by Len Levinson
“Well,” said Patton, “they know how important Bastogne is by now. If you want to go anywhere in this area, you’ve got to go through Bastogne. I wonder how much the bastards have left?”
“They’re abandoning their vehicles due to lack of gasoline,” Koch said.
Patton pshawed. “Even if they had the gas, they wouldn’t be able to move around much right now. The weather’s too bad. The fighting now will have to be done by the infantry, and it’s going to be a son of a bitch.” Patton looked at Colonel Halley Maddox, his G-3 (Operations) officer. “How soon can we jump off?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“I hope that’s soon enough.” Patton gazed at the map and formulated his attack. “All right,” he said, “this is the way it will be. The Eightieth Division and the Twenty-sixth will attack toward Wiltz, and the Fourth Armored and the Hammerheads will strike toward Houffalize. That will free Bastogne and push the krauts up into a sack that they’ll never get out of. If Monty and Hodges ever get off their asses and attack to the south, we’ll wipe out all the Germans in Belgium.” Patton gazed into the faces of his officers. “I know your men are tired,” he said. “I know they’re cold and hungry. But the Germans are in worse shape than we are, and victory will fall to the side that pushes the hardest. Gentleman, we’re the side that’s going to push the hardest, and any man who slacks off will have to deal with me. Any questions?”
~*~
“Is this Charlie Company?” Mahoney asked.
The soldier looked up from the hole he’d dug in the snow. “Hey—Sergeant Mahoney!” the soldier said. “When’d you get back?”
Mahoney recognized the soldier vaguely. “Where’s the CP?”
The soldier pointed. “Over there.”
Mahoney trudged in the direction the soldier had indicated, passing holes dug in the snow. Soldiers huddled inside the holes, shivering from the cold, and some had covered the holes with their blankets, so they could trap the warm air from their breaths and raise the temperature around them a few degrees. Wind and snow whistled through the slender birch trees that covered the area. Mahoney knew that once he climbed into a hole and stopped moving, he’d start freezing his ass too.
Mahoney came to a network of trenches covered with the trunks of felled birch trees. A little tin chimney sent smoke into the air. It looked like the command post. Mahoney slid into the trench and ducked his head under the birch trunks.
Two men sat around some crates of C rations. One was old and grizzled, and the other young and pug-nosed.
“Sergeant Tweed around here?” Mahoney asked.
“Sergeant Tweed’s dead,” said the older man.
Mahoney felt as if the ground had given way underneath because Tweed had been the First Sergeant of Charlie Company since August and Mahoney had been on fairly good terms with him.
“How’d he get it?”
“Who’re you?”
“Master Sergeant C.J. Mahoney. I’ve been away on ... ”
“Yeah, I know,” the older man said with a faint smile, extending his hand. “I’m the new first sergeant here. My name’s Futch. We’ve been expecting you to come back. The orders came down two days ago. What took you so long to get here?”
“I had a little unfinished business in Bastogne,” Mahoney replied, thinking of Madeleine. He turned to the young soldier. “What happened to Drago?”
Futch answered. “He got it with Tweed. They were hit by a one-fifty-five.”
“What about Captain Anderson?”
Futch pointed his thumb behind him. “He’s back there.”
“Maybe I should report to him now that I’m back.”
“Maybe you should.” Futch looked at the young soldier. “Go tell Captain Anderson that Mahoney’s here.”
The soldier crawled back and disappeared around the bend in the trench system. Mahoney took out a cigarette and lit it up, thinking about Tweed and Drago. I’m probably gonna go like that too, he thought. One moment I’ll be alive and the next moment I’ll be splattered all over the landscape.
The young soldier came back. “Captain Anderson will see you now.”
“What’s your name?” Mahoney asked because he always considered it advantageous to stay on good terms with the company clerk.
Sergeant Futch cleared his throat before the young soldier could speak. “That’s Pfc Spicer. He went to Harvard.”
“No shit,” Mahoney said, shaking Spicer’s hand. “I’m Mahoney.”
