Doom River

by Len Levinson

  “I got it.”

  “Over and out,” Anderson said. He put down the headset and picked up the walkie-talkie, calling his platoon leaders to get a more accurate picture of what was going on.

  Mahoney leapt over piles of rubble and ran around buildings as he made his way back to the cellar where he’d left DiMeola. Artillery shells were bursting throughout the town, sending huge orange fireballs into the night sky. It was still raining and his feet were wet again from all the puddles. When he finally made it to the cellar, he dashed down the stairs.

  A candle had been lit and the French couple were sitting with their backs to the walls, the children crouched beside them, looking fearfully at the ceiling that dripped bits of wood and plaster. DiMeola stood as Mahoney entered.

  “Gee, Sarge,” he said, “I thought something terrible had happened to you.”

  “Something did happen to me, but it wasn’t terrible. Has Captain Anderson called yet?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. He wants you to get right back to him.”

  Mahoney took the walkie-talkie and called Captain Anderson.

  “What’s your situation there, Mahoney?” Anderson asked.

  “Except for the bombing, I really don’t know, sir. I was out and just came back.”

  “Where were you?”

  Mahoney thought quickly. “I’ve had diarrhea lately, and you know...”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that. I don’t suppose you know what your platoon is doing.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Find out and get back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Mahoney picked his pack off the floor and put it back on. He felt as though he was starving to death, and he also felt a little weak in the knees as the result of his encounter with Yvette. I think it’s time for another cigar, he thought, taking one out and jamming it into his mouth. He lit it up and turned to DiMeola.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  “Shaddup and follow me.”

  Gripping his carbine tightly and hunching over, Mahoney stepped out of the cellar. Shells still were falling and rain was still coming down. Mahoney set off in the direction of the first squad, but after only twenty yards he heard a shell whistling toward him.

  “Hit it!” he yelled.

  They dropped to the bricks and stones on the ground. The shell zoomed to earth and exploded not far away, sending debris flying into the air. Mahoney thought his eardrums had burst—and then the debris fell back to earth. Half a brick bounced off his helmet and a rock fell onto his kidney. When the smoke cleared he leapt to his feet and shouted: “Follow me!”

  He ran toward the edge of town where the first squad was deployed. Cranepool and part of the squad were in a makeshift bunker composed of bricks and stones, and Mahoney dove through the narrow opening at its rear.

  “What’s going on up here?” Mahoney asked.

  Cranepool had been looking out from one of the slits in the front of the bunker. The faint traces of a blond beard could be seen on his chin and cheeks.

  “Hiya, Sarge,” he said with a sleepy smile.

  Mahoney joined him at the front of the bunker. “Anything out there?” he asked, peering ahead into the darkness.

  “I can’t see anything.”

  Mahoney could see only rain and night. He wouldn’t be able to spot a Kraut unless he was right on top of the bunker.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” Mahoney said. “I don’t think the Krauts are shelling us just because they want to wake us up early for breakfast.”

  “What breakfast?” Reynolds asked. “We ain’t even had supper.”

  Mahoney looked at Cranepool. “If you need me for anything, call me on the walkie-talkie.”

  Cranepool scratched his nose. “Don’t you think that maybe we should get out of here, Sarge?”

  “Yeah, but I guess Captain Anderson doesn’t think so and he’s the one giving the orders. Let’s go, asshole.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Mahoney crawled out of the bunker. He ran toward the second squad, which was holed up in the cellar where the crap game had been held. He dodged around bombed-out buildings and jumped over shell craters. A terrified cat, its hair standing on end, screeched and ran across his path. Mahoney perceived that it was a black cat, and wondered how much bad luck it would bring him. He didn’t think he could handle any more.

  When he scrambled down the stairs into the cellar, all the soldiers pointed their weapons at him.

  “It’s only me,” he said with a fart.

  Sergeant Updike lowered his rifle. “I almost plugged you,” he said.

