Bullet Bridge

by Len Levinson

  “After them!” Captain Anderson shouted. “Don’t let the bastards get away!”

  The Germans ran, and the Americans shot them in their backs. The Americans blew them down with hand grenades and ripped them apart with their remaining belts of machine gun ammunition. Pfc. Drago fired his bazooka, blasting a huge hole in the ranks of the retreating Germans.

  The Germans fled in all directions, and Captain Anderson ordered his men to return to their positions because the German tanks were drawing closer. The GIs dived into their holes and watched as the German tanks approached with their cannons pointing behind them, firing frantically at the swarms of pursuing American tanks.

  The German tanks rolled past the Charlie Company fortifications, their treads throwing stones and mud into the air. Some of the tanks rolled right through the position, and the GIs ducked down into their holes. Some of the GIs lying in wide craters were crushed alive, but the others were in holes too narrow for the tanks to dip into. As soon as the tanks had passed, Sergeant Tweed put his bazooka on his shoulder and Pfc. Drago fed a rocket into the tube. Tweed took aim at a retreating tank and pulled the trigger, but his aim was off and the rocket exploded harmlessly on the ground in the midst of the retreating tanks.

  Then the American tanks approached with white stars painted on their turrets. The ground trembled as they rumbled past the men from Charlie Company, who raised their rifles in the air and cheered enthusiastically. The air filled with diesel smoke and the sound was deafening as the American tanks roared after the German 323rd Panzer Division.

  Captain Anderson puffed his cigarette. At one moment he’d thought he was facing certain death and the next moment he was saved. His men danced and cheered around him and he thought he’d better send out a patrol to find out what had happened to the first platoon, which had been cut off and overwhelmed so early in the fight.

  ~*~

  Mahoney, his hands still on his helmet, approached a two-story farmhouse surrounded by German officers and soldiers who looked at him curiously. Two German privates were behind him, pointing their rifles and bayonets at him, making sure he wouldn’t run away.

  Mahoney’s normally optimistic view of the world had returned now that his captors hadn’t shot him. They appeared to be adhering to the provisions of the Geneva Convention so far. He hoped they’d put him in a POW camp someplace so he could escape. He was certain there wasn’t a prisoner camp or jail in the world that could hold him for long. On top of that, he spoke fluent French and German, although the Germans didn’t know that. Once he got away he’d get some civilian clothes somehow and melt into the countryside.

  One of the German guards motioned toward the stairs with his bayonet, and Mahoney climbed up. German soldiers nearby pointed to him and laughed, and he wondered what was so funny. He entered the farmhouse and saw a German sergeant sitting at a desk. One of the German guards kicked Mahoney in the ass, indicating that he should proceed to the desk. Mahoney snarled over his shoulder at the guard, who kicked him in the ass again.

  Mahoney and his two guards stopped in front of the desk. One of the guards reported to the sergeant and the sergeant picked up his phone and dialed a number. He mumbled something into the mouthpiece, listened for a few moments, and then hung up.

  “Take him to Lieutenant Weinicke’s office,” the sergeant said in German.

  “Where’s that?” asked a guard.

  “Down the hall.” The sergeant pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.

  The guards escorted Mahoney down a hall and knocked on a door. Someone on the other side of the door said in German: “Enter!”

  A guard opened the door and the other guard kicked Mahoney in the ass again. Mahoney stumbled forward a few steps, stopped, turned around, and glowered murderously at the guard, who had a bony face with hollow cheeks. Mahoney wanted to engrave that face on his mind forever, because if he ever saw him again he’d rip him to pieces.

  A ruddy-faced German officer with black hair sat behind a desk. He stood and hollered at the guard for kicking Mahoney, and Mahoney knew it was the old good guy and bad guy routine used by cops the world over to make prisoners feel friendly toward the good guy and spill the beans to him. The officer told the guards to leave the office, then he pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Have a seat, Sergeant,” he said in English that had a peculiar German and British accent.