Spicer said hello, and Mahoney winked, moving past him to the part of the trench occupied by Captain Anderson. He turned the corner, passed the supply sergeant and his assistant, turned another corner, and saw Captain Anderson sitting on a box of C rations and using another for a desk.
“That you, Mahoney?” Captain Anderson asked, squinting through the darkness.
“Yes, sir.”
“Welcome back.”
“It’s good to be back, sir.”
They shook hands, and Mahoney sat on the packed snow in front of Captain Anderson’s makeshift desk. A kerosene lamp burned atop the desk, and Mahoney saw that Anderson was haggard and bleary eyed. Anderson was only twenty-three years old, but he looked forty.
“I understand you got yourself caught in Bastogne while it was surrounded,” Anderson said.
“That’s right,” Mahoney replied. “I always wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Must have been pretty rough.”
“Not as rough as that day we went over the Moselle River. You remember that day?”
“I sure do,” replied Captain Anderson. “It was my first day under fire. I guess you heard about Tweed and Drago.”
Mahoney lowered his eyes. “Yeah.”
“If I hadn’t been called to battalion headquarters for a meeting, I probably would’ve been in the jeep with them.”
“Well, that’s the way it goes, sir. You got to keep your head down and hope for the best.”
“The part about it that gets me,” Anderson said, “is that there’s nothing you can do to insure that you can stay alive. A German artillery shell can come out of nowhere at any moment. A shell could fall on us right now as we’re talking.”
Mahoney grunted. “It’s not a good idea to think about things like that, sir. It can make you awfully nervous.”
Captain Anderson reached into a pocket and took out his cigarettes. Mahoney noticed that his hands were shaking. Maybe Captain Anderson was finally getting combat fatigue. The deaths of Tweed and Drago evidently had knocked him for a loop.
Mahoney thought he’d better change the subject. “Will I have my old platoon, sir?”
Captain Anderson lit his cigarette. “Yes, but you’ve got a new platoon leader named Lieutenant Woodward. I shouldn’t say it, but he’s not the easiest person in the world to get along with.”
“If I got a new platoon leader, then you must have a new exec. Who’s he?”
“Lieutenant Irving. He and Woodward were at West Point together.”
A terrible thought crossed Mahoney’s mind. “My old buddy Cranepool is okay, isn’t he?”
Anderson smiled. “He’s okay. I think he got nicked on the arm, but that’s about all.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I got a lot of paperwork to do, and I’m sure you’ll want to say hello to your old pals in the first platoon, so you can get going now.”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said. “Nice to see you again.”
On his way out of the trench, Mahoney stopped beside Sergeant Futch and murmured: “You’d better keep an eye on the old man. I think his nerves are shot.”
Futch nodded. “I noticed.”
Mahoney left the trench and made for the first platoon. The wind cut into his field jacket and chilled his ribs now that he’d rested for a while. He looked down and shivered as he tramped through the snow. The wind whistled past on its way through the birch trees, and the branches scratched against each other. Sergeant Guffey of the Second Platoon happened to look out of his hole as Mahoney passe
d by.
“Hey, Mahoney!” he yelled. “When’d you get back?”
“Just now!”
“You got anything to drink?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
Mahoney kneeled by the hole and passed his canteen to Guffey, as other GIs looked out of their fortifications.
“Hey—Mahoney’s back!” somebody shouted.
“Where?”
“Over there!”
“Hey Sarge—you get any pussy while you were away?”
“None of your fucking business!” Mahoney replied.
“Aw, come on Sarge—tell us!”
“Fuck you,” Mahoney said.
Guffey handed the canteen back to Mahoney, “Thanks,” he said. “You meet Woodward yet?”
“I’m on my way to report to him now.”
“He’s a real prick of misery.”
“That’s what I heard. You know where he is?”
Guffey pointed. “Over there someplace.”
Mahoney walked in the direction Guffey had indicated. He heard shellfire in the distance and wondered who was getting plastered. He hoped it was the Germans.
“Holy shit—is that you, Mahoney?”
Mahoney looked down, and saw Corporal Fanucchi, one of his squad leaders. “Yeah, it’s me. Where’s Lieutenant Woodward?”
