by Len Levinson
He also got a few slices of white bread, some carrots that had been boiled beyond all reason, and peaches out of a can. After the cook at the end of the line filled his cup with coffee, Mahoney went outside to enjoy his meal.
Although raindrops were falling into his food, Mahoney was used to that. He found the lee side of a truck and sat on his heels. Leaning against a rear wheel, he proceeded to scoop food into his mouth. Some headquarters soldiers were eating nearby, but Mahoney didn’t join their conversation or act too friendly. Although aware that front-line soldiers needed support personnel, he had the combat soldier’s standard disdain for rear-echelon troops. The support personnel weren’t in the exclusive club he belonged to, the fellowship of the front lines, and they were a bunch of sissies as far as Mahoney was concerned. The only support personnel he liked were the combat medics, who were right up there with the riflemen, dodging bullets, facing death at every turn.
“What shit this chow is,” complained a pimpled Pfc a few feet away. “These cooks would fuck up a wet dream.”
Mahoney grunted as he spooned down his shit on a shingle. The way most of the G.l.s talked, he thought, you’d think they were used to eating in the finest restaurants in the world, when in fact they all were a bunch of clerks, farm boys, factory workers, and ex-hoodlums who were lucky if they got anything to eat at all. If that kid was in his platoon, Mahoney decided, he would exile him to KP for a few weeks to straighten him out a little. He himself had a right to put down the Army, because he was a combat soldier, but these rear-echelon scumbags had it so easy he didn’t think they had any right to complain at all.
He finished his chow, gulped down his coffee (it reminded him of kerosene), and went to the big G.I. cans filled with hot water to wash his mess kit. After finishing that little task, he put his mess gear away, lit a cigarette, and trudged onward toward Charlie Company.
Chapter Five
At Hitler’s headquarters in Rastenburg, General Alfred Jodl led the two officers through the dark corridors. Their boots sounded sharply on the wooden-planked flooring, and their shoulders were squared, for they were on their way to a meeting with the Fuehrer himself.
Hitler’s chief-of-staff, Jodl was a tall man with a long face and jug ears. Behind him were General Hermann Balck, the brilliant commander of the Fourth Panzer Army on the Eastern Front, and Major General Friedrich Wilhelm von Mellenthien, his chief of staff. Balck, a vain, egotistical man, was considered the best field commander in the German Army now that Rommel was out of action.
The group of three approached Hitler’s office. Seated at the desk beside the door was Gerda Daranowsky, attractive, ebullient and one of Hitler’s secretaries. Before becoming smitten with National Socialism and securing a job with her Fuehrer, she had worked for Elizabeth Arden. Looking up at the approaching generals, she motioned for them to enter the inner sanctum to the presence of Adolf Hitler.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said.
Jodl opened the door and the three generals entered. Hitler was seated behind a huge mahogany desk, eyeglasses low on his nose, reading the latest communiqués. Through rheumy eyes he watched the generals draw near him. His mustache was streaked with gray and his face deeply lined. He looked, Jodl thought, like an old man, and his right hand trembled from injuries sustained during the abortive bomb plot of July 20.
The generals raised their right arms. “Heil Hitler!”
Hitler showed them the palm of his hand and looked at them glumly.
“Please be seated,” he said.
The generals sat, assuming poses that would make them appear alert and thoughtful.
Fifty-one years old, Balck was blond, with the sensitive features of a poet. Mellenthien was dark and stocky, only four years younger than his commander.
Hitler gazed into Balck’s eyes. “The situation on the Western Front is becoming most grave. Due to poor leadership, our lines have collapsed. Very little ground stands between the Allied armies and the borders of the Reich. Therefore, General Balck, I have decided to transfer you to the Western Front to stem the tide there. You will receive twenty new divisions and anything else you require. Your mission is to stop the Allies there so that in the months to come we can deliver a crushing defeat. You see, General Balck, I am planning a major offensive against the Allies that will change forever the course of this war. I cannot tell you much about this offensive right now, but I guarantee that it will break the back of the Allies. However, I will need time to mount this offensive, and that is why it is imperative that you organize the Western Front and stop the Allied advance. Any questions?”
