by Len Levinson
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Mahoney lay against the bottom of a hedgerow trying to smoke his cigar. He’d ordered a break because his men were exhausted by the tough fighting, but he didn’t feel relaxed lying still. He knew he was giving the German enemy a chance to pull themselves together and figure out a plan. They might even decide to launch an attack, and Mahoney didn’t think his men could take it.
German bullets flew over his head. Bodies littered the ground everywhere. God, he wanted to go home.
“We can’t go on like this,” Lieutenant Andrews said, gasping for breath.
Mahoney tried to calm him down, but he was too worked up. “Everything’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
“Is the Captain sending us reinforcements?”
Mahoney didn’t have time to respond—a German tank suddenly opened fire in their direction. The two of them scrambled through the mud to the other side of the hedgerow. They could hear the growling snarling engine mixed with the thump of their own heartbeats. It was just a matter of time . . .
BLOODY BUSH
THE SERGEANT 3
By Len Levinson
First Published by Zebra Books in 1980
Copyright © 1980, 2014 by Len Levinson
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: April 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
The generals and field marshals snapped to attention as Adolf Hitler entered the war room. Hitler, dressed in his party uniform with tan jacket and swastika on the left sleeve, strutted to the red marble table covered with maps, and Field Marshal Erwin Rommel thought he looked like the old Hitler, the Hitler of lightning victories, instead of the Hitler whose army had lost the key port of Cherbourg to the Americans only three days ago.
Hitler placed his fists on his hips and looked down at the maps. “Well, what do we have here today?” he asked briskly. “A static front, I think. If we push forward we can drive the Allies into the sea. We’ve done that to them before and surely we can do it again.” He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Come gentlemen—join me.”
The generals and field marshals crowded around the map table. Rommel took his position at a side of the table, so he could look directly at Hitler, because Rommel was determined to stand up to his Fuehrer today. Rommel knew that the Western Front was weakening, and didn’t think a pep talk from Hitler could hold it together. He wanted Hitler to sign an armistice with the British and Americans so that they could all join together and fight the atheistic Bolshevik Russians.
“You look glum today, gentlemen,” Hitler said in his strong hypnotic voice. “No doubt you are distressed by our loss of Cherbourg. But look at it this way: Four years ago our enemies held all of France; today they hold only a few miles of beach. We threw them out of France once, and surely we can do it again. Don’t you agree?”
The lackeys and bootlickers among the officers nodded and smiled, but not Rommel. The old Desert Fox had returned from the front lines in Normandy only yesterday, and he knew what was happening there. The Allies were pouring troops and equipment into France, and would launch a major offensive soon. Rommel didn’t believe he had sufficient resources to hold them back. He saw a catastrophe for the German Army unless a deal could be made with the Allies quickly.
Hitler turned to Rommel. “Herr Field Marshal—would you kindly brief us on the latest situation in your sector.”
Rommel had not realized that his moment would come so suddenly. He squared his shoulders and looked at Hitler, wondering why he’d been so devoted to the strange funny-looking man for so many years. “My Fuehrer,” he said, “I think I ought to begin with an assessment of the political situation.”
“Political situation?” Hitler asked, raising his eyebrows. “I think you’d better confine yourself to the military situation, Herr Field Marshal.”
“But my Fuehrer,” Rommel protested, “I believe that the political situation has a great bearing on our military situation.”
Hitler folded his arms and gazed down imperiously at Rommel, for Rommel was the shorter man. “Let me remind you, Herr Field Marshal, that I know something about politics myself, and do not need any advice in that area from you. I will ask you for the last time: Kindly brief us on your military situation and nothing else.”
Hitler’s last three words hit Rommel like whiplashes, and he realized he’d better not defy his Fuehrer any further. Rommel had heard of concentration camps and torture chambers. Better to be a live field marshal than a prisoner of Heinrich Himmler.
“Yes, my Fuehrer,” Rommel said, bending over the map table and pointing toward the city of Caen. He explained how the British forces in that vicinity posed the greatest threat to Germany, because beyond Caen were plains and fields suited for tanks and a war of rapid movement. Rommel surmised that the British would tear the German front apart if ever they got past Caen. Then he pointed to the Cherbourg Peninsula, where the Americans were, and said that the terrain in that vicinity favored the German defense, because it consisted of swamps and hedgerows that would impede the progress of tanks and infantry. Lastly, Rommel pointed to the Channel Coast north of the Seine River. His Fifteenth Army was there, he said, poised to strike against the expected landing by American forces under General George Patton, whom the Germans considered the best general the Americans had.
“I see,” Hitler said, wagging his head from side to side. “Well, the situation doesn’t look bad at all. All we must do is hold the Allies where they are and try to buy time.” Picking up a pencil, he drew a line from the Cherbourg Peninsula to Caen. “We must keep them in back of this line and not retreat one millimeter. We will build up our forces and then move forward, hurling the dogs into the sea.”
“Build up our forces with what?” Rommel asked.
