by Len Levinson
“They’re not aiming at us,” Mahoney said. “I’m ordering you to load me up, you stupid son of a bitch!”
“If they’re not aiming at us, how come they almost just hit me?” Riggs protested.
“LOAD ME UP!”
Riggs had heard that tone of voice before, and it meant that the discussion was over. Fearfully he raised himself, pushed the rocket into the tube, and tied the wires to the terminal posts.
Mahoney took aim with the bazooka and pulled the trigger. The rocket blew out the tube and sailed toward the machine gun.
“LOAD ME AGAIN!”
The rocket landed near the machine gun emplacement, knocking down trees and blowing bushes into the air. The machine gun was silent for a few moments, then opened fire again. Riggs loaded the second rocket into the tube and dived to the ground, as Mahoney aimed and fired again.
The second rocket exploded a few feet from- the machine gun, and it stopped firing for long enough for Cranepool to rush the emplacement from the side and hurl a hand grenade into it. The grenade sailed through the hole and blew the machine gun and its crew into the air. Cranepool motioned with his arm and charged the smoking hole with his squad behind him. They climbed the embankment and looked at the wreckage of the machine gun and the mangled bloody bodies lying around it.
Cranepool waved his arm from side to side and shouted back to the company: “ALL CLEAR!” The GIs raised themselves from the ground and resumed their advance. Cranepool turned around and looked east toward Comblain.
Devastated trees and a vast expanse of snow were all that he could see.
Directly in front of him were the lead elements of the 317th Panzergrenadiers. He couldn’t see them because of their white camouflage suits but they could see him. They stopped, took cover, and passed the word back that the Americans were two hundred yards in front of them.
Major Richter was behind his regiment, striding through the snow with his headquarters unit, when the message reached him. He ordered his companies to stay where they were, and relayed the information to his commanding officer.
Within minutes, the news was placed on the desk of General Otto Schrader, the commander of the 317th SS Panzergrenadiers. Schrader had a shaved head and a Hitler style mustache. He issued the order to attack the small American force.
~*~
“FORWARD!” shouted Captain Anderson. “MOVE IT OUT!”
The men of Charlie Company got to their feet, formed their skirmish line, and moved out again. They advanced in a long wave through the nightmare land that the forest had become and passed the machine gun emplacement that the first platoon had knocked out.
It was easy going at first. The only Germans they saw were dead, sprawled on the snow and freezing solid. Mahoney thought they’d reach Comblain by noon if they kept moving at that pace. They’d wipe out the small German garrison there easily, and then perhaps they could spend the night in the buildings of the town. They might even be able to take baths.
Suddenly all hell broke loose on Charlie Company. Mortar rounds fell on them, machine gun bullets tore holes in their line, and a fusillade of rifle shots cut them down.
Everyone scrambled for shelter, but not everybody made it.
Within seconds, the company lost twenty men. The woods filled with smoke and cries of pain. Bullets ricocheted off trees and boulders. Mahoney had landed behind a big log, and Riggs was right behind him. Mahoney didn’t dare raise his head to fire a shot because he knew it’d be his last.
“KEEP YOUR HEADS DOWN!” he yelled. “HOLD YOUR POSITIONS!”
Farther back, Captain Anderson lay in the open, as bullets zipped into the snow all around. Pfc Spicer’s face was contorted in pain because he’d received a slug in the arm.
“MEDIC!” screamed Captain Anderson.
Pfc Johnson jumped and ran toward Captain Anderson, but after two steps, he was shot in the face and chest, and he fell in a clump to the ground. Pfc Spicer writhed and shrieked, his blood staining the snow, and Captain Anderson tried to use the field radio strapped to Spicer’s back, but Spicer wouldn’t stay still.
Sergeant Futch crawled toward Captain Anderson, his chin scraping the snow. Both of them held Spicer still and unstrapped the radio from his back. Sergeant Futch applied a dressing to Spicer’s arm while Captain Anderson put on the headset and called battalion headquarters to report the attack.
“We can’t go backwards, and we can’t go forwards,” he told Major Cutler excitedly. “If we’re not reinforced fast we’ll be wiped out!”
“I read you loud and clear,” Major Cutler said. “I’ll send whatever I can.”
