by Len Levinson
~*~
Cranepool had a hatchet that he’d taken from a dead engineer when they’d been thrown back across the Moselle near Pont-a-Mousson. He’d kept it in his pack for a time like this, and now he was swinging it with both hands, splitting German skulls and chopping Germans down like trees.
Cranepool had lost control of himself, but it was okay because he was in a war. His eyes gleamed like a madman as he crashed the hatchet into the neck of a German, nearly taking off his head. Blood gushed out like a fountain, hitting Cranepool in the face, but he licked his lips and spun like a dervish, whacking Germans in the arms and legs, splitting open their collarbones, and chopping their skulls in two like coconuts.
His normally placid all-American-boy features had become a mask of fury as he charged Germans and swung his hatchet at them. They fell back before the savagery of his attack, and he chased them, swinging his hatchet. Breathing like a horse who’d run a mile, he peered through the smoke and rain and saw a German officer calmly taking aim at him with a pistol.
“Yaaaahhhh!” Cranepool screamed, charging the officer, poising his hatchet to split his skull.
The officer didn’t flinch as he slowly squeezed his trigger. The pistol barked, and Cranepool felt a hot slug rip into his stomach. He staggered but didn’t fall. Blinking, unable to believe he’d been hit after three years of war, he told his feet to move forward and tried to raise his hatchet so he could smite the officer who’d shot him. His arm only went up halfway, and the German aimed carefully at him again.
“Yaaaahhhhh!” Cranepool yelled in defiance as blood oozed out of his stomach.
The German officer squeezed his trigger. A shot rang out, and the German officer twitched. His hand faltered and dropped slowly. He appeared not to know what had hit him. Another shot rang out, and the German officer dropped to his knees, his head bent over as if in prayer. Cranepool looked to the side and saw Captain Anderson, a smoking .45 in his hand. The German officer pitched forward on to his face, and Captain Anderson ran toward Cranepool.
“You all right, Corporal?”
“I’m hit in the stomach, sir,” Cranepool said, his head spinning.
“You’d better lie down.”
“You’d better watch out for that kraut with the bayonet, sir,” Cranepool whispered.
Captain Anderson turned, and sure enough there was a German with a bayonet charging them. Anderson raised his .45 and drilled him through the gut. The German stumbled and fell to the ground, a small puncture in the front of his stomach, his kidneys and liver blown out of his back.
Cranepool realized he was lying on the ground. He didn’t know how he’d got there. Captain Anderson kneeled over him.
“Medic!” yelled Captain Anderson. “I want a medic over here right now!”
Americans and Germans struggled all around them, and whenever a German got too close, Anderson shot him with his Colt .45. Then, out of the tumult of battle, Private Grossberger, his eyeglasses taped to his head, appeared with his bag of medicine, running in a wild zigzag, dodging bullets and bayonets. When he got close to Captain Anderson and Cranepool, he leaned back and slid toward them like Joe DiMaggio sliding into second base.
“Wow—it’s Cranepool!” Grossberger said, opening his bag of medicine.
“He’s been hit in the stomach,” Anderson said.
Cranepool groaned and looked up at Grossberger, his eyes pleading for help. Grossberger took out a morphine ampoule, broke the seal, and jabbed it through Cranepool’s pants into his big thigh muscle.
“You’ll be okay, Cranepool, old boy,” Grossberger said, squeezing the morphine into Cranepool’s body.
Cranepool didn’t feel anything yet. “I’m bleeding,” he mumbled.
Grossberger threw the ampoule over his shoulder, took out a pocket knife, and cut open Cranepool’s shirt so that he could see the wound. It was an ugly one but not bleeding too badly. Grossberger sprinkled on some blood coagulant, then placed a big gauze bandage over the wound, flinching as Captain Anderson fired his .45 at Germans nearby.
Captain Anderson ejected an empty clip and slammed a fresh one into the handle of his .45. The German soldiers were swarming all over his men, and he wondered where the reinforcements were. It seemed as though hours had passed since he’d called battalion.
It’s like Custer’s last stand, he thought, kneeling beside Grossberger and Cranepool, picking off any German who ventured too close.
~*~
Mahoney was surrounded by Germans trying to jab him with their bayonets. He twisted and dodged, banging them with his rifle butt, parrying their thrusts, and slicing open their bellies. He broke through the ring around him, spun around, and pulled his trigger, but nothing happened because he’d forgot to eject the last round he fired. Fucking no-good kraut rifles, he thought as two of the Germans charged him from the front and another attacked from his rear.
I can’t keep holding them off, Mahoney thought, his arms growing weary. I’m going to die in this goddamn city that I never heard of before. He bashed one German in the face with his rifle butt and kicked another in the balls. The third German lunged with his bayonet, and Mahoney managed to deflect it downward, but the bayonet slashed open Mahoney’s leg. The pain made Mahoney jump two feet in the air and holler at the top of his lungs. Angrier than ever, not caring whether he lived or died, he charged the German with such ferocity that the German had to back step. Mahoney smashed the rifle out of the German’s hands and pounded him in the face with his rifle butt. The German fell at his feet, and Mahoney wanted to stomp his face into mush, but there were other Germans all around him, and he didn’t have time.
