Doom River

by Len Levinson

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Fresh from the liberation of Paris, Sgt C. J. Mahoney hits the ground running in Patton’s bloody assault on the Moselle River. With German guns selling death wholesale, it’s Mahoney and his kill-crazy sidekick, Cranepool, swimming right into the teeth of the flying bullets. Destroying Nazis is easy meat when the brass let you go your own route. But this time Patton has played the wrong hand and the Sergeant is stuck on the wrong side of the river with the shells whistling, the Krauts counterattacking and no support from his buddies. With the enemy coming right down his throat and the river of doom at his back, the Sergeant knows that the choices are fight or run. Both mean death and with death that close, if Mahoney goes down, it’ll be in a pile of dead Nazis!

  DOOM RIVER

  THE SERGEANT 5

  By Len Levinson

  First Published by Bantam Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2014 by Len Levinson

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2014

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  On August 27, 1944, two days after Paris was liberated, Master Sergeant C.J. Mahoney of the U.S. Army, staggering out of a small cafe on the Rue Laborde, saw a blonde standing under a lamppost. Over enormous breasts, she wore a white blouse with blue polka dots. Although Mahoney had been trying all day to report back to his regiment in the Prince Eugene Barracks, it looked like he was in for another delay.

  The blonde carried an umbrella, which meant she was a pro. Because Mahoney’s pockets were filled with cigarettes and candy bars, he knew he could buy not only her but ten more just like her. The various possibilities gave him a weird sense of power.

  The blonde spotted him and winked. It was evening and the streets were crowded with Parisians and soldiers still jubilant about the liberation, but Mahoney and the blonde had eyes only for each other. A cigar in his mouth, he strolled toward her.

  Mahoney grinned. He was six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, and might have been considered handsome were it not for certain crude features in his face, especially his nose which had once been broken in a barroom brawl. He still wore his steel helmet and his unruly black hair hung low on his forehead.

  “Hello, G.I.,” she said with a generous smile.

  Mahoney sized her up at around twenty-five. Her hair was worn shoulder length and she also had bangs.

  “Hi,” he replied.

  “You want go fickety fick?” she said in broken English.

  “I speak French,” he told her in that language. “How much?”

  “Simplex or complex?” she asked.

  “Complex.” Mahoney understood that “simplex” meant a straight fuck and “complex” meant the fancier stuff.

  “Ten cigarettes,” she said.

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Right this way.” She hooked her arm in his.

  She twirled her umbrella as they walked off arm in arm. Glancing sideways at her breasts, Mahoney fantasized burying his face between them. It was strange... Although he hardly knew her, soon he could do whatever he wanted.

  They passed a platoon of French Marines wearing scarlet-tufted pompoms on their hats. They passed an American G.I. unconscious in an alley, and another G.I. with a woman who also carried an umbrella. Random bursts of gunfire could be heard in the distance, as soldiers and maquis tried to capture or kill those fanatical Germans still holed up in cellars and attics throughout the city.

  “What’s your name?” asked the blonde, giving Mahoney’s arm a squeeze.

  “Mahoney.”

  She gave the name an unsuccessful try.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Just call me Joe.”

  “All right, Joe,” she said. “I am Cecille. You have very big muscles in your arm. I think I am going to like you.”

  They came to a dingy little hotel on a side street. The lobby was no more than a narrow hall, and as they entered the concierge behind the counter didn’t raise her eyes from the newspaper she was reading. To the left was a flight of stairs, and Cecille ascended first. Mahoney stared with fascination at her rear end. It was round and on the hefty side, and he felt like lifting her dress and taking a look. But, he figured, there was no reason to rush things. Soon he’d have her alone. Soon he’d be able to take a leisurely gander at anything he wanted.

  On the second floor, they entered a room that smelled of cheap perfume. Frilly white curtains hung over the windows and a worn blue rug lay on the floor beside the bed. The mirror on the dresser was adroitly positioned so the people in bed could see what was going on.

  Cecille hung her umbrella on the doorknob, then unbuttoned and took off her blouse, revealing two enormous breasts held in position by a mighty brassiere. Reaching behind, she unhooked it, causing the breasts to collapse a few inches. When she pulled the brassiere away, Mahoney decided they looked pretty good, considering the numbers of guys who must have swung from them.

  “Like me?” she asked with a naughty smile, jiggling the big brown nipples from side to side.

  “They’re the biggest I’ve seen in a long, long time,” Mahoney replied.

  “That’s what all the soldiers tell me.”

  She dropped her skirt and stepped out of her panties. Mahoney was pleasantly surprised to see that she was really a blonde. She walked toward the bed, pulled back the covers, lay down on her back.

  “What are you waiting for?” she said.

  Mahoney took off his helmet and hung it on the bedpost. He peeled off his shirt, kicked off his boots, and jumped out of his pants. She held out her arms and he flopped down on top of her, burying his face in her breasts. Murmuring softly, she pressed them against his cheeks, feeding a nipple into his mouth. He sucked it in like a baby, kneading her breasts with big hands. They were pendulous and soft, like mountains of marshmallows, he thought, and they tasted nearly as sweet.

