Bloody Bush

by Len Levinson

  “And that first sergeant of his is no good either.”

  “I’m gonna kick that fucker in his nose someday.”

  At that moment Sergeant Oakie Jones came out of the command post tent and strode across the company area. “All right everybody—finish your chow and let’s get ready to move out!” he shouted. “We ain’t got all day, you know!”

  Mahoney put his last piece of potato into his mouth and walked toward the buckets full of water to wash his mess kit. Cranepool followed behind him, drinking his coffee. Sergeant Jones saw them and grinned.

  “The two asshole buddies are still at it!” he yelled. “Hey—are you two fuckin’ each other?”

  Mahoney dropped his mess kit onto the ground and handed his rifle to Cranepool. “Hold this.”

  Cranepool took the rifle. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Mahoney didn’t reply. He walked toward Jones and every soldier watched him, wondering what he’d do. Everybody in the company knew who Mahoney was by now. The word had travelled along the grapevine that he’d won two Silver Stars and the Distinguished Service Medal.

  Oakie Jones was astonished to see Mahoney charging toward him. He’d been the first sergeant of Charlie Company for a year now, and no one ever had behaved in such a threatening manner to him. But he was a big guy himself, and besides, he wore a diamond in the middle of his master sergeant’s stripes, which Mahoney did not have.

  Jones thought he’d better say something fast, or else the men would lose respect for him. “What’s your fucking problem, Mahoney!” he yelled.

  Mahoney whipped out his bayonet so quickly his movement was a blur, and brought the point to Sergeant Jones’ throat. “You ever say that to me again and I’ll kill you,” Mahoney said through his teeth.

  Jones blanched and took a step backwards, but Mahoney stayed on him like a cat, holding the tip of his bayonet to Jones’ throat.

  “I’ll court-martial you for this!” Jones hollered.

  “Fuck you,” Mahoney replied. “If you mess with me again I’ll cut your throat, you cock-sucker. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You can’t talk to me this way!” Jones bleated, his eyes goggling.

  Mahoney put pressure on his bayonet, and its point pierced Jones’ skin. A thin trickle of blood flowed down his throat.

  “Don’t move or I’ll rip your windpipe out,” Mahoney snarled.

  Jones froze like a block of ice.

  “I told you I’ll cut your throat if you mess with me again,” Mahoney said, “and I asked if you understood what I’m saying. Do you?”

  “Yes,” Jones stuttered.

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” Mahoney said.

  He pulled his bayonet away from Jones’ throat, rammed it into his scabbard, and walked back to Cranepool, who was holding Mahoney’s rifle and staring at him like everybody else.

  Jones trembled with rage. His face became red and his eyes bulged out of their sockets as he pointed at Mahoney. “I’ll put you before a firing squad for this!”

  “Fuck you,” Mahoney replied over his shoulder.

  Jones shuddered, coughed, and spit a lunger into the mud. Then he raised his fists and ran into the command post tent, where Captain Tugwell, with a cigarette dangling out the side of his mouth, was strapping on his .45.

  “Mahoney just tried to kill me!” Jones said, pointing to his throat.

  “What are you talking about?” Tugwell asked, looking at the blood on Jones’ neck.

  “Mahoney stabbed me with his bayonet right here!”

  “He did?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did anybody see him?”

  “The whole fucking company was there!”

  “They were?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Tugwell smiled. “I knew he’d do something wrong before long. Let’s go get the son of a bitch.”

  Tugwell and Jones stormed out of the tent and headed for Mahoney. The soldiers of Charlie Company stood and followed them with their eyes, their faces expressionless. They hated Jones and never would have believed that somebody could stand up to him the way Mahoney did.

  “Oh-oh,” said Cranepool, watching Jones and Tugwell close the distance between him and Mahoney.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about,” Mahoney said.

  “They’re gonna nail your ass to a tree for this one, Mahoney.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Ten-HUT!” cried Lieutenant Ferrara of the third platoon.

  Charlie Company snapped to attention in the rain as Tugwell and Jones passed through their midst and came to a stop in front of Mahoney and Cranepool. Tugwell furrowed his brow and turned down the corners of his mouth as he leaned toward Mahoney.

