Doom Platoon

by Levinson, Len

  The second platoon moved across the shell craters and broken trees. Whenever an incoming shell sounded like it might land close, they dropped to their bellies on the snow and prayed that it wouldn’t fall on them. After the shell exploded they got up and kept moving.

  Mazursky’s eyes were darting about at trees, boulders, gullies, looking for signs of enemy troop movements. In the distance where the enemy lines were he could make out the rumble of a bombardment, which meant that the allied artillery was retaliating. Good. Bomb the bastards into smithereens. They came to a little valley in the woodland area and went down into it. It was a peaceful little valley that somehow, miraculously, had escaped the shellfire. Through its center passed a little brook. Mazursky marveled at how peaceful the little valley was; it was hard for him to imagine that there was a war on. And then he realized that there’d been no shelling for the past several minutes.

  Lieutenant Smith, at the center of the antitank squad, also was aware that the shelling had stopped. He didn’t consider this good news, because it meant that the German troop attack would begin now, and after that the panzer division would show up on the road to Dillendorf. Turning to Stein, he told him to call Mazursky on the walkie-talkie.

  “Mazursky here.”

  “This is Lieutenant Smith. Have you noticed that the shelling has stopped.”

  “Yes sir. I was just about to call you and tell you so.”

  “We’ll be able to move faster now. Tell the men to step it out.”

  “Yes-sir.”

  Mazursky handed the walkie-talkie back to Albright. “All right you cocksuckers!” he yelled. “They ain’t shelling us anymore so move your fucking asses—let’s go!”

  They went up the side of the valley and found themselves in a sparsely wooded plain. Mazursky looked at his watch; it was 0715 hours but still fairly dark because of the thick blanket of clouds. He chewed his cigar stub and searched for signs of the enemy. There was nothing that he could see.

  They crossed the plain and entered a thickly wooded forest. The branches and bushes slowed them down and scratched their faces. The day became a bit brighter, but there was still too much cloud cover for air support. From afar, Mazursky could hear the sound of bombardments, machine gun fire, and small arms fire. Battles seemed to be going on everywhere. He looked ahead and saw Nazario threading his way through the bushes.

  “Lieutenant Smith wants to talk to you, sergeant,” said Albright, holding out the walkie-talkie.

  Mazursky took the walkie-talkie and pressed the button. “Mazursky here.”

  “This is Lieutenant Smith, sergeant. Tell the men to take a break in place, and I want you to report to me immediately.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mazursky handed back the walkie-talkie and held out his arms, the signal to stop. Then he waved his arms, the signal to get down. Around him, the second platoon dropped to the snow.

  “Corporal Dooley!”

  “Hup Sarge!”

  “Get over here!’’

  “Hup Sarge!”

  Dooley came crawling from the rear of the first squad diamond, his M-1 cradled in his arms.

  “Take charge of your squad,” Mazursky told him. “I’ve gotta go back and talk to Lieutenant Smith.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Mazursky turned to Albright. “Stay close.”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  “I thought I told you to cut that ‘Hup Sarge’ shit out.”

  “How come you didn’t say anything when Corporal Dooley said it?”

  Mazursky squinted his eyes. “Have you somehow without me knowing it become promoted over me, Fuckbright?”

  “No, sergeant.”

  “Then who in the fuck are you to ask me why I say things and why I don’t?”

  “I don’t know, sarge.”

  “Then hereafter keep your asshole questions to yourself, understand?”

  “Hup sarge.”

  Mazursky grabbed him by the throat. “You little shitfucker, I’m going to kill you if you don’t cut that out!”

  “I’m sorry sergeant—I forgot!” Albright squealed.

  “You’d better not forget again.”

  “I won’t. I won’t.”

  Mazursky let him go. “Now follow me.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Mazursky.”

  “That’s better.”

