by Len Levinson
“Yes, sir.”
As Major Cutler walked out of the tent, Colonel Sloan returned to his letter and his roast beef.
“Sir, it’s Major Cutler.”
Captain Anderson put on the headset. “Anderson here.”
“I’ve just spoken to Colonel Sloan, Anderson. He says to stay right where you are and report further developments.”
Anderson sighed. He knew it was useless to argue. “Yes, sir. I hope somebody will get some chow to us in the morning.”
“We’ll do our best, Anderson, but just remember that we’re not out here on a picnic.”
“I know that, sir.”
“Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.”
Anderson took off the headset. He wanted to hurl it across the cellar with all his strength, but instead he handed it to Pembroke and returned to the old rickety chair where he’d been sitting.
“Looks like we’re here to stay,” he said.
“Jesus!” Sergeant Tweed shook his head.
“Well,” Anderson said wearily, “maybe they’re right. The barrage has diminished and I don’t hear much small-arms anymore.”
“They’ll be back,” Tweed said.
Anderson suspected Tweed was right. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an Old Gold, lighting it with his Zippo. He blew smoke out from the side of his mouth.
“At least we still have cigarettes,” he said.
“They won’t be much good when the Krauts attack,” Tweed replied.
Anderson didn’t reply. He didn’t want to get into a discussion with an enlisted man on the deficiencies of headquarters, so he puffed away at his cigarette, hoping it would dispose of his hunger. Their situation reminded him of a movie he’d once seen about a group of frontiersmen in a fort outnumbered and surrounded by Indians, not knowing when the Indians would attack. That’s how Anderson felt about the Germans.
I know what I’ll do, he thought. When the Krauts attack I’ll pull my men the hell out of here. In my report I’ll say the Krauts forced us to it …
At the headquarters of the 217th Panzergrenadier Division, General Hans Dietrich Kretchmer was planning the assault on the Americans occupying the little town of Villeruffec. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and Kretchmer had scheduled the attack for one in the morning.
“We’ll strike them from here, here and here,” he said, pointing to his map. “And we’ll send a tank company in through here. I don’t think there are many Americans in there, unless they’ve been resupplied through the artillery barrage, which I doubt. After taking the town, we’ll push through in this direction to their bridgehead. If we move quickly we should be able to recover the ground we lost last night.”
Captain Fritz Nagle, a young staff officer, raised his hand. “May I make a suggestion, sir?”
“By all means.”
Nagle, a tall, fragile-looking officer wearing glasses, leaned over the map and pointed. “Wouldn’t it make sense to send a company-sized unit around here to trap the Americans as they leave Villeruffec? If they depart hastily via this road, as we can assume, they’ll stumble right into our hands and we can wipe them out. The more Americans we kill now, the less we’ll have to fight another time.”
Kretchmer nodded. “You’re quite right of course, Nagle. Yes, that’s a good idea. I think the second company from Battalion D would be in the best position to make that move.”
He turned to the commander of the regiment that included Battalion D. “Take care of that, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer.
Mahoney and DiMeola returned to their own cellar. The French couple smiled at them as they entered. The pretty blonde was present, still playing with the children.
Mahoney held out his hands to the heat. “Is there some place where I can go to sleep?”
“Why don’t you sleep here?” the old man said.
“Because the kids might keep me awake.”
“But we’re soon going to bed. There’s no reason for us to stay up—it only wastes kerosene.”
“Good deal, I think I’ll sleep right here.” The sergeant turned to DiMeola. “You’d better sack out too, fuckface.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Mahoney took off his pack and made a little pillow with it on the floor. Then he lay behind the stove and closed his eyes. In a few minutes he was fast asleep.
Through the town, the men of Charlie Company went to sleep in ditches, cellars, and makeshift shelters. A sentry system had been set up, so that every man would stand guard two hours and then get four hours of sleep. The guards kept watch on the fields around the town, alert for the movement of German troops. Occasional shells still dropped on the town, but not with the intensity with which they’d fallen before. The combat veterans figured that the recent bombardment was just to zero in the German guns on the town. If so, the next bombardment would be much worse.
Captain Anderson lay on the floor of the company CP and smoked his last cigarette of the day. His stomach was grumbling and his throat was sore; he was surely coming down with something. He wondered what the Germans were up to, whether they’d attack in the night or if they’d gone away to concentrate their power on a more important part of the front. The artillery barrage had diminished to practically nothing. Maybe the Germans wouldn’t attack, he thought, and in the morning maybe the chow truck would come and they’d be reinforced.
He smoked the cigarette down to the butt, then put it out in an empty K-ration can beside him. He adjusted his head on his map case and closed his eyes. Maybe everything’s going to be all right after all, he thought, before dozing off. Maybe our position isn’t so bad ...
The pain in his bladder made Mahoney open his eyes. He flicked his Zippo and looked at his watch—it was a few minutes before midnight. Getting up from the floor, he put on his helmet and went outside to take a leak. Near the door he paused to light a cigarette.
