Bloody Bush

by Len Levinson

  “Only one?” asked Jones.

  “They must be in pretty bad shape up there,” Tugwell said. “My tanks will eat that one for breakfast, and then take that fucking hill. When Major Bowie calls again, I’ll have something good to tell him for a change.” Tugwell smiled, because he felt as though he finally was taking the initiative in the battle. He hoped a war photographer was around when he got on top of Hill Seventy-eight. He’d like to have his picture taken up there, and who knew, maybe his picture would appear on the cover of Life magazine with all the other war heroes.

  Lieutenant Simpson was the American tank commander, and he was as green as most of the other people in that sector of the front. He watched the advance of the German tank and told his gunner to take careful aim. The gunner plastered the German tank on his crosshairs and licked his lips in anticipation of blowing it off the face of the earth. Simpson was waiting until the German tank was within two hundred yards, so he could have a good clear shot. He watched the tank through his rangefinder, and slowly it came closer until finally it was where he wanted it to be.

  “Range two hundred yards!” shouted Simpson.

  “Range two hundred yards!” replied his gunner.

  “Fire!”

  The gunner pulled the string, and the Sherman tank rocked back on its treads as the seventy-five-millimeter shell exploded out of the cannon. The Sherman tank was wreathed in a circle of smoke that rose in the air like a big hoop, and Simpson watched as the shell hit the German tank directly on its front deck, bounced off, and exploded harmlessly in the air. Lieutenant Simpson’s jaw dropped open, and he felt afraid.

  “Fire two!” he shouted in a tremulous voice.

  The gunner pulled the string, and the cannon fired again. The shell hit the German tank on the turret, and bounced off.

  The German tank fired its eighty-eight-millimeter cannon, and scored a direct hit on Lieutenant Simpson’s tank. Lieutenant Simpson and his turret were blown into the air, his treads collapsed, and the tank disappeared in a cloud of smoke. The smoke dissipated slowly, revealing a wreckage of twisted metal and bloody mangled corpses. The German tank moved its turret a few inches to the side, stopped, and fired again. The second American tank was blown to kingdom come. The third American tank fired at the German tank and scored a direct hit on the front deck, but like before, the shell bounced off the thick iron. The German tank leveled its cannon at the third American tank and fired a third shell that hit the American tank on its right tread, blowing the tank onto its side. The hatches on the American tank opened and its crew ran for safety, but the machine guns on the German tank opened fire and cut them all down.

  By this time, the fourth American tank had turned to the right and was speeding into the hedgerows for shelter, its commander having decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

  Captain Tugwell’s jaw was hanging open as he watched his one remaining tank flee into the hedgerows. “Did you see that!” he screamed.

  “Oh my God,” Jones replied.

  Captain Tugwell lowered his binoculars. “I heard their tanks were better than ours, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “Maybe we should retreat,” Sergeant Jones suggested.

  “Major Bowie wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “Fuck Major Bowie.”

  Pfc Carrington was kneeling in the muddy ditch, holding the walkie-talkie to the side of his head. Suddenly he heard something that made him bounce three inches off the ground.

  “Sir!” he said, holding out the walkie-talkie to Captain Tugwell, “it’s the First Platoon!”

  “The First Platoon?” Tugwell replied, blinking his eyes. Things were happening quickly and it was difficult for him to keep up. He grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed it against his face. “Where the fuck are you people?”

  “Hi there,” said Sergeant Mahoney. “I was wondering if you could send us one of those tanks?”

  “One of what tanks!” Captain Tugwell screamed. “We’ve only got one tank left!”

  “What happened to the other three?”

  “All gone! Where the fuck are you, Mahoney!”

  “We’re on our fourth hedgerow, sir.”

  “Your fourth hedgerow!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How the hell’d you get up there?”

  “It wasn’t easy. We also could use some medics.”

  “How many men have you lost?”

  “Lieutenant Andrews is counting them now. I figure I’ve lost about half the platoon.”

  “What!”

  “I said I’ve lost about half the platoon.”