Anderson took off the headset and handed it to Sergeant Futch. He raised his head to see what was going on, and a bullet passed so close to his helmet he could feel its turbulence. Ducking down again, he gritted his teeth and tried to figure out what to do, but his company was pinned down, and if they weren’t reinforced, they’d be wiped out.
In front of them, the SS Panzergrenadiers advanced by using the same principles of fire and maneuver, that the GIs had employed in the morning. The GIs heard them coming and knew they’d be overrun soon. They hugged the ground and waited for the Germans to attack them with fixed bayonets.
~*~
Colonel Richter caught up with his battalion and watched the battle through binoculars, smiling as his men advanced in waves.
“There’s virtually no opposition, sir,” said Major Glucker. “This is going to be easy.”
“Shut up,” replied Richter. “I’m thinking.”
Richter saw his men moving closer to the Americans. Soon they’d overwhelm them. He sensed a great victory in the making and wanted to lead it himself. Drawing his pistol from its holster, he turned to Hendl. “Tell the men to hold off the final assault until I personally give the order.”
Hendl transmitted the message via radio to all the company commanders, and Major Richter strode forward boldly, his pistol in his right hand. As a youth he’d read countless heroic stories about high-ranking officers personally leading their men into battle in World War I and Richter wanted to be just like them. Maybe he could win a few medals as well as his promotion to general at the same time.
He kicked fallen branches out of his way and looked at his men pouring fire into the Americans. Reaching the rear elements of his regiment, he realized he might be shot by mistake if he attempted to pass through them. Turning to Hendl, he said, “Order the company commanders to stop firing until I take my position at the head of the regiment.”
Hendl transmitted the message via radio, and Richter waited until his order was carried out.
Suddenly the Germans stopped firing.
“PREPARE FOR BAYONET ASSAULT!” yelled Captain Anderson.
The battlefield was covered with smoke and dead GIs. Mahoney climbed to his feet, made sure his bayonet was adjusted securely, and inserted a fresh clip of ammo into the M-1. Looking to his left and right, he saw the other GIs get up grimly and prepare to meet the German assault. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the Germans to come.
~*~
Colonel Richter ran to the front of his battalion and held his pistol high in the air. “FORWARD!” he cried. “TO BASTOGNE!”
The SS Panzergrenadiers jumped up and hollered as they followed Major Richter forward. They knew the Americans were only a few yards away through the smoke. Jumping over fallen trees and dodging huge boulders, they dashed forward, smelling victory and American blood. They remembered all the defeats the Fatherland had suffered during the past year, and now they’d be able to take revenge.
“ONWARD!” Major Richter shrieked. “ANNIHILATE THEM!”
~*~
The GIs heard the Germans before they saw them. It sounded like a herd of cattle was coming. Captain Anderson knew it was hopeless to run because they’d only be shot down from behind. The only thing to do was stand and fight.
“CHARGE!” he bellowed.
He ran to the front of
his company and sped toward the Germans.
“YOU HEARD HIM!” Mahoney yelled. “LET’S FUCKING GO!”
Mahoney jogged to the head of his platoon, and they followed him forward. The rest of the company joined the counterattack. Every man sensed that they were outnumbered, and there was no reason to be cautious anymore.
~*~
Colonel Richter saw the Americans emerge from the smoke in front of him. There only were a few of them, compared to the vast force in his regiment. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw hordes of SS Panzergrenadiers behind him. It was going to be a slaughter.
“FORWARD FOR THE FÜHRER!” he screamed. “SIEG HEIL!”
“SIEG HEIL!” his men echoed back. “SIEG HEIL— SIEG HEIL!”
The SS men and the GIs drew closer to each other. Richter saw an American soldier running toward him with his bayonet held straight in front of him like a lance. Richter aimed his pistol quickly and fired. The American’s face became a mask of blood, and the soldier tumbled to the ground.
Richter shrieked victoriously. The two opposing forces met in the woods, slashing and butting each other with bayonet and rifle. Richter darted about like an insane monkey, firing his pistol. He shot one American soldier in the head, another in the stomach, and a third in the leg.
