Hell Harbor

by Len Levinson

  “If I did I would have told you. There aren’t supposed to be very many Krauts in this area so I wouldn’t be surprised if that tank’s the only thing around.”

  “Hmmm,” Boynton said. “I guess we’ll have to go around them. He pointed to the right of the clearing. “I guess that way.”

  “Hey,” Cranepool said, “why don’t we steal the tank?”

  Boynton scowled at him, “Steal the tank?”

  “It’ll be a lot easier going in a tank,” Cranepool said. “The Krauts’ll think we’re one of them.”

  “You know,” Mahoney said, “I think the kid’s got something there, because if we go around the tank we’ll probably bump into another German troop unit sooner or later, but if we’re in the tank, nobody will know it’s us.”

  Boynton shrugged. “A tank is an awfully big and slow target, Mahoney.”

  “Listen Boynton,” Mahoney said, “nobody hates tanks more than me. I’d rather be anything than a tanker, but this is different. We’ve got to get to Cherbourg and it’ll be easier in a tank. The Krauts will never suspect we’re inside.”

  “Maybe not,” Boynton said, “but do we know how to drive a tank?”

  “I do,” Cranepool said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How come?”

  “I fooled around with a few of them when I was in Italy.”

  “The kid’s very good with machinery,” Mahoney said. “He can drive anything.”

  Boynton thought for a few moments. “Okay, I guess we’ll get us a tank. I suppose the best way is to circle around and take them from behind, right?”

  “That’s right, and we’ve got to be especially careful of that guard, wherever he is.”

  Boynton pulled out his Colt .45. “We’d better check our weapons now, because we’ll make too much noise once we’re in those woods.”

  They took out their .45s and made sure they were loaded and ready to go. Then they began crawling through the field to the right side of the small wooded area, moving noiselessly, spaced six feet apart with Boynton in the middle and slightly ahead of them. They rounded the side of the woods, crawled to the back, and on a signal from Boynton, moved into the woods. Slowly, the anxiety building within them, they crawled closer to the tank and the Germans. Finally, they saw the hulk of the tank, a black mechanical monster silhouetted against the gray sky. The German tankers sat beside it, talking in low voices. Occasionally one of them would laugh.

  Boynton motioned with his hand for Mahoney and Cranepool to come closer. They did, and he whispered: “When we get within about ten feet of them, we’ll charge. Cranepool and I will handle the three beside the tank and Mahoney will take care of the guard. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Let’s go.”

  They crawled forward again, being especially careful not to make any noise. Mahoney’s knee came to rest on a twig, and it cracked loudly.

  “Was war den das!” a German exclaimed.

  “GET ’EM!” said Bulldog Boynton.

  They leapt to their feet and charged the Germans, firing their Colt .45s as they went. The Germans went for their submachine guns, but they didn’t have a chance. Boynton shot one in the chest, pivoted quickly, and got another in the face. Cranepool pumped two fast rounds into the lungs of the third German, and Mahoney, dashed to the far side of the clearing, ready to catch the guard. He held his Colt .45 in both hands for steadier aim. The guard came meekly through the bushes, his hands up. “I surrender!” he screamed.

  Mahoney shot him between the eyes. The .45 slug made a little hole going in, but tore away the entire back of the German’s skull on its way out. The German dropped to his knees, a surprised look on his face. Then his eyes glazed over and he plopped forward. Mahoney looked down at him, saw the brains and skull bones. Sometimes you can’t take prisoners, and this was one of those times.

  Mahoney picked up the German’s submachine gun and returned to the clearing. The other three Germans were sprawled all around, covering the ground with their blood. They had been having a friendly little bullshit session and now they all were dead.

