by Len Levinson
“About a whole division throughout the front, and perhaps a regiment right here. Some of our commanders were taken by surprise, because the Americans usually precede their attacks with a heavy shelling, but this time they didn’t.”
Balck harrumphed. “They probably thought they were fooling us. The Americans are newcomers to war and their great General Patton sounds like a buffoon.” He pointed to the crossing near Pont-a-Mousson. “Bring the bulk of our support forces here, to their schwerpunkt. Round up bankers, typists, and anyone else who isn’t doing anything, and send them to that front. If we can roll back the Americans they’ll think twice before trying such a foolhardy thing again.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Mellenthien marched briskly to the telephone and barked out the orders, Balck returned to his room to shave and put on his uniform. He had decided to spend the night in his conference room, personally directing the counterattack against the forces of General Patton.
Chapter Eight
Captain Anderson had jumped out of the boat and run for cover as bullets zinged around him and the ground shook time after time with explosions. He had dived behind a big boulder, Pfc. Pembroke on one side of him, Lieutenant Boudreau hitting the dirt on the other.
He was scared out of his wits. Bullets ricocheted off the rock in front of him, and somewhere a man hollered for a medic. Sweat poured from Anderson’s face and he fought to bring his fear under control. He remembered Mahoney reminding him of his training at Fort Benning. This is basically like maneuvers, Anderson thought. I’m gonna do it just as though I was on maneuvers.
The first task, he realized, was to find out exactly where his company was. He turned to Pembroke. “Get me the platoon leaders.”
“Yes, sir.” Pembroke pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and spoke into the mouthpiece.
Boudreau snorted. “Looks like we’ve fell into a real goddamn war here,” he said happily in his New Orleans accent. “I think I’m gonna take me a look.”
Anderson watched as Boudreau raised his head above the boulder. Boudreau pushed the front of his helmet back and squinted at the woods from where the Germans were firing.
“Sure looks like there’s a lot of them in there,” Boudreau said, licking his lips.
Suddenly he fell back, blood spouting from the top of his head. Anderson and Pembroke watched in horror as Boudreau slumped to the ground. A piece of shrapnel had ricocheted off the boulder and taken off the top of his head. Blood gushed from the horrible wound like water from a fire hose.
Anderson nearly fainted from the suddenness of it. He had never seen an officer killed in combat before. Boudreau had been alive a few moments ago, and now he was dead. Anderson felt the bitter gall rise in his throat.
“Medic,” he said softly. “Let’s get a medic over here.”
Pembroke snorted. “That poor fucker don’t need no medic, sir. He needs the Graves Registration guys.”
“Oh, my God,” Anderson whispered. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as a shell exploded fifty yards away. Machine-gun bullets ripped into the ground all around him, and he wondered what madness had made him want to become an officer. I’m not fit to lead men, he thought. I can’t handle this.
“I got the third platoon on the horn, sir,” Pembroke said, handing over the walkie-talkie.
Anderson took it in a trembling hand and held it to his ear. I’ll play it just like maneuvers, he told himself. “Michaels— what’s your situation?” he asked.
“Pinned down, sir,” said Second Lieutenant Duane Michaels of Pittsfield, Massachusetts. “The woods are full of Krauts.”
“Can you move forward?”
“If I can get some good cover I think I can.”
“First Platoon?” Anderson barked.
“Here I am,” said Mahoney.
“What’s your situation, Sergeant?”
“Same as Lieutenant Michaels, sir. Can’t we get some artillery over here?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Third Platoon?”
First Lieutenant Robert Garcia of Lubbock, Texas, spoke up. “I can’t go forward and I can’t go backward, sir. I’m fucked right here.”
Anderson knew where his weapons platoon was. It had hit the beach when he did. In fact, he’d been in the boat with one of the mortar squads.
“Fourth Platoon?”
“Yes, sir?” said Master Sergeant Tad Pulaski of Akron, Ohio.
“ You got your equipment set up yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“What the fuck are you waiting for?”
“The enemy fire’s awful heavy around here, sir. We can’t hardly do anything.”