  “So you’ve finally done it,” Tugwell said to Mahoney.

  “Done what, sir?”

  Tugwell narrowed his eyes. “Sergeant Jones here says you’ve attacked him with your bayonet.”

  “Who, me?” Mahoney asked.

  Sergeant Jones balled up his fists. “Yes you!” he bellowed.

  Mahoney ignored Jones. “I didn’t attack Sergeant Jones with a bayonet,” Mahoney said to Captain Tugwell. “Sergeant Jones must have got me confused with somebody else who doesn’t like him.”

  Jones pointed at Mahoney. “It was you!”

  Mahoney shook his head and shrugged. “No it wasn’t.”

  “Everybody saw it was you!”

  “They couldn’t have, because it wasn’t me.”

  Jones turned to Pfc Sanchez, who was standing nearby. “Didn’t you see this sergeant attack me with a bayonet?”

  Pfc Sanchez was barely over five feet tall and sported a scraggly mustache. “I didn’t see nothin’,” he said.

  Sergeant Jones wanted to attack Sanchez and tear his head off his shoulders. “You didn’t see this sergeant attack me with a bayonet?”

  “Nope.”

  “You say sergeant when you talk to me—goddammit!”

  “Nope, sergeant.”

  Next to Sanchez was Private Ira Goldstein from Boston, who was forty pounds overweight and wore thick glasses. Sergeant Jones turned to him. “You saw it—didn’t you?” Sergeant Jones asked Goldstein.

  “I didn’t see anything either, sergeant.”

  Jones pointed toward the place where Mahoney had held the bayonet to his throat. “You didn’t see this sergeant pull a bayonet on me over there!”

  “No sergeant.”

  “But you must have seen the both of us over there!” Jones yelled, exasperated and turning deep purple.

  “I saw both of you over there, but I didn’t see him pull a bayonet on you, sergeant.”

  Jones pointed his finger at Goldstein. “You’re lying!”

  “No I’m not, sergeant.”

  “What about you, Reed!” Jones yelled at Corporal Frank Reed of Des Moines, Iowa, who was next to Goldstein.

  “I didn’t see anything,” replied Reed, a big strapping man who had been a butcher in civilian life.

  Sergeant Jones turned around like an angry bear and faced the men of Charlie Company. “You’re lying—you’re all lying!” he screamed.

  Nobody moved or said a word. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Captain Tugwell cleared his throat.

  “I want anyone who saw Sergeant Mahoney attack Sergeant Jones to take one step forward.”

  Nobody stepped forward, and a muscle in Tugwell’s jaw twitched. He realized that he shouldn’t have rushed out here so quickly with Jones, and that Mahoney was a more dangerous adversary than he’d supposed. Tugwell turned to Mahoney again.

  “I’ll get you for this,” he said softly.

  Mahoney smiled. “For what?”

  Tugwell stared into Mahoney’s big brown eyes and wanted to shoot him on the spot. Mahoney had caused him to look like a fool in front of his company, and Tugwell would never forgive him for it.

  While both men were staring at each other, Pfc Carrington came running out of the command post te
nt. “Captain Tugwell—Major Bowie wants to speak with you on the field telephone right away!”

  Tugwell continued staring at Mahoney. “You’d better watch your step, Mahoney,” he growled.

  “I always watch my step, sir.”

  Tugwell’s eyes flashed hatred as he turned from Mahoney and walked quickly toward his command post tent. Sergeant Jones followed him, aware that things never would be the same again in Charlie Company, for Mahoney had cut him with a bayonet and got away with it. Everything could be expected to go downhill from now on unless something happened to Mahoney pretty soon. Jones vowed to make sure that something would happen to Mahoney soon.

  Captain Tugwell entered the tent and grabbed the field telephone, bringing it to his ear. “Captain Tugwell speaking, sir,” he said.

  “Just a moment,” said a voice on the other end.

