Slaughter City

by Len Levinson

  “I think that’s a general,” Anderson said. “We’ve got to keep him alive because G-2 will want to talk to him.” Anderson bent down and felt the officer’s pulse. “He’s still alive, thank God.”

  “Can I take his watch, sir, seeing as how I’m the one who got him.”

  “No, because he’s still alive. That would be stealing.”

  “Who’d know?”

  “I’d know, and you’d know. Join your platoon and resume the attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Butsko bent over and took a good look at the watch; if he ever saw it on Captain Anderson’s wrist, he’d have a few things to say, officer or no officer.

  Butsko climbed out of the hole and joined his men, who were advancing into the forest.

  ~*~

  Hiding behind a bush, Captain Nagle saw what had happened to General Kretchmer and thought he had been killed. Terrified, he turned and ran headlong into the woods, hearing gunfire and explosions all around him.

  The woods were wet and smoky, with nearly every tree splintered or knocked down. Dead German soldiers lay everywhere, and in the darkness Nagle kept stepping on them. He veered toward the road on which he and Kretchmer had arrived by jeep, hoping the jeep still was there, but as he drew close, he heard soldiers speaking English and realized that the Americans already had control of the road.

  His only chance was to keep going through the woods and somehow get to safety. He ran as quickly as he could, stumbling over fallen trees and wounded soldiers. Some of the soldiers called out to him for help, but he ignored them and kept going.

  His throat was dry, and his heart chugged like an old engine. A buzzing sound was in his ears, and he expected to be shot in the back at any moment. He tore off his helmet and threw it away so that he would have less weight to carry. He also unbuckled his cartridge belt and let it fall to the ground. Dodging a shell hole, he tripped over a twig and fell head first into the body cavity of a German soldier who’d been blown apart by an American artillery shell. Screeching wildly, he scrambled to his feet, trying to wipe the blood off his face. His stomach couldn’t stand it anymore and went into convulsions. Finally, drained of energy, he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. What did I do to deserve this? he thought. Why do there have to be wars?

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Nagle spun around and found himself looking up at a German sergeant. He didn’t know whether he was hallucinating or not because the sergeant appeared calm and in control of himself. “Who are you?” Nagle asked.

  “Sergeant Uebelhor, B Regiment, sir. Are you wounded?”

  “No,” Nagle said.

  “Then you’d better come with me, sir. It’s not safe out here.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Nagle stood up, looking at the sergeant in the darkness and wondering what the sergeant thought of him, all covered with blood and running away from the enemy. The sergeant took his sleeve and pulled him through the woods. After around twenty yards, Nagle saw a white concrete pillbox looking like a huge egg straight ahead. In a narrow slit on the front of the pillbox was the ugly snout of a machine gun.

  The sergeant led Nagle to the rear of the pillbox and knocked on the door. It was opened by a private not more than eighteen years old. Nagle stepped inside the pillbox and saw five haggard German soldiers with their machine gun and numerous crates of ammunition.

  “How far away are the Americans?” the sergeant asked Nagle.

  “Very close,” Nagle replied.

  The sergeant looked at the machine gun and smiled grimly. “We’ll be ready for them when they come,” he said.

  Nagle, his face smeared with blood, looked at them in astonishment. “Why don’t you get out of here while you have the chance!”

  “Because,” replied the sergeant, “our last orders were to hold fast and fight to the last man.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Nagle said. “There are hundreds of Americans heading this way. You won’t have a chance.”

  “Orders are orders,” the sergeant told him.

  “Not for me,” Nagle said. “I’m getting out of here!”

  He pushed open the door and ran off into the woods.

  ~*~

  The First Battalion charged into the mangled woodland area, killing any Germans who were still alive and hadn’t had the sense to flee. They moved forward quickly, hoping to find more Germans to shoot because they still wanted revenge for the humiliating reversals they’d suffered last night. Behind them, on the banks of the Moselle River, army engineers were building a pontoon bridge to replace the one that had been blown away last night. Soon the tanks and trucks would roll across the river and head toward the Saarland.

