by Len Levinson
He saw that most of the Germans were very young and bewildered. They’d fought for days against difficult odds and now the war was over for them. They’d believed they were the Master Race, but not anymore.
Private Sawyer sat near Mahoney, and suddenly he perked up. He listened to a message over his walkie-talkie, then said to Mahoney: “Major Bowie wants a meeting of company commanders on top of the hill right away.”
Mahoney got up from the rock. Captain Greene and the two other officers in the company were dead, and Mahoney had become the ranking man in the company.
“Come on with me,” he said to Sawyer and Cranepool, who were eating candy bars in a shell hole nearby.
They followed him across the crest of the hill until they found Major Bowie and his staff at a point where they could look down on the city of Saint Lo, or what was left of it.
In the twilight it didn’t look like a city anymore. It looked more like a smoking waste disposal area with a few walls and buildings standing here and there. It was pale blue, with little dots of orange where fires were burning.
“Master Sergeant Mahoney reporting from Charlie Company, sir,” Mahoney said, saluting Major Bowie. “We don’t have any officers left in the company, sir.”
“No officers?” Major Bowie asked.
“No sir. They’re all dead or wounded.”
Major Bowie wrinkled his brow. “I knew that Captain Greene had been killed, but I didn’t know you’d lost the others, too.”
“We’ve also lost about a third of our men too, sir.”
Major Bowie looked at Mahoney, Cranepool, and Private Sawyer. The three of them were covered with mud and Mahoney had a dirty white handkerchief tied around his arm where he’d been nicked by a German bayonet.
“Well, here’s the situation,” Major Bowie said. “I think if we move quickly we can take Saint Lo
tonight. The second battalion already is attacking the city from the north. If we coordinate our attack
with theirs, I think we can break the German hold on the city. Get your troops together and prepare to
move them out when I give the word. I myself shall personally lead the attack. We’ve been fighting for
this goddamn city for a long time, and I want to be the first American inside the city limits. Any questions?”
Captain Winslow of Baker Company raised his hand. “My troops are awfully tired, sir.”
“So are the Germans. Saint Lo is hanging before us like an apple and we’re going to pluck it down. Any other questions?”
No one said anything.
“All right—return to your units and get ready to move out.”
“My front has burst wide open!” General Meindl declared to General Choltitz over his field telephone. “I need replacements.”
“I have nothing more to send you,” General Choltitz replied.
“But I can’t hold Saint Lo much longer!”
“The Fuehrer said not to retreat. I hope you have no intention of disobeying orders?”
“I know what I’ll do,” Meindl replied. “I’ll call Rommel. He’ll help me. He always has a company or two up his sleeve.”
“Rommel has been wounded and might die at any moment,” von Choltitz told him.
“What!”
“I suggest you put every man you’ve got up on your line. Get the cooks, medics, clerks, truck drivers—everybody. That ought to give you an extra hundred men, maybe more. If you can stop the Americans they might get discouraged and bring their attack to an end.”
General Meindl’s face turned red. His headquarters were in the cellar of a mansion that had been bombed to the ground. “Discouraged?” he asked. “Why should the Americans be discouraged? If we haven’t stopped them already, we won’t stop them with a few medics and clerks.”
“But you must, General Meindl. It is an order. That is all. Heil Hitler!”
General Meindl found himself staring at a dead telephone. He hung it up and looked at his map.
The Americans had captured the important hill to the west of the town and were attacking from the north. If they didn’t attack en masse, maybe he could hold them with what he had, and if he could hold them, maybe some reinforcements could be found somewhere.
He issued orders that would mobilize all his support personnel and send them to the front line. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was seven-thirty in the evening. It would be dark soon, and he hoped the Americans would hold off their big push until morning.
American engineers fortified Hill 122 with sandbags in case the Germans counterattacked, and the artillery batteries moved their big guns up so they could support the attack on Saint Lo.
Their barrages began as Major Bowie led the First Battalion down Hill 122 toward Saint Lo. The bottom of the hill sloped away into open fields and orchards on the edge of town, and the First Battalion moved forward, only a half mile from the city.
In the front of the columns, Major Bowie strained his eyes and ears in an effort to find the Second Battalion. They were supposed to be in this vicinity and he wanted to coordinate the attack with them. He sent scouts out, but they returned after fifteen minutes without finding any trace of the Second Battalion. As Major Bowie led his battalion closer to Saint Lo, he wondered whether he should break off the attack or try to take the city with one battalion.
He decided that the Germans were ready to surrender, and that a determined push from his one battalion would result in the long-awaited American capture of Saint Lo.
Far back in the hedgerow country, General Naughton was drinking a cup of black coffee in his command post tent when he received a telephone call from XV Corps headquarters. He was told to hold all his units in place and have them prepare for the big attack in the morning.
General Naughton passed the word on to his regimental commanders, and when Colonel Bayonet Donovan of the 15th Regiment received the orders, he called his battalion commanders.
He couldn’t reach Major Bowie of the First Battalion, so he called Lieutenant Colonel Dickerson of the Second Battalion and told him to stay in place.
