Death Train

by Levinson, Len

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said under his breath, jumping over the bodies of the dead Germans. He ran between two houses and peeked out the corner at the street. There wasn’t a soul out there that he could see. Holding his submachine gun high in front of him, he raced across the street to a back yard on the other side. Stopping behind a house to catch his breath, he wondered how Cranepool was making out but was sure he was okay because the kid seemed to live a charmed life. Mahoney, however, wasn’t so sure about his own life. He’d stopped too many bullets in his career already, and the fatal one might come at any moment.

  He decided it might be best if he kept moving. He hopped the fence into the adjacent yard, and the next one into the yard after that. Crouching low against the fence, he took out a match and lit the butt of his cigar. Puffing nervously and sniffing like a rabbit, he perked his ears and listened for scary sounds but there were none; he appeared safe for the time being.

  Observing the rear of a house, he decided it might be a good idea to go in and get something to munch on, maybe even hide until the SS men passed through this area. He’d told Cranepool to lay low for a while and maybe he should take his own advice.

  He crept toward the house and entered through the rear door, finding himself in a good old-fashioned French kitchen with a big black wood stove. The sink was across the room and beside it was the ice box. Mahoney closed the door silently behind him and listened for a few moments, but could hear nothing. He tiptoed across the room and opened the door to the icebox. To his intense satisfaction he saw a long length of smoked sausage and a half loaf of bread. Removing these from the refrigerator, he wondered where to sit and dine; he certainly didn’t want to be suddenly surprised by a patrol of SS men while he was eating in the kitchen.

  Then he had a brilliant idea: there must be a cellar in the house, and in the cellar there must be some wine. He could hide in the cellar and drink some wine, then smoke a cigar and return to battle after the SS men passed through this neighborhood.

  Keeping his head down, so that his movements couldn’t be seen by someone looking in the window, he wandered around the kitchen opening doors. He saw only other rooms, pantries, and closets. Finally he opened a door that concealed a flight of stairs going down to the cellar. The musty odor of the dirt floor wafted to his nostrils as he descended, all the while congratulating himself on his cleverness.

  On a rack against the wall lay some bottles of wine. He took one down, pulling out the cork with his teeth. Though he wasn’t a wine connoisseur and wouldn’t know a great wine from a fair one, he sniffed the bottle. He could tell he didn’t have a bad wine, not at all. He crawled among some barrels stacked on the floor, hiding himself from anyone who might look down the cellar stairs. Pleased with himself, he bit off a chunk of bread and proceeded to dine. Glancing at his watches, he saw that it was seven o’clock in the morning. Chewing the bread, he wondered how the fighting was going at the center of town. He swallowed the food in his mouth and took a bite of the sausage, washing it down with a swig of wine. He was anxious to finish quickly and then get back into the fight.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  General Hans Speidel sat in Rommel’s office, poring over maps of the Normandy beaches. Scattered and confused reports had been coming in throughout the wee hours of the morning saying that airborne landings were taking place all across Normandy from Cherbourg to Caen. Though the width of the sector under attack indicated that the airborne operation was not one of purely local significance, it was so difficult to know precisely what was going on. One unit commander on the Cotentin Peninsula reported that straw dummies had been parachuted into his sector. Speidel didn’t know how to respond to all the conflicting information; after all, he was only a staff officer, not a strategist or commander of armies. He thought it might be best to wait and not take drastic action until the enemy’s intentions were clearer.

  The phone on his desk rang, and he picked it up: it was General Max Pemsel, the Chief of Staff of the German Seventh Army.

  “We are undergoing a colossal naval bombardment here,” General Pemsel reported.

  “Colossal?” General Speidel asked. “What kind of military word is colossal? Can’t you be more specific?”

  “Speidel!” Pemsel screamed. “The situation is serious and deteriorating rapidly! We are blanketed with artillery fire throughout the entire Seventh Army Sector! I’ve received a report that a vast armada of ships is lying offshore! Move in the tanks, Speidel! It looks like this is the invasion!”

  “Move in the tanks in the face of that artillery barrage?” Speidel asked. “Can’t you see how dangerous that will be? The tank corps will be decimated, Pemsel. And besides, I think it might be wiser to hold back the tanks until we know where the enemy’s main thrust is coming.”

  “It’s coming right here in the Seventh Army Sector!” Pemsel yelled, losing control of himself.

  “It may look that way to you from your vantage point,” Speidel said calmly, “but it doesn’t look that way at all here. This may be nothing more than a feint to make us divert our forces from the point where the enemy’s main spearhead action will take place.”

  Pemsel struggled to regain his control. “I can assure you, General, that this is no mere feint but a major action!”

  “General Pemsel, surely you’ve studied the strategies and philosophies of von Clausewitz, have you not?”

  “Von Clausewitz?” Pemsel asked, bewildered.

  “Yes, von Clausewitz. You may recall that he once said that the most important single requirement for successful field command is the ability to remain calm and make rational decisions in the face of the most confusing circumstances, is that not so?”

