by Len Levinson
The second and third squads overran the German position and Mahoney ordered them to take cover. They dived into the German foxholes next to dead German soldiers and reloaded their rifles. The machine guns in the pillbox up the hill were raking them back and forth, having claimed a few victims during the river crossing, and several more in the assault on the German trenches.
Mahoney ground his teeth together and looked at his watch. It only had been five minutes since his platoon left the Easy Company position, but it seemed like hours. He took out a cigarette and lit it up, inhaling the aromatic smoke into his lungs.
“GOMEZ!” he yelled.
“Hair I am, Sarge.”
“Call the first and fourth squads and tell them to direct their fire into the pillbox!”
“Hokay Sarge.”
Mahoney took a few more puffs of the cigarette. He looked at the dead German in the foxhole with him. The German had received a bullet on his nose, and Mahoney could see his brains through the opening. Mahoney flashed on an image of himself similarly hit, and shuddered.
“SERGEANT PATCH!” Mahoney shrieked.
“I’m here, Sarge,” Patch said in his lazy Tennessee drawl.
“Open fire on the pillbox!”
“Yo.”
Mahoney heard Patch give the orders to his squad, and then the steady fire began. Then Mahoney called out to the two BAR men in the second squad, telling them to stay behind with the third squad and pour lead into the little openings in the pillbox. Mahoney took another drag on his cigarette and positioned it at the corner of his mouth. He’d like to stay and rest for a few minutes, but in an attack you had to keep pushing forward and not give the enemy a chance to do much planning.
“Where are you Cranepool?” he shouted into the evening breeze.
“Over here, Sarge.”
Mahoney peered over the top of the trench and looked at the pillbox. Its machine guns weren’t firing anymore because the German soldiers inside didn’t dare look out their peepholes, for a hail of lead was zinging through them. Mahoney remembered the pep talk he’d heard General Patton give in North Africa. Patton had said: “Grab ’em by the nose and kick ’em in the pants.” That meant that an attacking army must pin the enemy down in front with one bunch of soldiers while attacking in the rear with another bunch. Now Mahoney had the pillbox pinned down, and all that remained was to move his second squad behind it for the final kick in the pants.
“SECOND SQUAD, FOLLOW ME!” he yelled, charging out of the trench.
He veered left, jumping over smoking shell craters and the dead bodies of German soldiers. He saw arms, legs, and heads separated from their torsos, but stuff like that didn’t affect him anymore. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the second squad behind him, Cranepool carrying the TNT and Gomez with the walkie-talkie. It still was raining lightly and blood mixed with the water running in little gullies. The Fourth Division artillery had given the Germans a terrific pounding, but it had paid off. Mahoney had lost few men and now was moving steadily and resolutely toward his final objective.
The pillbox was only two hundred yards away, sitting ominously on top of the gently-sloping hill. Mahoney and the second squad circled the hill and then ran up its back, where the pillbox had no peepholes or armaments. The cigarette hung from the corner of Mahoney’s mouth and his heart chugged in his chest as he led the squad up the hill. They were almost there now. The Germans could come out the back door of their pillbox and fight them, but Mahoney had never seen that happen before and doubted whether it would now. He wondered what the Germans inside were thinking. Were they scared or did they think they were safe? Mahoney thought that pillboxes were even more dangerous to be in than tanks, because at least tanks could move. Pillboxes just sat there, big white targets, and it wasn’t that hard to knock them out if you knew what you were doing.
The second squad knew what it was doing, and Mahoney didn’t have to say a word. They rushed toward the rear of the pillbox and stopped twenty yards away, getting onto their stomachs and holding their rifles on the door in case the Germans decided to come out. Cranepool ran forward alone, his bag of TNT in his hand, crouched over and ready for anything. Cranepool dashed toward the door, laid the bag of TNT against it, opened the flap, and tripped the detonator. Then he sped away, his back arched and head low, diving head first into a little hollow on the side of the hill.
Mahoney rested his nose on the ground, putting his steel helmet between him and the TNT. He waited patiently, chewing the butt of his cigarette, it wouldn’t be long now, and BAARRROOOOMM-MMM!
