by Len Levinson
“Never mind those devils. There aren’t any good devils in the army, you understand?”
“I already met some in the army,” Riggs said with his silly grin.
Mahoney put his hand on Riggs’s shoulder. “Look at me.”
Riggs looked at him. Mahoney fixed him with his stare. “I’m going to give you the most important job in the platoon after mine. I’m going to make you my assistant as of now, understand?”
“Your assistant?”
“That’s right. Hereafter you will only take orders from me, and you don’t listen to any more devils, understand?”
“But them devils are talking to me all the time.”
“This is the army, and you have to take orders from me, not any devils. I’m your boss. Get the picture?”
Riggs looked uncertain. “I dunno,” he said.
Mahoney yanked his bayonet out of its scabbard and brought its point to Riggs’s throat before Riggs could get away. “If you ever disobey an order of mine, I’ll kill you, Riggs, and all the devils in the world won’t stop me.”
Riggs panted like a horse that had just run a mile. Mahoney pressed the blade of the bayonet against Riggs’s flesh, and the young maniac nearly fainted.
Mahoney puffed his cigar. “I’m nobody to fuck around with, Riggs. I’m a mean son of a bitch, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me. Get it?”
“Yes, sir,” Riggs managed to say.
“You’re going to do whatever I tell you, right?”
“Right.”
“Good.” Mahoney put his bayonet away and leaned against the back of the trench.
“When are you going to tell me what to do?” Riggs asked.
“Relax,” Mahoney said.
“Yes, sir.” Riggs closed his eyes, went limp against the side of the trench, and fell asleep.
Mahoney chewed the end of his cigar. What’s this war coming to? he thought.
~*~
General Hans Dietrich Kretchmer stood at attention next to his desk and held the telephone to his ear.
“General Kretchmer?” said the deep, hypnotic voice on the other end.
“Yes, Mein Fuehrer!”
“I want to personally congratulate you for your brilliant counterattack last night.”
“Thank you, Mein Fuehrer.”
“You have written a brilliant chapter in the annals of German arms.”
“Thank you, Mein Fuehrer!”
“You have demonstrated that the Americans can be stopped and beaten. I shall keep close track of your career from now on, General Kretchmer. I am confident that you will continue to smash the Americans and win brilliant victories. That is all. Sieg Heil!”
“Sieg Heil!”
The connection went dead in General Kretchmer’s ear. He hung up the phone, feeling as though light was radiating from his body. His staff officers looked at him in awe. Captain Fritz Nagle was thrilled to think that his Fuehrer’s voice had just entered the command-post tent.
“Gentlemen,” said General Kretchmer, his voice taking on a new tone of confidence, “the Fuehrer congratulated us for our great victory last night. However, we cannot rest on our laurels. We can expect the Americans to attack again, sooner or later. When they do, we must be ready for them and hurl them back once more. I know that every one of you will do your best to accomplish this goal. That is all. Heil Hitler!”
The officers shot their arms into the air. “Heil Hitler!”
Chapter Five
It was night, and the swollen Moselle River roared through hills and forests. Rain fell in torrents, and visibility was nil. At ten o’clock, Mahoney sat in his trench, having had another good meal and feeling almost normal except for a dull ache in his shoulder. Private Grossberger had examined the wound and said it was healing well. He’d take out the stitches in a few days, and then Mahoney would be as good as new.
Next to Mahoney sat Private Riggs chewing a wad of gum. Mahoney had sent Riggs on a few errands during the afternoon and evening, and Riggs had followed his instructions to the letter, seemingly happy to have the opportunity to be useful. He giggled like a madman from time to time, but Mahoney was getting used to that. The main thing is that he did what he was told.
