by Len Levinson
Anderson retreated thirty yards behind his company so he could keep an eye on them and make sure no huge gaps opened up. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and he paused occasionally to fire a dead soldier’s carbine at the Germans, because his .45 was ineffective at that range. He was exhausted from worry and depleted physical energy and didn’t think he could go on much longer.
“Sir,” said Pembroke, the field radio on his back, “it’s battalion.”
Anderson held the headset to his ear. “Charlie Company.”
“This is Colonel Sloan. What the hell’s going on up there.”
“We’re almost out of Villeruffec, sir.”
“Now see here, Captain. Your orders were to hold that goddamn town.”
“It can’t be held with a company, sir, and I don’t even have a full company left. I’m down to half strength and I’ve had to leave my wounded behind.”
“You’re not exaggerating?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely, sir. Can you give us some artillery?”
“No, but Baker Company is on the way.”
“They’d better get here quick.”
“Maintain cohesion and pull back in an orderly fashion. Otherwise they’ll chew you up.”
“I think they’re gonna chew us up anyway. I sure could use some artillery. The Krauts have got about a dozen tanks out there.”
There was silence for a few moments. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“If you or somebody could drop a few shells on the road leading from town, it would be a big help.”
“I’ll do what I can. Good luck, Anderson. Over and out.”
Sloan handed the headset to his communications officer, then turned to Major Cutler. “He sounds like he’s in bad shape. How long has he been in trouble?”
“Since around 0100 hours, sir.”
Sloan looked at his watch; it was a few minutes after 0300 hours. “Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
“The O.D. didn’t want to wake you up, sir. I only got into this at around 0200 hours.”
Sloan worked the muscles in his jaw. “Hereafter I want to be awakened whenever an emergency like this happens. Call Dog Company and tell Captain Gallen to put some heavy mortars on the road leading out of Villeruffec.”
“We’re almost out of mortar rounds, sir.”
“When we’re out, we’re out, but I’d sure like to help Anderson out of the fix he’s in.”
“Very well, sir.”
Charlie Company finally reached the easternmost edge of Villeruffec. Behind them were fields and beyond the fields was the swamp they’d crossed the previous afternoon.
Anderson tried to form a coherent plan. He ran a few alternatives quickly through his mind, and finally decided he was in no position to plan anything. All they could do was try to hold together and make a run for it, hoping the night would swallow them up.
“Get me the platoons on the walkie-talkie.”
“Yes, sir.” Pembroke pressed the button and called all the platoons and one by one they responded.
“This, is the C.O.,” Anderson said into the mouthpiece. “When I give you the word I want you to count to sixty. When you reach sixty start running back toward our bridgehead. It’s a long way to go, but if we keep moving I think we can make it because the Krauts might not pursue us too closely. Try to stay together so we can remain an effective fighting force if we need to. Any questions?”
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Michaels, “we’re just about out of ammo.”
“If you move fast enough you won’t need much ammo. Anything else?”
“Sir,” said Mahoney, “it might be better if each platoon went its own way. It’ll confuse the enemy and we might waste too much time if we try to stay together. We don’t have much to fight back with anyway.”
Anderson tried to think. He realized that Mahoney probably was right.
“We’ll try that, Mahoney. Do you all understand? Each platoon will try to get back on its own. Any questions?”
There were no questions.
“Start counting. .. now!”
“Sir?” said Pembroke.
“What is it?” Anderson said with annoyance, for he was trying to count.
“What platoon are we going back with, sir?”
“What?”
“You said all the platoons are gonna split up, but does that mean you and me’ll go back alone?”
“No, we’ll go back with the...” Anderson thought for a few seconds. He realized he’d probably have his best chance with Mahoney. “... the First Platoon.”
Anderson looked at his watch. He swore when he realized he’d lost the count, and he didn’t remember where the second hand had been when he began counting.
Well, he thought, when they leave I guess I’ll know it.
