Bloody Bush

by Len Levinson

  Mahoney reached the apple tree and dropped to his stomach behind it. “Skirmish line!” he called out.

  The two squads dove to the mud on both sides of him, aiming for shell holes or whatever cover was available, but there wasn’t much.

  “Open fire!” Mahoney screamed.

  The two squads opened fire, and Mahoney took his helmet off and waved it back and forth, signaling to Lieutenant Andrews to move up the third and fourth squads. Mahoney saw them jump up and start running, and he grabbed for the bazooka. “Load me up,” he said to Woodcock.

  “Okey-dokey,” Woodcock replied.

  Woodcock loaded the bazooka and Mahoney rose to one knee behind the apple tree. As he was taking aim, a bullet slammed into the trunk of the tree, sending splinters flying in all directions. Mahoney flinched, took aim again, and pulled the trigger. The rocket whooshed away and exploded in the hedgerow where Mahoney had aimed it. The first and second squads poured lead into the German hedgerow, preventing the Germans from returning the fire effectively.

  The third and fourth squads ran across the field and took up positions on the flanks of the first two squads. Lieutenant Andrews landed next to Mahoney. Andrews’ sleeve was torn and blood oozed from a cut on his left forearm. He had no idea how he’d got the cut.

  Mahoney fired the bazooka again, blowing another hole in the German hedgerow. There were several big holes in the hedgerow now, and Mahoney thought the time had come to charge through to the other side.

  “All squad leaders assemble on me!” he yelled.

  “What’re we going to do now?” Andrews asked.

  “We’re going to attack, and you and me are going to lead it.”

  Andrews didn’t say anything, but he swallowed hard.

  “You gotta be right up there in front where the men can see you, sir. That’s what second looeys are for.”

  Lieutenant Andrews crossed himself. He thought he was coming to the end of his line.

  Buck Sergeant Vincent Lagamba of the weapons squad was the first one to land next to Mahoney. He was followed by Staff Sergeant Eng Kee, whose glasses were crooked on his nose and who was chewing gum like a madman. When Plutarski landed it was as though someone had dropped an elephant in their midst. The last to arrive was Corporal Wicker, who’d become leader of the second squad following the demise of Harvey Shapiro.

  “We’re going through,” Mahoney told them. “Lagamba, you move your machine guns out on the flanks and cover us when we charge. As soon as we get through, bring your machine guns in and set them up on the other side of the hedgerow. We gotta get rolling fast so that the Krauts won’t have time to get ready for us, so I hope none of you has got any questions.”

  The four squad leaders looked at each other but none of them said anything.

  “Okay,” Mahoney said. “Go back to your squads and tell everybody to fix bayonets.”

  “Fix bayonets?” Corporal Wicker asked in horror.

  “We’ll attack on a signal from Lieutenant Andrews here. Go back to your squads and get ready—hurry up!”

  The squad leaders jumped up and ran back to their squads, German rifle fire kicking up the mud around their feet. Mahoney turned around and looked at Woodcock. “Are you ready to roll, Woodcock?”

  Woodcock winked. “I’m ready, sergeant.”

  Mahoney looked at Lieutenant Andrews. “How about you?”

  Lieutenant Andrews didn’t look very happy. “I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Stand by.”

  Mahoney jammed his bayonet on the end of his rifle and jiggled it to make sure it was secure. He didn’t know what was waiting for him on the other side of that hedgerow, but he had to act confident and set the example.

  “Okay sir,” Mahoney said to Lieutenant Andrews. “Let’s you and me hit it.”

  “Hit it?” Andrews asked.

  “Yeah—let’s go. When I count to three we’ll jump up and you’ll charge.”

  “I will?”

  “You’d fucking better. One!”

  Lieutenant Andrews sucked air through his teeth. He thought he’d be killed for sure.

  “Two.”

  Andrews gripped his carbine tightly and prepared to jump up.

  “Three!”

  “Charge!” Lieutenant Andrews shouted, leaping toward the German hedgerow.

  “Hit it!” Mahoney screamed.