Occasionally, an artillery shell would fall somewhere, and the random crackle of small-arms fire could be heard. Machine guns opened fire from time to time and then went silent. It was an uneventful night at the front, so far. Mahoney looked at his watch, and it was a few minutes before ten o’clock. The artillery bombardment was supposed to begin at eleven-thirty, and they’d cross the river at midnight.” Mahoney and every other man in the battalion was anxious to get rolling so they could pay the Germans back for what they’d done last night.
Mahoney heard the sound of footsteps and looked up as Private Pulaski of the third squad lowered himself into the trench. He held a rag to his mouth, which appeared to be bleeding.
“What’s your problem?” Mahoney asked grouchily.
“Request permission to speak with Captain Anderson, sarge.”
“What the fuck for?”
“Pfc. Butsko punched me, and that’s against military rules.”
Mahoney frowned as he looked at Pulaski. He hated men who whined and complained. Butsko was a wise guy and a bully—there was no question about that—but he was a good, tough soldier, and that’s why Mahoney made him squad leader of the third squad when Sergeant Cooley was shot last night.
“What’d you do?” Mahoney asked.
“What do you mean, what did I do?” Pulaski replied. “The problem is what Pfc. Butsko did.”
“I asked you what you did, and I’m not gonna ask you again.”
“Pfc. Butsko punched me because he said my trench wasn’t deep enough.”
Mahoney shrugged. “Maybe you should’ve dug it deeper.”
“Whether I did or not, Pfc. Butsko had no right to punch me.”
“Get back to your squad, you fucking fairy, before I punch you in the mouth.”
“Huh?” said Pulaski, holding the rag to his mouth.
“You heard me. Get the fuck out of here.”
“But I want to talk to Captain Anderson.”
Mahoney bared his teeth. “I said get the fuck out of here!”
“Hup, sarge!”
Pulaski leaped like a rabbit out of the trench and ran back toward the third squad. Mahoney chuckled as he reached toward his shirt pocket and took out his pack of Old Gold cigarettes. A cigarette lighter flicked into fire next to his face, and he turned to see Private Riggs grinning and holding out his Zippo. Mahoney put the cigarette into his mouth and sucked the flame into the end of his cigarette.
“Thanks for the light,” Mahoney said.
“You’re welcome,” replied Riggs, happy once again for the chance to be of use to his platoon sergeant.
“You know, Riggs, I think you’re going to get along just fine in this platoon.”
“I think so, too, sir.”
“Call me sergeant, not sir. I ain’t no fucking officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Riggs!”
“I mean yes, sergeant.”
Mahoney heard the sound of running feet, and this time Drago slid into the trench.
“Hiya, sarge,” Drago said.
“What’s on your mind, scumbag?”
“Captain Anderson wants you to bring your platoon back to the command post to pick up ammo for the attack.”
“Will do.”
Drago scrambled up the side of the trench and ran off with his head tucked low between his shoulders. Mahoney turned to Riggs. “Tell all the squad leaders to bring their people here on the double.”
“Yes, sir—I mean sergeant.”
Riggs climbed out of the trench and ran with big loping strides toward the first squad. Mahoney puffed his cigarette, glad the attack was finally getting underway.
~*~
The jeep screeched to a halt in front of the Charlie Company command-post bunker, and General Patton stepped down from
the front seat. Wearing riding jodhpurs and his pearl-handled revolver, his helmet low over his eyes, he marched toward the bunker and threw open the door.
Sergeant Tweed was the only person sitting in the outer office, and when he saw Patton, his eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. “Ten-hut!” he screamed, jumping to his feet.
Patton saluted him vaguely and charged toward the next door, opening it and entering the office of Captain Anderson, who was wondering why Tweed had shouted attention. Now he knew and shot like a rocket out of his chair, saluting smartly on the way up.
“At ease, captain,” Patton said.
Captain Anderson relaxed but did not sit down. His heart beat wildly, the last person he expected to see in his office was General Patton.
“I just came down here to make sure this battalion is ready to kill Germans,” Patton said. “Are you ready to kill Germans?”
“Yes, sir!” said Anderson.
