by Len Levinson
Mahoney stepped over him and saw Germans run behind the altar, where they took positions and fired at the GIs from behind statues of Jesus and the saints. Mahoney hid behind a baptismal font and raked the altar with his carbine on automatic fire. Chips of marble flew into the air, and one German screamed as a lucky bullet passed between the head of the Virgin Mary and Saint Veronica to lodge in the chest of the German.
Mahoney was out of ammunition again. He crouched behind the baptismal font and fed a new clip into his carbine, thinking that he’d been baptized once in a font very much like this one and probably looked like one of the cherubs carved into the altar from behind which Germans were shooting at him.
“Oh, fuck,” Mahoney muttered, raising his carbine to his shoulder and firing at the Germans behind the altar. One German appeared to be climbing up the back of the altar so he could fire down at the GIs. Mahoney took a few shots at him, but the bullets ricocheted off the white marble.
The church filled with boiling clouds of gunsmoke. Mahoney decided that the only way to get those Germans was to charge the altar in waves, one squad advancing while the other squads furnished cover.
“First squad, forward!” Mahoney yelled. “The rest of you maintain your fire!”
Cranepool led his first squad forward, skipping around the pews and dashing up the aisles. The German climbing the altar reached the top and aimed his rifle down, but Mahoney had been waiting for him to expose himself and fired one careful shot at the German’s face. It split apart, and the German tumbled over the top of the structure, falling to his back on the altar below, where he lay with his arms spread out and his blood leaking down over the white marble.
“Second squad, forward!” Mahoney said, looking at the German’s blood running down in crimson rivulets. The blood of the lamb, Mahoney thought.
The second squad charged down the side aisle to take the Germans on the flank. They hid in the front row of pews, and then Mahoney ordered the third squad forward. A German leaned around a corner of the altar and threw a hand grenade, which bounced on the floor, rolled under the pew, and sent the GIs scurrying for cover. The grenade exploded, blowing the pew and two GIs into the air, and the rest of the second squad, with nowhere else to go, charged toward the side of the altar, with Private, First Class Stafford out in front, a hand grenade of his own in his hand. He hurled it and dived to the floor. The Germans saw it come, tried to catch it, and nervously bobbled it. It exploded in their faces, taking off their heads and arms.
The third squad charged down the aisle on the other side of the altar and attacked the remaining Germans from behind, shooting them in their backs. A few of the Germans ran away through a door behind the altar, but the rest of them were slaughtered by the GIs coming at them from both sides. The first squad, led by Cranepool, went after the Germans who’d gone through the door.
It became silent in the church except for the shots high up in the steeple. Mahoney walked through the gunsmoke, a dazed look on his face, toward the altar where the dead German lay in front of the little doors where the host ordinarily would be stored. Mahoney wasn’t very religious anymore, but he never dreamed that one day he’d kill a man on the altar of a church. The German’s blood made crimson rivulets down the white marble and formed pools on the floor.
As Mahoney approached, he could see that the soldier was around thirty and hadn’t shaved for a few days. Mahoney’s hair stood on end when he realized that the German looked just like paintings he’d seen of Jesus, and he, Mahoney, had killed him. He dropped to his knees in front of the altar and crossed himself.
“You okay, sarge?” Pulaski asked, walking up to Mahoney.
Mahoney stood and stared at the German “He looks just like Christ,” Mahoney said.
“Naw, he don’t,” Pulaski replied. “He looks like a fucking kraut to me.”
Mahoney looked at Pulaski and smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. He’s just a fucking kraut, right?”
“Right.”
Mahoney looked toward the ceiling and the sounds of gunfire. “Now let’s get the cocksuckers up there.”
Mahoney tried to remember how one got to the steeple at Saint Paul’s in New York but couldn’t remember. It had been a long time ago, and he probably hadn’t known it then, either.
“I want you squad leaders to take your men and look for the way to the fucking belfry. It’s probably back by the sacristy.”
