by Len Levinson
“Tell the men to fix bayonets and prepare for hand combat,” he said through his teeth.
His staff officers left the bunker, leaving him alone with his radio operator. Reinhardt knew that some of his officers would surrender anyway because they did not have the National Socialist spirit, but he knew that the time had come for him to die for Fuehrer and Fatherland.
He tightened the strap of his helmet and took out his pistol. Looking through the peepholes in the bunker, he could see American soldiers and tanks nearing the crest of the hill he was on. He thought of his wife and two sons in Dusseldorf, and knew he would never see them again. At least they’d have the comfort of knowing that he died facing the enemy and following orders.
He looked to Private Mandel, pale and trembling in front of the radio. Shells were bursting around and on top of the bunker, and the ground felt like an earthquake. The Americans shouted battle cries and their bullets whumped into the bunker’s sandbags.
“Are you coming with me, Mandel?” Colonel Reinhardt asked.
Mandel was frozen with fear and could not speak. Colonel Reinhardt felt sorry for him, for he understood that some people didn’t possess soldierly qualities and couldn’t acquire them no matter what you did.
Colonel Reinhardt pulled the bolt on his service pistol and rammed a bullet into the chamber. His boots shining like mirrors, his uniform perfectly pressed, he marched to the rear door of the bunker, opened it, and stepped outside into the afternoon drizzle.
The sound of battle was louder outside. He walked around the bunker and looked down the hill. The Americans swarmed toward him, their tanks firing machine guns at the German soldiers who’d run down the hill to counterattack. He jumped into the trench beside the bunker and looked at the men there. Their lips were bloodless and their eyes were glazed. Silently they begged him to surrender, but he could not do that.
“Hold fast, boys!” he shouted. “We can hold them!”
The Americans were within fifty yards of the trench, and the Germans fired fusillade after fusillade at them, but still they kept coming. Reinhardt held his pistol with two hands, took aim at an American soldier, and pulled the trigger. The American stumbled and pitched forward onto his face.
“They’re slowing down!” Reinhardt shouted. “We’re holding them!”
But it wasn’t true—the Americans weren’t slowing down and the German troops weren’t holding them; Reinhardt had said it only to give his men some encouragement. He fired his pistol at a second American soldier who fell back, clawing his guts. Another American soldier threw a hand grenade, which landed in the trench not far from Reinhardt. A German soldier scooped it up and tried to throw it back, but it exploded in his hand. The explosion shook the trench, shrapnel flying in all directions. The shock wave knocked Reinhardt onto his side and a wedge of shrapnel lodged in his left arm.
Reinhardt climbed to his feet as Americans jumped into the trench. They screamed words foreign to Reinhardt as they rammed bayonets through German soldiers or bashed in their heads.
Reinhardt raised his pistol and shot one of the Americans in the back. He was taking aim at another American when someone jumped into the trench directly in front of him.
It was a husky American soldier with a cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth. Colonel Reinhardt moved his hand to shoot this soldier, but the soldier had a German submachine gun in his hands and he grinned as he pulled the trigger. The bullets ripped Reinhardt apart and sent him sprawling back into the mud.
Chapter Fifteen
Mahoney walked wearily around the top of the hill, his submachine gun dangling from his right hand and his cigar butt between his teeth. Bodies of dead soldiers were everywhere, most of them Germans. On his wrist, next to his Bulova watch, was the expensive gold watch he’d taken from the German colonel he’d killed.
“Dig in!” he shouted to the men of Charlie Company. “Get ready for a counterattack.”
Mahoney knew that soldiers were most vulnerable immediately after taking an objective. They invariably were tired and low on ammunition, probably hungry too. A fast, determined counterattack by the enemy could displace them if they weren’t prepared.
“I want a machine gun over here and a machine gun over there!” Mahoney shouted, pointing to the spots where he wanted the machine guns. “I want a mortar over here and a bazooka team on that ridge!”
