by Len Levinson
Mahoney jumped up, waved his helmet, and yelled: “WE’RE AMERICANS! DON’T SHOOT!”
In the twilight, the fighter pilots thought they were Germans. They came in low and steady over the rooftops and opened fire. Their bullets tore up the tarpaper on the roof and the GIs ran in a panic for cover. A few of them weren’t fast enough and were mangled by the big .50 caliber machine gun bullets.
“WE’RE AMERICANS!” everybody shouted. “WE’RE AMERICANS!”
The American pilots made a huge parabola turn in the sky and came back for another run. The GIs tried to burrow into the nooks and crannies of the roof as the fighter planes screamed past, sending forth a deadly blizzard of bullets. German soldiers appeared in the doorway to the roof, saw the planes, and fled back down the stairs.
The airplanes passed over the roof and kept going to another target. Mahoney lay with his nose against the tarpaper, cursing the Air Corps and everything it stood for. Some of his men moaned and writhed on the roof, and Grossberger left his hiding place to check them out.
Another German appeared in the doorway. Mahoney took a wild shot at him and missed. He aimed carefully at the doorway and when a German head and shoulders came into view again he pulled the trigger. The German fell backwards and Cranepool threw a hand grenade after him. The little roof house shook with the explosion and smoke billowed out the door.
The GIs aimed their weapons at the roof house, ready to kill the next German who showed himself.
~*~
The trucks on the bridge were driven into the midst of the fighting in Saarlautern, and the tanks and artillery followed. The tanks fired their cannons point-blank at buildings filled with Germans, and soon heavy artillery arrived in the city, blowing down buildings.
Night fell on Saarlautern, and Captain Anderson came out of the cellar where he’d been hiding with Sergeant Tweed and Pfc. Drago. Captain Anderson had lost contact with his company and feared most of his men were dead. He didn’t know where Colonel Sloan was and the streets surrounding the bridge were chaotic. More tanks and troops poured into the city, and Captain Anderson thought it was about time, because the remnants of the 1st Battalion couldn’t have held out longer.
Bright searchlights cut through the darkness, and Captain Anderson looked toward the bridge. Some of the tanks had searchlights mounted on them to illuminate the buildings. The tanks with searchlights positioned themselves at strategic spots around the bridgehead and the artillery fired salvo after salvo at the buildings.
~*~
Mahoney, lying on his stomach on the roof, felt as though an earthquake had hit the building. The roof tilted to the side and the building trembled as if it was made of toothpicks. Mahoney didn’t know whether Germans or other Americans were shelling the building, but he knew he had to get out of there.
“LET’S GO!” he said “DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS!”
He jumped up and ran toward the stairs, holding his carbine to his hip and ready to fire at the first German he saw. His men followed him and he entered the devastated roof house, seeing no Germans and kicking wooden planks and chunks of plaster out of the way.
He went down the stairs three steps at a time, holding his carbine ready to shoot Germans. Another artillery shell hit the building and the stairs wobbled beneath his feet. He lost his balance and fell asshole over teakettle down the stairs, landing in the fifth floor hallway. Two more artillery shells hit the building simultaneously and the next flight of stairs broke loose, falling into the bowels of the building.
It was dark and Mahoney could barely see. He coughed from the dust and smoke and something told him that he was going to die in that building. His men crowded around looking to him for orders. Mahoney walked to the edge of the hallway and looked to the edge of the hole where the stairs had been. It looked like a fifteen foot drop to the pile of rubble below.
“We’ll have to jump,” he said. “It’s the only way we’re going to get out of here.”
“All the way down there?” asked Private Baker.
“You’d rather stay up here?”
“But I can’t see.”
“Keep your feet close together all the way down, and when you hit, roll,” Mahoney told them.
Another artillery shell hit the building, and they all toppled to the floor. The building felt as though it would collapse at any moment.
Mahoney was the first one up. He slung his rifle crossways over his shoulder and moved toward the edge of the hallway.
