by Len Levinson
The private fumbled with his rifle and put it against his shoulder. He clicked off the safety switch in the trigger guard and squeezed off a round. Taking aim again, he squeezed off another round. Then he turned to Mahoney and said sheepishly: “I was just taking a little break, Sarge.”
“I ought to put a little break in your face, you sawed-off scumbag. What’s your name?”
“Flynn.”
“Where you from, Flynn?”
“ New York City, Sarge.”
“I thought I heard the Broadway local in your disgusting mealy-mouthed voice, Flynn. What platoon are you in?”
‘The Second Platoon, Sarge.” His hands trembling, Flynn squeezed off another round.
“Well whataya know about that?” Mahoney said. “I’m your new platoon sergeant, Flynn. My name’s Mahoney.”
Flynn turned around. “Mahoney? Are you the Sergeant Mahoney who was working behind the lines in France with Corporal Cranepool.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I heard a lot about you, Sergeant Mahoney. You’re a real son-of-a-gun, they all say.”
“Knock that shit off, Flynn. Who’s the platoon leader here right now?”
“Sergeant Kirk.”
“Go get him and bring him back here.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Flynn crawled out of the foxhole and Mahoney leaned his back against its wall, taking out a cigarette and lighting it up. He blew smoke into the air and thought that the Second Platoon must have deteriorated badly since Lieutenant Finley got hit on Omaha. Well, they were going to start shaping up starting that afternoon. He looked at his watch, and it was four-thirty. It wouldn’t be dark for a few hours, which should be enough time to knock out that pillbox.
Flynn returned to the foxhole with Sergeant Kirk, a lanky redhead from Oklahoma. “Glad to have you back, Sarge,” Kirk said as he slid into the foxhole.
“Wish I could say I was glad to be back,” Mahoney replied. “Listen Kirk, I was just talking to the old man about you and he said to transfer you to the Weapons platoon, so you might as well get rolling over there right now and report to Sergeant Del Bello, got the picture?”
Kirk frowned, “Yes, Sergeant.” He wasn’t very happy about it because he was being demoted back to squad leader again, after the heady experience of commanding a platoon.
“And tell Sergeant Del Bello that the old man said to transfer Corporal Cranepool to the Second Platoon immediately and without delay, get it?”
“Got it!”
“Good. Give me your maps and shit, and get going.”
Looking like he’d just lost a month’s pay in a poker game, Kirk handed over his map case, binoculars, and other gear that went along with a platoon leader’s job.
“Who’s your runner?” Mahoney asked.
“Private Gomez.”
Mahoney looked at Flynn. “Go get Gomez and tell him to report to me.”
“Right, Sarge.”
Flynn crawled out of the foxhole, and a few minutes later Kirk departed for the weapons platoon. Mahoney puffed his cigarette and thought that if he was in garrison he’d hold a few inspections and a few hours of physical training every day to whip the platoon into shape. He’d raise hell and take names, maybe bust a few corporals and Pfcs just to wake everybody up. But there was no time for that now. He had to take that pillbox before it got dark. It would be better to sneak up on it at night and take it in the morning, but Colonel Kersey wanted it tonight. He probably didn’t need it tonight, and could get it much cheaper in the morning, but orders were orders. “Oh, this fucking Army,” Mahoney muttered.
Flynn returned with Gomez, who was of average build and had a brown Mexican face. He carried a bazooka and walkie-talkie in addition to his carbine. Gomez had been with the Twenty-Third Rangers since the old days in the States, and Mahoney knew who he was. Gomez had been a corporal once but had allegedly stabbed somebody in a bar. He was said to be a good man with a knife, providing he was on your side.
“Hello there, Sergeant Mahoney!” Gomez said happily. “When you get back?”
“Just now. I’m the new platoon sergeant and you’re gonna be my runner, got the picture?”
“Sure, I got the picture. Hey, Sarge, when are we gonna go on pass! I ain’t had a pass since I can’t remember when. Hey, I need some poozy, Sarge.”
“Shut up, Gomez. I’m trying to think.”
“Hokay, Sarge.”
