Hammerhead (The Sergeant War Novel Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  Mahoney pulled his trigger, and the submachine gun bullets shredded the German’s face. He fell back in his hole, and Mahoney stepped over it. He saw a German helmet move in the wreckage of a machine gun nest and fired a burst at it, splitting apart the helmet and the head inside it. Mahoney saw another helmet move, and suddenly, a German popped out of a hole, a hand grenade in his hand. Mahoney fired his submachine gun, and the German hurled the grenade at the same moment. The burst of bullets sliced through the German’s chest, but his grenade was sailing through the air. Mahoney dropped his submachine gun, took a running leap, caught the grenade, bobbled it, gripped it in his right hand, and threw it toward the German trench.

  “GRENADE!” he yelled.

  Everybody dropped to his stomach, and the grenade exploded inside the trench, making the ground shudder and sending ice and dirt flying into the air.

  “LET’S GO!” Mahoney said. “MOVE IT OUT!”

  The men got to their feet and continued their advance, firing at everything that moved, heading for their objective: the town of Comblain.

  Chapter Twelve

  General Barton Hughes, the commander of the Hammerhead Division, sat behind a folding desk in a farmhouse five miles from the fighting. He was fifty years old, had black hair and a black mustache, and his face was scarred by acne. He smoked a pipe and was shuffling through his paperwork when there came a knock on his door. “Come in!”

  The door opened, and Lieutenant Woodward entered the office, marching to General Hughes’s desk and saluting. “Lieutenant Woodward reporting, sir.”

  “Have a seat Woodward,” Hughes said gruffly.

  “Yes, sir.” Woodward sat worriedly because the tone of Hughes’ voice indicated he wasn’t in a good mood.

  “I’ll come right to the point,” Hughes said, “because I don’t have much time.” He looked Woodward in the eye. “I don’t like the way you’re pushing this court-martial against Sergeant Mahoney.”

  “But sir, I—”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” Hughes said sternly. “First of all, you don’t have a leg to stand on because it’s your word against Mahoney’s, and let me tell you that Mahoney’s word is better than yours around here.” General Hughes held up a piece of paper. “This here is a recommendation for the Silver Star for Mahoney, from his company commander.” He held up another sheet of paper. “And this is your request for a court-martial proceeding. They both arrived on my desk on the same day. How can I court-martial one of my best NCOs right after I award him the Silver Star? The answer is that I can’t and I won’t. Mahoney is a first rate soldier and an outstanding leader of men, and I want him to keep doing just what he’s doing.”

  “Sir,” said Woodward, “may I speak now?”

  “Yes, but be brief.”

  Woodward leaned forward because he realized that his reputation and career were on the line. “Sir,” he said, “regardless of Mahoney’s past record, he has been insubordinate to me, and he hit me when I wasn’t looking. That clearly is a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I don’t think you should make Mahoney an exception. If a soldier commits a crime, he must be punished no matter what his record is.”

  General Hughes knitted his bushy eyebrows together. “Why did he hit you?”

  “Because I gave him an order he didn’t like.”

  “What was the order?”

  “I told him to attack a particular military objective, and he refused. I insisted, and he struck me.”

  Hughes shrugged. “Well, Mahoney’s got a lot more military experience than you have. I’d have to say that his evaluation of the situation probably was more valid than yours. You know, Woodward, you might be an officer, but Mahoney’s a much more seasoned combat soldier than you are. Young lieutenants like yourself are supposed to learn from men like him.”

  Woodward nearly choked. “Learn from Mahoney?”

  “That’s right!”

  Lieutenant Woodward was starting to panic because he realized the situation was turning against him. Somehow, he had to regain the initiative. “Sir,” he said, “regardless of everything that you’ve said, the fact remains that Mahoney hit me in the face with his rifle and injured me to the point where I cannot return to duty. Surely you can see that that’s a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and cannot go unpunished.”

