by Len Levinson
“When’s the last time you were in New York?” Joyce asked him.
“It was back in 1942, just before we left for North Africa.”
“You’ve been away a long time.”
Mahoney nodded.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“No. Are you?”
She appeared surprised by his question. “No, I’m not married.”
“How long have you been away from New York?”
“Five months. It seems like another world, after being in the ETO.”
They entered the administration building, and Joyce glanced sideways at him. It was true that she had difficulty with men because of her height, and Mahoney towered above her. She thought him sexy and handsome. When she’d been told to interview him, she’d fought to get out of it because the big news story in the ETO just then was the friction between SHAEF and Field Marshal Montgomery’s headquarters, and that’s what she’d wanted to cover. She’d thought Mahoney would be a typical, dumb, inarticulate GI and getting a story out of him would be like pulling teeth, but he didn’t seem dumb and inarticulate, and he was so nice and tall. She thought he sort of resembled the actor John Garfield.
They entered the building and made their way to the offices reserved for the press. Some of the war correspondents were in the corridor as they passed, and they gazed at Mahoney in admiration. To Mahoney, they all looked like a bunch of old men or young 4-Fs, and the few women he saw reminded him of schoolteachers he’d seen in New York.
They came to her office, and he stood to the side so she could enter first. She took off her GI cap, and he helped her remove her woolen overcoat.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Mahoney said. “Is it all right if I smoke?”
“Sure.”
She left the office, and he looked down at her desk. It was covered with press releases from the Public Information Office, plus some articles she was working on. To the side was a framed picture of a man and a woman, whom he took to be her parents. There were no pictures of guys. Mahoney had the feeling that he could fuck her if he wanted to. She seemed to go for him, but he’d been mistaken about this kind of thing in the past. He’d thought he’d had it made with certain women, grabbed them, and then gotten a punch in the mouth. He’d learned that you could never be a hundred percent sure of a woman.
She returned with two mugs of hot coffee, and he wanted to rip off her clothes then and there. There was nothing like tall women with long legs.
She placed his cup of coffee on her desk. Her hand was trembling. “I thought you were going to smoke a cigarette,” she said.
“I forgot,” he replied, fumbling for his pack of Luckies.
“Have a seat.”
He lit the cigarette and sat in the chair. She got her pencil and paper ready. Her hair was dark brown and straight, pulled back to a bun behind her head, and she had the most incredible cheekbones.
“What part of New York are you from?” she asked.
“Well, I lived all over, but most of the time, I lived on 53rd Street near 10th Avenue.”
She wrote down the information, aware that the address was in Hell’s Kitchen, one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. He was a tough guy with good manners, an irresistible combination. And he was so tall and strong-looking.
“What school did you go to?” she asked, trying to act cool.
He answered her questions and glanced at his watch. Precious time was flying by, and when the interview was over he’d have to return to Charlie Company. He’d have to make his move pretty soon. He looked at her pointed breasts outlined beneath her fatigue shirt. He imagined what they’d look like if she didn’t have her fatigue shirt on.
“How long have you been in the army?” she asked.
“Is the door locked?” he replied.
She looked at him and their eyes met. “No.”
“Mind if I lock it?”
That was the fateful question, and they both knew what he was talking about. She didn’t like to be easy, but she also didn’t want to be an idiot. She blushed faintly, looked away, coughed, and said, “Why don’t you lock it?”
He sprang from his chair like a big jaguar, crossed the room, and flicked the latch on the door. She stood behind the desk, moved away from the window, and he caught her in the corner, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her toward him.
Their lips met in soft combat. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and pressed her groin against him, feeling his big weapon, and it made her dizzy. He licked her tongue and fumbled with the buttons of her fatigue shirt. They sank to the floor, moaning and kissing on their knees, and he cupped her breasts in his hands while she reached down and squeezed his shotgun, and it nearly fired.
They fell to the side on the polished wood floor, chewing lips and tearing at each other’s clothes. He unstrapped her bra and pushed it out of the way, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs as she unbuttoned his fly, snaked her hands into his undershorts, and wrapped her long, elegant fingers around the barrel of his gun. Her nipples became hard in his mouth, and he went from one to the other, kneading her breasts, while she rubbed her face against his head. He rolled her onto her back, took off her boots, and pulled down her fatigue pants. Her underpants were pink and silky, and he threw them over his shoulder.
He touched her groin with his fingers, and it was hot and steamy like a jungle in Africa. She twitched as he stroked her, and he eased his tongue into her mouth. She sucked it while fondling his weapon, pulling it closer to her aching emptiness.