  As the bedsprings squeaked under their weight, his mind was dizzy with joy.

  In a subterranean chamber underneath the Paris Opera, half a mile away, five S.S. men sat at a table around a flickering candle and ate bread and sausages. Their faces were unshaven and their uniforms rumpled; they had been in hiding for four whole days. Except for Lieutenant Karl Zoller, a blond with a pug nose and a lower jaw that looked too large for the rest of his face, they were all enlisted men.

  “This is the last of our food,” Zoller said, munching on a knockwurst. “We can wait no longer. The time has come to make our decision. We have only two alternatives. We can either surrender or we can fight to the death.”

  Sergeant Kiesel banged a fist on the table. Big and brutal, he would have looked equally at home in a convict’s stripes. “Good S.S. men never surrender!” he stated.

  “That’s correct!” said Corporal Schulz. He was a tall ex-farmer from Swabia. “To surrender is ... unthinkable!”

  Zoller smiled. “I’m pleased to hear you say so. The blood bond that unites us should be stronger than ever now that we are hard-pressed. I, too, do not wish to surrender. To do so would be to repudiate the Fuehrer—and the ideals of National Socialism which all of us hold so dear to our hearts. We should die fighting, and kill as many of the sub-human mongrels as we can. Thus ou
r blood will be a sacrifice to the glory of our cause, and the French will know that we were men. Are we all agreed?”

  Zoller looked next at Private Hoffman, whose thin face put him in mind of a hatchet. Hoffman, only nineteen years old, had been in the Hitler Youth Movement since he was a little boy and he was a total Nazi disciple. “I’m with you, my lieutenant,” he responded.

  “Good.” Zoller smiled and turned to the last man, Private Gratz. “What is your position?”

  Gratz was blond like Zoller, but his features were more refined. He, too, had spent his childhood in the Hitler Youth organization, but only because his father had forced him to do so. Not so fanatical as the others, Gratz was afraid that if he disagreed with them, he might be shot.

  After mulling the situation over once again in his mind, he spoke: “It won’t make any sense to surrender, because the French will shoot us anyway. We might as well fight it out.”

  Zoller frowned. “You have no ideals, Gratz. You’re too much of a pragmatist. You do not have the soul of a true National Socialist.”

  “I do the best I can, sir,” Gratz said, somewhat offended. “But there’s another alternative you haven’t yet mentioned. Why don’t we try to escape?”

  “Escape?” said Zoller in a tone of incredulity. “And just how do you propose we do that? As soon as the French spot your uniform, they’ll shoot you?”

  “Perhaps we could find some civilian clothes,” Gratz said.

  “Where?” Zoller asked sarcastically. “I suppose you think you can simply walk into a store and buy some new clothes?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then where do you propose to get them?”

  Gratz didn’t want to argue. The S.S. should have stockpiled civilian clothes as well as weapons and ammunition in the underground room, he reflected, but that would probably have been considered defeatist, and whoever suggested such an idea might well have been shot.

  “I suppose we should fight it out, sir,” Gratz said.

  “You don’t seem very enthusiastic about it,” Zoller said. “Do you?”

  Gratz looked Zoller straight in the eye. “I will do my duty along with the rest.”

  “Good,” said Zoller. “In the final analysis, that’s all we require. Are we all agreed then?”

  This question was greeted with silence.

  “Very well,” said Zoller. “Let’s move our weapons and equipment to the roof.”

  Chapter Two

  “I’ll never forget you,” Cecille said, after kissing Mahoney goodbye.

  “You’ll never forget me for about a half-hour.” His arms were wrapped around her naked waist.

  She shrugged. “I suppose you’re right, but it was very nice anyway.”

  “So long, kid,” Mahoney said, patting her fanny.

  “Goodbye, Joe.”

  Mahoney trudged down the stairs. It was seven o’clock in the morning and he felt wonderful, full of fresh energy and optimism. At long last, he’d had enough sex and sleep to last for a while and didn’t yet have a craving for booze or even food. He was going to make a beeline to the 15th Regiment and report in, before they listed him AWOL or missing in action.

  It was a bright sunny day and pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks was already quite heavy. His German submachine gun slung barrel-down over his shoulder, he walked quickly through the streets of Paris, hoping he could wrangle a three-day pass from his company commander before too long so he could return to the boulevards and live it up a little more.

  The wind was brisk atop the Paris Opera House as Lieutenant Zoller observed the cars and pedestrians on the streets below. They had exchanged their visored black service caps for black battle helmets with the lightning-bolt runes of the S.S. on the sides. Armed with Mauser rifles, they had carried their last hand grenades and ammunition to the roof.

  “This is the way we’ll proceed,” Zoller said. “At my signal we’ll open fire on whatever targets are presented below. At some point the French are bound to become aware of where we are. They will try to enter this building and climb to the roof. Private Gratz will position himself at the doorway of the stairs that lead to the roof. When he becomes aware that the French are on their way up, he will notify us and we will fight for as long as we can. Any questions?”

  There were no questions.