  The first three squads scrambled off the ground and followed Lieutenant Andrews and Mahoney across the muddy field.

  “Blood and guts!” yelled Mahoney.

  “Blood and guts!” repeated a soldier in the third squad.

  Mahoney let loose a war whoop and somebody in the first squad made a rebel yell. The men of the first platoon splashed through the mud and jumped over shell craters. Lagamba’s machine gun crews on the flanks sprayed the German hedgerow with hot lead, but the Germans knew they had to fight back and raised their heads to fire at the advancing Americans.

  Bullets whizzed around Mahoney’s head and kicked up mud around his feet. “Blood and guts!” he screamed. “Blood and guts!”

  “Follow me!” yelled Lieutenant Andrews.

  “Kill the bastards!” hollered Buck Sergeant Eng Kee.

  “Cut off their balls!” bellowed Sergeant Plutarski.

  The Americans swept across the field and charged the hedgerow. Mahoney headed for one of the openings he’d blown out with his bazooka, holding his rifle high and chewing his cigar. The hole filled with Germans and he charged directly into them.

  “Blood and guts!” he screamed.

  A German officer stood in the middle of the hole and fired his pistol at Mahoney, and the bullet shot off the epaulette on Mahoney’s jacket. Mahoney lunged with his rifle and drove the bayonet into the officer’s gut. The bayonet rammed in to the hilt, the officer’s eyes rolled up into his head, and Mahoney yanked his bayonet out, swinging the butt around and slamming it against the head of a German soldier. As blood squirted out of the German’s nose and throat, Mahoney saw a shovel streaking toward his throat. Grunting viciously, he raised his rifle and parried the shovel with the trigger guard banging the German in the head with his butt plate. The German fell away, and Mahoney swung his rifle around and slashed the German from shoulder to crotch with his bayonet.

  “Forward!” Mahoney yelled. “Kill the cock-suckers!”

  The first platoon poured through the holes in the hedgerow and engaged the Germans hand-to-hand. The air rang with battle cries, shrieks of pain, and the whack of rifle stocks against helmets. Men fell to the ground, their blood mixing with the muddy water as grown men struggled to kill each other.

  Mahoney swung around and found himself facing a German sergeant who had a pistol in one hand and an entrenching tool in the other. The German’s helmet was off and his uniform was torn, but he raised his pistol and prepared to blow Mahoney away. Mahoney beat him to the trigger and fired his M-1 from his waist, shooting the German in the chest. The sergeant fell, firing his pistol into the air.

  Something slammed against Mahoney’s head, and he fell to his knees, dropping his rifle. Blinking, he looked up and saw a German soldier streaking his rifle and bayonet toward Mahoney’s heart. Mahoney lunged at the German’s rifle and grabbed it by the barrel. The German tried to yank his rifle backwards, but all he succeeded in doing was pulling Mahoney to his feet. Mahoney kicked him in the balls, snatched the rifle away from him, and swinging it like a baseball bat, clobbered the German over the head. Turning, Mahoney whacked another German in the head, and then another.

  Mahoney’s helmet had fallen off and he was fighting like a wild animal now. He had the smell of blood in his nostrils and nothing could stop him. Germans and Americans battled all around him, and sometimes they were so close he barely could move his elbows, but still he kept slamming Germans over the head and chewing his cigar. In the wild bloody melee, the rifle was knocked out of his hands by a German who brought his entrenching tool down on Mahoney’s arms.

  His arms sti
nging, and with a snarl in his throat, Mahoney lunged for the German and grabbed him by the neck, squeezing with all his strength. The German dropped his rifle and tried to gouge out Mahoney’s eyes. Mahoney tried to kick him in the balls but the German maneuvered out of the way.

  They fell to the ground, rolling over in the mud, cursing and trying to kill each other with their bare hands. The German punched Mahoney in the mouth, and Mahoney tasted his own blood. He pounded the heel of his fist against the German’s nose, breaking the bone. The German hollered in pain and tried to jab his thumb into Mahoney’s eye, but he flinched in time and the German’s thumbnail made a scratch on his cheek. Then the German grabbed Mahoney’s ear and tried to pull it off, so Mahoney pounded the German’s face with his fist.