Mahoney took out the map of the area and looked at Hill 451. He probably could take the pillbox there with two squads but he’d need to have his flanks covered. He’d once heard General Patton give a speech in which he said: “We’re not going to worry about our flanks, let the Germans be the ones to worry about their flanks!” But Mahoney’s front-line experience told him that was bullshit. If you didn’t watch your flanks your ass was grass and the Germans had the lawnmowers.
“Gomez,” he said. “Give the bazooka to Flynn.”
“Aw, Sarge,” Flynn said. “I don’t want the damn thing.”
“Take it you little son-of-a-bitch and don’t give me no shit.”
“Aw Sarge.”
Gomez handed over the bazooka and Flynn slung it around his shoulder. Mahoney wanted his runner to travel light so that he could get where he was going faster.
“You stay close to me, got it, Flynn?”
“Okay, Sarge,”
“You’re gonna be my special bazooka-man, got it.”
“I am?” Flynn asked, delighted.
“Yeah, but you’re not going to get paid any more for it.”
Flynn didn’t know whether he’d been promoted or not. Mahoney told him to dig a foxhole six feet away and to remain alert. As Flynn was leaving Mahoney’s foxhole, Corporal Edward Cranepool came sliding in like Ty Cobb trying to steal second base.
“Hiya, Sarge!” Cranepool said happily, smacking Mahoney on the shoulder.
“Hello there, Cranepool,” Mahoney replied. “How’re you doing?”
“Oh, all right, Sarge. Gee, I was thinking that you were never going to come back.”
“I’m like a bad penny, Cranepool. I always come back.”
“How’s your leg, Sarge?”
“Just about all better.”
“You have fun in London?”
“A little. How’s everything been going out here?”
“It’s just one continual pile of shit, Sarge. We’ve been shooting and fighting day in and day out. It’s not like when we were behind the lines in France.”
“Yeah, well duty like that only comes along once in a lifetime.” Mahoney looked at the map. “Listen, we gotta knock out this pillbox here on Hill 451, see it?”
Cranepool squinted at the map. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Bulldog said to take it with two squads, but our flanks will be wide open, so we’ll have to take the whole platoon. We’ll have one squad on each flank and two squads will go right up the middle. Get the picture?”
“I got the picture, Sarge.”
Mahoney looked at Gomez. “Go get the other squad leaders.”
“Righto, Sarge.”
“And keep your fucking head down.”
“Yo.”
Gomez crawled out of the foxhole and Mahoney and Cranepool went over the map, planning their tactics for knocking out the pillbox. Mahoney glanced at his watch and it was nearly five o’clock. He didn’t have many hours left before it got dark. Gomez returned with the four squad leaders; Sergeant Franklin, Corporal Devers, Sergeant Patch, and Corporal Voukevich. Mahoney told them he was the new platoon sergeant and Cranepool was his new assistant.
“Any questions?” he asked.
None of them had any questions, so he proceeded to explain their mission to them. They’d all get into a skirmish formation with Sergeant Franklin’s first squad on the left, Corporal Devers’s and Sergeant Patch’s squads in the center, and Corporal Voukevich’s fourth squad on the right flank. Mahoney and Cranepool would be with Corporal Devers’s squad. They’d jump off at f
ive-thirty and race across the field to the river. The second and third squads would cross the river while the first and fourth squads covered them. Then the third squad would cover the second squad as it charged the pillbox, went around to the back door, and laid the TNT against the door. They’d blow the TNT, and that would be the end of the pillbox. Mahoney would radio back that the pillbox was out of action and presumably all the troops in the vicinity would advance across the river.
“Any questions?” Mahoney asked.
Nobody said anything.
“Okay,” Mahoney said, “go back to your squads and get ready.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll jump off in about fifteen minutes. Get going, and good luck.”
The squad leaders scrambled out of the foxhole, leaving Mahoney, Cranepool, and Gomez inside. Flynn was in the foxhole a few feet away, checking the sighting mechanism of the bazooka.
“Cranepool,” Mahoney said, “Go to Ordnance and get the fucking TNT.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Cranepool crawled out of the foxhole and Mahoney lit another cigarette. It would be his last one for a while, and he wished he had a cigar to chew on.