A hush fell over the room. Hitler, aghast at being questioned so rudely, turned to Rommel. “Did you say something, Herr Field Marshal?”
“Yes, my Fuehrer,” Rommel replied. “I merely was inquiring as to what you were going to give me so that I can build up my forces.”
Hitler’s ears turned red. “You will build up your forces through maneuver and reorganization. You will adjust your line so as to meet enemy threats. Do I have to explain to you the fundamentals of military strategy, Herr Field Marshal?”
The sarcasm in Hitler’s voice was not lost on Rommel, but he decided to press his point anyway. “The Americans are bringing in huge numbers of reinforcements. I’m not so sure that they can be contained through mere maneuver and reorganization.”
Hitler narrowed his eyes. “They may have more reinforcements, but their position is most unfavorable. They’re squeezed together on a tiny strip of beach. Their lines have no depth. They cannot maneuver as well as we. All you have to do is hold them for a little while, because you see, there are other factors which I’m taking into consideration and which you are not taking into consideration. The first of these factors is the new
V-2 rocket which will soon become operational. These rockets will rain down on London and reduce it to a pile of rubble. That surely will break the fighting spirit of the British. The second factor is the new Me-162 jet fighter, faster and deadlier than anything the Allies now possess, and certain to drive their air forces from the skies. And third are our new snorkel submarines, which never have to surface to charge batteries. These submarines will sink the ships carrying reinforcements to the Allied positions. The Allied Army will be choked off from its base of supply, they will lose their air cover, and they will lose London, then we shall push them off Fortress Europe forever.” Hitler raised his clenched fist in the air and looked into Rommel’s eyes. “Victory is in our grasp, Herr Field Marshal. All you have to do is hold the Allies where they are until our new weapons are ready. Do you understand?”
Rommel knew he should acquiesce; he no longer was mesmerized by Hitler. “But my Fuehrer,” he said, “these weapons have been promised for a long time, and still they’re not ready. I feel it my duty to point out to you that we may not be able to hold back the Allies for long if their build-up continues. Therefore, I think it imperative that we discuss political alternatives.”
Hitler’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Herr Field Marshal,” he screamed, “be so good as to leave this room at once!”
Rommel realized that he’d gone too far. “Yes, my Fuehrer.” He saluted, did an about face, and marched out of the war room. In the long dark corridor decorated with swastika flags and paintings of Hitler in various heroic poses, Rommel walked along with his shoulders stooped and his hands behind his back. He knew that Hitler was wrong and probably mad, but he decided that his only possible course of action was to follow Hitler’s orders somehow and try to hold back the British and Americans.
He wondered if the rockets, jet planes, and snorkel submarines really would be ready soon. Maybe Hitler was right this time. And if Rommel could hold the Allies back, he’d be a hero to the German people once more. It was possible that the German people would call on him one day to replace Hitler. After all, Hitler couldn’t live forever. There were rumors that his health was failing. There also were rumors that some officers were plotting to kill him.
I’ll just hold fast and do my duty, Rommel thought. If God will grant me the power to hold back the Allies, perhaps I myself shall become the next Fuehrer of the German Reich.
Chapter Two
Master Sergeant Oakie Jones smoked a cigarette in front of the command post tent of Charlie Company, looking at the fresh troops in new green fatigues setting up their new green pup tents. He had the build of a bear, thick lips, and heavy features. His shoulder patch showed a black hammer against a red background, the insignia of the 33rd Infantry Division, known as the Hammerhead Division. The Hammerheads had landed on Utah Beach on D-day plus one, and had taken heavy casualties in the battle for St. Mere Eglise. Charlie Company of the Fifteenth Regiment had lost eighty per cent of its men, but now the replacements were arriving, and Oakie Jones didn’t like the look of them. They were kids and didn’t know shit from Shinola, whereas he had fought in Italy, although all of his fighting had taken place in the comfort of the command post tent behind the lines, because he was the first sergeant of the company, and he ran it like a feudal lord.
Puffing his cigarette, he noticed two soldiers walking toward him, both wearing new green uniforms and new green knapsacks. Both were tall, one husky and the other slim. The husky one had master sergeant’s stripes on his arm and the slim one was a corporal. Oakie Jones figured they were reservists who’d been called to active duty.
“This Charlie Company?” the husky one asked as he came closer.
“Yep,” said Oakie Jones.
The husky one handed over his big manila envelope of personnel records. “I’ve been transferred to your company, sergeant,” he said.
“Me too,” said the corporal, giving his envelope to Oakie Jones.
Jones looked at the names on the envelopes. “Mahoney and Cranepool, eh?” he asked in his Missouri accent. “You sound like a coupla comedians.”
“I don’t think I got your name,” Mahoney said.
“That’s because I didn’t give it to you,” Jones replied. “You two stay here until I come for you.”
Oakie Jones carried the personnel envelopes into the shadows of the big command post tent, and Mahoney took out a cigarette, lighting it up.
“He didn’t appear very friendly,” said Cranepool.
