by Len Levinson
“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch today,” Mahoney said. “Mark my words.”
Cranepool had no intention of trying to talk him out of it. Life would improve for everybody in the first platoon if Lieutenant Woodward were bumped off. Cranepool was sure Mahoney wouldn’t get caught because Mahoney was too smart for that.
Mahoney’s ears perked up as he heard a whistle high in the sky. “HIT IT!” he screamed.
Everybody dived into the nearest hole. The shell zoomed to earth and exploded in the middle of the company area, blasting a huge cavity in the ground and sending a ton of earth flying through the air. Mahoney’s ears were ringing, and his breakfast was all over his jacket and pants. He heard more whistling in the sky, and more shells slammed into the Charlie Company area, making the ground shake violently.
“Holy shit!” Cranepool yelled, holding his hands over his ears. “What’s going on!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mahoney growled. “You never hear the one that hits you.”
~*~
Companies all along the Hammerhead line reported heavy shelling, and in short order, the news was brought to General Barton Hughes, the commander of the division.
Hughes was in his office, drinking a cup of coffee, and he read the message silently. In the distance he could hear the artillery barrage.
“The men will have to go forward or backwards,” said General McCook, the Hammerhead chief of staff, who’d handed Hughes the message. “If they stay where they are they’ll be pulverized.”
“They’ll stay where they are until they receive further orders,” Hughes replied. “Relay the report to corps, and tell them I recommend that we launch our own attack immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
McCook walked swiftly out of the office. Hughes relit his briar pipe and put it in his mouth, puffing as he looked down at the map. What’s this shelling all about? he wondered. Have the Germans found out about our attack? Are they trying to stall it?
There was one other possibility: The Germans might be attacking too, but that was unlikely. In the history of war, there were very few times that two major armies had managed to launch an attack against each other at the exact same time.
~*~
Mahoney and Cranepool clawed the ice at the bottom of their holes, trying to get away from the exploding shells. Shrapnel, earth, and chunks of trees flew in all directions. Some shells landed near foxholes and blew their occupants into the air. One shell landed on the chow line, but the cooks had long since fled into holes, and the coffee and shit on a shingle was blown sky-high.
The sound of the bombardment was so intense that most of the men’s eardrums became numb after a few minutes. They couldn’t hear the German shells whistling down on them anymore, and the explosions sounded muffled. They wished somebody would do something, but there was nothing to do.
In the horror and confusion, they couldn’t hear the American shells whizzing over their heads, and heading for the German lines. They didn’t know that news of the bombardment had finally reached General Patton, and he’d ordered the Third Army to begin its attack immediately.
~*~
In Comblain, Regiment A of the 317th SS Panzergrenadiers were loading into their armored personnel carriers and preparing to depart for the front. In the distance they heard the sound of their artillery bombardment and they could even feel the ground tremble beneath their feet from the impact of the shells.
Colonel Richter, wearing his black leather trench coat and SS helmet, walked out of the building that he’d used as headquarters during the night, followed by Private Hendl, Major Glucker, and Claire. Richter smiled as he looked in the direction of the American lines and saw the red glow of fire and explosions in the distance.
The street was lined with armored personnel carriers parked bumper to bumper, waiting for Richter’s order to move out. The drivers and soldiers sat with steely eyes and their mouths were set in grim lines because they were going into action within the hour and the prestige of the entire SS was at stake, not to mention the concept of Aryan superiority. Those who had a clear view could see the American nurse with Richter and assumed their commander had got some nooky last night.
Richter raised his right arm straight in the air, then moved it toward the American lines. The drivers started their engines, and the air filled with bitter fumes. The personnel carriers rolled toward the American lines.
The column moved past Richter, who stood at attention and returned the salutes of the officers to each personnel carrier. The vehicles rumbled through the town, gathered speed, and headed into open country. Finally, the last personnel carrier passed Richter, and he stepped toward his armored car. Private Hendl got in the front seat beside the driver, Private Bauer, and Richter sat in back, between Claire and Major Glucker.
