Doom River

by Len Levinson

  Emboldened, the boys swarmed around the G.I.s, begging for candy. The soldiers reached into their pockets and brought out what they had. Mahoney gave away three of his Hershey bars, although he didn’t really want to. He wanted to keep them to convince some frisky young girl to give him some pussy, but he couldn’t refuse the little boys.

  Soon Captain Anderson and the rest of the company trudged into town. They gathered around the square, as townspeople stared at them from the windows and doorways of damaged buildings. Anderson called for a meeting of platoon leaders. “We’d better reconnoiter this town,” he said. “I want each platoon leader to take some men and look around.”

  He divided the town into four parts and assigned one part to each platoon leader.

  “The rest of us will stay here. Keep in touch by walkie-talkie. If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately.”

  “Sir,” said Mahoney, “one of the people who lives here told me the Krauts passed through last night and haven’t returned.”

  “Let’s hope he wasn’t lying.”

  Mahoney returned to his platoon and selected Cranepool, Butsko, Reynolds and Hawkins. He told the others to sit tight and take it easy until he returned.

  They headed toward the eastern-most section of the town, the section through which the Germans had probably departed during the night. Mahoney wondered why the Germans had given up the town. Were they that frightened, or were they trying to draw the Americans into a trap? Could it be they were reorganizing somewhere for an attack?

  Mahoney drew a mental map of the street pattern and the configuration of ruined houses on the edge of town. Grownups studied the American soldiers from beneath makeshift shelters, and little children came out into the rain to stare and ask for candy. Mahoney gave away a few more Hershey bars, knowing his generosity would make the G.I.s more acceptable to the townspeople. As he and his men turned around and headed back to the square, they smiled at the people and patted the heads of the kids.

  When some of them waved, Mahoney waved back. What a nice little town this must have been, he thought. Maybe I should come back here to visit after the war is over. As they turned a corner, something made Mahoney look to his right. He nearly tripped over his feet as he saw a beautiful young blonde standing on a street corner. Mahoney waved to her, and she waved back.

  Wow! Mahoney thought. What a doll! She can’t be more than twenty years old. Every little town has its beauty and I guess she’s it for this town. He made a mental note of the corner’s location, intending to return if he got the chance. He knew that young girls were curious about fucking, and maybe he could satisfy both her curiosity and his lust at the same time.

  They returned to the square and Mahoney reported to Captain Anderson, who was drawing a map of the town according to the information the patrols were giving him. He figured out a defense for the town and told the platoon leaders to deploy their men according to the plan. The defense called for soldiers to man posts in houses at the edges of town. This would protect it from attack in any direction, but the defense would be spread thinly. However, Anderson told them, more troops were expected to arrive in the morning.

  The platoons moved out to take positions in their respective sections of town, and Anderson called Colonel Sloan, to report what he’d done. Colonel Sloan told him to sit tight; communications people would be there shortly to wire in the telephones. Chow trucks would be up in the evening, and the second battalion would arrive in the morning.

  Only twenty miles to the east, a mud-spattered Mercedes-Benz limousine drove into a pine forest. In the back seat sat Generals Balck and Mellenthien, planning their counterattack.

  A sentry popped out from behind a tree and stopped them. When the driver spoke the password, the sentry waved them on.

  They entered the fortifications of the 217th Panzergrenadier Division, where trenches had been dug in the forest and covered with logs. Tents were pitched throughout the area, and after continuing for a half-mile, the generals came to a large tent which was the headquarters of the division.

  Balck and Mellenthien got out of the limousine and walked toward the tent. Guards snapped to attention and saluted. Waiting inside were a group of officers standing around a map table. General Hans Dietrich Kretchmer, commander of the division, took a step toward the two generals and gave them the Hitler salute. They saluted him back.

  Kretchmer led them to the map table. Large drops of rain were falling onto the tent, making loud plop sounds.

