by Len Levinson
Cranepool stood in line and looked at the apparition, thinking that it reminded him something of Mahoney, but it couldn’t be Mahoney—Mahoney was missing in action and presumed dead.
Then the figure began to walk away, and Cranepool knew that walk anywhere. It’s him, Cranepool thought. The son of a bitch has come back.
“Mahoney!” Cranepool yelled, breaking out of the line. His mess kit jangling in his hand, he ran into the woods after the figure, but when he got to where the figure had been, it was gone. Cranepool looked around the bushes, but could see nothing.
Then, standing in the forest, he felt weird, as though something supernatural had occurred. Was that figure Mahoney’s ghost, and was it taking a last look at old Charlie Company before moving on to that big regiment in the sky?
Cranepool returned to the mess line, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Who was he?” asked somebody in the line.
“Damned if I know,” Cranepool replied.
Private Braithwaite was banging away on his typewriter when the big figure entered the command post tent. Braithwaite looked up and saw master sergeant stripes on his sleeves. The man looked enormous, well over six feet tall, and was clean-shaven. Braithwaite thought he bore a faint resemblance to the Hollywood actor John Garfield.
“Can I help you, sergeant?” Braithwaite asked.
“Is Lieutenant Ferrara in?”
“Yes, he is, but he just went out to the latrine.”
“I’ll wait for him here, then.”
“Make yourself comfortable, Sarge.”
Mahoney sat on a folding chair and took out a cigarette, lighting it with his trusty Zippo. They’d kept him in the field hospital under observation for a few days, given him new clothes and boots, and shipped him back to Charlie Company. He still felt as though he’d returned from the dead, and carried Lieutenant Andrews’ Bible in his shirt in the same place where it had been on the day he’d been shot.
Lieutenant Ferrara entered the tent, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked at Mahoney and the cigarette dropped out of his mouth.
Mahoney stood up and saluted. “I’m back,” he said.
Ferrara’s eyes goggled behind his eyeglasses. “Mother of Christ!”
Mahoney grinned. “I guess you’re kinda surprised to see me again.”
“We thought you were dead. We listed you missing in action on the morning report.”
Ferrara turned to Private Braithwaite and told him of the change that would have to be made regarding Mahoney’s status. Then Ferrara invited Mahoney back to his office in the rear of the tent.
Mahoney followed him back and sat in the chair in front of his desk. Ferrara sat in the chair behind the desk and lit another cigarette. He looked as though he’d aged a few years in the last few days, and his hair was grayer than before.
“What in the world happened to you?” Ferrara asked.
“I got shot, but this stopped the bullet.” Mahoney took out Lieutenant Andrews’ Bible and held it up so that the bullet hole showed.
Ferrara looked at it. “Well I’ll be damned.”
“I’m gonna carry this little book with me for the rest of my life,” Mahoney said.
“I don’t blame you,” Ferrara replied. “I’d do the same thing.”
“On my way over here,” Mahoney told him, “I passed the chow tent and there were a lot of new faces there. It looks like a whole new company.”
“It is. We lost nearly everybody on the day we thought we lost you.”
“I never saw anything like that in my life,” Mahoney admitted.
“Me neither.”
“Hey—anything ever happen with that idea I had to fix tanks so they can go through hedgerows?”
Ferrara shrugged. “I sent it up to division and haven’t heard a word about it. Maybe it got lost. You think I should send it up to division again?”
“Aw, to hell with it,” Mahoney said. “Damn thing probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
General Bradley got out of his jeep and walked toward the strange-looking tank. It had four tusk-like prongs welded to its front and was parked twenty yards in front of a hedgerow. His ordnance officer, Colonel Baumont, followed him, peering curiously at the tank.
General Naughton and his staff officers stood nearby and saluted. “Welcome to the Hammerhead Division,” Naughton said.
“That’s some strange-looking contraption you’ve got there,” Bradley replied. “What’s it supposed to do?”
