by Len Levinson
Charlie Company followed him out of the woods and into the field. To their left and right were other companies in the battalion, and they all were formed into three long skirmish lines. Behind them were trucks filled with engineers and boats for crossing the river. Ahead of them were noisy, clanking tanks.
The men ran across the minefield, jumping over shell craters and shouting battle cries. German observers in the towers of Metz saw them coming and ordered the artillery batteries still in action to open fire.
German shells fell on the field, and German machine guns raked it back and forth, but the GIs kept driving.
Mahoney held his carbine near his stomach and ran with his head low like a fullback on a football team about to smash through the other team’s line. Some of the Bouncing Betties hadn’t been detonated by the bombardment, and a few of them blew soldiers in half, but the others kept running for the back of the river. Some of them thought it strange that they’d crossed the same river a month ago, but the Moselle took many extreme twists and turns, and although the American lines were far ahead of certain portions of it, they were behind it near Metz.
The tanks fired their cannons as they rolled noisily across the field, filling the air with bitter diesel fumes. One of the tanks in front of Charlie Company was knocked on to its side by an antitank mine, but the next tank passed it and roared forward, firing its cannon.
The artillery bombardment of Metz continued, and the city was hidden in sheets of flame. Mahoney figured he’d be safer once he got over the river and into those buildings, but safety was a relative thing because he knew the city would be crawling with Germans. He looked to his right and left and saw some of his new men losing their positions in the line.
“Dress right and wake the fuck up!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
The tanks reached the banks of the Moselle, stopped, and fired at the buildings on the other side. The soldiers took positions behind the tanks and fired their weapons, although they couldn’t see anything except fire and the vague outlines of buildings.
The trucks rolled through the openings and stopped at the river bank. Engineers unloaded the boats and crates of life jackets. An engineer officer blew a whistle three times, the signal to load on to the boats. The soldiers ran down to the river bank and lined up in their respective places as the tanks fired cannons and .50 caliber machine guns over their heads.
Mahoney grabbed a life jacket and put it on. “Move your fucking asses!” he screamed, pushing and kicking them. “Get into that goddamn boat!”
His new replacements were frightened and confused, and he knew the only thing to do was make them more afraid of him than the Germans straight ahead. One replacement, Private Rubaldino of Oakland, California, panicked and started to run back in the direction from which they’d come.
Mahoney took two huge leaps and grabbed Rubaldino by the collar of his field jacket. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going!’”
Rubaldino looked at Mahoney with terror in his eyes. Mahoney dragged him back to the boat and pushed him inside. Mahoney looked from side to side and saw men loading into boats, some of them moving out into the fast-moving river already.
“Let’s go!” he yelled. “Move it out!”
Artillery shells fell on the city of Metz, and the din was terrific. The explosions and fires flickered against the faces of the GIs as they jumped into the boats. Once again, Mahoney chose Cranepool’s first squad to cross with. He sat in the stern of the boat, and the engineers pushed them off. A big replacement named Jones pulled one of the oars, and Cranepool pulled the other. Mahoney looked ahead at Metz and wondered if it would become his tomb.
The boats moved into the river, and German fire was light because the artillery bombardment made it difficult for them to fire. Jones and Cranepool rowed as quickly as they could because they wanted to get as close to the city as possible before the artillery stopped.
Gradually, the American artillery “walked” in from the shoreline so no short shells would fall on the Americans. The Germans in the forward buildings took positions in windows and on roofs, firing down at the boats, but there weren’t many Germans left and their fire was light.
“Row!” Mahoney screamed, gritting his teeth. “Let’s get the fuck over there!”
The river moved swiftly, but Cranepool and Jones were able to keep in a fairly straight line. A few bullets whistled over their heads, but it was nothing compared to their previous Moselle crossings. Behind them, engineers were already at work on the pontoon bridges that would permit the tanks to cross the river. The tanks were still firing their cannons and machine guns at the Germans, preventing them from aiming accurately.