The TNT went off exploding the pillbox’s back door to tiny splinters. A huge puff of smoke rose from the door and blossomed into the air. The men of the second squad had their hand grenades ready, and threw them into the opening where the door had been. The countryside resounded with the multiple explosions, and more smoke issued from the pillbox.
“UP AND AT ’EM!” Mahoney yelled.
They got to their feet and charged the rear door of the pillbox. When only ten feet away, Mahoney held out his hand, and they moved in slowly. Mahoney was the first one at the door, and peeped inside cautiously. It smelled like gunsmoke and cooked guts, and the curved walls had a red slick on them. The machine guns and artillery piece were twisted from the heat, and there wasn’t much left of the German soldiers. The only way to tell how many of them there had been was to count the mangled helmets. There were six of them. Tough shit for you, Mahoney thought.
He turned to Gomez. “Call the C.O. and tell him we’ve got the pillbox.”
“Hokey-dokey.”
“The rest of you guys take a break, but be ready for a counterattack.”
They deployed themselves on the military crest of the hill, the part that gave them full view of the rest of the hill and the fields and woods in the distance. Mahoney sauntered to the front of the pillbox and looked down at the river and American positions on the other side. Like ants, the American troops were moving forward, now that the pillbox had been knocked out. They’d keep moving forward until something else stopped them, and then they’d go over it or under it or just plain smash through it, as they made their way up the peninsula.
Mahoney returned to his skirmish line and dropped down beside Gomez. “You raise Bulldog?” he asked.
“Sure did.”
Mahoney turned to Cranepool. “Good work,” he said, slapping Cranepool on the shoulder.
Cranepool fidgeted around and blushed like a little boy. Mahoney took his binoculars out of the case and looked ahead. He saw tank tracks but no tanks, and foxholes but no Germans. Evidently the Krauts were retreating to a new defensive line, and the soldiers in and around the pillbox had been left behind to slow down the American advance. Well, they hadn’t slowed it down for long.
Mahoney raised his binoculars, and the countryside rushed past his eyes. In the distance, through the rain and mist, he thought he could see the ocean, and it looked as though a city was out there, nestled comfortably in a bay.
“I think I see a city,” Mahoney said, chewing the butt of his cigarette.
“If you do,” Cranepool replied, “it must be Cherbourg.”
Chapter Twelve
Lieutenant General Lightning Joe Collins sat behind a folding desk in a wall tent a hundred yards from a road that led to Cherbourg. It was evening, the sun having set in the west only a half-hour ago. Lightning Joe was studying reports from his front lines, piecing them together in his mind so he could have an idea of the gains his VII Corps had made that day. If he kept his present pace, he was sure he could be at the gates of Cherbourg in two days, and he thought he could reduce the garrison there in less than a week.
There was a commotion in front of the tent, and Lightning Joe looked up. One of the soldiers on guard stepped into the tent and saluted. “Colonel Kersey is here to see you, sir.”
“Send him right in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The soldier went outside, and a few seconds later Colonel Richard Kersey, t
he commanding officer of the Twenty-Third Rangers, entered the tent, his helmet under his arm. He advanced smartly to the front of Lightning Joe’s desk and threw a snappy salute.
“Colonel Kersey reporting, sir.”
“Have a seat, Kersey.”
Kersey sat on a rickety wooden chair and placed his helmet on the vacant chair beside him. He was tall and lean, with blond hair and a three-inch scar on his cheek. A graduate of West Point, he was known throughout VII Corps as a fighting fool. He watched Lightning Joe shuffle papers on his desk, evidently looking for a particular one of them. Lightning Joe’s eyeglasses glinted in the light of the kerosene lamp on his desk, and the flickering flame made eerie shadows in the corners of the tent. Kersey thought Lightning Joe looked more like a college professor than the hard-charging combat general that he was.
“Ah, here we are,” Lightning Joe said, pulling some papers and a map out of his pile. “I’ve got a special assignment for you, Kersey.”
