by Len Levinson
“The following fuckheads will take one step forward. OLDS! VLAHAVSKY! SPINO!”
The three men stepped forward. Olds resembled an ostrich wearing glasses, Vlahavsky had a pot belly that looked like a sack of shit, and Spino looked like a weasel. Mahoney groaned. How could he fight a war with people like this?
“The three men whose names I’ve called—stay right where you are! The rest of you fall out!”
The soldiers moved away quickly, leaving the three whose names Mahoney had called.
“All right—dress right you three!”
The three moved closer together, touched each other’s shoulders with their fingertips, and maintained their position of attention.
Mahoney placed his fists on his hips and leaned toward them. “My name’s Mahoney,” he said, “and I’m your new platoon sergeant. I’m sure all of you had important jobs before you got here because you all look like such intelligent fuckheads, but now your jobs are going to be easy. All you have to do is exactly whatever you’re told. If I tell you to jump—you jump. If I tell you to shit, I want you to say how much and what color. We’re at the front now, and you’d better keep your fucking heads down. When things get hot up here, the main thing to do is to keep firing your weapon. Your best chance to stay alive is to keep firing your weapon. Is that clear?”
They all nodded their heads.
“Do all of you know what marching fire is?”
Their eyes darted around nervously but none of them said anything.
“I didn’t think you knew,” Mahoney said. He pointed to Spino. “You—give me your rifle.”
Spino unslung his rifle and handed it to Mahoney, who snatched it out of his hands.
“Marching fire,” Mahoney explained, “is what you do when you’re advancing on foot. Its purpose is to either kill the enemy or make him keep his fucking head down. When you receive the order, you will fire your weapon every third step you take in a likewise manner thusly.”
Mahoney walked in front of them and held Spino’s M-l at his hip, pulling the trigger and saying “bang” on every third step.
“Get the picture?” Mahoney asked.
The three men nodded.
“You also can do it like this.”
He walked past them again, bringing the M-l to his shoulder and pulling the trigger every third step.
“See how it’s done?” he asked.
They nodded again.
Mahoney threw the M-I back to Spino, who almost dropped it. Mahoney glowered at him.
“You drop that, and I’ll fucking drop you.”
“Sorry Sarge.”
“All right now,” Mahoney said, “fall out and follow me back to the platoon.”
Mahoney turned and trudged back to his foxhole, and the three new replacements followed him like baby ducks following their mother.
~*~
A light rain was falling on the Ardennes Forest. General Omar Bradley, commander of the 12th Army Group, and General Troy Middleton, commander of the VIII Corps, were walking along accompanied by members of their respective staffs, inspecting the American positions in the area.
Bradley stopped at a foxhole, and the occupants shot to attention, saluting him.
“How’re you doing out here, soldier?” Bradley asked with a smile.
“Fine sir.”
“Getting enough to eat?”
“Yes sir.”
“Get your mail regularly?”
“Yes sir.”
“Carry on.”
The group of officers walked off, and the GIs returned to their muddy little foxhole.
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth about the food?” one of the soldiers said.
“I ain’t telling him. You tell him.”
“He asked you.”
“You could’ve said something if you wanted to.”
“The food here is shit and you should’ve told him.”
“I was waiting for you to tell him.”
“Why were you waiting for me to tell him?”
The soldiers continued to bicker. No one dared to tell high-ranking officers the truth, because once the high-ranking officers left the area, the low-ranking officers and sergeant would make your life miserable and maybe even put you in a situation where you might be killed. High-ranking officers like Bradley, who’d been low-ranking officers once, must have known this, but they all played the charade anyway.
“Well,” said Bradley to Middleton, “the men appear to be in high spirits out here.”
Middleton nodded. “That’s true, Brad, but my problem is that I’ve got only three divisions covering an eighty-eight mile front.”
Bradley chuckled. “Don’t worry, Troy. The Germans will never come through here.”