The air was filled with smoke and shouts. Mahoney peered ahead and saw a wall made of boulders extending six feet above the surface of the water. He and his men would have to jump out of their boats and go over the wall to get into Metz. That didn’t look as if it would be an easy job.
Private Rubaldino was whimpering and blubbering in the hold of the boat. His eyes darted about like a cornered rat, and Mahoney thought he might jump overboard. Mahoney reached forward and grabbed Rubaldino by the front of his field jacket.
“You’d better shape the fuck up, young soldier!” Mahoney snarled.
Rubaldino whined, and Mahoney hauled off and punched him in the mouth. Rubaldino’s lip split open and two teeth were knocked loose from their roots. He looked at Mahoney with bulging eyes, bracing himself for another punch.
“I said you’d better shape up!” Mahoney repeated.
Rubaldino wiped the blood from his mouth and tried to stop blubbering, but he was only half successful. Mahoney looked forward and saw the stone wall coming closer. He spotted some wooden pilings and metal fittings evidently used by townspeople to tie up their boats in happier days.
“Trask!” shouted Mahoney. “Do you see those things on the wall?”
Trask, who was sitting in the bow of the boat, looked straight ahead. “What things on the wall!”
“Those wooden things!”
“Yeah, I see them!”
“Grab one when we get close!”
“Hup, sarge!”
Cranepool and Jones strained against their oars, and the boat moved closer to the wall. Mahoney looked to his right and left and saw the other boats slowly making their way across the river. Some of them had already reached the wall, and the men were climbing up the boulders to the river-front boulevard above them. Mahoney hoped the tanks would come across quickly. It might get a little hot up there without tanks to provide cover.
The boat banged against the wall, and Trask grabbed an eye hook protruding from a column of rotting wood.
“Up the fucking wall!” Mahoney yelled. “Let’s hit it!”
Cranepool dropped his oars, turned around, and leaped toward the boulders, digging in his hands and feet and scrambling up like a jackrabbit. The other men followed him, some slower and some faster. Rubaldino cowered in the boat and looked up pleadingly at Mahoney.
“I can’t move!” he wailed.
Mahoney aimed his carbine down and pulled the trigger. The floorboards exploded next to Rubaldino’s feet, and Rubaldino jumped two feet into the air. When he came down, he saw water burbling through the jagged hole in the hull.
“You can stay if you want to,” Mahoney said, stepping over him. “I don’t give a fuck.”
“Wait for me!” Rubaldino yelled, stumbling toward the boulders.
Mahoney began to climb up. “Let’s go!” he said to Trask. “You can come up now!”
Trask took hold of a boulder and began to climb. Rubaldino, his hands trembling and tears pouring down his cheeks, tried to fasten himself to the wall, but he was shaking too much, and the boat was bobbing up and down. Without Trask to hold it to the wall, it began drifting away.
“Wait for me!” Rubaldino shrieked.
“Wait for you, my ass!” Mahoney replied, climbing up the wall.
Rubaldino realized he had to take action quickly o
r go down with the boat. He leaped toward the wall, but the boat zipped away underneath him, and he fell into the roaring Moselle. He splashed his hands wildly, trying to reach the wall, but the river dragged him downstream.
“Help!” he screamed. “Help!”
“Help your ass,” Mahoney grumbled as he climbed the wall. His head cleared the top of it, and he saw the wide boulevard and the buildings on the other side. His men were running across the boulevard as Germans fired down at them from the windows and roofs of the buildings.
Mahoney vaulted over the wall and ran across the boulevard, holding his carbine in his right hand. Bullets slammed into the asphalt near him, but he kept pumping his legs, seeing his platoon huddled against the wall of a building.
“Don’t bunch up!” he yelled. “Get the fuck inside!”
The men rushed toward the downstairs door. Cranepool was first, firing his carbine at the lock. The door shattered, and he pushed it open.
“Hurry up—get inside!” Mahoney screamed.
