by Len Levinson
The motorcycle splashed into the water and in two seconds Cranepool was in up to his shoulders. The water was over Mahoney’s head, and he struggled to get out of the sidecar as he gurgled and sputtered. The river had been deeper than he’d thought. He kicked with his feet, felt a violent ache in his left leg, and cleared the sidecar, his head breaking the surface of the fast-moving river.
“You okay, Sarge?” Cranepool asked, treading water.
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah. I thought you said the river wasn’t very deep.”
“Fuck you, Cranepool.”
“What now, Sarge?”
“We’ve got to make it up the hill, Cranepool. Move fast and make a low silhouette.”
They swam across the river as its current dragged them downstream and bullets splashed around them. Every time Mahoney kicked his left leg he thought the damn thing would fall off, but he kept going because not to do so would be to die. His arms were strong and gradually he pulled himself to the far shore, although Cranepool got there first and pulled him out of the water.
“How’re you feeling, Sarge?”
“Get moving, Cranepool!”
They ran up the hill in a zigzag fashion, keeping their heads down. Mahoney limped badly and his head was spinning. Glancing at his leg, he saw blood oozing through his pants. Bullets zapped into the ground near them and halfway up the hill they heard a shell coming in. Dropping to their stomachs, they heard the shell explode ahead of them, and then they were on their feet again, running through the smoke and muck toward the top of the hill.
Mahoney began to doubt whether he’d make it. He was giving orders to his left leg but it wasn’t responding very well. God, if you get me out of this one I’ll go to Mass every Sunday and say a Rosary every night. He felt like lying down on the ground and giving up, and knew that was the time you had to push the hardest. Then he heard a barrage of gunfire coming from the American lines. They were firing cannon, howitzers, machine guns—everything they had—and Mahoney realized that they were trying to cover him and Cranepool. Almost simultaneously, German bullets stopped buzzing around him and Cranepool. American firepower was pinning the Germans down.
That gave Mahoney encouragement. He looked up the hill and saw that there was only fifty yards to go. He gasped and clawed the ground, struggling to make it to the American lines. Cranepool reached back with his long arm, grabbed Mahoney’s jacket, and pulled him along. Mahoney reached into his back pocket and took out his white handkerchief, waving it in the air.
“We’re American soldiers!” he screamed. “Don’t shoot!”
He tripped over a rock and fell on his chin. Cranepool yanked him to his feet and up the hill he went again. Bullets and artillery shells streaked over their heads on their way to the German positions. The American trenches came closer and Mahoney could see the GIs peering over the battlements.
“Don’t shoot, we’re Americans!”
A squad of the GIs came out of the trenches and ran down the hill to help Mahoney and Cranepool. They grabbed their arms and dragged them the remaining few yards into the trenches, and they all dove in together.
Mahoney was at the bottom of the heap and his leg was killing him, but he was safe. For the first time in three months he was behind his own lines, and it felt good to be back. He wanted to shout for joy, but that would be undignified for a master sergeant in the United States Army, so he just kept his mouth shut and waited patiently for the American soldiers to pile off him.
Chapter Two
“What have we got here!” asked a florid-faced captain, sitting behind a folding desk in a command post tent in the forest.
“They claim to be American soldiers, sir,” said the buck sergeant in charge of the squad that had brought Cranepool and Mahoney to the captain.
To the left of the captain stood a tall, gawky lieutenant wearing glasses. “Be careful, sir. They might be spies.”
“We already took away their weapons, sir,” the buck sergeant said, displaying two commando knives, a Luger, a Walther PPK, and two German hand grenades. He also showed the captured dispatch pouch.
The captain frowned as he rose from behind his desk. It was raining again and a pitter-patter could be heard on the roof of the tent. The captain placed his hands behind his back and walked toward Mahoney and Cranepool, who were standing at attention. The captain was short, with a barrel chest and bandy legs.
