by Len Levinson
“The Germans are shooting at our people back there.” He pointed west.
“Oh,” said the old man.
Mahoney draped his socks over the box that Butsko had sat on, wondering how long it would be before the Krauts started shelling the village ...
Captain Anderson had set up his company CP on the ground floor of the only building in town that still was standing. It had formerly served a government purpose of some kind, and he was able to sit behind a desk and arrange his maps and papers upon it. Pfc. Pembroke had set up the company radio and had an aerial stuck through the window. Sergeant Tweed and Pfc. Drago also had desks. A group of kids played games around the desks and nothing could be done to make them go away.
“Sir,” said Pembroke at the radio, “Colonel Sloan is calling.”
The captain put on the headset. “Anderson here.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news, Anderson,” Colonel Sloan said.
“We have to move out again?”
“No, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to get that chow truck to you. We’re getting a lot of German artillery fire and nothing can move on that road.”
Anderson sucked in air between his teeth. “That’s too bad, sir, because many of the men have given away their K-rations to the townspeople. They’re in a pretty bad way.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. We expect the Germans to counterattack tonight, so keep your eyes open. I don’t suppose you’ve been shelled yet?”
“I would have reported it if we had, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, stay alert and report any unusual circumstances.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Anderson removed the headset and returned to his desk.
“Anything wrong, sir?” asked Tweed.
“They’re getting shelled back there, and they can’t send the chow truck up.”
“Oh, oh! I don’t have anything to eat.”
“Neither do most of the men. I guess we have to learn not to give our food away so soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
They heard the unmistakable whistle of a shell zeroing in.
“Hit it!” shouted Anderson.
They dropped to the floor. As the shell exploded somewhere to the west of the town, the ground trembled. Then there was another whistle followed by another explosion. Two simultaneous explosions were heard a few seconds later.
Anderson looked at Tweed. “I think we’d better move down to the cellar,” he said.
Tweed nodded.
Mahoney picked up his boots and pressed a thumb into the leather; it was dry. His feet were returning to their normal color and he figured they were on the road to complete recovery. But now he had something new to worry about. The town was being shelled. Furthermore, the French couple and the girl were looking at him as though it was his fault. He decided he’d better get out of the cellar for awhile and see how his men were doing.
“Sarge,” said DiMeola, “the C.O.’s calling.”
Mahoney held the walkie-talkie to his ear. Captain Anderson wanted to speak with all platoon leaders.
“I’ve got bad news,” Anderson said. “The chow truck can’t make it up here because of the artillery bombardment, so you’ll have to eat K rations—and don’t tell me you’ve given them away because I know that already. This should teach us to have sufficient K rations on hand for twenty-four hours. The rest of the bad news you know. The Krauts are getting ready to attack us, so make all your positions secure. Any questions?”
“Will we get artillery and tank support?” Lieutenant Michaels said.
“I don’t expect so.”
“Jesus,” said Michaels. “How can we fight a war?”
“You’ll fight with whatever you’ve got.”
Mahoney gave the walkie-talkie back to DiMeola and returned to the stove, where he put on his dried socks. They were stiff as boards.
“Saddle up, DiMeola,” he said. “We’re going out.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Mahoney laced up his combat boots and strapped the tops. He put on his helmet and lit a cigarette; he didn’t want to smoke up all his cigars too soon. The French people were silent. The blonde was playing with the young boys. When she sensed that Mahoney was looking at her she blushed and lowered her head.
She knows I want to fuck her, Mahoney thought. Part of her probably wants to and the other part is scared shitless.
“Let’s go, DiMeola,” he said.
They left the cellar and climbed the stone steps to the backyard. Rain was still pouring and the day had grown considerably darker; the sun was setting behind the clouds. They made their way over the rubble, ducking whenever a German shell came down. Mahoney could see that the Germans weren’t shelling the town very intensely. Perhaps, he thought, they were low on ammunition, too. Or maybe they were saving it for a major bombardment later...
