Hammerhead (The Sergeant War Novel Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  “I think I need a drink,” she said.”

  “We don’t have nothing like that up here,” Mahoney told her. “They don’t let us.”

  “I have some,” she said, taking Colonel Richter’s flask from his coat pocket.

  She took a drink and passed the bottle around. Even Captain Anderson drank some down. Then they lit up cigarettes. Claire could feel the sexual tension in the air. All the soldiers wanted to get their hands on her, and she knew it, and in other circumstances she might have become aroused, but now the thought of sex disgusted her. I’ll never be able to do it again, she thought.

  “Well,” said Captain Anderson, “I guess I’ll have to ask Battalion to send somebody to pick her up.”

  “I can take her back,” Mahoney volunteered.

  “No, I need you here.” Captain Anderson turned to Pfc Spicer. “Call Battalion and tell them the situation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mahoney shuffled his feet and puffed his cigarette. He wanted to stay with Claire, but he knew there was no reason for him to do so. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’d better get back to my platoon.” He looked down at Claire. “It’s been nice meeting you.”

  “Thank you very much for everything,” she said.

  Mahoney would have liked to kiss her goodbye and maybe cop a few cheap feels, but he had to go. He climbed out of the bunker and made his way to his foxhole, sliding in with Cranepool.

  Cranepool opened his eyes and asked sleepily, “What was out there?”

  “You’ll never believe it,” Mahoney replied.

  ~*~

  “A most unusual case,” said Dr. Krauser in the operating room of the 317th Panzergrenadier Division Field Hospital. “Although the Colonel has a knife in his back as you can plainly see, he has suffered very little damage.”

  An electric light hung over the operating table on which lay the nude, unconscious body of Colonel Richter, his SS dagger sticking out of his ribs. The white-robed doctors crowded around him, and Krauser pointed to the knife.

  “He’s lost practically no blood, and x-rays indicate that no internal organs have been damaged. Although this is an unusual case, it is by no means rare. Those of us who’ve worked in large city hospitals have observed the phenomenon before. A knife in the back does not necessarily pose great danger to the victim. The chief difficulty is stanching the flow of blood once the knife is removed, so get ready with your hemostats, gentleman.”

  The doctors poised themselves around the knife. Dr. Krauser gripped it with both hands, took a deep breath, and pulled with all his strength. The knife slipped out of Richter’s back, followed by a spurt of ruby red blood, and the doctors dived forward, clamping all the blood vessels in the wound, while Krauser lay the knife on the instrument table, and a nurse handed him the sutures so he could sew up the wound.

  Chapter Eleven

  The weather remained above freezing throughout the night, and in the early hours of the morning, Patton decided to gamble. He thought if he postponed his attack until the temperature dropped again, the slush and snow water might freeze and provide a surface strong enough to support tanks.

  He called off the attack and ordered that his front lines be resupplied. The men should mine and wire in front of their positions, and conduct regular patrols to monitor the enemy in front of them. Hot chow was brought up to the line along with mail. The GIs dried their feet in front of candles and tried to catch up on their sleep.

  That evening, the temperature dropped to twenty degrees. At midnight, a battalion of medium tanks left Third Army Headquarters and tested the snow in the fields. It held them up like a paved concrete roadway.

  Patton ordered that the attack take place the next morning.

  ~*~

  Mahoney was awakened at three o’clock in the morning by the sound of tank engines. He sat up in his foxhole and pulled the blanket off his head. Cranepool was waking up too. Mahoney reached into his field jacket pocket and took out one of the cigars that had arrived in a package from his mother. He wet it and lit it up, then climbed out of his foxhole.

  “LET’S GO—FIRST PLATOON!” he yelled. “SADDLE UP!”

  The men groaned and crawled out of their holes. They lit cigarettes, burped, and put on their packs. The supply trucks arrived in the company area at three-thirty, followed by the chow truck. The men passed through the chow line and got scrambled eggs made out of powder and tasting like sulphur that had just been dug from the ground. Their coffee was reminiscent of high octane gasoline. Only the bread tasted like bread, but it had been toasted an hour ago, and it had the consistency of cardboard.