Anderson made his voice louder. “Well, you’d better get those weapons firing, Pulaski, because if you don’t we’re gonna get wiped out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Anderson handed the walkie-talkie back to Pembroke. “Get me Colonel Sloan at battalion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Machine-gun bullets continued to ricochet off the rock in front of him as Anderson opened his canvas map case. He took out the map of the area he was in and looked for the artillery concentration number for the ground that the Germans held in front of him. The numbers referred to squares which also appeared on the maps of division artillery. If you wanted a barrage at a certain spot, you just gave division artillery the number and they knew where to aim their big guns.
“I got battalion, sir,” said Pembroke.
Anderson held the walkie-talkie to his face. He identified himself and asked to speak with Colonel Sloan immediately.
“This is Major Cutler. What’s your problem?”
“I need an artillery barrage on Concentration 215. The Krauts have got us pinned down and we can’t move. I’ve already lost my executive officer and there are dead men and wounded all around me.”
After a brief silence, Major Cutler said: “This is your first taste of combat, isn’t it, Anderson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not overreacting, are you?”
Anderson closed his eyes and tried to think. Am I overreacting? he wondered. Am I in a state of fucking panic? But the air was filled with the sound of shellfire and the screams of his wounded men. “I’m not overreacting, sir,” he said. “We’re in deep trouble out here.”
“That was Concentration 215, you said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get right on it, son. Hold on there.”
Anderson took his finger off the button, then pressed it again. “Sergeant Pulaski?” he said.
Sergeant Pulaski’s deep voice came on. “Yes, sir?”
“I don’t hear your heavy weapons firing.”
“That’s because they ain’t firing, sir. Every time one of my men puts his head up, he gets it shot off. We can’t move here, sir. I’ll bet you’re not putting your head up where you are.”
“I’ve got an artillery barrage coming in from division artillery, Sergeant. When it starts, you’ll have a chance to set up your equipment. Do it fast and give ’em hell. Got me?”
“I got you, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Anderson was handing the walkie-talkie back to Pembroke when he heard another voice speaking:
“This is the first platoon calling the C.O.,” said Mahoney.
“This is the C.O.,” Anderson replied.
“Sir, I can see Krauts in the woods in front of me, and they’ve got their bayonets fixed. I think they’re gonna rush us.”
“Have your men fix their bayonets.”
“Already have, sir.”
“Hang on, Mahoney. We’ve got an artillery strike coming in from division.”
“Yes sir.”
“Calling all platoon leaders,” Anderson said.
The platoon leaders came on, and Anderson told them to fix bayonets. He also told them to hang on because an artillery strike was on the way. Then he passed the walkie-talkie back to Pembroke, put his map away, and drew his .45 pistol. He ejected the
clip to make sure it was full, then rammed it back into the handle.
It occurred to him suddenly that he hadn’t suffered a nervous breakdown, as he feared he would, and that he was doing the things a company commander was supposed to do in combat— just like they taught him at the Infantry School back in Fort Benning, Georgia.
Colonel Sloan looked up from his map. “What was that all about?”
Major Cutler walked toward him away from the radio. They were in the tent in the woods on the other side of the river.
“Anderson from Charlie Company, sir,” Cutler replied. “He said he’s hard-pressed and he needs a barrage from division artillery.”
Sloan ran his fingers over his stubbled jaw. “He’s a new replacement. He might not be as hard-pressed as he thinks he is.”
“He sounded under control, sir. I think we ought to take his word for it.”
Sloan shook his head in frustration. “There aren’t any more artillery shells anyway. I don’t think division has anything to give us.”
“You can try, sir. If you tell them that our foothold over there is in danger of being wiped out, they might come up with something.”
“There’s no harm in trying,” Sloan said, holding out his hand.
An aide put a telephone into it. Sloan asked for division artillery. He waited a few moments, then Colonel Daniels came on the wire. Sloan asked him for an artillery barrage, and Daniels said he didn’t have enough ammunition. Sloan told him of the seriousness of the situation, and Colonel Daniels said he’d talk to General Donovan and try to pry something loose.
Colonel Daniels called General Donovan, who didn’t have anything to pry loose. General Donovan said he’d call General Millikin at XX Corps to see if they had anything there. When Colonel Daniels hung up, General Donovan put through an emergency call to General Millikin.