An American soldier lunged at Richter with his bayonet, but Richter dodged backwards and shot him in the neck. The press of battle became so thick Richter didn’t dare fire any more long shots for fear of killing one of his own men. Fighting and pushing took place all around him, and the bodies of SS men and GIs brushed his shoulders and elbows. An SS man and a GI fought right beside him, and he raised his pistol, held it a few inches from the GI’s bobbing head, and blew his brains out.
Mahoney was on the other side of the GI, and the brains splattered all over him. His eyes became covered by a red mist and as he blinked to clear them off, the SS man in front of him thrust his bayonet toward Mahoney’s heart. Mahoney managed to parry it away, but he slipped on a patch of ice and fell to the ground.
SS men and GIs stepped on him. Mahoney rolled away as hard as he could, regained his vision, and jumped to his feet. He saw an SS man standing directly in front of him, pointing a pistol at him, and Mahoney figured if he had a pistol, he must be an officer.
Richter squeezed his trigger, a mad grin on his face, when suddenly he froze. The face of the GI in front of him looked just like the Maquis who’d kicked him in the face in Normandy, and the American soldier who’d nearly beaten him to death on Avenue Foch in Paris. Richter’s jaw dropped open, and his mouth went limp.
Mahoney saw his hesitation and slammed him squarely in the face with his rifle butt, and Richter went reeling. Mahoney poised his bayonet for the final harpoon, when an SS man jumped at Mahoney, flailed wildly with his rifle and bayonet.
Mahoney dropped back, dodging the flurry of blows. He feinted with his bayonet, and the SS man moved to parry, leaving himself wide open. Mahoney rammed his bayonet to the hilt into the SS man’s stomach, pulled out, turned, and saw three SS men coming at him. Mahoney thought he was as good as dead. The only thing to do was open fire. He raised his rifle and fired from the hip, knocking down one of the SS men. A second SS man fired his own rifle, but he was jostled by the man beside him and his bullet went wild, hitting another SS man near Mahoney.
Mahoney drilled him in the stomach, then turned to face the third SS man, but there were four more now. Mahoney gulped; he was sure he’d come to the end of the line. All he could do was go out in a blaze of glory. Dropping his rifle, he pulled a hand grenade from his lapel, and when the Germans saw what he was going to do, they fled in all directions. Mahoney yanked the pin and saw that he suddenly had been left all alone.
He looked to his left and right, wondering what to do. Soldiers were fighting everywhere, and the Americans were being overwhelmed. It couldn’t last much longer. The only thing to do was get the fuck out of there.
Mahoney turned and ran, feeling like a coward, but he could see no alternative. SS men saw him and opened fire, their bullets buzzing past him like hornets. He ran in a zigzag, keeping his head down and waiting for the bullet that would end his life. In the bushes ahead, he saw one of the Charlie Company machine guns, all set up on its tripod with a belt of ammo running through its chamber. Mahoney dived behind the machine gun, looked up, and saw SS men charging after him. He threw the grenade at them, and they scattered. The grenade fell to the ground, bounced, and exploded.
When the smoke cleared, two SS men lay dead near the crater the grenade had made and two other SS men were trying to crawl away. Mahoney worked the bolt of the machine gun, held the grips tightly, and pressed the thumb triggers. The machine gun roared, and SS men dropped to the ground. One SS man pulled a potato masher grenade out of his boot, armed it, and reared back to throw it, when he caught a burst of Mahoney’s bullets in his chest. He was killed instantly and went flying backwards, the grenade dropping out of his hand. It exploded, blasting to bits all the SS men near him.
The machine gun fire caught the attention of all the SS men, and the GIs still alive saw the opportunity to run for their lives. They turned and fled, while Mahoney fired bursts at the SS men.
At first the SS men didn’t know what to do, because their regimental commander was still out cold, and Mahoney was raking them with machine gun fire. The GIs dropped to their stomachs in a ragged line on both sides of Mahoney, firing their rifles and throwing hand grenades.
The SS men still outnumbered the GIs, but the GIs had superior firepower for the moment. The local SS company commander took quick stock of the situation and told his men to form a skirmish line. His plan was to take the few remaining Americans by assault, but first he wanted to get his wounded, and especially Colonel Richter, out of the way.