Pfc Carrington, carrying his walkie-talkie, ran up to Mahoney. “Lieutenant Ferrara wants to see you, sergeant.”
“Where the fuck is he?”
“Over there.”
Mahoney looked in the direction of Carrington’s finger and saw Ferrara standing with Lieutenant Dunwoodie and some other soldiers inside a trench. Mahoney walked toward them and saw that they were looking down at a body of an American soldier. Jumping into the trench with them, he saw that the dead soldier was Lieutenant Andrews, crumpled up like a baby in the fetal position, lying in a pool of blood and mud.
Mahoney suddenly felt old and tired. He’d liked Andrews and thought he might have made a good officer once he got a little more experience. But Andrews hadn’t made it. One moment he’d been alive and a few moments later he was dead. Mahoney remembered seeing him as they were nearing the crest of the hill. He’d been alive then, and that hadn’t been very long ago.
Lieutenant Ferrara looked as though he wanted to cry. “We were in the same class at OCS,” he said, a catch in his throat.
“I’ll call the Graves Registration Unit,” Mahoney replied.
With trembling hand, Ferrara took out a package of cigarettes and lit one up. He was badly shaken, because he realized that if Andrews could be killed, he could be killed too.
“Poor son of a bitch,” said Sergeant Holley of the third platoon.
“Yeah,” Mahoney growled, “and we’re gonna be poor sons of bitches too unless we get a strong perimeter set up on this fucking hill.”
“He’s right,” Ferrara agreed. “You men go back to your platoons and prepare for a counterattack.”
Everyone left the trench except Ferrara, Mahoney, and Carrington. Ferrara shook his head, kneeled down, and crossed himself. “I met his family at Fort Benning,” he said. “They were real nice people.”
“Yeah,” Mahoney said, thinking that nice people don’t make good soldiers. They worry too much, and while they’re worrying the other guy shoots them.
“I wonder,” Ferrara said, “if he had anything personal in his pack.”
“You might as well take a look now, sir, because the Graves Registration people will pick him clean once they get their hands on him.”
Ferrara pulled out his bayonet and cut Lieutenant Andrews’ pack away. He pulled it off his back, cradled it in his arms, and opened the flap. Right on top was Lieutenant Andrews’ Bible.
“You want this?” Ferrara asked, holding it up.
“What the hell do I need a Bible for?” Mahoney asked.
“It might come in handy sometime.”
“For what?”
Lieutenant Ferrara looked into Mahoney’s eyes. “In case you’re scared someday. Even you might get scared someday, Mahoney.”
Mahoney shrugged and held out his hand. “Okay, I’ll take it.”
Lieutenant Ferrara passed him the Bible. Mahoney unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it inside next to his skin.
“So long, buddy,” Lieutenant Ferrara whispered to the corpse of Andrews. Ferrara stood and looked toward the German lines. “Let’s get back to work,” he said.
“Field Marshall von Kluge will be with you in just a few moments,” said the voice on the other end of the wire. “Can you wait?”
“I’ll wait,” said Rommel.
It was eight o’clock in the evening. Rommel drummed his fingers on his desk. He’d just received word from General von Choltitz that the 315th Parachute Regiment had been overrun and the line in front of LXXXIV Corps was cracking. He looked at the photograph on his desk of his wife Lucie and son Manfred and wished he was home with them. He ha
d started getting sick of war after losing the battle of El Alamein over two years ago. He’d found out that war is no fun when you’re on the losing side.
“This is Field Marshal von Kluge,” said a voice in his ear.
“This is Rommel, and I have bad news.”
“What is it this time?”
“The Americans have broken through our lines north of Saint Lo. If you don’t give me troops and tanks, you might as well write off Saint Lo.”
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. “So you couldn’t hold, eh?”
“No.”
“Perhaps the great Rommel is not as great as they say?”
“I was outnumbered.”
“You should have made up for that with clever strategies.”
“Like what?”