  Mazursky raised his head and looked around. The second platoon was lying on the snow or the portions of the ground that were bare. In the distance he could see nothing. He leapt to his feet and ran in a crouch to the center of the anti-tank diamond, which happened to be right behind the first squad diamond. He heard Albright running behind him. Bursting past the point man of anti-tank squad, he headed for Lieutenant Smith and dropped on his belly beside him. A second later Albright dropped behind him. Mazursky hoped everybody in the platoon had seen his own little run, so that they’d realize he was still in good physical shape and could kick ass if that became necessary.

  “At ease, sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take out your notepad, pencil, compass, and map, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mazursky removed the required objects from his pockets, as Lieuteant Smith spread his own map out on his poncho.

  “I thought I’d better tell you our exact line of march and our objective,” Lieutenant Smith said. He pointed to the map. “This is where we are now.’’ He pointed to a spot on the Dillendorf road. “And this is where were going. Mark it on your map.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mazursky made the mark.

  “We’re on an azimuth of about 270 degrees. Write it down.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mazursky wrote it down.

  “There are cliffs and caves at our objective on the road. That’s where we make our stand. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You may return to your squad now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give them another five minutes of rest and then move them out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mazursky and Albright ran back to their position in the first squad and dropped to their stomachs. They rested another five minutes, and then Mazursky got to his feet. The platoon members saw him and knew the break was over. Grumbling, they got up. Mazursky moved his arm over his head and they moved out again.

  In their diamond formations, the second platoon continued moving through the forest. On the other side was a hill that they went around, and then there was a farmer’s field. Mazursky figured that the Dillendorf Road must be less than a mile away.. They passed over the field and entered some gently rolling wooded hills.

  A shot rang out, and Private Nazario fell like a sack of potatoes.

  “HIT IT!” screamed Mazursky.

  The second platoon dove to the ground as the crackle of rifle shots filled the forest. Bullets zipped over their heads. Mazursky raised his head an inch off the ground and peered underneath his helmet at the woods. He heard the sound of a machine gun. They didn’t sound too far away and they didn’t seem like there were very many of them. Evidently they only had one machine gun. If they had a tank they would have used it by now. Looking at the woods ahead he saw flashes of light and puffs of smoke. There weren’t very many of them. Probably it was just a patrol. A figure stood up and threw something. It landed near the second square and exploded—a hand grenade.

  The right flanks of the first and second squads opened fire on the enemy patrol. Mazursky could hear the put-put-put of Nowicki’s BAR. Nowicki was a stupid fuck, but he knew what to do with a BAR. His tracers whizzed into the enemy patrol, so everybody else could see where they were. Then the riflemen began firing.

  Albright nudged Mazursky. “Lieutenant Smith wants you.”

  Mazursky took the walkie-talkie. “Yeah?”

  “Form a skirmish line with the first, second, and third squad. I don’t think there are very many of them. We can’t affor
d to get pinned down here. We’ll have to attack. Wait for my order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mazursky handed back the walkie-talkie. He rammed a round into the chamber of his M-l and looked up to see Private Johnson throw a hand grenade. It landed in a bush, exploded, and a German soldier minus an arm and a leg went flying into the air.

  “SKIRMISH LINE!” yelled Mazursky. “SQUADS ONE TWO THREE!”

  The three squads, their battle-tested soldiers firing all the time, moved into a skirmish line against the Germans. Mazursky ran to the left of the line, dropped, and began crawling down its length, positioning the men.

  “You move over a few feet, Mazzoli! Hey, Krupsak, fire that motherfucking BAR! What do you think it’s for? Move up there, Ginsberg! Get your ass down, Dooley! Fire that fucking rifle, Collins!”

  Private Larry Collins, of North Platte, Nebraska, didn’t move.

  “I said fire that fucking rifle, Collins!”

  Collins still didn’t move.

  Mazursky crawled to him and batted him on the shoulder. “What the fuck’s wrong with you!”

  Collins didn’t respond. He just lay there with his head in his helmet. Mazursky raised Collins’s shoulder a few inches, and Collins’s helmet fell away. So did half of Collins’s face. It had been shot away, and Mazursky stared in horror at the steaming bloody brains. The stench was like a freshly broiled steak. Mazursky wanted to throw up. He swallowed hard and continued down the line to the midway point, then tucked his rifle into his shoulder, took aim, and squeezed off a round at something that moved behind a bush. A German soldier screamed and fell forward, clutching a hole in his gut.