  “Before you pull that trigger, make sure it’s a Kraut you’re shooting at.” He looked at the men. “Let’s not get trigger-happy, gang. We don’t have any ammunition to waste and we don’t want to kill any of our chums, buddies, and pals, do we?”

  The men smiled faintly.

  “No, sergeant,” said one.

  “Lemme see what’s going on here.”

  Mahoney stomped to a window and looked outside. It was the same bleak view he’d seen in the first-squad position. He couldn’t spot any Germans; he couldn’t even see their artillery positions in the distance.

  “Hey, Sarge,” said Butsko, “you got time for a quick game of craps?”

  “What a fucking asshole you’re turning out to be, Butsko.”

  “I still say those dice came up snake eyes.”

  “So’s your mother’s ass.”

  “At least I don’t use my rank to cheat my buddies.”

  Mahoney spun around, his eyes ablaze. He stormed toward Butsko but Butsko showed no fear or concern whatever. He just stood with his M-1 rifle in his hands and smiled like a wise guy.

  Mahoney stopped a few inches from Butsko’s face.

  “If I want any shit from you,” he growled, “I’ll knock it out.”

  Butsko laughed. “I’d like to see you try it.”

  In a sudden catlike move, Mahoney feinted a left hook to Butsko’s head. When Butsko raised his rifle to block the punch, Mahoney shot a hard right to his unprotected midsection. His fist sank in almost to his wrist, and Butsko went “Oof,” dropping his rifle and bending over to clutch his stomach. This left his head wide open, and Mahoney threw a vicious uppercut. It landed on Butsko’s jaw and Butsko straightened up and fell backward, out like a light. Mahoney wiped his hands off on each other.

  “Well, I guess that takes care of one fucking asshole,” he said. He turned to Sergeant Updike. “Keep your eyes open. The Krauts might come at any moment and the sooner you see them the better your chance at keeping them away. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Let’s go, DiMeola.”

  Mahoney went out into the rain again. He ran toward the position of his third squad, thinking that the only thing people like Butsko understood was physical violence. Yet he persisted in thinking that Butsko might make a good NCO someday if his nastiness could be channeled along productive military lines.

  The third squad was also holed up in a cellar.

  “It’s me!” Mahoney yelled outside, because he didn’t want to get shot at.

  “How’s everything going down here?”

  “We’re okay,” said Sergeant Cooley of Langry, Texas. Like the late Private Lacey, Cooley had been a cowboy before the war. “Of course, I got some cases of severe trench foot and we’re starving to death, but I suppose things could be worse.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Mahoney. “You could have a Kraut bayonet sticking out of your hump.”

  He walked to a window and looked out. Once again, he saw only night and rain. It was one-thirty in the morning.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” he said. “The Krauts’ll be coming any time now.”

  “Sarge?” It was Pfc. Rollins.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t we just get the fuck out of here?”

  “We probably will when the time’s right. Any more quest
ions?”

  “Sarge,” persisted Rollins, “why don’t we get the fuck out now?”

  “Because nobody told us to. Now turn around and keep your eyes open. I ain’t got time for silly horseshit.”

  Mahoney climbed up out of his cellar and headed for his fourth-squad machine-gun section. The shells were still falling in great profusion, and he had to hit the dirt three times before he reached his destination. The section was commanded by Corporal William Goines of Key West, Florida.

  “Hiya, Sarge,” the corporal said.

  The section was in a fabricated bunker similar to, but smaller than, the first-squad bunker. Goines had Pfc. Jackson and Private Palowitch inside the bunker with him.

  “How we doing, boys?” Mahoney asked, crouching down with them and making room for DiMeola.

  “I’m hungry,” said Palowitch.

  “You’re always hungry, you bastard,” Mahoney replied.

  “I’m hungry, too,” said Jackson, “and I ain’t always hungry.”

  “But you’re always stupid. Lemme sit down behind this gun.”

