by Len Levinson
In a long ragged line, the boats moved to the center of the Moselle. Looking up at the sky, Mahoney saw an infinity of blackness. He thought of Cecille, the fabulous French whore, and wondered what poor slob she was screwing now. At least she had a soft bed with a roof to keep her dry, while Mahoney was putting his head on the block once more. Beginning to feel sorry for himself, he gritted his teeth and forced those feelings away. His only hope was to fight like a son of a bitch and forget everything else.
Just when he was beginning to think they might make it safely to the German side of the river, he heard a pop sound straight ahead. He caught his breath, his heart pounding violently because he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, the flare exploded in the sky, and suddenly night became day. Immediately the Germans opened up with rifle and machine-gun fire. As geysers of water rose into the air, Mahoney rowed faster, chewing gum like a maniac, peering ahead to see how far away the far shore was.
“Keep your heads down!” he shouted.
The shore appeared to be a hundred or so yards away, and now the air was filled with the din of weapons fire. Another flare went up, and the river became brighter. As rain fell like glittering diamonds. Mahoney saw a boat to the right of his own blown into the air.
Holy fuck, he thought. He rowed more quickly, pulling fiercely at the oars and hoping a bullet wouldn’t arrive with his name on it. Somebody in the boat screamed and fell to the floorboards writhing. Bullets whizzed overhead. I’m gonna get shot in the back, Mahoney thought. Machine-gun bullets stitched into the bow of the boat, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. Another man screamed, slumping backwards into the lap and arms of the soldier behind him. This boat is nothing but a big, slow target, Mahoney thought. I’m getting the fuck out of here.
“Over the side!” he shouted, abandoning the oars and standing up. “Abandon ship!”
Mahoney grabbed his carbine from Goines and leapt into the water. It was ice cold. He sank over his head, but his life preserver brought him to the surface. Soldiers were jumping all along the river, and the strong current pulled them toward Luxembourg. Bullets zipped around them into the water, and Mahoney held his carbine tightly as he swam, kicking toward the shore.
“Keep moving!” he yelled. “Hit the fucking beach!”
As an artillery shell blew an entire boat into the air, Mahoney felt the shock wave through the water. Struggling with all his might, he held his carbine high and continued to swim toward the shore. The men around him were all paddling and kicking.
A dead G.I. body bumped into his body, then floated past. Fighting his panic, the Sergeant fought his way toward shore, not certain where on the shore he’d wind up. He was trying to keep near his platoon. When they hit the beach, he thought, maybe he could provide some assistance.
German machine guns went burp-burp in front of him, while the American machine guns sounded their slow and steady rat-a-tat-tat to his rear. When he saw big explosions on the German side of the river, he realized that the heavy-weapons company was trying to lay some hell on the Germans. A heavy artillery barrage would stop the Germans and make them scurry into their holes, but there was no artillery tonight, only the mortars and anti-tank guns from the heavy-weapons company.
This is another suicide mission, Mahoney thought in despair. Sooner or later those fucking top-brass assholes are going to get me killed. They stick pins in maps and give orders to attack, but they don’t attack anything themselves.
Suddenly his foot hit the river bottom. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that he could hardly believe it. At one moment he thought he was going to be swept downstream, or worse, and the next moment he realized he still had a chance. He dug his feet into the wet dirt and pushed his body toward the shore. “I’ve touched bottom!” he yelled to those behind. “Follow me!”
He slipped once and fell altogether into the river. After swallowing some water, he regained his balance, holding up his carbine with both hands, sloshing toward shore. Bullets whistling over his head and around him, he coughed and snorted. He heard a scream to his left and a groan to his right. The water level was down to his chest now and his legs pumped like pistons as he hurried toward the comparative safety of flat ground. “Let’s go!” he yelled. “Hit the fucking beach!”
At that moment he didn’t look to his left or to his right to see where anybody was. He didn’t give a shit about anything except saving his own worthless ass. The water was now down to his waist. Still fighting the current, he charged toward the beach. He now saw flashes of light ahead more clearly and made a mental note of their location because that’s where he intended to start firing as soon as he could.
Knees clear of the water, he raced through the shallows to the riverbank. Tripping over a stone, he pitched forward onto his knees, but he got up quickly and kept running. “Kill the cocksuckers!” he screamed. “Charge!”
His hands stung from where he had fallen on them. The terrain was rocky and rain continued to pour, but he saw the outline of a big boulder ahead and dived behind it. His eyes had deceived him; it was a bush and not a boulder, and a bunch of sharp rocks cut into his knees when he went down. He snapped his trigger guard off safety and fired a wild shot just to see if the carbine still worked. It did, and he knew that this advance was a whole new ball game. Pulling the trigger as fast as he could, he pumped bullets toward the muzzle blasts identifying the Germans. Now the last of Charlie Company was hitting the riverbank.
“Fire everything you’ve got at the cocksuckers!” Mahoney shouted. “Shoot their fucking balls off!”
“Here I am, Sarge.” DiMeola landed on his stomach a few feet from Mahoney. “I heard your voice and I came right over.”
“Fire your carbine, scumbag!”
