by Len Levinson
“Yes, sir.”
“That was a very brave thing to do.”
Mahoney shrugged. He was always embarrassed when people, officers especially, spoke to him about bravery and courage. He never knew what to say.
The lieutenant noticed his reticence. “What outfit are you with, Sergeant?”
“The Fifteenth Regiment of the Thirty-third Infantry Division, sir,” Mahoney replied. “In fact, I was on my way back there when these Krauts started shooting at the civilians below.”
The lieutenant smiled. “Well, I think we can provide some transportation to get you back without further delay.”
“That would be very kind of you, sir,” Mahoney replied.
Chapter Three
The jeep sped through the French countryside.
In the passenger seat sat General George S. Patton, commander of the Third Army. Only that morning he’d received an order to report to the headquarters of General Omar Bradley in Chartres, a hundred and thirty miles from his own command post at the front. Because the weather was too bad to fly, Patton was traveling by jeep.
As he held onto the windshield while the jeep bounced over rocks and holes in the road, his mouth was set in a grim straight line. In a holster at his side was the famous pearl-handled revolver, and his riding crop was in the hand holding onto the windshield. His riding boots were highly polished and his steel pot hung low over his eyes. His hair was white and he was fifty-nine years old. His complex personality combined the steely nerves of a combat soldier with the erudite mind of a scholar.
The sky was thick with ominous gray clouds and a light drizzle was falling. The jeep passed bombed-out farmhouses and entire towns reduced to rubble. Columns of soldiers were marching on the road, armored vehicles to the front. Blowing his horn, the general’s driver, Corporal Edward Dowd of Mobile, Alabama, bulled his way through the congestion. The two stars in front of the jeep, signifying top brass, guaranteed the right of way.
Patton was not dwelling on the views of the countryside. His mouth was tight as his jaw muscles worked in frustration. He knew the Germans in front of the Third Army were disorganized, already retreating in a wild rout, and he knew he could push across the Rhine and into Germany itself, ending the war in two weeks, if SHAEF would only give him the gas and supplies he needed. But they wouldn’t. There was, he’d been told, a supply crisis of some kind. And Ike was presently leaning toward a plan that would channel the precious remaining supplies to General Montgomery in the north, who wanted to make his own lightning thrust into the heart of Germany. Patton didn’t think much of Montgomery, whom he considered to be too cautious. Patton believed that the time had come to throw caution to the wind and advance boldly into Germany. He knew that if he didn’t keep the Germans continually off balance, they’d regroup and start killing his men. A golden opportunity lay before him, and Ike wouldn’t let him grasp it.
Even before the jeep screeched to a halt in front of the general’s headquarters, Patton jumped out and hastened toward Bradley’s trailer. The MPs in front saluted, and Patton glanced at his watch; it was 1245 hours. He was nearly two hours late for the meeting.
Entering the small trailer, he saw seated around the map table General Bradley, General Courtney Hodges of the First Army, Major General Hoyt S. Vandenberg of the Army Air Force, and then he sucked wind as his eyes fell on the frowning but handsome face of General Dwight D. Eisenhower himself, commander-in-chief of SHAEF. He hadn’t seen Ike in two months, and hadn’t known he would be at the meeting. Although they had once been good friends, Ike had cooled to Patton since the notorious slapping incident in Italy and Patton had concluded, after three years of war, that although the commander-in-chief was a good administrator and coordinator, he didn’t know beans about being a front-line field commander.
Shoulders squared, Patton approached the officers, holding his helmet under his arm and his riding crop in his left hand. If a stray German bomb should land on that trailer, he told himself, the top brass of the U.S. Army would be wiped out in a split second.
“Sorry to be late, gentlemen,” Patton said. “I couldn’t get a plane to fly in this weather.”
Ike nodded coldly, his blue eyes fixed on Patton. “Let’s look at the map,” he said brusquely.
The generals observed the pins outlining the forward positions of the Third Army, on the line between Verdun and Commercy.