  Mahoney sat down on one of the chairs. The wall to the right had a window, and he wondered if a guard was posted outside it.

  The German officer lifted a gold cigarette case on his desk. “Cigarette?”

  “Can I smoke one of my own?”

  “By all means.”

  Mahoney took out a Lucky and lit it with his Zippo. “You want one of these?” Mahoney asked, holding up his pack of Luckies.

  “No thank you,” the officer said.

  Mahoney put his pack of Luckies away, wondering how far he’d get if he jumped out the window.

  “Could you tell me your name?” the German officer asked pleasantly.

  “Clarence J. Mahoney.”

  “How do you do, Sergeant Mahoney. I am Lieutenant Weineke.”

  “Hi.”

  “I imagine you’ve been through quite a lot today.”

  “It hasn’t been one of my better days, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What unit were you with?”

  “The 25th Messkit Repair Battalion.”

  Lieutenant Weinicke blinked, then smiled. “You have a sense of humor, I see.”

  “I don’t have to tell you the name of my unit, according to the Geneva Convention,” Mahoney said.

  “That’s true, you don’t,” Weinicke agreed, “but you’d be better off if you did.”

  “Well I’m not.”

  “You’re being unreasonable. I can see from your patch that you’re with the 33rd Division, which I believe has been nicknamed the Hammerheads Division, isn’t that so?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Come now, Sergeant. Don’t be so unfriendly.”

  “I’m not answering any of your questions, so forget about it.”

  “All right—I’ll forget about it,” Weinicke said. “Finish your cigarette and then you can go.”

  “Go where?”

  Weinicke shook his head. “If you want me to answer your questions, you’ll have to answer mine.”

  “Forget about it, then.”

  “Very well. I can understand why you might be angry right now. After all, your position was overrun and you have been taken prisoner as the result of the stupidity of your commanders.”

  “How do you figure that?” Mahoney asked, wondering if he should make a break for that window. It would be better if it were night.

  “Well, if they had exercised adequate caution, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Yeah,” replied Mahoney, “and I could say the same thing to you. If it hadn’t been for the stupidity of your commanders, the German Army wouldn’t have been pushed out of France, North Africa, Italy, and most of Russia.”

  Weinicke frowned.

  Mahoney puffed his cigarette. There was more that he could have said, but he decided not to push his luck.

  “Well,” the German officer said, “this war isn’t over yet by any means.”

  “It will be soon,” Mahoney replied. “And then you’ll be sitting where I am, if you’re lucky.”

  “You won’t tell me what unit you’re with?”

  “No.”

  “And you won’t tell me, I suppose, your orders?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Lieutenant Weinicke took a cigarette from his gold case and lit it with his gold cigarette lighter. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Sergeant Mahoney, because I can see that you’re not a stupid man. If you don’t give me the information I require, I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you over to the Gestapo and let them try. Do you know what the Gestapo is?”

  “Yes.”

  Lie
utenant Weinicke looked at his watch. “I’ll give you two minutes to make up your mind.”

  Mahoney wondered what to do. He thought he could tell Lieutenant Weinicke some lies that would get him off the hook for awhile, but sooner or later they’d find out and punish him. He definitely didn’t want to fall into the clutches of the Gestapo, but the only way to avoid that was to tell this Kraut what he wanted to know and Mahoney couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  The phone rang. Lieutenant Weinicke picked it up and spoke his name. He listened for a few seconds, then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “What!” he screamed. He slammed down the phone. “Guards!” The door opened and the two guards rushed in. In the hallway outside soldiers ran back and forth. “Take him away!” Lieutenant Weinicke shouted.

  “Take him where?” asked a guard.

  “Wherever you want!” Lieutenant Weinicke jumped out of his chair and put on his helmet.

  “What’s going on?” Mahoney asked.

  Lieutenant Weinicke didn’t reply. Picking up his briefcase, he fled the room.

  One guard looked at the other. “What should we do with him?”

  Mahoney grinned in a friendly manner. “Why don’t you let me go?”

