by Len Levinson
He was surprised by how well he’d been accepted so far by Charlie Company. Many combat veterans were in the company, and he’d expected them to be contemptuous of him, but if any of them were, nobody showed it. That made him feel his responsibility even more, and made him ever more concerned that he might do something wrong.
Sloan was a squat man with an upturned nose and buck teeth—hence his nickname “Rabbit.” He’d replaced the former battalion commander, Major Bowie. Killed in the battle for Saint Lo, Bowie had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross posthumously. Formerly Sloan had been the exec at the Third Battalion, and served in the Hammerhead Division since its formation back in the States. He appeared completely confident and knowledgeable about what he was doing. His only problem was that he often tried to imitate the speech and mannerisms of General George Patton, whom he worshipped, which made him at times appear ridiculous.
The commanders from Companies B and C also were in the tent, standing somewhat off to the side with their executive officers. Anderson’s exec, First Lieutenant Hamilton Boudreau of New Orleans, was chatting with the company commander of C Company, whom he knew very well. Boudreau, a flamboyant officer, was a graduate of Old Miss and liked to wear sunglasses and a heavy sterling silver ID bracelet. He received long love letters from literally dozens of girls back home in Mississippi.
Captain Lowell of Dog Company, the heavy-weapons company, entered the tent, a poncho slung over his arm. “Sorry to be late,” he said. His exec, whom Anderson didn’t know, followed him in. He walked toward the map table and saluted Colonel Sloan.
“Let’s get started,” Sloan said gruffly. “Gather around, gentlemen.”
The officers crowded around the map table. Anderson took out his notebook and pencil so he could write down all the important information and not forget anything.
“Let’s synchronize our watches,” Sloan said, raising his toward his eyes. He pulled out the little winding pin, moved the hands a bit, and said: “I have exactly three twenty-seven. Get ready...”
Anderson raised his watch and adjusted the hands.
“Mark,” said Sloan.
Anderson and the other officers pushed in their winding pins. Now all watches showed the same time.
Resting his fists on the edge of the table, Sloan leaned over the map. The kerosene lamp hanging high overhead made long shadows on his face, and his eyes were darkened by the shade of his helmet’s brim.
“We jump off at 0030 hours,” he said. “Baker and Charlie Companies will be from left to right on the line with Able Company in reserve and Dog Company set up on the flanks to provide covering fire. The 271st Engineers will be at the edge of the river with boats, and they’ll load Baker and Charlie Company on, and take them across. I don’t have to tell you that once we get rolling, you’ve got to keep your men moving fast. Don’t stop to fish wounded out of the river, or anything like that. Just keep on rolling and when you get to the other side, secure as much ground as you can.”
He pointed to the map. “We’ll leave from this area right here, and our objective is... here. When you get there, don’t wire and don’t dig in. Just keep on moving until I tell you to stop. The Second Battalion is going over with us—they’ll be on our right—and we’ve got to secure enough ground over there so the engineers can put up a pontoon bridge. Then we can bring our tanks and artillery across. It’ll be a tough mission but Division wouldn’t have given it to us if they didn’t think we could handle it. They want us to be set up over there by 0600 hours and then the engineers will put across the bridge. Any questions so far?”
Captain Brown of Baker Company looked down at the map. “Will we have much of an artillery barrage preceding the attack?”
“Some, but not as much as I’d like,” said Sloan. “There’s a shortage of artillery shells in the Third Army right now. Any other questions?”
Captain Morgan of Dog Company asked about the deployment of his heavy mortars, and Captain Anderson looked at the point of the map where they were supposed to cross. There were forests and hills on the other side, which gave the Germans an excellent defensive situation. It wouldn’t be easy to take that ground under the best of circumstances, and without an artillery barrage to soften up the Germans, it would be a particularly hazardous mission. He imagined himself in a boat being ripped apart by German machine-gun fire, and a wave of cold fear passed over him. What if I choke up out there? he asked himself. What if I become totally paralyzed with fear? He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer: Please, Lord, don’t let me fail...