  Corporal Dooley pulled the pin out of a hand grenade and hurled it at the German machine gun nest. It landed near where the bullets were stuttering, there was an explosion, and three mangled German bodies went flying into the air. Dooley smiled, and the smile suddenly became an ugly grimace as a German bullet smashed into his forehead. His hand dropped into the snow. The war was over for Dooley.

  The second platoon continued pouring bullets and hand grenades into the German patrol. The German fire became progressively more sporadic.

  “FIX BAYONETS!” screamed Lieutenant Smith.

  Mazursky pulled his bayonet from his scabbard and fixed it to the end of his M-l. Nervously he chewed the stub of his cigar. He wasn’t too crazy about bayonet attacks. Anything could go wrong.

  “CHARGE!” yelled Lieutenant Smith.

  Mazursky leapt to his feet. “UP AND AT ‘EM!”

  Mazursky ran toward the enemy line, carrying his rifle in his left hand. In his right hand was a hand grenade with the pin already pulled. His knuckles were white over the lever that activated the firing mechanism. Behind him on both sides he heard the rumbling feet of the second platoon. He heard rebel yells, hee-haws, and blood-curdling screams. Bullets whizzed all around them. Somebody to his right yelped and went crashing to the ground. Mazursky huffed and puffed as the enemy line drew closer. His eyes scanned back and forth. To his left two German soldiers in the black uniforms of the Waffen SS got up from behind a lot. Mazursky threw the hand grenade at them and dropped to the ground.

  “HIT IT!” he shouted.

  The hand grenade exploded. Mazursky jumped to his feet again.

  “FOLLOW ME! KILL THE COCKSUC-KERS!”

  Mazursky held his cigar stub tight into his teeth as he ran into the smoke of the grenade blast. The two German SS soldiers were blown all over the vicinity. In a bush behind them another German stood up, a luger in one of his hands and an entrenching tool in the other. The fucker was ready for hand-to-hand combat. Mazursky fired from the hip and the German went flying backwards, a red hole in his chest. Looking to his left and right, Mazursky saw the men of the second platoon grappling hand to hand with the remnants of the German patrol. He kept advancing forward and then from behind a tree came a German soldier, not more than seventeen years, his rifle and bayonet at the ready.

  Before Mazursky could fire a round the German yelled a battle cry and charged, the point of his bayonet streaking toward Mazursky’s heart. Mazursky cursed and parried the lunge, bringing the butt of his rifle around in the same motion and slamming it against the side of the German’s head. The German boy went down, blood running out of his ears. Mazursky bent over and jabbed the point of his bayonet through the German’s heart.

  He heard something close by. Looking up, he saw a big German soldier coming at him with his rifle and bayonet. Mazursky knew he didn’t have time to pull his bayonet out of the German on the ground and defend himself. He was completely defenseless. It was all over. Then there was a shot, and the German’s jaw disappeared. He fell to a clump on the ground at Mazursky’s feet. Mazursky turned around to see who fired the shot, and saw Albright grinning, his cheek against the butt of his carbine.

  It was about time that asshole made himself useful, Mazursky thought as he moved deeper into the woods with his rifle at port arms. To his right there was movement. A black uniform was running through the woods. Mazursky raised his M-1, sighted down his bloody bayonet blade, and pulled the trigger. The black uniform went spinning against a tree, and then slid down to the ground.

  Another German soldier jumped up from behind the stump of a tree. He had his rifle and bayonet ready, and terror was in his eyes.

  “FUCK YOU!” Mazursky bellowed as he lunged forward.