“Now,” she whispered urgently, “please!”
He loved it when they begged, and he always wanted to deny them so they’d get hotter, but he couldn’t deny himself. He slid it in, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming.
I must be crazy, she thought in her feverish mind. I can’t really be doing this on the floor of my office.
He pushed it in all the way, and she didn’t ache so much anymore. They kissed wildly, bruising each other’s lips, as spittle rolled out the corner of her mouth. She wrapped her long legs around him, and his sex fantasy had come true. He began to pump her, and she rocked from side to side. Mahoney felt weird tickles all over his body. He held her fanny in his hands and they moved and grooved, as the world spun around them, and somewhere, in the distance, typewriters went clackety-clack.
Chapter Fourteen
In a medieval castle twenty miles inside Germany, Field Marshall Gerd von Runstedt sat behind his desk and read dispatches from the front, when his telephone rang.
He picked it up and said, “Yes?”
“This is the Führer,” answered the unmistakable voice of Adolf Hitler on the other end.
Runstedt snapped to attention in his chair. “Good afternoon, my Führer!”
“I am extremely displeased with the conduct of your campaign in the Ardennes,” Hitler said. “I explicitly gave orders that Bastogne was to be taken immediately, and now, after several days, you are farther from it than ever.”
“My Führer,” replied Runstedt, “the Americans outnumber us in every way. My men are tired, and supplies are short. My losses have been extremely heavy.”
“I don’t care how heavy your losses are. You must continue the attack on Bastogne. I insist you encircle the town and capture it without delay.”
“My Führer, I must confess to you that I do not see how that can be accomplished at this stage of the battle.”
“Then I shall tell you how,” Hitler said. “You must take a gamble. Merely thin out your lines in a less busy sector, and shift the troops elsewhere to a place where they will have numerical superiority. That way you can force a breakthrough and follow up with the rest of your army. I think you should attack Bastogne either to the southeast or the northwest.”
Runstedt thought about that for a few moments. “No,” he said, “I don’t think that would be the best strategy. The enemy is too strong southeast of Bastogne, and the t
errain is unsuitable for tanks. I’d prefer to attack with the Ninth Panzer from the north, the 317th Panzergrenadiers from the northeast, and the Fuhrer Escort Brigade from the east.”
“Very well,” replied Hitler. “The local battlefield decisions are yours to make. But just make sure you get me Bastogne.”
~*~
Mahoney returned to Charlie Company that night and slept in a foxhole. An hour before dawn the shooting and shelling started, awakening him. It wasn’t anything serious, just a normal morning at the front. He ate a can of C rations for breakfast and felt homesick for Ledemark although he’d only been there for about twenty-four hours. It had been so nice to sleep in a real bed, eat hot food indoors, and screw a newspaper reporter on the floor of her office. There had been moments when Mahoney thought they’d crash through to the offices beneath them. His knees were bruised from screwing on the floor and poor Joyce probably had severe back pains this morning.
Mahoney shivered as he spooned down the cold C rations. He knew that in a day or two he’d be filthy and stinking again—if he weren’t dead. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair that he should have to spend so much time fighting while other soldiers went through most of the war in towns like Ledemark, far from the battlefront, with pretty nurses and Red Cross ladies buzzing around and lots of good food.
I really ought to transfer out of here, Mahoney thought. Maybe I can pull some strings. Colonel Simmons probably could use a sharp-looking master sergeant on the staff. If Mahoney hadn’t spent the day in Ledemark, he probably wouldn’t have felt so bad, but after that little vacation, he didn’t feel like dealing with the bullshit of the front lines any more.
He heard footsteps and looked up. Pfc Spicer slid into his foxhole. “The old man wants to see all the platoon leaders right away.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Spicer moved on to the next platoon leader, and Mahoney threw the empty can of C rations over his shoulder. He climbed out of the hole, burped, and tramped over the snow to Captain Anderson’s latest dugout. He crawled inside, nodded to Sergeant Futch, and pushed aside the canvas flap.
Captain Anderson sat on a box of C rations and smoked a cigarette. In front of him, on another box of C rations, were some maps and papers. His face was so pale you’d think all the blood had been drained out of his body. His lips were pinkish-blue, and his eyes had a glassy look.
“Sir,” Mahoney said, “I hate to say it, but you look like hell.”
Captain Anderson smiled. “How’d you like your day in Ledemark?”
