by Len Levinson
The mess sergeant scowled at them. “You two had better get out of here before I call the MPs.”
“Aw, Sarge,” Cranepool wailed.
“You heard me! Get the hell out of here!”
Cranepool looked at the liver on the grill and wanted to dive onto it with his mouth open. Mahoney grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him out of the mess tent.
“I’m so hungry I think I’m gonna die,” Cranepool said, when they were outside. He unslung his rifle. “I think I’m gonna shoot that son of a bitch.”
Mahoney grabbed Cranepool’s rifle. “Don’t blow your cork so soon. Let’s scout around this tent a little. Maybe they’ve got something lying around that we can scoff up.”
Cranepool reslung his rifle and followed Mahoney. “Okay,” he mumbled, “but if I don’t get something to eat pretty soon I think I’m gonna pass out.”
Across the square in a building that hadn’t been damaged much in the bombing was the G-4 section (supply) for the Hammerhead Division. G-4 had become the repository of all the flotsam and jetsam of the division: the people awaiting orders, reassignments, etc., plus officers who’d been relieved of command.
Captain Ernest Tugwell and Sergeant Oakie Jones had been transferred to division G-4, and they’d been passing their time far behind the lines pushing pieces of paper around. There wasn’t much for them to do and now they were walking down the cracked steps of the building because they had all their work done for the day. They wore soft caps and looked rather spiffy compared to the combat soldiers still in town. Strapped to their waists were Colt forty-fives that they carried mostly for show.
Captain Tugwell grabbed Sergeant Jones’ arm. “Do you see who I see over there?” he asked.
“Where?”
“In back of that mess tent.”
Oakie Jones looked and his jaw dropped when he saw Mahoney and Cranepool. “It’s the asshole buddies,” he said. “I wonder what they’re doing over there?”
“If I know them two, it’s gotta be something wrong. Let’s watch and see.”
Mahoney and Cranepool turned a corner behind the supply tent and saw a stack of boxes that contained C Rations.
“Looka there,” Mahoney said.
“Wowie!” Cranepool replied.
Mahoney glanced around. “I don’t see no guards.”
“Neither do I.”
“You grab a box and follow me.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Looking around furtively, Cranepool tore a box off the top of the pile. He heaved it onto his shoulder and followed Mahoney, who was heading toward the hospital tent. Cranepool thought of all the wonderful sausage patties and corned beef in the box. There’d also be fruit cocktail and packs of cigarettes. He couldn’t wait to open the box and dive into it.
“Halt!”
Cranepool looked in the direction of the voice and nearly fainted at what he saw. Captain Tugwell and Sergeant Jones were rushing across the cobblestone street, their pistols drawn and mean expressions on their faces. “Oh-oh,” he said.
“Let me do the talking,” Mahoney told him.
Mahoney and Cranepool stopped halfway between the mess tent and the hospital tent. They were in the street and jeeps drove past them.
“Where are you going with that box, soldier?” Captain Tugwell asked, a vicious smile on his face.
“We’re gonna eat it,” Mahoney replied.
“That’s the G-four mess tent, soldier. You’re not in G-four, are you?”
“Cut the shit, Tugwell,” Mahoney replied. “You know damn well what company we’re in.”
“Yeah,” Cranepool added. “We’re in the company that the both of you got thrown the fuck out of.”
A muscle in Tugwell’s jaw twitched, and his smile vanished. “You two are stealing army supplies and I’m going to call the MPs.”
Sergeant Jones chortled. “I always knew that you two asshole buddies would go too far someday, and it looks like this is that day.”
“We’re just getting ourselves some food,” Mahoney explained. “We haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon sometime.”
“You’re supposed to get your rations at your own mess tent and you know it,” Tugwell said.
“We don’t have any mess tent,” Mahoney protested. “The whole damn company’s been just about wiped out again.”
“That’s too bad,” Tugwell said. He waved his pistol. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s go where?” Mahoney asked.
“To my office so’s I can call the MPs.”
