by Len Levinson
Mahoney and Cranepool arrived back in the company a few minutes after three o’clock in the morning and made for Captain Anderson’s dugout. The blood had coagulated on the dog bites on Mahoney’s arm and leg, but they hurt, and he was afraid he’d been infected by the dogs’ saliva. Cranepool had also been bitten severely.
A guard was posted at the dugout, and Mahoney told him he and Cranepool were returning from the patrol.
“Has anybody else come back yet?” Mahoney asked the guard.
“No, Sergeant. Not that I know of.”
Mahoney and Cranepool entered the dugout, and saw Sergeant Futch and Pfc Spicer sleeping on the floor beside their desks, wrapped in Army blankets. Mahoney wiggled Futch’s foot, and Futch sat up suddenly, reaching for his service revolver, a Colt .45.
“Relax,” Mahoney said. “It’s only me.”
Futch blinked and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Where are the others?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. Why don’t you wake Captain Anderson up, so I don’t have to tell it twice.”
A dark shadowy figure pushed the O.D. green canvas curtain to the side. “I’m already awake,” Captain Anderson croaked, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. “Where’s Lieutenant Woodward and the rest of the patrol?”
“You’d better sit down sir,” Mahoney said, “because it’s going to be a long story.”
Captain Anderson sat behind Sergeant Futch’s desk, and Mahoney told him everything, from the time they’d entered no-man’s-land at the beginning of the patrol to the harrowing journey back to Charlie Company after the fight with the dogs.
“I think Woodward is crazy,” Mahoney concluded. “Puleo is dead because of him, and God only knows about the others. If Woodward ever gets back here, I think he ought to be court-martialed. We had no business going into the German bunker. It wasn’t part of our mission, and Woodward only did it for the glory that he’d get if he pulled it off.”
Captain Anderson nodded. “If he’d brought back valuable documents he would have been a hero, there’s no doubt about that. But I doubt whether a court-martial will stick just because he failed to do that.”
“He could never have brought it off,” Mahoney protested. “It was a one in a million shot, and he risked all our lives by taking it. The son of a bitch ought to be put up against a wall if he gets back here.”
“And that’s only part of it,” Cranepool chimed in. “You should’ve seen the way he was treating Sergeant Mahoney. I’m surprised Sergeant Mahoney didn’t put a fucking hole in his head.”
Captain Anderson coughed and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll talk to him about this when he gets back—if he gets back, but I don’t know about the court-martial. I don’t know if an enlisted man can bring charges against an officer, and I doubt whether I can because I wasn’t there and I didn’t witness anything myself. I’ll have to look at the regulations.” He turned to Sergeant Futch. “In the meanwhile, transmit Sergeant Mahoney’s report on Comblain to battalion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Anderson looked at Mahoney and Cranepool. “You two had better get yourselves looked at by a medic, and then you might want to get some sleep before the big push at 0600 hours.”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said, although he doubted whether he’d be able to sleep very much.
~*~
Major Kurt Richter and Nurse Claire Sackett thrashed around in bed for an hour and a half, having sexual relations in all the exotic positions and performing the most disgusting oral perversions imaginable.
“Cigarette?” asked Richter when it was over.
“Please,” she replied in a soft hesitant voice.
Richter reached to the night table and picked up his silver cigarette case. He held it out to her; she took one; he lit it and then lit one for himself.
“Well,” he said, blowing smoke into the air, “that was magnificent, wasn’t it?”
She puffed the cigarette and didn’t reply because she felt filthy and depraved. She loathed herself for giving herself so completely to him, but she’d never been able to control her sexual hunger, and there’d been something about him that had excited her tremendously. I’m sick in my mind, she thought. I belong in a mental institution.
“I asked you a question,” he said, an intimidating edge to his voice.
She didn’t know what to say but knew her fear of him was mixed up with the sexual attraction.
He turned toward her, grabbed her throat with his hand, and squeezed. “Answer me,” he said.
“You’re hurting me,” she protested.
He snorted. “I’ll kill you if I want to. I can do anything with you I like, but I’ll take care of you, and you know I will, because of what we have together.”
“Please let me go,” she said.
He released his grip on her throat and looked at the impressions his fingers had made.
“I know you love me,” he whispered in her ear. “You could not have done the things you did to me if you didn’t love me. And in the same way I love you. Heaven or Hell has brought us together, and only death shall part us.”
“It’s not true,” she said, avoiding his eye. “I don’t love you, and I never could love you. I never would have done what I did if you hadn’t threatened to kill the wounded American soldiers.”
He lunged and grabbed her throat again. “Liar!” he shouted. “You loved every moment of it!”
She dug her fingernails into his wrist. “I did not!”
He slapped her face with his free hand. She pushed her lighted cigarette into his chest. He screamed, fell on top of her, and they kissed, groaning and writhing against each other, bruising each other’s lips, and she scratched her fingernails across his back, leaving four red lines, as he pressed himself into the furnace between her legs.