DiMeola unslung his carbine and opened fire, joining all the men who made it ashore. Mahoney’s bolt went click and he pulled out the empty clip. After tossing it over his shoulder, he withdrew a fresh clip from a bandolier and jammed it into the bottom of the carbine, then fired again.
It appeared that most of Charlie Company’s men had made it ashore and were fighting. Now, at last, they had a foothold on the German side of the Moselle. Soon the heavy-weapons squads would be set up, and they could push the Germans back in earnest.
As Mahoney fired round after round at the Germans, he was also examining the terrain. It looked pretty much like the side of the river they’d just left: a big fucking forest. In a way that was good, because tanks couldn’t operate too quickly in forests.
All I need now is a fucking tank coming at me, Mahoney thought, squeezing the trigger of his carbine. The firing pin connected with the bullet and it shot out of the barrel, kicking the stock into his shoulder. He hoped the bullet had found a home in the heart of a German soldier. Spotting a muzzle blast from another part of the woods, he took aim and fired again. The main thing, he knew, was to keep firing, because the intensity of firepower was everything in battle. He squeezed the trigger again and again, hearing bullets and explosions going off all around him, amidst the curses of men who were fighting for their lives.
An object banged against his helmet. It felt as if somebody had hit him on the head with a hammer. Dazed, Mahoney fell backward and his helmet flew off. He landed on his back in the mud and for a few moments, he didn’t know where he was.
“You all right Sarge?” asked DiMeola, kneeling over him.
Mahoney opened his eyes. “I... I don’t know.”
DiMeola examined Mahoney’s face and head. “I don’t see no blood,” he said.
Parts of Mahoney’s head felt numb. He shook it, rolled onto his stomach, and crawled toward his helmet. There was a big dent in the crown of the helmet, and he realized that the metal protection had saved his life. He picked up the helmet and looked at it. What in the fuck am I doing in this God-forsaken place? he thought. Why didn’t I pull strings and stay in Paris? Why did I feel guilty about being in Paris while the other dogfaces were getting shot out here? Was I crazy?
Mahoney put the helmet back on his head and crawled back to his former position. Bullets continued to whiz through the air and explosions shook the ground. Thinking of Paris, the Champs Elysees, and all the beautiful whores, he picked up his carbine. It was hard to believe he had been there only the day before yesterday, safe and sound in bed with Cecille.
If only he could be back in the city of light for a little while, he thought, with all the booze and the women. It had been wonderful, just like a dream. But, after all, dreams must come to an end and here he was, back in the gruesome reality of war.
A fiery orange explosion to his right blew three men out of their holes as though they were nothing more than rag dolls. Somebody hollered for a medic. Mahoney heard the burp-burp of German machine guns to his front. He closed his eyes and tried again to clear his head.
“You sure you’re all right, Sarge?” DiMeola asked.
“Yeah.” Mahoney opened his eyes.
DiMeola looked around him, his face a mask of terror. Artillery shells exploded in a crescendo, and the air was thick with bullets. Men were screaming in pain and crying for help.
“I’m getting out of here!” DiMeola leapt up and ran back toward the riverbank, but he only made about five yards before Mahoney tackled him.
“Where the fuck are you going!” Mahoney growled.
“I’m getting the hell out of here!”
“You’re not getting the hell out of nowhere!” Mahoney said. His frustration had reached the boiling point.
“Let me go!” DiMeola struggled to get free.
Mahoney pulled back his right arm and punched the Pfc in the mouth. DiMeola’s lip was split and blood trickled down his chin, but at least he stopped struggling.
“Listen,” Mahoney said, “if we have to stay here, so do you. If you ever try to run away again, I’ll shoot you in the back so help me God.”
Licking his lips, DiMeola tasted blood. He tried to calm down.
As Mahoney crawled back to his position, DiMeola followed. Over the little pile of rocks providing what cover they had, they saw trees brightly illuminated as though it was the Fourth of July. Mahoney could tell by the flashes that there were many more Germans in the woods than G.I.s. Looking behind, he could see that a few more boats were coming ashore, but the river was thick with the wreckage of demolished boats and dead bodies.
I think there’s gonna be a massacre here, Mahoney told himself. He decided that when it started, he wanted more shelter than the little pile of rocks he and DiMeola were huddling behind. He spotted a fairly deep shell crater to his front and left.
“Follow me,” he said to DiMeola.
“Where we going?”
Mahoney grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “You better start doing what I tell you to do, soldier!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
“Let’s go.”
Holding his carbine, Mahoney slithered through the mud toward the crater. The air was thick with shell bursts, and mud splattered Mahoney’s face and dented helmet. When he reached the crater, he saw Grossberger the medic inside with Slocum, whose stomach and chest were a mass of blood and guts.
Mahoney slid into the shell hole. “What’s with Slocum?”
“He’s dead,” Grossberger said matter-of-factly.
“Oh...”
Mahoney traded his dented helmet for Private Slocum’s undented helmet. DiMeola stared aghast at the body of Slocum, whose eyes were wide open and glazing over.
“Is he really dead?” DiMeola asked.
Grossberger nodded.
“This is the new first platoon headquarters,” Mahoney said. “Get that fucking stiff out of here.”