“Instead of telling you, why don’t we just show you?”
“Fine with me.”
General Naughton waved to the commander of the tank, who began to speak into his microphone as he climbed down the ladder into the turret. He clamped the hatch shut as Naughton led Bradley and Colonel Baumont around to the side.
When the tank started its engine, Bradley wondered what was going to happen. He’d come to Hammerhead Division today because he’d received a note from General Naughton that the Hammerheads had something that would knock Bradley’s eyes out, and that he should bring his ordnance officer and come to see it.
Bradley watched the tank start up and move toward the hedgerow. He knew full well that tanks couldn’t go through hedgerows; it was one of the major problems of the campaign. As the tank rumbled closer the tusks cut into the thick foliage. Then the treads of the tank rolled up the mound at the base of the hedgerow, and the tusks ripped up the hedgerow. The tank roared through the hole the tusks had made, continuing for several yards before stopping on the other side of the hedgerow.
Everyone looked at Bradley who was staring at the big hole in the hedgerow. The tank had gone through it as though it was made of warm butter.
“What do you think?” Naughton asked triumphantly.
“That’s a helluva gadget there,” Bradley replied. “Who thought of it?”
“A sergeant in my Fifteenth Regiment.”
“That’s a damned good idea.” Bradley turned to his ordnance officer. “I want a set of these on every tank in Normandy.”
“Yes sir.”
“And fast.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well,” Bradley said to Naughton. “This is such a simple and obvious idea that I’m surprised nobody ever thought of it before. I’ll have to write a letter of commendation to put in this sergeant’s file.”
“Why don’t you give him a medal?”
“A medal?” Bradley asked. He thought for a few moments. “Yes, maybe I’ll give him a medal.”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Corporal Cranepool sat in his foxhole, sharpening his bayonet on a piece of Arkansas Washita Stone that he’d bought in a hardware store in his native Iowa on his last furlough, and had carried around ever since.
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up. Standing with his back to the sun was Master Sergeant Clarence Mahoney. Cranepool’s jaw dropped, because he thought he was seeing a ghost.
Mahoney jumped into the foxhole and sat down beside Cranepool. “How’re you doing, kid?”
Cranepool stared at him in horror.
“What’s the matter?” Mahoney asked with a grin.
“Are you for real?” Cranepool replied.
“Of course I’m for real.”
“But you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
Cranepool reached out and touched Mahoney’s arm. It was real skin. Cranepool furrowed his brow. “Where’ve you been?”
“Here and there.”
“What happened to you?”
“I got shot,” Mahoney said, taking out the Bible, “but this stopped the bullet.”
Cranepool looked at the hole in the Bible. “Wow!”
“It was a miracle,” Mahoney said. “I’m alive because of a miracle. I think God was telling me that I’d better shape up. From now on I’m going to be a good person. I’m going to Mass whenever there’s a priest around and I’m not going to screw any more girls.”
&nb
sp; Cranepool snorted. “Oh—come on.”
“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true,” Mahoney said. “I’ve seen the light.”
Cranepool started laughing, gasped at Mahoney. He was laughing too hard to speak.
Chapter Twenty-One
The newspaper correspondents travelling with the troops dubbed it The Battle of the Hedgerows. It had been raging for weeks and the Americans steadily pushed the Germans back, but not fast enough for the war correspondents. They criticized General Eisenhower and General Bradley for being too cautious. They implied that Eisenhower and Bradley didn’t know what they were doing. They demanded spectacular victories that would make big headlines and sell lots of newspapers.
In the States, people read these war correspondents and began to think that the war was not being fought properly. They wanted the war to be won quickly and the boys brought home. They wrote letters to their congressmen and senators, who put pressure on the President of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who in turn notified General Eisenhower that a big victory was needed to help boost the morale of the folks on the home front.
