by Len Levinson
Richter wanted to smoke a cigarette, but his mouth was filled with blood. Well, at least I’ll get a wound badge out of it, he thought. And my men have broken through the American line here. Richter wanted to get up and lead his regiment again, but his face was covered with blood, and his head ached fiercely.
The SS combat medic arrived, kneeled in front of Colonel Richter, and surveyed the ghastly mess.
“This might hurt, sir,” he said.
“Get on with it!” Richter replied.
The medic touched Richter’s nose and detected immediately that it was broken. The jaw appeared to be sprained but not broken. The bleeding was profuse but not a problem.
“Sir,” the medic said, “you’ll have to go to the battalion aid station and get your nose set.”
“I can’t go now!” Richter said. “My men need me.”
“Sir, I don’t think you’ll want your nose to set the way it is right now.”
Richter touched his nose gingerly and realized it was mashed all over his face. No, he certainly didn’t want to have a nose like that for the rest of his life.
“Very well,” he said, and turned to Major Glucker. “You take command while I’m gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hendl—come with me. Leave your radio with Major Glucker.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richter got to his feet and staggered a few steps. Hendl put Richter’s arm around his shoulder and helped him back to the aid station.
~*~
“Sarge!” said Riggs. “I think the krauts are coming after us.”
Mahoney stopped and listened. He heard turmoil in the woods to his rear. The Germans were coming closer. “We’ve got to get out of here,” Mahoney said.
The three of them raised their rifles and ran through the woods. Mahoney’s heart pounded like a jackhammer, and he gulped down huge draughts of cold winter air.
A shot rang out in front of them, and they all dropped to the ground.
“Who the fuck is that?” asked Riggs.
“Might be Germans,” Mahoney replied. “Some of the bastards must have worked their way around us.”
Cranepool groaned. “We’re trapped. It’s all over.”
“Should we surrender?” Riggs asked nervously.
“Surrender your ass,” Mahoney replied. “Maybe we can find someplace to hide around here.” He looked to his left. “Those bushes there. Let’s go.”
They crawled over the hard crusted snow and burrowed into the bushes, which were thick and deep. They went in as far as they could go, stopped, and turned around.
“Sssshhh,” said Mahoney.
They held their heads low and looked through the thick tangle of brown branches, hearing soldiers approaching from their left and right, but it was clear to them that the greater number were coming from their left, the direction of Bastogne. Then dozens of American soldiers exploded into the clearing in front of them.
Riggs couldn’t control himself. “They’re our guys!” he screamed.
The trigger-happy GIs heard the noise and fired wildly in the direction of the bush.
“WE’RE AMERICANS!” Mahoney yelled. “DON’T SHOOT!”
A lieutenant held up his hand. “Hold your fire!”
Mahoney stood and held his hands high in the air. “We’re in the First Battalion.” He pointed toward Comblain. “Germans are coming from that direction, so I think you’d better get down.”
“HIT IT!” yelled the Lieutenant.
All the Americans dived for cover. When they became still, they could hear the Germans approaching in front of them. They made sure their weapons were loaded and ready. Mahoney knew how many Germans were coming, and he could see that the GIs outnumbered them. He smiled as he pressed his cheek against his rifle stock.
The Germans dashed through the woods, trying to catch the GIs who’d fled the battlefield. They were so anxious to polish off the remaining GIs that they weren’t exercising normal caution. They came into view in the woods ahead, their faces red with exertion and sweat dripping down their foreheads. The American lieutenant waited until they came closer.
“OPEN FIRE!” he yelled.
The GIs fired their weapons, and their bullets ripped into the Germans. Most of the Germans fell in the first volley, and the others dived for cover.
Mahoney’s smile was broader because he’d shot one of them. He’d held the son of a bitch in his sights, fired, and saw him go down. Now there were no more good targets left. The lieutenant ordered part of his men to keep the remaining Germans pinned down while the rest would try to hit them from the sides.
The American unit took over the fighting, and Mahoney breathed a sigh of relief. He reached for his pack of cigarettes and said; “I think it’s time for a break.”
Chapter Nine
“You can’t go in there,” said the orderly sitting beside Colonel Sloan’s tent flap.
Lieutenant Woodward pretended he didn’t hear him, and pushed the flap aside. He entered Colonel Sloan’s field office, and the colonel sat behind his portable desk, talking over his field telephone. Sloan stared at Woodward, whose head was bandaged like a mummy in a museum. Woodward stood at attention in front of Sloan’s desk and waited for him to finish his phone call.
Sloan didn’t know what to make of the apparition in front of him, so he looked the other way and continued to speak with Colonel Simmons at regimental headquarters, telling him that the hole in his line had been closed by the timely arrival of the third battalion, which Colonel Simmons had been holding in reserve for just this contingency. Sloan and Simmons spoke back and forth awhile, and Simmons made it clear to Sloan that he still wanted Comblain that day.
Finally Sloan hung up the phone and looked at Woodward. “Who the hell are you?” Sloan demanded.