Mahoney sat on the ground, his back to a wall, counting with his eyes closed. There only were fifteen men left in his platoon out of the thirty-five who had made it to Villeruffec. Of the fifteen, some were wounded but still could move around. Blood was still dripping down Mahoney’s face from the cuts he’d received from the ricocheting bullet. Finally he reached sixty.
“Okay,” he said, standing up. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Throw away everything except weapons, ammunition, canteens, and first-aid packs. DiMeola, dump that goddamn walkie-talkie.”
“What if headquarters wants to talk to you?”
“Fuck headquarters in the ass. Get rid of it.”
DiMeola unslung the walkie-talkie and dropped it to the ground. The other men threw away packs, mess kits, and other junk. The BAR men had already exchanged their cumbersome weapons for rifles and carbines picked up from their dead comrades.
“Let’s hit it,” Mahoney said. “Try to stay together if you can. If you can’t, just make it back to our bridgehead. Follow me.”
Mahoney ran into the field. He was carrying a carbine, having thrown away his M-l earlier. The rain kept coming down in buckets and Mahoney was glad because it prevented the Krauts from having good visibility. He could hear the sound of other moving platoons. They ran with their rifles and carbines held high, their hearts chugging heavily in their chests.
When two unknown figures appeared in front of them, Mahoney lowered his carbine to shoot from the hip, but recognized Anderson and Pembroke. Mahoney kept running, quickly catching up with the captain and Pembroke. They didn’t exchange words or salutes; there was no time for bullshit. They were running for their lives.
A shell exploded far to Mahoney’s right, and he looked in that direction as he kept running. Two more explosions followed in rapid succession, and in the light of the blasts Mahoney could make out the road they’d entered town on.
Anderson turned to Mahoney as he ran. “Battalion’s giving us some support.”
“Big fucking deal,” Mahoney replied. “We’d better veer to our left so we can’t be seen in the light of the explosions.”
They headed left, and from behind them in the town came the sound of rifle fire. The Germans were shooting at shadows and mounds of rubble. They didn’t know that the G.l.s had flown the coop ...
Chapter Fifteen
At midnight, an hour before the shelling of Villeruffec had begun, the second company from Battalion D of the 217th Panzergrenadier Division had moved around the village and taken up positions in the fields around it, to ambush any Americans who might seek to flee the town. Their commander, Captain Dolf Meckleburg, had strung a long line of patrols across the field, to make contact with any Americans who might come their way. They had been in position since 0130 hours, listening and peering into the darkness for signs of the Americans.
Like Captain Anderson, Captain Meckleburg was twenty-one years old. But whereas Anderson was tall and rangy, Meckleburg was short and stocky. Meckleburg had first gone into action in Normandy, and had barely escaped from the Falaise Pocket with his skin intact.
He lay on the wet grass and peered ahead into
the rain and darkness, hoping to spot the Americans. He was looking forward to the opportunity of slaughtering some of them, to make up for so many of his comrades who’d been slaughtered in Normandy. He looked at his watch; it was nearly four o’clock in the morning. He was beginning to think the Americans were going to stand and fight to the death in Villeruffec—which was very unusual for Americans who, according to his experience, preferred to run and live to fight another day.
“Sir,” said Private Loesser, “B Platoon has sighted some Americans.”
“Let me speak with Lieutenant Scherff.”
“Yes, sir.”
Private Loesser handed the field radio to Captain Meckleburg.
“Lieutenant Scherff?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many Americans can you see?”
“Around twenty, sir. They’re headed in my direction. Should I open fire?”
“Yes, but wait until they’re close. Don’t let any of them get away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
The First Platoon ran across the field. In the distance they could hear the running feet of other platoons. The firing in the town behind them was diminishing; evidently the Germans were figuring out that the G.I.s had gone. Meanwhile, American mortars continued to pepper the road leading from town, but Mahoney could hear no tanks. They were probably still in the town, he decided, supporting the German infantry.