  “You’ve lost half your men!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I told you that you shouldn’t be up there!”

  “In order to take the hill I thought we were supposed to come up here, sir. Didn’t we have orders to take the hill?”

  “Yes but . . .”

  “Then what did you expect, sir? There’s Germans out here. Lots of them. And we could use a couple of tanks!”

  “We don’t have a couple of tanks!”

  “Call battalion.”

  Captain Tugwell didn’t want to call battalion because he was afraid he’d have to speak with Major Bowie again. “Don’t you tell me how to run my company, Mahoney!”

  “Sounds as though somebody ought to tell you how to run your company, Captain Tugwell. Whatever happened to your other three platoons, by the way?”

  Captain Tugwell’s face turned red and a big blue vein appeared on his left temple. “I’m the one who asks the questions—not you!”

  “You got some questions?” Mahoney asked.

  “Um … ah … ”

  “Listen—I got things to do,” Mahoney said. “Send me some tanks if you can, and send me some medics. Over and out.”

  The little loudspeaker crackled and sputtered in Tugwell’s ear. He handed the walkie-talkie back to Pfc Carrington.

  “What’d the prick have to say?” Jones asked.

  Tugwell’s lips were trembling. “I’m going to kill him some day,” he vowed.

  On the German side of the hill, Colonel Reinhardt surveyed the battlefield beneath him. He’d laughed when his one Tiger tank had destroyed the three American tanks and routed the fourth. Now his tank was sitting in the middle of the road, lobbing artillery shells at the American lines.

  “Sir,” said his adjutant, Major Kurt Wenkel, “Captain Oberg wants to speak with you urgently.”

  Reinhardt held out his hand and Wenkel placed the field telephone in it. “What is it, Oberg?”

  “Sir, an American unit has made a deep penetration in my sector.”

  “Really?” Reinhardt looked down at his map and focused on Oberg’s sector. “How many Americans are they?”

  “I’d say about fifty.”

  “That’s all?”

  “We haven’t been able to stop them, sir, but of course we’re spread pretty thin out here. I’ve tried to hit them on the flanks, but they know how to use the hedgerows for defense too. Can you send me reinforcements to throw them back?”

  Reinhardt looked down at his tank sitting in the middle of the road. “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “Where are these Americans?”

  Mahoney lay against the bottom of a hedgerow, relighting the stub of his cigar. He was having trouble, because the cigar was soaking wet. He’d ordered a break because his men had become exhausted by the tough fighting, but he didn’t feel comfortable lying still because he knew he was giving the Germans opposite him a chance to pull themselves together and figure out a plan. They might even decide to launch a little attack, and Mahoney didn’t think he had much left to fight back with.

  German bullets flew over his head, but it wasn’t as intense as before. Bodies littered the ground everywhere. Mahoney had lost about twenty of his men, but the First Platoon had killed about one hundred and fifty Germans. He thought that was a pretty good ratio.

  Lieutenant Andrews crawled toward Mahoney on his hands and knees. “We c
an’t go on like this,” he said, panting for breath.

  “Maybe so and maybe not,” Mahoney replied, puffing the cigar and straining to get it going.

  Andrews turned to Pfc Woodcock. “Give me the walkie-talkie.”

  Mahoney held his hand up, and Woodcock didn’t hold the walkie-talkie out to Lieutenant Andrews.

  “Who are you going to call?” Mahoney asked Andrews.

  Lieutenant Andrews’ eyes nearly popped out. His arm was bleeding, he had a field dressing around his head, and his face was covered with mud and sweat. He tried to scream at Mahoney, but he was so mad he only sputtered.

  “Calm down,” Mahoney told him.

  Andrews finally got his words out. “I’m the commander of this platoon!” he yelled. “Don’t tell me I can’t use my walkie-talkie.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t use your walkie-talkie,” Mahoney replied soothingly. “I only asked you who you were calling?”

  Lieutenant Andrews strained to keep himself under control. “I’m calling Captain Tugwell.” He held his hand out for the walkie-talkie.

