by Len Levinson
“What’s up Sarge?” Cranepool asked.
“I heard a fucking shot back there.”
Cranepool nodded. “I heard something too, but you know how funny sound can be in the woods.”
“Lacey was taking a shit back there,” Mahoney said. “It might not be so funny. Be on the lookout for snipers.”
They retreated cautiously, searching the treetops for snipers, holding their rifles poised to fire. DiMeola had his ear to the radio.
“Sarge,” he said, “Captain Anderson wants to know where you’re going?”
“Tell him I’m checking on a sniper.”
DiMeola relayed the message, and the soldiers continued to walk back, stepping carefully over knocked-down trees and dead Germans. Finally they reached the spot where Mahoney had washed his boot. Then he saw the olive drab of G.I. clothing.
“There!” He pointed with his rifle.
They walked toward the crumpled body in O.D. green. It was Lacey, with his pants down. He lay on his back, the front of his jacket soaked with blood. His legs were twisted as if he’d been turning around when the bullet hit him.
Cranepool felt his pulse. “He’s dead.”
Mahoney nodded. “Graves Registration will pick him up.” Mahoney’s eyes scanned the treetops. “The fucking cocksuckers. They won’t even let a man take a shit. DiMeola, tell Captain Anderson there are snipers in these woods.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Okay, let’s get back to the line. Double-time.”
They trotted back to the advancing line. As Mahoney jumped over the body of a dead German captain holding a pistol in his hand, he decided he’d like to have the pistol for a souvenir. He removed the pistol from the hand of the German, whose eyes were wide open in death. The pistol was a beauty, and Mahoney rammed it into his belt. Then he noticed the gold watch on the captain’s wrist. He unbuckled the leather strap and looked at the face of the watch. It was still ticking. It appeared to be an expensive watch, one of the finest he’d ever taken from a dead German. This German officer must have really been loaded, Mahoney thought, as he strapped the watch on his wrist next to the watch which was already there.
“You okay, Sarge?” Cranepool shouted.
“I’ll be right with you!” Mahoney replied, double-timing back up to his men.
Anderson walked twenty yards behind his advancing line of men. Studying the terrain to see what was ahead, he finally concluded that he couldn’t make much sense of the map he consulted while he was moving, so he stopped and knelt down, laying the map on its case and bending over it.
He placed a finger on the spot where he thought he was. Then, studying the terrain characteristics that lay ahead, he saw that a ridge was ahead about a half-mile away. Behind the ridge was a big swampy area which would not be a good place to stop for the night. The ridge looked like the best place. It would be high and reasonably dry, and provide good visibility.
He decided to ask Colonel Sloan for permission to stop there.
“Give me the walkie-talkie,” he said to Pembroke.
Anderson was told that Colonel Sloan was at Regiment. He asked to speak with Sloan’s exec, but he wasn’t present either. Finally he wound up talking with the battalion operations officer, Major Cutler. Anderson told Cutler what he wanted to do, and the major looked at the map in headquarters.
“Looks like a good place to stop,” Cutler agreed. “Dig in when you get there and post some guards, then let the rest of your men sleep. Some communications people will be there in a little while to wire in your phones. Anderson, you’ve done a very good job today.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll send some hot chow up there in the morning.”
“Hot chow would be very welcome, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Chapter Ten
Charlie Company reached the top of the hill at five o’clock in the morning, as the first faint glimmer of dawn appeared in the east before them. Captain Anderson deployed his platoons and told his men to find a good defensive position, then moved toward the back of the ridge and proceeded to find one for himself.
The first platoon was on the far left flank of the ridge, and Mahoney organized his men so that they’d form a shoulder that could furnish some protection in case of an attack from the left flank.
There were rocks and trees on the ridge, so it was easy to find comparatively safe spots to lie down. Mahoney found a nice position behind a big boulder and dropped to the ground wearily, leaning his carbine against the boulder. He unsnapped his canteen, pulled it from its case, and took a long drink. Then he sighed. Looks like I’m still alive, he thought.