“Hey, Gomez, you got a cigar on you by any chance?”
“A cigar? What would I be doing with a cigar?”
“I don’t know. Just thought I’d ask.” Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Flynn, you got a cigar on you?”
“No, but I got the bazooka.”
“You fucking asshole.”
Mahoney puffed his cigarette and tried to work himself into a frame of mind to attack the pillbox. He wondered if this would be the mission from which they’d bring him back in a box. He wondered what Shirley was doing just then, and a homesick ache for her developed in his stomach. Three nights ago he was screwing her in a funky old hotel, and now he was sitting in the dirt with Private Gomez.
“Don’t think too much, Sarge,” Gomez said with narrowed eyes. “It’s gonna give you a headache.”
“I’m going to give you a headache if you don’t keep your mouth shut and speak only when you’re spoken to.”
“Aw c’mon, Sarge, don’t get chicken shit with me, okay?”
Mahoney looked coldly at Gomez. “Gomez, you and I are gonna have a little talk when this pillbox shit is over with.”
“Good. I like talks,” Gomez said.
“You won’t like this one, fuckhead.”
Cranepool slid into the foxhole, a young dynamo of energy and enthusiasm, which was why Mahoney liked him so much. He held up a big bulging haversack. “I got the TNT, Sarge.”
“Good going.” Mahoney looked at his watch; it was five twenty-five. “We’ve got five minutes to go,” he said. “Get ready.”
“I stay ready, Sarge.”
Mahoney looked at Gomez. “Call Bulldog and tell him we’re jumping off in five minutes.”
“Hokey-doke, Sarge.”
Gomez pressed the button on the walkie-talkie and mumbled into the mouthpiece. Mahoney took a final drag on his cigarette, and tossed it over his shoulder. He unstrapped his canteen from his waist and took a swig of water, wishing it was beer. Returning the canteen to its case, he checked his carbine and worked the bolt a few times. The adrenalin was starting to run in his body, making him a little crazy. Kill or be killed, he thought. That’s what it’s all about.
He looked at his watch, and the minute hand crept closer to five thirty in the afternoon. A light rain was falling and Mahoney wondered who was going to die today. The law of averages said that at least one person would get hit, and it most probably would be the person who wasn’t watching his ass. The front was no place for dreamers.
The minute hand touched five thirty, and it was time to go. Mahoney came up out of the foxhole with his right fist in the air, the signal for infantry attack. “Follow me!” he screamed.
He jumped out of the foxhole and ran through the woods toward the field. He saw his platoon emerge from their holes like a bunch of rats and join him in a wide skirmish line. He looked to his right and saw Cranepool with his carbine at high port arms, leaping over a bush and screaming a battle cry. The sight of that enthusiastic, bloodthirsty young trooper invigorated Mahoney, who gave a war whoop and blasted through a bush to the open field.
The woods around them erupted with the sound of machine gun and small arms fire, as the rest of the Easy Company provided cover for the Second Platoon in its three hundred yard dash in the open to the bank of the river. Gomez yelled something in Spanish and on the right flank there came a rebel yell. The platoon advanced in a long wave across the open field, and ahead of them they saw explosions on the other side of the river where the Easy Company weapons platoon was dropping in mortar rounds.
Mahoney pumped his legs and held his elbows wide. “YAHHHHHHHH!” he screamed. “BLOOD AND GUTS!”
“BLOOD AND GUTS!” echoed Cranepool, and then the rest of the platoon said it: “BLOOD AND GUTS!”
Their feet sounded like the hooves of horses as they thundered across the field. They leapt over shell craters and the bodies of dead Germans, as enemy machine guns chattered on the other side of the river, and the horrible whistling of German artillery shells started coming in on them.
Mahoney knew that German artillery was zeroed in on that field, and so did the men of the Second Platoon. They had dreaded this moment and now it had come. German artillery shells exploded in their midst, but they kept on moving, because to stop and hide was to die.
“FASTER!” Mahoney yelled. “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!”
But they weren’t almost there; they had two hundred yards to go, and these two hundred yards would be the toughest of all. An artillery shell landed on the right flank of their line, blowing three soldiers into the air. Machine-gun bullets brought down two on the left flank, and then Flynn went down screaming, trying to cover his face with his hands, a face that was spurting blood and brains, a face whose skull was flying into the air.