He checked the first squad; it was deployed in cellars and makeshift shelters at the edge of town. Moving from position to position, assessing the soldiers’ fields of fire, he told them there wouldn’t be a chow truck and asked how their K rations were holding out. Some had saved a few cans and some hadn’t. Mahoney told them to share what they had.
Private Reynolds didn’t like that idea. “If I had the good sense to save my K rations and Pulaski didn’t, why do I have to share with him?”
“Because I said so,” Mahoney replied.
Mahoney finally came to the little bunker that Cranepool had made out of bricks and slabs of slate roofing. “How’re you doing, kiddo?” Mahoney asked.
“I got a few very serious cases of trench foot, Sarge.”
“We’ll try to get them out of here tomorrow. By the way, the chow truck isn’t going to make it up tonight.”
“Oh, oh!” Cranepool said.
“You got any K rations left?”
“No.”
“Tough shit.”
As Mahoney and DiMeola made their way to the second squad, a German shell came whistling down on them, and they took shelter against some bricks, pulling their helmets tightly onto their heads. The shell landed twenty yards away, shaking the ground and filling the air with acrid fumes. Mahoney and Cranepool leapt to their feet and ran to the first cellar in the string of defenses manned by the second squad.
The second squad huddled together in the dank cellar, shooting craps against a wall.
“Snake eyes!” It was the unmistakable voice of Pfc. Butsko.
“What’s going on here?” Mahoney shouted.
Butsko held up the dice and grinned. “Care to make a pass, Sarge?”
Mahoney started counting heads. “Hey! Who’s watching the fucking store?”
Sergeant Rackman, the squad leader, got to his feet. “I got a few men out there, Sarge, to keep an eye on things. But I thought it might be a good idea if I gave the men some recreation.” He winked.
“You sure you don’t want to make a pass, Sarge?” Butsko was still holding out the dice.
“I only got fifteen bucks,” Mahoney said.
“Payday stakes, Sarge,” Butsko replied, indicating that losers would pay the winners on payday.
“What the fuck!” Mahoney said. “Sure, I’ll take a pass.”
Butsko handed over the dice and Mahoney looked them over. They were green dotted with white.
“Whose are these?” Mahoney asked.
“Mine,” said Butsko.
“Figures,” commented Mahoney. “I hope you haven’t fucked with them, you wise bastard.”
“Naw, they’re good dice, Sarge. Nobody here’s had any complaints yet and the game’s been going for an hour.”
“Holy shit,” Mahoney said, closing his fingers around the dice and blowing hot air into his fist. “Have you guys forgot there’s a war going on?”
“Fuck the war.”
Mahoney got down on his knees facing the wall. The soldiers threw down dollar bills, betting against him and each other.
“I�
��m covering all bets,” he said, the gambling fever striking him suddenly like a bolt of electricity.
“You covering that one?” Butsko threw down a ten-dollar bill.
“You bet your ass. Anybody else?”
A few more dollar bills fluttered down. Mahoney blew on the dice again and shook them close to his ear.
“Seven or eleven,” he said. “Hit it!”
He threw the dice to the floor. They tumbled toward the wall and bounced off. Ten pairs of eyes looked at the dice. One dice showed four dots and the other showed three.
Scooping up the bets, Mahoney chuckled. It’s funny how one throw of the dice can change how you look at the world, he thought. He held all the cash in his left hand and picked up the dice with his right.
“These dice are so hot they’re burning holes in my hand,” he said. “Place your bets, assholes.”
The men threw down their money, and Mahoney covered each bill with one of his own. When Butsko threw down another ten, Mahoney covered it with a ten he’d just won, wondering where the young Pfc got all his dough.
“Anybody else?” he asked.
Nobody responded. Mahoney rattled the dice.
“Baby needs a new pair of shoes,” he said, and threw the dice at the wall.