  “There’s been a major change in the front,” Dietrich said, pointing at the map. “The Americans who were on this ridge are now in this town.”

  “Hm ... evidently they want to control that road,” said Balck.

  “That’s understandable,” Kretchmer said. “It leads directly to the border of the Fatherland.”

  “Then you’ll have to change your plan of attack,” Balck said.

  “We’re working on it. Their new position will actually be easier for us to assault, because we’ll be able to use tanks without interference. At midnight we’ll just roll into the town and go to work on the Americans.”

  Mellenthien smiled. “They won’t know what hit them.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they will.” Kretchmer nodded. “I imagine they think we’ve all gone away. Fortunately, since they can’t send up reconnaissance planes in this weather, they don’t know where we are.”

  Balck looked coldly at the map.

  “But we know where they are,” he said.

  “History,” Patton said, “will say that we’re missing a great opportunity to win the war.”

  “I know.” Bradley sighed. They were seated in Patton’s office in the town of Chalon.

  “And the blame will be laid at the feet of Ike.”

  “Don’t be too certain of that. When we win the war—and we will win it eventually—Ike will get the credit. These few weeks will be forgotten.”

  “I’ll never forget them,” Patton said.

  “Neither will I,” Bradley replied, “but the world will.”

  “It may be months before Monty clears the port of Antwerp, and precious time is slipping away.”

  “I agree, George. You don’t have to convince me. But there’s nothing we can do.”

  “That goddamn Eisenhower!”

  “Perhaps you don’t appreciate the pressures on him, George.”

  “What about the pressures on us?”

  “His pressures are different from ours,” Bradley said. “All we’re supposed to do is win battles, but his primary mission is to hold this coalition together. It’s not easy either, because we’re pulling in one direction while the British are pulling in another. If he leans towards us, the British will accuse him of leaving them out of the war—they might even drop out of the coalition. If he leans toward the British, people like you will accuse him of being a traitor. And no matter what he does, the French will find something to criticize. You know the French.”

  Patton nodded. “I know the French.”

  “Ike knows we can win this war if the coalition holds together, and he knows we’ll be in a lot of trouble if the coalition falls apart. So he’s subordinating everything else. You say you can win the war for him in two weeks, but what if you don’t? If he gives you everything you need, the British will leave the coalition, and if you fail, it’ll be all that much harder to win the war. Just keep this in mind, George, the next time you’re critical of Ike. He’s playing a different game, and the stakes are much higher from where he’s sitting.”

  “There’s just one thing wrong with what you’re saying, Brad.” Patton leaned forward.

  Bradley cocked an eyebrow.

  “I really can win the war in two weeks,” Patton said.

  Bradley sighed. “Oh, George, you’re really impossible.”

  “You don’t think I can?”

  “Yes, I think you can, but I don’t know for sure that you can, and neither do you.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It
’s difficult to talk with you sometimes, George. You’re not very objective and you refuse to see the other fellow’s point of view.”

  “No! It’s the other fellow who can’t see my point of view. Listen. My forces are stretched thinner than a cobweb, there are huge gaps in my line, I have no gas and not much ammunition, and yet I’m the one who’s supposed to be understanding?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone over the Moselle.”

  “I couldn’t stand still like a sitting duck.”

  “George, we really aren’t getting anywhere.” Bradley reached for his helmet. “I’d better get back to my headquarters.”

  “And I suppose you still can’t get me some gas from the First Army...?”

  “That wouldn’t be right, George.”

  “It’s been nice talking with you, sir.” Patton saluted.

  Bradley returned the salute. “You might think about pulling your line back a little, George.”

  “I’ll think about it sir, but right now I believe they’re fine where they are.”

  “Okay, George,” Bradley said. “You’re the boss. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Bradley closed the door behind him, Patton spoke aloud to himself: “Why does nobody believe me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mahoney deployed the first platoon along the edge of the town. The soldiers huddled behind the stone walls of the bombed-out buildings and tried to build shelters out of debris. Hungry street urchins crowded around them begging for food, and the G.I.s gave them more candy and K rations. Mahoney had told them that a chow truck would arrive in a little while.

