by Len Levinson
He waited four seconds, and the hedgerow exploded thunderously, sending smoke, dirt, and branches into the air. “Follow me!” Mahoney screamed, jumping from his crater and charging the smoky hole he’d blown in the hedgerow. “Let’s go!”
Mahoney ran with his rifle tucked against his hip and when he entered the smoke in the hedgerow hole he fired blindly ahead just in case someone was there. The hole was about six feet wide and when he came out the other side he saw another hedgerow about fifty yards in front of him and a scarecrow standing crazily in the middle of the field. “Double-time!” he yelled. “Follow me!”
He intended to go all the way to the next hedgerow, but machine gun fire erupted from behind it and mud kicked into the air around his feet. He dropped to the ground and brought his cheek against the stock of his rifle. “Take cover and return the fucking fire!” he screamed, pulling the trigger of his M-1.
The M-1 bucked against his shoulder and the bullet blew out of its barrel. But the bolt didn’t eject. “You son of a bitch!” Mahoney yelled at the rifle, pulling back the bolt by hand. The M-1 was supposed to be semi-automatic but it didn’t work that way when covered with mud and gunk.
He fired again at the puffs of smoke in the hedgerow ahead, and this time his M-1 ejected by itself. He took aim at the spot where he thought the German machine gun was, and fired again. His M-1 jammed again.
“Where’s my BARs?” he shouted. “Where’s my mortars and machine guns? Get those fuckin’ weapons set up, you stupid bastards!”
Mahoney ejected his spent cartridge by hand and fired again at the German machine gun crew. Lieutenant Andrews crawled up to Mahoney, his lips white as snow.
“I think we should attack,” Lieutenant Andrews said hesitantly.
“Are you out of your fucking mind!” Mahoney yelled. “Where’s my mortars? Where’s my machine guns?” He looked around him and didn’t see his mortars or machine guns. He realized that only four men had followed him through the hole. If this had been his platoon in the Rangers, all forty of them would have been through by now, set up, and blasting that German hedgerow to smithereens.
“Oh shit,” Mahoney said. “I’m gonna have to fight this fucking war alone.”
Mahoney saw that two of the soldiers who’d followed him were firing their rifles at the German hedgerow, and the other two were hiding their faces in the mud. One of these was his BAR man.
“Hey Lucero!” Mahoney yelled at him. “Fire that fucking thing!”
Private Lucero didn’t move, and Mahoney thought that maybe he was dead. German bullets whistled and whined over his head, and then the first German mortar round landed twenty yards in front of Mahoney.
“Those bastards know what they’re doing, but we don’t!” he said bitterly to Lieutenant Andrews.
“Should we retreat?”
“We gotta get that BAR going so we can pin down those Krauts! Follow me!”
Mahoney leapt up and ran toward Private Lucero, diving beside him on the mud. Lieutenant Andrews landed two feet away. Mahoney pushed Lucero away from the BAR and noticed that Lucero was trembling and sobbing.
“Are you hit?” Mahoney asked Lucero.
Lucero shook his head no.
‘Then what the fuck’s the matter with you?”
Lucero shook his head no again. He grimaced as he pushed his forehead into the mud in an effort to escape the Germans. Bullets flew over Mahoney’s head and around his shoulders as he ripped Lucero’s helmet off his head and punched him in the mouth with all his strength. Lucero rolled onto his side and Mahoney threw his M-1 at him.
“You’d better fire this, you little shit-heel, or I’ll kick your fucking face in!”
Stunned, but now more afraid of Mahoney that the Germans, Lucero blubbered and sobbed as he took hold of Mahoney’s rifle and sighted down the barrel. Mahoney meanwhile rammed the first round into the chamber of the BAR and pulled the trigger. The automatic rifle danced around on its two legs as it spit lead into the hedgerow held by the Germans.
“Lieutenant Andrews!” Mahoney yelled.
“Yes sergeant!”
“Go back through that hole and bring the mortar section and the machine gun up here.”
“N-now?” asked Lieutenant Andrews, who didn’t feel like getting up from the little depression of ground he was lying in.