He heard a commotion in the distance and at first didn’t know what it was. He just kept fighting for his life as blood dripped out of the wound on his leg and flowed into his combat boots. Believing he was bleeding to death, he fought harder than ever, screaming and yelling at the Germans, daring them to come closer.
The commotion became louder and sounded like huge numbers of men rushing toward him with equipment rattling, shouting battle cries in English. It dawned on Mahoney that reinforcements finally were on the way. “Hooray!” he yelled. “We’ve got ’em now, boys!” He charged and drove his bayonet to the hilt into the chest of a young German officer candidate.
The Germans knew that American reinforcements were coming, but they were fanatical soldiers and refused to retreat. The Americans rolled over them, shooting and stabbing, outnumbering them five to one. The tide of battle turned suddenly, but the Germans wouldn’t surrender. They stood and fought as best they could, but they didn’t have a chance. In less than a half hour, the battle was over. Both sides of the railroad tracks were strewn with the bodies of Germans and Americans. The air was filled with moans and shouts of pain. Bodies writhed in pain, and the American medics worked as quickly as they could, first attending to their comrades and then trying to save the few Germans who were still alive.
As dawn broke on the horizon, Mahoney stood and leaned on the German rifle as a medic whom he didn’t know bandaged his leg.
“You’ll be okay, sarge,” the medic said, wrapping the bandage around Mahoney’s thigh. “You might have a little trouble walking around for a while, but that should be all.”
Mahoney took out his package of Luckies and lit one up. He felt exhausted and was profoundly disgusted with the war. I can’t take much more of this, he thought. I’m going to get killed out here one of these days.
Corporal Shackleton from the weapons platoon saw Mahoney and walked over toward him. “How’re you doing, sarge?”
“How does it look like I’m doing?” Mahoney replied.
“Too bad about Cranepool, huh?”
Mahoney felt as if somebody had hit him over the head with a monkey wrench. “What about Cranepool!”
Shackleton took a step backward. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what, you fucking asshole!”
“Cranepool got hit.”
Mahoney felt himself becomi
ng woozy.
The medic looked up at him. “You okay, sarge?”
“Yeah.” Mahoney stared at Shackleton. “Cranepool got hit?”
“Right in the gut. He ain’t dead, though. I think they evacuated him back to the dressing station.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mahoney said, wanting to fall down and close his eyes. “Good God.”
“Captain Anderson was with him when he got hit. He can tell you what happened.”
“Where’s he at?”
Shackleton pointed. “Last time I saw him he was over thataway.”
Mahoney slung his German rifle over his shoulder and limped in the direction Shackleton had indicated. He couldn’t believe that Cranepool finally had been hit and was overcome by gloomy foreboding. Cranepool had been his good-luck charm throughout the war, and Mahoney thought he would live as long as Cranepool stayed alive, but now Cranepool had been wounded, and stomach wounds could be bad. I’m not going to survive the war, Mahoney thought. I’m a dead duck.
He trudged around medics treating wounded men and stepped over dead bodies. It was still raining, and Mahoney felt utterly desolate. He spotted Captain Anderson surrounded by a group of officers from battalion headquarters. Colonel Sloan, the battalion commander, was talking with Anderson.
“You’ve done a fine job here, captain,” said “Rabbit” Sloan, so named because of his protruding two front teeth.
“Thank you, sir.”
“If it hadn’t been for you and your men, there might have been a German breakthrough.”
“Actually, one of my sergeants was the first to be aware that the trains were coming.”
“Which one was he?”
“Mahoney, sir.”
“Master Sergeant Mahoney?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Isn’t he the one who used to be in the Rangers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By God, I think I see him over there.” Colonel Sloan waved at Mahoney. “Come on over here, sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said, limping over.
“What happened to your leg?” Sloan asked.
“Don’t remember,” Mahoney replied, throwing a sloppy salute.
“You’re bleeding from your chest, too.”
“It’s only a little cut, sir.”
“Captain Anderson told me you sounded the alarm on these trains.”
“That’s right, sir.” Mahoney looked at Captain Anderson. “Do you know what happened to Corporal Cranepool, sir?”
“He’s on his way back to the battalion aid station,” Anderson replied.
“He hurt bad?”
“Private Grossberger didn’t think so. It was a stomach wound.”
“Who’s Corporal Cranepool?” Sloan asked.
“He was with Sergeant Mahoney in the Rangers, sir,” Anderson replied.
“Sir,” said Mahoney, “do you think I could go back to the aid station and see how he is? I could get my leg looked at while I’m there.”
Everybody looked down at Mahoney’s leg.
“You’re losing a lot of blood, sergeant,” Colonel Sloan said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that a German rifle you’re carrying?”
“I think so, sir.”
Sloan smiled. “You’re not in the German Army now, are you, sergeant?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Then maybe you’d better get an American weapon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sloan looked at Anderson. “I think you can let him go back to the battalion aid station. In fact, I think your whole company can go into reserve for a little while.”
Anderson smiled. “I think the men would appreciate that, sir.”