When Anderson opened his eyes, Colonel Sloan was still telling Captain Morgan where to position his heavy mortars. H-hour was only eight hours away. I might be dead in only eight hours, the captain thought with a shudder.
Chapter Six
Mahoney returned to the trench puffing a cigar. Sergeant McGhee had been generous, also giving him the lowdown on all the new people in the company. Mahoney had the impression that things had fallen apart a little bit since Captain Kirk stepped on the mine. Charlie Company had been without a C.O. for a while, and Captain Anderson hadn’t been around long enough to get a firm hold.
Rain fell on Mahoney’s helmet and his combat boots crushed into the mud and wet leaves on the ground as he made his way through the woods. Some soldiers were still digging, others goofed around in makeshift shelters. Mahoney swore. It was bad business to go to war with a bunch of people who didn’t know their asses from holes in the ground. People like that didn’t pay attention to what was going on around them and they could get you killed. Mahoney didn’t want to get killed. He’d been sending money back to his mother in New York and when the war ended and he got out of the Army, he planned to open a nice little bar in Yorkville, where he’d grown up. Nothing fancy. Just a bar, a few tables, a little kitchen in back, and maybe some snooker pool. That was his big dream and no asshole was going to ruin it if Mahoney could help it.
By the time he reached the trench, he was rip-roaring mad. His whole platoon was gathered, huddling under the makeshift shelter. They were smoking, bullshitting, and drinking booze.
Mahoney stopped at the edge of the trench and looked down, placing his hands on his hips. “What in the fuck is going on here!” he shouted.
They looked up at him, wondering what his problem was.
“What do you fucking scumbags think this is—a party! I’ll give you a fucking party! Come out of there—you fucking cocksuckers! I want a fucking platoon formation out here right now!”
Two privates looked at each other. “Is this guy kidding?” one of them said.
“Kidding!” Mahoney bellowed, jumping into the trench between the two privates. “Kidding!” He grabbed one of the privates by the front of the poncho and stopped his nose two inches away from the private’s. “I’ll fucking kill you if you ever question my orders again—do you understand!”
The private was six inches shorter than the sergeant and half as broad. His skin turned pale and his lips were trembling.
“Do you understood me, young soldier!”
“I uh-understand you,” the private said.
“You understand me what!”
“I understand you, Sergeant.”
Mahoney pushed the private away from him, and flying into a group of terrified soldiers scrambling to get away from his wrath.
“Let’s go!” Mahoney shouted. “I want four ranks right over here!” He pointed to a clearing. “Last man out of this trench is gonna get my boot right up his ass!”
Terrorized, the men charged out of the shelters and clawed their way up the side of the trench, pushing, shoving, behaving like animals. The last man remaining was a big fat guy whose face was beet red. As he climbed up the side of the trench like a bear, Mahoney booted him in the ass with all his strength. Groaning, the man slid down the muddy wall to his knees. Mahoney crouched and pointed at the man’s face. “What’s your name, shitheel?”
“Private Dalloway, Sergeant.”
Mahoney ja
bbed his finger into Dalloway’s nose. “You will become a casualty if you don’t learn to move! Now get the fuck out of this trench, you big tub of shit!”
Slowly, Dalloway rose to his feet. Mahoney wanted to punch him in the mouth, but there were some acts of brutality even Mahoney didn’t dare.
“You’re going on a diet starting with supper tonight!” Mahoney yelled, as Dalloway laboriously climbed up the side of the trench. “I’m gonna take a hundred pounds off you, because I don’t want no fat fucks in my platoon!”
Dalloway made it to the top of the trench and waddled to the edge of the fourth-squad formation. Mahoney strode, hands on his hips, to the front of the platoon. The soldiers were all standing at attention with their rifles at sling arms and their eyes straight ahead. Their chins and stomachs were sucked in and they appeared to be frightened—precisely the effect Mahoney was striving for. He wanted to make them so scared of him they’d jump when he opened his mouth. Maybe, then, they wouldn’t get him killed.