They rolled, bounced, and fell flat. The dots added up to seven again. Mahoney let out a war whoop and jumped into the air. He waved his helmet like a lunatic and then got down on his knees, gathering up all the money in his big hands. “Who’s still in?” he asked.
Butsko threw down two tens. “You’ll never do it again, Sarge.”
“Oh, no?” Mahoney covered the bets. “You ain’t got no faith in your old sergeant, kiddo.”
Some men bet with Mahoney and some bet against him. Single bills, fives and tens were slapped onto the floor; to be covered by other bills in like denominations.
Mahoney shook the dice close to his ear. “Gimme seven or eleven and I’ll be in heaven,” he said.
He threw the dice and watched them speed to the wall. They bounced, tumbled, and came up six and one.
“Hey, Sarge, you fucking did it again!” said DiMeola, patting Mahoney on the shoulder. DiMeola had bet with him instead of against him.
“You guys still wanna play?” Mahoney said, clawing up all the money.
Butsko reached into his pocket and took out a fifty-dollar bill.
“That says you can’t do it again,” he said, dropping it onto the floor.
“Where you get all your money, Butsko?” Mahoney asked.
“Never mind where I get my money. Are you in or are you out?”
Mahoney smiled. “You don’t think you’re gonna scare me with a fifty-dollar bill, do you, my young Pfc?”
“Are you in or are you out?”
“Your old sarge doesn’t fade, Butsko. I’m in.”
Mahoney counted out fifty dollars and covered. He only had a few dollars left, so he covered the other bets with payday stakes. Everybody except DiMeola was betting against him now. They didn’t think he could make three straight passes in a row although once at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, he’d made five in a row, but they didn’t know about that.
“Okay, boys, here we go,” Mahoney said, shaking the dice next to his ear. “Come seven, come eleven!”
He threw the dice and they bounced off the wall. Tumbling to the floor, they came up a six and two.
“You lose,” Butsko said, reaching for the money.
Mahoney grabbed his wrist. “What the fuck do you mean, I lose.”
“Well, you sure as fuck didn’t win.” Butsko looked him in the eye.
“But I sure as fuck didn’t lose either. I only lose if I don’t make my point.”
“I was betting that you didn’t win on your first throw.”
“You didn’t say that. This dice game is still on, buddy.”
Butsko shrugged. “I don’t know, Sarge.”
“Tell you what,” Mahoney said. “If you didn’t understand what was going on, you can take your money back.” Mahoney turned to the others. “And that goes for the rest of you, too.”
Nobody took his money back.
Butsko waved his hand. “Naw—it’s all right. I’ll stay in.”
Mahoney shook the dice again. The fucker was trying to pull a fast one, he thought. No wonder he’s got so much money. Mahoney threw the dice, and it came up with a three and a two.
“Shit,” he said, throwing the dice again.
They came up five and four. He picked them up again and shook them. “I got a date with eight,” he said.
They came up six and three. He shook them again, blew into his fist, and shook some more. He figured that around two hundred dollars was riding on the dice, and that was a lot of money to a man who only had fifteen dollars going into the game. “Eight don’t be late,” he said, throwing the dice at the wall.
They came up six and four.
Mahoney sucked wind as he picked up the dice again. Guys were laying down more bets now, and most of them were betting against him. They thought he’d crap out before he made his point. He shook the dice high in the air.
“Ten minus two is what, dice?” he asked, throwing the little cubes against the wall.
As they bounced and rolled dead, so intent were the men on the game that they didn’t hear the shell whistling in. It landed on top of their building. A rush of air put out the candle they were using, but before the room went black Mahoney was sure he saw a five and a three.
“I won!” he shouted, as timbers fell and dust flew.
“Boolshit!” cried Butsko.
“I saw a five and a three!” Mahoney yelled. A chunk of wood broke loose from the ceiling and landed on his helmet.
“You shit, too, if you eat regular!” Butsko replied.
The men scrambled around in the darkness.