“Mind if I join you, Sarge?” It was Cranepool.
“Don’t mind at all, kid.”
They both took K rations out of their pockets. Mahoney had beans and Cranepool had hash. They got out their spoons and began to dig in.
“Boy, this tastes good,” Cranepool said, although his mother never served anything like it in her kitchen on the worst day of her life.
“Great stuff,” Mahoney agreed.
“This is a nice spot we’re in up here,” Cranepool said. “I feel like a fucking eagle. When it gets light we’ll be able to see for miles around. I hope they let us stay here awhile.”
“It don’t make a fuck to me either way,” Mahoney replied.
“No, I take that back. I like to keep moving, because the sooner we get to Berlin, the sooner this mess’ll be over with.”
“Whadaya think you’re gonna do when it’s over, Sarge.”
“I’m gonna open a bar in New York City—I told you that a million times, asshole.”
Cranepool pursed his lips together and shook his head. “Naw you ain’t, Sarge. You’re gonna re-up just like all the old dogfaces. You couldn’t run a bar. All you know how to do is shoot people.”
“Look who’s talkin’.”
“Whadaya mean?” Cranepool asked. “I used to be a farmer. My family’s got a big farm in Iowa.”
“You’ll never go back to the farm, kiddo,” Mahoney said. “Well, you might go back for awhile, but you’ll get sick of it. You’ll miss the barracks and the crap games. You’ll be back in the Army, mark my words. I never saw anybody eat this shit up the way you do.”
“That’s because you never see yourself,” Cranepool laughed. “Nobody gets along in the Army as well as you do, Sarge. This is your element, you just don’t realize it. Even the fucking officers are afraid of you. You’re the kind of guy who stays in the Army till you’re old and gray.”
“I’m gonna be old and gray in about a week if things keep going the way they been going.” He finished K rations and chucked the can away. Then he took out a cigarette and lit it up.
Cranepool licked his spoon. “I hope we come to a town pretty soon. I can’t wait to see a girl again.”
“Boy, have you gone downhill, kid.” Mahoney shook his head. “In Italy you were like a choirboy, but in France you’ve gone out of your mind.”
“France does that to people, I guess. I keep thinking about those two whores. Boy, were they pretty. It’s hard to believe girls that pretty and nice would have to sell their asses.”
Mahoney grunted. “This whole war is hard to believe. Jesus, I’m tired. I think I’m gonna cop some zees.”
Mahoney ground out his lighted cigarette butt, rolled over onto his side, and fell quickly asleep.
Two hours later he was awakened by a big commotion. A jeep with hot chow had made it up the hill and dogfaces were already crowding around the chow line the cooks were forming. Mahoney sat up in the mud. He shivered. His mouth tasted as though a skunk had shit in it, he decided, and all his muscles were aching. I’m getting a little old for this war stuff, he thought, standing up. Looking east toward Germany, he wondered where all the Krauts were this morning.
He took his mess kit out of his pack and bucked the chow line. The cooks were serving scrambled eggs, hash-brown potatoes, bacon and bread. Mahoney stacked his plate w
ith everything. He filled his cup with coffee and returned to his boulder, sat beside it and shoveled food into his mouth. Rain fell into his mess kit, making the bread soggy and diluting the eggs, but the food was still warm and Mahoney thought it tasted marvelous. Other men sat near him. They were talking about those who’d been killed and wounded the night before, but Mahoney added nothing to the conversation. He was too tired to talk.
After breakfast he checked the positions of the men in his platoon. A few more jeeps had arrived at the top of the ridge. They carried bedrolls and tent halves, plus many bags of mail. At the sight of the mailbags, the men went wild, crowding around the mailman as he read off the names. Standing with the other G.I.s, Mahoney hoped and prayed there’d be something for him. Sure enough, there was a package from his mother, and he knew she’d put some cigars and other goodies inside. Like a madman he tore the package apart and located the box of cigars. He took one out and lit it up, puffing happily. This might not be such a bad day after all, he thought.