  The squads from Mahoney’s platoon managed to find each other and move forward as a unit into the forest. As dawn became a faint glimmer on the horizon behind them, they advanced in a skirmish line, their eyes squinting straight ahead for signs of German resistance.

  Suddenly, a machine gun opened fire in front of them, and three GIs were spun around by the bullets smacking into them.

  “Hit it!” yelled a chorus of voices.

  The soldiers who hadn’t been shot didn’t wait for the order; they already were on their way to the ground.

  “Medic!” called one of the soldiers who’d been hit.

  Private Grossberger arose and ran hunched over toward the fallen GIs, but another machine-gun burst sent bullets zipping into the ground near his feet, forcing him to drop down and move the rest of the way on his belly.

  “So that’s the way they want to play,” Mahoney muttered, looking for the location of the machine gun. It started firing again, and its muzzle blast could be seen through the bushes and the gray dawn.

  “On my signal,” Mahoney shouted, “first squad, move out and second and third squads cover!”

  The second and third squads fired at the muzzle blast they’d seen, and Cranepool jumped up with the first squad, running madly through the brush and hopping over logs on their way toward the enemy machine gun. After rushing fifteen yards, they flopped down and began firing at the pillbox, which they could see clearly now.

  Now the second squad moved forward while the other squads covered their movements, and finally the third squad moved up, Mahoney and Riggs traveling with them.

  Mahoney looked ahead at the pillbox as his men fired at the little slit in its front. He’d taken about a hundred pillboxes in his military career, and it was no sweat if you had some TNT with which to blow in the back door, but he didn’t have any TNT, so they’d have to take it frontally, moving forward slowly and then dropping a hand grenade into the slit or firing a bazooka shell through it.

  “Corporal Shackleton!” Mahoney yelled.

  “Hup, sarge!”

  “Get the fuck over here! Everybody else keep firing, goddammit!”

  The first platoon peppered the pillbox with rifle and BAR (Browning automatic rifle) fire as Corporal Shackleton, the new temporary platoon leader of the weapons squad, ran forward and dove into the mud beside Mahoney.

  Mahoney looked at him. “Get your bazooka man up here.”

  “My bazooka man’s been hit. He’s back on the beach.”

  “Then who’s got the fucking bazooka?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s back on the beach with him.”

  “What!” screamed Mahoney.

  “I said it’s back on the beach with him.”

  Mahoney grabbed Shackleton by the front of his shirt and glowered at him as German machine-gun bullets whistled over their heads. “You should’ve given that bazooka to somebody else, you fucking shitbird!”

  “Jeez, sarge,” Shackleton replied, “things were happening so fast down on the beach that I didn’t think of that.”

  “Well, I’m not going to think of you when it comes time to make new sergeants in this platoon. Get the fuck away from me before I kill you.”

  Riggs cackled nuttily as Shackleton crawled away.

 
; “Shaddup, you fucking moron!” Mahoney snarled at Riggs.

  Riggs became serious instantly. Mahoney looked forward at the chattering machine gun inside the pillbox and wondered who to send forward with the hand grenade. He didn’t want to send Cranepool because he usually picked him for the dirty jobs and it wasn’t fair to expose him to danger all the time. Corporal Mason from the second squad probably would get himself killed, and Butsko from the third squad would be a big, slow-moving target. Shackleton from the weapons squad definitely couldn’t handle it. It’ll have to be me, he thought ruefully. Oh, shit.

  “Everybody cover me!” he yelled. “I’m going forward!” He turned to Riggs. “You stay put right here. If anything happens to me, notify Captain Anderson.”

  “Where you going?” Riggs asked.

  “To fuck your kid sister. Here, hold my carbine.”

  “But I ain’t got no kid sister,” Riggs replied, wrinkling his nose.

  “You ain’t got no fucking brains, either. Stay put and shut up.”

  “Hup, sarge.”