“Move out,” Richter said to Bauer.
Bauer shifted into gear, and the armored car eased into the middle of the street. He pressed the gas pedal, and the car accelerated after the armored personnel column disappearing in the distance.
“Well,” Richter said, “here we go at last. We’ll spend tonight in Bastogne.”
Claire turned to him. “What have you done with the prisoners?” she asked.
“The prisoners?” he replied. “I’ve sent them to our rear. You can’t very well expect me to go into the attack with a dozen wounded American prisoners, do you?”
“You’re doing it with me.”
He patted her hand. “But you’re different, dear.”
Claire pulled her hand away because she loathed him and also herself for being susceptible to him. She vowed to escape the first chance she got.
The armored car sped out of town and shortened the distance between it and the end of the column. Richter offered a cigarette to Claire; she refused, and he snickered as he took one for himself. As he was lighting it, a shell smacked to earth in the field beside the armored personnel column.
“What’s that!” Richter shouted, spitting the cigarette out of his mouth.
Two more shells fell, then five, and soon the road was under heavy bombardment. Drivers of the armored personnel carriers steered their vehicles off the road and into the field, where they promptly became bogged down in deep snow. Private Bauer also drove off the road, and soon his wheels were spinning in the snow as American artillery shells rained down all around them.
Richter lunged past Claire, opened the door of the car, and pulled her out with him. A shell landed twenty yards away, and they both dropped to the snow. Bauer, Hendl, and Major Glucker also abandoned the car, and ahead of them, SS troopers fled from their armored personnel carriers.
“Hendl!” screamed Richter. “Bring the radio over here.”
“Yes, sir!”
Hendl had dragged the field radio from the car and attached it to his back like a knapsack. He crawled to Richter and handed him the headset. Richter put it on and looked ahead. He saw American shells falling on the road, but not many landed on the fields that lined the road. In the distance, the American bombardment seemed to be blanketing the entire German line.
Richter flicked the switch and called his company commanders. “Forget about the personnel carriers,” he told them. “Move your men through the fields to their attack positions now!”
Richter handed the headset to Hendl, and raised his binoculars to his eyes. He saw his companies forming into columns, as officers waved their hands and barked orders. Within minutes the SS men were marching toward the woods.
Richter stood and brushed the snow off his black leather trench coat. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll set up my headquarters behind that tree line.”
~*~
German shells fell on Charlie Company with diminished intensity now that American shells were landing on and around the German artillery positions. Mahoney huddled with Cranepool in the bottom of their hole, their ears ringing and the sweat of fear coating their bodies.
“Sergeant Mahoney!” shouted Lieutenant Woodward from his
hole nearby.
“Wonder what he wants?” muttered Mahoney.
“Fuck him—don’t go,” Cranepool replied.
“I gotta go.”
Mahoney raised his head cautiously and saw that the company area had been devastated. Shell craters were everywhere, dead bodies and portions of dead bodies littered the snow. The quartermaster’s tent was gone. There was a big hole where the chow line had been. And still the shells kept falling.
Mahoney took a deep breath and bounded out of the trench. He ran through the bursting shells, holding his carbine in one hand and his helmet steady on his head with his other. He saw Lieutenant Woodward’s little bunker and dived head first into it, landing beside Woodward and Pfc Dryden.
“What’s up?” Mahoney asked Woodward.
“We’re attacking early, because of the enemy bombardment,” Woodward replied. “Let’s synchronize our watches. I have 0452 hours...”
Mahoney pulled the stem of his watch and twiddled the dial.
“Mark,” said Woodward.
Mahoney pushed the stem in. “What time do we jump off?”
“At 0500 hours on the nose. Pass the word along.”
“What’s wrong with your walkie-talkie?”
“All I’m getting is static.”
Mahoney picked up the walkie-talkie and listened. Woodward hadn’t lied; there was nothing but static coming through.