“What’ll we do with him?” DiMeola said.
“I don’t give a fuck what you do with him—just get him out of here.”
DiMeola and Grossberger each grabbed one of Slocum’s arms and they dragged him out of the shell hole.
Chapter Seven
“General Patton, it’s for you.” The communications sergeant held up the receiver. The general was at the headquarters of XX Corps, conferring with Major General John Millikin.
“Who is it?” asked Patton.
“Someone from SHAEF,” replied the sergeant.
“SHAEF?” muttered Patton. He took the phone from the sergeant. “Hello?”
“General Patton, sir?” asked the voice on the other end.
“That’s right.”
“General Eisenhower would like to speak with you, sir.”
General Eisenhower? Patton thought. I wonder what the hell he wants.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, George?” Ike asked in a calm, low voice.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I’ve just received a report that you’re attacking the German side of the Moselle. You wouldn’t be disobeying orders by any chance, would you?”
“Who, me?” Patton asked innocently. “I wouldn’t disobey your orders, sir.”
“Then what the hell’s going on, George?”
“Well, sir, it’s like this,” Patton replied in his slow Virginia drawl. “You see, my 33rd Division sent a few patrols across the river to see what the Krauts were doing over there, but the Krauts spotted them and got engaged. Then I sent some more soldiers over to help them out, and they got engaged too. After that I sent some more soldiers over, and one thing kind of led to another, you know how it is, sir. The result is that now we do have a serious situation developing over there, and I wonder if I could get a little extra gas and supplies to help my people out.”
Ike sighed in exasperation. “So you’re up to your old tricks, isn’t that so, George?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Patton replied, winking at General Millikin.
“It looks like your old Reconnaissance in Force tactic, George,” Ike said, his voice somewhat testy. “You send some of your soldiers out and hope they get into trouble, then you send some more soldiers to support them, and they make a little more trouble. Before you know it, you’ve got a war on your front from one end to another, and then I get a call asking for help. Is that it, George?”
“No, sir,” Patton said, “but we are having problems over there and it would be awfully decent if you’d give us something to fight with.”
“It won’t work this time because I don’t have anything to send you—I told you that in the first place. You put those soldiers over there yourself and you’ll have to get them back yourself. When I told you we’re having a supply problem, I wasn’t kidding.”
“Monty isn’t having a supply problem,” Patton replied, his anger rising. “That son of a bitch gets anything he wants.”
“That’s because we need the port of Antwerp, and he’s getting it for us.”
“He may be getting it for us for the next three years. If you give me what I need, sir, I can end the war in a month and I’ll stake my reputation on that.”
“Your reputation doesn’t look so good these days, George.”
“That’s not what I read in the stateside papers.”
“Newspapers aren’t running this war, and I am. I don’t want you playing your Reconnaissance in Force tricks anymore, George, and to show you I mean business, I’m going to let you get out of this one yourself.”
Patton clutched the phone tightly. “But my men need help, sir!”
“It’s like I told you, George: you got them into this, and you can get them out. Any questions.”
“No, sir.” Patton bit his lower lip.
“That’s all, George. Carry on. And George?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Patton said, as Eisenhower hung up. He stared at the receiver for a few moments, replaced it, took a deep breath and returned to the map table.
“What’s the problem, sir?” asked General Millikin.
“Ike is the problem,” Patton replied, shaking his head. “He’s the best goddamn general the British have got.”
General Hermann Balck was sleeping in his headquarters at Army Group G in the town of Luneville, when he was awakened by a knock on his door.
“Who is it!” he demanded.
“Mellenthien, sir!”
“Come in!”
Major General Fredrich Wilhelm von Mellenthien, his uniform half on and half off, stumbled sleepily into Balck’s bedroom. “Sir, the Americans have crossed the Moselle!”
Balck sat upright in his bed. “What!”
“They’re crossing at several points between Metz and Nancy, sir.”
“Do we know where their schwerpunkt is yet?” Balck asked, referring to the main thrust of the American attack.
“It appears to be near Pont-a-Mousson, sir. Perhaps we’d better go to the map?”
“Yes, of course.”
Balck got out of bed and put on his blue robe. It had been given to him by his wife for his birthday two years ago, and he wore it over white pajamas. Following Mellenthien out of the bedroom, he thought of how catastrophic it would be for his career if Patton whipped him severely so early in the game. I’ve got to stop them, he thought. The Fuehrer won’t tolerate a defeat.
As they walked down the dark corridor, Balck thought of how wonderful it would be if he could deliver a crushing defeat to Patton so soon after assuming command of Army Group G. The Fuehrer might even make him a field marshal.
They entered the conference room, and Mellenthien turned on the light above the map table. He pointed to the spots on the Moselle where the Americans had crossed.
“Fortunately the local units were ready, sir. They heard a commotion on the other side of the river and manned their posts. In some spots they caught the Americans before they even reached shore.”
“Excellent,” Balck said, resting his knuckles on the table. “Where did you say their schwerpunkt was?”
“Here.” Mellenthien pointed to the location on the map.
“How many troops have the Americans committed?”
“Here, or in all the landings?”
“Both.”