It was still raining outside, and the German shelling had stopped altogether. Stumbling over bricks and piles of rubble, for he was still half asleep, he finally found a wall in the lee of the wind where he thought he’d take his piss.
What a life! He suddenly thought of Paris, and how—when he had to piss—he’d been able to do so in a porcelain bathroom in his hotel. Remembering Paris he wondered if those things had actually happened to him or if they were just a fabulous dream. The luxury of the hotel was almost beyond belief, compared to the way he was living now.
Buttoning his pants, puffing on his cigarette, he walked back to the cellar. As something moved in front of him, he froze. It was a person; he heard footsteps. Had the Krauts slipped past the guards and infiltrated the town? he wondered. Crouching low, he removed his carbine from his shoulder and let the cigarette slip from his mouth to the ground. The footsteps were heading his way. He held his carbine in both hands and put his finger on the safety so he could flick it off and start firing.
A figure slowly emerged from the rain and shadows. It was the blonde from inside the cellar! Mahoney figured she was probably out to take a piss, too. Maybe she wouldn’t notice him, he thought, and maybe he could watch. But she was walking directly toward him.
“Bonjour,” she said with a shy smile.
“Bonjour.” He tipped his helmet to her.
She wore a coat with a shawl over her hair. Looking at the gun, she said in French: “Did you think I was a German?”
He slung the carbine back over his shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I did. Cigarette?”
“I already have a pack that you gave me.”
“Have another.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“What are you doing out here?” Mahoney lit hers and then his with the Zippo.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I came outside.”
Mahoney wondered if she’d followed him. Could it be possible, was it even conceivable, that she wanted him to fuck her?
“I didn’t think you smoked,” he said.
“Why?”
“You seem too young.”
She laughed in the rain. “I’m not as young as you probably think.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You sure don’t look it.”
“That’s what people tell me.”
“You must be very pure inside, to retain such a look of youth.”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”
She wasn’t making any effort to avoid him, which made Mahoney think that maybe she wanted something...
“I can’t sleep either,” he lied. “Want to go someplace dry and talk for awhile?”
She shrugged. “All right.”
“Do you know a dry place?” Mahoney had no idea where to take her.
“Follow me.”
She walked into the rubble, and he followed. She was tall for a woman, and he wondered what her figure was like underneath the coat and all the other clothes she was wearing.
They walked around a wall and down an alley. She was headed toward a pile of bricks and wood against which a chunk of shingled roof was leaning.
“Help me move this out of the way,” she said.
He pushed the roof to the side, and saw a flight of stairs that he presumed led to another cellar.
She descended the stairs. “This is my home,” she said, “—or at least it used to be. Put the roof back over the door, will you?”
Mahoney pulled the roof back over the entrance.
“Don’t make a light yet,” she said in the darkness. “I don’t want anyone to know about this place. Give me your hand. I know the way.”
He reached out and felt her hand. Her fingers were long and slim, and there were calluses on the palm. She led him down the steps and into a musty room. They walked across it, and then she stopped. He let her hand go, and she lit a match. In its glow Mahoney saw a table, a couple of chairs, and a sofa. She lit a candle and the cellar came to light. A big coal furnace was near.
“Have a seat,” she said.
Mahoney sat down on one of the chairs.
“You like wine?” she asked.
“I love it.”
“I’ll get some.”
She left the room and entered an adjacent room. A half-minute later she returned with a bottle.
“I have no glasses,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Sometimes wine tastes better straight out of the bottle.”
“I prefer a glass,” she said, handing him the bottle.
“Ladies first.” He pushed it back to her.
“Don’t be silly, I think you need it more than I do.”
She pulled the shawl off her head, and her hair was like gold. She had rosy cheeks and lips, and in front her hair was cut in bangs. Mahoney figured that a girl like her could make a lot of money in a whorehouse.
He pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a swig of wine. It was dry and tingled his palate as it went down.
“Tastes good,” he said, handing the bottle to her. “It’s very kind of you to offer it to me, because I’m sure you must not have much.”
She accepted the bottle. “I have more, but anyway, who is more generous than you? You gave us all the food you had, with none left for yourself. You’re a very decent man. One can’t help liking you.”
As she brought the mouth of the bottle to her lips she threw her head back. Mahoney gazed at her milky-white throat, wanting to kiss it. He felt an erection growing in his pants. How am I going to go about this? he thought, looking at the sofa. Should I ask her if she wants to lie down over there, or should I just grab her? Then he noticed the wedding ring on her finger.
“You’re married,” he said.
“Aren’t you?” she asked.
“No. Where’s your husband?”
“He’s a soldier like you.”
“Poor son of a bitch.”
She shrugged. “Well, what can people like us do about a war? It’s like a hurricane that comes and sweeps us away. I speak some English, although not nearly as well as you speak French. I could understand what was going on when that other soldier wanted to rape me, and you wouldn’t let him. Thank you very much. For a moment there, I was very worried.”