“The attack plan is the same as before,” Woodward said. “The only difference is that we’re moving out sooner.”
“Anything else?” Mahoney asked.
“No.”
Mahoney jumped out of the dugout and ran toward the second squad as German artillery shells exploded all around him. He slid into Sergeant Leary’s hole, told him the news, synchronized watches, and then moved out again, this time heading for the third squad. He passed the news to Corporal Harris, then ran to the hole of Corporal Fanucchi in the fourth squad, and finally returned to Cranepool in the first squad.
“Tell your men,” Mahoney said, “that we’re attacking at 0500 hours.”
They synchronized watches, then Cranepool left to relay the news to the men of his squad, and Mahoney lit a cigarette. He took a clip from the bandolier hanging from his shoulder, inserted it into the bottom of his carbine, loaded a round into the chamber, and locked the safety on. Then he took off his bayonet and fastened it on the end of the carbine.
Cranepool returned to the hole in minutes. “They’re all told,” he wheezed, then prepared himself for the attack.
Mahoney puffed his cigarette and looked at his watch. There were two minutes to go. He wondered if he’d be alive when the attack was over because he’d been in so many attacks already, and the law of averages was against him. He crossed himself and said a prayer.
Cranepool snapped his bayonet on the end of his carbine. “I’m ready to roll,” he said excitedly.
Cranepool looked at his watch, and the German bombardment stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Everything became eerily silent except for the American bombardment in the distance and then that stopped too.
Mahoney and Cranepool’s ears rang in the silence around them. They raised their heads and their company area was covered with shell holes and smoke. Soldiers waved to each other to show they’d survived the shelling.
The final seconds clicked away. Mahoney wondered why the Germans had stopped their shelling. It didn’t occur to him that they were launching an attack at dawn also. He thought they’d run out of shells.
Captain Anderson climbed out from his dugout, followed by Lieutenant Irving and Private Spicer, who had the field radio strapped to his back.
“LET’S GO!” yelled Captain Anderson. “SKIRMISH LINE!”
The soldiers from Charlie Company scrambled out of their holes and formed a long skirmish line across the company area. They dressed right and held their rifles at port arms, shifting their feet nervously and looking around.
“MOVE IT OUT!” said Captain Anderson.
Charlie Company advanced into the woods, peering ahead anxiously because they wanted to see the Germans before the Germans saw them.
~*~
Two miles away, a group of SS Panzergrenadiers was digging a bunker for Colonel Richter, while he stood in a grove of trees and conferred with his company Commanders over the radio. He learned that his companies were moving into their assault behind the regular army soldiers already in the area. Richter ordered his commanders to stay well behind the regular army soldiers until contact was made with the enemy, and then the SS Panzergrenadiers would charge and try to break through the American lines.
Private Bauer had been ordered to bring up Richter’s armored car, and Private Hendl stood guard over Claire Sackett, who was standing and shivering behind a wide oak tree.
“Cigarette?” asked Hendl in German.
Claire couldn’t speak German very well, but she understood what he meant and took one. He lit it for her, and she could see the dopey look in his eyes. He was attracted to her too but was afraid to show it because Richter would kill him.
Colonel Richter turned around. “Hendl—get over here!” he screamed.
“Who’ll guard the prisoner!” Hendl replied.
“Get one of the Panzergrenadiers.”
Hendl pointed to a Panzergrenadier chopping a log nearby and told him to guard the prisoner. The Panzergrenadier nodded, laid his axe on the log, and walked toward Claire. He relieved Hendl, who ran as quickly as he could to Richter’s side. Richter pointed to the right and said something to Hendl, and Hendl went running in that direction.
Claire looked at the Panzergrenadier, who was seventeen years old and had a friendly smile on his boyish face. “Hello,” he said. “I studied English in my school and I can speak a little. My name is Franz.”
He seemed guileless and decent, and Claire thought he might be able to help her. “My name is Claire. Where are you from?”