  They were powerful punches, and the German was dazed. Mahoney rolled him onto his back and punched him in the face again. He saw a big rock lying in the mud, lifted it high in the air, and slammed it down on the German’s forehead.

  The German went limp as blood oozed out the crack in his head. Mahoney jumped up, threw the rock into the face of another German soldier who was charging him with rifle and bayonet. As the rock hit the German in the face Mahoney snatched the rifle out of his hands. Mahoney turned it around and lunged forward, the bayonet piercing the German between his ribs. When he fell to the mud, Mahoney couldn’t get the bayonet out. He stood on the German’s chest and pulled with all his strength. Then something hit him in the head. Toppling to the side, he saw a German preparing to run him through.

  Mahoney was off balance and couldn’t help himself. The German thrust his bayonet forward, and a shot rang out. The German’s jaw was blown away, and he sagged to the ground. Mahoney snatched the rifle out of his hands and charged the next German. He ran the bayonet through the German’s throat, yanked it out, and screamed: “Kill the bastards!”

  He looked around wildly and saw fighting everywhere. The ground was covered with bodies and some of the Germans were retreating across the field to the next hedgerow. A German Schmeisser submachine gun was lying in the mud near Mahoney’s feet. He picked it up and opened fire on the retreating Germans. They tripped and spun lazily through the air, blood spurting from holes in their backs as they fell to the ground, never to move again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  General Dietrich von Choltitz was a fat man with a round face. He looked like a nightclub comedian but he was a skillful courageous field commander and had captured the Russian city of Sebastopol with only three hundred and forty seven men left from a regiment that had started the attack with four thousand eight hundred. He had led the remnant into the Russian stronghold, his right arm bleeding from a wound that cut through to the bone, and that’s how he became a general.

  Now he was commander of the German LXXXIV Corps deployed across the base of the Cherbourg Peninsula, and on the third of July he happened to be in the town of Brecy, inspecting trucks in the motor pool of the 315th Transport Battalion.

  The motor pool was a sprawling one-story concrete structure that had been hit numerous times by Allied bombs. It smelled like grease and burnt-out crankshafts, and as the commander of the Transport Battalion walked through the dimness with Choltitz, explaining the difficulty he was having in obtaining spare parts, gasoline, drivers who knew how to drive, etc., Choltitz looked solemnly at the trucks riddled with bullet holes, some with their engines removed, being worked on by teams of mechanics.

  A sergeant came running toward them through the gasoline mists. “General Choltitz!”

  Choltitz turned around, the bare light bulbs gleaming on his eyeglasses. “What is it?”

  “Sir, there’s an urgent telephone call for you from your headquarters!”

  Choltitz looked at the commander of the Transport Battalion, then followed the sergeant through the motor pool to an office area whose walls were half-wood and half-glass, so that those inside could watch activities inside the motor pool, though the glass had been shattered by bombs long ago.

  The sergeant held the door open and von Choltitz entered the office. A corporal held up a telephone which von Choltitz took from him.

  “General von Choltitz here.”

  “This is General Mannhein,” said his chief of staff on the other end of the wire. “I’ve called to report to you that our entire front is under attack!”

  Von Choltitz looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty in the morning. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since daybreak, sir.”

  “Why haven’t I been notified sooner?”

  “At first we weren’t sure that it was a major attack, but now that is no longer in question.”

  “Are we holding?” von Choltitz asked.

  “More or less. Some sectors of our line have fallen back farther than others. The enemy’s most serious thrusts appear to be toward Coutances and Saint Lo.”

  “Hmmm,” said von Choltitz, pushing his visored hat back on his head. “I’m surprised the Americans are attacking in this weather. They can’t use their planes, and they can’t deploy their tanks and artillery effectively.”

  “That’s why our commanders didn’t think the attack was much at first, but now they realize the Americans have committed large numbers of troops to the operation.”

  “We’ll chew them up,” von Choltitz said. “Tell the field commanders to hold fast and counterattack wherever possible. I’ll return to headquarters immediately. Is there anything else?”

