by Len Levinson
“Well Sergeant,” Anderson said stiffly, “since you took a look at the objective, what do you think we need to take it?”
“I think I can take it with what’s left of this company if you can get some artillery up there first and maybe a tank or two to keep us company.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Give me the radio.”
Drago carried the field radio on his back and turned around so Captain Anderson could use it. Anderson called battalion but couldn’t get through because of all the voices on the air waves shouting orders and making requests.
Mahoney heard the sound of a motor and spun around. A jeep was speeding across the landscape and heading straight toward him. Two stars were on the license plate, and Mahoney blinked to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him because the only man in the division who wore two stars on his collar and jeep was General Donovan.
The jeep screeched to a halt beside the shell crater, and General Donovan climbed out. He carried a carbine in his right hand and his enormous pot belly hung over his cartridge belt.
“What the hell’s going on here, Captain!” Donovan roared, standing beside the shell crater, not paying any attention to the bullets cracking through the air.
Captain Anderson looked up and dropped the microphone of the radio. He jumped to attention and saluted. “Captain Anderson reporting, sir!”
Donovan jumped into the foxhole, his jowls bouncing around as he landed. “We don’t have time for that shit up here, Captain. I said what the hell’s the hold-up?”
Captain Anderson held up the map and pointed to a part of it. “This hill, sir.”
“How many men do you need to take it?”
“I think my company can do it, sir.”
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?”
“I need some artillery support and maybe a few tanks.”
“Well get them!”
“I can’t get through to battalion on the radio.”
“Gimme that fucking thing.”
Anderson handed the microphone to General Donovan, who held it against his face. He pressed the button and heard a cacophony of voices.
“This is General Donovan!” he shouted.
Suddenly there was silence on the airwaves. General Donovan cleared his throat and spoke with the battalion artillery officer, who agreed to lay down a barrage on the hill. Then Donovan spoke with the commander of the tanks in the area, who made four of them available without a murmur of protest. General Donovan signed off, then everybody started shouting at each other again.
“Well,” said Donovan, “I guess that just about takes care of that. Now all we have to do is wait for things to start happening.”
Everyone turned in the direction of the hill and looked at it through binoculars. Big Sherman tanks turned left and rumbled across the battlefield toward the base of the hill.
“Now that’s more like it,” General Donovan said. “Captain, who’re you sending up that hill?”
“I thought I’d send up the first and second platoons sir,” Anderson explained, “with the third platoon in reserve and the weapons platoon furnishing support.”
“That’s a good textbook answer,” General Donovan grunted, “but it’ll take too much time. I think you should send them all up there in one big goddamned charge. Just tell them to stay spread out so that one shell doesn’t kill them all.”
“Yes sir.”
The ground shuddered as the first barrage of artillery shells landed atop the hill. Mahoney peered toward the hill and saw it disappear in a cloud of smoke. He wondered how many Krauts were up there and what their fortifications were like. Captain Anderson spoke through the radio microphone, telling his platoon leaders to prepare to go up the hill. The tanks were forming at the base of the hill. General Donovan took out his Colt .45, ejected the clip, and pushed it in again.
“I’m going to lead this goddamned charge,” he said. “That way I know it won’t fail.” He looked at Mahoney. “Return to your platoon.”
“Yes sir.”
“When you get the order to move out, I want you to haul ass.”
“Yes sir.”
Mahoney saluted, turned, and ran back to the first platoon, amazed that General Donovan himself was going to lead the charge on the hill. The old son of a bitch must have been drinking too much bourbon whisky before coming to the front. German bullets kicked up mud and stones around Mahoney’s feet and he ran in a zigzag line until he reached his foxhole, jumping in and dropping to his knees beside Private Knifefinder.
“Anything happen while I was away?” Mahoney asked.
“Baxter in the third squad got hit.”
“Tell all the squad leaders to report to me right away.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Knifefinder called the squads on his walkie-talkie, and Mahoney relit the butt of his cigar while looking at the hill that now was taking a terrific pounding. He wondered if the barrage was doing any real damage or whether the Krauts were well dug in, just waiting for Charlie Company to come.