  Goines got out of the way and Mahoney sat behind the gun. He looked through the sights and slid the gun from side to side on its transverse rod. Goines had set up a nice enfilading field of fire.

  “Good work, Goines,” Mahoney said, puffing his cigar. “At least there’s one person around here besides me who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Thanks, Sarge.” Goines shrugged and blushed.

  “Keep your eyes open.” Mahoney moved away from the gun. “The Krauts are gonna come pretty soon.”

  “We’ll be ready for them,” Goines said.

  “I just hope they won’t be ready for you.”

  Mahoney was about to crawl out of the bunker when he heard the whistle of an incoming shell.

  “Hit it!” he screamed.

  They dived to the bottom of the bunker. There wasn’t much room and their helmets crashed on the way down. The shell landed nearby and knocked down a wall of the bunker, which caved in on Pfc. Jackson. Then the debris in the vicinity dropped onto the roof of the bunker. Things settled down.

  Mahoney rose to his knees and brushed himself off. “Fix that wall and get ready for the worst. Let’s go, fucknose.”

  The two soldiers ran back to the platoon CP. Shells rained down all around the town. Suddenly Mahoney heard the burp of German machine guns and the crackle of rifle fire to his front. Bullets whizzed all around him and he dove behind a pile of rubble. DiMeola landed a few feet away.

  Mahoney took a quick look over the top of the rubble and then ducked his head again. In the one split second he spotted flashes of light ahead in all directions, which led him to believe that the Krauts had that section of town pretty well covered. All his squads were within two hundred yards of where he was crouching. They were spread awfully thin and if the Krauts charged they’d breach the line easily.

  Mahoney grabbed the walkie-talkie from DiMeola and called Captain Anderson. Pembroke said Anderson was on the radio with the battalion.

  “Tell the C.O.,” Mahoney said, “that we’re under moderate to heavy machine-gun and small-arms fire out here.”

  “You think he doesn’t know that?” Pembroke asked.

  “What is it now?” asked the Officer of the Day at battalion headquarters.

  “Is Colonel Sloan up yet?” asked Captain Anderson.

  “Not yet.”

  “How about Major Cutler?”

  “He’s still asleep too.”

  “I think you’d better wake one of them up and tell him that we’re receiving heavy fire in addition to the artillery barrage I told you about before.”

  “How heavy?”

  Anderson was crouching in his cellar, shells were bursting everywhere, and he was losing his temper. “Why don’t you come up here and find out?”

  “Are you trying to get cute with me, Captain?” The O.D. was Captain Perry of Providence, Rhode Island, and he had more time in grade than Anderson.

  “I’m trying to get you to wake somebody up back there and tell him we’re in trouble out here. Are you going to get somebody or aren’t you?”

  There was a pause at the other end. “I’ll wake up Major Cutler and we’ll get back to you. Over and out.”

  Crouching behind the rubble, chewing the butt of his cigar. Mahoney was wondering where to go when the artillery barrage suddenly stopped.

  He knew what that meant: the Germans were moving in for the kill.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted to DiMeola.

  He jumped up and ran like a quarterback toward the first-squad bunker. Behind him he heard DiMeola’s feet clomping against the ground. Bullets whistled through the air around them but they kept their heads down and continued to roll. They reached the first-squad bunker and dove inside.

  The first squad was deployed at all the windows, firing rifles and BARs into the night. Mahoney peeked through the window beside Cranepool and saw flashes of light to his front. He estimated that a few hundred Krauts were out there.

  He raised his carbine to his shoulder and rested the front of the stock on the sill. He aimed down the barrel and squeezed off shots in the direction of the flashes.

  “Here they come!” somebody shouted.

  Squinting through the darkness, Mahoney made out the blurred forms of German soldiers three hundred yards away. He took aim at one of them and fired. The German went down. He aimed at another German and fired. That German kept coming. He fired at him again and the German went down.