“Where’s the candle?”
“Anybody see the candle?”
Mahoney reached for his Zippo and his bayonet. When he lit the Zippo, he saw hands all over the money.
“Get away from there!” he snarled, stabbing at one of the hands.
The hand pulled away quickly and the bayonet hit cement. Mahoney found the candle and lit it. The air was now filled with dust and fallen timbers were scattered over the floor. Sounds of rifle and machine-gun fire could be heard.
“Listen here,” Mahoney said. “I threw a five and a three.”
“Boolshit,” Butsko replied. “The light went out before the dice came up.”
“Fuck you,” Mahoney said. “I saw a five and a three.”
“How could you see a five and a three if the lights were out? Can you see in the dark, Sarge?”
Mahoney wanted to punch Butsko in the mouth. He couldn’t understand why he had ever wanted to make a squad leader out of someone so low.
“I saw a five and a three,” Mahoney insisted. “How about anyone else?”
“Not me.”
“Me neither.”
“I thought I saw something,” a third said.
“What’d you see?” Mahoney said.
“I don’t remember,” the soldier replied.
“You fucking asshole.”
A considerable number of shells were falling in the vicinity and a firefight was obviously going on nearby.
“Well,” Mahoney said, “if nobody else saw what I saw, I guess everybody gets his money back.”
Butsko grunted and frowned. “You crapped out,” he said.
“Take your money and shut your fucking mouth, Butsko,” Mahoney told him. “We’ll have another one of these games when things quiet down, but just remember that I had the dice.”
As the men picked their money up off the floor, arguments developed concerning whose dollar bill belonged to who. Mahoney stuffed his money into his pocket and turned to DiMeola.
“Let’s see what’s going on out there.” He clutched his carbine and headed for the door. “The rest of you guys’d better look to your front. There might be some Krauts around here.”
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Butsko snorted. “I hope they don’t cheat at dice like some other people I know.”
Mahoney spun around and fixed Butsko with his most deadly stare. “Butsko, I’m gonna kick your fucking ass someday.”
Butsko raised his hands in the air. “Here I stand, Sarge.”
Mahoney wanted to charge and beat him to a pulp, but sounds of intense warfare were calling him. He climbed the stairs out of the cellar and looked over a heap of rubble. The shots seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the third platoon. There can’t be many Germans out there, he thought. Otherwise they would’ve swarmed over us long ago.
Crouching low, Mahoney made his way as fast as he could to the edge of the town, as shells dropped to earth and bullets ricocheted. Stopping behind the bottom half of a wall, he peered over it at the fields to the west.
It was nearly dark now, and he could see the flashes from German machine guns and rifles. He estimated them at about five hundred yards away. They’re probably just a reconnaissance group, he figured. Nothing to get too worried about— yet.
He decided to return to his platoon CP and wait for further developments.
Chapter Thirteen
At the 1st Battalion CP on the other side of the Moselle, Lieutenant Colonel Sloan ate his dinner from off a metal tray. The Headquarters Company cooks had managed to put together a reasonably edible roast-beef dinner with mashed potatoes and string beans boiled to death. Sloan ate in the light of a kerosene lamp, while reading a letter from his wife. Living in Lansing, Michigan, with their two sons, she had secured a minor executive job for herself at the Fisher body plant.
Major Cutler entered through the tent flap.
“We’ve got a problem, sir,” he said.
“What is it now?” Sloan asked.
“Charlie company is under attack in the little town they’re occupying.”
“How serious?”
“Not serious so far. They’re under a moderate artillery barrage and receiving some small-arms fire. Captain Anderson thinks they’ll be attacked later in the night. He requests permission to pull back.”
Sloan shook his head. “No, he can’t pull back. General Millikin throws a fit whenever he hears that somebody’s pulled back, and Captain Anderson hasn’t even been seriously attacked yet. No, tell him to stay where he is and report any changes in his situation.”
