by Len Levinson
Pfc Carrington returned. “Captain Tugwell says go in.”
Lieutenant Andrews pulled aside the tent flap and walked into Captain Tugwell’s office. Captain Tugwell sat on one side of his desk and Sergeant Jones on the other side. They were playing dominoes, and a bottle of French brandy with two glasses was beside them. Lieutenant Andrews didn’t feel it appropriate to come to attention and salute in such a situation.
“What’s on your mind, Andrews,” Captain Tugwell drawled out the side of his mouth, looking at the array of dominoes before him.
“I want to talk to you about a transfer, sir.”
“Who and where?”
“Two experienced soldiers were transferred into the company today,” Lieutenant Andrews said. “One is in my platoon and the other is in the third platoon. I’d like to bring them both together in my platoon, since people who’ve worked together and fought together in the past know how to function together as a team better than strangers.”
“No,” said Captain Tugwell, placing one of his dominoes on the table.
Lieutenant Andrews waited for an explanation, but after several seconds realized he wouldn’t get one unless he asked. “Why not?”
Captain Tugwell looked up at him. “You’re a new second lieutenant, Andrews. You shouldn’t let wise guys like Mahoney push you around.”
“Nobody’s pushing me around, sir.”
“No? Are you gonna tell me that Mahoney didn’t put you up to this?”
“He suggested the transfer to me, and when he told me his reasoning, I agreed with him.”
“In other words, he bullshit you and you fell for it.”
Sergeant Oakie Jones guffawed, and Lieutenant Andrews’ face turned red. “What’s so funny, Jones?” Andrews demanded.
“Leave my first sergeant alone,” Tugwell said. “Go back to your platoon and stop listening to Mahoney. He’s a wise guy and a bullshit artist and you should be careful with him. Understand?”
“If I’d listened to him, I wouldn’t have come here.”
“What was that?”
“He told me that you wouldn’t do it.”
Tugwell took a puff from his cigarette. The smoke curled up to his right eye and he closed it. “You should have listened to him.”
“You just told me not to listen to him.”
Captain Tugwell sniffed as he looked at Lieutenant Andrews with distaste. Andrews was a college graduate with clear diction and nice manners, and Tugwell didn’t like him. “You should listen to him when he’s right and not pay any attention to him when he’s wrong.”
“I think he’s right about the transfer. He’s got more combat experience than most of us in this company, and I think a lot can be learned from him.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Tugwell retorted. “Mahoney and Cranepool are troublemakers and we have to keep them apart. That’s my final word on your transfer request. You may return to your platoon.”
“What makes you so sure they’re troublemakers?”
“I said you may return to your platoon.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Andrews turned and walked out of the command post tent.
Chapter Seven
Rommel’s headquarters were in the magnificent La Rochefoucauld chateau in the town of La Roche-Guyon in the Seine River Valley around forty miles northwest of Paris. It was morning and he sat at his desk, sipping coffee and reading communiqués from the front. They told him that the Americans were quiet in the west, hemmed in by swamps and hedgerows, but the British under Montgomery in the east were putting pressure on Caen.
Rising from his desk, taking his cup of coffee with him, he walked toward his map table and looked down at it, wishing he had more men and tanks to send to Caen. He would have liked to move segments of his Fifteenth Army from the Channel Coast to Caen, but the Abwehr believed that Army Group Patton would land there any day now, and Rommel needed to keep that area defended. Army Group Patton comprised some forty-seven divisions, it was believed. If such a force was not opposed, it could make a quick penetration of France and perhaps even take Paris in a matter of days.
Rommel was wondering if he could shift troops from the American front to Caen, when the door of his office was flung open and Field Marshal Hans von Kluge marched in.
“Heil Hitler!” von Kluge screamed, throwing his hand in the air.
“Heil Hitler!” Rommel replied, nearly dropping his cup of coffee.
Von Kluge swaggered toward the map table, his hands clasped behind his back. He had smooth steel-gray hair, an immaculate uniform, and gleaming boots. Hitler had just promoted him to the post of Commander in Chief, West, replacing Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, who was in disgrace ever since Cherbourg had fallen to the Americans.
Rommel, as Commander, Army Group B, was subordinate to von Kluge. Neither man had ever liked the other.
Von Kluge looked at the map table. “Anything new?”
“No.”
“You know of my appointment, of course.”
“Of course.”
Von Kluge looked at Rommel sternly. “The Fuehrer’s last words to me were hold fast at any cost. I intend to follow those orders to the letter. Is that clear?”
Rommel shrugged. “That’s easier said than done.”
Von Kluge frowned. “The next thing I want to say to you is that you must get used to obeying orders like everybody else in this command.”
Rommel’s jaw dropped open. Since he’d become a field marshal, no one except Hitler had talked to him like that.
He puffed out his chest and said: “You seem to forget that you are speaking to a field marshal of the German Reich!”
“I’m perfectly well aware of whom I’m talking to,” von Kluge replied stiffly, “but until now you’ve always done whatever you pleased, going over everybody’s head and appealing directly to the Fuehrer when you couldn’t get your way. That is all over as of now. I am your superior and you will not go over my head for any reason whatever—is that clear?”