Something slammed against Mahoney’s helmet and bounced off. It was a German hand grenade, and as it passed his eyes, he thought he was a goner for sure. He tried to catch it so he could throw it away, but he bobbled it, and it dropped toward the ground. When it was level with his knees, he thought, Oh, my God, it’s going to blow my dick off, but as it fell lower, he kicked it through a basement window of the building and dived through the first floor door.
The grenade exploded, blasting the frame off the basement window, and Mahoney thanked God that it didn’t blow his dick off. Ahead of him, Cranepool and the others were firing rifles and killing Germans, trying to rush them through doors. The room filled with gunsmoke, and soldiers screamed as they toppled to the floor, leaking blood. Mahoney pulled one of his grenades out of a pocket and yanked the pin, hurling it through one of the doors. The house shook with the explosion, and chunks of wood flew in all directions, but no more Germans came through that door. His men followed his example, throwing grenades through the other doors, and the building shook so violently that Mahoney thought it might cave in on their heads.
They coughed in the smoke and dust, firing their rifles and carbines, but they heard no more Germans. Mahoney realized they had one room secured, and at least that was a start. He looked around and saw the room filled with his men. There were too many of them in one place. One German hand grenade could wipe out his whole platoon.
“I’m gonna split up the platoon,” he said. “Squads one and two will try to take this building, and squads three and four will take the one next door. Cranepool will be in overall charge of this building, and I’ll take squads three and four next door. Any questions?”
Nobody said anything.
“Let’s hit it!”
Mahoney hurtled through the door, and the third and fourth squads followed him outside. He saw hordes of American soldiers crossing the boulevard and attacking buildings. The Germans threw hand grenades off the roofs and out the windows, blowing up GIs, but the GIs moved grimly into the city, holding their heads down and looking for cover.
Mahoney and his two squads dashed toward the building next door.
“Throw hand grenades through all the windows!” he told them.
They took out grenades, pulled pins, and hurled them through all the windows on the first floor and basement. Then they dropped to the sidewalk as the building seemed to dance up and down with the ferocious explosions. As soon as the last one went off, Mahoney was up and swooping toward the front door, firing his carbine on automatic. The door shattered before the .30-caliber bullets, and he kicked it open, still firing as he charged into the room.
A German showed his face in a doorway, and Mahoney directed a stream of bullets at it, reducing the head to a bloody, pulpy mass. The German didn’t have time to make a sound; he just toppled to the floor. Mahoney heard another sound and turned in its direction. Another German appeared in a doorway but before Mahoney could get set, Butsko drilled the German through his lower abdomen. Two Germans charged through another doorway, and Pvt. Jethro Doakes of Rinnie, Tennessee, cut them down with his BAR, the first men he’d ever killed in his life.
A flight of stairs led down into the room they were in, and three Germans descended it, firing submachine guns. They killed two of Mahoney’s men and wounded three others before they were shot, and they tumbled down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood behind them.
“Medic!” Mahoney yelled through one of the windows. “I wanna medic in here!”
Out on the street, a tall, skinny medic with a nose like a banana spun around at the sound of Mahoney’s voice and ran toward the building holding his steel pot steady on his head. He ran up the steps, entered the room, and saw the wounded GIs on the floor. Kneeling, he went to work, taking bandages and sulfa out of his haversack.
Mahoney slung his carbine crossways over his shoulder and chest and picked up one of the German submachine guns.
“Let’s take the next floor!” he said.
The men followed him up the stairs to the next landing. A German poked his head through a door, and Mahoney shot it off with the submachine gun. Two more Germans appeared in another doorway, but a hail of bullets fired by five GIs all at once sent them flying backward, spurting blood in all directions.
Mahoney and his men charged on to the second-floor landing, tossing hand grenades into the rooms and then firing bullets. They rushed into the rooms, cutting down Germans still alive or wounded, and then, out on the landing, were horrified to see three hand grenades come bouncing down the stairs.
“Get back!” Mahoney screamed.
