long before they approached the convoy of eight personnel carriers that they’d seen a short while ago. Cranepool steered to the right and passed them slowly, because his rate of speed wasn’t much faster than theirs. The wheels of the trucks threw back mud and gunk that splattered onto Cranepool’s and Mahoney’s uniforms. Mahoney looked into the rear of the trucks. The German soldiers were still hunched over, trying to grab some sleep.
Cranepool passed the convoy and charged forward on the open road. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the sound of battle was coming closer. In the distance he could see the town of Carentan. He figured they should get there in about a half-hour, and then the fun would begin.