“Lieutenant Charles Woodward, Charlie Company, sir. I’ve decided that it was my duty as an officer in your battalion to report a matter of gross insubordination to you personally and immediately.”
Sloan wrinkled his brow and remembered Woodward. He was the obnoxious one who was always getting into squabbles with other officers. “Lieutenant Woodward,” he said, “I don’t have time right now. The battalion has just taken some terrific losses, and I’ve got to get the attack moving again.”
“Sir,” said Woodward, “this matter is most serious, and I think it merits your immediate attention. Insubordination is like a disease, and once it starts spreading, it can incapacitate a military unit.”
Sloan looked at Woodward for a few moments, standing stiff as a ramrod in front of his desk. A battalion commander should make himself available to his junior officers once in a while, so he indicated a folding chair with his hand. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind, but keep it short.”
Woodward sat in the chair. “Sir,” he said, “I’ve been beaten by my platoon sergeant to the point where I’ve had to receive medical treatment from the battalion hospital. I reported the beating to Captain Anderson, but he refused to do anything about it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Did this happen today?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sloan shrugged. “That’s why he probably didn’t do anything about it. This battalion has been heavily engaged since early this morning.”
“He could have placed the sergeant under arrest.”
“I imagine Captain Anderson didn’t want to do that without an investigation. Besides, I imagine he needed every man he could get for the fighting. I’m sure he’ll handle this properly at the appropriate time. By the way, who is the sergeant?”
Woodward waved his hand. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t know him, sir.”
“I might. What’s his name?”
“C.J. Mahoney.”
Sloan knew him. Mahoney was one of the old-timers in the battalion. The picture clarified in Sloan’s mind. Woodward was obnoxious, and Mahoney had a short fuse. Woodward pushed Mahoney too far, and Mahoney popped him.
“That shouldn’t make any difference,” Woodward protested. “He hit me in the face with his rifle.”
“Why did he do that?”
Woodward fought to keep himself under control. “What does it matter why he did it? All that matters is that he did do it!”
“That’s not all that matters,” Sloan replied. “Before I’d proceed with this matter I’d have to know more about the context in which it took place, and I’d have to speak with Sergeant Mahoney. Unfortunately I don’t have time right now. I’ve heard you out, Lieutenant, and now you’re dismissed. I have things to do.”
Woodward sat stolidly in his chair. “Sir,” he said, “you’re avoiding the issue.”
Sloan looked at Woodward and scowled. “I said you’re dismissed, and I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Woodward stood, saluted, did an about-face, and marched out of the tent. Outside in the cold, he took out a cigarette and stuck it between the bandages that covered his lips. He lit the cigarette and thought his best bet would be to go to regiment and talk with Colonel Simmons. Maybe he could get some satisfaction there, and if not, he’d go to General Hughes at division. Woodward was a stubborn man and he’d take the matter all the way to General Eisenhower if he had to because insubordination should not be tolerated in the U.S. Army.
~*~
The ground was littered with bodies of dead American soldiers. Mahoney approached them gloomily, for they were Charlie Company’s casualties and he knew most of them. The third battalion had pushed the Germans back a thousand yards, and he could hear the sound of fighting straight ahead. He looked to the ground and saw familiar faces with frozen grimaces. Blood was splashed all over the snow. Half of Charlie Company had become casualties in fifteen minutes. They lay beside, on top of, and underneath dead SS Panzergrenadiers.
The survivors of Charlie Company came out of the woods from all directions. They were shocked and numb, stumbling along with their jaws hanging open and cigarettes hanging out off the corners of their mouths. They looked at their buddies lying dead on the ground.
Captain Anderson walked toward Mahoney, who wandered among the bodies with his hands in his pockets and his M-1 slung over his shoulder.
“Mahoney,” Captain Anderson said, “if it hadn’t been for you, the whole company would have been wiped out. I saw you with that machine gun. It was an incredible act of individual heroism, and I’m going to put you in for the Silver Star.”
Mahoney shrugged because he didn’t know what to say.
“Sir!” shouted a soldier. “Lieutenant Irving is dead!”
“I’ll talk with you later Mahoney.” Captain Anderson walked swiftly toward the soldier.
Mahoney watched him go and wondered for the first time since the bayonet fighting what had become of Lieutenant Woodward.
~*~
Colonel Richter returned with Claire and his headquarters staff to Comblain, where he received medical treatment for his battered nose. When the doctor finished, Richter wore a bandage and a curved piece of tin over his nose. The doctor told him it would heal crooked and would require an operation to straighten it again.
The doctor left, and Richter sat behind the same desk he’d used last night. He could hear fighting in the distance and knew that the 317th Panzergrenadiers had not broken through to Bastogne. Discouraged, he lit a cigarette and tried to assess the situation. He tried not to think of the American soldier who’d flattened his nose because that would make him angry and cloud his thinking. All he knew was that he’d surely meet that soldier again someday, and somehow he’d defeat him for once and for all.
The phone on the desk rang, and he picked it up. On the other end was an officer from General Schrader’s headquarters, stating that the General wanted to speak with him.