  The German deftly parried Mazursky’s bayonet, and Mazursky’s forward motion brought him face to face with the German. He could smell the German’s foul breath and see the pimple on his nose. The German pushed hard, and Mazursky went sprawling backwards, but kept his rifle solid in his grip. He lunged forward again quickly, and this time the German wasn’t fast enough to parry him. The blade of Mazursky’s bayonet punched through the German’s black tunic, and blood poured out. The German’s eyes rolled back into his head as his knees buckled. Mazursky yanked out his bayonet, and blood spurted onto Mazursky’s sleeves, for he’d severed a main artery near the German’s heart. The German fell in a heap to the ground.

  Mazursky looked around excitedly. He saw no movement, and the forest was becoming still again. Moving backwards, he encountered the men of the second platoon and their victims sprawled all over the ground. Some of the Americans were going through the pockets of the Germans, stealing watches, money, and medals. Private Rubin of the second squad was sporting a Luger he’d taken from the body of a German officer he’d shot between the eyes. Private Harris of the 1st squad was struggling to pull his bayonet out of the rib cage of a German sergeant, where it was stuck.

  “Pull the fucking trigger,” Mazursky said.

  Private Harris pulled the trigger, and the German’s body blew apart. The bayonet came out easily, because there was nothing holding it anymore.

  “Thanks, sarge,” said Private Harris.

  “You fucking asshole.’

  Mazursky walked throughout the battle area, surveying the damage. The second platoon had lost four men in the bayonet fight, and a few more back on the line. Mazursky chewed his cigar and cursed under his breath. The second platoon couldn’t afford to lose any more men.

  Pfc. Stein stumbled toward Mazursky, a hangdog look on his face. “He’s dead,” he murmured.

  “Who’s dead?” Mazursky asked.

  “Lieutenant Smith.”

  “He is!”

  “See for yourself.” Stein pointed behind a bush.

  Mazursky stomped into the bush and saw Lieutenant Smith lying behind it. Smith’s face was even paler than usual, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was open. He looked as though he was asleep. His straight blond hair lay over his forehead. He was 27 years old. And the snow around his stomach was drenched with his blood.

  Mazursky knelt beside him and turned him over onto his back. He felt for Smith’s pulse, and there was none. He bent over and listened to his heart to make sure, and there was no beat. Stein hadn’t been mistaken; Smith was truly dead. Deader than a doornail. Mazursky was now platoon leader.
The next ranking man would have been Corporal Dooley, but he was dead too. That meant Corporal Banes of the third squad was the new platoon sergeant. If he was alive.

  Mazursky looked at Pfc. Stein, who was sobbing softly. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, asshole!”

  “Nothing sergeant.”

  “Go get me Corporal Banes, if he’s still alive. If he’s not, get me Corporal Ginsberg.”

  “What if he’s not alive either?”

  “We’ll worry about that then.”

  Stein ran off, and Mazursky bent over Lieutenant Smith again. Smith had been a pretty good lieutenant, as lieutenants go. Mazursky took off Smith’s dog tags and put them into his pants pocket. Then he took Smith’s carbine and ammunition; he’d always wanted to carry a carbine because they were lighter than an M-l. Now, as the new platoon leader he was entitled to carry it. He took out Smith’s maps, compass, and wallet. One of these days, he’d send the wallet to Smith’s next of kin. Providing he lived that long. He would have liked to give Smith a decent burial, but there was no time for that.

  Stein returned with Corporal Banes, a tall, lanky, Texan. Mazursky stood up.

  “You know who this is on the ground here?” Mazursky asked.

  “It looks like Lieutenant Smith.”

  “That’s right. He’s dead. I’m the new platoon leader. And you’re the new acting platoon sergeant. You know what a platoon sergeant’s supposed to do?”

  “Whatever the platoon leader says.”

  “Right. Don’t ever forget it. I want you to follow whatever order I give you, no matter what. I will put up with no back talk at all. This is war and I got a right to put a fucking bullet through your head if yougive me any trouble. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Kneel down here. I want to show you something.”

  They kneeled beside the stiffening corpse of Lieutenant Smith. Mazursky spread Smith’s map on the ground and explained their mission on the Dillendorf Road. Corporal Banes listened with mounting disbelief.

  “Did you say we’re gonna have to stall a panzer division?” Banes asked.