“GERONIMO!” he yelled and jumped into the air.
He fell through the air for a few harrowing moments, and then his feet crashed down on a pile of debris. He rolled to the side and tumbled down a hill of bricks, plaster, and wood, cutting open his outer thigh on an exposed nail.
His men followed him down, yelling, spraining ankles, and getting knocked cold. Mahoney told them to get organized as he looked around for someplace to go. He realized that they were in the hallway of a lower floor, and the stairs going down the rest of the way appeared solid.
“LET’S GO!” he said. “FOLLOW ME!”
He descended the stairs and his men came after him, limping but ready for anything. Another shell hit the building and they heard a terrible crashing above them. Timbers and part of the roof dropped into the cavity of the building, and a few chunks landed in the stairwell. Private Mayberry from the second squad was knocked cold by five bricks cemented together, but Corporal Harris caught him and dragged him down the stairs the rest of the way.
Finally they reached the ground floor. Machine gun bullets whizzed through the windows and more artillery shells tore up the top floors of the building. Mahoney peeked through a window and was nearly blinded by the searchlights. He knew that he was facing the direction of the bridge and that the soldiers outside must be Americans unless something had gone very wrong with the attack. Either way, he’d have to get out of the building before it collapsed on him and his men.
“Those must be our guys out there,” Mahoney said. “We don’t want them to shoot us by mistake, so leave your weapons in here and go outside with your hands up. If any of you have got anything white with you, wave it around.”
A few guys had dirty white handkerchiefs and took them out of their pockets. They followed Mahoney to the front door and Mahoney took a deep breath, raising his hand in the air. He stepped outside and machine guns opened fire in front of him. Bullets whizzed past his ears and he dived off the stoop to the sidewalk below.
“We’re Americans!” he yelled. “Hold your goddamn fire!”
The machine gun fire continued for a few seconds, kicking up splinters of sidewalk all around Mahoney, who realized that he was the only one who’d made it out the door.
Then the machine guns stopped firing. He looked up fearfully and saw figures moving toward him in the glare of the searchlights.
“He’s wearing an American uniform, sir,” said one of the soldiers.
Mahoney lost his temper. “Of course I’m wearing an American uniform, you son of a bitch! That’s because I’m an American soldier!”
The group of men came closer.
“On your feet!” said an authoritative voice.
Mahoney stood, still holding his hands high. He squinted at a young lieutenant and five enlisted men.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the officer.
“Master Sergeant C.J. Mahoney, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 15th Regiment, 33rd Division.”
“What were you doing in that building?”
“WHAT WAS I DOING IN THAT BUILDING!” Mahoney screamed. “WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I WAS DOING IN THAT BUILDING—PULLING MY PRICK!”
“At ease, now,” said the officer. “You can lower your hands.”
Mahoney dropped his hands. “Some of my men still are in that building.”
“Come on out of there!” the officer shouted.
The survivors of the first and second squads appeared in the doorway and descended the steps to the sidewalk, holding their hands high and blink
ing at the searchlights.
“Where are your weapons?” the lieutenant asked.
“We left them in the building,” Mahoney replied, “because we knew you assholes would start shooting at us.”
“You’re still in the Army, soldier,” the lieutenant said. “You’d better watch your mouth before you find yourself before a court-martial.”
“Aw fuck,” Mahoney murmured.
“Go back in the building and get your weapons. Then return to your unit.”
Mahoney threw a half-ass salute. “Yes sir.”
~*~
Colonel Wolkenstein stood by the telephones in the conference room of his headquarters in city hall waiting for his call to go through to General Balck. The events of the last hour had shaken him because American tanks and artillery had made it into Saarlautern and a major defeat was looming for the garrison there.
“This is General Balck,” said the voice on the other end suddenly.
“This is Colonel Wolkenstein in Saarlautern, sir. I felt it was my duty to inform you that the Americans are here in the city in force because we were unable to blow the bridge.”