“KEEP MOVING!” Mahoney bellowed.
The German shells kept coming in, and Mahoney could smell the acrid gunpowder. A burst went off twenty feet in front of him and he ran through the falling hail of muck. Huge explosions rent the air on the opposite bank of the river; old Bulldog must be calling in heavy artillery from the Division. The German machine-gun fire diminished but the German artillery shells kept landing. They blanketed the entire field, but the Second Platoon was a thin green line moving steadily through it, and there were very few direct hits.
The river bank came up fast, and it had a little dirt embankment at its edge.
‘TAKE COVER!” Mahoney screamed.
The Second Platoon approached the river bank and dived behind the embankment. It was only two feet high but it was the distance between life and death. Mahoney landed against the embankment with his head and left shoulder, and as he hit and smelled the damp earth he thought of Shirley in the London hotel room. He looked to his left and right and saw his men adjusting their steel helmets and burrowing into the crannies of the embankment.
Mahoney wished he had a cigar. His heart was pumping loudly and his hands tingled with excitement. But this was no time to rest; you had to keep the momentum going.
“Gomez!” Mahoney yelled.
“I’m right here,” said a voice beside him.
“Call Bulldog and tell him to stop the artillery.”
“You got it.”
“Cranepool!”
“I’m here, Sarge.”
Mahoney looked at Cranepool, who was third man down the line on his left. “You still got the TNT?”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Stay close to me.” Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth. “When I give the word, we’re going across the river!” he yelled. The first and fourth squads will cover the second and third! Then, when we get over there, the third will cover the second, which will make the actual assault on the pillbox! Any questions?”
Nobody said anything. Mahoney jumped up and held his carbine high in the air. “UP AND AT ’
EM!” he screamed.
The Second Platoon came up from behind the embankment, jumped over it, and scrambled over its side into the river. Mahoney led the way, holding his carbine high in the air, taking huge strides across the fast-moving river, which deepened beneath his feet and soon came up to his chest.
“KEEP MOVING!” he screamed, looking ahead to the enemy shore, where American artillery shells were still falling. Mahoney hoped the artillery would stop pretty soon, because the Second Platoon would be there in a couple more minutes. He heard the steady rifle fire of the first and fourth squads, plus the chatter of their BARs. Ahead were bushes and skinny little trees. Somewhere among them were Germans in trenches, and the background was the grassy hill with the pillbox on top. “KEEP MOVING.”
The river was cold and made him shiver. It tugged at his clothes and tried to drag him downstream. German bullets blipped into the water around him, and he heard a shout from his left, turning to see a GI’s head go under, the victim of a direct hit from a German rifle. “FORWARD!” Mahoney stumbled on a rock and nearly went under himself, but regained his footing and kept moving. He saw Cranepool holding his bag of TNT high in the air and Gomez holding up the walkie-talkie. The Second Platoon climbed up the far side of the river bed, the water dropping to their waists and then their thighs. “DOUBLE-TIME!” Mahoney shouted.
They ran out of the river and the artillery bombardment of the German position stopped abruptly. All Mahoney could hear now was the steady fire of his first and fourth squads, pouring hot lead into the German position from the extreme flanks. “MARCHING FIRE!” he screamed.
They tucked their rifles against their hips or into their shoulders and marched forward in a skirmish line, firing a round every two or three steps. Advancing steadily toward the German trench emplacements, their deadly fire kept the heads of the Germans down, and then, when the Germans realized they had to fight or die, they raised their heads and got them shot off.
In front of Mahoney, three German soldiers jumped out of their hole and charged, firing their rifles from their hips. Mahoney shot one through the stomach, Gomez got one in the balls, and the third lunged at Mahoney with his rifle and bayonet, but Mahoney parried it neatly, smashing the German upside his head with his rifle butt, and the German sagged to the side, his jaw broken and blood foaming out of his mouth. He fell to the ground and Mahoney ran him through with his bayonet, placed his big foot on the German’s chest, and yanked the bayonet out.