Cranepool cleared his throat. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, sir, or anything like that, but could you get a doctor for Sergeant Mahoney here?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” the captain said, looking at Mahoney’s leg, the pants of which were soaked with blood. “Who are you birds anyway?”
Mahoney cleared his throat. “Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney, Twenty-Third Rangers, R.A. one-one-two-eight-two-two-oh-three,” he said.
“Corporal Edward Cranepool, also Twenty-Third Rangers, R.A. five-six-one-three-three-one-nine-five.”
The lieutenant wearing the eyeglasses wrote the information down. The inside of the tent smelled like new canvas. Mahoney thought he was going to faint at any moment.
The captain stood in front of Mahoney. “What in the fuck are you doing in those German uniforms?”
“We were dropped behind German lines around three months ago,” Mahoney said, “and we’ve been working with the Free French. Yesterday we were ordered to return to our own lines, and on our way back we picked up the uniforms.”
The lieutenant sniffed the air suspiciously. “Be careful, sir. They might be lying.”
“If you’ll contact the Twenty-Third Rangers, sir,” Mahoney said, “I’m sure they’ll verify what I told you.” He was struggling to maintain his consciousness, but suddenly his eyes filled with black ink and he dropped to the floor.
Cranepool looked down at him. “He’s been shot in the leg, sir.”
The captain looked at the buck sergeant. “Get some medics in here.”
“Yes, sir.” The buck sergeant ran out of the tent.
The lieutenant cleared his throat. “This might be a trick, sir.”
“Oh, shut up,” the captain replied wearily.
The lieutenant looked hurt, and bit his lower lip. The buck sergeant returned with two medics who dived on Mahoney. They cut open his pants and looked at the ugly purple wound. Putting a sulfa dressing on it, they gave him a shot of morphine, then stood up.
“He needs to be evacuated to a hospital,” one of the medics said to the captain.
The captain looked at the medic. “Take him to the hospital.” He looked at the buck sergeant. “You go with them and stand guard over him until we find out who he really is.”
“He’s really Sergeant Mahoney,” Cranepool said hopefully.
“Speak when you’re spoken to, soldier,” the captain replied gruffly.
“Sorry, sir.”
The medics rolled Mahoney onto a stretcher and carried him out of the tent. Cranepool watched him go, wondering when he’d see his old sergeant again.
The lieutenant stepped forward. “May I question him, sir?” he asked, referring to Cranepool.
“What the fuck for?”
“He might have important and valuable information, sir.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it if he did. Call Battalion Intelligence and tell somebody there to track down the Twenty-Third Rangers, and see if these two birds are part of them.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant moved to the field telephone, and the captain looked at Cranepool again. “When’d you eat last?”
“Sometime yesterday, sir,” Cranepool lied.
The captain looked at a corporal who was among the squad that had escorted Mahoney and Cranepool into the tent. “Take him to the mess tent for some chow, and then keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I ask a question, sir?” Cranepool said.
“What is it?”
“Can I take this German uniform off, sir?”<
br />
“Yes, but don’t do it here. I don’t want the damned thing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Get out of here, all of you.”
They all saluted. “Yes, sir!”
They did an about-face and marched Cranepool out of the tent.
Chapter Three
The battalion intelligence office contacted the Twenty-Third Rangers and learned that Mahoney and Cranepool were indeed part of that unit. After receiving treatment for his wounded leg, Mahoney was evacuated by truck to the nearest airfield and flown to England, where he became a patient at the big U.S. Army hospital in Southwick, a suburb of London.
Cranepool stayed overnight in the company that had rescued him, and the next day orders came down assigning him to Headquarters Company of the Twenty-Third Rangers, which was killing Germans somewhere on the Cherbourg Peninsula. He was put in a jeep and driven back to the big replacement depot near the town of La Madeleine, where he was supposed to await transportation to the Twenty-Third Rangers.
He arrived at the replacement company at 1400 hours, long after chow had been served, and he was hungry again. He reported to a first lieutenant nearly as young as he who told him to draw a uniform at the quartermaster’s, and then sit tight and listen for his name to be called on the bitch box.