“Maybe not,” Middleton replied, “but they’ve come through this area several times before.”
Bradley shrugged. “Supposing for the sake of argument they do come through. Well, what will they get? They only could advance a few miles before we switch more troops to this sector and stop them cold. The Germans don’t have very much left right now, so stop worrying.”
Middleton sighed. “I don’t know, Brad. If I were a German officer I’d think this sector of the line would be awfully tempting.”
“If you were a German officer right now,” Bradley said, “you’d have your hands full and you wouldn’t have the time or troops to devote to a major offensive, so relax, will you?”
“If you say so, sir.”
The officers resumed their perusal of the line, but Middleton couldn’t stop worrying. It was true that other American units would stop any German attack in this area, but by then the Germans would have rolled over his three divisions and probably also his headquarters at Bastogne.
In other words, what Bradley was saying if you stripped away the rhetoric, was that SHAEF was willing to gamble with the lives of the men in his three divisions in order to divert troops to other theaters of war.
Middleton decided he didn’t like that idea very much as he continued to accompany General Bradley through the woods.
Chapter Seven
At Third Army headquarters at Nancy, Patton looked down at the map table as his staff officers briefed him on recent developments. Patton wore his riding jodhpurs, held his riding crop in his hand, and his famous pearl-handled revolver was in its holster hanging from his belt.
Patton listened patiently to his staff officers and realized that the Third Army was taking it easy that morning. If I don’t keep pushing them, he thought, they just lay on their asses and eat C rations. This Army isn’t nearly as good as it was during the summer. Son of a bitch.
He held up his hand. “Hold it right there,” he said.
The officer who’d been speaking swallowed his last word and stared at Patton, whose silvery hair shone in the light of the lamps that hung above the map table.
“I’ve heard enough,” Patton said, trying to work himself into a rage that would scare his Army into action. “It is clear to me, from what I’ve heard so far, that we’re not doing any fighting this morning. Well, to hell with that. We’re not here on vacation—we’re here to kill Germans, and when we’re not killing Germans we’re not earning our pay. I want the word passed down to all corps commanders and all division commanders that we are attacking beginning right now. Tell them all to move the hell out and kick ass. Any questions?”
“But sir,” said General Maddox, his G-3 (operations) officer, “I doubt whether we have enough ammunition for a major offensive at this juncture.”
“Then make it a minor offensive,” Patton replied, “I don’t give a good goddamn shit what you call it. But get those bastards moving out there. And tell them that if they run out of ammunition, they can throw rocks. And if there aren’t any rocks around, let them use their bare fucking hands! Any more questions?”
No one had the courage to say anything.
“Good,” Patton growled, picking up his steel helmet and putting it on. “And you also can tell them tha
t I’m on the way to the front right now to make sure my orders are being carried out, and if I find anybody slacking off out there, I’ll have his ass no matter what rank he is.”
Patton slapped his riding crop loudly against his leg and stormed out of the conference room.
~*~
Mahoney lay in his foxhole and fired his carbine toward the German lines. He couldn’t see any targets in the rain and fog, and the German lines were over five hundred yards away, which was the effective range of his carbine, but he thought he ought to fire a few rounds every now and then anyway just to make sure the Germans knew that something was in front of them.
Private Knifefinder was talking on the walkie-talkie, but Mahoney couldn’t hear his voice. He hoped he wasn’t getting any more replacements like the ones who’d been assigned to him earlier in the day because he didn’t feel up to it.
Knifefinder removed the walkie-talkie from his ear. “Mail call,” he said.
“Go pick it up.”
Knifefinder handed Mahoney the walkie-talkie and crawled out of the trench, moving swiftly with his head down toward the company command post. Mahoney turned around to watch him go because he liked the way the Indian moved. Knifefinder was agile and sure-footed and was strong as an ox. Sergeant Boland, who’d been squad leader of the weapons squad until he stopped a bullet in the tank attack a week ago, frequently praised Knifefinder when Knifefinder served under him. That’s why Mahoney made Knifefinder his runner after Riggs got shot.