  “YOU SPEAK GERMAN!” they both said in unison.

  “Sure,” Mahoney replied. “What’s going on here?”

  “American counterattack!”

  Mahoney heard the explosion of an artillery shell nearby, and the two German guards hit the deck. Mahoney snatched the rifle out of the hands of one of them and ran toward the window.

  “HALT!”

  Mahoney held the rifle in front of him and leapt through the window. His body burst through the wooden frame and the glass, and he fell to the grass outside along with the shards of glass. He rolled over, got to his feet, and saw Germans running in all directions. Some hopped on motorcycles, others climbed into cars and trucks, and some fled on foot.

  A German soldier on a motorcycle sped toward Mahoney, intending to pass him on the right. Mahoney dived on him, knocking him off the motorcycle. Mahoney and the German fell to the ground, and the German was so surprised he couldn’t defend himself. Mahoney punched him twice in the mouth, knocking him cold.

  The motorcycle had toppled over and lay on its side, its engine stalled. Mahoney ran to it and picked it up. He sat on the seat, kicked it into neutral, and jumped on the starter. The motorcycle roared to life. He twisted the accelerator all the way, kicked it into first, and let out the clutch. The motorcycle screamed and took off, its front wheel two feet off the ground.

  German soldiers and officers ran in all directions, paying no attention to Mahoney, who steered toward the American lines. The Germans jumped into automobiles or ran away as shells fell with increasing regularity near the farmhouse and on the surrounding fields.

  Mahoney shifted up the gears and held his head low as he raced toward the American lines. Suddenly three German tanks debouched from the woods ahead and rolled toward him, their cannons pointed behind them. Then more German tanks appeared on the road, rumbling away from the American lines. Artillery shells rained down all around Mahoney and he veered off the road, heading for the woods. He figured that the Americans finally had counterattacked and knocked the Germans for a loop. The Germans were in a rout and the American tanks couldn’t be far behind. Mahoney wondered where to go: he certainly didn’t want to be gunned down in the middle of the battle.

  He decided to hide in the woods and wait until the American tanks passed him by. Then he’d try to return to Charlie Company, if any of them still were alive.

  He steered toward the woods and approached the German tanks fleeing across the field. He knew that their cannons and machine guns would be pointed behind them at the Americans and that once he got behind them they’d start shooting at him, unless they thought he was a German too.

  He made a big circle in the field and turned back toward the farmhouse, raising his ass off the seat of the motorcycle and holding his head low. Artillery shells fell everywhere and he spotted a group of dead and wounded Germans lying on the ground; evidently they’d been hit by one of the shells.

  He sped toward them and braked the motorcycle. Its back wheel bucked up and down as it skidded to a stop, and Mahoney jumped off it, running toward the Germans on the ground. He scooped up a German helmet and pistol, put the helmet on his head, jammed the pistol into his belt, returned to his motorcycle, and accelerated away. He headed back toward the retreating German tanks. His motorcycle bounded into the air as it hit a boulder, and Mahoney held on for dear life. It landed rear wheel first and Mahoney wound out the accelerator.

  The motorcycle shot forward like a bolt of lightning and passed between two retreating German tanks. Mahoney veered to the right and held his head low in an effort to make himself a difficult target. No one fired at him and he felt pleased with himself; the German helmet was good camouflage.

  The bullets began to whiz past his ears, and he realized it wasn’t such good camouflage after all. Turning to the left, he zigzagged across the field, praying that God would let him get into the woods so he could hide. A bullet hit the fuel tank of the motorcycle, and gasoline streamed out onto Mahoney’s leg. The engine sputtered. Mahoney cursed and braked the motorcycle. As it slowed down he leapt off and ran toward the woods.

  Bullets zipped past his head and whammed into the ground near his feet, but he pumped his legs and the woods drew closer. He shifted from side to side like the halfback of a football team dodging tacklers, and finally reached the woods. He dived head first into the bushes, paused to catch his breath, and then ran deeper into the woods.