He carried the package back to his boulder. Examining its contents more thoroughly, he found a bag of cookies, a salami, a gray wool scarf, and a letter. He unfolded the letter and began to read. First of all, his mother said, everybody was fine—which could be a lie because if everyone wasn’t fine Mahoney knew she wouldn’t tell him. She said she hoped he was all right and prayed for him constantly. She said she liked her job (she was working at the Brooklyn Naval Yard). Then came the bombshell. She said she had seen Ginger Reilly at the grocery store and Ginger had asked about him. She’d given Ginger his address, and Mahoney could expect to hear from her. Mahoney whistled and rolled his eyes.
“What’s going on, Sarge?” Cranepool asked.
“Nothing much,” Mahoney said.
Cranepool didn’t press; if Mahoney didn’t want to talk that was okay. Besides, Cranepool was occupied with slicing slabs off a ham his mother had sent him. Mahoney reached into his bag of cookies and stuffed a few of them down his throat, as he thought about Ginger Reilly. She was one of his old girl friends, one of the best. They’d gone at it hot and heavy for a while. He’d taken her cherry in the boiler room of his apartment building one cold February night, after he’d lied and told her he loved her. He would have told her anything to get into her pants, because Ginger was a Knocked-Out Niagara Nifty with long honey-blonde hair, big tits, and a wonderful ass. She had loved him desperately, but one night, while he was drunk, he’d screwed Marie Santucci in her apartment while her parents were at the movies, and Marie Santucci told a few of her girlfriends that she’d been going out with Mahoney. Word got back to Ginger, who tried to kill herself by swallowing a whole bottle of aspirin. They got her to the hospital in time and pumped out her stomach, but she never spoke to Mahoney again. As soon as she got well she started screwing Hanrahan, the cop, and then she screwed Bobby O’Shea, and after that she screwed Mike Nickles. Pretty soon she was a cunt just like the rest of them, and Mahoney always felt a little guilty about that. He had liked her quite a lot, and later, when he got drunk and went to whorehouses on Eighth Avenue, he wished he’d married Ginger Reilly instead.
He smiled, wondering if Ginger still loved him. They never forget the one who gave them their first fuck, he thought. Maybe she’s got tired of screwing around and remembering the greatest lover she ever had: namely me. He couldn’t wait to receive her letter. He knew it’d be nice, because she’d feel sorry for him, since he was fighting to save the whole world from Hitler. If he played it cool, maybe he could screw her again when he got back to New York. As he thought about her firm, round ass, he started to get a hard-on.
“Hey, Sarge, my feet hurt.”
It was Private Hammill of Oak Park, Illinois.
“I can hardly walk,” the private said.
‘Take your boots off and let’s have a look.”
“I can’t take my boots off,” Hammill said. “My feet are too swollen.”
“Sounds bad. You better see the medic.” Mahoney wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“I did. He can’t do anything for me.”
“I’ll see about sending you back to the battalion aid station. Have a seat someplace.”
As Hammill sat against a tree, Mahoney began to worry about his own feet. Still wet, they ached all over. The pain wasn’t debilitating yet, but he’d have to do something to doctor them soon.
“Are all you guys having trouble with your feet?” he asked.
When many of the soldiers said yes, Mahoney decided he should talk to Captain Anderson. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and put a handful of cigars into his shirt pocket. He cut off half the salami with his bayonet.
“I’m going to see the old man,” he said. He pointed to his package. “You guys who didn’t get anything from home can have the rest of this. Corporal Cranepool will be in charge until I get back.”
Gnawing the salami, Mahoney ambled toward the center of the line, where he hoped to find Anderson. He was directed to a shell crater which had become the new company CP. Anderson was helping Pfc. Pembroke wire up a field telephone. Mahoney dropped into the hole and made a half-assed salute.
“Good morning, sir.”
Bleary-eyed, Anderson looked up. “Hello there, Sergeant Mahoney. What can I do for you today?”
“A lot of my men have got trench foot,” Mahoney replied. “What should I do about it?”