Rommel placed his fists on his hips. “My position on this front is quite clearly defined. I am in command of the coastal defenses, and I demand that you place all available forces and material at my disposal toward that end.”
“But I am in command of you, Herr Field Marshal, and I’ll deploy you and my other forces as I see fit.” Von Kluge walked in front of Rommel until their faces were only inches apart. “I want you to understand that I am not in awe of you, Herr Field Marshal. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve never really commanded anything larger than a division, until you were placed in command of Army Group B.”
“And you’ve never fought the British and Americans,” Rommel replied heatedly.
“I imagine they’re much easier than the Russians,” von Kluge replied calmly, taking a step backwards. “And the weather won’t be a factor here, as it was in Russia. I think we should be able to hold fast without too much trouble at all. We’ll be in a much better position after Army Group Patton lands, because then we can hurl all our forces into the fray and maneuver them as circumstances require. I’m not in awe of General Patton either, I want you to know. I imagine that his reputation, like yours, is mostly the fabrication of bored journalists who’ve let their imaginations run away with them.”
Rommel thought of his great victories in North Africa, and how quickly a bright star can fall from the sky and be forgotten. He decided he’d better keep his mouth shut and let von Kluge find out for himself what the true situation was on the Western Front.
Von Kluge raised his bushy eyebrows. “You have nothing to say, Herr Field Marshal?”
“No sir.”
“That’s surprising, because I’ve always been told that you’re quite voluble.”
“I prefer to let my actions speak for me,” Rommel replied.
“I look forward to receiving good news from you, then.” Von Kluge leaned over the map table. “And now, if you will be so kind Herr Field Marshal, please brief me on your front line s
ituation?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rommel wanted to bop von Kluge over the head with his field marshal’s baton, but instead he joined him at the map table and pointed toward the city of Caen. “The bulk of my Seventh Army is here,” he began.
Chapter Eight
General Bradley’s battle order filtered down through the chains of command of the First Army, and at noon on July 3rd, the 33rd Division’s regimental commanders were called to command post of their division commander, General John Naughton, and were told that at 0600 hours tomorrow morning the Hammerhead Division would lead the XV Corps attack in their sector, moving down the Cherbourg Peninsula and capturing Saint Lo. General Naughton explained that the Fifteenth Regiment would be in the center of the line, the Twentieth and Twenty-third Regiments would be on the right and left respectively, and the Sixth Regiment would be in reserve. He told them that their attack would be supported by artillery and tanks. He told them that they must take Saint Lo in seven days.
At four o’clock that afternoon, Colonel Charles “Bayonet” Donovan of the Fifteenth Regiment held a meeting at his command post near Valognes. He told his staff and battalion commanders of the big attack, and arranged his order of battle. His First Battalion would spearhead the attack, with his Second and Third Battalions on the right and left respectively, and his Fourth Battalion in Reserve.
At six o’clock in the afternoon, Major Sherman Bowie of the First Battalion called his company commanders to his office. His attack plan consisted of Able Company on the left, Baker Company in the middle, and Charlie Company on the right, with Dog Company in Reserve. He told his company commanders to return to their units and prepare for battle.
Chapter Nine
It was eight o’clock in the evening when Captain Tugwell returned to his command post in Charlie Company. Annoyed that Charlie Company was moving up to the front tomorrow, he whacked the tent flaps out of his way and saw Sergeant Oakie Jones seated behind his desk, drinking brandy and reading an old copy of Life magazine that showed Rita Hayworth on the cover.
“What happened at Battalion?” Oakie Jones asked, looking up from his magazine.
“We’re going up to the front in the morning. Get out of my chair.”
Oakie Jones got up and moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk, while Captain Tugwell sat down.
“Is it a big attack?” Jones asked.
“The whole First Army is involved. We’re going to move down the peninsula to a line between Saint Lo and Coutances, and then we’re going to try to break out.”
“Where will we be?”
“Right up front.”
Captain Tugwell took his map from inside his shirt and unfolded it on his desk. “Come here and take a look.”
Oakie Jones stood and shuffled behind Captain Tugwell, looking at the map over his shoulder. Tugwell pointed to a section of the map. “We’ll move in this direction toward Saint Lo. They want us to take Saint Lo in seven days.”
“We’re lucky if we take it in seven weeks.”
“We’ll be lucky if we ever take it at all. The terrain is terrible.”
“We’ll need tanks and artillery. Maybe some combat engineers to clear a path through those damned hedgerows.”
“We’ll get a little of everything,” Captain Tugwell said grimly, “but not enough of anything that we’ll need.”
“Figures,” Oakie Jones replied.
“What a mess,” Captain Tugwell said, reaching for the bottle of brandy. He pulled out the cork and took a swig. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to kick the men in the ass and make them move forward.”
“You should put the first platoon up front, so that maybe Mahoney will get a bullet between his eyes.”
“Good idea. Go out and get the platoon leaders for me, so I can brief them. I wonder how many of them will be dead when all this is over.”
Oakie Jones shrugged as he headed for the tent flap. “That’s what young lieutenants are for, ain’t it?”
