by Len Levinson
“Balck.”
“Well, I’ll kick his ass even without the gas, because the American soldier is the best damn soldier in the world.” Patton consulted his watch. “You got anything else that’s new?”
“No, sir.”
“Then go out and find something. If you hear about surplus gas lying around anyplace, let me know.”
“Yes, sir. Will do, sir.”
It was night in the forest. Shells whizzed overhead on their way across the river to the German lines, and Mahoney looked again at his watch. It was eleven o’clock, almost midnight, ninety minutes before H-hour. He was now leading his men back to the CP, where they would leave their packs in one of the company trucks. They’d be traveling light tonight, with just their weapons, ammunition and K rations.
It was still raining—which meant no air support. The artillery wasn’t laying down a very heavy barrage, either, and Mahoney figured it would do little more than alert the Germans that something was up. So they’d creep out of their holes and wait for the G.I.s to come. Then they’d open fire with all the power they had.
He trudged over wet leaves, and more wet leaves, his platoon behind him. His field jacket kept his upper body dry but his legs and feet were wet. They had been wet all day. A few of his men had trench foot, and after the assault he would send them back to the battalion aid station. But not now. Now he needed every man he could get for the assault across the Moselle.
He tried to fight the depression that threatened to weigh him down. A loud metallic clank resounded through the woods in front of him. The Germans probably had scouts positioned near the river’s edge and they probably heard the sound too. They were probably loading their weapons right this minute and licking their chops at the prospect of killing a slew of Americans.
Mahoney kept wondering if he’d survive this assault—maybe the last one. He knew that the odds were now running heavily against him; after all, he’d been in a great many battles already and hadn’t been killed yet. Of course he’d been wounded three times, but he’d seen men go into battle for the first time and get killed in five minutes. How long could his luck hold out? Would this be the night that a German shell would blow his guts out?
They came to the CP. A deuce and a half was parked beside it and Mahoney ordered his men to halt. “Load up your shit on that truck,” he said.
The men unslung their packs, and he took off his, then walked to the truck and heaved it in. The flap on the CP tent opened and Captain Anderson emerged, accompanied by Lieutenant Boudreau.
“Hello, Mahoney,” Anderson said. “Nice night for a river crossing, huh?” He was trying to sound optimistic and gung ho, but Mahoney could hear the tension and uncertainty underneath. If Boudreau felt cocky, Mahoney thought he was either crazy or had balls of steel.
“Hi.” Mahoney saluted.
Boudreau looked up at the sky. “Great combat weather!” he said. “Great combat weather!”
“Yeah,” Mahoney said. He wanted to ask what was so fucking great about it, but kept his mouth shut.
“Your men all set?” Captain Anderson asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m sure you know what to do with them, Sergeant. You’ve certainly had a lot of experience.”
“'Let’s just hope it means something when the shit hits the fan.”
“Experience always means something,” said Captain Anderson. “There’s no substitute for experience.”
Boudreau nodded. “Experience and élan.”
“Élan?” Mahoney said. “What’s élan?”
“Dash, will, gallantry. You know what I mean, Sergeant.”
“I guess maybe I do,” Mahoney replied.
“Take your men to the armorer and get your ammo.” Anderson pointed to his right, then held out his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant.”
“You too, sir.”
“Take the high ground, Sergeant,” Boudreau said.
“Right, sir.”
Saluting again, Mahoney returned to his men, who were milling around the truck. He formed them into a column of twos and marched them in the direction of the armorer, who was set up in another deuce and a half a short distance away. The men filed past the armorer, who handed them bandoliers of ammunition and bunches of grenades. Mahoney waited until all his men were loaded up, then walked to the rear of the truck and got his.
He marched his soldiers through the rain back to their former position and instructed his runner, Pfc. DiMeola, to notify the second platoon to go to the CP.
The rain was still falling heavily, and the men no longer had any protection.
“Assemble around me,” Mahoney instructed.
The platoon crowded around him in the darkness. Rain was pouring off their helmets onto their shoulders. Their medic, Pfc. Grossberger, who was barely over five feet tall and wore thick eyeglasses, was almost lost in the crowd.
“Okay, men,” Mahoney said, “this is it. Those of you who’ve been in combat pretty much know what’s going to happen, and the rest of you are going to find out that it ain’t nothing like what they told you in basic training. But whether you’re a combat veteran or a new replacement, I want you to know that I expect my orders to be followed immediately and without any questions. Don’t stop to think—just do what I say. I won’t hesitate to shoot any man who disobeys orders. I got a right to do it and I will. Just remember that we’re all in this together and any man who fucks up will not only get himself killed, but his buddies too. That’s all I got to say. Any questions?”
“I can’t swim, Sergeant,” Private Dalloway said. “Are they gonna have life jackets for us?”
“They usually do,” Mahoney replied. “We’ll be moving out in just a few minutes. Continue with your break, but no unnecessary noises.”
The group broke up. Mahoney lit another cigarette although he knew cigarettes cut his wind and made him feel lousy. But he also knew he’d feel even lousier if he didn’t smoke.
“Here we go again, Sarge.” Cranepool was ambling over.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.”