“As you know,” Ike said, “the supply situation has become serious. The port of Cherbourg is inadequate for our purposes because it’s too far from our fronts and its capacity is limited. We need a new port, and it looks to me as though our best bet is Antwerp. That’s in General Montgomery’s zone of operations, and I’ve directed him to mount an all-out attack on Antwerp and the Pas de Calais area. To support his attack, we’ll have to divert supplies to his forces, and the First and Third Armies will have to support his flank until Antwerp is secured.”
Patton felt his frustration increase as he heard Ike’s explanation for halting the American advance and passing the ball to Monty. He glanced up at General Hodges, who was a quiet man and a good soldier, and who, he knew, would not question orders. Bradley didn’t appear very happy; he’d had plenty of time to hash the plan over with Ike, but was unable to change his mind. Patton knew he should keep his mouth shut and follow orders like the others but that wasn’t his nature.
“I have only a thin crust of enemy in front of me,” Patton said “If you’ll just let me go on, I can end the war in a couple of weeks. I don’t think we need Antwerp as much as we need a determined push into Germany, and I know the Third Army can do it. I already have patrols on the Moselle in the vicinity of Nancy, and part of my Third Cavalry has entered Metz.” Patton held out his open hand and then closed it. “Sir, victory is within our grasp. All we have to do is secure it.”
Ike raised his eyebrows. “When were you in Metz?”
“Yesterday, sir.”
“Exactly what happened?”
“We had to withdraw, sir, with not enough gas to continue the drive.”
Ike nodded. “That’s why we’ve got to clear Antwerp. We need more supplies.”
“But, sir,” Patton said, “we don’t need all that much. Give us half our usual allotment of gas, and we can smash through the Siegfried Line before the Germans have a chance to man it.”
Ike gazed at Patton. When he spoke there was a tone of weariness in his voice. “I told you that I don’t have anything more to give you.”
“But you have enough to give Monty.”
“That’s because we have to clear Antwerp.”
“If you give me what you’re going to give Monty, you won’t need Antwerp because I’ll end the war for you in two weeks. I tell you, sir, there’s nothing in front of us. We can go all the way to Berlin right now, but once we stop, the Germans will build up in front of us and the fighting will get tougher. I tell you, we have a golden opportunity before us—a rare occurrence in war. We must exploit it while we can.”
Ike smiled ruefully. “Good generals are always anxious to attack whatever’s in front of them,” he said. “Every good general always says: ‘Give me what I need and I’ll win the war for you.’ But I don’t have enough to satisfy all my generals, so I have to give everything I can to the general who can help us gain more supplies. That’s my final decision, I’m afraid. The First and Third Armies will protect Monty’s flank as he pushes toward Antwerp. You all have your orders. Any questions?”
Patton knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t. “Sir, I wonder if I might have permission to mount limited strategic attacks in front of my sector, just to keep the Germans off balance. I’m concerned that if we merely stand still, they’ll start attacking us and increase our casualties.”
The commander-in-chief nodded, his face frozen into an expression of forbearance. “All right, George,” he said. “You have my permission to do that.”
“May I cross the Moselle if I have a chance, sir?” Patton asked with a smile,
trying to grab all he could.
“The Moselle?”
Patton chuckled, trying to relieve the tension he’d caused by his argument. “Well, sir, you know as well as I do that many a battle has been lost by the army that stops on the wrong side of a river. I’d like to get my men over on the right side, if I can.”
Ike looked down at the map. He was becoming increasingly annoyed with Patton. “Okay, George,” he sighed, “you can cross the Moselle, but after that I want you to stop.”
“But I thought you said I could mount limited strategic patrols to keep the Germans off balance in front of me.”
“That still goes, George. Now may I move on with the other business of this meeting?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Patton gloated as Ike described in greater detail Montgomery’s upcoming assault on Antwerp. As far as he was concerned, he, General George S. Patton, had just received permission to continue his drive toward the Rhine, and nothing had substantially changed. All he needed now was more gasoline and if he was lucky, he might capture that from the Germans.