Mahoney turned toward the German line again, pulled his trigger, and the bolt clicked. Out of ammo. He ejected the empty clip and fed in a new one, taking aim again and squeezing off a round. He wondered where it landed. Wouldn’t it be something if it hit a German general right in the head.
An artillery shell landed fifty yards away from him, and two outgoing American shells zoomed one after the other over his head. He looked up at the sky and the clouds seemed to be clearing. It had stopped raining a half hour ago. Earlier in the morning Knifefinder had predicted that the sun would come out, and Mahoney wondered if the Indian had the ability to predict the weather accurately. Maybe it was an old Indian skill that all of them knew. Mahoney had come to like and admire Knifefinder in the short period of time that Knifefinder had been his runner. Mahoney figured that if there would have been more Indians like Knifefinder a hundred years ago, they would have kicked the shit out of the cavalry.
Ten minutes later Knifefinder returned with a burlap bag full of mail. Mahoney tossed him the walkie-talkie and began looking through the envelopes and packages. “Call each of the squad leaders and tell them to send one man here to pick up the mail for their squad.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Knifefinder made the call and Mahoney found what he was looking for, the package from his mother back in New York City. He pulled the package out of the burlap bag, set it on the ground, took out his bayonet, and cut it open. Inside were the usual cookies, box of cigars, and salami. Send a salami to your boy in the Army the posters said in all the butcher shops in New York.
Mahoney opened the box of cigars, took one out, tore off the wrapper, and placed the cigar in his mouth. He lit it with his Zippo and puffed happily, then took another one out of the box and held it out to Knifefinder.
“You smoke cigars, chief?”
“No Sergeant.”
“Then it’s time you started. Here.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
Mahoney puffed his cigar and read the letter from his mother as runners arrived from other squads to get their mail. His mother said that everybody was praying for him. His father had a cold. The landlord wasn’t supplying enough heat. She’d seen Dolly Finnegan in the drugstore and Dolly Finnegan said hello. Who’s Dolly Finnegan? Mahoney wondered. Maybe she’s somebody I screwed one night when I was drunk.
“Hey Sarge,” said Knifefinder, “what do I do with the burlap bag?”
“Hang onto it. You never know what you might need a burlap bag for. You get any mail?”
“Yeah—from my brother.”
“How’s everything on the reservation?”
“Shitty.”
“Well it can’t be any worse than it is here.” Mahoney gave Knifefinder half the salami and some cookies, then put the rest into his pack. Puffing his cigar, he raised his carbine to his shoulder, took aim at the German lines, and squeezed the trigger.
~*~
General Robert “Bayonet” Donovan, the commanding officer of the Hammerhead Division, sat behind his desk like a big old walrus, drinking a cup of coffee and doing paperwork. Opposite him sat General Clyde McCook, the division chief of staff, smoking a pipe and looking at the morning’s correspondence.
Suddenly the door was flung open and General Patton stormed into the office, his boots gleaming, his riding crop slapping against his leg. “What the hell is this!” he boomed. “A goddamn circle jerk?”
Donovan and McCook jumped to their feet, saluting and stammering. Patton slammed his big fist on the desk.
“WHY AREN’T YOU ATTACKING!”
“Well sir,” Donovan said, “we don’t have any orders to attack.”
Patton pointed at Donovan. “You’re always under orders to attack! You’d better have this division moving out within one hour or you’d better start looking for another job!”
“Yes sir!” said Donovan.
Patton turned to McCook. “What are you looking at!”
“I... ah... well...”
“I don’t hear any tanks rolling,” Patton said. “I don’t hear any artillery firing. What the hell are you two waiting for—a written invitation?”
Donovan picked up his telephone. McCook ran to the map table. Patton snarled as he whacked his riding crop against his leg and stomped out of the office.