“Last night, this battalion got thrown for a loss,” Patton said. “I hate to see things like that happen, but I guess I have to make allowances. You didn’t have artillery support, and I want to believe that’s why you were thrown back. But you’re going to have all the artillery you need tonight. Tonight you won’t have any excuses. Tonight I want you to go across that river and stomp those goddamn Germans. And I want you to keep going until you run out of ammo or shoe leather, whichever comes first. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If this company fails to do its job, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. I’ll tear those bars off your collar with my own two hands, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Patton winked. “Good. Round up your company. I want to let them know how I feel about this little matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
~*~
Fifteen minutes later, the survivors of Charlie Company were gathered in a circle around General Patton. Rain poured on them, and they carried their rifles at sling arms with the barrels pointed down as they gazed with fascination at the most famous fighting general in the American army.
Patton strolled around the center of the circle, looking the men over and slapping his riding crop against his leg. Despite the darkness, they could see the glitter of his eyes and determined set of his jaw. The rain soaked into his uniform the way it soaked into theirs, and it made them feel good to think that he had taken the trouble to come to the front to visit them.
“Now listen here, men,” Patton growled, “I know what you went through last night. A lot of your buddies were killed, and all of you nearly got killed yourselves. Now we all know that it’s no fun to lose a battle because Americans aren’t losers. By nature, we are winners. Given half a chance, we will win any battle in which we are placed. That’s because we’re tough and strong and because we love to fight. Yes, by God, we love to fight.” Patton made a fist and held it up in the air. “We love to beat the shit out of our enemies and step on his face afterwards. We love to rip open his belly and tear his guts out. We pray for the chance to kick him in the balls and split his head open. Is there any man out here who doesn’t feel that way?”
Nobody said a word, just as Patton knew they wouldn’t.
“Good,” Patton said. “I knew there weren’t any cowards or queers in this company. I knew because you’re all good, red-blooded Americans. I know you’re just itching to get across that river over there and lay your hands on those Germans. By God, I feel sorry for those Germans when I just think about it. I really do because I can imagine what you’re going to do to them.” Patton pointed to the Moselle River. “You’re going to make that river over there run red with their blood for what they did to you last night. There’ll be so many dead Germans over there you won’t be able to put your foot down without stepping on one of their noses. I feel bad that I have to hold you back until midnight because I know you want to go over there right now. But you have to wait just a little while longer, and I want you to use that extra time to clean your weapons and cover them with a light film of oil so they won’t get rusty. If you have some extra time after that, you can sharpen your bayonets so they’ll cut deeper into those hun bastards over there. You might want to make sure your canteens are filled with water because you’re gonna get thirsty while you’re killing all those bastards. And as we all know, tonight is going to be much different from last night because tonight you’ll have plenty of artillery preparation and support. By the time you get across that river, those goddamn kraut-eating bastards won’t know where the hell they are. Their eardrums will be bleeding, and their brains will be upside-down in their heads. The poor bastards will probably try to run away from you, but I want you to go right after them and kill them like the dogs that they are. And I don’t want you to shoot over their heads or at their legs. I want you to aim directly for the center of their backs and bring them down. We’re not going to play with them after what they did to us last night. And they probably know it. I’ll bet they’re shitting their pants over there right now because they know they’ve made us mad, and a mad American soldier is a fearsome thing.”
Patton placed his hands on his hips and walked around in slow, measured steps, looking into the eyes of the men around him. When he came abreast of Mahoney, their eyes locked together, and Mahoney felt two spikes shooting into his brain.
“All right,” Patton said in a low, murderous growl, “you all know what you’ve got to do. Go to it, and God be with you.”
Patton strode toward his jeep, and the soldiers in front of him parted to make way.
“Ten-hut!” shouted Captain Anderson.