  “Good,” said Zoller. “But before we begin I imagine each of you might want a few moments of silence to collect your thoughts and prepare for the inevitable outcome of the next hour or so. I will give you a short time for that purpose, beginning right now.”

  Zoller looked at his watch to check the time, then crouched behind the parapet of the roof, sat on the asphalt and pebbles, and stared into his lap. He felt strangely exhilarated, for soon the last fight would begin. In an hour or two he would surely be dead, for he figured it would take that long for the French to reach the roof in force. He knew they wouldn’t dare use artillery or bombs, because they wouldn’t want to damage their opera house. That’s why he’d chosen it for his last stand.

  He looked up at the clear blue sky, thinking about heaven and the infinite possibilities of life after death. He thought of how glorious it was to die for the Reich, and hoped his last fight would set an example for young S.S. men everywhere. Perhaps, someday in Berlin, the Fuehrer would dedicate a monument to him and the courage he had shown.

  He glanced again at his watch. The time was almost up. He thought of enemy bullets ripping him apart. The sensation, he decided, must be like a powerful and brilliant orgasm. He smiled. How proud of him his mother and father would be when they learned of his last stand on the roof of the Paris Opera House. Cowards and fools might surrender, but a true S.S. man would fight to the death.

  When the time was up, Zoller stood behind the parapet. “Take your positions,” he said. “Select your targets. My first shot will be your signal to fire.”

  They rested their rifles on the parapet and took practice aim at figures in the street below. Zoller observed cars and swarms of pedestrians. It looked almost like a peaceful summer morning down there, he thought, but soon he would tear it apart. Searching for his first victim, his eyes fell on a soldier walking alone. The soldier was too far away for Zoller to identify the uniform he was wearing, but Zoller figured it must be French. He lined up the sights of his rifle on the chest of the soldier below. Squinting with his left eye, he slowly, very slowly, squeezed the trigger.

  As he strolled along, Mahoney felt hungry. He wondered if he should stop at a cafe for something to eat or wait until he got back to his regiment. But if he stopped in a cafe, he decided, he’d probably start drinking wine or Calvados, and once more he’d fail to report to his unit. I’d better keep going, he thought. Maybe a cigarette will stop my hunger for a while.

  He took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, and withdrew one, placing it between his lips. As he lit it with his Zippo a shot rang out. When a bullet ricocheted off a concrete block of the building two feet away from him, he dove to the ground.

  He heard a fusillade of gunfire. Ten yards away he saw a man, bellowing in pain, sag to the ground, blood spurting from the front of his shirt. People were screaming and beginning to run hysterically in all directions. More shots rang out and more people fell to the sidewalk, writhing and bleeding from bullet wounds. Mahoney decided he’d better get off the sidewalk before he was trampled to death. It sounded as though the shots were coming from somewhere above the street.

  After a man running for shelter side-kicked his leg, Mahoney figured the safest spot might be underneath one of the cars parked at the curb. He moved quickly in a crouch to the nearest car and crawled underneath it into a pool of black smelly oil. The engine crankcase had been leaking. Just my luck, he thought, to pick a fucked-up car.

  He heard sirens amidst the shrieks of people. Peering out, he saw an attractive young woman running across the street. She had short black hair and her mouth was agape with terror as she desperately searched for shelter.

  “He
re! Under here!” Mahoney shouted.

  She turned in his direction, then closed her eyes and stumbled. Before she reached him, blood welled out of her mouth and she toppled to the cobblestones on the street. Carrying his submachine gun in his right hand, Mahoney crawled out from underneath the car and ran toward her. Bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones all around him, and when he reached the young woman, she was lying on her stomach, a bloody wound in her back.

  Mahoney scooped her up in his arms and ran back to the car. Since the bullet appeared to have entered her back, he reasoned that the shot must have come from the ornate building across the street. Therefore it wouldn’t be necessary to crawl under the car again; all he’d have to do was get them behind it.

  He put the car between him and the building across the street. Among the few people huddled behind the car, he lay the girl down at their feet. Her face was pale and blood was oozing out of her mouth. Her eyes were closed and she was unconscious. Mahoney felt her pulse. It was very weak. He rolled her over onto her stomach, took the surgical dressing from the pouch on his belt, and covered the wound with it. That, he knew, was all he could do until a doctor arrived.

  Looking toward the building from whence the bullets were fired, he saw a marquee and big letters that spelled: PARIS OPERA.

  He glanced toward the roof and saw sunlight glinting off something that looked like a helmet. He unslung his submachine gun, pushed a clip of ammunition into the chamber, and clicked off the safety switch. He raised the gun and fired a burst at the roof. Although he knew the gun was inaccurate at that range, he hoped to force the Germans, or whoever was firing, to duck for cover and stop for a while.

  An armored car turned the corner and rolled into the street. At its approach, everyone pointed to the roof of the Paris Opera; it was now clear that’s where the shots were coming from. The machine-gunner atop the armored car swung his weapon around and aimed it at the top of the imposing building. Suddenly there was an explosion near the armored car, and Mahoney realized that the Germans had thrown a hand grenade.