~*~
Mahoney chewed the butt of his cigar and fired another bullet at the German lines. The drizzle had stopped and it looked as though the sky might clear. There wasn’t much war going on and he thought he had an excellent chance to remain alive throughout the day.
“Sarge,” said Knifefinder, holding the walkie-talkie to his face, “Captain Anderson wants you to report to him right now.”
“Oh-oh,” Mahoney said.
Chewing his cigar stub, he climbed out of the foxhole and walked back to the command post, wondering what was up this time. If Captain Anderson wanted to speak with him, it must be about something more serious than picking up a few replacements. He guessed they were going to attack the Germans and that his peaceful and bucolic day was coming to an end.
He held his carbine in his right hand and the bandoliers of ammunition hanging from his neck swayed from side to side as he made his way back to the command post tent. He entered and saw Tweed sitting behind the desk.
“Captain Anderson wants to see me,” Mahoney said.
“He wants to see all the platoon leaders and acting platoon leaders. Wait until the others arrive.”
“What’s up?”
“You’ll find out at the meeting.”
Mahoney reached into his shirt pocket, took out a cigar, and threw it on Tweed’s desk. “Have a cigar.”
Tweed looked at it, smiled faintly, tore off the cellophane, and placed it in his mouth.
“Thanks,” he said, lighting its end cherry red.
“What’s up?” Mahoney asked.
“Attack.”
Mahoney groaned. The other acting platoon leaders showed up one by one—there no longer were any lieutenants in Charlie Company. Captain Anderson didn’t even have an executive officer. Mahoney couldn’t understand the personnel shortage. America was a big country and he wondered where all the men were hiding.
“You guys can go in now,” Tweed said, puffing the cigar Mahoney had given him.
Mahoney and the three other acting platoon leaders entered Captain Anderson’s office. They were Sergeant First Class Guffey from the second platoon, Buck Sergeant Mayo from the third platoon, and Staff Sergeant Ledbetter from the weapons platoon.
Captain Anderson was behind his desk smoking a cigarette. His face was freckled and his straight sandy hair refused to lay flat on his head.
“Well,” he said, looking up from a map of the area, “I guess you all know why you’re here. We’re attacking in about an hour. The artillery preparation will begin any minute now, and then the tanks will arrive. We’ll form up behind the tanks and move out when we get the go-ahead. We don’t think there’s much ahead of us, so we don’t anticipate any trouble. Any questions so far?”
Mahoney cleared his throat. “Where are we going?”
“I was coming to that,” Anderson said. “Our objective is Saarlautern, a steel town on the other side of the Saar River. It’s also an important rail center and one of the main anchors in the Siegfried Defense Line. Once we crack Saarlautern we’ll be right in the heart of Germany, and I don’t think the war will last long after that. Tell your men that the harder they push, the sooner the war will be over. Any more questions?”
Later, on his way back to the first platoon, Mahoney wondered why officers always said that each objective was the key to a yet bigger objective and that if everybody fought like bastards, the war soon would be over. Mahoney had seen many objectives taken, but somehow the war never appeared any closer to being over, and soldiers were getting killed all the time. Mahoney sometimes thought that the war would go on forever, with the same pep talks and horseshit, the same attacks and not enough men to do the job.
Saarlautern, the key to the Siegfried Line, he thought. Big fucking deal.
Mahoney jumped into his foxhole and told Knifefinder to round up the squad leaders and have them report. Knifefinder left on his errand, and Mahoney lit a fresh cigar, noticing the sun peeking through a break in the cloud layer. It was a nice day for an attack, anyway.
The squad leaders arrived one by one in his foxhole and when they were all assembled Mahoney relayed the information to them. While he was talking, the first rounds of the artillery barrage passed haphazardly over their heads as the gunners in the rear fired for effect.
“Any questions?” Mahoney asked when he was finished.