Kersey leaned forward in his chair. “What is it, sir?”
“Come around here, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kersey walked around to the rear of the desk as Lightning Joe spread out the map. Kersey looked over Lightning Joe’s shoulder and could see that the map was of a city. At the corner of the map was scale information and the word Cherbourg.
Lightning Joe looked sideways at Kersey. “A serious problem has come up, Kersey, and you’ll have to take care of it for me.”
“What is it, sir?”
“We’ve just received word from the maquis in Cherbourg that the Germans there have devised a monstrous plan for destroying the harbor.” Lightning Joe pointed to the harbor of Cherbourg. “We knew that they had the harbor mined and that they’re demolishing the docks, but we expected that and were ready for it. Now, however, the maquis tells us that the Germans are going to do much more serious damage than we’d imagined. Bend over here, will you?”
Kersey bent over the map, and Lightning Joe pointed to the system of docks that extended into the harbor. “Like I said, we expected damage to the docks,” Lightning Joe began, “but we figured it all could be repaired within a reasonable amount of time—a few weeks or a month, let’s say. But those sneaky damned Germans are burying a network of torpedoes in the bay underneath the docks and the warehouse areas. When those torpedoes go off, they’ll not simply damage the docks but also utterly destroy the pilings underneath them and leave nothing left for us but a bay full of rubble. We had intended to have those pilings for our own use, and it’s essential that we have them to build our own docking area upon, so that we can start pouring reinforcements and supplies into France. But now it appears that we won’t be able to use the harbor for several months. It’s a very serious situation, as you can see, Kersey.”
Kersey considered the problem. “Maybe if we push hard we can take Cherbourg before the Germans finish their torpedo job.”
Lightning Joe shook his head. “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. They’ve just about got it finished. When our troops get into the city, the Krauts will throw the switch. I understand that they’ve even got networks of torpedoes in the sewer system of the entire waterfront area, so it’ll really be one helluva mess. They’ll also pour gasoline around, so there’ll be a terrific incendiary problem. What I want you to do is select as many men as you think you need and send them into Cherbourg as a special commando unit to stop the Germans from throwing that switch. Somehow they’ll have to break through enemy lines and infiltrate the city in disguise. I honestly don’t know how they’re going to do it, but they’ll have to do it anyway.”
Kersey squared his shoulders. “If it can be done, we’ll do it, sir.”
“Good man. I knew you’d say that.” Kersey bent over the map. “Do we know where that switch is?”
“Yes,” Lightning Joe said, pointing to a section of the map. “It’s in the Cherbourg fortress, right here. See it?”
Kersey squinted at the map. “Yes, sir.”
“The garrison there is commanded by Lieutenant General Wilhelm von Schlieben. We understand that the switch is in a special control room adjacent to his conference room, which is next to his office.”
“That’s going to be a tough nut to crack, sir.” Lightning Joe looked up at him. “But it’s got to be cracked anyway. The Seventh Corps is cut off from the rest of the Army right now, and the only outfit I’ve got for this type of assignment is the Twenty-Third Rangers. I spoke to General Bradley about the matter and he recommended your outfit because you’ve got some men in it who can speak German and French, and who’ve already worked behind enemy lines.”
Kersey nodded. “That’s true.”
Lightning Joe handed Colonel Kersey some papers. “Here’s the map and your complete orders. The address of the maquis headquarters in Cherbourg is in there. Your men probably will want to check with them as soon as they get into the city. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you might as well get going. You have a lot to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kersey marched in front of Lightning Joe’s desk and saluted, and Lightning Joe saluted back. Kersey did an about-face and stomped out of the tent. He walked through the mud outside and climbed into his jeep. His driver started up the engine, and the jeep sped away from VII Corps Headquarters.