It was raining harder now, splashing off ponchos and dripping off noses. All rifles and carbines were slung with the barrels pointed toward the ground, and each one dripped water like a faucet.
“I want to make something clear to you assholes!” Mahoney bellowed, as soldiers in other platoons peered out of their foxholes to see what was going on. “This war isn’t over yet and it might never be over! You guys think you’re on vacation, and that the Krauts have gone back to Berlin! Well, the fucking war isn’t over and the Krauts are out there in front of you! They’re waiting for you to come across that river tonight, and they’re gonna blow you right out of the fucking water! So you’d better fucking wake up! You’d better start looking like soldiers! Right now you look like a fucking hooligan army! You’re a bunch of stupid bastards! We’re going across that river tonight and half of you are gonna become corpses unless you wake fucking up! From now on you’re gonna be soldiers! From now on there ain’t gonna be no more drinking without my permission!”
A soldier in the third squad groaned—just what Mahoney was hoping for.
“Who did that!” he shouted, charging into the platoon, pushing soldiers left and right out of the way. “Who was that!”
Pale and trembling, the third-squad soldiers stood at attention. They all knew which man had groaned, but no one wanted to be a stool pigeon. The guilty man, a private named Reynolds, was afraid to open his mouth.
Teeth bared, hands on his hips, Mahoney stood in front of the third squad. “You cowardly cocksucker bastards!” he said. “You miserable pieces of shit—all of you fall out over there!”
He pointed to the ground at the left of the platoon, where the third squad formed a rank. Mahoney told them to dress right and then kept them at attention. A staff sergeant stood nearby, a burly man with a meaty face in need of a shave. Mahoney walked up to him.
“This your squad, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“It ain’t much of a squad.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“You’re gonna become a fucking private unless you get this squad in order.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“What’s your name?”
“Updike, Sergeant.”
Mahoney stepped back and addressed the squad. “All right— this is your last chance. If the man who made that noise doesn’t step forward, I’m going to give this squad every shitty assignment that comes along. You’ll probably all be dead or wounded within a week, but that’s your tough shit, not mine. You’re the fucking wise guys, not me.”
Private Reynolds, a schoolteacher from Seattle, could stand the pressure no more. He didn’t want anyone killed because of him, so he stepped timidly forward, scared out of his wits.
“So it’s you!” Mahoney said triumphantly. He swaggered in front of the private and looked him in the eye. “What’s your name, fuckhead?”
“Private Arnold Reynolds, Sergeant,” the soldier said, a catch in his voice.
“Private Arnold Reynolds?” Mahoney bellowed. “Your mother must’ve been simple to give you a name like that. I think I like Fuckhead better. You think I’m funny, Fuckhead?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“I know what you were trying to do,” Mahoney snarled. “You were trying to show everybody how smart you are. What did you do in civilian life, Fuckhead?”
“I was a schoolteacher, Sergeant.”
Mahoney spat. “No wonder there are so many dumb kids walking around. Listen, Fuckhead, I think you’d better drop down and give me twenty—by the numbers!”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Private Reynolds got down on his hands and toes and began doing push-ups. “One!” he counted. “Two!”
Mahoney watched Reynolds doing pushups. The ex-schoolteacher appeared strong, and he performed the pushups with ease. That made Mahoney angry, because he wanted Reynolds to suffer. So he waited patiently until Reynolds came to his twentieth and final pushup, then placed his boot on Reynolds’ helmet, pushing his face into the muck on the ground. Reynolds moved his face to the side in order to breathe, but he didn’t move too much for fear Mahoney might kick him in the face.
“Hey, Fuckhead!” Mahoney called out.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Reynolds replied through muddy lips.
“You’re not going to make any more funny noises when I’m talking, are you?”
“No, Sergeant.”