  Boynton worked the bolt of the submachine gun he’d picked up. “Cranepool, get in that fucking thing and see if you can start it up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cranepool jumped onto the rear deck of the tank and advanced toward the main hatch. He climbed down the ladder into the bowels of the tank, and it smelled like warm engine oil. It was a Mark IV Panzer tank and he’d been in one before. He lit a match and found the switch beside the control panel, turning on the inside night lights. Sitting in the pilot’s chair, he pushed the lever that turned on the engine’s electrical system, then pressed the button that sent energy to the starting motor. The tank motor turned and the diesel engines kicked in. He looked through the slits in front of him and could see the woods. Two big levers came out of the floor in front of him. One engaged the right tread and the other the left tread. If both of them were pushed forward, the tank would move ahead in a straight line.

  Boynton and Mahoney came down the ladder. “I see you got the thing going,” Boynton said.

  “There’s nothing to it,” Cranepool replied nonchalantly.

  “The sooner we get out of here the better,” Boynton said. “Mahoney, you man the cannon, and I’ll take one of these damned machine guns.”

  Mahoney pulled shut the hatch over his head and sat behind the cannon. Artillery shells were piled neatly in racks beside him. He looked through the sighting device and saw the woods in front of him calibrated in degrees.

  They put on headsets so they could talk with each other above the roar of the engine. Cranepool pushed the left lever forward, and the tank turned around. When it was pointed in the direction he wanted to go, he pushed the other lever forward. The treads gripped the ground and the tank moved out, rumbling across the woods, rocking and rolling around. Cranepool looked at the gas gauge and it told him he had half a tank left, but he didn’t know what that meant in miles. The American Sherman tank got four gallons to the mile, and he thought this tank probably would burn gas at approximately the same rate.

  The tank rolled out of the woods and across the field, churning up mud and grass. Cranepool steered in the direction of Cherbourg, hoping he could find a road soon. The tank went up and down hills, and around the islands of trees. The heat from the engine filled the tiny compartment, and they started to sweat. Mahoney took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He took a cigarette out and lit it up. His watch said it was five o’clock in the morning. Soon it would be light, but Cherbourg couldn’t be very far away.

  Finally they came to a narrow little road. Boynton told Cranepool to stop the tank so he could go topside and take a look. Cranepool brought the iron contraption to a halt and Boynton went up the ladder. He opened the hatch and emerged into the cool night air. He took a deep breath and looked around, listening to the sounds of battle which were now extremely close, probably not more than a few miles away.

  Mahoney poked his head up through the hatch. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Cherbourg’s somewhere over there,” Boynton said, pointing to shell bursts on the horizon.

  Mahoney looked. “We should be there before long.”

  “That means we’ll be running into Germans before long, too.”

  “We’ll just keep on going. Fuck ’em.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Mahoney. You don’t give a shit.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” Mahoney said, getting down into the tank again.

  Boynton followed him down and got into the seat behind one of the machine guns. “Move it out, Cranepool.”

  “Which way, sir?”

  “The way to Cherbourg.”

  “But I meant how did you want me to get there?”

  “You’re the driver; you tell me!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cranepool thought that if he was going to become an officer someda
y, he’d better learn how to take responsibility and make fast decisions on the spot. Pushing forward both of the control levers, the tank began moving down the road again, but the road didn’t appear to be moving in the direction of Cherbourg. Maybe it was going to some goofy little fishing town or resort. Since there was no road visible that went to Cherbourg, Cranepool decided to make his own road. He tugged the left lever back, slowing the left treads of the tank. The right treads pushed the tank around in the direction of Cherbourg and then Cranepool pushed the left lever forward again.

  The tank moved off the road and into a field, rocking back and forth. Mahoney held onto his seat and decided it was time to use the straps and tie himself in.

  “Where the fuck you going!” Boynton bellowed.

  “To Cherbourg, sir!”

  Boynton grumbled as he strapped himself to his seat. Cranepool was already strapped in. He was thinking how wonderful it would be if he could own a tank like this in Iowa and be able to drive around and scare the shit out of everybody. If he ever had any ornery neighbors he’d just go over and drive through their house.