  Pfc Woodcock looked at Mahoney. Mahoney shook his head. Woodcock did not give the walkie-talkie to Lieutenant Andrews.

  “This is mutiny!” Lieutenant Andrews shouted.

  “Calm down,” Mahoney said. “You’re getting rattled.”

  “You’re being insubordinate!”

  “Why do you want to speak to Captain Tugwell?”

  “I want to report our position and ask for reinforcements.”

  “I already did that,” Mahoney said.

  “When?”

  “A few minutes ago while you were taking a piss.”

  “Who told you to call Captain Tugwell without my permission?”

  “You were busy, so I called him myself. What’s the matter with that?”

  Lieutenant Andrews’ shoulders drooped and he looked defeated. “There’s something wrong with the chain of command in this platoon,” he wheezed.

  “Calm down, sir,” Mahoney said. “Everything’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  “Is he going to send us reinforcements?” Lieutenant Andrews asked.

  “He didn’t say.” Mahoney blew dirt off the rear sight of his German submachine gun.

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “He said we shouldn’t be up here so far.”

  “I told you we shouldn’t be up here either!”

  Mahoney put his cigar in his mouth and took a puff. “You’re both wrong.”

  “I don’t think you understand the difference between officers and non-commissioned officers, Mahoney!”

  “Guess not,” Mahoney agreed.

  They were startled by a sound like the roar of a dragon. Turning toward the road, they saw a tank rounding the bend of a hedgerow, heading straight for them.

  “Oh-oh,” Mahoney said, standing up.

  “Isn’t that one of ours?” Lieutenant Andrews asked.

  “No.”

  “It isn’t!”

  “No.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Mahoney held his submachine gun out to Woodcock. “Take this and give me the bazooka.”

  They exchanged weapons as the other members of the platoon looked to Mahoney for guidance.

  “You people spread out here and shoot at the fucking thing. I’ll go around with Woodcock and try to get it from the side.”

  Lieutenant Andrews cleared his throat and tried to behave like an officer. “Why do you think it’s necessary to get it from the side, sergeant?”

  “Because it’s got too much armor in front, sir.”

  The tank rolled closer and opened fire with its machine gun. The men of the first platoon hit the dirt and commenced firing back. Mahoney and Woodcock slipped through a hole already blown in the hedgerow to their left and ran back to the tank, but the Germans in the tank couldn’t see them because of the hedgerow between them.

  The German tank fired its first .88 shell, and it swooshed over the first platoon, landing fifty yards behind them. The gunner shortened his range and fired another round, this one landing twenty-five yards in front of Lieutenant Andrews, who was lying on the ground and firing bullets that ricocheted harmlessly off the tank’s turret.

  Meanwhile, Mahoney and Woodcock ran through the mud on the other side of the hedgerow. They could hear the growling snarling engine of the tank as it came closer.

  “This looks like a good spot,” Mahoney said, looking at a hole blasted through the hedgerow ahead. He loped to the other side of the hole, stopped, dropped to one knee, and placed the bazooka on his shoulder. “Load me up.”

  Woodcock got behind him and loaded a rocket into the rear end of the bazooka. At that close range, Mahoney didn’t bother folding out the sighting mechanism. The German tank would pass on the other side of the hole, and Mahoney would shoot it from its right rear at pointblank range.

  Woodcock wound the rocket’s wires around the terminal posts on the rear of the bazooka, and Mahoney listened for the approach of the tank. He knew that if he didn’t stop the tank it would roll right over the first platoon and chew it to ribbons. But he didn’t see how he could miss at this range.

  “Reload me as fast as you can after I’ve fired,” Mahoney told Woodcock.

  “Okey-dokey.”

  Mahoney heard the German tank roaring on the other side of the hedgerow. Tensing, he gripped the handle that held the trigger mechanism and felt the ground tremble at the approach of the heavy tank. It passed beside him and came into view through the hole in the hedgerow. Mahoney pulled the trigger of his bazooka, the rocket flew away, and a split second later the right tread of the tank exploded, sending a writhing snake of metal into the air. The tank hunkered down on its right side, and Woodcock loaded the bazooka again. He slapped Mahoney on the helmet and Mahoney pulled the trigger. The second rocket landed on the turret, blowing a hole in the armor plate and Woodcock hurled a grenade into the open hatch.