The focus of attention became the little city of Saint Lo. The town had been bombed repeatedly since the sixth of June, and most of its buildings had been knocked down. But it still was the headquarters for the German forces in the area, who had dug themselves in and were prepared to hold at any cost.
The Americans, on the other hand, were determined to take it at any cost. The stage was set for the bloody battle of Saint Lo.
Charlie Company moved up to the line and fought in the hedgerows again. Tanks clashed with each other in the open fields, and foot soldiers shot at each other from behind the bushes. Sometimes soldiers met among the huge tanks in the middle of a field and grappled hand to hand, trying to stab and kick each other, trying to gouge out eyeballs and rip open throats. Slowly and inexorably the Americans moved toward Saint Lo, but they weren’t moving quickly enough for the war correspondents.
At the close on their third day at the front, Charlie Company was digging in for the night. To the south they could hear the Germans digging in also. Medics carried away the wounded and the Graves Registration Squads took away the dead. It had been a difficult and bloody day, but there was a mail call shortly after sunset, and Mahoney received a package from his mother.
Mahoney sat with his back to the hedgerow and ripped off the brown paper. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, and there was German blood on his sleeves from the hand-to-hand fighting. He broke through the wrappings, tore apart the cardboard, and saw the box of cigars. His dear old Mom sent him cigars and cookies once a month, and Mahoney uttered a silent prayer for her as he opened the cigar box and saw the long thin panatelas.
Near him, other soldiers were opening mail and packages, but some of them looked sad, for no one had written to them. Some of these soldiers watched Mahoney with longing in their eyes.
Mahoney took out a big handful of cigars and stuffed them into his shirt next to his Bible. “Come on—boys!” he said. “Dig in!” He pushed the box toward the other soldiers and a few strolled over sheepishly, dipping their hands in and coming out with cigars and cookies. Then they became more bold, scooping out goodies from the box, and finally they were elbowing and pushing each other, fighting like dogs over a bone.
Mahoney lay with his back against a hedgerow, puffing the cigar. It tasted marvelous and reminded him of New York City. It was summer and he wondered what it was like in Central Park just then. Couples probably were wandering around hand in hand, and some of them were screwing in the bushes. Vendors were selling hot dogs and guys were drinking whisky out of hip flasks. Mahoney had loved to wander around Central Park in the summer, but now, as he thought back on it, it seemed like a distant dream that never had happened. He’d been in the war so long he felt as though he’d been born on the front lines and issued out to the nearest company commander.
Private Pierce of Durham, North Carolina walked up to Mahoney. “The old man wants to see you, Sarge.”
“Have a cigar,” Mahoney said as he arose, handing one to Private Pierce.
Private Pierce accepted the cigar, thinking what a sweet guy Mahoney was. He didn’t know that Mahoney usually was a rotten son of a bitch, but Private Pierce was a replacement and only had been in the company a few days.
Mahoney walked toward some trees in a corner of the plot of farmland, and found Lieutenant Ferrara inside, sitting in the long slit trench with a sheaf of thin wooden poles. Ferrara was smoking a cigarette and looking at a map.
“What’s up, sir?” Mahoney asked.
“Sit down and look at this map.”
“Yes sir.” Mahoney sat beside Ferrara and looked at the map, which showed their position, the lay of the land, and the positions held by the Germans in front of them.
“Something big is cooking,” Ferrara said. “The air force is going to do some saturation bombing in front of us, to soften the Germans up so we can take Saint Lo. We’ve got to put out red flags in front of our positions so the air force won’t drop the bombs on us.” Ferrara traced a line with his finger on the map. “Take a detail of men and lay out the flags along this line.”
“Yes sir.”
Ferrara showed Mahoney the pile of poles and the knapsack full of red flags. Mahoney picked up the poles and flags and carried them back to the hedgerow, so he could assign some men to drive them into the ground.
The first unit he encountered was his 4th platoon.
“I need three volunteers,” Mahoney said, looking at the men bedding down for the night. “I’ll take you, you, and you.”