“Have you seen the First Battalion?” Colonel Donahue asked.
“No sir.”
“If you do, let me know right away.”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Donovan called the Third and Fourth Battalions, also telling them to button up for the night, and asking if they had seen the First Battalion. They said they hadn’t.
Colonel Donovan hung up the field telephone, wondering where Major Bowie was.
The phone rang in General Meindl’s underground headquarters. He lifted the receiver eagerly, hoping it was news that reinforcements were on the way.
“Yes?” he asked, praying for good news.
“This is Captain Pfeffer,” said the voice on the other end. “My lookouts have reported a small enemy force of around three hundred men heading toward Saint Lo. I thought I should let you know.”
“Are you sure there are only around three hundred of them?”
“Yes sir.”
“That’s strange. I would have expected more.”
“Maybe they think we’ve pulled back from Saint Lo.”
“Well, we haven’t.” Meindl thought for a few moments. “This is what I want you to do. Give way before the Americans and make a little pocket around them. When you have them surrounded, attack and annihilate them all. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Carry out your orders.”
The First Battalion neared the edge of Saint Lo. Major Bowie’s brow was wrinkled with thought. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been able to reach the Second Battalion. He turned to his runner, Private Morgan. “Try to raise the Second Battalion again,” he said.
“I just tried about a minute ago, sir,” Morgan replied.
“Try again.”
“Yes sir.”
The First Battalion continued its night march to Saint Lo, and Private Morgan tried to reach the Second Battalio
n again. “Dumbo One calling Dumbo Two,” he said. “Dumbo One calling Dumbo Two. Over.”
Private Morgan listened to the earpiece, but couldn’t hear anything. “They’re not replying, sir,” Private Morgan said.
“Let me try.”
Private Morgan passed the walkie-talkie to Major Bowie, who held it to his ear. He pressed the button and was about to say the code words, when he realized there was no static coming from the earphone. Pressing the button a few times, he couldn’t even hear the break in current.
“This damn thing’s broken!” Major Bowie said. He turned to Private Morgan. “Did you drop it?”
“As a matter of fact I did, sir, but it didn’t crack or anything like that.”
Major Bowie wheezed and handed the walkie-talkie back to Private Morgan. There was no point in chewing him out—he’d save that for later. The damned replacements he was getting these days were very poorly trained. He held out his arms, and the First Battalion stopped behind him.
They were on the edge of Saint Lo. Bombed-out buildings were only fifty yards ahead. Major Bowie listened but could hear no sound of the enemy. Although he only had one battalion, and it was exhausted and under strength, he thought he could take Saint Lo with it. There didn’t seem to be any Germans in town. If there were, they would have started firing by now. Maybe the Germans had pulled back completely from Saint Lo to set up a defensive line farther south.
He knew he shouldn’t attack Saint Lo alone without proper authorization, particularly since he had no contact with higher headquarters, but he yielded to the temptation of a quick and easy victory.
He raised his arm into the air and moved it forward, signaling that the First Battalion should enter Saint Lo.
The German paratroopers watched them come. They were hidden behind piles of rubble and the walls of bombed-out buildings. Some were in cellars with machine guns and anti-tank guns. They looked at each other and grinned, for they knew that soon they’d be able to exact revenge for the terrible shellacking they’d been taking.
Captain Pfeffer was on the roof of a building, watching the Americans fall into the trap he’d laid for them. Smiling, holding his binoculars against his eyes, he waited patiently for all of them to enter Saint Lo, so that they could be cut off and destroyed.
In the moonlight he could see that the Americans were tired. They dragged their feet and sagged under the weight of their machine guns and mortars. Slowly they poured into Saint Lo.
Soon he would spring his trap.
Major Bowie was surprised that it was so quiet. He thought that at least the Germans would have left some troops behind to fight a delaying action, but they hadn’t even done that. The Germans usually fought hard for every inch of ground they gave up, and they’d defended Saint Lo with exceptional bravery. Why had they suddenly abandoned the town?
Suddenly the world exploded. The German paratroopers opened fire at the Americans simultaneously at an order from Captain Pfeffer, and the first fusillade cut down a huge number of American soldiers.
At the head of the column, Major Bowie turned around to tell his men to take cover, realizing with dismay that he’d walked into a trap. As he was opening his mouth to give the order, a bullet shot through his brain. His mouth wide open, the order on his lips, he fell dead to the pavement of Saint Lo.
The First Battalion didn’t need someone to tell them to take cover. They scattered in all directions, diving behind piles of rubble, burrowing into holes, and leaping into cellars.
Mahoney and Cranepool dropped to their bellies in the middle of the road. Mahoney looked around at the flashes of German rifles and machine guns and realized that the First Battalion was surrounded and cut off. Something had gone wrong and he didn’t know what.
He decided it would be safest in a cellar, because he wouldn’t be vulnerable to mortar rounds falling on his head. Wounded soldiers twisted and screamed on the ground nearby, and he saw a building on the other side of the street. Some American soldiers had run into it and he thought it might be a good place to stage a last stand.
“Cranepool!”
“What?”