  There were so many Germans so close together that it was hard to miss. Charlie Company cut them down but they kept on coming. Mahoney could hear the rattle of his machine-gun section, and the front rank of Germans fell down like hay before a scythe. As the Germans advanced to within two hundred and fifty yards of the second platoon, the American soldiers increased their fire. Mahoney ejected an empty clip and pushed in a new one. Gritting his teeth, he resumed firing. German bullets ricocheted around the front of the bunker, and then Pfc. Rollins screamed and fell backward, a bullet hole in his face spurting blood. He collapsed onto the floor, twitched a few times, and lay still. DiMeola felt his pulse.

  “He’s dead,” DiMeola said, a wild, crazy look on his face.

  Mahoney grunted. “Get to the fucking window and fire your weapon.”

  Dazed, DiMeola walked to the window and raised his carbine. Mahoney pulled the bandoliers off Rollins’ shoulder and picked his M-l off the floor. He carried it to the window and took aim with it. The Germans were nearly two hundred yards away now, and still were advancing slowly. Mahoney wondered whether he should pull his platoon back. He aimed at a German and shot him; the German toppled to the side. Mahoney fired at another German and brought him down. While aiming at another German, he decided to gather his platoon together and start falling back. There was no point in staying where they were and being overrun. But he’d have to tell Captain Anderson what he was doing, so they couldn’t court-martial him for disobeying orders in the face of the enemy.

  “DiMeola—throw me the walkie-talkie!”

  DiMeola heaved it toward him and the sergeant snatched it out of the air. “First Platoon to the C.O.”

  “Hang on,” replied Pembroke. “He’s talking to battalion.”

  As German bullets whacked into the stones and bricks in front of the bunker, Mahoney sat on the floor and held the walkie-talkie to his face.

  “Your orders are to hold fast,” Major Cutler said sternly.

  “I told you, sir, that I don’t think I can do it,” Anderson replied.

  “Could you hold on if I sent you another company?”

  “I don’t think they can get here in time.”

  “I see,” said Major Cutler. “Well, we don’t want to give up that town.”

  “I think we’ll have to, sir. I don’t thing I can hold out much longer. We’re in trouble here, and I don’t believe I’m exaggerating.”

  “Well, you’re in command there, Anderson. Do whatever you think
is necessary. But your orders are to stay where you are.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Anderson took off his headset and handed it to Pembroke.

  “Get everything ready to move out of here,” he said.

  “Sir,” said Pembroke, “the first platoon wants to talk with you.”

  Anderson took back the walkie-talkie. “What is it, Mahoney?”

  Mahoney’s voice was tense and his words came fast: “Sir, request permission to retreat.”

  “Start moving toward my CP. Try to link up with the third platoon on your left and the second platoon on your right. We’ll try to conduct a fighting retreat out of this town.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Anderson leaned against a damp wall and took a deep breath. He wished Lieutenant Garcia was there to help him, but he’d told Garcia to take charge of the heavy-weapons platoon. Maybe it was time to get him back, because the company couldn’t take the heavy weapons with them on their retreat. They’d have to leave behind everything they couldn’t carry and try to get away with as little loss of life as possible.

  He decided to call Garcia next and tell him to get back to the CP. Then he’d order the other platoons to start falling back.

  Mahoney looked out of the window. The Germans were a hundred and seventy five yards away and still coming. A few mortar rounds from the weapons platoon were falling on them, but they weren’t doing any real damage. There were simply too many Germans with too much momentum. He looked at his watch.

  “Okay, we’re getting the fuck out of here right now,” he said. “Call the second, third, and fourth squads, DiMeola, and tell them to start pulling back. Tell the fourth squad to leave their heavy shit behind. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Then get cracking.”

  “The shit is about to hit the fan again,” Mahoney said to the others. “We’re going to pull back to the company CP and I want every one of you to keep firing, because that’s the only way we’re going to keep the Krauts off us. Okay—let’s go.”

  “Look, Sarge, tanks!” said Cranepool.