“No, he didn’t,’” Mahoney agreed.
“I hope we done the right thing, Sarge.”
“I really don’t give a shit,” Mahoney replied.
Mahoney puffed his cigarette glumly. He’d requested a transfer out of the 23rd Rangers because ranger outfits always received the most dangerous assignments, and he’d got tired of putting his head on the chopping block. When his CO., old Bulldog Boynton, was killed in the fight for Cherbourg, Mahoney decided to put in for his transfer. He wanted to go to an ordinary infantry outfit where they got ordinary war assignments instead of the suicide missions of the Rangers. Young Cranepool, who had dreams of becoming an officer, transferred because he wanted to stay with Mahoney, but he’d not been that unhappy in the Rangers. He thought that his service with the Rangers would help him when he applied for Officers’ Candidate School.
Oakie Jones returned to the front of the tent. “Captain Tugwell will see both of you birds now.” He looked at Mahoney. “Put out your cigarette and let’s go.”
Mahoney put out his cigarette, ripped it open, scattered the tobacco to the winds, rolled the paper into a little ball, and tossed it over his shoulder. He followed Jones into the tent which smelled of damp musty canvas.
“Put your gear over there,” Jones said.
Mahoney and Cranepool took off their full field packs and laid them beside a wall of the tent.
“Follow me,” Jones said.
Jones opened a tent flap, and the two Rangers entered the field office of Captain Ernest Tugwell, who sat behind his folding desk looking at the personnel records of Mahoney and Cranepool.
Tugwell was forty years old, had thin sandy hair, and a face ravaged by acne scars. He was from Texas and had risen through the ranks. Although he was a captain, he knew he wasn’t equal to captains who had graduated from West Point. In fact, he hadn’t graduated from college at all. He’d barely made it out of high school. But they’d made him a second lieutenant at the start of the war, when the need for officers had been acute.
Mahoney and Cranepool came to attention in front of his desk and saluted him.
“At ease,” Tugwell said, scowling as he looked at their records. His inferiority complex was provoked by the war records of Mahoney and Cranepool. They’d both seen action in North Africa and Italy as well as Normandy, and their service in the Rangers meant they were crack soldiers.
Tugwell looked up at Mahoney. “Why’d you transfer here?” he drawled.
“I wanted to get into a regular line infantry company, sir.”
“Why?”
Mahoney didn’t want to go through the whole explanation. “I just wanted to.”
Tugwell looked at Cranepool. “How about you?”
“Same reason,” Cranepool said.
Tugwell frowned. He didn’t like the looks of these two. They were too cocky and self-assured for him. He preferred soldiers who were cringing and servile. “I hope you both don’t think you’re going to teach us how to be soldiers here, since you’re used to being in fancy pants Ranger outfits.”
Mahoney stood at ease and didn’t say anything.
Tugwell felt himself becoming angry. “I don’t care where you two came from—you’re gonna be just two more faces in Charlie Company. Got it?”
Mahoney and Cranepool said yes sir together.
Tugwell looked at Mahoney. “I guess they sent you here because I need a platoon sergeant for my first platoon. You’re it from now on. Report to Lieutenant Andrews and he’ll tell you what to do. He’s you
r platoon leader. He got here yesterday.” Tugwell looked at Cranepool. “You’re gonna be a squad leader in the third platoon. Report to Lieutenant Ferrara.”
“May I say something, sir?” Cranepool said.
“I know what you’re gonna say,” Tugwell replied. “You’re gonna say that you wanna be in the same platoon as Sergeant Mahoney. Well, he’s gonna be in the first platoon and you’re gonna be in the third.”
“But sir,” Cranepool argued, “we’ve been together for a coupla years now. We’re like a team.”
“I just gave you your assignments,” Tugwell said. “Report to your platoons.”
Mahoney and Cranepool snapped to attention and saluted Tugwell. They turned around and marched out of Tugwell’s section of the tent to the section occupied by Oakie Jones, who watched them put on their field packs.
“What’re you two—asshole buddies?” Jones asked sarcastically.
Mahoney adjusted his shoulder straps and walked up to Jones. “If I want any shit from you, I’ll knock if out of you, get it?”
Jones blinked his eyes in disbelief. No one ever had talked to him that way since he’d been first sergeant of Charlie Company. He narrowed his little pig eyes and thrust out his jaw. “Who in the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ to, Mahoney?” he demanded.
“You,” Mahoney replied, leaning toward Jones.
“I think you’d better get it through your head that I’m the first sergeant here!” Jones said heatedly. “Maybe a first sergeant didn’t mean shit in the Rangers, but it means something in the real army!”
Mahoney pointed his finger at Jones’ nose. “I’ve been a first sergeant and every other kind of sergeant, so don’t give me no shit, understand? I’ve been in the army as long as you and I’ve been up and down the ranks a few times. If you don’t like the way I talk to you, we can take off our stripes and go out behind the picket line and settle this between us man to man, if you’ve got the guts. If you can’t do that, then keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.”