Cranepool, barely out of breath after his run across the battlefield, was the first to reach Mahoney’s foxhole.
“How’re we doing, Sarge?” Cranepool asked with a big smile.
Mahoney could see that the young corporal was in high spirits. Combat was like a tonic to him.
“We’re going up that hill,” Mahoney said, pointing.
“I figured we were, because if we don’t take it we’re not going anyplace.”
The other three squad leaders arrived shortly thereafter. They were Corporal Harris from the second squad, Buck Sergeant Leary from the third squad, and Corporal Fanucchi from the fourth. Mahoney told them they were going up the hill in a massed charge as soon as the order came down. They were to move fast and keep their men spread apart.
“One more thing,” Mahoney said. “General Donovan is visiting, and I think he’s going up the hill with us, so be on your toes. You don’t want to fuck up with the General around.”
Corporal Fanucchi, who was from Chicago and something of a wise guy, wrinkled his nose and pshawed. “C’mon Sarge—you ain’t got to bullshit us. Why would the General come up where we are?”
“I don’t know,” Mahoney replied, “but I saw him with Captain Anderson a few minutes ago, and he said he was going up the hill with us.”
“General Donovan?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t think that fat fuck could run ten feet.”
“Anybody got any questions?” Mahoney asked.
The squad leaders mumbled and shook their heads.
“Return to your squads and get them ready for the assault,” Mahoney said.
~*~
General Donovan stood in the foxhole with Captain Anderson, looking at the hill through his binoculars. He hadn’t been this close to the front lines in years, and his old body tingled with excitement. He recalled when he was a young Captain in the Argonne Forest Campaign during the First World War, leading his company into battle and earning the nickname “Bayonet” Donovan. He’d been lean and hard then and hadn’t drunk as much as he did now.
But now he felt young again. I should do this more often, he told himself. It was good for the morale of the men and good for him too.
“Captain Anderson,” he said. “I think it’s time to move out. Tell your men to form up behind those tanks there and get ready to assault that hill.”
“Yes sir.”
General Donovan climbed out of the foxhole and walked leisurely toward the tanks, his Colt .45 in his right hand. Captain Anderson pressed the button on his microphone and called the platoon leaders, his eyes riveted on the old general who seemed impervious to bullets and had one of the strangest physiques Anderson ever had seen. Donovan had long thin legs, no ass, and an enormous paunch. Anderson had smelled whisky on the old man’s breath when he’d been in the foxhole.
Captain Anderson told his platoon leaders to move their men out, then pulled his Colt .45 and checked
it out. He looked up at Donovan and saw him disappearing into the smoke and rain of bullets on the battlefield.
~*~
Corporal Cranepool felt wild and crazy as he ordered his men out of their holes and into position behind the tanks. He hadn’t drunk a glass of beer or screwed one woman since getting out of the hospital, so he figured that God would be with him today and no danger would befall him.
He approached the hole that contained Private Olds and Pfc. Dan Horn, a Chinaman from San Francisco. “Let’s go—you two! Hit it!”
Private Olds climbed out of the hole. “Where are we going, Corporal?”
Cranepool pointed with his carbine. “We’re going to take that hill over there, and I’d better not see you going the wrong way, Olds.”
Olds felt a rise of anger because Cranepool was younger than he, and Olds didn’t think he should have to take orders from somebody younger than he. He hated the Army with all his heart and now, looking toward the hill, thought for certain that he would be killed in the attack. His heart beat faster and his mouth went dry. He saw an image of himself bleeding and maimed on the ground like so many other soldiers he’d passed that day, and the anger was replaced by icy fear. I shouldn’t be here, he thought. People like me can do more for the war effort by taking care of the paperwork. Somebody has to do it.
Olds had had bad luck ever since he received his first draft notice. His family was wealthy and tried to buy him out of the Army, but that didn’t work. Then they paid to have him sent to clerk typist school, which wasn’t so bad for awhile, but now even that had come to naught and Olds was a frontline soldier. He wished he could become invisible and walk away, but he couldn’t. The only thing to do was follow orders and try not to run away again, because that stupid filthy Sergeant Mahoney would probably shoot him.