  “What does that have to do with anything that’s happening right now?”

  “Everything, my dear General. I suggest you make an effort to assess your situation and then report back to me, is that clear?”

  “But . . .”

  “Is that clear, General Pemsel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all. Carry out your orders.”

  Speidel hung up the phone. He thought he’d handled that situation rather nicely, all things considered. Besides, he’d already called Paris and von Rundstedt’s chief-of-staff General Blumentritt had told him to hold fast and await further developments. So that’s what Speidel decided to do. The enemy’s intentions should become clear soon, and then intelligent action could be taken against them.

  At that very moment, as General Speidel returned his gaze to the maps, the first soldier of the U.S. 4th Infantry Division was setting his foot on Utah Beach.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sister Marie joined a group of armed men and women and ran with them toward the fighting. As the sound of gunfire and explosions came closer, she became afraid. But she kept moving forward, her black habit fluttering in the breeze, because she felt she had to help defend her town. When the ground shook with a particularly terrific explosion, she imagined herself being blown apart, her blood and bones flying everywhere. She sucked in her breath, trying to overcome the fear of death, remembering that even Jesus had a moment of doubt and shame on the cross, until he gathered his strength and died bravely. I must try to be strong too, she told herself.

  They came to a barricade caused by the stones and rubble of ruined homes, behind which were townspeople, firing at a detachment of SS men taking cover behind wagons and military trucks. The tanks were a few hundred yards away, blowing up houses, and the SS detachment was supposed to be guarding their rear.

  Sister Marie knelt behind the barricade and loaded her carbine. She’d received training from Resistance members in the mountains outside of Rouget, because she’d known that a day like this would someday come. Looking around, she recognized men and women, and some young children, from her school. But there was no time for greetings and pleasantries. There was time only to fight.

  On one knee, she pulled the butt of the carbine to her shoulder and rested the front of t
he stock on the rubble. Sighting down the barrel, she took aim at an SS man peeking around the side of a truck, and began squeezing the trigger. She could make out the SS man’s face; he was young, probably no more than her age. But her finger froze. Dots of perspiration appeared on her forehead. Then she gritted her teeth and tried to pull the trigger the rest of the way; but something was preventing her finger from moving in that direction. A split second later the SS man ducked behind the truck.

  Sister Marie lowered her rifle. Her mind was awhirl; though she wanted to help defend the town against the threat that was unequivocally evil, she couldn’t kill another human being when she was put to the test. She felt dazed, and didn’t know what to do with herself. Bullets whistled over her head and she sat down behind the barricade, laying her carbine on her lap. A dead man was lying a few feet from her, blood oozing from his chest, his eyes staring at the morning sky. Sister Marie knew it was Langlois, a farmer whose son was in her school. Langlois had been killed by the Boche, but yet she could not kill the Boche herself. She thought that if she’d shot the SS man at the truck, she might save, in the long run, the life of someone else she knew in her town but she couldn’t do it. Though she knew the SS committed the most horrible atrocities against the French—even killing babies—and that maybe by killing an SS man she could prevent the death of a child, she still couldn’t kill.

  “Here they come!” shouted a man a few feet from her.

  Sister Marie turned around to look. Sure enough, the SS men were attacking, firing their bayoneted rifles as they advanced toward the barricades. There seemed to be many more of them than the French, and as if in a dream, she raised the carbine again and took aim. Now she knew that her life was on the line and only she could fight for it. Sister Marie lined up the sights of her carbine on the chest of an SS man directly in front of her. His helmet pulled low over his eyes, he stopped momentarily to fire a shot from his shoulder, then ejected the cartridge and advanced again. As bullets ricocheted off the rubble in front of her, he came closer. Then she squeezed the trigger the way the Resistance fighters had taught her. She squeezed it more, the carbine trembling in her hands, tears running down her cheeks.

  Then she went limp, closing her eyes. I can’t do it, she thought. I just can’t do it. When she opened her eyes the SS wasn’t there anymore. He was writhing around on the ground; someone else had shot him.

  “Get down, Sister Marie!”

  Someone jumped on her, covering her with his body. A series of explosions went off in the street; the Resistance fighters were throwing hand grenades. The shrapnel zinged through the air and zapped into the barricade. The man released her; he was Saulnier, another farmer.

  “You’ve got to keep your head down, Sister Marie,” he admonished her.

  “I’m sorry . . . I . . .”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m all right.”

  “Maybe you ought to go back to the church, Sister Marie.”

  “Yes ... yes . . .”

  Now the SS men who weren’t dead or wounded had retreated to the safety of the trucks. “We’ve stopped them!” Saulnier shouted, waving his beret in the air. A cheer went up behind the barricades, but Sister Marie felt numb all over. She wanted to throw up and she wanted to die, because she realized that she’d almost killed somebody. She got on her knees and crossed herself.

  Her place was in the church, she decided, and taking off her bandoliers, she handed her ammunition and her carbine to Saulnier. “I’m going back to the church.”

  “Be careful, Sister Marie.”