Mahoney smiled sarcastically. “Fuck you,” he said. “I ain’t going to your office.” He looked at Cranepool. “Let’s go.”
Mahoney and Cranepool started walking away. Mahoney was bluffing—he didn’t think Tugwell and Jones would dare shoot him down in Saint Lo in broad daylight. And he was right. Tugwell and Jones looked at each other in alarm. The culprits were defying them and walking away. Jones ran after Mahoney and grabbed his arm.
“Now you just wait a goddamn minute, there!” Jones said.
Mahoney stopped and looked Jones in the eye. “Take your fucking hands off me, cock-sucker.”
Jones gripped him tighter. “You’d better come with us if you know what’s good for you!”
“I said take your hands off me.”
Jones pulled Mahoney. “You’ve gone too far this time, asshole!”
Mahoney delivered a lightning right hook to Jones’ jaw, and Jones went down for the count. Captain Tugwell advanced toward Mahoney, his pistol aimed at Mahoney’s heart. A crowd of soldiers was forming in the center of the square.
“You’ll get a firing squad for this!” Captain Tugwell said.
Mahoney’s fists were balled up and he looked down at Sergeant Jones, who was trying to rise. Jones’ face was out of line and his mouth hung open.
“I think the fucker broke my jaw,” Jones said thickly, blood dripping down his lips.
General George S. Patton was in the hospital tent a few yards away, and heard the commotion outside. He’d been visiting the wounded men of the 33rd Division because the Hammerheads would become a part of his Third Army in a few days.
“What the hell’s going on out there!” he mumbled, striding toward the big tent flap.
He wore his riding boots and pearl-handled revolver. His uniform was tan and his helmet had two stars in front. He burst through the tent flaps and saw a crowd of soldiers not far away. Walking toward the crowd, he pushed two soldiers out of his way as he made his way toward the center of the commotion.
“Hey!” said one of the soldiers he’d pushed.
The soldier recognized old Blood and Guts Patton, and sucked wind. “Ten-HUT!” he shouted.
Everybody shot to attention. They looked at Patton and made way. Patton passed among them and came to the center of the crowd. He saw a captain pointing a forty-five at a master sergeant who looked like he’d been on the front lines too long, and another master sergeant holding his face and bleeding from the mouth. Nearby was a corporal carrying a crate of C rations on his shoulder.
“What’s this all about?” Patton demanded.
“Sir,” said Captain Tugwell, “Sergeant Jones here and myself perceived these two soldiers stealing C rations from that mess tent over there. We tried to stop them, and that Sergeant, whose name is Mahoney, struck Sergeant Jones when he wasn’t looking.”
Patton scowled at the Captain, who was neat as a pin and looked as though he was on furlough in Chicago. The Sergeant with the bleeding mouth looked similarly decked out. Patton turned to the combat soldier, noticing the bloody handkerchief on his left arm and haunted look in his eyes.
“What’s your side of it, soldier?”
Mahoney wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. “Well sir, it was like this,” he said. “My buddy Cranepool and me was hungry because we hadn’t ate since yesterday sometime. We couldn’t get rations from our own company because our own company doesn’t exist much anymore. You see sir, we were t
he first ones to come to Saint Lo last night and we took a helluva beating until the rest of the regiment showed up. So anyway, me and Cranepool went looking for something to eat, and we found this mess hall here.” Mahoney pointed to it with his thumb. “We went inside for some chow, but they wouldn’t give us any, so Cranepool and I figured we’d take one of these boxes here, because we figured we was entitled to something to eat. Just as we were taking it, Captain Tugwell and Sergeant Jones came across the street and tried to stop us. We know them because they both used to be in our company and they got thrown out on their asses. Jones grabbed me and I punched him right in the fucking mouth, and I’m sorry about that, I really am sir, but you know how crazy you get sometimes when you’re up all night and you haven’t had anything to eat for awhile.” Mahoney shrugged and held out his hands.