Pfc. Horn smiled and slapped Olds on the shoulder. “Cheer up,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”
“Keep your hands off me,” Olds snapped, shivering and moving away from the Chinese soldier.
~*~
Charlie Company formed a skirmish line behind the tanks. The men stared at General Donovan, his Colt .45 in his hand, walking through their midst and giving little pep talks. The air was filled with a continuous loud roar as artillery shells poured down on the hill. The men smoked cigarettes and looked grim. Each knew that some of them wouldn’t make it to the top of the hill and wondered if he would be among the casualties.
General Donovan walked up to the lead tank and banged on its hull with the handle of his Colt .45. A head popped out of the hatch, saw the General, and saluted.
“Move these sons of bitches out!” Donovan shouted.
“Yes sir.”
Seconds later, the tanks began to roll up the hill. General Donovan raised his pistol high in the air.
“LET’S GO BOYS!” he said. “TAKE THE HIGH GROUND!”
The men of Charlie Company followed the tanks up the hill. General Donovan walked among them, waving his pistol in the air and shouting commands. He felt young again and remembered the thrill of combat. It was bloody and grim, but there was something fine and noble about leading young men into a fight and battering through to victory.
“DON’T BUNCH UP!” he yelled. “KEEP MOVING!”
Mahoney followed his first platoon up the hill. Spumes of diesel smoke enveloped him and made his eyes water as he looked to the summit and saw the artillery shells crashing down. The Krauts had to be aware of the military significance of the hill and they’d probably fight ferociously to keep it. Their backs were to the wall and that would make them fight all the harder.
He heard General Donovan shouting and looked back to see the old war dog brandishing his pistol and urging the men on. Captain Anderson, Sergeant Tweed, and Pfc. Drago were with him, letting him run the show.
Mahoney turned to the front ahead, keeping his head low. The Germans on the hill weren’t firing much yet. They were in their holes waiting for the bombardment to stop, and then they’d fire everything they had.
Mahoney looked at his men advancing behind the tanks. They were a filthy mangy lot and they hadn’t eaten since early in the morning, but they were trying to follow orders although they were scared to death. No matter how many times you do this, you still get scared anyway. Even Mahoney was scared, but he put one foot in front of the other and kept going. This was the worst part of an attack, as far as he was concerned, because he had time to think. Several minutes from now, when they were storming the summit, he wouldn’t have time to think, and that would make everything much easier.
~*~
The artillery barrage stopped when the tanks were one-quarter of the way up the hill.
“DOUBLE-TIME!” yelled Donovan.
The tanks picked up speed and the men ran behind them. General Donovan, whose most intense physical exercise was walking from his jeep to his headquarters and back, kicked up his heels and sucked wind. His heart began to pound like a jackhammer. He waved his pistol in the air and realized that although he felt young again in his mind, his body had grown old. He was fifty-five years old and shouldn’t be leading infantry charges like this.
I can’t turn back now, he told himself. I’ve got to see this through.
His chest heaved as he ran up the hill, but he stayed ahead of the others and continued to issue an endless stream of orders.
“DON’T BUNCH UP OVER THERE! KEEP MOVING! LET’S GO!”
The hill became steeper and the tanks couldn’t move any farther. They fired their cannons and machine guns at the summit, and the Germans raised their heads to look around now that the artillery barrage had stopped. They fired their rifles and machine guns and set up their mortars.
The bullets whizzed down the hill at the GIs, and the mortar rounds dropped in their midst. The time had come for them to go up the hill alone with only their rifles, and they waited for the order to leave the shelter of the tanks.
General Donovan held his Colt .45 at shoulder level and ran in between two of the tanks. “FORWARD!” he screamed. “FOLLOW ME!”
Charlie Company poured between the tanks and followed their general up the hill.
“BLOOD AND GUTS!” yelled Mahoney.
“KILL THE COCKSUCKERS!” shouted Cranepool.