When the phone rang in the command post of XX Corps, the communications sergeant picked up the receiver, said a few words, then turned to General Millikin.
“It’s for you, sir,” the sergeant said. “General Donovan on the wire.”
Millikin looked at General Patton, who was studying the map on the table. Light from the kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling glinted on the pearl-handled revolver at Patton’s side. He was wearing khaki jodhpurs and his shiny black boots were flecked with mud. He frowned: all reports indicated that his attack was faltering. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the chance, Patton thought. I shouldn’t attack when I don’t have anything to attack with, but I figured I could bring it off the way I usually do.
General Millikin grabbed the receiver. “How’s it going, Donovan?”
“Not so well,” Donovan replied. “I need an artillery barrage in front of my 15th Regiment and if I lay it down I won’t have anything to fire tomorrow.”
“How bad’s the situation?”
“We’re gonna be knocked back into the water if I don’t get some artillery support.”
“If you get it, do you think you can hold on?”
“I think so.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll get right back to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Millikin handed the phone to his communications sergeant. Patton looked up from the map. “More bad news?” he asked.
“Afraid so,” Millikin replied. “The Hammerhead Division is in trouble. They need artillery support, but they don’t have the ammo.”
Patton raised his eyebrows. “They don’t have any at all? What have they been doing with it?”
“They have their regular allotment, but if they send up this barrage, they won’t have anything left for tomorrow.”
Patton drove his fist into his hand. “Fucking SHAEF!” he said bitterly.
“Isn’t there something we can do, sir?”
“This attack cannot fail,” Patton said. “Tell Donovan to send up the barrage. Tell him I’ll send him more ammo tomorrow from one of the divisions in reserve. And tell him that if he isn’t holding the east side of the Moselle by noon, I’ll have his ass.”
“Yes, sir.”
Millikin called Donovan, while Patton crossed his arms and looked down at the map. I’m borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, he thought. How can anyone win a war this way?
Chapter Nine
Mahoney saw the Germans slithering through the woods in front of him. His platoon was still stuck in the muck and stones near the riverbank, thirty yards from the edge of the woods. As explosions illuminated the woods, he could see light glinting on German bayonets. They’re gonna come at us any moment now, he thought.
His BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) men were spraying the woods with hot lead, and his riflemen were able to get off occasional shots. But the German fire was still intense and the G.I.s had difficulty aiming their weapons. Artillery shells continually fell on Charlie Company, and it could neither move forward nor backward. Slowly but inevitably, it was being annihilated.
“Medic!” screamed Private Dalloway on Mahoney’s right. “I’m hit! Medic!”
Mahoney snorted. He had figured that fat fuck Dalloway would get shot sooner or later. He was as big as the side of a barn. How could anyone miss him?
Emerging from a blur in the rain, he recognized Pfc. Grossberger, his medic. Eyeglasses taped to his face, Grossberger streaked across the battlefield, jumping over shell craters and dead men, his big bag of medicine bouncing up and down at his side. Tracer bullets whizzed past his nose, but Grossberger kept rolling. He took a running dive and landed near Dalloway.
Mahoney looked into the woods again. The Germans were still moving around, getting into position. What the fuck, he wondered, were they waiting for? He heard the clomp of combat boots and swung his carbine around, expecting to see a German charging at him. But it was only Cranepool, carrying a big canvas haversack.
“How’re you doin’ Sarge?” He flopped to his stomach beside Mahoney.
“Can’t you fucking see?” Mahoney replied.
“Look what I got.”
Cranepool opened the haversack and Mahoney saw a load of hand grenades and two grenade launchers that could be fitted on the ends of M-1 rifles.
“Pretty neat, huh, Sarge?”
“They’re of no use to me, pal. They don’t work on carbines.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Cranepool crawled away quickly. Mahoney was always amazed at how fast the kid could move when he had to. Cranepool was a natural-born soldier, just as some men are natural-born boxers or musicians. He had little fear and loved to kill Germans. In two years of war he’d never been wounded once—he’d never even been scratched. Mahoney had been wounded lots of times. He had cuts and scars all over his body.