“You’re the Desert Fox. You tell me.”
“You’re in charge of the Western Front. You tell the Fuehrer.”
Von Kluge grimaced.
“Are you still there?” Rommel asked.
“Yes.”
“Hitler won’t be happy if the Americans take Saint Lo. He’s enough of a strategist to know that our entire Western Front will be in danger if Saint Lo is lost.”
“I know.”
“How about the Lehr Division?”
“No,” von Kluge said. “I need them at Caen.”
“In that case, I resign.”
“You what!”
“I resign as commander of Army Group B,” Rommel said calmly.
“You can’t!”
“I just did. If I don’t have anything to fight with, I might as well be back in Germany with my family.”
“If I give you the Lehr Division, it’ll weaken our defense at Caen.”
“Why not bring a division down from the Fifteenth Army area to Caen, and then send me the Lehr?” Rommel asked.
“I don’t dare weaken our Northern Front. The Abwehr has informed me that Army Group Patton is going to land there any day now.”
“They’ve been saying that for a month now. If Patton lands on the Channel Coast, you can send the division back in time.”
“It might not get back in time.”
“If we don’t keep the Americans out of Saint Lo, it won’t matter. If the Americans have Saint Lo they’ll be able to push to the Seine and encircle our entire army in France. How will you explain that one to Hitler?”
“This situation is much worse than I thought,” von Kluge admitted.
“I’m glad you’re starting to see things as they are,” Rommel said.
“I’ll send you the Lehr.”
“When?”
“I’ll notify them immediately.”
“They’ll take a few days to get here.”
“You’ll have to hang on until then.”
“I may not be able to unless I have something to plug that hole right now.”
“It’s that bad?” von Kluge asked.
“It’s worse than you can imagine.”
Von Kluge was worried about the wrath of Hitler if the Western Front collapsed. “I’ll send you a few regiments from Tily-sur-Seulles. That appears to be the quietest sector of our lines.”
“How soon?”
“I’ll make the arrangements immediately, and they should reach Saint Lo sometime tonight. Tell von Choltitz to expect them.”
“Thank you, Field Marshal von Kluge.”
“Hold the line, Rommel. Everything depends on it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lieutenant Ferrara had set up his command post in Colonel Reinhardt’s former bunker, and at eight o’clock that evening held a meeting with his officers and senior NCOs. He reviewed the events of the day, congratulated various people for a job well done, emphasized the need to keep the men firing their weapons steadily whenever a battle was going on, and then said he wanted to send out a reconnaissance to find out what was in front of them.
“I’ll go,” said Mahoney, smoking a fresh cigar that he’d bummed off Pfc Woodcock.
“You?” Ferrara asked. “But you’re the first sergeant of this company. I need you here.”
“No you don’t,” Mahoney replied. “Pfc Carrington can take care of the paperwork. I speak German and French and I’m the ideal one to take out a patrol.”
“You speak German and French?” Ferrara asked.
“Yes sir.”
“How well?”
“Fluently sir.”
Ferrara was astonished. He’d known Mahoney was a good combat soldier, but didn’t know he was a linguist as well. “Where’d you learn German and French?”
“I picked them up when I was in North Africa,” Mahoney said. “I guess I have a knack for learning languages. That’s how come they transferred me to the Rangers in the first place.”
“I see,” Ferrara said. “Well, I imagine a man fluent in French and German would be the best to lead a patrol. How many men will you need?”
“One,” said Mahoney.
“Only one? How can you conduct a patrol with only one person?”
“It’s easier with one, sir,” Mahoney replied. “There’s less noise and less confusion with only two people. If we run into the enemy it’ll be easier to get away. Got the picture?”
“Who are you going to take with you?” Ferrara asked.
“Corporal Cranepool,” Mahoney replied.
