by Len Levinson
He turned around to find himself another German, but the other German found him first, smashing Mahoney in the head with the butt of his rifle. Dazed, the sergeant staggered. Through the smoke and haze he saw the German poising his rifle to run him through. As the bayonet came streaking forward, Mahoney dodged to the side at the last moment and the bayonet missed him by inches. The German recovered his balance quickly, pulled his rifle back, got set, and made another thrust, but this time Mahoney was ready. He parried the thrust easily, smashed the Kraut in the head with his rifle butt and jabbed his bayonet into the German’s stomach. The Kraut sagged to his knees, both hands trying to cover the leaking hole in his stomach.
Suddenly Mahoney’s rifle was smashed out of his hands. Another German was trying to slam him in the head. Mahoney leapt forward and grabbed the Kraut’s rifle. The German tried to kick Mahoney in the balls but the sergeant had the same idea and their knees collided in midair. They pulled and pushed on the rifle, trying to knock each other off balance. Mahoney knew if the German got the rifle free he’d run him through, so he couldn’t let go. The German lost his balance, causing Mahoney to lose his. They fell to the mud and rolled around and around, grunting and cursing, each man trying to capture the rifle. They tried to kick each other in the balls but neither man could connect. As G.I.s and Germans clashed all around them, Mahoney spotted a bayonet lying in the mud nearby. Holding the German’s rifle tightly with one hand, he grabbed the bayonet with the other and tried to ram it into the German’s throat. The Kraut saw the blade coming and tried to duck, but he wasn’t fast enough, and the bayonet sliced into his cheek and gritted against his jawbone. Screaming in pain, the German loosened his grip on the rifle, and Mahoney stabbed him in the chest, but the German’s ribs prevented the bayonet from sinking in deeply. Cursing, trying to keep the writhing German still on the ground, Mahoney stabbed again with all of his might. This time the bayonet slipped through the space between two of the German’s ribs, and sank in to the hilt. Mahoney tried to pull the bayonet out, but it was stuck. He got up off the German and grabbed his own bayonet and rifle as the German, eyes bulging, tried to pull the weapon out of his ribs. Mahoney wanted to see if the German could do it, but suddenly a Kraut bullet shot off one of his epaulettes.
Mahoney looked up to see a German officer taking aim at him again. The sergeant threw his rifle and bayonet at the officer, but the Kraut darted out of the way. Mahoney threw his body at him, grabbing him by the wrist, kneeing him in the balls. The officer expelled air through his mouth, loosening his grip on the pistol. Mahoney snatched it out of his hands and shot the officer in the face, which cracked apart like an egg, blood oozing out of the crack.
Mahoney picked up an entrenching tool from the ground. As more Germans swarmed at him with rifles and bayonets, he shot at them with the pistol in his right hand, swinging the entrenching tool in his left. Germans were falling in heaps at his feet when the pistol clicked empty. He threw it at an advancing German and then clobbered him in the head with the entrenching tool.
The Germans continued to press forward, greatly outnumbering the G.I.s. The G.I.s were forced to fall back, Mahoney among them. Now he was swinging the entrenching tool wildly, cutting down Germans in front of him, but more took their places. Although an occasional shot rang out, the main sounds were the clashes of metal and wood punctuated by the grunts and howls of men.
As Mahoney’s arm became tired, he was aware that his feet were splashing in water. Looking down quickly,’ he saw that the Germans had pushed them back into the river! Now the crucial moment had come. The G.I.s couldn’t retreat any more, but they couldn’t advance either. All they could do was get massacred knee deep in the Moselle River.
Mahoney swung his entrenching tool again and hit a German on the shoulder. The Kraut fell to the side and dropped his rifle. Mahoney grabbed it out of the air and thrust the bayonet into the stomach of another advancing German. Pulling the bayonet out, and taking a step backward, he felt the river rise above his knees. Firing the rifle at pointblank range, he killed another German. His feet slipped on the stones at the bottom of the river and he lost his balance and was barely able to parry the bayonet thrust of another German soldier. Holy shit, Mahoney thought, as he fought for his life. This is going to be it for me...
An artillery shell fell near the edge of the woods, knocking down trees and blowing several Germans into the air. Then three more shells dropped quickly into the woods. The attacking Germans slowed down, turning to see that they were being cut off by an American artillery barrage. They faltered, looking to their sergeants and officers and waiting for orders. Shells rained down on the forest, as the Germans fell back in confusion.
“Charge!” Mahoney screamed. “Push ’em back!”
Standing knee deep in water, the G.I.s made one last determined effort to get back on dry land. They charged forward, thrusting their bayonets and swinging their rifles like baseball bats. The Germans, began to scatter in all directions. Mahoney fired his German rifle from the waist, trying to shoot them in the back. As he and the other G.I.s stepped out of the water onto dry land, they dropped onto their stomachs and fired at the fleeing Germans, who were now afraid to move back into the woods.
Panicking, they ran parallel to the riverbank, where they were cut down by rifle fire and BARs. They screamed, attempting to dive into empty shell holes. Some tried to surrender. A few thought they could find shelter in the woods, and ran headlong into the raging, exploding inferno.