  He drove around an island of trees, and on the other side of it saw a house. The tank passed the house and came to a road that was covered with truck and tank tracks, and appeared to go toward Cherbourg. He got on the road and drove toward the city. Soon he came to an intersection, and decided to go left. He rolled along for a while longer, came to another intersection, and took a right. The houses were closer together now, and there were shell craters in the road and on the lawns of the houses. He passed a house that had been hit by a bomb, and then noticed a column of soldiers up ahead.

  “Soldiers up ahead!” Cranepool said.

  Boynton looked through the slits on top of the machine gun. He estimated about two companies of soldiers. “Just keep going and don’t stop for anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Behind the cannon, Mahoney was becoming a little claustrophobic. It was hot in the confined space and his cigarette smoke wasn’t helping any. He wondered what would happen if somebody got wise and fired an anti-tank gun at the tank. Shivering, he saw himself roasting alive, his blood bubbling under his skin, his nose melting and his brain exploding.

  “Captain Boynton,” he said, “maybe it’s time to stop this tank and get the fuck out of it.”

  “What the hell for? It sure beats walking.”

  “But we’re already in Cherbourg almost. Somebody might notice us.”

  “They’ll notice us quicker if we’re outside and moving on foot. I thought you’re the one who wanted to steal the tank in the first place.”

  “That was Cranepool.” Mahoney stomped out one cigarette on the floor and reached for another.

  “But you backed him up on it,” Bulldog Boynton said. “Shut up and keep your eyes peeled, and for Christ’s sake stop smoking. My eyes are watering enough as it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mahoney mumbled, putting the cigarette back into his pack. He decided that he didn’t like to go out on operations with an officer. He liked to be in charge himself. Maybe he should go to OCS with Cranepool and become an officer too.

  He looked through the sighting mechanism of the cannon and could see Cherbourg. He could even make out the spires of churches and windows in the big buildings. It was dawn and the city smoked and festered in a gray haze. Shells were falling on it, but not in any great number. The heavy shelling was back down the peninsula, where the American VII Corps was mangling the Germans and pushing them back.

  The tank came to an intersection and had to stop for a tank battalion moving south down the peninsula. The Germans must be sending in their Panzer reserves, Mahoney thought. They must be in a bad way. The tank battalion passed without incident, followed by three companies of soldiers in columns of twos. The soldiers trudged along with their heads down, probably half asleep. They slogged through the mud on their way to the front and none of them wondered about the lone tank sitting patiently on the east side of the intersection.

  The soldiers cleared the intersection and Cranepool pushed both levers forward. The tank shuddered and moved ahead, crossing the intersection and heading toward Cherbourg. They came to a river fifty yards wide; a bridge spanned it. Cranepool crossed the bridge and entered the city limits of Cherbourg.

  “I think we’re here,” Boynton said. “Find a quiet street someplace and drive onto it so we can get out of this fucking thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cranepool took his first left to get off the main street he was on. He was nervous now because he knew the city was a German stronghold. Looking through the turret, he saw that the streets were deserted, and that made sense to him. Most of the German soldiers would be at the front or on their way there, and the citizens of Cherbourg probably were in their cellars or down in the sewers, praying for the end of the war.

  “Listen,” Cranepool said. “I can see in front of me but I can’t see to the side unless I turn the turret around, and that might not be a good idea. Why don’t one of you two go up and see what’s out there?”

  “I’ll go,” said Mahoney, anxious for a breath of fresh air.

  “I’m closer, I’ll go,” Boynton declared.

  Boynton went up the ladder and turned the little wheel in the hatch. He pushed the hatch open and peeked outside. The only living creature he could see was an alley cat cowering beside the drainpipe of a building. The tank was headed down a side street and there were other lesser streets running down it.

  “Move ahead,” Boynton called down to Cranepool. “I’ll tell you when to turn left.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cranepool pushed the levers forward and the big tank rolled on. As it approached the first intersection, Boynton told him to turn right. Cranepool pulled back on the right lever and the tank rumbled around the corner. He straightened the tank out and rolled down the center of the street.