Pfc. DiMeola nudged Mahoney’s shoulder.
“The C.O. wants to talk with all platoon leaders,” he said, handing over the walkie-talkie.
Mahoney grabbed it and had opened his mouth to speak when a German shell landed nearby and sent mud and stones flying over his head. “First Platoon,” Mahoney said tersely.
“Hang on, Sergeant,” Captain Anderson replied.
Mahoney heard the other platoon leaders reporting in.
“We’re going to get some artillery support,” Anderson said. “I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’ll let you know when it’ll end. When I give you the word, I want everyone to move forward and secure a foothold in those woods. Any questions?”
When nobody responded, Anderson signed off. Mahoney looked at his watch: it was 0130 hours. He heard footsteps and looked up. Cranepool was running through the mud, holding two M-1 rifles in one hand and his helmet on his head with the other. Bullets slapped into the ground near his feet and a tracer sped by at the level of his cartridge belt, but still he kept coming. He dove feet first toward Mahoney, as if he was stealing second base for his high-school team.
“Here, Sarge.” He handed one of the M-1s to Mahoney.
“You fucking asshole,” Mahoney replied, wiping mud off his nose.
Cranepool fastened one of the gren
ade launchers to his M-1 and Mahoney did the same with his. They fixed grenades to the front of the launchers and slipped firing cartridges into the chambers.
“Here they come!” yelled DiMeola.
Mahoney gaped as he saw the German soldiers swarming out of the woods, shaking their rifles and howling like maniacs as they ran toward Charlie Company. The German artillery barrage lifted and their machine guns stopped firing, but some of the charging Germans carried Schmiesser submachine guns and they, Mahoney knew, were just as bad.
He didn’t have to tell the First Platoon to start firing. They knew enough to do that themselves because they could see it was their only chance. Mahoney brought the M-l to his shoulder, took aim, and fired. The grenade launcher kicked like a mule and the grenade flew toward the Germans. It traveled slowly enough so that Mahoney could see it before it ploughed into the stomach of a German sergeant, ripping him in half and then exploding. Nearby Germans fell dead around the explosion, but others kept coming. Cranepool fired his grenade, and it likewise blew up a bunch of Germans. But the forest was disgorging vast numbers of Krauts, who shouted their battle cries as they charged. The BAR men raked them back and forth, and still the Germans attacked. Riflemen fired as quickly as they could pull their triggers, but the Germans kept coming. Falling in heaps, they reached the front wave of G.I.s. Then the G.I.s got to their feet and prepared to fight with bayonets.
Mahoney was twenty yards behind the first wave. He unfastened the grenade launcher from the front of his M-1, replacing it with his bayonet. Glancing to his left, he saw that Cranepool was doing the same. The Germans were breaking through the first wave of G.I.s, and the G.I.s fell back, parrying bayonet thrusts and trying to slug Germans with bare rifle butts.
Mahoney and Cranepool crept out of their hole as the Germans rushed toward them. There was chaos and screaming everywhere as the enemies clashed hand to hand. A big German sergeant with somebody else’s blood on his arms charged Mahoney, pointing the tip of his bayonet toward the American’s chest. Planting his right foot firmly behind him, Mahoney smashed the German’s rifle to the side with his own, then tried to whack the Kraut in the head with his rifle butt. The German brought up his shoulder and tilted his helmet to the side, absorbing the blow, then tried to clobber Mahoney with his own rifle butt. Mahoney dodged out of the way, then shouted fiercely as he thrust his bayonet toward the German’s chest. The German caught it on the trigger guard of his rifle and parried Mahoney’s rifle to the side. Their rifles slid against each other as each man tried to push the other backward. Their faces only inches apart, Mahoney could see the German’s blazing eyes and clenched teeth. The Kraut pushed with all his strength and Mahoney gave way, stepping suddenly to the side. The German charged forward, lost his balance, and fell onto his face in the mud. Mahoney raised his rifle high and harpooned the Kraut in the back with his bayonet. The German screamed, his arms and legs stretching outward, and Mahoney harpooned him again, this time in the kidney. Blood burbled out of the German’s back and Mahoney knew there was one less German to worry about.