Mahoney estimated that the swamp area was only around half a mile away. The swamp had old dead trees in it and lots of undergrowth; it wouldn’t be difficult to hide there. He figured he could be across the Moselle in two or three hours if they continued the way they were going. Mahoney began to think that he was going to make it. He finally saw hope for himself and the rest of the platoon.
Suddenly he heard gunfire to his front, and a hail of bullets descended upon them. Some of the men screamed in pain, and all of them dropped to their stomachs on the wet grass. Bullets zipped over their heads. Mahoney could tell by the sound that there were a great many Germans out there. Pfc. Butsko was the first G.I. to return the fire.
“Stop firing!” Mahoney yelled. “Keep your heads down!”
Mahoney didn’t want to fight because the muzzle blasts would give their position away. He looked around to figure out an avenue of escape. He wished Captain Anderson wasn’t around, so that he could be free to do whatever he thought right.
“Sir,” Mahoney said, as bullets flew over their heads, “I think we should go that way.”
He pointed to the right, away from the swamp.
“But that’s the wrong way, Sergeant.”
“That’s why we should go that way. The Krauts expect us to head straight back to our bridgehead. We’ll have to circle around them.”
Anderson nodded. “You’re right.”
Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’re all gonna move to our right and get around them. I’m gonna count to three and then we’ll hit it. Don’t fire your weapons unless I tell you to. One ... two ... three!”
The men of the First Platoon jumped up and ran to the right, trying to get around the Germans. Bullets buzzed past them and they kept their heads down, knowing they were trapped and aware of the odds against them. Mahoney heard a roar and turned around. His hair stood on end as he realized that the Germans tanks were leaving the town and pouring onto the field. This meant the Kraut soldiers were leaving the town and coming after them, too. He heard an eruption of gunfire behind him and realized that another American platoon was being hit by the Krauts.
“Keep moving!” Mahoney said through clenched teeth. “Go!”
Suddenly Mahoney felt as though he’d been hit in the arm with a baseball bat. The force of the blow sent him spinning around and sprawling into the grass. The pain in his arm was fierce and he blacked out for a few seconds.
“You okay, Sarge?” asked Grossberger.
Mahoney looked up. The medic was leaning over him, cutting away his shirt. Mahoney thought his bicep was on fire. The pain was excruciating.
Captain Anderson knelt beside Grossberger. “How is he?”
Grossberger felt around the wound. “I think the bullet’s still in there. The bone doesn’t seem to be broken.”
“I’ll be okay,” Mahoney said, trying to get up.
“Don’t move,” Grossberger said. “Lemme work on it.”
This is just what I need, Mahoney thought, squinching his eyes in pain as Grossberger poured blood coagulant onto the wound. He gave Mahoney a shot of morphine, put sulfa on the wound, then bandaged it as the sound of gunfire to their front drowned out the pouring rain.
The morphine made Mahoney woozy. Little yellow lights flickered before his eyes. He started to feel okay.
“You can get up now, Sarge.”
Mahoney rose unsteadily to his feet, his carbine in his right hand. “I guess I can’t use this thing anymore.”
“I’ll take it,” Anderson replied. “You can use my forty-five.”
They exchanged weapons, Mahoney strapping on the .45 and then handing the bandoliers of carbine ammunition to Anderson. Mahoney felt giddy. The pain in his bicep was still there but somehow it didn’t bother him. He wanted to laugh.
“We’d better start moving, Sergeant,” Anderson said. “We don’t want to fall too far behind the others.”
“Right.”
They ran after the rest of the platoon, whom they could hear moving over the grass ahead of them. To their rear were scattered gunfights and the sound of tank engines. Charlie Company was running in all directions, trying to escape the nutcracker they were in.
Mahoney felt as though the First Platoon was like the back-field of a football team making an end run. They were trying to get around the German line and then head for the end zone. Mahoney figured they’d make it around when a shot rang out to their front and a bullet whizzed through the brain of Private Hawkins, who was killed instantly. The rest of the platoon dropped down to the earth again, and a hail of bullets flew over their heads.