He pointed to the men lying in their foxholes, and reluctantly they came out, wiping dirt and mud from their fatigues, frowning at their bad luck at being selected.
“I want you men to set out red flags along our line,” Mahoney told them. “Just plant them in front of our forward trenches, that’s all. Don’t go too far in front because we don’t want the Germans to know they’re there. Any questions?”
No one said anything.
“Good,” Mahoney said. “I like men who don’t ask questions. It shows that they pay attention.”
He opened the knapsack and took out the red flags. He and the soldiers affixed them to the poles, and then the volunteers went out with their flags to plant them into the ground.
Mahoney went with them to make sure they performed their task properly. He made certain the poles were securely in the ground and the flags clearly visible from above.
Finally the detail was finished. Mahoney told the volunteers to return to their holes and get some sleep. He said that the air force would bomb the Germans in the morning, and that they should stay in their holes and keep their heads down.
Mahoney returned to his own foxhole and lay on his back, looking up at the stars. He took out a cigar and lit it up, gazing at the sky and wondering about other worlds. When the cigar was halfway gone, he stubbed it out in the damp earth and dropped it into his shirt pocket. He laid his head upon his field pack, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. His last thought was a hope that the cathedral in Saint Lo wouldn’t be damaged too badly, so that he could say a little prayer at the altar after the town was taken.
Dawn broke over the hedgerows, and the men of Charlie Company sat in their foxholes, eating Assault Rations out of cans. Mahoney had a can of sausage patties, and he sat cross-legged on the ground, wondering if the rumor was true that they were made from horse meat, because they didn’t taste anything like regular meat. When finished with the sausage patties he ate a can of fruit cocktail, and then lit the half of the cigar he’d saved from the night before. He intended to spend a leisurely morning in his trench, because he knew there would be no attacks until after the saturation bombing.
He’d only taken a few puffs of his cigar when he heard the first sound of the planes. At first they were only a faint hum in his ears, but the hum grew steadily louder until it became a roar. The men of Charlie Company looked n
orth and saw the sky covered by huge swarms of airplanes. They came low and steady in perfect formations, big Liberators and Flying Fortresses with their bellies filled with bombs.
Mahoney felt happy, because he knew the bombing would kill a lot of Germans and clear the way to Saint Lo. He’d heard that the hedgerows thinned out below Saint Lo and that it would be easier to fight the war after Saint Lo was taken. There were rumors that the war would be over by Christmas, and he thought of how nice it would be if he could spend Christmas in New York, and maybe attend the big Christmas Eve Mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue.
Still puffing his cigar, he looked up to the sky and saw the bombers draw closer. There were so many of them that the ground shook with the roar of their engines. This is going to be a bad day for the Germans, Mahoney thought. They’re gonna be sorry they ever started this war.
Mahoney saw little dots underneath the planes, and rubbed his eyes. He thought he must be seeing optical illusions or something, because those little dots couldn’t possibly be bombs. The American bombers wouldn’t drop their bombs on their own soldiers by mistake, would they? Surely they could see the red flags.
Mahoney blinked, but the little dots still were there. They dropped out of the planes’ bellies and fell to the ground. He began to hear explosions, and covered his face with his big hand. “Oh-oh,” he said to himself.
Groaning, he burrowed deeper into his foxhole because he knew the planes could continue dropping their bombs and eventually they’d fall on Charlie Company. What a fuck-up, he thought. I can’t believe it.
“Get down!” he shouted from the depths of his hole. “We’re gonna be bombed!”
In the wooded area, Lieutenant Ferrara raised his binoculars and looked at the bombers dropping their loads behind the American lines. The earth trembled beneath his feet and he stared in horror at the planes for a few moments, then dived into his foxhole and snatched the field telephone out of Private Braithwaite’s hands. He called Major Bowie, but the battalion executive officer said that Bowie couldn’t come to the phone.