Cranepool went to the quartermaster’s, which was a big prefabricated building that didn’t look as though it’d survive the next puff of wind that came by. Inside, he gave the chit to the sergeant and drew brown pants, khaki shirt, combat boots, cartridge belt, helmet, and poncho. He put these on and looked at himself in a mirror, pleased to be in uniform again after so many months in civilian clothes. He knew that he looked good in a uniform and generally made a good impression on officers. He figured he would make a splendid officer someday.
He went to the latrine, where he found a lively crap game in progress. Throughout his military career, whenever he’d gone to a latrine, there usually had been a crap game in progress. This was because the lights in latrines were kept on all night, thereby affording nonstop visibility for crap games that continued for days and even weeks, with participants constantly coming and going.
He watched the crap game for a while, wishing he had some money to bet, but he wouldn’t be paid until he got to the Twenty-Third Rangers, and he doubted whether disbursements were being made on the front lines. He figured that the Army owed him a few hundred dollars in back pay.
It was raining outside, but he didn’t feel like hanging around the latrine any longer. He went outside to get some fresh air and maybe bum a cigarette from somebody. In front of the latrine was a large parade ground surrounded by rows of pup tents, wall tents, prefabricated buildings, and water towers. “Private Collins, report to the Orderly Room!” said the bitch box on top of a nearby pole.
Cranepool put his hands in his pockets and walked onto the parade ground. Rain fell moderately heavy, but his poncho kept him dry and the air smelled clean and fresh. He thought about Sergeant Mahoney and wondered what he was doing right now. Cranepool missed Mahoney; they’d been together nearly every day during the three months they’d been in France. He thought Mahoney was the greatest, toughest soldier he’d ever seen, and although Cranepool only was twenty years old, he’d seen a lot of tough ones in Italy. He hoped he’d run into Mahoney again someday, but knew that he might not. Reassignments sometimes were crazy in the Army. You never knew where you’d wind up. At least he was going back to his old outfit, the Twenty-Third Rangers.
Six big trucks drove onto the middle of the parade ground area, and men spilled out of tents and buildings, running like mad toward the trucks. Cranepool had no idea what was going on, but figured it must be something good, so he broke into a trot and joined the rush. He came to a big crowd of soldiers and asked one of them what was going on.
“Coffee and donuts from the Red Cross,” the soldier said.
Cranepool’s heart soared with happiness. He’d been hungry, and now they were going to serve donuts, which were one of his favorite foods. He got in one of the lines leading to the trucks, which were being unloaded by Red Cross people and military personnel. Cranepool hoped the Red Cross was giving out cigarettes with the coffee and donuts.
Two big wall tents were pitched, and the lines readjusted so that they led to the openings of the tents. Cranepool licked his lips in anticipation of the donuts. Although they had coffee in France, he’d never seen a donut. This would be his first donut in months, and he was literally drooling.
Then he noticed a curious thing. The line that he was in was much longer than the other line. He didn’t know why, and at first thought he should stay in the line he was in, and not worry about it, but he couldn’t help thinking that if he got into the other line he could get his coffee and donuts quicker. He closed his eyes and imagined that he could smell the steaming coffee and fresh donuts. The Red Cross was a great organization—no question about it.
He opened his eyes again and looked at the shorter line. Why weren’t the other guys going over there? Well, if they were going to be assholes about it, he wasn’t. He was a clever fellow and probably would become an officer before long. He knew that officers had to take the initiative and do bold things. So he simply put his hands into his pockets, whistled a little tune, and left the line he was in, walking casually to the shorter line, where he took his position behind a nervous little soldier whose helmet was crooked on his head.
Although this line was about half the size of the other line, it still was a very long line. Perhaps two hundred soldiers were in front of him, and Cranepool shuffled ahead inch by inch, permitting himself to daydream, but not to the extent where he wouldn’t know if his name was called over the bitch box. He hoped his name wouldn’t be called before he got his coffee and donut, and if he was lucky, they might even give him two donuts.