“In that trench right over there. When’d you get back, Sarge?”
“Right now.”
Mahoney bent into the wind and headed for the trench. Charlie Company was in a spindly little birch forest, and everything was a shade of gray.
Finally Mahoney came to a trench covered with birch logs like Captain Anderson’s command post. He jumped into the trench and ducked his head under the logs. He saw two men sitting on either side of a small campfire. One of them twiddled with the knob of a walkie-talkie, while the other was cleaning a Colt .45.
“Which one of you is Lieutenant Woodward?” Mahoney asked.
The soldier cleaning the pistol wrinkled his brow. “I am.”
Mahoney saluted. “I’m Master Sergeant Mahoney returning to duty, sir.”
Woodward raised his chin and looked down his nose at Mahoney. He examined Mahoney for a few moments, then saluted back and said, “Well, I’ve heard a great deal about you, Sergeant.”
“I’ve heard a few things about you too, sir.”
Lieutenant Woodward smiled. “I imagine you have. Well, they say you’re quite a soldier. We can always use good soldiers here. Make yourself comfortable, sergeant. You may smoke if you want to. By the way, this is my runner, Pfc Dryden. I didn’t like your man Riggs at all. I think he’s a moron.”
Mahoney kneeled beside the fire and took out his cigarettes. “He is a moron, but he did whatever he was told, and that’s all I can ask of any man.”
“I can’t tolerate morons, and I don’t care how loyal they are.”
Woodward lay down the part of the pistol he was cleaning. Mahoney lit his cigarette, and his eyes met Woodward’s. They looked each other over for a few moments. Woodward had a long face with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks. He’d shaved recently and was an inch or two shorter than Mahoney.
Woodward turned to Pfc Dryden. “Take a walk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pfc Dryden climbed out of the trench and was swallowed up by the blizzard. Mahoney puffed his cigarette and looked at Woodward, trying to figure him out. The firelight glinted off Woodward’s cat-like eyes, and he pushed his helmet to the back of his head.
“Well, Mahoney,” Woodward said, “I understand you ran this platoon without a platoon leader for quite some time now. I hope it won’t be too difficult for you to adjust to me.”
“I’ve been in the Army ten years sir,” Mahoney replied. “I can adjust to anybody.”
“When I took over this platoon I thought the men were rather lackadaisical in appearance and attitude,” Woodward said. “I’ve changed all that.”
Mahoney puffed his cigarette and said nothing.
“Since you’re the platoon sergeant,” Woodward went on, “I expect you to set an example. I don’t like the way you look right now, Sergeant. You need a shave and a haircut. I expect all the men in my platoon to have a standard regulation military haircut like mine.” Woodward removed his helmet, and Mahoney saw dark brown hair about an inch long.
“I couldn’t find any barbers in Bastogne,” Mahoney said drily.
“Is that whisky I smell on your breath?” Woodward asked.
“Brandy.”
“Are you drunk?” Woodward asked incredulously.
“I only had a few snorts.”
“Where’d you get the brandy?”
“Somebody gave me a drink on my way over here,” Mahoney lied.
Woodward looked sternly at Mahoney. “There will be no alcoholic beverages in this platoon—do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And with reference to your previous remark about barbers in Bastogne, I want every man in my platoon to have a regulation haircut.”
“Yes, sir.”
Woodward raised his eyebrows. “I suppose you think I’m being chickenshit, but a neat appearance gives a soldier pride in himself and his unit although you probably disagree.”
“You’re right that time,” Mahoney replied.
“I knew it. I can read your mind like a book, Mahoney.”
Mahoney grinned. “Then what am I thinking right now?” Mahoney closed his eyes and imagined himself strangling Lieutenant Woodward.
Woodward cleared his throat. “I’m only speaking generally. I know you don’t see things the way I do, but that doesn’t matter to me. All I care about is making this platoon into an effective fighting unit.”
“It was an effective fighting unit long before you ever got here, sir.”