  The GIs wolfed down the hot food and were glad to have it. Their palates had been so brutalized that they’d eat practically anything with great gusto, smacking their lips and hoping to get more, while deep in their minds they had memories of the sausages and eggs their mothers used to cook and of baked hams, grilled steaks, and real mashed potatoes.

  They washed their mess kits in the big GI cans filled with hot water, put their mess kits in their packs, and stood around waiting for the ammo truck to arrive. They came at four in the morning, and they got into line again, drawing bandoliers of bullets, bazooka rockets and mortar rounds. Then they returned to their foxholes to await the order to move out.

  Meanwhile, Captain Anderson’s field radio, files, and equipment were removed from his dugout. Sergeant Futch would follow the attack in the company jeep, but Anderson liked to stay in front with his men, so he could see what was going on. He took one last look at his map and made a pencil line that would approximate the route he and his men would take. Nearby, the tankers made last minute checks of engines and firing systems.

  The artillery barrage began at five o’clock in the morning, and it would be a short one: sufficient to kill some Germans but not long enough to give them time to get ready. The shells whistled over the heads of the men in Charlie Company and exploded in the distance, where a red glow formed behind the trees.

  Captain Anderson gave the order for the men to mount the tanks and the GIs climbed onto the big, snarling mechanical contraptions. Mahoney was travelling with his first squad and took his post beside Cranepool on the turret. The tank commander was a young second lieutenant with a puffy face, who didn’t appear particularly friendly, but Mahoney figured he had a lot on his mind.

  The order came down to move out, and gearboxes clanked inside the bellies of the tanks. The tanks jerked and trembled as they rolled forward, and the men hung on. The air filled with clouds of diesel smoke, making the men cough. The tanks rumbled over the paths in the forest or made new paths. Mahoney looked to his left and right and saw Charlie Company riding into battle. The Germans were waking up ahead of them now, and trying to get organized because they could hear what was coming. Speed was all-important, and Mahoney wanted to get to the Germans before they became organized.

  He turned to his left and raised his collar over his cheek to shield himself from the cold bite of the wind. The next tank crashed into a dead tree, and the top third of the tree broke off, toppling downward lazily

  “WATCH OUT!” Mahoney yelled.

  The length of tree crashed onto the helmet of Private Radov of Mahoney’s third squad, nearly taking his head off. Radov and the tree fell down the side of the tank, and both lay still on the ground.

  Radov’s tank stopped. Mahoney jumped down from the one he was riding. “MEDIC!” he shouted.

  Pfc Grossberger, the medic, hopped down from his tank, along with Corporal Harris, the squad leader. They ran toward Radov, who was motionless, blood soaking into the snow around his head which had been flattened almost like a pancake. Grossberger felt his pulse and shook his head.

  “I can’t do anything for this man,” he said.

  “Leave him for the meat wagon,” Mahoney said. “Get back to your tank.”

  They got up and ran toward their tanks. Cranepool held out his hand, and Mahoney leapt up, grabbing onto it. He climbed to his position near the turret, a
nd Cranepool looked at him with question marks in his eyes.

  “He’s dead,” Mahoney said.

  Mahoney thought it was a bad omen. He’d seen much death, and it had made him superstitious. A frightening thought occurred to him, and he couldn’t shake it off. “I’m going to die today,” said a little voice in his ear. “The meat wagon will take me away just the way it’ll take away Radov.”

  The tank rolled up a hill and down its other side. It passed through a valley, and the tank commander looked from side to side at the other tanks. Mahoney could see they were forming a skirmish line. The tank slowed down and stopped.

  “Everybody off!” the puffy-faced lieutenant said.

  Mahoney and his men jumped down. They unslung their rifles and loaded in the clips. Mahoney saw Captain Anderson moving along the line, followed by Pfc Spicer who carried the big field radio on his back. Captain Anderson spoke with the men, patting them on their backs, grinning, and letting them know by his presence that he’d be sharing the dangers of the attack with them.

  “All set, Mahoney?” Captain Anderson asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep ’em spread out and moving.”

  “Yessir!”