When the meeting was over and he got back to camp, he’d order all his divisions to move out. He’d have them advance until they ran out of gasoline, then they’d move further ahead on shoe leather. The main thing, he repeated to himself, was to stay on the attack and keep the Germans retreating—all the way back to the Rhine.
Chapter Four
It was eight o’clock in the evening when Mahoney arrived at the Prince Eugene Barracks. All day he’d been celebrating with French soldiers and civilians, who wanted to express their thanks for his one-man assault on the opera house. After the wine, champagne, and Calvados, he was quite thoroughly drunk. Surely he must have shaken hands with every officer in the French Army, and they’d promised him all kinds of medals. He had danced with the wives of officers and accepted the blessings of priests. It had been one hell of a day.
The jeep, driven by a French soldier, stopped in front of a building flying the flags of the 33rd Division and 15th Regiment. Lights were bright in all the windows, soldiers were dispersed on the lawns, carrying equipment and footlockers, and the streets were filled with vehicles. Something, Mahoney realized, was up.
“Au revoir, Mahoney,” said the French driver. “Good luck.”
“You, too,” Mahoney replied, shaking his hand.
Mahoney got out of the jeep. He stood unsteadily before the headquarters building as the jeep drove away. He inhaled deep draughts of the cool night air and tried to sober up. More than anything, he wanted to collapse on a bunk somewhere but first he’d have to report in and be assigned a bunk. His regular unit was Charlie Company of the First Battalion, but he’d been transferred to Headquarters Company at regiment and then sent on temporary liaison duty with the French division that liberated Paris.
He hadn’t been in the 15th Regiment for ten days. He wished he could make a more respectable reappearance, but the French had insisted that he get drunk with them, and he felt it would be damaging to Franco-American relations if he refused. He hoped Colonel Simpson would understand his predicament.
Mahoney stumbled up the sidewalk to the steps of the headquarters building. Soldiers were running in and out of the door and, boozily, Mahoney kept wondering what all the fuss was about. The regiment, he figured, must be preparing to move out within the next few hours.
He climbed the steps and entered the office. Master Sergeant Renfrew, sergeant major of the regiment, looked up from his desk.
“Mahoney!” he bellowed. “Where the hell have you been?”
Mahoney tried to snap to attention but nearly fell on his face. “I was on liaison duty with the French, Sergeant.”
“I know that, but what took you so long to get back?”
Mahoney shook his head and sighed. “You wouldn’t believe it, Sergeant.”
Renfrew squinted. “Are you drunk, Mahoney?”
“Who, me?”
“For Christ’s sake, you smell like a goddamn brewery. You’d better not go in to see the colonel like this.”
“I think you’re... right about that, Sarge.”
Renfrew lit a cigarette. “This is a hell of a thing. You’re supposed to set a good example for the rest of the men, but look at you—you’re rotten, stinking drunk!”
“I’m not that drunk,” Mahoney said, slurring every other word.
“You’d better find a bunk someplace and get some rest. We’re moving to the front first thing in the morning.”
“I figured something... was up, “Mahoney said. He burped. “Shouldn’t I report back to Charlie Company?”
“I don’t have time to cut the orders. Go get some sleep someplace and I’ll work on the transfer later. Most of us will be up all night getting the regiment ready to move to the front, and some will be fucked up out of their minds and unable to do their share of the work. I’m surprised at you, Mahoney. I expected more of you than this.”
“The French Army is gonna give me a medal,” Mahoney said proudly.
“For what—drinking up all the booze in Paris? Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper!”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Mahoney did an about-face, nearly crashed into a file cabinet, and marched crookedly out of the orderly room.
The Hammerhead Division moved out of Paris at the crack of dawn. As the trucks and tanks rumbled through the streets, a few early risers looked at them with curiosity, then shrugged and went about their business, for troop movements through Paris were no novelty.