  “Stop about halfway down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Boynton retreated into the body of the tank and closed the hatch above him. Now he had a decision to make, and wasn’t sure of what to do.

  “Hey, Mahoney,” he said, “do you think we should just abandon the tank or blow it up.”

  “Blow it up,” Mahoney said without hesitation.

  “But we might kill some civilians.”

  “If we don’t blow it up, this tank might wind up killing some Americans.”

  “You rig the demolition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mahoney took the artillery shells out of their racks and laid them on the floor of the tank, where they made a large messy pile.

  “Okay, let’s get out,” Mahoney said. “When you’re clear of the tank, run like a son of a bitch.”

  Boynton climbed the ladder and peeked out of the hatch. There wasn’t a soul in sight. “Let’s go!” he said.

  He pulled himself out of the tank, jumped from the deck, and ran toward an alley. Cranepool was next, bounding out of the tank like a jungle cat, and following Boynton in the dash toward the alley. Mahoney was last and he paused in the tank’s hatch. He took a hand grenade out of his pocket, pulled the pin, and placed it between his legs in such a way that the lever wouldn’t spring open. Then he took out another hand grenade and pulled the pin. He dropped both hand grenades into the tank, where they landed on top of the artillery shells. Now he had four to six seconds to get away. He jumped off the tank and ran toward a telephone pole, diving behind it and hugging the sidewalk.

  The tank exploded violently, shooting shards of steel and red bolts of fire in all directions. The concussion caved in the front of the old apartment building next to the tank, and that brought the roof crashing down through a few of the floors. The street was filled with dust and smoke, and Mahoney thought it was time to get the hell out of there. He jumped up and ran into the alley where Boynton and Cranepool were.

  “Nice work,” Boynton said.

  “Yeah,” agreed Cranepool, his eyes glittering with excitement.

&
nbsp; “Let’s get out of here,” Mahoney said.

  The narrow dank alley led to another street, and they walked quickly to it, peering around the corner to make certain there was nobody on the street, and then stepping onto it like three ordinary civilians.

  They made their way through the early morning streets, heading toward the Fleur-de-Lis Cafe on Rue Garonne. Day was dawning on Cherbourg, but clouds covered the sky and made the city look dark and glum. They passed buildings gutted by direct hits from bombs or artillery shells, and some buildings had only one or two walls standing. There was no civilian traffic on the streets and only occasionally would they see a German kubelwagen or truck. On the wide Rue Marceau, the colonnades of trees wore lush bonnets of green leaves, and Mahoney thought that Cherbourg must have been a beautiful city before the war, but in a few days when the VII Corps got closer, there might not be very much left of it.

  On the Rue Garonne they passed a housewife wearing a kerchief on her head and carrying an empty market basket. An old man came out of a door, stretching and looking fearfully at the three men walking toward him. A stray dog was shitting in the gutter. Cherbourg was waking up.

  They found the Fleur-de-Lis Cafe; it had a little sign in front and three steps leading down from the sidewalk to a door. Descending the steps, they tried the door, but it was locked. Mahoney knocked on it, and no one responded.

  “Try it again,” Boynton said.

  Mahoney knocked harder, hoping someone would answer because he didn’t feel like hanging around the streets of Cherbourg for a few hours. The Krauts would be out in full force pretty soon.

  The door was opened by a stout man with drooping walrus mustaches, wearing a filthy apron. “We’re closed,” he said.

  “Rabouilleuse,” said Mahoney, which was the password Colonel Kersey had told them to use. It was the French word for lamb.

  “Come in quickly,” said the Frenchman.

  They ducked into the door, and he slammed it behind him, flipping the latches. “My name is Lousteau,” he said.

  Mahoney, Boynton, and Cranepool introduced themselves, glancing around the small dark room filled with tables that had chairs around them. Burnt-out candles were in holders on the tables, along with ashtrays and a few dirty glasses. Paintings of the harbor and fishing-boat scenes were on the walls.