  “I think it might be wise to ask Field Marshal Rommel for panzer reinforcements to hurl the Americans back.”

  Von Choltitz thought for a few moments. “No, it’s too early for that,” he said. “At this point we should hold fast and not panic. I have a feeling that the American drive will peter out before noon. They’ll soon realize they won’t be able to get far against our strong defensive position without their airplanes. Carry out your orders. That is all.”

  “Yes, my General.”

  “The first platoon doesn’t answer, sir,” said Pfc Carrington, lying in the ditch with Captain Tugwell and Sergeant Jones.

  “Try them again,” Jones snapped.

  “I already tried them five times.”

  “Try them again I said!”

  The field microphone rang. Some men from the Signal Battalion had hooked it up fifteen minutes ago, and Sergeant Jones lifted the receiver.

  “Charlie Company,” he said.

  “This is Major Bowie!” said the angry voice on the other end. “Where is Captain Tugwell?”

  “Right next to me, sir.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sergeant Jones covered the mouthpiece with his big hand, “It’s Major Bowie,” he said to Captain Tugwell.

  Tugwell made a face. He took the phone from Sergeant Jones and said, “Captain Tugwell speaking, sir.”

  “What’s your problem?” Major Bowie demanded. “You haven’t moved an inch!”

  “The fire’s quite intense here, sir.”

  “Attack anyway.”

  “It’s hard to move through the damned hedgerows.”

  “Blast your way through!”

  “I’m worried about my flanks.”

  “Fuck your flanks and get moving—do you hear me, Tugwell?”

  “Sir,” Tugwell tried to explain, “you just don’t know what it’s like down here.”

  “Do you think it’s any different down there than where I am right now? Do I have to go down there and show you how to move out?”

  “No sir.”

  “Have you committed your tanks yet?”

  “No sir.”

  “What do you think I gave you tanks for?”

  “I’m afraid the German eighty-eights on Hill Seventy-eight will pick them off.”

  Major Bowie lost his temper and started screaming. “Those tanks will be picked off more likely if they sit there in the middle of the road! Get them moving right now!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I want you to take that godd
amn Hill Seventy-eight within an hour—do you hear me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’d better fucking get rolling, Tugwell, or else I’m going to come down there and kick your ass! Any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “Carry on.”

  Tugwell handed the telephone back to Sergeant Jones. “That son of a bitch,” he said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to attack.”

  “But that’s what we’re doing!”

  “He wants us to move faster.”

  “How can we move faster?”

  “How should I know?” Tugwell asked, taking out a cigarette. “I’ve got three platoons stalled in the hedgerows and my first platoon is lost.”

  “That fucking Mahoney probably got himself and his whole damned platoon killed,” Sergeant Jones said bitterly.

  “Probably.” Tugwell lit his cigarette. “Anyway, Major Bowie said to move my tanks out.” He looked at Pfc Carrington. “Give me the walkie-talkie.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Pfc Carrington handed it over, and Captain Tugwell called the lieutenant in charge of the tank platoon. He told the lieutenant to move his platoon up Hill Seventy-eight. The lieutenant said he’d move out right away.

  On Hill Seventy-eight, Colonel Otto Reinhardt watched the American tanks move up the road toward his parachute regiment. He’d wondered when the Americans were going to send them into the attack, and now it finally was happening.

  He was standing in a sandbag bunker on the top of the hill. His soldiers were deployed in trenches on either side of him, and down in the hedgerows. Behind him were his Eighty-eights and the one tank he had available, a Tiger E Mark VI with an Eighty-eight-millimeter cannon of its own. The tank commander was standing in his turret, looking down through binoculars into the valley. Colonel Reinhardt waved to him and pointed into the valley at the American tanks.

  The German tank commander waved back and climbed down into his tank. He buttoned down the hatch and the tank moved out. It rolled noisily to the road, turned left on one track, and rumbled down to meet the American tanks.

  Captain Tugwell spotted the German tank through his binoculars. “They’re sending one tank down,” Tugwell said.