“Whenever I feel real bad I remember being in Paris with those two twins—the curvy blondes. Remember them?”
“I’ll never forget ’em,” Mahoney said.
“That was the prettiest girl I ever went to bed with.”
“They sure were dolls,” Mahoney said.
“If anything happens to me out there tonight, at least I’ve really had some good times in my life. I have that to remember.”
Mahoney slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve gotta lot of good times in your future, man. Only the good die young, and you ain’t so good anymore.”
Cranepool chuckled. “Guess not.”
Pfc. DiMeola, who held his walkie-talkie to his ear, called to the Sergeant: “Captain Anderson says move out.”
“All right, saddle up!” Mahoney instructed. “It’s time to go to the party!”
The platoon formed into a column of twos, and Mahoney led them forward through the woods. Wet branches and twigs whipped against their faces and scratched their hands. Visibility was nearly zero, and Mahoney didn’t know whether that would favor the G.I.s or not. Then he decided that anything that would make them more difficult targets was to their advantage.
They came to the muddy road where the rest of the company was forming. The first platoon was on the point so he moved it closer to the river to give more room for the rest of the soldiers. The other platoons in the company would follow the first platoon, and the other companies in the battalion would follow Charlie Company.
The company formed into two columns on the road. Bringing up the rear was the heavy-weapons platoon carrying mortars and .50-caliber machine guns. Pfc. DiMeola stood near Mahoney, the walkie-talkie pressed to his ear.
“The captain says move out, Sarge.”
Mahoney raised his hand in the air and extended it forward. “Let’s roll!” he said.
The first plat
oon began walking, as more and more rain poured down. Their feet slopped through the mud. Many of them were thinking how easy it was to die. Mahoney was marching in the middle of the two columns, up front with Cranepool. He had a couple of scouts thirty yards ahead; they would report back as soon as they saw the river.
“Hey, Sarge,” said a soldier walking alongside him. “Is it true you were running a fancy whorehouse in Paris?”
“Who the hell told you that?” Mahoney asked.
“I dunno. Somebody.”
Mahoney spat into the mud. It was amazing how many rumors got started in the Army.
“But did you, Sarge?”
“No.”
“I wish I was in a whorehouse right now,” another man said.
“Are you sure you’d know what to do?” Mahoney said.
“I’d just stick it in, Sarge. Ain’t nothing to it.”
Mahoney remembered that the voice belonged to Private George Lacey from Las Cruces, New Mexico. Lacey had been a real cowboy in civilian life and if the Army still had a mounted cavalry he’d be in it. Instead he was slogging through the mud of France with the other dogfaces.
Running feet were approaching. A scout stopped in front of Mahoney.
“River’s just over that hill,” he said.
Mahoney looked, but he couldn’t see a hill. “How far?”
“The river or the hill?”
“The hill.”
“Thirty yards.”
Mahoney spoke to DiMeola. “Tell the captain the river’s up ahead.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
As the First Platoon climbed the hill, water was flowing down in deep gulleys through the mud, and in the distance Mahoney could hear the Moselle roaring along in its bed. There’s always one more river to cross, Mahoney thought, and then there’s another hill. When can I go home and forget all this shit?
He heard running footsteps behind him. Captain Anderson was double-timing through the darkness, accompanied by Pfc. Pembroke. Anderson was carrying binoculars, a map case, a carbine, and a canteen filled with water. He had removed his captain’s bars, and even in the darkness Mahoney could see a new pimple coming in on his nose.
“How’s it going, Sergeant?” the captain asked.
“So far so good, sir. Don’t you think you’d better get back a little.”
“There aren’t any Germans on this side of the river. I’m all right.”
At the top of the hill, the river was three hundred yards away. By now Mahoney’s eyes were used to the dark, and he could dimly see the river; it was swollen with rain. He thought it might be hard to cross in that current. On the distant shore he could now see shells bursting, but there weren’t enough of them to do any real damage. Still he was worried. This would be the first time he’d gone into an attack without a heavy artillery barrage in front of him.
As the platoon descended the hill, the river was hidden behind tall trees. But still they could hear it rushing on its way to the sea. Mahoney looked at his watch; it was a few minutes after midnight. From the corner of his eye he saw Captain Anderson wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand and look behind at his men.
“Sergeant?” Captain Anderson said softly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Never mind,” Captain Anderson said.
Mahoney sensed that Anderson was scared. “You’ll be all right, sir,” Mahoney whispered. “I know you won’t fuck anything up.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Anderson replied ruefully.
“I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go, sir, and you’re the type that does okay.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’ll betcha twenty dollars I’m right, sir.”
“I don’t want to bet against myself, Sergeant. But I appreciate your sentiment.”
As the land leveled off, they approached the bank of the Moselle. The engineers were already there with boats, and now all the men were quiet. It was fifteen minutes past twelve.
An authoritative soldier stepped forward. Mahoney figured he was an officer who’d left his insignia behind. He talked in low tones to Anderson, then Anderson turned to Mahoney, pointed and said: “Have your men stand at ease by those boats.”
“Yes, sir.”
Flat-bottomed boats were stationed all along the shore. He estimated the line at five hundred yards.