  Mahoney looked for a place to set up his platoon CP. It would have to be a spot somewhere in the center of his line where he could see all of his squads reasonably well. DiMeola was with him, the aerial of his walkie-talkie snapping around in the air. Mahoney hoped to find a nice, dry cellar with maybe a few bottles of cognac in it. But mainly he wanted space, safety, and shelter from the rain.

  A big, husky middle-aged Frenchman walked up to Mahoney. He wore a gray peaked cap and a leather jacket, and he looked mad. He waved his hands in the air and swore at the sergeant.

  “What’s your problem?” Mahoney said in French.

  The Frenchman froze for a moment and his jaw dropped open. Then, recovering quickly, he cursed again. “Why don’t you Americans go someplace else? If the Germans counterattack, the town will be ruined!”

  “It’s ruined already,” Mahoney said.

  “It could be much worse!”

  “So what are we supposed to do—get ourselves killed so your town won’t get bombed anymore? Fuck you. We’re staying where we are and if you don’t like it you can leave.”

  “You goddamn Americans!”

  “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  Mahoney finally found what he was looking for: a decent cellar. It was in a building that had nearly been leveled, but the debris would be like the top of a bunker, protecting them from incoming shells. The only problem was there were people living in the cellar: an old man, an old woman, with a couple of kids. They had a little wood stove and a metal stovepipe that went through a window. Mahoney tried to make friends.

  “Hello,” he said in French. “We’re going to join you for awhile.”

  “We don’t have much,” the old man said, “but you’re welcome to what we have.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Yes,” the old man said, “but I have no cigarettes to offer you. I’m sorry.”

  “But I have some to offer you,” Mahoney said. He took off his back pack, opened it up, and gave the man a pack of cigarettes.

  “Thank you,” the old man said, ripping open the cellophane. “Thank you very much.”

  Mahoney picked up a small wooden crate, placed it beside the stove and sat on it. “DiMeola, get me Pfc. Butsko.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Mahoney unbuckled the tops of his combat boots and unlaced the bottoms. As he pulled them off, a stench filled the cellar.

  “Sorry,” Mahoney said.

  His new friends moved a little away from the stove.

  Mahoney took off his socks. His feet were now even redder. He raised them and felt the marvelous heat of the fire. He took out a cigar and lit it up, as the two little children watched him with big saucer eyes. He threw them some candy, noting that he was beginning to run low.

  He looked at his watch: it was four o’clock in the afternoon. The chow truck would probably show up between five and six.

  DiMeola returned with Butsko, who had a belligerent expression on his face. What a mean-looking son of a bitch, Mahoney thought. He’ll make a good sergeant someday if he isn’t killed first.

  “Have a seat, Butsko,” Mahoney said.

  Butsko pulled up a box and sat down, wrinkling his nose at the smell of Mahoney’s feet.

  “What did I do wrong now?” he asked.

  Mahoney looked him over. Butsko was a few inches shorter than he was but considerably wider. He had a round Slavic face and blond hair.

  “You ain’t done nothing wrong, Butsko. How long you been in the Army?”

  “’Bout a year.”

  “How long you been in combat?”

  “Since the sixth of June.”

  “Been wounded?”

  “Bullet in my leg.” Butsko touched his calf and grinned. “Nothing serious, Sarge.”

  Mahoney grinned back. “I’ve had my eyes on you, Butsko. I’m gonna make you a squad leader as soon as there’s a vacancy, and I’ll put you in for another stripe.”

  “Hey, that’s real nice of you, Sarge,” Butsko said, “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Go ahead, but this isn’t no present that I’m giving you. When you become a squad leader you’ll have a lot more responsibility. Instead of looking out for just yourself, you’ll have to look out for your men.”