Chapter Thirteen
Mahoney and Cranepool slept fitfully in their pup tent pitched beside the German pillbox they’d taken before sundown. They’d had a supper of cold Assault Rations and then wrapped themselves in their blankets and gone to sleep. They expected to attack or be attacked early in the morning, and wanted to be well rested. Other pup tents were pitched around them on the hill and down its sides. The company perimeter was patrolled by guards, but Mahoney and Cranepool didn’t pull guard duty because they were NCOs. It was still drizzling, making a steady hissing sound on their tent, but they couldn’t hear it. Cranepool dreamed of the family hog farm back in Iowa, and Mahoney was dreaming of Shirley the nurse.
Suddenly the tent flap was flung open and Bulldog Boynton came crawling in. “Get up and piss!” Boynton shouted. ‘The world’s on fire!”
Mahoney and Cranepool leapt out of their blankets and went for their guns.
“It’s only me, you assholes,” Bulldog Boynton said, chuckling.
“What’s up?” Mahoney asked.
“Colonel Kersey is here. He wants to talk to both of you.”
“What about?”
“A little job that Lightning Joe wants us to do.”
“What kind of little job?”
“You’ll find out at the meeting. It’ll be held at my command-post tent in two minutes. You’d better be there before I get back. And be ready to move out after the meeting.”
“Move out where?”
“You’ll find out at the meeting.”
Boynton backed up through the tent flaps and disappeared into the night. Mahoney and Cranepool unwound themselves from their blankets and put on their combat boots.
“If Kersey’s here, it must be something important,” Cranepool said as he tied up his laces.
“Must be,” Mahoney agreed, putting on his steel helmet.
They crawled out of the pup tent and made their way down the hill to the command-post tent, which was pitched between the foot of the hill and the river. The battleground still smelled of rotting corpses but soldiers had to get used to that on the front lines. Even though the German bodies had been buried by now, there was a finger lying behind a bush here, and an ear lying behind a rock there, and it didn’t take much to stink up an area.
They entered the command-post tent and saw Colonel Kersey bending over the map table. Mahoney and Cranepool saluted him, and he saluted back. Then he invited them to come to the map table. He was smiling and had a gleam in his eye; Mahoney always had the impression that Colonel Kersey loved war and that it was a big game to him, but a lot of officers were that way.
“The others will be
here shortly,” Kersey said in his crisp, hearty voice, leaning over the map table again. He looked at a few details of the map, and Mahoney saw that it was of Cherbourg. Then Kersey straightened up again and looked at Mahoney’s stripes. “You must be Sergeant Mahoney,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that Corporal Cranepool?”
“It is, sir.”
Kersey smiled. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you two. You did a very good job here in France, I understand.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mahoney and Cranepool said in unison.
“You’re both fluent in French and German, I’m told.”
Mahoney cleared his throat. “I’m fluent in both French and German, sir. Cranepool here’s just fluent in French.”
“That ought to do, I imagine.”
Bulldog Boynton returned to the command-post tent with ten men. Mahoney knew all of them personally or by reputation, and knew that they were probably the best men in the company. Private Gomez was among them, as was Sergeant Patch of the third squad in Mahoney’s platoon. They all saluted Colonel Kersey, who asked their names and shook their hands. Then he told them to gather around the map table, and proceeded to describe the Cherbourg situation.
The men listened grimly as they realized the nature of the mission to which they were being assigned. Colonel Kersey was a patrician from Maine, and his calm, dignified way of speaking stood out in stark contrast to the dangers he was describing.
“You’ll all proceed as follows,” Colonel Kersey said. “After this meeting you’ll exchange your uniforms for ordinary French civilian clothes. Then you’ll split up into small groups and proceed to Cherbourg. Once there you will rendezvous in the Fleur-de-Lis-Cafe on Rue Garonne, which is the headquarters for the local maquis organization. Captain Boynton will be in command of the operation, and Master Sergeant Mahoney will be second in command. You will reconnoiter the fortress that the Germans are using for their headquarters, and will break into it. I don’t know exactly how, but there has to be a way and you’ve got to find it. Once inside, you must make your way to the control room and destroy the apparatus that will detonate the torpedoes. Then you must secure yourselves in the room and hold out until the Seventh Corps arrives and takes the fortress. Any questions so far?”