  General Hughes shook his head. “What you call a fact, the Army calls an allegation. I’m telling you straight-out, Lieutenant, that you won’t make it stick. And there’s another issue here that’s more significant to me. As far as I’m concerned, if an enlisted man ever strikes an officer, nine times out of ten it’s the officer’s fault because an officer is incompetent if he lets his command deteriorate to the point where one of his men will use violence against him.”

  Lieutenant Woodward felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “But sir, that’s like blaming a murder victim for getting himself murdered.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s blaming an officer for not being able to handle his men.” General Hughes scowled. “I’m not going to court-martial Mahoney, and if you go over my head to Corps on this, I’ll court-martial you. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve made a mess of your first command, but I’m going to give you another chance. You can’t go back to Charlie Company after what’s happened, but when you’ve recovered from your injuries, I’ll have you transferred to another company, and you can start off with a fresh slate.” Hughes pointed his finger at Woodward. “Just remember that you’re only a second lieutenant and not God, and you can learn a few things from the old soldiers. If I can still learn from the old soldiers, so can you. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  Lieutenant Woodward stood and walked out of the office, his face hot with rage and shame. This’ll be a black mark on my record forever, he thought. My Army career’s off to a bad start because of that damned Mahoney. Depressed and demoralized, he looked at the ground and dragged his feet back to the hospital. If I ever get the chance, he said to himself, I’m going to kill Mahoney.

  ~*~

  In a German hospital just behind the Siegfried Line, Dr. Krauser entered the room of Colonel Richter, who was lying on his back in a bed, staring at the ceiling. Behind Krauser were four younger doctors and two nurses.

  “Well, Colonel,” said Krauser with a smile, “How do you feel?”

  Richter had been injected with several painkilling and sedative drugs. “I feel dizzy and weak.”

  “Hmmm,” said Krauser, looking at Richter’s chart. His temperature was normal, indicating no infection. “Well, it looks as though you’re progressing quite well.”

  “When can I return to duty?” Richter asked.

  “Soon,” replied Dr. Krauser. “Perhaps in a week or two. As I told you previously, you’ve suffered no serious internal injury, thank goodness. We’re going to turn you over now, so I can examine the wound.”

  The nurse rolled Richter onto his stomach, and Dr. Krauser removed the bandage. The wound was stitched neatly, and the blood around it had coagulated.

  “You’re healing nicely,” Dr. Krauser said, washing his hands in a basin which another nurse held for him. “You must have a strong constitution.”

  Richter grunted as he lay on his stomach, thinking of the beautiful American woman who’d stabbed him. His heart hurt him more than the wound in his back because he’d really thought they were meant for each other.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlie Company took Comblain that day and continued to attack in a northeasterly direction toward Houffalize. The battle seesawed back and forth as Charlie Company and the Third Army made slow but steady progress. The corridor to Bastogne was widened and made more secure, but Patton thought Bastogne couldn’t be considered safe until he secured the line between Houffalize and Wiltz.

  Three days after Charlie Company took Comblain, they were dug in on a hill near the town of Bras. It was seven o’clock at night, and the fighting h
ad slackened off. An occasional shell was fired, and sporadic gunshots could be heard, but both armies were trying to get some rest.

  Mahoney was snoring in his little hole in the ground when the crunch of footsteps on the snow woke him up. He grabbed his rifle and jumped out of his hole, to see Pfc Spicer stalking toward him. Spicer held out both his hands in the darkness. “Gee, Sarge—calm down!”

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “The old man wants to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mahoney followed Spicer to Captain Anderson’s dugout. Captain Anderson sat behind a crate of C rations, smoking a cigarette, looking gaunt and ill.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Mahoney said.

  Captain Anderson held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mahoney.”

  Mahoney shook his hand. “What for?”

  “Your Silver Star has been okayed. You’re to report to division right away for the ceremony.”

  “The ceremony?” Mahoney asked.