  He saw a steep ledge with huge boulders twenty feet high at its base. He ran toward the boulders and found a little cave like shelter among them that he could crawl into. Scrambling into the dark dank little cave, he lay on his side and took out his pack of Luckies. He lit one up and inhaled, smiling faintly because he knew he’d made it to safety. The American attack must have been a strong one, to judge by the consternation of the Germans. Soon this cave would be behind the American lines, and then Mahoney could go out and return to his unit, or whatever was left of it.

  He kept his head low as he listened to the growl of tank engines and the explosions of artillery shells.

  ~*~

  Not far away, Captain Alfred Kroll crouched inside his tank as it rolled through the woods firing its machine guns and cannon at the American tanks. He’d escaped death miraculously numerous times during his frantic retreat, and his nerves were worn to a frazzle. He also was nearly out of gas.

  “Turn left!” he shouted to his driver in an effort to make his tank a difficult zigzagging target.

  The driver pulled the levers and the tank turned to the left. Just then an American artillery shell struck the treads of the tank, blowing them away and piercing the interior of the tank. Two of Kroll’s cannoneers and his machine gunner were killed instantly, and Kroll was thrown against the steel wall of the turret, knocked unconscious by his hard landing.

  He awoke several minutes later with blood dripping down his face from a cut on his head. Dizzy and frightened, he tried to pull himself together and take stock. The inside of the tank was smoky and smelled of charred flesh. He saw bodies below him, and his driver moaned in pain.

  “Are you all right, Hans?”

  Hans continued to moan. Kroll climbed deeper into the tank, feeling intense heat. He was thankful the gasoline tanks hadn’t exploded. Bending over Hans, he saw that the young man was still alive but in hopeless condition, the side of his head mashed in and his ribs broken. His clothing was soaked with blood.

  Kroll looked around the interior of the tank and saw mangled bloody bodies. There was nothing that could be done for any of them. He was the only survivor, and his head felt as if it had been hit by an ax. He realized that he should try to get out of the tank and make a run for it.

  He climbed the ladder and unlatched the hatch. Opening it a few inches, he peered out and saw that t
he woods were deserted except for a few other German tanks that had been knocked out of action and one destroyed American tank. He could see no one moving about. Evidently, all the tanks had passed by, and soon the American foot soldiers would arrive. The first thing they’d do would be to check the German tanks to see if anyone still was alive in them. He’d better get moving.

  He pushed open the hatch all the way and climbed out of the tank. Jumping to the ground, he saw a rocky ledge with huge boulders in front of it. That looks like a good place to hide, he thought. He ran toward the boulders and tried not to think of the pain in his head as blood oozed from his face and dripped from his chin onto his uniform.

  Finally he reached the rocks and dropped to his knees beside one of them, gasping for breath. He took out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound on his head, wondering if he had a skull fracture. Somehow he had to find a doctor quickly. But first he had to hide.

  He looked around and saw several little caves amid the boulders—any one of which would make a good hiding place. He headed toward the nearest one and was horrified to see the filthy unshaven face of a man inside it. The man wore a German helmet, American uniform, and pointed a pistol at him.

  Kroll stopped in his tracks, wondering if his skull fracture was sending him hallucinations or if the person really was there.

  The man grinned and pulled the trigger of his pistol. Kroll felt as if he’d been hit by a truck and fell back into a bottomless pit.

  Chapter Three

  At 5:30 AM the next morning, Adolf Hitler’s private train rolled into Berlin’s Grunwald Station. No cheering multitudes were on hand to greet him because the train’s passage from Rastenberg in East Prussia to Berlin had been kept top secret.

  Waiting on the platform in Grunwald Station were Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, Reichmarschall Hermann Goering, Reichfuehrer Heinrich Himmler, and several other top officials of the Reich. Steam and smoke filled the air, and Hitler stepped down from the train appearing old and weird, his injured left arm held by his right hand, his eyes blinking and mouth twitching.