Mahoney closed his eyes and listened. “It doesn’t sound like there are many of them,” he said to Anderson.
“It doesn’t sound as if they’re very close, either,” Anderson replied. “Maybe we can crawl out of here.”
The platoon crawled to its right, still trying to get around the German line. Bullets whistled over their heads, and explosions from the tanks’ cannons could be heard in the distance. Mahoney figured that some of the Charlie Company platoons were getting chewed up back there.
Gradually the First Platoon moved away from the bullets that had been flying over their heads. Mahoney felt like a snake as he slithered over the grass. The morphine was coursing through his veins and he hallucinated hundreds of tiny antlike Hitlers in the grass in front of him.
“You fucking cocksuckers,” he mumbled, crushing them with his hand.
“You say something, Sergeant?” Anderson asked in a whisper.
“No.”
“How do you feel?”
“Okay.”
Suddenly German fire erupted at them again, and it sounded very close. The G.I.’s pressed their faces against the wet grass and tried to keep as low as they could.
Where are all the Krauts coming from? Mahoney wondered. We can’t seem to get around them.
He heard Germans shouting in front of him, and then he heard running feet. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as he realized that the Germans were charging. The muzzle blasts of their weapons danced like fireflies before his eyes.
“Up and at ’em!” Mahoney yelled. “Kill the cocksuckers!”
The G.I.s jumped up off the ground and ran toward the Germans with fixed bayonets, firing at the fireflies as they moved along. Mahoney held the .45 in front of him and shot at one of the figures emerging from the mist and rain. Altogether, there were only around twenty Germans and he realized that the odds weren’t as bad as he’d thought.
Captain Anderson led his men forward.
> “Follow me!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
“Kill the cocksuckers!” Mahoney shouted again.
The G.I.s made war whoops and rebel yells as they ran toward the Germans who were charging them, and the Germans cried out their own orders and exhortations. The two groups met in a remote section of the field and began to fight. They grunted and lunged at each other with bayonets, slashing, banging rifle butts at each other’s heads.
Mahoney shot a German in the face, and his head blew apart. As another German rushed at him, Mahoney took quick aim and fired the .45. The bullet hit the German in the chest and lifted him off the ground, making a little hole as it went in and tearing out his lungs on the way out. Another German appeared and Mahoney fired a third round, this time missing completely. The Kraut kept coming and lunged his bayonet toward Mahoney’s heart. Mahoney dodged out of the way, tripped, fell, and managed to get off a round while lying in the grass. The bullet hit the German in the side and tore out his kidney. The German sagged to the ground with blood gushing from the gigantic hole.
Mahoney heard rushing footsteps and got to his knees. A German with a pistol came toward him, but Mahoney got off the first round. It missed, but it made the German duck. Mahoney fired again and this time hit the Kraut in the knee. The bullet shattered the German’s leg and sent him howling to the ground.
Mahoney got to his feet and looked around. The ground was littered with bodies of dead Germans and Americans. Cranepool was running a German through the chest with his bayonet. Butsko, swinging his rifle like a baseball bat, hit a Kraut alongside his head, causing blood to squirt out the German’s nose and mouth.
The G.l.s had been outnumbered, but they were more desperate than the Germans and thus they fought harder. Many Germans were killed and the remainder finally retreated, running back to the main German lines. The G.l.s took potshots at them, bringing down a few more.
As their footsteps receded into the distance, Mahoney looked around to see who was left. He counted eight figures still standing. Among them were Captain Anderson, Corporal Cranepool, and Pfc. Butsko. Pfc. Pembroke lay still on the ground, his head nearly severed from his body due to a bayonet thrust to his neck. DiMeola was almost dead, bleeding profusely from the chest, his eyes glazing over. Pfc. Grossberger checked over the bodies to see what could be done.