Patton narrowed his eyes as he examined Mahoney. There was something familiar about him, and then Patton realized what it was. This was the soldier he’d seen at that open Mass in the field on the day he’d arrived in Normandy. The soldier had looked as though he was having a powerful spiritual experience, and Patton had not forgotten it. Now here he was again, the same soldier, and he looked like a mean son of a bitch—just the kind of soldier that General Patton loved.
“Somebody get that mess sergeant for me,” General Patton said.
A soldier detached himself from the crowd and ran into the mess tent. Patton looked at Captain Tugwell. “Put that forty-five away, Captain.”
“Yes sir.” Tugwell holstered his pistol.
“Let me tell you something,” Patton said, pointing at Tugwell. “An officer’s first responsibility is to his men. When you found out that these two combat soldiers were hungry, you should have seen to it that they were fed. They’ve been fighting all night—look at them. I’m not surprised that the sergeant fought back, after what he’s been through. As far as I’m concerned, you’re guilty of dereliction of duty.” Patton turned to one of his aides. “Take down their names and all relevant information about them.”
“Yes sir.”
The aide took out his pad and asked Captain Tugwell for his full name, as the mess sergeant, with terror in his eyes, approached General Patton, wiping his hands on his dirty white apron.
“Sergeant McGurk reporting, sir,” he said, throwing a sloppy salute.
Patton pointed to Mahoney and Cranepool. “Did you ever see these men before?”
McGurk looked at them. “Yes sir.”
“Did you refuse to feed them a short time ago?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why?” Patton asked, placing his fists on his hips.
“Because they’re not in my outfit, sir.”
“Do you think they’re German soldiers?”
“No sir,” McGurk replied.
“Do you think they’re Japs?”
“No sir,”
“Do you think they might be American soldiers, by any chance?”
“Yes sir.”
Patton’s face became red with rage. “Then they’re in your outfit, sergeant, and you’d better feed them!” he bellowed.
McGurk was pale and trembling. “Yes sir.”
“And if front line soldiers ever show up hungry at your tent again, you’d better give them something to eat!”
“Yes sir.”
“Get back in there and prepare a meal for these two soldiers.”
“Yes sir!”
McGurk saluted, did an about-face, and ran back into his tent. Patton looked at his aide. “Did you get all the information down?”
“Yes sir.”
Patton turned to Captain Tugwell and Sergeant Jones. “You two return to your units. You’ll be hearing from me.”
“Yes sir,” they said in unison, saluting and walking away.
Patton waved his hand. “All you men return to duty, except for Sergeant Mahoney and Corporal Cranepool.”
The soldiers scattered in all directions, leaving Mahoney and Cranepool with Patton and his aides.
Patton looked up at Mahoney and squinted. “Who are you anyway?”
“Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney, sir. Charlie Company, First Battalion, Fifteenth Regiment, Thirty-third Division.”
“How long have you been in the Army, Sergeant?”
“Almost ten years, sir.”
“Hmmm. Well, keep your nose clean from now on, Sergeant, and you too, Corporal. If either of you have any trouble of this nature again, I’d like you to contact me directly. That’s all—go get yourselves some chow.”
“Yes sir.”
Mahoney and Cranepool saluted General Patton, then turned and marched swiftly into the mess tent.
Hitler sat in his office at Bertchesgaden, looking at a list of names. His right arm was in a sling, cotton was stuffed in his ears, and both his legs were bandaged. The drapes were closed because sunlight hurt his eyes, and only a low wattage electric lamp illuminated the top of his desk.
Behind him, looking over his shoulder, was Reichfuehrer Heinrich Himmler, wearing the black uniform of the SS, He wore glasses and his face suggested a mosquito.
“Amazing,” Hitler mumbled reading the names of officers linked to the plot on his life. There was Field Marshal von Witzleben, General Hoepner, General Fromm, General Beck, and Colonel von Stauffenberg, among others. The list went on and on. “The swine,” Hitler said. “The filth! The scum!”
“Look at this one,” Himmler said, pointing to a name on the list.
Hitler looked at the name beside Himmler’s finger, and gasped. “Not Rommel too!”