There was silence for a few seconds. “Why were you unable to blow the bridge?” General Balck asked, cold anger in his voice.
“The Americans overwhelmed us.”
“You have a whole division there, haven’t you?”
“It looks as though they sent a whole division over the bridge, and they had air support that made it difficult for us to move.”
“Rain is predicted for tomorrow. Their planes won’t be able to fly. I expect you to hold the Americans where they are.”
“My intelligence sections report that they have much more of everything than we. If you want me to hold them, you must give me something to hold them with.”
“I have nothing to give you,” General Balck said. “You must hold them with what you have.”
“That will be impossible,” Colonel Wolkenstein said.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then you are relieved of command herewith,” General Balck told him. “Who is next in command in Saarlautern?”
“Colonel Bach.”
“Put him on the phone.”
“Yes sir.”
~*~
It was night in Berlin. Adolf Hitler and General Jodl stood in the Chancellery before a huge map of Europe laid on a red marble table top.
“General Balck reports that Saarlautern will fall unless the garrison there is reinforced,” General Jodl said.
“There will be no reinforcement,” Hitler said, wearing his brown party jacket with the red, white, and black swastika armband. “The garrison there must stage a heroic resistance and fight to the last man.”
“General Balck has issued exactly those orders, my fuehrer.”
“Good. It must be clearly understood by all commanders that they must give up no ground as long as they possess the means to fight.” Hitler’s head wobbled with emotion and his right hand shook. “We are buying time now, Jodl. With every passing day we draw closer to Operation Wacht am Rhine, and then the world will know that our blood sacrifice was not in vain.”
“Yes my fuehrer.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” said Jodl.
The door opened and the insect-like Reichsfuehrer Heinrich Himmler entered, accompanied by a tall young Lieutenant-Colonel in the Waffen SS. Himmler and the young officer marched to Hitler, halted, and threw the Hitler salute.
“Mein Fuehrer!” said Himmler. “It is my honor to introduce to you Lieutenant Colonel Joachim Peiper!”
Peiper had straight black hair, handsome features, and the glittering eyes of a maniac. Hitler stared for a few moments at him, and Peiper thought his head would burst from the pressure building up inside of it. He’d been astounded when he’d received word that Himmler wanted to speak with him personally and nearly floored when Himmler told him the Fuehrer himself wished to meet him. Peiper gazed at the Fuehrer’s pale twitching face and saw on it the destiny of the Fatherland.
“Colonel Peiper,” Hitler said in the hoarse voice that Peiper had heard over the radio and through loudspeakers at mass meetings for nearly twenty years, “I am so happy to meet you.”
Hitler extended his hand, and Peiper shook it, feeling high voltage electricity passing from Hitler’s hand to his.
“I have one question for you, Colonel Peiper,” Hitler said. “Do you believe that one man can change the course of history?”
Peiper replied through a throat constricted by awe. “Yes, my Fuehrer, because you have changed the course of history yourself.”
Hitler smiled faintly, showing brown rotting teeth. “And so shall you, Colonel Peiper,” he said. “And so shall you.”
Hitler paused for dramatic effect, and Peiper wondered what his Fuehrer was talking about. Hitler indicated the map with a wave of his left hand.
“Colonel Peiper,” Hitler said, “a gigantic military operation has been planned in secret by me and the OKW during the past several weeks. Complete details will be furnished you by General Dietrich, but I can tell you now that it is an attack that will roll over the American line in the Ardennes and proceed to Belgium, cutting the Allied forces in half and capturing the port of Antwerp, thus denying them the supplies they’ll need to continue this war.”
Colonel Peiper looked at the map and saw huge arrows drawn through the Ardennes sector. He wondered where the troops and tanks would come from for such a military operation.
“You’re probably wondering,” Hitler said, “where the troops and equipment have been found for this operation. They have come from both the Russian and Western Fronts, and there is no doubt that we will completely overwhelm the Americans and drive through to victory. The Allies will be defeated in the west before they know what has happened, so sudden and vicious will the attack be. And now, you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here, isn’t that correct?”