~*~
Lieutenant Woodward, bleeding from a cut on his left cheek, returned to Charlie Company at four o’clock in the morning, his face haggard and his eyes like two glowing coals. His steps were unsteady because his ankles and shins had been slashed and battered by low-hanging branches as he’d run through the woods, and there were moments when he’d thought he’d never make it back, but now he was safe again, and he cursed himself for the moments of self doubt and despair he’d felt when he was alone in the woods and the Germans were following at his heels.
He entered the CP and kicked Sergeant Futch in the leg. Futch went for his Colt .45, and when he looked up, he saw the barrel of Woodward’s carbine two inches from his nose.
“Am I the first one back from the patrol?” Woodward asked.
“No, sir. Mahoney and Cranepool showed up,” Futch consulted his watch, “about an hour ago.”
Woodward felt like screaming in rage, but he held his demons down and said, “I’m ready to make my report to Captain Anderson. Get him for me, will you?”
Futch crawled to Captain Anderson’s part of the dugout and saw him sound asleep on the ground. Futch hated to wake him up because Captain Anderson seldom got much sleep, but he shook his shoulder, and Anderson opened his eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Woodward is back, sir.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send him in here, and then tell Lieutenant Irving to report to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Futch left the small enclosure, and Captain Anderson sat behind his desk, lighting a cigarette. His head pounded with pain, and his eyelids felt like they were attached to lead weights. He took two APC tablets for the headache and was washing them down when Woodward pushed the canvas curtain aside and entered. They looked at each other, and their animosity crackled like electricity. Captain Anderson was tired of dealing with the problems caused by Woodward’s difficult personality, and Woodward thought Anderson an inept commander.
“Have a seat,” Anderson said. “You may smoke, but don’t say anything
until Lieutenant Irving gets here.”
“What do we need Lieutenant Irving for?”
“I want him to know everything that goes on in this company, in case something happens to me.”
Woodward smiled. “People who worry about things happening to them usually have something happen to them.”
Anderson puffed his cigarette and looked at Woodward through the curling smoke. “One of your problems is that you talk in slogans that sound nice but make no sense. Incoming German shells and bullets don’t look for people who worry.”
The flap was pushed aside and Lieutenant Irving, the company exec, entered. He was twenty-two years old, with long legs and a short torso. The men called him “High-pockets.”
“You wanted me, sir?” he asked.
“Have a seat.”
Irving sat next to Woodward. They glanced at each other but said nothing because they didn’t get along. Nobody in the company liked Woodward, and Woodward thought that was the way it should be because a good commander couldn’t be liked by everybody.
“Let’s begin,” said Captain Anderson, checking the time on his watch. “First of all, Sergeant Mahoney has reported that there was only an insignificant garrison in Comblain—do you concur with that, Lieutenant Woodward?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He said he wanted to wait to see if the town stayed quiet, but you insisted on returning, correct?”
“Yes sir. I thought the information we had should be relayed to battalion as soon as possible and doubted whether the Germans would reinforce Comblain in the middle of the night.”
“Well,” said Anderson, “I think I would have agreed with Mahoney because the latest information is always the best, but I suppose a good argument could be made for the course of action you took, and I can’t fault you there. Yet I can’t help wondering, if you were so anxious to make your report to battalion, why you ordered that raid into the German bunker, a raid that you knew would delay you that was not part of your mission.”
Lieutenant Woodward leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know what Sergeant Mahoney told you, sir, but I have a pretty good idea. Mahoney doesn’t like to take orders. He wants to get me transferred so he can have the first platoon all to himself again, and for that reason I think it’s important that we examine very carefully everything he says.”
“What do you say?” Captain Anderson asked. “I’d like to hear your side of it.”
“But sir,” Woodward protested, “you’re talking as if Mahoney has a legitimate point of view, and that his side of the issue is as valid as mine. Sir, Mahoney has been in trouble throughout his military career for insubordination, drunkenness, black marketeering, fighting, sneaking women into barracks, and everything else. He’s been in the stockade three times, and I really can’t understand how you can pay any attention to what a person like that would say.”
“I’m still waiting to hear what you’ve got to say,” Captain Anderson replied.
“Relative to what?”
“Why did you order the raid into that trench?”
“Because a German captain was in it, and I thought he might have valuable documents on his person or nearby.”
“How did you know a German captain was in that trench? Were you examining bunkers, looking for just such a situation, when you were supposed to return here with your report on Comblain.”
Woodward became indignant. “Of course not! I just happened to see him as I was looking for a path through the German lines.”
“He was in a bunker, was he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then how could you see him?”
Lieutenant Woodward turned red. “When I saw the bunker I thought somebody important must be inside and thought I’d have a look.”
“That wasn’t your mission,” Captain Anderson said.
“I don’t believe in following orders blindly,” Woodward replied. “I believe an officer should use his initiative and take advantage of opportunities. I thought I had a golden one right in front of me and decided to act on it.”
Captain Anderson stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Three men died and nothing was accomplished due to your golden opportunity,” he said drily.
“But if I brought back valuable documents, everyone would have been pleased, wouldn’t they?”
Captain Anderson looked him in the eye. “Is that why you ordered the raid, Woodward? So that everybody would be pleased with you?”