Mahoney worked the bolt of his German rifle and picked them off one by one ...
At Army Group G Headquarters in Luneville, General Balck smoked a cigarette and looked at the map on the table before him. An electric lamp lit the table brightly, but the rest of the conference room was dark and gloomy. Staff officers huddled in the shadows, murmuring in low voices. Major General Fredrich Wilhelm von Mellenthien, concluding a conversation on the telephone, hung up and approached Balck.
“I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Balck looked up. “What is it this time?”
“The Americans have broken through ... here.” Balck indicated a point on the Moselle. “Just when the 415th Regiment was attacking, the Americans fired a heavy artillery barrage from far behind their lines. It was completely unexpected and... I’m afraid our troops were routed.”
Balck frowned. “An artillery barrage, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s strange... They haven’t used much artillery before. It must have been a trap. They were probably trying to lure us into an exposed situation and then let fly the shells. Patton must be cleverer than I thought. Hmmm ...” He looked again at the map. “Have the men regroup, and bring up a reserve regiment. We’ll attack again, and this time we’ll show them what our artillery can do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mellenthien relayed General Balck’s orders down the line, as Balck frowned thoughtfully, turning the new information over in his mind. He had been in many battles, and the loss of a minor engagement didn’t bother him. Often enough he’d snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, and he believed he could do it again. Sometimes a small defeat was a good thing, he thought, making soldiers more angry and determined than ever.
Captain Anderson watched the artillery barrage, considering it his own handiwork and feeling enormously pleased with himself. He hadn’t lost his head but maintained his cool and, as a result, he’d been able to rain hell down on the Germans. Maybe, he thought, he had the makings of a company commander after all.
“It’s Colonel Sloan, sir.” Pembroke held out the walkie-talkie.
“Charlie Company,” Anderson said.
“Sloan here. The barrage will lift at 0210 hours. When it’s over, send your men forward and have them take as much of those woods as possible. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Carry on.”
Anderson contacted his platoon leaders and relayed the orders to them. He consulted his watch. It was 0205
hours.
Just five more minutes, he thought, and then it’s up and at ’em.
Patton stared off into space. General Millikin had just hung up the phone, and staff officers were milling about. Patton’s thoughts were on Eisenhower; he was still trying to figure the man out. Was he really ignorant about tactics and strategies, Patton wondered, or was he playing some kind of a game?
It amazed Patton that Ike’s career had risen to its present height. If there was any justice in the world, he, George Patton, should be where Ike was, and Ike would still be an unknown staff officer, pushing papers around in some place remote from the war. Patton was five years older than Ike; he had graduated from the Point two years earlier. When Patton was with old Blackjack Pershing in Mexico, chasing Pancho Villa across the desert, Ike was merely a mustering officer at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. When Patton was a young colonel, leading the first American tanks into battle in France, Ike was training troops at Camp Colt, Pennsylvania. Patton was already famous throughout the Army when Ike was still an obscure officer in the vast military machine.
The way Patton saw it, Ike owed him a lot. Patton had first met Ike at Fort Meade, taken a liking to him, and introduced him to General Fox Conner, who was then looking for an exec to help him in Panama. Thanks to Patton, Ike got the job—his first chance to be evaluated by the top brass. Using that job as a springboard, Ike became chief-of-staff to General Douglas McArthur in the Philippines during the thirties. McArthur had once told friends that he considered Ike “small-minded,” and the word got around. Still, despite everything, Ike became the supreme commander of SHAEF and Patton was being forced to eat his shit.
Lost in reverie, Patton shook his head. The one trait Ike had that he didn’t was skill in public relations. Once, when Patton saw Ike shaking hands and chatting with a group of foot soldiers, he was reminded of the way politicians kissed babies. I’ll bet that son of a bitch is gonna run for president some day, Patton thought. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“General Patton?” It was Millikin.
“Now what?”
“The barrage was a success, sir.” Millikin smiled. “The Germans have fallen back.”
“Good,” Patton said. “You told the Hammerheads to move in?”
“Yes, sir.”
Patton sighed. “Well, I guess you don’t need me here anymore. I think I’m going to sack out.”
“I’ll call you if something important comes up.”
“You do that.”
Patton grabbed his riding crop and walked out of the tent. It was still raining in the forest and he could hear the artillery barrage far away in the distance. He thought of the men who were close to it, holding their rifles ready and shivering on the ground, but he didn’t feel guilty being far from the fighting, because he’d faced many such barrages himself. I’m an old warhorse, he thought. This will be my last war, however, and I pray that God will give me a great victory before I die.
As he walked toward the jeep, his driver, Corporal Dowd, followed. Patton was confident that his Hammerheads and other attacking units would secure a strong foothold on the east side of the Moselle by daybreak, but how could he keep them there without artillery and tank support?
He folded his tall frame into the jeep and sat under the canopy, meditating, listening to the rainfall around him. The forest smelled sweet and clean, and he figured that when the war was over, he’d build a little cabin in a forest like this, where he could meditate whenever he felt in the mood.
