Doom Platoon

by Levinson, Len

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  My So-Called Literary Career

  John Lennon and Me

  THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE – ONE PLATOON HAD TO HOLD THE PANZER LEHR DIVISION!

  The Germans were beaten … but no one had thought to tell them. So they launched a lightning attack through the Ardennes, right over the U.S. 25th Infantry.

  There was a big depot at Dillendorf. If the German tanks could be kept from it, they’d run out of gas and the attack could be stopped. If the Panzers took the depot, nothing would stop them until they reached the sea!

  There was a narrow spot on the road to Dillendorf. The second platoon was ordered to hold it against a Panzer division; to hold it until noon. No one expected them to survive, but Sergeant Mazursky refused to die!

  THE COLLECTED PULP FICTION OF LEN LEVINSON

  DOOM PLATOON

  By Len Levinson writing as Richard Gallagher

  First published by Belmont Tower in 1978

  Copyright © 1978, 2013 by Len Levinson

  First Kindle Edition: August 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero

  This is a Pulp Heaven Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  The shell roared overhead and exploded a few hundred yards away.

  Sergeant Mazursky opened his eyes. “What the fuck was that?”

  “An artillery shell,” replied Corporal Dooley, who had been sleeping next to Mazursky in the pup tent.

  “I know it was a fucking artillery shell.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  Mazursky grunted something unintelligible.

  “Go back to sleep,” said Dooley. “Some German must’ve leaned on his cannon by mistake, and it went off.”

  Mazursky sat up and put on his steel helmet. He was 32 years old, unshaven, and looked mean. He didn’t think the German cannon went off by mistake. Reaching into the breast pocket of his field jacket, he took out a half-smoked cigar, putting it in his mouth. He lit it with his trusty old Zippo. In the light of the Zippo he looked at his watch. It was 0530 hours in the morning of December 16, 1944, and his regiment was on the front line in the Ardennes Forest of France.

  There was another shell explosion, this one a few hundred yards to the front.

  Dooley sat up and reached for his helmet. “Oh shit,” he murmured.

  “Artillery attack,” said Mazursky. “We’d better get into the trench.”

  “Oh fuck.”

  They strung bandoliers of ammunition around their shoulders and clipped hand grenades to their lapels. Then they dragged their M-l rifles out of the pup tent. It was a cold, wintry night and there was a thin layer of ice on top of the snow. Their breath made clouds of smoke as they struck the tent, unbuttoned it, and dragged each half with their packs toward the trench. Looking up into the sky, they could see no moon or stars. That meant no air cover, because the Air Corps didn’t fly in weather like this. Before they reached the trench a shell landed within their company area, and they dropped to their stomachs on the snow. The explosion knocked over a few tall trees, and sent dirt and snow flying through the air. They leapt up, ran to the trench, and dove in.

  “They’ve got our range,” said Dooley, his back against the wall of the trench. He was tall and slim, with red hair and a lantern jaw.

  “I think they knew pretty much where we were.”

  “I wonder what’s going on?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  Five more shells landed nearly simultaneously in the company area. Mazursky sat on his haunches and puffed his cigar. He’d fought in Sicily and he’d been in the first wave that went ashore on Normandy Beach. A professional soldier, he’d joined the Army in 1935 when he was twenty years old. This was the third time he’d been a sergeant; he’d been busted the two other times because he had a tendency to get drunk and disorderly while on pass.

  The trench began to fill up with members of the Second Platoon, leaping and diving into the trench from all directions, dragging pup tents, packs, rifles, and C-rations.

  Private Morelli of Brooklyn landed beside Mazursky and looked at him. “I thought this was supposed to be a fucking rest area.”

  “So did I,” muttered Mazursky, chewing his cigar.

  The 25th Regiment had been sent to the Ardennes after taking a terrible mauling in the Hurtgen Forest campaign only three days before. They’d suffered heavy casualties, and now were under strength and battle-fatigued. The Ardennes Forest was considered the safest part of the Allied front line, because the trees and hills made maneuverability difficult for the motorized armies of the Third Reich. The Germans would never attack here, it was thought, and besides, the Germans were being thrown back everywhere. It was unlikely that they’d ever be able to mount a major attack again.

  But in the forward salient of the Ardennes line, shells rained down on Charlie Company. They didn’t know it, but it was the beginning of the Battle of the Bulge.

  “Sergeant Mazursky!” called out the familiar voice of Lieutenant Smith.

  “Over here!” yelled Mazursky.

  Lieutenant Smith came crawling through the trench, the silver bar of his rank in the center of his helmet. His eyes burned like two hot coals, his cheeks had been hollowed out by six months of front-line warfare, and he had a tendency to chew his lips whenever he was nervous, which was almost always. He was followed by Pfc. Sheldon Stein, his runner. Stein carried a walkie-talkie, a bazooka, and an M-l carbine.

  “Looks like we’re going to get attacked,” Smith said to Mazursky.