  Captain Anderson continued down the line. The artillery barrage stopped in the distance, and the tank drivers revved their engines. The tanks moved forward in their long, meandering skirmish line as smoke rose from the woods in front of them.

  “MOVE ’EM OUT!” Captain Anderson yelled.

  The men advanced behind the tanks, holding their rifles and bayonets ready. The wind blew the stink of devastation into their faces, and they knew the krauts were straight ahead, waiting for them.

  A tank to Captain Anderson’s left fired, and then one to his right. They must have seen the Germans. The machine guns chattered angrily. The Germans were straight ahead.

  “FIX BAYONETS!” Captain Anderson shouted.

  The men in Charlie Company snapped their bayonets on the ends of their rifles. Mahoney chewed the butt of his cigar and kept his head turtled into his collar. His eyes darted through the woods for signs of the Germans.

  A bullet cracked over his head. Another bullet ricocheted off the turret of a tank. The tank commanders climbed down into their vehicles and closed the hatches. Foot soldiers clustered behind the tanks for protection, as the air around them became thick with bullets. A few mortar rounds fell, and then a few more. One of the tanks took a direct hit from a German eighty-eight and disappeared in a ferocious thunderclap.

  “KEEP YOUR HEADS DOWN!” Mahoney yelled. “KEEP MOVING!”

  Mortar rounds rained down on Charlie Company, and German machine gun bullets ripped through the smoke. The tanks fired their cannons at German machine gun nests and mortar emplacements, while their machine guns raked the Germans back and forth. The tanks were supposed to breach the German lines and keep going, destroying everything of military value that they saw and to make a deep penetration into the German positions, blowing up supply dumps, headquarters buildings, and communications networks.

  The tanks rolled over the first German foxholes, and the mortar fire diminished. Their treads mashed Germans into the snow, and their machine guns cut them down. The cannons on the tanks roared as they fired at bunkers and machine gun nests. But they left many Germans behind, old, gnarled warriors who waited for the American infantry. The Germans fixed bayonets and readied their submachine guns. They looked at each other and nodded because the Americans couldn’t be far away.

  “MARCHING FIRE!” bellowed Captain Anderson. “KEEP MOVING AND DRESS IT UP!”

  The men tried to keep their skirmish line straight as they walked in steady, measured paces and brought their rifles to their shoulders. Every three steps, they fired at any target they saw, and if they didn’t see anything, they fired anyway, to keep the Germans in their holes and to intimidate them.

  Mahoney peered through the smoke and saw shattered trees beside huge shell craters. There were ruined bunkers and dugouts with German soldiers lying dead or wounded on the ground.

  Then he heard a shout, and German soldiers came out of their holes. Filthy and bearded, with the desperation of cornered rats in their eyes, they charged the GIs, yelling battle cries and baring their teeth.

  “FORWARD!” screamed Captain Anderson. “KILL THE BASTARDS!”

  “BLOOD AND GUTS!” yelled Mahoney.

  The hyped-up, bedraggled soldiers from both armies ran toward each other in the smoke and flames. Mahoney fired two shots from the waist, hitting one German in the stomach and another in the face before they were all over him. The press was tight, and he couldn’t move his arms freely. He looked into the face of the short, unshaven German in front of him and lunged with his bayonet, unable to get much power behind it. The German parried the thrust easily, but Mahoney kept his forward motion going. He swung upwards with his rifle butt, and it happened so suddenly the German didn’t see it coming. The steel butt plate hit the German on his jaw, snapping his head back and leaving him wide open. Mahoney lunged again and jabbed his bayonet to the hilt into the German’s stomach. Mahoney yanked back and let the German fall to the ground.

  A hole was in front of Mahoney, and he stepped into it. Germans and GIs fought on both sides of him, but no German appeared to challenge him. Looking to his right, he saw Private Sawyer of the second platoon struggling to maintain his balance against a taller German. Mahoney shouted loudly, attracting the German’s attention, and the German looked nervously from Mahoney to Sawyer and back again because he didn’t know who to fight first. Mahoney stuck him in the side, and Sawyer sank his bayonet into his belly, both at the same time. The German screamed and dropped to his knees. Mahoney and Sawyer pulled out their bayonets, and Mahoney faced front again.