Balck was stunned. He had never imagined being transferred from the Vistula, where he had been so successful. “Do I understand correctly that I am replacing Field Marshal von Runstedt?” he said.
“You are not to understand that at all,” Hitler retorted. “Field Marshal von Runstedt will remain as commander-in-chief of all German armies in the west, and you will report directly to him. I hereby appoint you as commander of Army Group G in the south of France, replacing Colonel General Blaskowitz. I consider this the most important command in the west, because opposite you is the greatest commander and tactician our enemies have yet produced, General George S. Patton. He attacks like a tornado, and employs armor with the skill of a German panzer general.”
Hitler paused, raised his good arm and pointed at Balck. “You must stop him. The fate of the Reich depends on you. You must not fail. Are there any questions?”
General Balck sat more erectly, for he was aware that he was being moved by Hitler to the center stage of History. “You can rely on me, Mein Fuehrer,” he said with passion, for he believed with all his heart and soul in the principles of National Socialism.
“Excellent,” replied Hitler with a faint smile. “I knew I could rely on you.”
“When do I start, Mein Fuehrer?”
“At once. As you leave, General Jodl will give you and your chief-of-staff a complete detailed briefing. That is all.”
The three generals jumped to their feet and rendered the Hitler salute.
When Hitler was alone again, he drummed his fingers on the desk and looked at the papers before him. Because he was so tired, they blurred before his eyes. Since the attempt on his life, he hadn’t been feeling well and disheartening news seemed to arrive with every message dropped on his desk.
But now, he thought, if Balck could stop the hard-driving Patton, he could plan and execute his huge offensive in the west. Balck was just the man to do it. Of course Blaskowitz could have done it too, but Blaskowitz had talked back to him twice, and Hitler didn’t like people who talked back to him. His future plans required generals who were completely obedient, for his genius had brought great victories to the Reich in the past, and he knew he could do it again. All he needed were generals who followed orders like Balck, and sufficient replacements for those who at that moment were rushing into position
opposite General Patton’s Third Army on the banks of the Moselle River …
The First Battalion was bivouacked in a forest not far from the river, and Charlie Company was on the left side of the line, digging foxholes and building fortifications. Already, Mahoney could hear an artillery barrage in the direction of the Moselle. He trudged over wet leaves toward the command post. He figured that division artillery was pounding the Germans on the other side and he couldn’t understand why the Germans weren’t pounding the Hammerhead Division in like fashion. Was it possible that the rumors were true and that Germany was finished? Was it even feasible that the war could be over in a few weeks?
Mahoney entered the command-post tent to see some unfamiliar faces. There were a new company clerk and a new first sergeant. Personnel were being killed, wounded, and transferred so quickly in Charlie Company he couldn’t keep track of them.
“What can I do for you?” said the new first sergeant, a bony man with bags under his eyes. Because he looked pale and sickly, Mahoney figured he was fresh out of a hospital.
He dropped his orders on the first sergeant’s desk. “I used to be in this company and now I’m transferred back.”
The first sergeant grunted, opened the manila envelope, took out the orders and records. Eyebrows raised, he began reading.
“So you’re Mahoney, huh?” he asked in a gravelly voice. “I heard a lot about you. In fact, I lost fifty dollars because of you.”
Mahoney nodded.
The first sergeant smiled. “I bet on Kowalski, and you knocked him out in the fourth round.” He was referring to the bout in which Mahoney became the heavyweight champion of Hammerhead Division.
“Sorry about that,” Mahoney said.
The first sergeant held out his hand. “My name’s Tweed.”
Mahoney shook his hand. “Hiya.”
“That’s Pfc. Drago over there.”
Mahoney waved to the new company clerk. “How ya doin’?”
“Hiya.” Drago waved back.