  Sister Marie crouched low and moved back from the barricades, feeling cleansed by the decision she’d made. After putting a row of houses between herself and the Germans in the street, she stood erect, then continued away from the sound of battle until she could safely head toward the church.

  She walked on a deserted sidewalk, holding her hands clasped in front of her, singing a hymn. Her experience in the street left her feeling light-headed and strange. A true believer since she was a little girl, she’d always been pious and she’d always had faith, but never had her faith been threatened as it had today. Somehow she didn’t feel secure anymore. Life and religion were turning out to be more complicated than she’d supposed.

  Turning a corner, she saw a pile of rags on a lawn halfway down the street. She wondered what they were doing there; then a chill passed over her as she approached them. They were not rags, but people. Dead people.

  She neared them apprehensively, the fingers of her right hand over her mouth. A man and a woman and two children lay crumpled against each other, covered with blood. She wanted to close her eyes and pass by, but she couldn’t. She was drawn to the dead bodies like a magnet. Kneeling down beside them, she crossed herself. And then she saw the face of one of the children. It was little Josette, who sang so sweetly in the choir. Little Josette was this dead stained thing lying on the lawn.

  Sister Marie started to tremble all over with rage. She balled her fists and gritted her teeth. This crime was too much for her to bear or rationalize. Little Josette had been one of her favorite pupils, a sweet angelic child, and she had been brutally murdered by the vicious beasts of the SS.

  Her head was spinning; she didn’t know what to do. Something told her to hurry back to the church, and something else told her to return to the barricades and make the Boche pay for the life of little Josette. Pounding her fists on the ground, she began to wail. If an SS man had been lying on the ground in front of her she would have choked him to death.

  “What are you doing there!”

  Sister Marie looked up and saw three SS men come from behind a house, heading straight for her. She got up and began to run.

  “Halt!”

  She picked up her skirts and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. A bullet whistled over her head, and then another. She ducked behind a house and ran through the alley to the backyard. Looking around excitedly, she saw the backs of several homes. She knew that her only chance was to run into one of them and hide. She sped toward the nearest one, opened the rear door and entered the kitchen.

  No sooner was she inside, than the three SS men ran into the yard. They looked around but couldn’t see the nun they’d been chasing.

  “She must have gone into one of these houses,” a corporal said, “or maybe she moved on to the next street. You go to the left,” he ordered, “you go to the right,” he said to the other SS man, “and I’ll search the street.”

  While the SS men moved in their respective directions, Sister Marie ran to the first door she saw, opened it, and started down the flight of stairs leading to the cellar. The cellar was dark and musty, and she smelled tobacco smoke. She decided to hide behind some barrels in the corner, when suddenly from the shadows, a huge form lunged at her. She started to scream but a hand covered her mouth before any sound came out.

  “Calm down,” said a deep voice.

  Her panic stricken eyes looked up and she saw the swarthy features of the big American Ranger, the one they’d called Mahoney, looming above her. She nearly fainted in his arms.

  “Do you recognize me?” he asked.

  She nodded her head.

  He removed his hand from her mouth. “Is there anybody after you?”

  “Three SS men,” she stuttered.

  “Come on behind the barrels with me, asshole. I’ll bet they saw you come in here, too.”

  “No ... I don’t think they did.”

  Mahoney harumphed and took her hand, leading her to a narrow space behind the barrels. They lay down, their bodies touching. Nearby was the loaf of bread, the length of sausage, and bottle of wine Mahoney had intended to make a meal of. He’d only had two bites of the sausage before Sister Marie showed up. At first he’d thought she was an SS man; and she didn’t realize how close she’d come to getting Mahoney’s bayonet jammed through her heart.

  “What are you doing out of the church?” Mahoney asked, as they huddled together behind the barrels
.

  “I... I wanted to go out and help the others fight for our town.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  “You look a little weird, kid.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I never met a nun in my life who wasn’t all fucked up, if you’ll pardon the expression. Want some wine?”

  “No . . . no . . .”

  Sister Marie was trembling all over and her eyes were blinking like a sparrow. Her emotions had gone through the grinding machine during the past hour, and she thought she was losing her mind.

  “Are you all right?” Mahoney asked.

  “I saw little Josette,” she replied, her voice unsteady.

  Mahoney narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “Yeah?”

  Sister Marie gritted her teeth. “The Boche killed her.”

  “I think you’d better have some of this wine.”

  Sister Marie grabbed the lapels of his jacket. “They killed her!”

  “Ssshhhh.”

  “They killed her,” she said more softly.

  “Have some wine.”

  “I don’t want any wine.”

  “It’s good for you.”

  She looked into his eyes. “But they killed her.”

  Mahoney shrugged. “She’s not the first and she won’t be the last. I think you’d better have some wine.”

  “I don’t want any wine!”

  “Not so fuckin’ loud, you asshole.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I never met a nun who wasn’t a banana.”

  “I’m not a very good nun,” she admitted.

  “You’ve got a lot of company.”