Slowly the line moved forward. The soldiers around him were joking and carrying on, but some sergeants were in line and nobody dared get too rowdy. Cranepool was happy to be back with American troops. It was safe and secure here, without too much to worry about, whereas behind enemy lines there had been constant anxiety about the Gestapo and French collaborators who might inform on him. When you were behind enemy lines you never knew who you could trust, and that could make you crazy after a while.
The line steadily moved forward and Cranepool drew closer to the tent. He noticed it didn’t have a chimney on top of it like the other tent, and figured that maybe they were making the coffee in the other tent and bringing some to this second tent. Perhaps that’s why the line to the other tent was longer: because the troops thought the coffee would be hotter there, but Cranepool didn’t give a damn about the coffee, he just wanted donuts and cigarettes.
Finally he approached the front of the tent. He saw that a sergeant was standing there, letting the soldiers in one at a time. He wondered why they were doing that? Maybe the soldiers had been causing too much commotion around the coffee and donuts, stealing extra food and maybe pinching the women, if there were any women around.
Cranepool came to the head of the line and the sergeant looked at him as though he was a piece of shit. The sergeant had a chin like a gorilla and it was covered with a five o’clock shadow although it was only two-thirty in the afternoon. A shiver went up Cranepool’s back, and he wondered why all the old sergeants were so damned nasty. It was as though all of them took nasty pills.
Somebody inside the tent said next, and the sergeant told Cranepool to go inside. Cranepool stepped between the tent flaps and saw three old sergeants at a table that had a crate on it and two crates beside it. Cranepool wondered where the coffee urn and donuts were. Four canvas stalls were at the far end of the tent, and a soldier slouched out of one of them, heading for the flap at the rear of the tent.
“Next!” said a grizzled old sergeant at the table.
Cranepool walked up to him. “Where’s the coffee and donuts, Sarge?”
The sergeant blinked. “Coffee and donuts! Why you fucki
ng birdbrain, this is the Pro Station!”
“Pro Station?” Cranepool asked weakly.
“Yeah. Here’s your kit. Take it back to one of the stalls back there and use it.”
In the dimness of the tent, the sergeant pushed a little cardboard box across the table to Cranepool.
Cranepool smiled. “I made a mistake, Sarge. I got in the wrong line by mistake.”
“Bullshit!” the sergeant exploded. “You take that Pro Kit to one of the stalls back there and use it, you hear me?”
“Hup, Sarge,” Cranepool said, picking up the Pro Kit.
“I want you to bring the empty tube back to me to make sure, and don’t be cute and try to hide the shit someplace, because I’ll have your ass. You got me, young soldier?”
“I got you, Sarge.”
“Get moving!”
“Hup, Sarge.”
His heart sinking, thinking about the coffee and donuts he was missing because he foolishly had got into the wrong line, Cranepool walked back to the open canvas stall, pulled the canvas shut, and stood in the darkness, taking the wrapper off the Pro Kit. In the next stall a guy was grunting and farting. Cranepool cursed himself for coming to this tent. He should have asked somebody. Pro Stations were for guys who’d got laid recently and thought they might have venereal disease. Pro Kits were supposed to stop venereal disease provided you used them right after you got laid.
Cranepool took the little khaki tube out of the box and held it up to his eyes. On its end was a nozzle that you were supposed to insert into the hole in your dick, and then squeeze the contents of the tube into your dick. The medicine was supposed to kill the venereal disease germs, if you had any. Cranepool didn’t think he had any, but he wasn’t sure. A few days ago he’d screwed a French woman named Louise, and although she was a very nice person from a good family, he knew that she screwed around a lot, and who could tell what kind of filthy bastards she might have been screwing? For all Cranepool knew, she might have had a terrible venereal disease, and you never could tell about women because it didn’t show on them the way it did on men.