Tweed picked up Mahoney’s records. “I’ll take this in to the old man.”
“What’s his name?” Mahoney asked.
“Captain Todd Anderson. He just got here a few days ago.”
“Whatever happened to Captain Kirk?”
“He stepped on a mine. Lost his leg. He’s back in the States now.”
Tweed carried Mahoney’s orders through a flap in the tent and returned several seconds later.
“The old man wants to see you.”
Mahoney took off his helmet and held it under his arm. He entered the office of the new company commander. Approaching the youthful man sitting behind the desk, he stopped, saluted, and said: “Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney reporting for duty, sir.”
The young officer returned the salute and said: “Sit down, Mahoney.” He had straw-colored hair and a few pimples on his face. Mahoney guessed his age at around twenty-one.
Where do they get them so young? Mahoney wondered, as he sat down and crossed his legs. He wished Captain Kirk hadn’t been wounded. Kirk, a West Pointer, had been a very sharp officer, not an asshole like so many company commanders.
“Well,” said Captain Anderson, after looking through Mahoney’s records, “you’ve really been around the Army.”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said.
“That’s good, because I’ll need as much experience around me as I can get, since I don’t have so much myself.”
Mahoney thought it a good sign when officers were able to admit their shortcomings. Some of them behaved like gods, and to show their omnipotence, they liked to send their men into impossible situations.
“I’m sure you’ll learn fast, sir,” Mahoney said.
“Let’s hope so. Well, you’ve only been gone for a while, but there’ve been a lot of changes. I don’t know whether Sergeant Tweed has told you or not, but Captain Kirk and Sergeant Botcho were both wounded on the way to Paris. We’re below strength in the manpower department and low on supplies in every other department. I think I’ll give you the First Platoon.”
“I’ve got a real close buddy of mine in that company,” Mahoney replied. “I’d like to be in his platoon if that could be worked out.”
“You mean Corporal Cranepool?”
Mahoney blinked. “How did you know?”
Captain Anderson smiled. He looked like a kid. “I’ve spoken with Cranepool a few times and he’s mentioned you to me. He said he hoped I’d reassign you to his platoon when you came back, because you and he had been together for most of the war.”
“Since Italy,” Mahoney said. “He’s a damn fine soldier, although he’s kinda young.” Mahoney realized at once that he’d said the wrong thing. Captain Anderson was no older than Cranepool; in fact they looked somewhat alike. Cranepool was less gawky and more angelic-looking, but otherwise they could have been relatives.
Captain Anderson grinned, noticing Mahoney’s discomfort. “That’s all right, Sergeant,” he said, “I know that I’m young and don’t have much experience. But I’m going to do the best job I can, and I expect the same from you. I don’t know if Sergeant Tweed mentioned it or not, but we’re crossing the Moselle tonight.”
“If we’re going across the Moselle tonight, why are the men digging in out there sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Because it’s a good idea at all times to be ready for counterattacks.”
“From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t seem as though the Krauts could put together a counterattack at this point.”
“I think it’s best to be prepared, Sergeant. I don’t want to lose anybody if we don’t have to, and I don’t want to give up any ground that we don’t have to.”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said, because he didn’t want to argue. He didn’t see the point in wearing the men out before the attack, but Captain Anderson would learn such things as he went along. It was better to have a C.O. who was too cautious than one who took too many chances.
“If you have no further questions, you can leave for the first platoon, Sergeant.”
“I have no further questions, sir.”
“Then carry on.”
Mahoney stood, saluted, and left.
“You know where the first platoon is?” Mahoney asked Drago, because Tweed had gone.
“They should be up on the point, Sarge. I’d say they’re thataway.” He pointed to the front and left of the CP.
Mahoney put his full field pack back on his shoulders and slung on his carbine. He stepped out of the tent into the drizzle and turtled his head into the collar of his field jacket to keep the water off his neck.