  “Yes. Evidently a number of men will be decorated at the same time. I imagine a lot of reporters and photographers will be there. There’ll probably be a band and a parade of some sort.”

  “No shit.”

  Captain Anderson handed Mahoney a copy of the orders. “You might as well get started now. You’ll be able to get some transportation at Battalion.”

  “When’s the ceremony?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  ~*~

  It took Mahoney an hour to reach battalion headquarters, where Major Cutler congratulated him, put him in a jeep, and sent him to the new division headquarters in Ledemark.

  Mahoney reported to the G-1 in Ledemark and was assigned to a building where soldiers who were to be decorated were being billeted. Mahoney was issued a bunk and a clean uniform, along with new boots. He took a bath and sacked out on clean sheets but was unable to fall asleep for a while because he was used to sleeping in a hole in the ground.

  The next day was bitter cold, but the room had a potbellied stove and plenty of wood. Mahoney shaved, put on his new uniform, and shined his boots. He and the other Silver Star nominees had fresh scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast and then returned to their room. They shot the shit awhile, and then a jazzy young officer wearing sunglasses showed up.

  “I’m Lieutenant Ingraham,” he said, smiling and showing his teeth. “I’m from the division public information office, and I’ve helped organize this event today. I’ll march you men out when the time comes, and I’ll tell you what to do. We’re going to take some pictures, and some of you will be interviewed by correspondents from your home town newspapers.” Lieutenant Ingraham winked. “I suggest that those of you interviewed bear in mind that you shouldn’t say anything that might be damaging to the war effort, and I think you know what I’m talking about, right?”

  Mahoney knew what he was talking about. The Army didn’t want them to complain about the food and fuckups that went on. The folks at home were supposed to think that their boys in Europe were happy and well taken care of as they fought to save the world from Hitler.

  Lieutenant Ingraham looked them over, and Mahoney had to admit they all looked sharp in their new, pressed uniforms, cleanly shaven, standing tall.

  “I really admire you guys,” Ingraham said with his phony smile. “You’re real heroes.”

  Mahoney sat on a footlocker and smoked a cigar, wondering if he was going to be one of the ones who’d be interviewed by a reporter. He heard a commotion and heard a band playing.

  “What happens after everything is over?” Mahoney asked.

  “You’ll go back to your units,” Ingraham replied.

  “We won’t even get a forty-eight hour pass?”

  “There’s a war on, Sergeant!”

  A Pfc showed up and told Lieutenant Ingraham it was time to march the soldiers to the square. Ingraham led them outside, lined them up, checked them one last time, and moved them out.

  The five soldiers marched toward the square, and Mahoney was in front because he was the ranking man. The sound of the band became louder, and they locked into step with the beat. They turned the corner and saw the square. A bunch of high-ranking officers were lined up on the left, and to the right were some company formations of MPs, quartermasters, and anything else they could scrape together to make the ceremony look substantial. Townspeople and GIs on leave stood behind cordons, and Mahoney swiveled his eyeballs around in his sockets, looking at the women, wishing he could get his hands on one of them. He thought of Madeleine and wondered who was kissing her now.

  The band played “El Capitan” by John Philip Sousa. Mahoney and the others marched in front of the top brass, and Lieutenant Ingraham told them to halt. He gave them a left-face, and they stood at attention as he stepped back and disappeared into the woodwork like a good PR man.

  Mahoney looked at General Hughes and all the top-ranking officers of the division, their medals and insignia gleaming. The band stopped playing. General McCook, the chief of staff of the Hammerhead Division, stepped forward and read the citations, and Mahoney listened to the beautiful flow of words. The general spoke of courage and gallantry and fearlessness in the face of the enemy. He said the men before him were heroic fighters who were a credit to the service and to their country.

  Mahoney’s face was expressionless, as if carved from a slab of rock. He knew the brass always used pretty words to make you want to die by the numbers.