“Yes.”
“You have proof?”
“Von Hofacker told me that Rommel was scheduled to take over as Fuehrer, before he was wounded.”
“No!” Hitler said.
“Yes. Rommel was one of them.”
“But he was such a fine officer!”
“Shall I hang him with all the rest?”
Hitler thought for a few moments. “No,” he said. “Rommel is a hero to the German people and they wouldn’t stand for it, particularly since you’d have to drag him out of his hospital bed. Moreover, he has rendered great services to the Reich in the past. He may not survive his wounds anyway, but if he does, I think I’ll give him an honorable way out, a way befitting a Field Marshal of the Reich.” Hitler turned to Himmler. “Don’t you agree.”
Himmler raised his right eyebrow. “I think you ought to let me hang him.”
“Ach—you’re so bloodthirsty, Heinrich!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The American armies pushed past Saint Lo and prepared for Operation Cobra, the attack that would break them loose from Normandy for once and for all. The attack would be preceded by carpet bombing similar to that which began the battle for Saint Lo. There were several miles of hedgerow terrain in front of rolling green plains suitable for armor. The objective was to fight through the hedgerows and then turn the tanks loose on the Germans.
The Thirty-third Division became part of Patton’s Third Army and was brought up to full strength with replacements. They were on the right side of the line between Saint Lo and Coutances, the jump-off point, and when Mahoney and Cranepool caught up with them, they found out that they had a new commanding officer, a new exec, and a new first sergeant named Hamilton Botcho.
Botcho was as tall as Mahoney and had round shoulders like a gorilla. His two top front teeth were missing and his nose was mashed against his face. He also needed a shave.
“Where the fuck you guys been?” Botcho asked, in the command post tent.
“In Saint Lo,” Mahoney replied.
“I thought you two were fucking dead and that’s the way I carried you on yesterday’s morning report.”
Mahoney shrugged. “Well, we’re alive.”
“I can see that.” He looked at Cranepool. “What you got under your arm?”
“A crate of C rations, Sergeant.”
“What are you—fucking hungry or something?”
“No sergeant.”
“They what are you doing with fucking C rations?”
“Just in case, sergeant.”
“In case of what?”
“In case I get hungry.”
Botcho snorted. “If you get hungry, go to the fucking mess hall! That’s what it’s there for! I don’t want my men carrying around crates of C rations! Are you a trooper or are you a cook?”
“I’m a trooper, sergeant.”
“Then put those C rations on the floor over there!”
“Yes sergeant.”
Cranepool placed the crate of C rations on the floor. Botcho banged around his desk, sending pieces of paper flying into the air. “I don’t have your records anymore and I don’t know a fucking thing about either of you. For all I know you might be deserters. I don’t even know where to assign you. Go take a walk and let me think about it. Come see me after chow tonight and maybe I’ll have an answer by then. Okay—beat it.”
Mahoney cleared his throat. “Aren’t we gonna meet the company commander?”
Botcho turned down the corners of his mouth. “Whataya wanna meet him for?”
“Aren’t new company commanders supposed to meet their soldiers?”
“Fuck you,” Botcho said with a wave of his hand. “Get out of here. I’ve got things to do.”
Mahoney and Cranepool left the tent.
“What do you think of him?” Cranepool asked.
Mahoney shrugged. “I think he’s okay.”
“But if he’s okay, why didn’t he let me keep my C rations?”
“Because he could see you’re a fucking asshole, that’s why.”
They heard a roar behind them and jumped two feet off the ground. Turning around, they saw a tank with four long prongs bolted to its front deck. The tank steered around them and kept going across the field, spewing oily smoke from its big exhaust.
“What a funny-looking tank,” Cranepool said.
Mahoney stared at the tank, his forehead wrinkled. “Yeah.”
The tank stopped and the top hatch opened. A young second lieutenant poked his head out and took off his helmet. He climbed out of the hatch and stood on the front deck, leaning against the cannon. The engine of the tank was turned off and a sergeant climbed out of the hatch.