“Can we smoke, Sarge?” asked Private Lacey.
“Are you fucking crazy? With Germans across the river?”
Soldiers from engineers stood near the boats, passing out life jackets. The heavy-weapons company was setting up in the woods behind the riverbank on a little ridge that would permit them to fire over the heads of their comrades as they went across in the boats.
Cranepool walked up to Mahoney. “Hurry up and wait, huh, Sarge? We’re still doing it.”
“What else?”
The German artillery had ceased firing.
“Things seem awful quiet over there, but I don’t think they’re gonna stay quiet much longer.”
“You’re gettin’ smarter every day, Cranepool.”
Captain Anderson, Lieutenant Colonel Sloan and other top officers approached. As he walked along, Sloan patted his men on the shoulders and wished them luck.
“This man is Master Sergeant Mahoney, the division heavyweight champion,” Captain Anderson said proudly.
Rabbit Sloan looked Mahoney over and squinted his beady eyes. “Keep your head down out there, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney replied. He hated these inane pre-attack conversations.
“Your platoon’s gonna be right in the middle of the line,” Sloan pointed out. “We’re counting on you to hold it.”
“We’ll do our best, sir.”
“Good luck, Sergeant.”
Rabbit Sloan shook hands with Cranepool and continued on down the line. Mahoney was impatient. He swore. “Anybody got a stick of gum?”
“Here you go, Sarge,” said DiMeola, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a wet package of Beechnut. “Help yourself.”
Mahoney took out a stick of gum, peeled the wrapper, and folded the gum into his mouth. “You really from Brooklyn, DiMeola?”
“Flatbush and Avenue R. Sarge.”
“Do people really live out there?”
DiMeola grinned.
Cranepool looked at his watch. “Time to go but it looks like the engineers aren’t ready yet.”
Mahoney checked his own watch; it was a few minutes after 0030 hours. “I guess we’re gonna jump off a little late.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
The riverbank was swarming with men and equipment. Mahoney was glad now that the sky was cloudy because if a moon was out, the Krauts could see a lot that was going on.
Suddenly the engineers became more active, unstacking boats and dropping them in the water. One engineer walked up to Mahoney. “It’s time to load your men into the boats, Sergeant.”
“Right.” Mahoney made the familiar circular motion over his head, and the platoon formed around him.
“It’s time to get into the boats,” he said, “but first I want you all to lock and load. And let your bolts back easy, you stupid bastards, because we don’t want to tip off the Krauts that we’re here.”
Each man took one slip of ammunition from his bandoliers and stuffed it into the firing chambers of his M-1. They locked the switches on safety and eased the spring-loaded bolts forward slowly to keep them from making snapping sounds. Then they moved toward the boats. Each boat could carry half a squad, so every group of men was accompanied by either a squad leader or an assistant squad leader. Mahoney got into the boat with Cranepool.
As he placed his foot in the boat it rocked heavily in the water, nearly causing him to lose his balance, but he lowered himself quickly before he toppled into the fast-moving tides of the river. Mahoney could hear somebody trip over an oar somewhere, causing it to whack against the side of the boat. An engineer would cross in each boat, to
bring it back after unloading on the other side.
Noises from many boats could now be heard.
“Christ,” Mahoney mumbled, chewing his gum rapidly, “they’ll wake up Hitler in Berlin!”
Their own engineer, a short man with the homely face of a frog, had a walkie-talkie of his own, but he had let it fall from his ear and dangle from his neck. “Time to get this show on the road,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”
Each boat had two sets of oars and the engineer handled one of them. The other set was manned by Corporal Donald Goines of Staplehurst, Nebraska. An engineer standing on the shore pushed the boat into the river, and the two men started rowing. Mahoney could make out many of the boats moving away from the shore. He saw the dark shapes of soldiers crouched low in the gunwales just like the men in his own boat.
In a long and slightly uneven line the boats advanced over the swiftly moving water.
The river was strong and black as it rushed on its way toward Luxembourg. Some rowers had difficulty keeping their boats moving in a straight line. A few boats turned around in the stream, and then there were muffled curses and the slam of oars against wooden bulkheads. The force of the river tended to move all the boats downstream, and the rowers fought the current as they tried to maintain a forward direction.
“Goines, get outta there,” Mahoney said.
“Whatsa matter, Sarge?” Goines said, huffing and puffing and struggling with his oars.
“I said get the fuck out of there. Hold my weapon.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Goines stopped rowing and accepted Mahoney’s carbine. Mahoney sat in his place. Gripping the oars, he began to row hard. He knew he was the biggest—and the strongest—man in the platoon. He knew, therefore, that he could do the best job.
Rowing himself was the best possible way to insure that he’d get to the other side safely.
He pressed his feet against the ribs that ran up the gunwales, and pulled at the oars. Although a chilly wind was blowing, he soon began to perspire. Sweat streamed down from the liner of his helmet, and his body felt the prickly sensation of increased heat. Sometimes, as he heaved the oars, he caught a whiff of his own body odor; he hadn’t bathed since leaving Paris. The smell reminded him of the paddock when he used to go to Belmont Park and bet on the ponies.