Mahoney didn’t tell her that deep in his heart he wanted to rape her himself. “I think rape is as bad for the men who do it as for the women they do it to, because a man who rapes somebody will have a very low opinion of himself after it’s over. Soldiers should always maintain a level of pride if they want to be effective.”
“I saw you when you first came to town.”
“I saw you, too.”
“I recall you looking at me, but I didn’t know if I registered in your mind.”
“You registered. I thought you were awfully pretty.”
“Thank you.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “To tell you the truth, you frightened me when I first saw you, but later, in the cellar, I thought you had a certain ... magnetism.”
Mahoney wrinkled his forehead. “Is that good or bad?”
Her laughter was like tinkling bells. “I think it’s good.”
She likes me, Mahoney thought jubilantly. He looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes to one. He couldn’t afford to stay up all night talking to this gorgeous blonde, and he suspected that she didn’t want to do so either. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Yvette.”
“Uh, Yvette—do you think we could lie down for awhile over there?” He pointed vaguely toward the sofa.
She bent toward the candle and blew it out.
Chapter Fourteen
In an old farmhouse only five miles away, General Hans Dietrich Kretchmer stood in his conference room with his staff officers, all wearing helmets and full battle dress. Light came from kerosene lamps flickering on the ceiling and around the map table. In a corner sat the communications officer with a sergeant. They were manning the field telephone and radio set.
General Kretchmer consulted his watch. The overhead lights cast sharp shadows on his craggy face, which was pitted with acne scars. He was from an old Prussian family, the son and grandson of generals. He stood ramrod straight; his uniform was clean and pressed, his boots were highly polished. The second hand of his watch ticked its way around the numerals. Finally it came to one o’clock in the morning.
He looked toward his communications officer in the corner. “Direct the artillery battalions to open fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer began to speak into the field telephone. Kretchmer looked down on the map at the little village of Villeruffec. His artillery battalions had zeroed in on the town earlier in the night, and now they’d begin their barrage. In the distance he could already hear the opening salvos. He looked up at his staff officers and smiled.
“I’d love to see the expressions on the faces of those Americans when the first shells start landing,” he said.
Half-naked on the sofa, Mahoney and Yvette were humping like wild animals. Neither of them had bathed for several days, so they smelled like wild animals, too. Mahoney had his shirt open, and his pants pulled down. Yvette’s dress was up, her panties were halfway across the room, and her bodice was unbuttoned. Mahoney held her ass in his hands and pumped for all he was worth. Her legs were wrapped around his waist and she shook from side to side, whimpering and moaning. Mahoney kissed her throat, nibbled her ears, and sucked her tongue.
“I’m coming!” she shrieked.
Mahoney had been holding himself back, and it had been a heroic effort, but now he let himself go. His dams burst and his body was wracked with convulsions as joy juice squirted out of him. She jerked spasmodically and closed her eyes as she groaned and sighed in ecstasy.
But still Mahoney kept working her. He was delirious with pleasure, and he couldn’t stop. Hot cream gushed out of him and she gritted her teeth to keep from screaming. They heard bells and saw fireworks. They also heard loud explosions that shook the sofa they were screwing on. My God, Mahoney thought,
this has got to be the most incredible fuck of my life!
His movements became slower and he gasped for air. The fireworks dimmed and the bells stopped ringing, but the explosions continued. He went limp against her, struggling to catch his breath, as dust and small pieces of wood fell down on them from the ceiling. The cellar shook with the sound of shell bursts, and suddenly it dawned on Mahoney that the explosions weren’t part of his orgasms, they were enemy explosions!
“Holy shit!” he said, jumping off Yvette.
She grimaced at his sudden departure. “What’s wrong!”
“The Germans are shelling us!”
She wrinkled her nose and listened. “You’re right, they are! I thought it was the fickety-fick, but it’s the Germans!”
With rapidly moving fingers and fumbling hands, Mahoney buttoned up his pants and fastened his belt. He buttoned his shirt, put on his field jacket and helmet, and grabbed his carbine. Then he knelt beside the sofa where Yvette still lay.
“I gotta go,” he said.
She touched his hands and wanted to beg him to stay, but knew he couldn’t.
“Kiss me,” she said.
Mahoney touched his lips to hers and stuck his tongue down her throat, then turned around and ran out of the cellar.
The first explosion awakened Captain Anderson. He opened his eyes wide in the darkness and tensed. When more explosions followed, he realized that the town was under heavy bombardment.
Sergeant Tweed had awakened also, and was lighting a candle. Anderson stood up and put on his helmet. He walked swiftly to Pembroke, who also was getting up off the floor, and picked up the radio headset, calling battalion headquarters.
“Colonel Sloan is asleep,” said the O.D. “Is this important enough to awaken him?”
Anderson thought for a few seconds and decided he wasn’t sure. “Where’s Major Cutler?”
“He’s asleep, too.”
“Leave the following message for both of them: Charlie Company of the First Battalion is receiving an intense artillery bombardment as of 0100 hours. Enemy ground attack imminent. Got that?”