“There’s not much you can do, Sergeant. Have the men dry off their feet if they can.”
“How can we keep anything dry?” Mahoney looked up at the raining sky.
“Set up your tent halfs and have them dry off their feet in shifts.”
“A few of the men can hardly walk.”
“Those I’ll arrange to have sent back to the battalion aid station. How are your feet?”
“Hurting.”
“Dry them off. By the way, Sergeant, Lieutenant Garcia is the new exec, replacing Lieutenant Boudreau.”
“What happened to Boudreau?”
“Dead.”
Mahoney shrugged. “Great combat weather.”
“You did a fine job last night, Mahoney. Keep up the good work.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. Any word what we’re going to do next?”
“Not yet, but I expect to hear something soon ... ”
General Hermann Balck sighed heavily. He was going over the files of his predecessor. He was also drinking black coffee since he hadn’t slept well, and he was anxious to get his new headquarters in shape for the great battles that lay ahead.
The phone rang.
He picked it up. “Yes?”
“General Jodl is calling, sir.”
“Put him through.”
After a crackling sound, General Jodl came on: “Good morning, General.”
“Good morning.”
“I’ve received word that the Americans have crossed the Moselle. Is that true?”
“Technically they have crossed the Moselle,” Balck replied calmly, “but only in a few spots, and not in force. They’ve also paid heavily for the small gains they’ve made.”
“The Fuehrer does not want them on our side of the Moselle. You know that. He wants you to push them back.”
“Of course he does, and I agree with him wholeheartedly. Tonight they shall be pushed back. I’m planning a series of battles right now.”
“If you fail, the Fuehrer will be very displeased.”
“I’m reorganizing my front-line units in a way that will give me more fighting soldiers. We’ll attack after midnight. The Americans will be sleeping soundly and they’ll wind up with us in their laps. They haven’t many tanks, and therefore I shall launch tank attacks. I can safely predict that most of the Americans will be on their side of the river by tomorrow morning at dawn.”
“Good,” Jodl said. “The Fuehrer will be happy if they are.”
Balck returned to his work. He studied communiqués and consulted maps. He finally decided to deliver a knockout punch to one of the American beachheads.
Of course he would attack them all, but he must push back one unit at least, so he’d have good news for Jodl when he called again.
But, he wondered, what unit? Balck searched for the spot where the Americans had extended themselves farthest, where they’d be most vulnerable to attack. He finally settled on the unit near Pont-a-Mousson. One American force had penetrated rather deeply there and could be attacked on either flank. According to intelligence reports, the Americans were already building a bridge in that area. With a swift, decisive attack, the beachhead could be wiped out and the bridge destroyed. That would certainly be something to crow about afterwards...
Bending over a blank sheet of paper, Balck began to write the battle order.
Inside his pup tent, Mahoney untied his combat boots. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and he was trying to dry his feet off. Grossberger, the medic, had given him a candle, and he intended to light it and dry them off slowly. Then he’d try to dry his socks out a little. If he dried off his feet for even a little while and massaged them, Grossberger said, he might not get trench foot.
In a way, Mahoney speculated, it might not be such a bad idea to get trench foot, because a severe case could land him in a hospital far behind the lines. But then he remembered reading somewhere that men with severe trench foot could have their feet amputated, and he certainly didn’t want that to happen.
He pulled off his boots to the smell of a terrible stench. Nearly gagging, Mahoney pulled off his stockings and looked at his pink swollen feet. After lighting the candle, he held his left foot over it while puffing on a cigar. I’m never gonna make it through this war, Mahoney thought despondently. If a bullet doesn’t get me, some awful disease will.
The heat felt good on his foot. When it was dry, he moved his other foot over the flame and thought about Ginger Reilly. What a piece of ass! She was tall like a model and liked to wear fuzzy pale-blue sweaters that showed her boobs to advantage. Many were the times Mahoney had rested his weary head between those magnificent boobs. But that had been long ago and far away. Would he ever see her again? Would she suck his joint if both his feet were amputated?