Peiper clicked his heels together. “That is correct, my Fuehrer.”
Hitler pointed his finger at Peiper’s face. “Because you, Peiper, will lead the spearhead of the attack!”
Peiper’s jaw dropped open. “I, my Fuehrer?”
“Yes you, Peiper. You have been selected for your ruthlessness and devotion to the cause of National Socialism, and I know you shall not fail.”
Tears of emotion welled up in Colonel Peiper’s pale blue eyes. “This is a great honor, my Fuehrer,” he said. “I shall do whatever you ask and bring back to you the prize of victory.”
“Excellent,” said Hitler, nodding his head. “I know that I and all of Germany will be proud of you. That is all. Report to General Dietrich and he will give you your orders in detail.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Hammerhead Division continued to pound the Germans back into Saarlautern, and during the night the 95th Division arrived via the bridge to help out.
Mahoney found the rest of Charlie Company, and Charlie Company found the rest of the 1st Battalion. The wounded were removed to a field hospital, a hasty meal of C rations was eaten, ammunition was issued, and at midnight Charlie Company was on its way back into the thick of the fighting.
A substantial portion of the city was aflame as Charlie Company moved in a column of twos to the front. They passed hills of debris that once had been buildings, and corpses of dead Germans lay in the gutters.
Mahoney was sleepy and had a stomach ache because he’d eaten too quickly. He was angry and frustrated because he’d almost been killed by both the Germans and other GIs. The strafing attack by American fighter planes had been a nightmare, and he intended to make somebody pay for it.
The sounds of artillery came closer and finally they came to an intersection filled with tanks, artillery, and troops. The tanks and artillery fired at the buildings in front of them, gradually reducing them to a vast junkyard. When they stopped and the order to attack was given, the foot soldiers like Mahoney w
ere to move into the junkyard and kill any Germans who still had some fight in them.
Mahoney puffed a cigarette and watched artillery shells crash into the buildings. Walls and ceilings collapsed and Mahoney’s ears rang from the constant explosions. At an earlier stage in the war, troops had taken buildings like this by assault, but now they had sufficient artillery shells to utterly demolish them and nearly everyone inside. The infantry soldiers only mopped up whatever resistance was left.
Cranepool, also smoking a cigarette, stood near Mahoney. “What a fucking mess,” he said.
Mahoney grunted. “There can’t be any Germans left in there.”
“Wow,” said Cranepool. “Can you imagine what it would be like to be in a building like that while it was being shelled?”
“You asshole,” Mahoney replied, “you were in a building that was being shelled like that today.”
Mahoney inhaled his cigarette and watched the buildings explode and crash. His eyelids were at half-mast and his eyeballs were laced with red lines. He had a cramp in his stomach and his fatigue had increased to a point beyond sleepiness. He stood like a zombie, waiting for the shelling to stop. Among the tanks and howitzers were throngs of GIs like himself, ready to go into the rubble and kill Germans.
Mahoney wondered if somewhere in that mess there was a German soldier with a bullet in his rifle that had his name on it.
Pfc. Knifefinder, who’d made his way back to the first platoon, nudged him and held out the walkie-talkie. Mahoney held it against the right side of his face and stuck his finger into his left ear.
“This is Captain Anderson,” said the voice coming through the static. “The artillery will stop in just a few minutes. Prepare to lead your platoon into the buildings across the street.”
Mahoney looked at the mass of flames and debris. What buildings? he wondered, handing the walkie-talkie to Knifefinder. He cupped his hands around his mouth and said: “ALL RIGHT YOU GUYS—GET READY TO MOVE THE FUCK OUT!”
The GIs unslung their rifles and attached their bayonets to the ends. They loaded clips of ammunition into the chambers of the rifles and looked across the street at the devastation. Searchlights gave the scene a ghostly glow and clouds of smoke rose into the night sky.