“Yes now! Get your fucking ass going!”
Mahoney fired his BAR in rapid bursts of three at the part of the hedgerow where the German machine gun seemed to be. He saw that the German machine gun slowed down its rate of fire, and he smiled because he knew his BAR was making them take cover. Glancing to the side, he saw Lieutenant Andrews staring at him.
“I thought I told you to get the machine guns and mortars!” Mahoney screamed.
Lieutenant Andrews was paralyzed with fear. “I can’t.”
That was the last straw for Mahoney. Lifting his BAR, he swung it around and dropped it to the ground so he could take aim at Andrews. “I said get those fucking weapons up here!”
Lieutenant Andrews looked at Mahoney’s murderous bloodshot eyes and sprang to his feet. Bullets flew around him like angry gnats as he ran crouched over through the hole in the hedgerows to the safety of the other side. Astonished that he hadn’t been killed, he found his platoon’s heavy weapons squad and told them to follow him through the hole. Raising his rifle high in the air, trying to be a good lieutenant, he ran toward the hole again, passed through it, and dived in Mahoney’s direction.
Mahoney meanwhile had straightened his BAR out and was spraying the German hedgerow in front of him. German bullets kicked mud into his face but he kept his finger on the trigger and continued to lay down a steady base of fire. He knew that the more you fired the better chance you had to live.
He heard Lieutenant Andrews return, and glanced around to discover that only one machine gun section had followed him through. One of the soldiers threw down the tripod, another dropped the machine gun onto it, and a third fed a belt of bullets into the chamber.
The .30 caliber machine gun fired twice as fast as the BAR, and the gunner, Private Thomas Dobbs of Tupelo, Mississippi, yanked the trigger. The machine gun roared as it fired into the German hedgerow, and every fifth bullet was a tracer so that Dobbs could see exactly where his bullets were going. The machine gun crew functioned smoothly for several bursts, then Private Phillip Peyton, who was feeding the belt into the chamber, was knocked onto his side by a German bullet that hit him on the shoulder, and the entire machine gun crew hit the mud.
“Keep firing you cock-suckers!” Mahoney screamed. “Don’t stop now! Don’t ever stop firing!”
The soldiers got up and began firing again. A mortar round landed twenty yards away from them but they kept firing. Lieutenant Andrews went out through the hole again and this time came back with a bazooka crew and a mortar crew. The crews set up and the bazooka men got off the first round. Mahoney watched it fly over the German hedgerow and explode somewhere in the next field.
“Aim lower you assholes!” Mahoney yelled.
His first squad, led by Sergeant Plutarski came through the hole in the hedgerow and Mahoney was happy to see them. Fat wobbled on Plutarski’s chins and his ass rumbled like two little boys fighting under a blanket, but he held his rifle high in the air and deployed his squad in a skirmish line to the right of the bazooka crew.
The bazooka crew fired again, and this time their rocket hit the base of the German hedgerow straight ahead. Mud, branches, and German soldiers went flying into the air, but seconds later a German mortar round landed on the bazooka crew, killing all its soldiers.
The bazooka and a leg fell to the ground in front of Mahoney, and he made a mental note to get his hands on that bazooka as soon as he could. He wished he had Cranepool with him to go back and get some bazooka rockets, but Cranepool was in the third platoon and who knew if he still was alive. The valley shook with artillery fire and flying bullets were thick as rain.
“I need some bazooka rounds
up here!” Mahoney yelled, hoping someone would hear him.
Staff Sergeant Eng Kee charged through the smoke and muck with his second squad, but a burst of German machine gun fire hit one of his men in the face and another in the gut. The men went down, howling like wild animals in pain, and then a mortar round landed in the middle of the squad, but Sergeant Kee and a handful of his men kept driving and dove to safety in shell craters or on the bare inhospitable ground.
“Keep firing!” Mahoney yelled. “Everybody keep firing all the fucking time!”
Mahoney had two rifle squads and half of his heavy weapons squad through the hole now, and they were pouring fire into the German hedgerow, which wasn’t quite as active now as it was before.