  The photographers crowded around with their cameras. General Hughes stepped forward, accompanied by a young lieutenant carrying a box of medals. They marched toward Mahoney, who stood with his chest out, chin in, and arms straight down his legs. They stopped in front of him, and General Hughes took one of the medals out of the box. He pinned it on Mahoney’s chest, Mahoney saluted him, he saluted back, and then he shook Mahoney’s hand.

  “Good work, Mahoney.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The flashbulbs exploded, and Mahoney blinked. General Hughes and his aide moved to the next soldier to repeat the little ceremony, and Mahoney’s fingers tingled from the cold.

  He’d rather have had a night with Rita Hayworth than a tin medal, but at least they cared. They could have said, “Fuck you,” and left him out there in the boonies.

  ~*~

  The crowd applauded the ceremony, but one soldier behind the cordon looked gloomy and had his hands in his pockets. He was Lieutenant Woodward, and he’d come to the ceremony due to a morbid, masochistic impulse. He’d nearly blown his top when he’d read Mahoney would be decorated with other soldiers that day and had become obsessed with the thought that Mahoney was being feted as a hero while he was being transferred in disgrace.

  The bandages had been removed from his face, but his jaw was still wired up. He had a headache and felt like screaming. Mahoney had beaten him, and Woodward hated to be beaten. He would have gnashed his teeth if he didn’t have a broken jaw.

  Finally he could stand it no more. The band played again, and he pushed through the crowd, to get away. Someday I’ll get even with the son of a bitch, he said to himself. Nobody can treat a Woodward like that and get away with it!

  ~*~

  Mahoney and the four other GIs stood in front of the rank of officers, and the dinky little parade began. The band played “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the assembled companies marched past the officers and decorated soldiers. The commander of each unit saluted, and the marching men did eyes-right while Mahoney and the others returned the salutes. The photographers kept taking pictures, and Mahoney felt like a movie star. His mother would be ecstatic if one of those pictures appeared in a New York paper.

  Finally, the last unit marched by, and the parade was over.

  The division officers shook hands with the five GIs again and slapped them on their shoulders. Mahoney wanted to tell General Hughes that Captain Anderson was suffering from battle fatigue and should be given a rest but decided not to open
that can of worms. If Captain Anderson wanted a rest, he’d have to ask for one himself.

  The photographers took pictures and war correspondents crowded around. They were dressed in military clothes but wore no military rank or insignia. One of them was an exceedingly tall woman, perhaps six feet tall. She walked up to Mahoney and asked, “Are you Sergeant Mahoney from New York City?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he replied.

  “I’m Joyce Summerall from The New York Courier. I’d like to interview you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am—I don’t mind.”

  “Would you mind if my photographer takes a photograph of you and me together?”

  “Not at all, ma’am.”

  Joyce gave instructions to the photographer, and Mahoney checked her out. She was in her middle or late twenties, and her face had strong, dramatic features. She was like an Amazon queen, and he wanted her to wrap those long legs around him. He knew from experience that tall women were always horny because most men didn’t like to go out with women taller than they, but Mahoney was much taller than she was, and he was ready, willing, and able to give her a run for her money. But he’d have to play it cool at first because he didn’t want to scare her away.

  The photographer raised his big camera, and she returned to Mahoney’s side. She linked her arm through his and said, “Say cheese.”

  “Cheese,” Mahoney said.

  The photographer snapped the picture. “One more,” he said.

  “Cheese.” Mahoney felt her long tall body next to his and wondered how to play her. Some women despised men who were shy, and other women didn’t like men who came on too strong at first. He decided just to be himself and fuck the games.

  “Would you like to come to my office now for the interview?” she asked.

  “Sure, if it’s all right with Lieutenant Ingraham.”

  “I’ve cleared the interview with him.”

  Soldiers and civilians milled in the square and stared at Mahoney and his Silver Star as he walked with Joyce Summerall to the administration building. He felt like a celebrity but knew that he’d be an ordinary dogface again in a few hours and that maybe tomorrow he’d have a bullet in his brain.