  “Looks that way.”

  “I think you’d better tell the men to fix bayonets.”

  “FIX BAYONETS!” Mazursky screamed.

  There was rustling and clanking in the trench as the men unhooked their bayonets and fastened them to the barrels of their rifles. Mazursky looked at Smith. Artillery shells were making their ears ring, and the earth trembled beneath their feet.

  “If we get attacked, we’re going to be in trouble,” Mazursky said. “We don’t have much people, and we’re stretched awfully thin.”

  “Maybe they won’t have much people either.”

  “They wouldn’t be throwing all this artillery at us if they didn’t mean to back it up with troops.”

  “I don’t think their main attack will come here. They can’t drive tanks through these woods.”

  “The road to Dillendorf is less than a two miles away. They might want to secure these woods so they can use that road. And you know what’s in Dillendorf.”

  “Oil.”

  “Right.”

  Smith took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his blond hair. He thought of his wife in Des Moines and wondered what she was doing right now. A shell came whistling down and they all fell in the bottom of the trench. The shell landed about twenty yards away, filling the air with smoke and phosphorous. Smith raised himself on his knees and chewed his lips.

  “I think we should get the hell out o
f here,” Smith said.

  “That’s okay by me,” Mazursky replied.

  “I already called the CO. He said he’d reported our situation and was awaiting orders himself.”

  “They’re probably fucking around, putting pins in maps at Division. Meanwhile we’re liable to get overrun.”

  “They’ll have to overrun Company A and B first. They’ll tip us off.”

  “Yeah,” said Mazursky, but he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t believe anything unless he saw it with his own eyes, or heard it with his own ears.

  Pfc. Stein had his ear pressed to the walkie-talkie. He spoke a few words into it, then tapped Smith on the shoulder. “Shanahan wants to speak to you, Lieutenant.” Shanahan was the company executive officer.

  Lieutenant Smith took the walkie-talkie, held it to his ear, and pressed the button. “Smith here.”

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “Heavy bombardment. Can’t you hear it?”

  “See anything?”

  “Just the inside of this trench.”

  “You don’t have lookouts posted?”

  “Yeah. There’s nothing but shells exploding. When the shells stop coming in, that’s when we have to worry.”

  “The Old Man wants to see you. Get here as soon as you can.”

  “What do you hear from Division?”

  “I said get here as soon as you can. That’s an order. Over and out.”

  Smith handed the walkie-talkie back to Stein and looked at Mazursky. “That was Shanahan. The Old Man wants to see me. Take charge of the platoon.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’d better stick your head up every once in a while to see what’s going on out there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “If the shelling stops, prepare for an attack.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lieutenant Smith looked at Pfc. Stein. “Let’s go to see the Old Man.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Smith and Stein went up over the side of the trench and crawled over the snow and dirt toward company headquarters, a bunker around 75 yards back. Mazursky watched them go, but then a shell came whistling down and he hit the dirt. He cursed himself for not asking Lieutenant Smith to ask the Old Man for permission to pull back, or for reinforcements. If neither of those two things happened, things might get a little serious in the second platoon.

  “Who’s got the other fucking walkie-talkie!” he yelled.

  “I do,” replied a voice down the trench, a voice he recognized as belong to Pfc. Albright.

  “Bring it over here.”

  Albright, a chubby 18-year-old from Toledo, squeezed his way down the trench with the walkie-talkie.

  Mazursky took it from him, pressed the button, and spoke the call letters of the fourth platoon, which was the heavy weapons platoon.

  He was answered by the platoon sergeant, whose name was Rawls.

  “I was wondering,” Mazursky said, “how you’ve got your mortars set up.”

  “Do I call you and ask how you’ve got your clowns set up?”

  “You should have them zeroed in on an area extending from about fifty yards in front of our position up to the point of your farthest visibility. Do you have them that way?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hey Mazursky, this isn’t your platoon anymore, remember? This is my platoon.”

  “How do you have them set up?”

  “They’re aimed on the other side of Hill 103.”

  “What the fuck good is that supposed to do?”

  “Them’s my orders.”

  “When did you get those orders?”

  “When we got here three days ago.”

  “But we’re under attack right now.”

  “I still ain’t had no new orders yet.”

  “You’re in charge of the platoon now. You give the orders.”

  “I ain’t doing nothing until Lieutenant Ledoux tells me.”

  Mazursky chewed his cigar. Ledoux must have gone to the meeting with the Old Man “What are your machine guns doing?”

  “Don’t worry about my machine guns.”

  “You’ve got to have overlapping fields of fire, Rawls. There can’t be any holes. We’re liable to get attacked any minute.”

  “I don’t have time for this conversation, Mazursky.”

  “You’d better change those mortars around. It don’t make sense to have them aimed where you’re aiming them.”

  “When you become the company commander, then you can start telling me where to put my mortars. Until then, over and out.”