“Keep firing!” Mahoney hollered.
He heard combat boots pounding on the ground near him and then a body came crashing down. Mahoney looked to his side and saw Pfc Donald Woodcock, a big goofy kid from Jacksonville, Florida, who was supposed to be Lieutenant Andrews’ runner.
“You wanted some bazooka ammo, Sarge?”
Woodcock asked, pushing a crate of rockets toward Mahoney.
Mahoney blinked his eyes in disbelief. He didn’t think anybody had heard him, least of all this big goofball. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look,” Mahoney said, reaching for the crate of rockets.
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Woodcock said with a silly grin.
“You got your walkie-talkie with you?”
“Yup.” Woodcock held it up.
“Stay close to me Woodcock. I might need you for something.”
“Yup.”
Mahoney crawled out of the little hole he was in, keeping his chin close to the ground, and heading for the bazooka lying in a puddle in front of him. Corporal Harvey Shapiro brought his 3rd squad into the field and was pointing to the ground where he wanted them to go, when a German bullet landed on his nose and blew his head apart. Corporal Shapiro sagged to the ground, and he’d never see Sunset Boulevard again.
Mahoney reached the bazooka lying in the mud. Bullets whizzing over his head, he pulled it to him and looked at the sighting mechanism. It was covered with mud, so he took out his filthy handkerchief and wiped off the lens. He saw that it wasn’t cracked. It appeared to be in good working condition.
“You need me for sumpin’?” asked Pfc Woodcock, who’d followed Mahoney to the bazooka.
“You know how to load one of these.”
“Uh huh.”
“Then load it for me.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Mahoney put the bazooka on his shoulder and Woodcock loaded a rocket into the back while Mahoney sighted on the hedgerow in front of him. He’d noticed smoke rising in quick puffs from a certain section of it, and figured that’s where the German machine gun was. If he could knock it out it would make life safer for the 1st platoon.
Woodcock slapped the top of Mahoney’s helmet, the signal that the bazooka was loaded. Mahoney rose on one knee, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. The rocket shot through the hollow tube and flew toward the hedgerow. Mahoney dropped to the ground and prayed the rocket would land on target.
It did, enveloping a hedgerow in a cloud of smoke. When the smoke rose it revealed a big hole in the hedgerow, and dead German soldiers lying all around it.
“Nice shootin’, Sarge,” said Woodcock.
“Thanks,” Mahoney said.
Lieutenant Andrews came running across the mud and dived to his stomach beside Mahoney. “You’re doing a fine job, Sergeant!” he said.
“So are you,” Mahoney said. He looked at the hole in the hedgerow and listened, but couldn’t hear the German machine gun anymore.
“What do you think I should do now?” Lieutenant Andrews asked.
“Did Lagamba bring the rest of the weapons squad up yet?”
“Yes—the entire platoon is on this side of the hedgerow now.”
“Well whataya know about that?” Mahoney took a soggy cigarette out of his pack of Camels and lit it with his Zippo. He inhaled the rich delicious smoke into his lungs and wondered what to do next. He thought that maybe they should try to take the next hedgerow.
“Sir,” said Pfc Woodcock, holding out the walkie-talkie, “Captain Tugwell wants to speak with you.”
Lieutenant Andrews took the walkie-talkie and held it to his ear. “This is Lieutenant Andrews,” he said.
“Where the hell are you!” demanded Captain Tugwell, his voice sounding like a parrot’s over the little loudspeaker.
“I’m on the left of the road and I’ve broken through one hedgerow. I’m about to go through another.”
“What do you mean—you’re going through another! You’d better not get too far ahead of the rest of us, Andrews!”
Andrews looked confused.
“What’d he say?” Mahoney asked.
“He said not to get too far ahead of the rest of the company.”
“Lemme speak to him.”
Lieutenant Andrews handed over the walkie-talkie.
Mahoney held it against his face. “This is Master Sergeant Mahoney. What’s this bullshit about not getting too far ahead of the company?”
There was silence in the loudspeaker for a few moments, then: “I don’t recall asking to speak with you, Mahoney.”