  Mahoney took a hand grenade from his lapel, pinched the ends of the pin together so the pin could be pulled easily when the time came, and dropped the grenade into his shirt pocket. He adjusted his helmet on his head and crawled parallel to his skirmish line, heading toward the right so he could move toward the bunker from the side.

  His men fired incessantly at the bunker, and the German machine gun returned their fire, sending a hail of bullets over their heads but not hitting anybody. Mahoney knew it was difficult for the Germans to take aim with all the bullets ricocheting around the slit in the bunker. They must realize that someone was trying to sneak closer and blow them up. He didn’t understand why they didn’t try to surrender or fly the coop. Maybe they realized they were going to get killed no matter what they did.

  He ran parallel to his platoon skirmish line, passed the last man on the end, and continued for twenty yards. Then he dropped to his stomach and crawled toward the bunker from an angle that the machine gun couldn’t reach, taking advantage of the cover provided by boulders, shell holes, and fallen trees. Looking at the pillbox, he figured that the machine gun couldn’t transverse this far to the side and couldn’t shoot him even if the Germans knew he was coming. He continued crawling until he felt certain he could reach the pillbox in one final burst of speed, then took the hand grenade out of his pocket. Examining it to make sure he could pull the pin out quickly, he signaled to his platoon to intensify their fire, then leaped up and ran toward the pillbox, the grenade in his right hand. When he was halfway there, he pulled the pin and prepared to let it fly.

  He thought the pillbox was as good as out of action as he drew closer to it, running as quickly as he could. Then, suddenly, he saw two Germans come out of the back of the pillbox! They turned toward him and raised their rifles to shoot him down. Mahoney dodged to the side, pulling the pin out of the hand grenade. He dropped to the ground, letting the lever go as bullets exploded into the mud beside him. The grenade went pop, and its firing mechanism became activated as Mahoney continued rolling through the mud, trying to count. When he reached four, he stopped suddenly and chucked the grenade at the two Germans.

  One of them tried to catch it, hoping to throw it back, but that’s why Mahoney let the lever go ahead of time. The grenade exploded in the German’s hands, blowing away his arms and head. Shrapnel sliced the German next to him apart, and Mahoney yanked another grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, charged the slit in front of the bunker, and saw the machine gun traversing from side to side, spitting lead at his platoon. Mahoney reached the pillbox, pressed his back against it, let the lever fly off, and started counting again. When he reached four, he leaped into the air and tossed the grenade into the slit, then ran three steps and dove behind a fallen tree.

  The machine gun stopped firing, and there were shouts inside the pillbox. Then the grenade exploded, sending billows of smoke out the slit. The first platoon charged, flanking the pillbox so that they could catch anybody coming out the rear door. It opened, and a German sergeant staggered out, his uniform half blown away and blood pouring from wounds on his face and body.

  Butsko happened to be standing in front of him, and he brought his rifle to his shoulder, firing pointblank at the German. The bullet hit the German in the chest and sent him flying back into the pillbox. Butsko stepped forward at the head of his squad and cautiously approached the opened door. He looked inside and saw blood and shattered bodies everywhere. One of the bodies moaned softly, and Butsko shot it through the head.

  The rest of the platoon crowded around the door and peeked inside. Mahoney pushed soldiers out of his way so he could get a good look, too. The pillbox was out of action for the rest of the war.

  “Riggs!” he yelled.

  “Hup, sarge.”

  “Gimme my carbine!”

  Riggs made his way through the crowd and handed the weapon over. Mahoney slung it over his shoulder and pushed his helmet to the back of his head.

  “Take ten,” he said, “while I call the CO. and find out where the fuck we’re supposed to be.”

  The soldiers sat on the ground and took out their packs of cigarettes while Mahoney took the walkie-talkie from Riggs and spoke the code name for Captain Anderson into the mouthpiece.

  Chapter Seven

  General Patton woke up early that morning, and before taking a bath or having breakfast, he called Colonel Halley G. Maddox, his G-3 (operations) officer.

  “Maddox,” he bellowed into the telephone, “how’d my Hammerheads do last night?”