“What’s a sacristy?’ Cruikshank asked.
Mahoney looked at Pulaski. “Tell him what a sacristy is and get him the fuck away from me.”
“Hup, sarge.”
The squad leaders took their men away, and Mahoney sat on the stairs to the altar, lighting up a cigarette. Riggs sat nearby, trying to be quiet so he wouldn’t disturb Mahoney, and Grossberger was out in the pews, attending to the wounded.
Mahoney puffed his cigarette, feeling satisfied with himself. They’d cleared out the church in record time and soon would take care of the snipers in the steeple. Not too many of his men had been killed. Soon the streets would be clear, and the other GIs could move up.
Something compelled Mahoney to turn around, and he saw the German lying on the altar, his blood still oozing down the white marble. Mahoney felt overcome with sorrow, as if he were one of the soldiers who’d killed Christ. He knew that was irrational, but somehow, on a deeper level, he thought it was absolutely correct. He turned away and scratched the growth of beard on his face, getting angry with himself. What’s the matter with me? he thought. Am I going nuts? Have I finally got combat fatigue? Once again, he turned around and looked at the bleeding German. I only did what I had to do. Get off my fucking back.
Then he remembered Saint Paul’s and became angry. Those damned priests and nuns messed up my mind when I was a little kid! he thought. They’re the ones who did this to me! He stood up and paced back and forth in front of the altar. The German’s helmet lay on the floor, and he kicked it into the air. I didn’t ask to be a soldier, Mahoney thought. Those fucking priests made me feel guilty about everything.
He stopped suddenly because he realized why he was mad. It wasn’t the priests, he just was making them into scapegoats. It was because he actually felt he’d done something wrong this time. He saw that German not as the enemy but as a young man like Christ who was killed in anger, this time by him.
Mahoney put his hands to the sides of his head because he could feel the pressure building inside. One part of him was a soldier trained to kill, and another part of him cried out that killing was wrong. If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us, Mahoney thought. If I turn the other cheek, they’ll kill me. Why should I let them do that? I want to live! What about eternal life? asked the little voice in his mind.
Mahoney snarled and kicked the altar, nearly breaking his toe. “Son of a bitch bastard!” he screamed.
“You call me, sarge?” asked Riggs, who had been sitting nearby and becoming increasingly worried about Mahoney.
“No, I didn’t call you!”
“You okay, sarge?”
“Yeah, I’m okay!”
“I think the devils have got you.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to get you!”
“Hup, sarge.”
Mahoney paced back and forth behind the altar, his hands clasped behind his back. Those goddamned priests, he thought. They did this to me. If I ever get back to New York alive. I’ll go to Saint Paul’s and really kick ass.
Pulaski ran up to Mahoney. “Sarge, we found the way to the belfry.”
“Where is it?”
Pulaski pointed to the front of the church. “There’s steps over there.”
Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth and told everybody to follow him. Then he stomped to the front of the church and went up a few flights of stairs to an airy room that had the ropes of the bells hanging down into it and a metal spiral staircase leading up to where the Germans were.
Mahoney wondered how they were going to get at the German snipers; if he or
his men tried to climb the spiral staircase, the Germans would shoot them from above. The staircase was enclosed by the stone structure of the spire, and it was so tall that he doubted if a hand grenade thrown by the Germans would make it all the way down before exploding.
“Well,” Pulaski said, “we can wait until they run out of ammunition or food.”
“No,” replied Mahoney, “they might kill a lot more GIs before then. Do they know we’re here?”
“I don’t know.”
Mahoney tiptoed toward the bell ropes and looked up the concrete shaft. He could see some sky and the system of bells, and the sound of German gunfire echoed down to him through the shaft. Pulling back, he wrinkled his forehead and wondered how to get the Germans down from there.
“I got another idea, sarge,” Pulaski said.
“What is it this time, asshole?”