  Tugwell waited a few moments and Major Bowie’s voice came over the receiver. “Has your company moved out yet, Tugwell?” Major Bowie asked.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Tugwell wanted to tell Major Bowie about the incident with Mahoney, but decided he’d better not. He looked at his watch and it was 0530 hours. “I thought we weren’t supposed to moved out until oh-six-hundred hours, sir.”

  “It won’t hurt you to start moving sooner. If you were the kind of company commander you ought to be, you would have had your men on the road already, and at oh-six-hundred hours you’d be able to launch your attack from a more favorable position.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tugwell said.

  “How soon do you think you can get your show on the road?”

  “About ten minutes, sir.”

  “Stay in touch by walkie-talkie. I’ve criticized you for excessive caution in the past, Captain Tugwell. I hope I won’t have cause to do that during this campaign.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “Good luck, Captain Tugwell.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Captain Tugwell hung up his telephone receiver and blew out the side of his mouth. “Shit,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Sergeant Jones.

  “Major Bowie’s got a bug up his ass again.”

  “He’s always got a bug up his ass about something.”

  “We’d better get rolling,” Captain Tugwell said.

  “Have the men move out immediately and put the first platoon up on the point, so that our friend Mahoney will be closest to the Germans.”

  “That son of a bitch!” Jones said bitterly.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Tugwell replied. “We’ll get him yet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Hammerhead Division moved south toward Saint Lo. The First Battalion was in the forward salient of the advance, and Charlie Company was in front of the First Battalion. The two divisions on the front lines opened a gap between them so that the Hammerheads could get through, and Charlie Company moved ever closer to the German defenders.

  The soldiers of Charlie Company trudged down the road, the sporadic sounds of gunfire not far ahead of them. They walked along in two columns, one on each side of the road, and in the middle of the road were four tanks sent to support them. About fifty yards behind the last platoon was the jeep carrying Captain Tugwell, First Sergeant Jones, and Pfc Carrington, the latter holding a walkie-talkie to his ear.

  Mahoney was on the left side of the road at the front of his column. He looked at the network of hedgerows in the fields around him, and he knew it was going to be a lousy day. The hedgerows divided each farmer’s little plot of ground, and provided excellent natural fortifications for a defending army. Each hedgerow was about six feet thick and grew to a height of eight to twelve feet. At its base was a mound of dirt and roots three to six feet high. You couldn’t see what was behind a hedgerow until you went through it, and the only way to go through it was to blast a hole.

  The morning rain poured on Charlie Company, and Mahoney thought that if the day was clear, American airplane pilots could fly over the hedgerows and report what was behind them. He wished the attack had been held off until the weather was clear, but the big brass always was impatient. They wanted to get the war rolling and won.

  Mahoney just wanted to get the hell out of there. But there was no way to get out except in a pine box or on a stretcher, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get out that way. Rain dripping from his nose, a soggy cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, he led his column to the top of a hill, looked around, and started down the other side. There were huge shell craters in the road ahead, and Mahoney figured the Germans couldn’t be far away. He looked ahead into the valley and squinted at the hill on the other side. If I was a German, he thought, that’s where I’d be right now.

  On the hill at the other end of the valley, Colonel Otto Reinhardt of the 315th Parachute Regiment watched the advance of the Americans through his binoculars. Two hours ago he’d received word from forward observers that the Americans were on the way, and he was ready for them.

  Colonel Otto Reinhardt was a tall rawboned man with a scar on his cheek sustained in a duel when he had been a student at military school. He had fought in Poland and Russia and had earned a reputation as a ruthless hard-driving commander.

  To his left and right along the crest of the hill was a battery of artillery with their .88s trained on the valley below. He’d received orders from Army Group B Headquarters to hold fast against the Americans, and he intended to do just that.

  Colonel Reinhardt watched the American troops walk down their hill into the valley. He turned to Lieutenant Schneider, who was kneeling beside him. “Tell the artillery battery to prepare to open fire,” he said.

  “Yes sir.”