  “Pretty good, general. They took back all the ground they lost and then some.”

  “I knew they could do it,” Patton said. “They’re a good bunch of boys. They’ve been on the line for quite a while now, haven’t they?”

  “Ever since they left Paris, sir.”

  “I think it’s time they had a little rest. Pull them back and give them some R & R. I also want them brought up to full strength again because I’ve got a big job lined up for them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Patton hung up the phone, yawned, and walked to the bathroom where he turned the spigots that brought water pouring into his bathtub. He undressed and sat on the edge of the tub, gazing at the water rising up the white porcelain and thinking of tactics and strategies, supply problems, and the gains made by his Hammerhead Division.

  “I’m sure my little pep talks must have had something to do with the ground they got last night,” he muttered, yawning again and scratching the few gray strands on the top of his head.

  ~*~

  At twelve noon, Charlie Company occupied a little hill to the east of Villeruffec, the village they were chased out of two days before. They’d just finished chow and were sitting around smoking cigarettes and talking about the bullshit soldiers talk about when they have free time.

  “Sheet,” said Butsko, lying on the ground with his head resting on his hands and a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. “When this war’s over, I’m gonna be sitting pretty. My old man’s a shop steward in the big Bethlehem steel mill in my home town, and I’m gonna have me a good job.”

  “This war ain’t ever gonna be over,” said Private Pulaski, “It’s gonna go on forever.”

  “The hell it is,” Butsko replied. “We got those fucking krauts on the run.”

  Cranepool sat nearby, ramming a scrap of cloth through the barrel of his M-1. “The Germans have got a lot of fight left in them,” he said. “They’ve had time to rest and regroup. Don’t ever count them out until they’re out.”

  “They’re out,” said Butsko. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Private Riggs sat nearby, his walkie-talkie on his lap. “Sergeant Mahoney said he’s gonna open a bar in New York City when this war is over, and he told me I could work for him if I wanted to.”

  Butsko laughed. “Mahoney would last in the bar business for about a week. He’d drink up all his merchandise by himself. I heard the son
of a bitch has got a hollow leg.”

  “Two hollow legs,” Cranepool said.

  “Sometimes I think his head is hollow,” Butsko said, “but he’s got balls of steel.”

  “He’s a crazy son of a bitch,” Cranepool agreed.

  “Who, me?” Riggs asked.

  “Yeah, you’re a crazy son of a bitch, too, but he’s even crazier than you are, and that’s going some.”

  Riggs pointed. “Here he comes now!”

  Everybody looked and saw Mahoney strolling toward them, his carbine slung over his shoulder and a big smile on his face. “Hello there, young warriors,” he said cheerfully. “Guess what?”

  “What?” everybody asked in unison.

  “We’re moving back into reserve for a while,” he said. “There’ll be hot baths and hot chow for everyone. We’ll sleep in real beds, and they’re even gonna give us a USO show with Bob Hope and Laura Hubbard.”

  “Laura Hubbard!” they hollered with delight, for she was one of the top stars in Hollywood, right up there with Rita Hayworth and Dorothy Lamour.

  “You guys’d better start getting your equipment together,” Mahoney told them. “If anybody needs me for anything, I’ll be in the latrine jerking off.”

  ~*~

  Laura Hubbard sat in back of the army bus as it bounced over the muddy road. She wore GI fatigues, a GI field jacket, and a GI cap crooked on her head. Her eyes were closed because she was exhausted from doing two shows a day ever since she arrived in Europe ten days ago.

  In the front of the bus, Bob Hope was cracking jokes with the driver. He never stopped with the jokes, but Laura felt like she could sleep for a week, and she was deeply depressed because the last show had been at a field hospital filled with mangled young men. She thought it tragic that so many of them would be maimed and scarred for life, yet they all were cheerful and overjoyed to see her. She gave them the best performance she could, although she knew they’d be happy if she just stood there in her slinky dress for fifteen minutes and let them look at her. They’d given so much and asked for so little. She loved them all and wished the war could be over so they could go home.