  A shot rang out, and Mahoney’s rifle butt cracked apart. A German officer with a pistol stood in front of him, smoke curling out of the barrel. Mahoney hurled both halves of his ruined rifle at the German officer and dived onto him, grabbing his head with his big hands, stuffing a thumb through the German’s eye socket, tearing at an ear, and with all his strength, kicking him in the crotch.

  The German officer hollered and dropped to the ground. Mahoney snatched the pistol out of his hand, pointed it at a German running toward him with his bayonet aimed at his heart, and pulled the trigger. The pistol kicked in his hand, and the German kept charging although he had a hole in his chest. Mahoney stepped to the side, and the German crashed past him and fell on his face.

  Mahoney turned and saw Riggs struggling with a much bigger German soldier. Riggs jabbed repeatedly with his rifle and bayonet, while the German kept parrying him, looking for an opening to stick his own bayonet through. In a crouch, Mahoney walked swiftly to the side of the German soldier, held the pistol two feet from his head, and pulled the trigger. The German’s head exploded like a rotten watermelon, blood and brains flying in all directions. The German sagged to the ground, and while he was down, Riggs sank his bayonet into him.

  “He’s already dead you asshole!”

  Mahoney spun around and saw a German running toward him with fixed bayonet. Mahoney took aim, pulled the trigger of the pistol and it went click. Mahoney threw the pistol at the German’s face, then grabbed his rifle and tried to pull it out of his hands.

  Mahoney was bigger than the German, but the German was strong and wouldn’t let go. The German tried to knee Mahoney in the balls, but Mahoney turned to the side and received the blow on his outer thigh. He gritted his teeth and tugged at the rifle, while the German tugged back. He lunged at the German and punched him with all his strength in the mouth. The German’s lips split apart and he was stunned. Mahoney yanked the rifle out of his hands, turned it around, and the German watched with dazed disbelief as Mahoney thrust the bayonet into his chest.

  The German dropped to his knees, wrapping his hands around the bayonet, and trying to push it out. Mahoney yanked back, but the bayonet was stuck between the German’s ribs. Blood welled out around the bayon
et and dribbled down the German’s camouflage suit. Mahoney pulled the trigger of the rifle to blow the bayonet loose, but the bolt went click. It was out of ammo too. Mahoney gathered together his strength and pulled again. This time, the bayonet came loose, but Mahoney lost his balance and fell on his ass in front of a tree.

  A submachine gun thundered above him and tore up the tree over his head. If he hadn’t fallen suddenly, the bullets would have riddled his chest. He sprang up and dived through the smoke at the German with the submachine gun. The German fired again, and Mahoney could feel the wind stream of the bullets as they passed over his head. He tore the submachine gun from the German’s hands, smashed him in the face with its butt, and kicked him in the balls for good measure, and when the German fell to the ground, Mahoney stomped on his head to make sure.

  Two Germans ran at Mahoney with rifles and bayonets ready to slice him up, but he held the submachine gun tightly in his arms, pulled the trigger, and chopped them down. They fell at his feet, and he jumped over them, looking for someone else to shoot. Another German appeared, and Mahoney gave him a burst in the stomach. Mahoney spun around and saw another German officer with a pistol. The German officer was unsteady on his feet, and a trickle of blood came from the corner of his mouth. Mahoney pulled his trigger, and the submachine gun barked in his hands, tearing open the German’s chest and splintering his bones.

  Mahoney’s eyes darted around for more Germans to kill, but there were none. He looked to his left and right and saw Charlie Company breaking through the first German line of defense.

  “FORWARD!” Mahoney shouted. “MARCHING FIRE!”

  Mahoney walked forward with his submachine gun, holding it at his waist. He fired bursts at holes and ruined bunkers. Most of the GIs followed him, while the rest polished off what was left of the Germans. They shot their rifles at everything that moved, and what didn’t move they fired at anyway.

  A German raised his head in a trench in front of Mahoney and held his arms high in the air. He wanted to surrender.