“That’s your opinion. My opinion is that I inherited a bunch of hooligan soldiers, and I think it’s your fault that they were that way.”
Mahoney stared at Woodward and felt his shirt becoming warm. He thought of the fight for Cherbourg and the battle of the hedgerows. He remembered the night they’d crossed the Moselle River, the day they’d taken Metz, and the bloody bridge at Saarlautern. “Sir,” he said, “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Woodward stiffened. “What was that!”
“I said, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“See here, Sergeant,” Woodward said. “I’m not accustomed to being talked to that way!”
“You ought to be lucky you’ve got men like this to command. There isn’t a platoon in the whole goddamned Army better than this one.”
Woodward glared at Mahoney and tried to keep himself calm. He knew that an officer should never lose his temper in front of his men. “All I know,” he said, “is that this is a better platoon since I’ve been here, and it’s going to be better yet.”
Mahoney spat into the snow. “Because all the men have haircuts?”
The sarcasm in Mahoney’s voice nearly broke Woodward’s calm, but he clenched his teeth and took three deep breaths. “Haircut inspections and similar measures provide the discipline without which no Army can function. Men fight well only if they’re disciplined well.”
“Bullshit,” Mahoney said.
“What was that?”
“I said, bullshit.”
Woodward looked into Mahoney’s eyes. “Sergeant, I will not tolerate insubordination from you or anyone else in this platoon.”
Mahoney didn’t look away. “That’s not insubordination. That’s the truth.”
“I am the truth in this platoon, Mahoney.”
“Bullshit.”
Woodward scowled. “Sergeant, how’d you like a court-martial right now?”
“I’d like one fine,” Mahoney replied. “Let’s go see Captain Anderson.”
Mahoney moved toward the open. Woodward stared at him, and Mahoney looked back.
“You coming?”
“You think you’re very cle
ver, don’t you Sergeant?”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you. You know that there were no witnesses, so it’s a matter of my word against yours.”
Mahoney returned to the fire. “You bring a witness in here, sir, and I’ll say the same thing in front of him. I’m not afraid of a court-martial. Are you?”
Woodward considered Mahoney for a few moments. “You’re on good terms with everybody in this regiment, Mahoney, so I guess you feel pretty safe here. In fact, you’ve probably been around long enough to have contacts that go all the way to division.” Woodward pointed at Mahoney. “But let me tell you one thing. This time you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. I don’t care how many people you know in this army, Mahoney. I know a lot of people too. If you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, exactly when I tell you to do it, I’m going to break you, so help me God.”
“That all for now, sir?”
“That’s all for now, Mahoney.”
“If you need me for anything, sir, I’ll be with the first squad.”
“I doubt if I’ll need you for very much, Mahoney.”
Mahoney climbed up the side of the trench and saw a group of GIs standing twenty yards away. Through the driving snowstorm he could make out Cranepool, Riggs, Ledbetter, and the whole gang. They moved toward each other, and Riggs let out a shout of joy. The GIs crowded around Mahoney, slapped him on the back, and punched him on the arm.
“You old son of a bitch,” Cranepool said. “How the hell are you?”
“Colder than a witch’s titty,” Mahoney said. “What’s been going on?”
“The same old shit.”
Riggs, the moron, jumped up and down as if he was on a pogo stick. “Hey, Sarge—you get laid while you were away?”
Mahoney thought of Madeleine in the hotel room in Bastogne. “What do you think?”.he replied. “Hey, I don’t suppose any of you guys would care to have a shot of brandy right now, would you?”
The men screamed and hollered like maniacs. “Lieutenant Woodward doesn’t want any drinking in the platoon,” said Sergeant Leary of the second squad.
Mahoney snorted and reached for his canteen. “Where’s a quiet place around here where we can polish off this stuff?”
Chapter Four
Field Marshal Walther Model, the commander of the three German armies fighting in the Ardennes, sat at the desk in his trailer south of St. Vith. It was dawn, and he was fully dressed, sipping coffee and reading communiqués from the front. The trailer was heated by a small wood stove, on which the blue coffee pot sat. There was a knock on the door.