  The grenade exploded and smoke shot up and out of the hatch. The tank bounced a few inches off the ground, and then became still, smoking from many holes. Mahoney waited a few seconds, and heard no movement inside. With his submachine gun, he ran toward the tank, jumped up on its rear deck, climbed toward the turret, and peered cautiously down the hatch.

  He saw twisted metal and charred corpses. The tank and its crew were out of the war.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two jeeps sped down the road toward the valley where Charlie Company was fighting in the hedgerows. In the lead jeep, seated beside the driver, was Major Clark Bowie, commanding officer of the First Battalion. The road was filled with potholes and he held onto the windshield for support as the jeep bounced along at top speed.

  Major Bowie looked like the kind of man who hollered at his children and kicked dogs. He’d graduated from West Point in 1933 and had led his battalion ashore on Utah Beach. He limped because a bullet wound in his leg still had not healed.

  The sound of battle came closer, and the jeeps rode over the crest of a hill. Major Bowie raised his ass off his seat, looking over the mud-spattered windshield at the valley where Charlie Company was fighting Germans. He saw the three destroyed American tanks in the middle of the road and a jeep parked beside the road just ahead.

  “Stop behind that jeep!” Major Bowie told his driver, Pfc Ralph Helms of Omaha, Nebraska.

  “Yes sir!”

  Pfc Helms slammed on his brakes and the jeep skidded to a stop. Major Bowie jumped out of the jeep and a few members of his staff jumped out behind him. Major Bowie skipped and hopped to the jeep parked at the side of the road and looked into the ditch next to it. He saw Captain Tugwell, Sergeant Jones, and Pfc Carrington.

  “What’s this—a circle jerk?” Major Bowie bellowed.

  Tugwell and Jones looked up in alarm. Tugwell dropped the flask of brandy he’d been sipping from. The three of them shot to attention although an occasional bullet whizzed by.

  “What in the fuck are you doing back here, Tugwell?�
�� Major Bowie demanded.

  “I’m commanding my company, sir,” Tugwell said weakly.

  “From back here?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Major Bowie pointed to the front lines. “You’re supposed to be leading them from up there!”

  “I’m waiting for the tanks, sir.”

  “They’re on the way. Why haven’t you taken Hill Seventy-eight?”

  “We’re meeting stiff resistance.”

  “When you meet stiff resistance, you mount stiff attacks! Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Show me how your company’s deployed.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Standing in the middle of the road, Tugwell unfolded his map and showed Major Bowie where his platoons were. Major Bowie saw instantly that three of Tugwell’s platoons hadn’t moved at all, while the first platoon had made good progress on the left flank. He smelled the brandy on Tugwell’s breath and wanted to strangle him.

  “Looks like your first platoon knows what it’s doing,” Major Bowie said. “Who’s in charge of it?”

  “Lieutenant Andrews, sir.”

  Major Bowie remembered Andrews vaguely. He was one of the new second lieutenants, a nice-looking kid who carried a Bible around with him. Major Bowie couldn’t imagine him leading such a hard-driving attack.

  “Do you know where he is right now?” Major Bowie asked.

  Tugwell pointed. “He’s somewhere over there.”

  “Somewhere over there?” Don’t you know for sure?”

  “They’ve kinda got separated from the rest of us, sir. They’re somewhere in that direction.”

  Major Bowie frowned at Captain Tugwell. “They got separated from you because you haven’t kept up with them. Get the rest of your company together and pour them into the hole your first platoon has made. After you get that underway, meet me up at the first platoon.”

  “Yes sir.” Captain Tugwell saluted.

  Major Bowie returned the salute, turned, and limped back to his jeep. He climbed onto his seat and told Pfc Helms to drive off the road and into the hedgerows where the first platoon was.

  “Sir, the tank does not respond to my call,” said the young German soldier at the field radio.