Corporal Dowd shifted gears and drove the jeep off. It bounced along over rocks and holes in the road, as Patton worried about what the Germans would do in the morning. Normally he wouldn’t care what they did, because normally he’d be confident that he could handle them. But without gas and ammunition? He swore again.
That hardheaded Ike, he thought, gripping the dashboard of the jeep so tightly his knuckles went white.
When the artillery barrage stopped at 0210, the men from Charlie Company raised themselves from the mud.
“Marching fire!” shouted Captain Anderson.
The men formed a skirmish line and walked toward the woods, firing their weapons every few steps at anything moving. If nothing moved they fired anyway to make sure that nothing would move in the future. Their boots slopped through the mud as they made their way across the thirty yards of riverbank to the edge of woods which looked as though they’d been hit by a hundred tornados. Splintered trees were everywhere, leaning over at crazy angles. Smoke drifted up to the tops of those trees that still were standing.
Charlie Company moved forward, firing steadily, stepping over the mangled bodies of dead Germans, continuing their deadly march. Mahoney was in the middle of the first platoon, on the left flank of the Charlie Company skirmish line. He saw a headless German slumped over a fallen log. Nearby was another German split in two. I wonder what it was like to be in this forest? he thought. I wonder what I would have done?
He saw movement in a hole in front of him, and fired a quick shot. The movement ceased. Mahoney advanced cautiously, hearing bullets slam into trees in front of him, sending splinters flying into the air. When he was able to look, there was a figure in the hole, lying face down against its sloping side. Mahoney didn’t know if the Kraut was dead or not, so he shot him again at pointblank range. The corpse shuddered as the bullet went in, then lay still again.
Looking to his left and right, he saw that the line was becoming staggered. Which meant that one soldier might get in front of another and wind up with a bullet in his back.
“Keep this fucking line straight!” Mahoney shouted. “Dress right and keep moving!”
Suddenly his foot stepped down on something soft and unfamiliar. Glancing to the ground, he saw his foot on the stomach of a dead German. The stomach was torn apart, the guts hanging out like red snakes. Gagging, Mahoney lifted his foot quickly and twisted it in the mud and leaves to get the blood off, but when he lifted his foot there was still blood and gore on the boot. Shots rang out all around him, as he looked for a puddle. He spotted one at the bottom of a shell crater and jumped in with both feet.
“Where ya goin’, Sarge?” asked Private Lacey.
“Shaddup and keep rolling.”
“I gotta take a shit, Sarge.”
“So what the fuck you telling me for,” Mahoney grumbled, as he swished his feet around in the puddle.
“Can I go?”
“Go and stop bothering me.”
Private Lacey moved backwards, unbuckling his belt. Mahoney climbed out of the hole and looked down. His boots were soaking wet but no blood was on them. He double-timed to catch up with the advancing skirmish line, then held the stock of his carbine to his hip again and continued his marching fire.
Private Lacey was certain he had diarrhea. He wanted to find a quiet little glen for his bowel movement, but there wasn’t time. He pushed his pants down and squatted in the mud. There were dead German soldiers all around, their entrails spread out on the ground.
I think I’m comin’ down with somethin’, Lacey thought. Who wouldn’t in a situation like this... ?
Ten feet behind Lacey, Captain Helmut Dager of the Wehrmacht was lying face down, a service pistol in his hand. A piece of shrapnel was lodged near his left lung and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he wasn’t dead yet. He was a strong man and he’d been half-unconscious for nearly twenty minutes, when the sounds Private Lacey was making reached his ears.
The forest was spinning around him, and his pain was almost unbearable. He was a veteran of the Afrika Corps and although he’d been shot in the hip at El Alamein, he’d recovered that time. He knew he could never recover now. As something moved, he tried to focus in on it. It looked like an American soldier squatting nearby. The image went black for a few seconds and then the soldier came back again, aureoled by a faint glow. Dager gritted his teeth, tasting the blood in his mouth. I’m dying, he thought, but I think I can take that American with me. Summoning all the energy in his arm, he raised it sl
owly and silently, taking aim at the soldier’s back. His hand trembled and the sights on his pistol danced before his eyes, but he took a deep breath and wheezed loudly...
“Who’s there!” The American soldier tried to turn around.
As the pistol fired, it kicked Captain Dager’s hand in the air, and blood flowed from his clotted wound. Blackness descended a final time on Captain Dager and he went slack against the ground, never to move again.
“What the fuck was that?”
Mahoney had spun around at the sound of the shot behind them.
“It sounded like a shot, Sarge,” DiMeola said.
Mahoney cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed: “Who’s back there!”
Nobody answered. Then he remembered that Lacey was taking a shit somewhere in the rear.
“Lacey!”
When there was still no answer, a chill passed over Mahoney. Had the Germans left a few snipers behind? They often did that. It was one of their dirty tricks.
“Cranepool ... Reynolds ... Goldberg ... Smith—come with me!” Mahoney yelled. He turned to DiMeola. “You too.”