  Mahoney felt uneasy as he led his column into the valley. He knew they were in no-man’s-land, and that the Germans weren’t far away. He could feel their beady little eyes watching him, and wanted to tell his men to fan out and take cover, but if they fanned out into the hedgerows the attack would slow down. Lieutenant Andrews was walking in the middle of the road, about fifteen yards in front of the lead tank. Holding his carbine strap in his fist, he jogged to the side where Mahoney was.

  “It’s awfully quiet out here,” Lieutenant Andrews said to Mahoney.

  “Too quiet.”

  “Where do you suppose the Germans are?”

  Mahoney pointed to the hill ahead. “Over there.”

  “Why aren’t they trying to stop us?”

  “They’re waiting until we’re all in the valley.”

  “I see.” Lieutenant Andrews creased his forehead in thought. He felt that he should do something, but he didn’t know what.

  Puffs of smoke erupted along the ridge of the hill ahead.

  “Here they come,” Mahoney said through his teeth. He held both of his arms out. “Take cover!” he screamed.

  The soldiers of Charlie Company scrambled into the hedgerow country on both sides of the road as the shells whistled down on them. The first shell landed on a squad from the second platoon, blowing four men into the air. Mahoney ran into the muddy field with his rifle held high and his head hunched low between his shoulders.

  “Spread out!” he yelled. “Spread out and take cover.”

  One hundred yards to his rear, Captain Tugwell jumped out of his jeep and dived into a ditch beside the road. Pfc Carrington landed beside him and Sergeant Jones took cover a few feet away.

  “Gimme that radio!” Tugwell shouted, grabbing the walkie-talkie from Pfc Carrington as a hail of shells fell on Charlie Company. He pressed the button and called division artillery. “Red Dog Three calling Spitfire One,” he said. “Red Dog Three calling Spitfire One.”

  “This is Spitfire One,” said the voice in his ear.

  “I’m pinned down by artillery from the hill in front of me!” Tugwell said. “I need an artillery strike on that hill.” .

  “What hill
is it, Red Dog Three?”

  “What hill is it?”

  “Yes, what hill is it?”

  “My maps!” Tugwell snarled at Carrington. “Where in the fuck are my maps?”

  “Right here, sir.”

  Carrington opened his map case, and a German artillery shell landed twenty feet away, rocking the ground beneath them and sending razor sharp shrapnel whizzing over their heads. Carrington handed the appropriate map to Tugwell, who looked for the number of the hill, as dirt and mud from the explosion fell down on them. A clump of mud fell on the map and obliterated the hill.

  “Shit!” said Tugwell.

  “Would you please repeat that?” asked the voice from division artillery.

  “Hang on a second! We’re under an intense artillery bombardment here, for chrissakes!” Carrington’s ears ached with the sound of explosions all around him, and he wiped the mud off the map with his sleeve. “It’s Hill Seventy-eight!” he said. “Lay down a barrage on Hill Seventy-eight!”

  “Will do.”

  Division artillery was about a mile back, and it already had zeroed in on all likely targets such as Hill Seventy-eight. The commander gave the order and a battery opened fire on Hill Seventy-eight.

  Crouching at the bottom of a hedgerow, Mahoney heard the shells whistling overhead on their way to the German lines. He wished he could see what was going on, but the thick tangle of hedgerow only offered little peeks of what was on the other side.

  German shells continued to rain on Charlie Company, and the green frightened soldiers tried to dig into the ground with their fingernails.

  Lieutenant Andrews crawled toward Mahoney. “Should we retreat?” he asked, his face drained of color.

  “Fuck no!”

  “But the Germans are pulverizing us!”

  “Then we go forward!”

  Mahoney could hear American shells landing on the hill up ahead, and knew that the German bombardment should diminish in intensity soon. He realized that the only way to get through the hedgerow was to blast through.

  “Everybody get the fuck back from here!” Mahoney yelled, yanking a hand grenade from his belt. Holding his rifle in his left hand and the grenade in his right, he ran back from the hedgerow, spotted a shell crater, and dived into it. Looking up, he saw the men of his platoon moving back from the hedgerow, stumbling, trying to hold their helmets straight on their heads. What a mess! He laid his rifle down, pulled the pin on the grenade, hurled it at the base of the hedgerow, and ducked his head.