The 15th Regiment rolled east on the Rue Lafayette, and in one of the Headquarters Company trucks, Mahoney sat on the bench holding a carbine between his knees and looking sleepily out of the truck at the beautiful old buildings of Paris and the Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the pale sky. A cigar was stuck in his mouth and he puffed on it sadly, for he knew he would never forget Paris and the good times he’d had there. He’d been drunk almost continually and had fucked like a maniac. It had been a wonderful respite from the war.
But now the party was over and he was on his way back to the front to be a soldier again. The scuttlebutt was that the Hammerhead Division would rejoin Patton’s Third Army and make a mad charge to the Rhine. Mahoney only hoped he’d survive this mad charge as he’d survived so many others.
His steel pot was perched on the back of his head, and his eyes were bloodshot. He had not only a headache but nausea, on account of all the booze he’d drunk the day before. I’ve got to pull myself together, he thought. I can’t go to war like this.
“Hey, Sarge,” said a young Pfc, pinching his nostrils with his fingers, “can’t you do something about that cigar?”
“You don’t like it, get the hell out and walk,” Mahoney grumbled, puffing away.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, the truck convoy turned off the road into a muddy field. A light rain was falling and Mahoney looked out from the back of the truck to see vehicles stretching across the field like the tail of a snake. Suddenly all the trucks stopped.
“Everybody out!” shouted Master Sergeant Renfrew.
The tailgates were let down and the soldiers piled out of the trucks. Mahoney, wearing a full field pack, landed heavily in the mud. He adjusted the weight on his back. He saw Headquarters Company forming into platoons and didn’t know which one to join because until last night he’d never spent any time in a Headquarters Company barracks or made any Headquarters Company formations. As he joined the rank at the rear of the fourth platoon, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, he saw that a mess tent had been set up a short distance away. The company cooks had obviously arrived a few hours ago and were getting ready to serve a hot meal. Mahoney salivated at the thought of hot food; he hadn’t eaten since leaving Paris.
Sergeant Renfrew put the company through a roll call, then told them the battalion would move up to the line after chow and cross the Moselle River that night. This information didn’t cause much of a disturbance in Headquarters Company, because
all of its personnel were specialists in communications, supply, intelligence, and related fields; they were not combat troopers. If German soldiers managed to overrun the American front lines, Headquarters Company might be in a little trouble, but there was plenty of transportation and all personnel could get away quickly.
Renfrew instructed Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney to report to him immediately after the formation, then dismissed the company for chow.
Mahoney ambled toward Renfrew, who was writing on his clipboard while his company clerk held a poncho up to keep the drizzle off the paper, for it had begun to rain. “What’s up, Renfrew?” Mahoney asked.
“You’re going back to Charlie Company, Mahoney,” Renfrew said. “Your vacation with headquarters is over. Turnbull here will give you your orders.”
Renfrew pointed in a vague southerly direction. “Charlie Company’s over there ... I think.”
“Do you mind if I eat before I go?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“See you around, Renfrew.”
“Go slow, Mahoney.”
Mahoney followed Turnball, the company clerk, to one of the trucks. It was filled with footlockers and communications equipment. The clerk opened one of the footlockers and took out a manila envelope.
“Here are your orders,” he said. “Take them back to Charlie Company. They should be expecting you.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
Mahoney stuffed the envelope into his shirt pocket and took off his field pack. He took out his mess gear, put the pack on again and walked toward the chow line. Sergeants could buck the line so he went up front, and a Pfc stepped aside so Mahoney could enter the tent.
He passed through the line, holding out his mess kit, and the cooks slopped creamed beef on toast into it. Throughout the Army, this was the dish known as “shit on a shingle” and it was one of Mahoney’s favorites. He couldn’t understand why most of the soldiers didn’t like it, figuring their tastes were too high-falutin’ for their own good.