“I think Corporal Cranepool’s got a grenade launcher with him, and you can use it to shoot a grenade up there and maybe kill all the krauts.” Pulaski smiled as if he’d just discovered a new secret weapon.
Mahoney shook his head. “Maybe that’ll blow the steeple off this church, too, and we’re not supposed to do that, right?”
“We’ll say we couldn’t help it.”
“And they’ll say you’ll all be minus a stripe from now on. No, there’s got to be a better way.”
Riggs raised his finger in the air. “I’ve got an idea,” he said hesitantly.
“Oh-oh,” Mahoney replied. “Riggs has got an idea. Watch out.”
“I really have got an idea,” Riggs said, “and I’ll bet it’ll work.”
“Let’s hear it,” Mahoney told him.
“Well,” Riggs said, “loud sounds can make people crazy, and—”
Mahoney interrupted him. “Is that how you went crazy?”
“No, I went crazy because I used to see my father screwing my sister, but to get back to what I was saying about sound, you know that big church bells make a lot of noise, and if we were to pull those ropes and get those bells ringing, I don’t think the krauts up there would like it very much.”
Mahoney looked at Riggs as though he’d never seen him before. “You know, that’s not a bad idea, Riggs.”
“I told you it was a good idea, sarge, but you don’t listen to me because you’re too busy listening to the devils all the time, and not the good devils, either, but the bad devils.”
Mahoney looked at the ropes hanging around the room. “I want three men on each one of those ropes, and when I give the word, I want you to heave with all you’ve got.”
The men rushed around the room and grabbed ropes, looking at Mahoney, who unslung his carbine and opened the chamber to make sure there was a round inside.
“Are you all ready?” Mahoney asked.
They nodded as sounds of gunfire continued to reverberate down the shaft.
“Hit it!” Mahoney said.
The men pulled the ropes, hanging the full weight of their bodies on them, and from the top of the steeple came the sound of bells pealing. The sound was so loud that the walls of the room seemed to vibrate, and Mahoney was tempted to stick his fingers in his ears, but he had to be ready for the Germans. The GIs heaved and pulled the ropes, while above them the bells swung back and forth, sometimes doing complete somersaults, ringing with a sound that rattled the marrow of their bones.
In the steeple, the German snipers panicked. They dropped their rifles and pressed their hands against their ears, grimacing and looking for someplace to hide; the bells were causing agonizing pain in their ears and heads. They looked at each other wildly, wondering what to do and unable to think clearly because of the noise. Their eardrums burst and blood ran out of their ears.
They realized their only hope was to get out of that steeple, and they didn’t care what was waiting for them below. They ran toward the spiral staircase and descended it rapidly, every step taking them a little farther from the monstrous sounds.
But every step brought them closer to Mahoney. He waited until he thought all of them were on the spiral staircase, and then, moving quickly, he positioned himself on one knee and fired his carbine up on automatic while the bells continued to toll.
The Germans screamed in horror, but the bells drowned out the sounds of their voices. Some were killed immediately and fell down the spiral staircase, and others tried to climb back up again, but Mahoney’s bullets were faster than they. The bullets ripped into the bottoms of their feet and their groins.
Mahoney stepped back and watched the Germans fall at his feet. He looked up the staircase and could see a few Germans up there, still twitching. He held up his hand, and the GIs stopped pulling the ropes. Gradually, the sounds of bells diminished. When they were silent, Mahoney sent two squads up the staircase to polish off any Germans who still might be alive on the roof.
The GIs climbed the staircase, and Mahoney searched the Germans on the floor for money and valuables. He found two good gold watches, giving one to Riggs, and liberated some German marks, which he intended to save so that he’d have something to spend when the Hammerheads entered Germany.
He heard a sound behind him and spun around, raising his carbine. It was Cranepool, leading his squad up the stairs. Cranepool held his canteen out to Mahoney and had a dizzy smile on his face.