“I guess so,” Tugwell said, reaching for the bottle of brandy again.
Chapter Ten
Rain poured onto Charlie Company of the First Battalion. Lieutenant Andrews ran over puddles and through the night toward his tent, and far off in the distance he could hear an artillery barrage. He arrived at the pup tent he shared with Mahoney and ducked inside. Mahoney was lying on his poncho, with his head propped up on his pack, smoking a cigarette.
Water fell from Andrews’ jacket and helmet onto Mahoney. “Sorry,” Andrews said, trying to move away from Mahoney, but there wasn’t much room inside the tent.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to attack the Germans at six o’clock in the morning,” Andrews replied, taking off his helmet. It was dark in the tent, and smelled stuffy. “We have to take Saint Lo in seven days.”
Mahoney groaned.
“If it keeps raining like this, we won’t get any air cover,” Andrews said.
“But by the same token, the Germans won’t expect an attack.”
Andrews wiped his wet face with his hand. “You’ve got an answer for everything, Mahoney.”
“Captain Tugwell have anything else interesting to say?”
“The first platoon will lead the attack.”
“Oh-oh,” Mahoney said.
“Well, somebody has to lead the attack.”
“I guess so,” Mahoney admitted.
“I wish it would be somebody else, though.”
“We’ll be okay,” Mahoney said. “Just pay attention to me until you feel comfortable about what you’re doing.”
Andrews took off his wet jacket and tossed it in the back of the pup tent. He sat on the damp ground and didn’t think he’d get much sleep that night.
“I feel nervous,” he said.
“That won’t help any,” Mahoney told him.
“I know it won’t help any, but I feel nervous anyway.”
“Maybe you should start smoking cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes are bad for the health.”
“So are bullets. Cigarettes might calm you down to where you can fight better.”
Andrews’ heart was beating quickly and he felt rattled. “Maybe I’d better try one,” he said.
“Here.” Mahoney held up his pack of Camels.
Andrews groped for it in the dark, and took one out. Mahoney lit the cigarette with his trusty old Zippo. Andrews inhaled the strong smoke, and the tent began to spin around him.
“I think I’m going to pass out,” he mumbled, squinching his eyes shut.
“You’ll get used to that,” Mahoney said.
Chapter Eleven
It rained throughout the night, and at four o’clock in the morning the officer of the day came around and told everybody to saddle up. The men of Charlie Company struck their tents, unbuttoned the shelter halfs and rolled them up, tying them to their packs. They lined up in front of the mess tent, their rifles slung upside down so water wouldn’t enter the barrels, and held their mess kits in their hands, as rain beat tattoos on their steel helmets. The line moved forward and entered the mess tent, where the cooks ladled scrambled eggs and fried potatoes into their mess kits, and poured black coffee into their cups. The soldiers trudged outside into the rain and ate standing up.
Cranepool found Mahoney standing next to a tree stump, eating his breakfast placidly. Cranepool placed his cup on the stump beside Mahoney and joined him for breakfast.
“How’s it going?” Cranepool asked cheerily.
“Shitty,” Mahoney replied, rain pouring off his helmet onto his scrambled eggs.
“The weather should clear up pretty soon,” Cranepool observed.
“It’s been raining ever since I came to this fucking country.”
“How do you like our new outfit?” Cranepool asked.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I don’t think much of it either,” Cranepool admitted.
“What a bunch of assholes.”
“Asshol
es all over the place,” Cranepool agreed. “We shouldn’t have left the Twenty-third Rangers.”
“I just want to be an ordinary soldier,” Mahoney said.
“But everybody around here is so fucked up,” Cranepool complained.
“I got a good platoon leader,” Mahoney told him.
“Who is he?” Cranepool asked.
“Second Lieutenant Andrews.”
“What’s so good about him?”
“He does what I tell him to do.”
“That’s nice,” Cranepool said.
“Things could be worse,” Mahoney grunted. “They could be parachuting us into Berlin right now.”
“Maybe the weather’s better there.”
“Maybe.”
Cranepool took a sip of coffee, which reminded him of turpentine. “What’re we gonna do about this mess, Mahoney?”
“Search me.”
“We gotta get the fuck out of this rinky-dink outfit.”
“There’s no place else to go.”
“But these assholes are gonna get us killed out here.”
“Probably,” Mahoney agreed.
“There must be something that we can do.”
“There ain’t.”
Cranepool’s scrambled eggs were becoming scrambled soup. “I’d feel a lot better if we was together, Mahoney. If you was beside me I’d know I wasn’t all alone.”
Mahoney looked up at him. “Have you ever seen so many people wearing glasses in your life?”
“Everybody’s half blind around here, Mahoney. How can you fight a war with guys who can’t see?”
“Search me. I tried to get you transferred to the first platoon, but Tugwell didn’t go for it.”
“Everybody I’ve talked to says he’s a son-of-a-bitch,” Cranepool said.
“Nobody had to tell me he’s a son of a bitch. I know a son of a bitch when I see one.”
“I wonder what he’s got against us?”
“He knows that we know he’s a scumbag. He’d better never get in front of me, because I’ll put a bullet in him.”