  “I do that anyway,” Butsko said. “Does this mean I’ll be able to buck the chow line?”

  “You gotta be a sergeant to buck the chow line.”

  “Fuck!”

  “The reason I’m telling you now,” Mahoney explained, “is so you’ll be ready when the time comes. I want you to start thinking about how you’re gonna run your squad and stuff like that, you know what I mean?”

  Butsko didn’t reply.

  “Hey—I just asked you a question.”

  Butsko blinked; he had been staring. “Whadja say, Sarge?”

  Mahoney turned around. He nearly fell off his box when he saw the same blonde he’d seen earlier in the day, and she did a double-take of her own.

  “Bonjour,” she said. She blushed.

  “Bonjour,” Mahoney replied.

  “Hi, there,” said Butsko with a big grin. “You speak English?”

  She appeared confused.

  Mahoney turned to Butsko. “Naw, she doesn’t speak English.”

  Butsko grinned like a baboon. “Hey, Sarge—let’s fuck her.”

  “Cut it out.”

  “All we gotta do is grab her in one of them rooms back there. Who’s gonna say anything?”

  “Now listen,” Mahoney said, looking Butsko in the eye, “I may be a scumbag and a bastard but I don’t allow any rapes in my platoon, and if I ever catch you doing anything like that, I’ll shoot you myself, so help me God.”

  Butsko laughed. “Shit, I know your game, Sarge. You want her all to yourself.”

  “I think it’s time you returned to your squad, Butsko.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.” Butsko stood and winked at the girl. “Give her a push for me when you get her alone, willya, Sarge?”

  “I said get the fuck going, Butsko.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Butsko sauntered out of the cellar. DiMeola waited for him to leave before speaking.

  “You’re making a mistake, Sarge,” he said. “Butsko’s a bastard. He’s already been in trouble for stealing, fighting and every other damn thing.”

  “I can handle him,” Mahoney said. Types li
ke Butsko often made the best soldiers.

  A little boy entered the cellar carrying a basin of water, which he set down near Mahoney’s feet. Swimming in the water was a tiny sliver of soap. The kid ran away, holding his nose. Mahoney threw him a candy bar. “Here you go, kiddo.”

  The sergeant bent over and washed his feet. The slippery suds felt good against his swollen skin. Got to take good care of my feet, he thought. I’ll never get through the war if my feet don’t make it.

  The other little boy brought him a rag to use as a towel. Mahoney took it, threw the kid a candy bar, and realized it was his last one. Silently he swore. He was supposed to have used his candy bars to get laid, but instead he’d given them to little kids. That’s the way it goes, he thought. He dried his feet with the rag and then positioned them near the stove, where the heat soon dried them and made them feel better.

  He smiled and lit up a fresh cigar. The French couple still looked at him with open curiosity, and the girl had shied away, skittish as a young colt. Because he didn’t want to scare her, he only glanced at her quickly, looking around for a place to hang his socks.

  The old lady cleared her throat. “You have some food, sir?”

  “You have nothing to eat?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mahoney opened his pack and took out the K rations. He’d intended to have them for supper, but the chow truck would be there soon.

  “Here,” he said. He took out two packs of cigarettes. “Take these, too.”

  He looked at the girl. “Do you smoke?”

  She nodded yes. He tossed her a pack of Camels. She probably doesn’t smoke, he thought; she’s probably taking them to her parents. Well, that’s okay. I’d do the same if I was her.

  Suddenly he heard the whistle of an approaching shell.

  “Hit it!” he shouted.

  He and DiMeola dropped to their stomachs on the cellar floor. Mahoney heard the artillery shell pass overhead. He waited a few moments until he heard it explode off in the distance. He decided it must have landed near the Moselle River.

  “What is wrong?” inquired the old man.

  “Artillery shell,” Mahoney explained, getting up off the floor. He heard another one pass overhead, and a few seconds later a third. It sounded like the beginning of a barrage.