“Hey, sarge,” Cranepool said, his face flushed and his breath smelling like a saloon, “there’s a shitload of wine in the cellar, and it’s pretty good. Have some.”
Mahoney snatched the canteen from Cranepool’s hand and brought it to his lips. He threw his head back and swallowed some of the wine, which was fiery and sweet, just like when he was a choirboy at St. Paul’s.
“There’s a lot of this down there, you say?” Mahoney asked.
“More than we can drink in a week.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Well, then,” Mahoney said, licking his lips, “I think that maybe we’d all better take a little break down in that cellar.”
Chapter Nineteen
It was night in Metz, and the artillery barrage continued. It was raining again, and the air was thick with smoke. A faint glow could be seen above the rooftops as portions of the city burned.
At eleven o’clock, Lieutenant Franz Stahmer left the central railroad yards at the head of two platoons of engineers. They all wore raincoats and steel helmets, and some of the engineers, who’d never seen Stahmer before, joked about how fat he was.
They made their way over the network of tracks, heading west toward the line that formerly carried trains to Paris. Much of the track in the yard had been destroyed by bombing, but Stahmer was able to work out a route whereby trains could leave the yard and go west. He and his engineers followed this route out of the yard toward the front lines.
Stahmer walked at the head of the engineers, carrying his note pad and pencil, kicking rails and crossties, making sure the tracks could carry trains. He hoped that the tracks were serviceable because if his plan worked and the defenders of Metz could defeat the Americans, he’d become a hero and probably be promoted to captain.
They came to a section where a bomb had destroyed a length of track, and Stahmer made a note of it. Work parties would come later to fix the track, using rails cannibalized from other lines. Farther on, they reached another section that had been slightly damaged, and Stahmer made his customary notation.
They passed through the center of Metz, which the Germans still held. Gradually, the sound of fighting came closer, and occasionally a shell would hurtle to earth like a comet, forcing them to drop onto their stomachs. They’d get to their feet after the shell exploded and continue along the tracks.
Slowly, they drew closer to the American lines. The sounds of fighting increased in intensity, and more bombs fell around them. Stahmer knew now that the track had not been damaged very badly. A few nights of work should be enough to make the line operational, and then they could launch their sneak attack. The Americans never would expect
it. They’d be outflanked before they knew it.
Suddenly, Stahmer heard footsteps up ahead and stopped cold. His men heard the footsteps, too, and unslung their rifles. They all crouched, waiting to see whether their own soldiers or Americans were coming toward them; if they were Americans, they’d open fire.
Figures emerged out of the night wearing the black uniforms of the SS. Stahmer was relieved and stood up. “Hello there!” he said, noticing a blonde young woman among them.
“Hello!” said the leader of the SS men, a husky lieutenant. “Who goes there!”
“An engineering patrol,” replied Stahmer, “and you?”
“A death squad.”
“Death squad?” Stahmer asked as the SS men drew closer. “What’s a death squad?”
Lieutenant Shroder smiled as he approached. “We ambush and kill American soldiers. What are you doing out here?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Stahmer, because his railroad project was top secret.
“Nothing?” asked Shroder. “Well, carry on.”
The SS men and the blonde woman passed by on their way to the center of Metz. Stahmer watched them go, wondering what they used the woman for; then he turned around and resumed his task of inspecting the rail line.
~*~
The first platoon of Charlie Company slept soundly in the cellar of the church, surrounded by barrels of wine tilted on to their sides. They’d gorged themselves on the wine, and some had spilled it all over their clothes. Puddles of wine were on the floor, and the subterranean room stank terribly, but the men snored with smiles on their faces. They’d stacked barrels of wine against the door so that no one would disturb them because no one was fit to stand guard throughout the night.
Mahoney was the first to awake, and after rubbing his eyes and yawning, he checked his watch. It was six o’clock in the morning, and it occurred to him that Captain Anderson might be awfully worried about them. He might even have the first platoon listed as missing in action on the morning report, and then there’d be some explaining to do.