“TAKE THE HIGH GROUND!” said Captain Anderson.
Charlie Company ran up the hill to meet the Germans, who leaned out of their fortifications and fired down. GIs were hit by speeding bullets and spun around, dropping their rifles and falling to the ground. Mortar shells blew them into the air. Machine gun bullets cut them down. But most of them continued to advance, the tanks behind them firing their cannons and machine guns in an effort to impede the German fire.
General Donovan felt blood thundering in his ears. He had a fierce pain in his chest and knew that he’d made a foolish mistake; he was too old for this sort of thing. But he couldn’t stop now. The word would get around that he’d given up. Patton would relieve him of command when he heard about it. The summit of the hill was blurred before his eyes but he knew he only had a short distance to go, maybe a hundred yards. Surely he could get that far.
“WE’RE ALMOST THERE, BOYS!” he shouted, pointing his Colt .45 toward the summit of the hill. “FOLLOW ME!”
He took a deep breath and tensed his body for the final exertion, when suddenly the pain in his chest exploded. The battlefield went dark and he became numb in his hands and feet. Stumbling, he fell to the ground and rolled over onto his back.
Captain Anderson saw him fall. “MEDIC!”
Pfc. Dufresne, the medic from the third platoon, heard the call and turned around. Captain Anderson was standing over a body and pointing down. Dufresne ran back down the hill holding his bag of medicine to keep it from bouncing around.
“It’s General Donovan!” Captain Anderson said. “Take care of him!”
“Yes sir.”
Captain Anderson ran off, and Pfc. Dufresne kneeled next to General Donovan. Dufresne, French-Canadian from Maine, scanned the Gener
al’s body quickly looking for blood, but he couldn’t find any. He felt for the General’s pulse, but there was none at all. He was dead. Dufresne opened the General’s eyes and saw the white eyeballs. Maybe he got it in the back, Dufresne thought. He rolled the General over and saw sweat and mud but no blood. The old son of a bitch must’ve just dropped dead, Dufresne said to himself. Maybe he had a heart attack.
Dufresne debated whether to stay with the General or return to Charlie Company and try to help the wounded. He decided to treat the General just like any other dead soldier and leave him behind. Jumping up, he clutched his bag of medicines and ran back to his platoon.
~*~
Captain Anderson realized that command had passed back to him and he had to direct the final stage of the attack. He ran to the front of his company line, fired wildly at the Germans, and screamed: “OVER THE TOP!”
Charlie Company only had a few more yards to go, and they could see distinctly the helmets of the German soldiers, The GIs screamed and bellowed whatever syllables and words came to their minds to help them cover the final distance. They pumped their legs and saw the Germans firing point-blank at them. Some of the GIs were knocked backwards by hot lead, but the rest of them jumped into the air and landed inside the German trenches.
Mahoney landed on a dead German soldier, lost his balance, and fell on his ass. A big German stood over him, positioned his rifle and bayonet, and tried to harpoon Mahoney, but Mahoney rolled over quickly. The German bayonet plunged into the mud and stones at the bottom of the trench, and Mahoney leapt to his feet, lunging with his rifle and bayonet. The German soldier didn’t have time to raise his rifle and defend himself, and Mahoney stuck his bayonet up to the hilt into the German’s belly. The German’s eyes rolled into his head and he dropped to his knees. Mahoney yanked his bayonet out and spun around. A German officer was aiming a pistol at him. The officer fired and Mahoney thought he was a goner, but the bullet whistled past his ear.
The officer prepared to fire again, and Mahoney threw his rifle at him to upset his aim, then dove at him. The officer fired wildly, terror in his eyes because the huge bulk of Mahoney was flying through the air at him. Mahoney grabbed him by the waist and threw him to the ground. They both fell together and Mahoney led with his thumbs, gouging the eyes of the German officer, who screamed and tried vainly to push Mahoney away. Mahoney saw a big rock lying on the ground, picked it up, and bashed the German officer on the forehead. The force of the blow split the German officer’s skull apart, and blood and brains spattered in all directions.