The general came on the wire. “What happened to you this morning, Richter?” he asked angrily.
“I decided to lead my regiment in person, sir, and I was wounded in action,” Richter replied.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s not my principal concern. What I wanted to know is why you didn’t break through the American line.”
“We did, sir, but then American reinforcements arrived and pushed us back somewhat.”
“They have access to replacements, but we don’t,” the general said. “We’ll have to push forward with what we’ve got. I’ll have supplies and ammunition sent to the front during the day, and tomorrow we’ll try again just before dawn. Are you well enough to carry on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do so. That is all, Richter. Carry on.”
~*~
Colonel Simmons, the commander of the fifteenth Regiment, sat in the cellar of a bombed out chateau and looked at his map table. He’d received a report from his third battalion that a gap had been found in the German lines, between units identified as the 317th SS Panzergrenadiers and the 167 Volksgrenadiers. The most vulnerable spot in any line is the place where large units meet because each unit is under a different command and it’s difficult for them to coordinate.
Simmons had relayed this information to General Hughes at division, and now late in the afternoon, was awaiting a reply. If the weight of the Hammerheads could be shifted toward that gap, there was a strong likelihood that a significant breakthrough could be achieved.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!”
One of his aides entered the room and saluted. “Sir, Lieutenant Woodward of Charlie Company insists on speaking with you. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”
“No, I’ve got a few free moments,” Colonel Simmons said in his Tennessee drawl. “Send him in.”
The aide left the office. Colonel Simmons continued to study his map. He couldn’t remember who Woodward was, and wondered what he wanted.
Lieutenant Woodward marched into the office, his combat boots clomping on the stone floor. He approached Colonel Simmons, who gazed sympathetically at his bandaged head. This officer has been wounded very badly, Simmons thought. I’m glad I decided to see him.
Woodward saluted. “Sir,” he said, “I don’t have permission from Colonel Sloan to see you, but I thought I’d better come anyway because a very serious and I might say even dangerous situation is developing in the second battalion.”
“You don’t say,” said Colonel Simmons with great concern because Lieutenant Woodward had been wounded on the field of battle and deserved every consideration. “Here, have a seat, Lieutenant. Tell me all about it.”
Lieutenant Woodward sat on a chair in front of the desk, and Colonel Simmons leaned forward, folding his hands on a copy of Stars and Stripes magazine.
“Well,” said Colonel Simmons, “you look like you’ve been wounded rather badly. I hope you’re all right.”
“I believe I’ll be all right, sir.”
Colonel Simmons winked. “I hope you paid back the kraut who did that to you.”
“It wasn’t a kraut sir, and that’s why I’m here. It was an American soldier.”
“An American soldier!”
“My platoon sergeant did this to me, sir,” Woodward said. “I gave him an order, and when I wasn’t looking, he bashed me with his rifle. I reported the incident to Captain Anderson and Colonel Sloan, but they refused to do anything about it.”
“Really?” asked Colonel Simmons. “I find that very strange. What reason did they give?”
“They said they were too busy.”
Colonel Simmons smiled. “Well, it’s been a busy day for all of us, but we can’t let sergeants beat up second lieutenants and get away with it, can we?”
“No, sir,” replied Woodward. “I was sure you’d understand.”
Colonel Simmons placed a hand on his telephone. “I’ll speak to Colonel Sloan about this right away. What was the name of the sergeant?”
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“Master Sergeant C.J. Mahoney, sir.”
Colonel Simmons’s hand stopped cold on the telephone because he and Mahoney were good friends, despite their difference in rank. “Why did Mahoney hit you?” Colonel Simmons asked, narrowing his eyes.
“What does it matter why he hit me, sir? The fact is that he did, and that’s a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You said yourself that you can’t have sergeants beating up officers and getting away with it. The whole system of discipline in the Army will break down if you do.”
“I know that, son,” Colonel Simmons said, “but Sergeant Mahoney is one of the top NCOs in Division. He’s been decorated numerous times, and he’s been chosen for all sorts of special assignments. I know him well, and I don’t think he’s the kind of man who goes around beating up lieutenants for no reason at all. How did this situation come about?”
“I gave him an order, and he refused to carry it out.”
Colonel Simmons grunted. “Maybe your order didn’t make sense. How long have you been in the ETO, Lieutenant?”
“Two months, sir.”
“Mahoney’s been here since the first landings in North Africa. He’s one of the most decorated men in the division. Mahoney’s the kind of sergeant that a young officer like you can learn from.”
“Learn from!” Woodward said. “He’s ignorant and stubborn, and furthermore he’s a coward!”
“I’ve never heard anybody call Mahoney a coward before.”
“It’s true, and I intend to prove it. I demand that court-martial proceedings be instituted at once!”
Colonel Simmons looked at Lieutenant Woodward. “You’d better think this over, Lieutenant, because it’s liable to backfire in your face.”
“I’ve already thought it over,” Woodward said, “and I demand that justice be done!”