Mahoney eased away from the group of officers, who resumed their discussion of the battle that had just taken place. He threw away his German rifle and picked up an M-1 that he saw lying on the ground. Slinging it over his shoulder, he began his journey back to the battalion aid station.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Colonel Knoedler hung up the telephone, his face drained of color. He took a deep breath, then walked to General Neubacher, who was standing at the map table. General Neubacher looked up.
“What is it, Knoedler?” he asked.
“Sir,” said Knoedler, “the attack has failed.”
Neubacher dropped the pencil in his hand. “Failed?”
“Yes, sir. Evidently, the Americans heard the train coming and had time to set up a road block. They stopped the train and apparently overwhelmed our assault troops.”
Neubacher closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered. “It can’t be.” He opened his eyes. “How did you come by this information?”
“An artillery observer in that sector saw what happened and filed a report.”
“Then it must be true,” Neubacher said.
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
Neubacher didn’t want to say it, but he knew that all was lost. His orders were to hold the city at all costs, but he knew that he couldn’t hold it now. It was only a matter of time before the Americans crushed all resistance in front of them. When the battle reached its final stages, then he might withdraw. But he’d make the Americans pay for every inch of ground that they won.
“Do you have any new orders, sir?” Knoedler asked.
Neubacher squared his shoulder. “My orders remain the same. We will fight the Americans and throw them out of Metz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I shall be in my quarters if you need me for anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Neubacher left the conference room and walked down the corridor to his quarters, thinking of the young men who’d gone off in the trains. They’d been so enthusiastic, singing their song. Neubacher almost could hear their voices:
And so we march
and so we fight, fight, fight
for our Fuehrer
and for our Fatherland
“Ach, what a waste,” Neubacher muttered as he opened the door to his room.
~*~
Cranepool lay on the floor of the battalion aid station, smoking a cigarette. He was still dizzy from the morphine shot and saw little blinking lights on the ceiling. Sometimes he heard music and the sound of a breeze in willow trees. He was barely aware of the ache in his stomach and thought the morphine was awfully nice stuff.
His only problem was that he felt lonely on the floor with men he’d never seen before in his life, and he was concerned that after he was operated on, they’d send him back to some other unit than Charlie Company. He knew that the army did things like that because replacements often showed up in Charlie Company who’d previously been in other units.
He raised his head a few inches off the floor and looked around the room. It was large, evidently a public room of some kind, and nurses and orderlies were going from man to man, checking wounds, changing bandages, giving shots. He was in the group that would be going into the operating room soon. Another group was recovering from operations. A third group was dead or dying.
Cranepool thought he saw Mahoney limp through a door, but Cranepool figured the morphine was making him see things. Mahoney looked around the room, and Cranepool raised his hand on the chance that maybe it really was Mahoney over there. The apparition saw his hand and grinned, walking toward him, limping up the aisle.
“How’s it going, kiddo?” Mahoney asked, kneeling down beside Cranepool. “How’re the bastards treating you?”
“Are you for real?” Cranepool asked dizzily.
“Are you crazy? Of course I’m for real.”
“Good,” Cranepool said, “because I wasn’t sure.”
“You must be shot full of dope up to your eyeballs,” Mahoney said. “How’re you doing otherwise?”
“Pretty good. They’re gonna operate on me in a little while.”
“What happened to you?”
“A German shot me with his Luger.”
“You’d better be thankful that the Germans don’t h
ave forty-fives.”
“There wouldn’t be much left of me if they had forty-fives.”
Mahoney turned around and saw the hindquarters of a nurse bending over one of the soldiers. “Holy shit—looka there. She’s taking my picture.”
Cranepool reached up and touched Mahoney’s sleeve. “Sarge, what if they don’t send me back to Charlie Company?”
“Come back, anyway. That’s what I did.”
“But they might say I’m AWOL.”
“Fuck ’em.”
“You got some pull with General Donovan, haven’t you, sarge? I mean, you’re the division heavyweight champ, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you talk to General Donovan for me if I don’t get transferred back to Charlie Company?”
“Sure thing, kid. I’ll tell him that if you don’t come back to Charlie Company, I won’t go in the ring for him anymore. He’ll get the message.”
Cranepool smiled. “I appreciate that, sarge.”
“Don’t mention it, kid.”
The nurse, a lanky redhead with freckles, continued examining soldiers and soon came close to Mahoney.
“Hey, nurse,” Mahoney said, “I got this terrible pain between my legs. Would you look at it for me?”
She glanced at him disapprovingly.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You look all right to me.”
Mahoney stood up and pointed to his leg. His pants were torn, and the bloody bandage was clearly visible. “I’m supposed to get this sewed up, ma’am.”
She looked at his chest. “You’re wounded there, too, aren’t you?”
“That one’s stopped bleeding, I think.”
She pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “Go in there and take your pants off. I’ll be right in, and I’ll take care of you.”
Mahoney made a face of mock embarrassment. “Take my pants off? Why, ma’am, what in the world are you going to do to me?”
“I don’t have time for your foolishness,” she said curtly. “Do as I say.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mahoney slapped Cranepool on the shoulder. “Take it easy, kiddo, and don’t worry about a thing. Let old Sergeant Mahoney do the worrying, okay?”