Mahoney pointed to the building. “Follow me!”
Mahoney scrambled to his feet and ran toward the building. Cranepool followed him and bullets ricocheted off the pavement around their legs. Mortar rounds and artillery shells fell on the First Battalion, and the men ran around in a panic, trying to get away. The Germans snipers took careful aim and shot them down.
On his way to the building, Mahoney spotted a .30 caliber machine gun lying on the ground. Its crew evidently had abandoned it, and he scooped it up in his big arms.
“Get the ammo crates!” Mahoney yelled at Cranepool.
Cranepool grabbed two ammo crates by their straps and carried them behind Mahoney. Cranepool thought they’d never reach the building alive, but they kept chugging toward it and finally they were inside.
Soldiers were at the windows, firing back at the Germans. The ceiling was partially caved in and huge holes were in the rear wall. Mahoney found the stairs that went down and descended into the cellar. There was an old furnace and boiler and a little workshop that the building superintendent had used. He saw that the windows were almost exactly level with the ground, ideal for a machine gun.
He set up the machine gun behind a window at the rear of the building and lay down. Cranepool lay beside the machine gun and fed a belt of ammunition into its chamber. Mahoney flipped up the sight and adjusted the transverse mechanism. The machine gun swung easily back and forth and Mahoney knew he was going to take some Germans with him before he died.
It still was bedlam out on the street as wounded Americans howled in pain or tried to find shelter. Most of the Americans still alive were in the buildings, and the street was filled with dead and wounded. Mahoney estimated that there were only about fifty men left in the company. He decided to have one last cigar and then have a go at the Germans.
“Smoke break,” Mahoney said to Cranepool as he pulled out a cigar.
Cranepool took out a pack of Camels, and his hands were shaking. “It looks like they’ve got us,” he said.
“Looks that way.”
“Oh shit, Mahoney—we shoulda never left the Rangers.”
“You might be right, there.”
“When we were in the Rangers we used to get some rest between operations. Here it’s just one war after another, and it looks like this might be our last one.”
“Maybe.”
Cranepool held out his hand. “It’s been nice knowing you, Mahoney.”
“Same here, kid.”
“If I don’t make it, and if you do, I’d like you to go to Iowa and visit my folks. I want you to say goodbye to them for me.”
“I’ll write ‘em a letter,” Mahoney grumbled. “I ain’t going out to hillbilly country just to say goodbye for you.”
Mahoney saw something move in the rubble ahead. He squinted his eyes and saw moonlight glint on a German helmet. He fired a machine gun burst at the helmet and it disappeared. He didn’t know whether he’d killed the German or not. More German helmets bobbed around behind the rubble, and Mahoney fired his machine gun at them. Bullets ricocheted off the ground in front of his machine gun and whizzed over his head. The Germans were firing back but he dared not hide because his best chance was to keep shooting and kill the Germans before they killed him.
His machine gun faced a yard and the rubble of buildings behind it. He saw Germans swarming among the rubble, firing their guns and maybe getting ready for an attack. Mahoney wanted to pull the trigger of his machine gun all the way back and leave it there, but he forced himself to fire in bursts of six like the manuals said, so that his barrel wouldn’t melt.
Gritting his teeth, sweat pouring down his face, Mahoney swung the machine gun from side to side, firing bursts of thirty caliber bullets. Cranepool chewed his lips and fed the ammunition belts into the machine gun. A German soldier threw a hand grenade which exploded near the window. Mahoney
ducked his head for a few seconds and then brought it up again quickly, firing his bursts frantically. Another hand grenade was thrown, and it hit Mahoney on the helmet. Cranepool caught the grenade in mid-air and threw it back out the window. Cranepool and Mahoney lowered their heads, and the grenade exploded a second later.
Mahoney heard a German shout to charge. He raised his head quickly and pulled the trigger even before he could see what was going on. Through the smoke of his machine gun he could see Germans attacking. He decided to hell with the barrel and kept the trigger pulled all the way as he swung the machine gun from side to side, mowing down the waves of attacking Germans. The bullets ripped the Germans apart, sending them spinning through the air like ballerinas, but some kept coming. Mahoney’s eyes were filled with flames as he fired his machine gun and hoped he could stop the Germans. Some of them came within five yards of Mahoney’s position before they fell back. They returned to their attack positions behind the rubble and left piles of their dead strewn about the yard.
Mahoney stopped firing his machine gun to give it a rest. He puffed his cigar nervously because that attack had been too close for comfort. He looked around the cellar and saw other soldiers firing at the Germans. His ears ached from the reverberations in the tiny room.
Cranepool lit a cigarette with trembling hands. His face was drained of color and Mahoney never had seen him so scared. Mahoney couldn’t remember being so scared either. The First Battalion was cut off, surrounded, and outnumbered. It would only be a matter of time before the Germans overwhelmed them.
“Here they come again!” shouted a soldier nearby.
Mahoney grabbed his machine gun and saw the Germans rushing toward his building. Biting down hard on his cigar, he pulled the trigger and sprayed them with hot lead.
I wonder how long we can hold out, he thought as he shot the Germans down.