“Stuttgart. And you?”
“Florida.” She glanced at Colonel Richter, and saw that he still had his back turned. “Franz,” she said, “I’ve been worried about the wounded American soldiers who were with me when I was captured. Do you know where they were taken?”
Franz looked to the ground and shuffled his feet. A terrible thought passed through Claire’s mind.
“Franz,” she said, “Where are they?”
Franz looked into her eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you this Miss, but Colonel Richter had them all shot.”
Claire thought her legs would buckle underneath her. She fell back against the tree.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
Claire looked at Colonel Richter, and Franz could perceive the hate and anger in her eyes. She thought of the wounded GIs, and knew all about their families, girl friends, and hopes for the future.
I’m going to kill him first chance I get, she vowed to herself, and I don’t care what they do to me afterwards.
~*~
Charlie Company advanced through the woods, looking ahead for the German positions. Mahoney was on the line with his men, and Lieutenant Woodward was ten paces behind the platoon, making sure it was dressed right and the men were sufficiently spaced apart.
A shot rang out, and Private Murphy from the Third Platoon fell to the snow, his chest gushing blood.
“GET DOWN!” somebody screamed.
The GIs dropped to their stomachs as the lead began to fly. Mahoney looked ahead and saw movement among the bushes and trees. Raising his binoculars, he could make out Germans in their white camouflage suits.
The GIs raised their rifles to their shoulders, took aim, and opened fire. The heavy weapons platoon set up its mortars and machine guns, and Captain Anderson raised himself on one knee, focusing his binoculars on the Germans.
“FIRST AND SECOND PLATOONS PROVIDE COVERING FIRE!” Captain Anderson bellowed. “THIRD PLATOON FORWARD!”
Mahoney fired his carbine as fast as he could pull the trigger, and the butt kicked his shoulder. The barrel had a tendenc
y to rise, so he held it down and fired shot after shot at the Germans as the Third Platoon advanced over the snow. Machine guns from the weapons platoon opened fire and were answered by German machine guns that ripped into the Third Platoon, which kept on driving until the German machine gun fire became too intense.
“PUT SOME MORTARS ON THOSE MACHINE GUNS!” Captain Anderson cried.
The mortar men cranked their tubes around and aimed at the positions of the German machine guns. They dropped shells down the tubes, and the shells popped out, sailing through the air and landing amid the German lines.
“FIRST PLATOON FORWARD!”
Lieutenant Woodward jumped up from the snow. “YOU HEARD HIM! LET’S GO!”
The First Platoon climbed off the ground and ran toward the German line. Mahoney had Cranepool to his left and his runner, Riggs, to his right, carrying the walkie-talkie. The German machine gunners spotted them and swung their weapons around. Mahoney’s long legs moved him to the front of the platoon and his boots kicked up snow as the German machine gunners opened fire. Bullets whistled around Mahoney’s head and zipped into the snow near his feet.
“FOLLOW ME!” he screamed. “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!”
Private Dubinsky of the second squad caught a German machine gun bullet in his neck and collapsed to the ground, blood gurgling out of his mouth. Pfc Olenska of the fourth squad was hit in the lower abdomen and dropped his rifle as he tried to keep his guts from spilling out.
Lieutenant Woodward could see that the machine gun fire was becoming too heavy, but he wanted his platoon to be the first to breach the German lines.
“KEEP MOVING!” he ordered. “DOUBLE TIME!”
American mortars and machine guns pinpointed some of the German machine guns and quieted them down, but some still fired unhindered. The German line was only fifty yards in front of Mahoney, but he didn’t think he could make it. They’d have to fire and maneuver more.
“HIT IT!” Mahoney screamed.
The first platoon dropped down, grateful to be under the machine gun fire at last. They raised their rifles to their shoulders and fired at the Germans. Mahoney clicked his carbine on automatic and sprayed one of the German machine gun nests. He heard running footsteps and turned around.