They dived into the rooms, and the grenades exploded in the landing outside, ripping apart plaster and cracking timbers that had been there for a hundred years. A tornado of dust and smoke swept into all the rooms, and the soldiers coughed, their eyes burning.
Mahoney wiped his nose with the back of his hand and wondered what to do. Those hand grenades were getting to be a problem, and all the Germans had to do was lob them down the stairwell. Somehow he and his men had to go up on one roof, and then they could start coming down on the Germans and having all the advantages themselves.
“Hey, sarge,” said Butsko, “you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
“I thought you were sleeping over there.”
Mahoney looked sideways at Butsko and thought seriously for the first time about killing him; he was getting to be a terrific pain in the ass.
“Our only chance,” Mahoney told the men around him, “is to get up on the roof of this building as quickly as we can. We’ll go up in waves of two, with five seconds between each wave. One man in each wave will go up with his weapon ready to fire at anything that moves, and the other man will go up ready to scoop up and dispose of any hand grenade that comes his way. Any questions?”
Pvt. Teddy Dubois of Bangor, Maine, raised his hand. “Dispose of them how?” he asked.
“Just throw the fucking things away.”
“Where?”
“Wherever we aren’t, you stupid cocksucker. Are we ready?”
They didn’t look ready, but nobody dared to say anything. Mahoney lined them up in ranks of twos, he and Private Doakes going up first and Butsko and an old veteran named Lewis second. He designated which ones would fire their weapons and which would deal with hand grenades. He told them that in the first rank he and Doakes would both fire their automatic weapons to clear the way and that the people behind them had better keep their eyes open for grenades.
“All right,” he said, “when I give the word, we move out and go like hell. Speed is everything. Everybody ready?”
He looked them over sternly, and no one had the temerity to say anything. Some looked frightened, the rest angry and determined. Mahoney got in front with Doakes, who had fed a fresh clip into his BAR.
“Go!” yelled Mahoney.
He and Doakes charged on to the landing and ran toward the stairs, which were splintered and shaky due to the hand-
grenade explosions. They bounded up the stairs three at a time, holding their weapons ready, and saw grenades falling like apples toward them.
“Get those grenades!” Mahoney screamed.
The men behind him scrambled for the grenades and threw them into empty rooms or down the stairwell. Mahoney and Doakes reached the second floor and sprayed the doorways on the landing even though they saw no Germans. They turned the corner and started up the next flight of stairs as more grenades fell toward them.
“Here come some more!” Mahoney yelled.
He heard footsteps above and knew that Germans were coming down to fight. The GIs behind him snatched hand grenades out of the air and threw them away. The stairwell rocked with the explosions, and Mahoney saw German uniforms on the third landing. He and Doakes opened fire at the same moment, and so did the Germans. A German bullet sliced through Doakes’s left lung, and he fell back, knocking over the soldier behind him.
Mahoney rushed the third-floor landing all alone, firing the submachine gun from side to side and gritting his teeth. Germans were crowded together on the landing, bumping into each other as they tried to get set and return the fire, but they had been cooks and file clerks a few weeks before and didn’t have a chance. Mahoney’s bullets cut them down, and the ones in back panicked, trying to run away. They tried to flee up the stairs, and Mahoney went after them spraying their backs with bullets. The Germans tripped and stumbled, pirouetting in the air and falling backward. Mahoney got out of the way, and the Germans fell past him to the landing below.
“Keep moving!” Mahoney yelled. “Follow me!”
He leaped up the stairs three at a time, firing the submachine gun, but no more Germans appeared above him. On the fourth landing, he fed a fresh clip into the submachine gun.
“Let’s go!” he shouted. “Hurry up!”
He climbed the stairs to the fifth landing, looking for the movement of field-gray German uniforms, and saw a sleeve in a doorway. He fired a burst at the sleeve, but it darted out of the way.
“The last two men get the kraut in that room!” Mahoney screamed, running past the doorway on the way up to the roof.