  Mazursky chewed his cigar and handed the walkie-talkie back to Pfc. Albright. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered.

  “Who me?” asked Albright.

  “No, Rawls, But you’re an asshole too.”

  “What’d l do?”

  “Shut up and don’t go too far away with that walkie-talkie.”

  Mazursky relit the stub of his cigar. Something told him that the attack would be coming pretty soon. He hoped orders to pull back would come before the attack, but he couldn’t rely on headquarters to save his ass. He’d have to try to save it himself. A shell exploded at the rim of the trench, splattering him with mud. He wiped it off his face and went drawling down the trench, positioning his men, telling them to get ready to shoot fast and throw lots of hand grenades. He was especially careful with his BAR men, because they had the only automatic weapons in the platoon.

  One of the BAR men, Private Nowicki of Pittsburgh, had his BAR taken apart on his poncho at the bottom of the trench.

  Mazursky crawled up to him. “What in the dogshit do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m cleaning my BAR.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes sergeant.”

  “You should’ve cleaned it last night.”

  “I did clean it last night.”

  “Then what’re you cleaning it now for?”

  “Because I wanna make sure it doesn’t jam.”

  “I think your fucking head is jammed. Don’t you know we’re gonna be attacked any minute?”

  “That’s why I wanna make sure my BAR is working right.”

  Mazursky glared at him. “You fucking dimwit, you’d better put that weapon together right now or I’ll kick your head in.”

  “Yes sergeant.”

  Corporal Ginsberg, leader of the first squad, came crawling over. “What’s the problem here, sergeant?”

  Mazursky took his cigar out of his mouth and held it in the tips of his fingers. “Your man is taking his BAR apart and we might be attacked at any moment.”

  “He was just making sure it wasn’t jammed, sergeant.”

  Mazursky looked at Nowicki. “Why don’t you fire it to make sure it isn’t jammed?”

  Nowicki shrugged his massive shoulders. “Because it might get jammed after I fire it. The only way to tell for sure is to examine those little holes in the compression chamber.”

  “I think you’ve got little holes in your head, Nowicki. No, I take that back. I think you got big holes in your head.” Mazursky turned to Ginsberg. “Why do you let this idiot take his BAR apart at times like this?”

  Ginsberg sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Because he gets very nervous if I don’t let him.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if he gets nervous or not. What is this, a fucking psychiatrist’s office? Next time I find him like this, I’m going to kick him right in the head, and you too, got me?”

  “I got you, sergeant.”

  “You stupid fuck, Ginsberg.”

  Mazursky crawled by Ginsberg and made his way to his anti-tank squad, which consisted of three anti-tank guns. He was supposed to have four, but the other one had been put out of action in the Hurtgen Forest nine days ago. The three gun crews had their ammunition ready and were poised for action.

  “We might get some light tanks and some personnel carriers coming at us, so make every shot count, got me?”

  “Yes
sergeant.”

  Mazursky crawled back to the position he’d had beside Corporal Dooley, while Albright crawled right behind him.

  “See anything up here?” Mazursky asked Dooley.

  “Who’s looking?”

  “You’re supposed to be looking, you stupid fuck.”

  “I ain’t putting my head up there while these shells are falling.”

  “I’m surrounded by assholes.” Mazursky looked at Albright. “Have you heard anything from headquarters yet?”

  “If I did I would’ve told you.”

  “Just give me a yes or a no, Albright. Never mind the song and dance.”

  “No, sergeant.”

  “That’s better.”

  Mazursky sat down in the trench. He threw away his cigar stub because it was too short to relight. He might burn his nose off. Reaching into a pocket of his field jacket, he pulled out another cigar. His mother sent him a box of them every month from East Seventh Street in New York City. Mazursky lit it and wished he was on Park Avenue where all the whores were.

  Looking at his watch, he sat that it was 0545 hours. The bombardment had been underway for about fifteen minutes. He wondered when the attack would begin.

  “Nowicki!” he yelled down the trench. “You got that BAR together yet!”

  “Yes sergeant!”

  “You stupid fuck,” Mazursky muttered, opening the chamber of his M-l and looking inside at the clip of .30 caliber bullets.

  It’s going to be a shitty day, he thought.

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Smith slid into the trench beside the command bunker. He readjusted his helmet, brushed mud off the front of his field jacket, and removed the ammunition clip from his carbine. Pfc. Stein landed beside him, his two little eyes peering out from underneath his helmet.

  “You wait for me here, Stein.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Keep your head down.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lieutenant Smith opened the door of the command bunker and went inside. Captain DiPietro, a short swarthy man in helmet and Ike jacket, stood before a map on a table beneath a lantern. With him was Lieutenant Shanahan, the executive officer, Lieutenant LeDoux of the fourth platoon, Lieutenant Kingsbury of the third platoon, and Sergeant Neff of the first platoon, whose lieutenant had been felled by a machine gun burst in the Hurtgen Forest.