The German commander then realized he was in a fix. He’d left his machine guns behind because they’d be useless in a bayonet charge, and he couldn’t send for them because he couldn’t find his radioman. He couldn’t call for help for the same reason, and that damned machine gun in front of him had his men pinned down. All he could do was try to inch back to a safer position, then send a courier for his machine guns and mortars. After that he could assault the remaining Americans.
“FALL BACK!” he yelled, waving his arm to the rear. “TAKE THE WOUNDED WITH YOU!”
The SS men crawled backwards, feet first, their noses burrowed in the snow. Mahoney swung his machine gun from side to side on its transverse mechanism as the belt of ammunition lashed the air like an angry snake. “I NEED SOME HELP IN HERE!” Mahoney yelled.
He heard a crash next to him and turned to see Riggs lying next to him, carrying his walkie-talkie, bazooka, and carbine.
“Here I am, Sarge!” he said happily.
“Feed that belt in the machine gun!”
“Hup Sarge!”
Riggs grabbed the belt and held it steady, as Cranepool dived to earth on the other side of Mahoney. “Holy fuck, Sarge,” he said. “I never seen anything like this in my life.”
“See if you can raise battalion on the walkie-talkie!”
“Hup Sarge.”
Mahoney could see the Germans pulling back, but he knew they wouldn’t go far. They just wanted some cover to reorganize behind, and then they’d come forward like Gangbusters. Mahoney thought this might be a good time to run like hell.
“Sarge,” said Cranepool, holding the walkie-talkie against his face, “I can’t seem to get through to anybody!”
“Fuck!” Mahoney said, as he fired the machine gun and it danced around on its tripod. “How much ammo I got left here, Riggs?”
“’Bout half a crate Sarge,” Riggs replied, “and the barrel is gonna melt down if you don’t give it a rest pretty soon.”
“I can’t give it a rest,” Mahoney said through his teeth, still holding down the thumb triggers and swinging the gun from side to side. The gun spit out bullets and sparks, and smoke enveloped Mahoney and those with him. The Germans couldn’t do anyt
hing except crawl back to safety and wait for their own automatic weapons.
“You did it Sarge!” Cranepool shouted, slapping Mahoney on the back. “You stopped them all by yourself!”
Suddenly the machine gun jammed. Mahoney worked the bolt and pushed the triggers, but nothing happened. He repeated the procedure but still it wouldn’t fire.
“PULL OUT!” Mahoney screamed. “EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!”
Mahoney turned to Riggs. “Stay close to me, Fuckface. I might need that walkie-talkie.”
Mahoney looked around and saw the survivors of Charlie Company fleeing west toward Bastogne. Jumping up, he galloped away from the machine gun, with Riggs and Cranepool at his heels.
The Germans saw what was happening and opened fire. The air filled with zooming bullets as the GIs tried to put trees and bushes between them and the Germans. German bullets smashed into trees and nipped off branches. They ricocheted off rocks and a few of them brought down GIs.
Mahoney thundered through the woods like a wild horse, jumping over fallen trees and dodging shell craters, wondering how many miles it was to Bastogne.
“After them!” screamed one of the SS officers. “They’re getting away!”
“After who?” said Colonel Richter thickly, as consciousness returned to him. “Where am I?”
He raised himself to his elbows and saw his SS men charging forward. His nose was broken, and his two top front teeth had been knocked out. He remembered what had happened and shuddered. That man had beaten him up again!
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Pfc Hendl, touching Colonel Richter’s shoulder.
Richter slapped his hand out of the way. “Keep your stupid paws off me, and get me a medic!”
“We have one on the way, sir!”
Richter growled angrily and pounded his fist into the snow, only it wasn’t snow. It was rock-hard ice, and he fractured several delicate bones in his hand. Screaming, he hugged his fist to his stomach and rolled over, gnashing his teeth and kicking his feet.
He felt under a terrible curse. Three times in the past six months three soldiers with the identical face had broken up his face. Until today he’d thought it nothing more than a bizarre and tragic coincidence, but now he thought darker and more sinister forces were at work. The man, whoever he was, was a demon sent to destroy him, and his only hope was to kill the demon somehow before it killed him. He was convinced that he’d see the demon again. The demon was part of his destiny, and either he’d kill it or it would kill him.