Forty-five minutes later, Mahoney and Cranepool were descending the German side of the hill. The night was pitch black and drizzling, and they moved close to a hedgerow that went down the hill. They carried no packs or rifles, only .45 caliber pistols. They were to avoid the enemy if possible, and retreat quickly in case of trouble. They were supposed to return by midnight, but Mahoney had told Ferrara not to be upset if they returned later.
They moved down the hill slowly, peering into the darkness for signs of German fortifications, listening for sounds of shovels hitting dirt or trucks moving troops.
They saw and heard nothing. At the bottom of the hill they came to a hedgerow, and walked along it until they came to a path that went through it. Peeking around the hedgerow, they saw no German encampments. They entered the field, still walking in its shadow and security; then they followed the system of hedgerows around to the next field, which they reconnoitered through the leaves of a hedgerow.
“There aren’t any Krauts around here,” Cranepool said.
“There might be some in the next field.”
They made their way to the next field, looked through the hedgerow, and couldn’t see anything there either.
“I wonder where the fucking Krauts are,” Mahoney mused.
“They’re all gone.”
“They can’t be all gone.”
“But they are.”
“Let’s have a cigarette and think this over.”
“Good idea.”
Cranepool took off his helmet and covered Mahoney’s Zippo with it. Mahoney flicked the wheel of the Zippo and they lit their cigarettes from the flame. They cupped the cigarettes in their hands so the Germans couldn’t see the tiny red glow.
“It’s so good to get away from that company,” Mahoney wheezed, sitting on his helmet.
Cranepool sat opposite him. “I never saw so many eight balls in my life.” He sucked his cigarette. “They seem to be shaping up, though.”
“You think so?” Mahoney asked.
“Don’t you?”
“No,” Mahoney said.
“You wish you were back in the Rangers?”
“Nope.”
“Then where do you wish you were?”
“In Paris,” Mahoney said.
“I mean which military outfit.”
“No military outfit,” Mahoney replied. “I’m getting out of this fucking army first chance I get.”
“But you’re a career man, Mahoney.”
“I was a career man. Now I wanna be a civilian.”
“But what could you do in civilian life?”
“I’ll find something,” Mahoney said, althoug
h he’d joined the army in the first place because he hadn’t been able to find a job.
Cranepool spit out a crumb of tobacco that had become affixed to his tongue. “I remember the time old Bulldog Boynton said you’d never be able to make it in civilian life, Mahoney.”
“He was talking about himself, not me,” Mahoney said, puffing his cigarette. “And besides, he didn’t have the sense to duck when he should have, so who can give any weight to what he’d say?”
“He was a good company commander, though.”
“The best.”
Cranepool sniffed. “Shit, Mahoney—I think I’m gonna cry.”
“Oh fuck—don’t do it here.”
“But he was such a nice guy.”
“Aw, he was a fucking asshole like all officers.”
“No he wasn’t.”
“Yes he was.”
They continued arguing as an owl hooted in a tree not far away, and the drizzle continued to fall on them.
General von Choltitz sat in his office in Saint Pois and drank a mug of beer. He expected the phone to ring any moment and a feverish voice to tell him that the Americans were attacking Saint Lo. He knew that practically nothing was between the Americans and Saint Lo, and couldn’t figure out why the Americans didn’t continue the drive they’d begun that day. Didn’t they know there were only a few scattered ragtag units between them and Saint Lo? Didn’t they know that the city could fall into their hands like a ripe plum if they made an effort to take it?
They must be tired, von Choltitz thought. Or they mustn’t know that nothing is in front of them. He prayed that the two regiments Rommel was sending him would show up to plug the gap before the Americans realized the gap was there.
When the phone rang von Choltitz nearly jumped out of his chair. He grabbed the telephone and slapped it against his big head. “What is it?”
“Calm down,” said Rommel on the other end.
“Oh, it’s you, Herr Field Marshal.”
“Yes. What’s the latest from your front?”
“It’s quiet. I can’t understand why the Americans don’t attack Saint Lo. Don’t they realize there’s nothing in front of them?”