“Well, I asked to speak with you, and I want to tell you that if we stay still we’re going to get clobbered, but if we keep moving we might have a chance.”
“If you move too far ahead, you’re liable to get cut off from us!”
“Why can’t you keep up?”
“What was that?”
“I said why can’t you keep up?”
“Have you suddenly been given command of this company without my knowledge?”
“No sir.”
“Then you’d better stop talking to me that way!”
A machine gun began to chatter behind the German hedgerow, and bullets whistled over the first platoon. A mortar round landed fifteen yards behind Mahoney and he ducked as rocks and mud fell on top of him. His cigarette plunged into the muck and went out.
“Shit!” Mahoney said.
“What was that?” Tugwell demanded.
“I don’t have time for this conversation,” Mahoney said. “I’ll talk to you later.” Mahoney handed the walkie-talkie back to Woodcock.
“What did he say?” Lieutenant Andrews asked.
“Nothing important. Listen, we’ve got to take that hedgerow over there. The first and second squad will move forward and the third and fourth squad will cover us. Pass the word along.”
Lieutenant Andrews wanted to tell Mahoney that he was supposed to be giving the orders, but he bit his lip and crawled off to pass the word along. Mahoney took out his pack of Camels and held them up to Pfc Woodcock. “Want one?”
“Nope Sarge, but thanks anyways. I only smoke cigarettes when I ain’t got any cigars with me.”
Mahoney looked at Woodcock as though he’d just descended from heaven. “Does that mean you’ve got cigars right now?”
“Yup,” Woodcock said with a grin, tapping the front of his shirt. “Want one?”
“You bet your ass I want one.”
Woodcock reached into his shirt and pulled out a handful of black cigars wrapped in cellophane. Mahoney took one, ripped off the cellophane, and stuck it into his mouth. He lit it with his Zippo and wondered if he’d live to finish it. He puffed it and realized it was a good cigar. He decided that there was more to Pfc Woodcock than met the eye.
Lieutenant Andrews came running back, holding his helmet straight on his head, and dived into the mud beside Mahoney. “Everybody’s ready,” he said, huffing and puffing.
“Good,” Mahoney replied. “You stay back here with the third and fourth squad and have them lay down a base of fire on that hedgerow, while I take the first and second squad halfway across the field. We’ll stop in the vicinity of that apple tree and lay down our own base of fire while you bring your people up with us. Then we’ll do it again.
”
“You don’t want to bring the mortars up, do you?”
“Leave them where they are. Have them drop rounds on that hedgerow until I tell them to stop. Any questions?”
“Do you want my lieutenant’s bars?”
“Fuck your lieutenant’s bars. Go tell the third and fourth squads to start laying it on.”
Andrews got up and ran toward the third and fourth squads. Mahoney puffed his cigar and chewed its end as he looked at the German hedgerow ahead. An artillery shell landed to his left and shook the ground so severely he thought it was an earthquake. “Damn,” he said, his ears ringing.
The third and fourth squads opened up with everything they had on the German hedgerow, and within seconds there were fewer bullets whistling over Mahoney’s head.
“First and second squads—follow me!” Mahoney screamed. He jumped to his feet and started running. “Double-time!” He bellowed, and looked around to see if the first and second squads were following him. He was gratified to see that they were.
Mahoney led the two squads toward the middle of the field, and the Germans behind their hedgerow realized they were under assault. Despite the heavy fire raining upon their position, they raised their heads and fired at the advancing line of troops.
Private Johnson of the first squad got hit, a German bullet shattering his kneecap. He went down screaming and writhing, and Pfc Lovett, also of the first squad, caught a machine gun burst in his stomach, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying backwards. A German mortar round fell behind the second squad, and a piece of shrapnel dented the helmet of Corporal Devereaux, knocking him cold.
Mahoney ran as quickly as he could in front of them, his cigar held firmly in his teeth, firing his rifle from his hip as he moved along. Woodcock was six feet behind him, carrying the bazooka and the walkie-talkie plus the crate of rockets.