The men snapped to. Corporal Dowd, Patton’s driver, started up the jeep. Patton climbed in beside him, and Dowd shifted into gear. The jeep rocked from side to side as it rolled over the uneven ground, moving toward the road that would bring Patton to Dog Company, where he’d give his next pep talk.
Chapter Six
The artillery barrage began on time at eleven-thirty that night. The big guns thundered in the distance, and the men of Charlie Company heard the first shells whoosh over their heads. The shells exploded in the woods and hills on the other side of the Moselle, blowing trees and boulders into the air. The first barrage wasn’t very elaborate and just served as a guide to the artillerymen, who could see where they were landing and make appropriate adjustments. Then, when they had the target area boxed in, they commenced bombarding the Germans in earnest.
The night roared with the constant sound of multiple explosions, and the men of Charlie Company could feel the ground tremble underneath them. They had to cover their ears with their hands, although the shells were exploding several hundred yards away, and they were glad that such a bombardment wasn’t falling on them.
Mahoney sat in his trench, puffing a cigarette. His new carbine was beside him, and bandoliers of ammunition hung from his neck. The supply sergeant had given him a new helmet without a white cross on it, and he’d also given Mahoney a few swallows of Scotch whiskey. They’d all thrown their bed rolls and tent halves into the supply truck because they were going across the river with only light field packs. Hand grenades were stuffed in Mahoney’s pockets and hung from his lapels and cartridge belt. He had a few cans of C rations and an extra pack of cigarettes plus four Hershey chocolate bars. He was ready to kick ass.
Next to him sat Private Riggs, serious one moment and cackling the next. He also carried a carbine plus a brand-new walkie-talkie that Mahoney had taught him how to use. He knew he was going into battle for the first time and was a little scared.
Mahoney heard a voice coming through the walkie-talkie. Riggs raised the device to his face and spoke into it. Then he turned to Mahoney. “Time to move out, sergeant.”
“It’s about fucking time.”
Mahoney stood up and burped as rain pinged on his helmet. “All right, first platoon!” he yelled. “Let’s move it out!”
The men came out of their holes and made their way around trees and over boulders to the banks
of the Moselle. The engineers were already there with their stacks of rectangular boats. Mahoney saw the other Charlie Company platoons moving to the riverbank, also, and farther down the line he could see the other companies in the First Battalion moving into position.
The far side of the river flashed with explosions as the GI artillery battalions continued to pour it on. The river was wider tonight, for the heavy rains had made it overflow its banks. Mud was everywhere, but Mahoney’s feet already were wet, and it didn’t matter anymore. When the first platoon reached the boats, they put on life jackets and Mahoney told them to get down. They all kneeled, waiting for the order to load up and go across.
~*~
One of the first shells landed so close to General Kretchmer’s bunker that it threw him out of bed.
“Was ist los!” he cried, on his hands and knees.
The door to his room burst open, and Captain Nagle ran in, stumbling over General Kretchmer and falling down, also.
“We’re under bombardment!” Captain Nagle screamed.
“Calm down, you fool,” Kretchmer replied. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
Both men got up and brushed themselves off. The ground heaved like the deck of a ship in high seas as artillery shells packed with TNT fell all around them.
“Nagle,” said Kretchmer, “go to the conference room and alert all units to prepare for an attack. Have the regiments at our rear move up to the riverbank at once so we can meet the Americans head-on when they come across the river.”
“But, sir,” protested Nagle, “the bombardment is most intense near the river bank. Shouldn’t we hold the bulk of our forces back and send them into battle when the bombardment stops?”
“It may be too late then,” Kretchmer replied. “I don’t want the Americans to establish a beachhead on our side of the river. Get moving. I’ll meet you in the conference room as soon as I get dressed. And order the artillery battalions to open fire immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, my general.”
“Hurry!”
Captain Nagle ran out of the room. Kretchmer pulled his pajama top over his head and reached for his tunic, thinking that if he could throw the Americans back again, the Fuehrer might take note of it and maybe award him the Knights Cross with diamonds.