Mahoney removed his foot from the soldier’s helmet. “Return to formation.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
His face dripping mud, Private Reynolds got back into formation and Mahoney returned to the front of his platoon, facing the men once more.
“Where in the fuck was I?” he asked. “Oh yeah, I was saying there ain’t gonna be no more drinking booze without my permission—got it? And there ain’t gonna be no more grabass and fiddle-fucking around. We’re in the middle of a fucking war out here and from now on you’re all gonna be combat soldiers or you’re gonna be dead. Any questions?”
No one made the faintest sound. The men tried to stop breathing for fear Mahoney would pick them out.
When the sergeant heard footsteps behind him, he turned around. It was Pfc. Pembroke, the runner from the company CP.
“Sergeant Mahoney,” said Pembroke, “Captain Anderson would like all platoon leaders to report to him without delay.”
“I’ll be right there.”
As Pembroke headed for the second platoon, Mahoney faced his men again.
“I gotta go to a meeting,” he said. “While I’m gone I want this platoon area policed up, and when you get through, I want you to improve your trenches and fortifications. I can see that assholes like you have to be kept busy, otherwise you get into trouble. That is all. Carry on.”
Mahoney turned and headed for the CP tent. As the formation broke up, some of the soldiers crowded around Cranepool.
“Hey,” one of them complained, “I thought you said Mahoney was a nice guy.”
“Well,” Cranepool replied, “once in a while he throws a conniption fit, but most of the time he’s okay.”
Colonel Oscar W. Koch, G2 (intelligence officer) for the Third Army, approached General Patton’s office for his daily mid-afternoon briefing. A powerfully built bald-headed man with a mustache and wire-rimmed glasses, he was wearing a field jacket. Patton’s command post was on the ground floor of the town hall in Chalons, and staff officers were rushing back and forth in the corridor, carrying documents and briefcases.
Koch knocked on the door, and heard General Patton tell him to enter. Inside he saw Patton sitting behind a desk, wearing his Ike jacket, shirt and tie. Patton’s white hair was combed back and he looked old and tired and depressed.
“What have you got for me today?” Patton asked.
Koch opened his briefcase. “Where would you like me to start?”
“Give me the new information first, then the updates.”
“Well,” said Koch, “the only new information I have is a report that
approximately forty thousand slave laborers have arrived at the Siegfried Line. They are installing artillery, draining bunkers and pillboxes, and constructing new fortifications.”
Patton banged his fist on the desk. “Son of a bitch!” he said. “I knew this would happen the moment I gave the Krauts some breathing space!”
Koch nodded. “I suppose it was inevitable, sir.”
Patton gritted his teeth. “If they’d give me a little gas I could give them the whole goddamn Siegfried Line and half of Germany too. My men can eat their cartridge belts, but my tanks need gas. What’s the latest on Monty?”
“He’s fighting for Antwerp right now.”
Patton grunted. “He’s been fighting for Antwerp three days. The son of a bitch won’t make a move unless he has eight times more than he needs. He wouldn’t even make a good platoon sergeant in the Third Army, and Ike gives him everything he wants. What’s the situation in front of us?”
“Heavy buildup on the other side of the Moselle. The crossings won’t be easy tonight.”
“Well, we can’t just sit on our asses and wait for the Germans to attack us. We’ve got to keep them guessing. If only I had some gasoline. And we don’t have much artillery ammunition either.” Patton closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I could win this war if they’d let me, but they won’t let me. What a fucking mess! Good men are going to die because of dumb decisions made at SHAEF. What else have you got for me?”
“Hitler has assigned a new general to oppose the Third Army. His name is Hermann Balck.”
“Where did they dig him up?”
“They’re bringing him in from Russia. He’s supposed to be very good.”
Patton waved a hand in the air. “German generals are overrated because they won some easy victories against weak forces at the beginning of the war. They don’t impress me at all. Rommel was the best they had and I kicked his ass in North Africa. If I had some gas I’d kick this new guy’s ass. What did you say his name is?”