“I resent that, sir!” Woodward shouted. “I was only trying to do my duty as I saw it! It’s easy for you to criticize from your position here, but I was out there,” Woodward pointed, “and I did what I thought was right!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me,” Anderson said softly.
Woodward pointed at Captain Anderson. “I know why you’re talking to me this way! You’ve been listening to Sergeant Mahoney! That ignorant pig has been lying about me, and you believed him! I demand a full investigation into this matter, sir! My honor and reputation as an officer in the United States Army have been impugned by you and Sergeant Mahoney!”
Captain Anderson lit another cigarette and took a puff. “Do you think we should call off the offensive this morning so we can conduct this inquiry?” he asked sarcastically.
Woodward looked at Captain Anderson, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Sir, I’ll take this up with a higher authority at the appropriate time,” he said. “Until then, if you have no further questions, I’d like to be excused.”
“I have no further questions,” Captain Anderson said.
Lieutenant Woodward, stood, saluted, turned, and marched out of the enclosure. He passed Sergeant Futch and Pfc Spicer and emerged into the cold night air, his jaws clenched in anger because he knew Captain Anderson didn’t like him, and that the whole company was against him, but he’d persevere somehow. The test of a good officer was how well he stood up to pressure.
He lit a cigarette and walked to the first platoon area, thinking of Mahoney and wondering how he could damage his credibility when suddenly a hand shot out from behind a tree and grabbed him by the throat.
Woodward gasped and nearly lost consciousness as the flow of blood was cut off to his brain. The face of Mahoney appeared in front of him, a cruel curve to his mouth.
“Where’s Caddell, Puleo, and Perez?” Mahoney asked in a low voice.
“Let me go!” Woodward uttered through his constricted throat.
Mahoney squeezed harder. “I said where’s Caddell, Puleo, and Perez?”
Woodward thought Mahoney would break his neck. He raised his hands and tried to pry Mahoney’s fingers loose, but they wouldn’t budge.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” Mahoney said.
Woodward’s voice was little more than a squeak. “They were all killed.”
Mahoney brought his face closer to Woodward’s. “I didn’t like you before,” he said, “but now I hate you. You’d better watch your ass from now on.”
Mahoney let go, and Woodward fell to the ground. Woodward coughed and struggled to breathe through his aching throat. He got to his knees and looked up, but Mahoney had gone. The night was quiet, except for the sounds of the wind in the trees. Woodward got to his feet and massaged his neck as he staggered toward the first platoon.
Chapter Seven
At four o’clock in the morning, Colonel Richter got out of bed. He lit a cigarette and dressed as Claire lay on her back under the sheet with her eyes closed. The sheet outlined her breasts, passed over her flat stomach, and dipped between her thighs. Despite the hours he’d spent in bed with her, Richter still felt desire, but the attack would begin soon, and he had to get ready.
“Are you asleep?” he asked.
There were a few seconds of silence, and then she said, “No.”
“You’d better get up and put your clothes on. We’ve got to go.”
She opened her eyes and sat up, holding the covers over her breasts. “What are you going to do with me?”
&n
bsp; “I’m going to keep you with me,” he said. “I never could let you go now. Hurry and get dressed. We have to leave soon.”
He put on his black tunic and strapped on his leather belt. Leaving the bedroom, he marched down the corridor to the office and found Hendl sleeping on a cot next to the desk. Richter kicked the cot, and it tipped over, dumping Hendl onto the floor.
“Get me Major Glucker at once!” Richter said.
Hendl scrambled to his feet and ran out of the office. Richter sat behind the desk, lit a cigarette, and looked at the maps. Intelligence had identified the unit in front of him as the famous American Thirty-third Division, nicknamed the Hammerheads. If Richter could inflict a defeat on them, it would add luster to his reputation and win him the promotion to general that he’d been hoping and praying for.
Major Glucker entered the office and saluted. “You wished to see me sir?”
“Wake the men, and get them organized,” Richter replied. “Prepare to move them out.”
“But sir, the artillery barrage won’t begin until 0500 hours.”
“Get them ready anyway.”
“What shall I do about the American prisoners, sir?”
Richter wrote his order on a piece of paper, because he didn’t want Claire to know. He handed the paper to Glucker. The order said:
KILL THEM
Glucker looked at the order and raised his eyebrows. “But sir, I thought—”
“Don’t think so much,” Richter snapped. “Do as you’re told.”
“Yes, sir.”
Glucker turned and walked out of the office. Richter returned to the perusal of his maps.
~*~
At 4:30 a.m. an armored halftrack with hot chow arrived in Charlie Company. The cooks unloaded the chow, set up a line, and the GIs passed through in the darkness, holding out their mess kits. They returned to their holes, and the main topic of conversation was Lieutenant Woodward’s patrol.
Mahoney sat with Cranepool, scooping shit on a shingle into his mouth. He stopped only for a drink of coffee that had been hot when he’d got it but was cooling rapidly.
“You look pissed off,” Cranepool said. “You’d better calm down before you fuck up again.”