The grounds echoed with the sound of shovels digging into dirt and striking stones. The soldiers cursed, gave orders, and complained. As Mahoney pushed through the bushes wet leaves soaked through his fatigue pants to his skin. He came to a mortar squad, asked the direction of the first platoon.
“Up there,” a few men said in unison.
Mahoney followed the direction of their pointed fingers and after a while he came to some men putting logs over a slit trench. “This the First Platoon?” Mahoney asked.
“Sure is,” said a Pfc.
“You know where Corporal Cranepool is?”
“He should be over there,” the Pfc said, pointing.
Mahoney continued walking and soon came to a slit trench covered with tent halves. He jumped into the trench and saw seven men huddled together in their crude shelter, sitting on their heels and smoking cigarettes. One of them was drinking from a bottle of Calvados.
“Corporal Cranepool around here?” Mahoney asked.
“Mahoney!” shouted Cranepool, who was in the middle of the group of soldiers. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!”
Cranepool stepped forward and held out his hand. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and the smell of Calvados was strong on his breath. When Mahoney first met him, Cranepool neither smoked, drank nor screwed whores. Now Cranepool was as raunchy as any other G.I., and Mahoney honestly didn’t know whether to feel pleased or saddened.
“Hiya, kid,” Mahoney said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay, Sarge, how’s it going with you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Come on in here. We got room.”
Mahoney took off his pack and leaned it against the side of the trench with the other packs. He unslung his carbine and carried it underneath the crude shelter, where the men quickly made room for him. When the bottle of Calvados was passed, he took a swig.
“This here’s Sergeant Mahoney,” Cranepool said, “the guy I’ve been telling you about. He’s the heavyweight champion of the Hammerhead Division.”
“Hiya, boys,” Mahoney said. “Anybody got a cigar?”
They shook their heads; nobody had one. Mahoney took out a cigarette and lit it up.
“I hear we’re going over the Moselle tonight,” he said.
“That’s what they say,” Cranepool replied.
“Hey, Sarge,” said a Pfc named Rollins, “I heard the war’s almost over—you hear th
at?”
Mahoney nodded. “A few people say that, but I haven’t heard anything official. Might be just another one of those goddamn rumors.”
“Sheet,” said Rollins. “I bet we’ll be home by Christmas.”
“Hope so,” Mahoney replied.
“If the war’s soon gonna be over,” said a private named Hammill, “why do we have to cross the Moselle? Why do we have to risk our necks if the war’s gonna be over soon anyway?”
“Because,” answered Cranepool, “the war might not be over any day now, and it’s a good idea to keep moving so as to keep the enemy off balance.”
“If that’s such a good idea,” said Hammill, “then how come we’ve been sitting on our asses for two whole weeks?”
“No gas,” replied Cranepool.
“That’s the reason they gave us,” Hammill said sagely, “but I figure there’s more to it than that. I bet they’re working out the surrender agreement right now.” He turned to Mahoney. “What do you think, Sarge?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Mahoney looked at Cranepool. “Is McGhee still in this company?”
“Yup.”
“Where’s the mess hall at?”
“Thataway.”
Mahoney crawled out from underneath the shelter. “I’m gonna have a platoon meeting in a half-hour. Have the whole platoon assemble here in this ditch at that time, got me?”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“I’m gonna leave my pack here. Make sure nobody walks off with it.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Gripping his carbine Mahoney headed toward the mess hall. McGhee was the mess sergeant and he usually had a supply of cigars. Mahoney thought he’d get a couple before his first platoon meeting.
Waiting, Captain Anderson watched Lieutenant Colonel Michael “Rabbit” Sloan at the map table with his staff officers. They had been called to a meeting of company commanders, and not all of them had yet arrived. The meeting, Anderson knew, was about the Moselle crossing.
He was nervous about the attack, because he’d never before been in combat. He wasn’t particularly worried about his own life; his great fear was that his men might be killed because of a mistake he made. This fear caused him to be extremely attentive to details; he was desperately anxious not to do anything wrong.