“It was terrific.” Mahoney realized he should have spoken to somebody about transferring Captain Anderson to the rear. It had been selfish of him not to try. Captain Anderson didn’t look like he was going to last much longer. “Sir,” he said, “you ought to go back to the battalion hospital and get yourself checked out.”
“No time for that,” Captain Anderson replied.
Sergeant Mayo from the Third Platoon entered the cramped space. Sergeants Guffey and Ledbetter arrived a few moments later. The crackle of machine gun fire could be heard, and a shell slammed into the company area, making the ground heave.
Captain Anderson lit a second cigarette from the butt of his first. He turned his map around sideways so they could see it. “We’re supposed to be heading in this direction,” he said, pointing with his fingers. “We don’t expect much resistance, except for this hill here.” He planted his finger on it. “It dominates the area, and it’s right in our path. We’re the ones who’ll have to take it.”
“How far away is it?” Mahoney asked.
“I imagine we’ll reach it sometime late this afternoon.”
Anderson explained the logistics of the day, their route of march, and ordered that a few men be transferred from one platoon to another to make them all of equal strength. He answered their questions as they discussed a few pertinent matters, and then Captain Anderson dismissed them.
Mahoney returned to the first platoon and called a meeting of squad leaders, so he could pass the word along. The men listened numbly and got themselves ready. They’d become resigned to the endless cold battle.
Shortly after dawn, when it was bright enough to aim a rifle at a target and hit it, the volume of fire increased across the front. Mahoney leaned his rifle on his foxhole and fired at puffs of smoke issuing from bushes and trees on the other side of a snow-covered field. If Charlie Company and the rest of the battalion wanted to advance, they’d have to go across the open field. The Germans had the same problem. Mahoney wished both sides could stay right where they were and just fire at each other until the war was declared over, but he knew he’d be out in the middle of that field before long.
The mortar squads opened fire, dropping mortar rounds on the German positions on the other side of the field. That would scare the Germans a little and alert them that the GIs were coming. Shit, Mahoney thought, I’m getting so sick of this.
Captain Anderson came out of his bunker, followed by Sergeant Futch and Pfc Spicer. Captain Anderson held his carbine in his right hand and a strap from his helmet hung down the side of his cadaverous face.
“ALL RIGHT MEN!” he said. “LET’S MOVE FORWARD!”
The men came out of their holes, and each platoon made a diamond formation. The first platoon had Cranepool on the point with Mahoney in the center. They advanced through the woods and came to the edge of the field. Captain Anderson waved them on, and they stepped onto the white carpet of the field.
Mahoney looked ahead and saw mortar rounds landing behind the tree line where the Germans were. He saw orange flashes and whole trees flying into the air. The wind was bitter cold as it sped over the field. Mahoney wondered how far they’d get before the Germans started to drop mortar rounds on them. Surely they had zeroed in on this field. Surely they’d try to...
BAM! The first German mortar round landed in the field three hundred yards to the right of the third battalion. This was followed by a few more random explosions as the Germans fired for effect, and then, when they had the range, mortar rounds poured down on Charlie Company like summer rain.
“DOUBLE-TIME!” yelled Captain Anderson.
Charlie Company’s men trotted through the mortar barrage, holding their helmets on their heads and praying that a round wouldn’t fall on them. Mahoney saw orange blasts all around him, and smoke billowed into the air. He jumped over mortar craters and saw men blown into the air, their arms and legs outstretched. The German tree line still was a few hundred yards away, and Mahoney didn’t think they were going to make it. The mortar barrage became more intense the closer they came. Mahoney’s ears rang with the volume of explosions, and he became frightened. He wanted to dive to the ground and crawl into a shell crater, but the Germans would slowly and methodically cover the area with mortar rounds until they’d have blown him to kingdom come. They couldn’t go forward, and they couldn’t go backwards. They couldn’t stay where they were. Charlie Company was in a mess.
The men became confused. Some kept going, some faltered, some froze with fear. Mahoney thought he should tell them to move forward, but certain annihilation lay in that direction.
The ground trembled as if there was an earthquake. A mortar round landed near Mahoney, and its shock wave knocked him off his feet. He fell to the ground, turned around, and tried to look for Captain Anderson, because a major decision would have to be made about what to do.
He spotted Captain Anderson through the smoke and confusion. Captain Anderson stood with his legs far apart, looking from left to right frantically, trying to figure out his next move.
Captain Anderson’s mind had gone blank. He knew everybody was depending on him, but he couldn’t think of what to do. He felt disoriented and frightened. His weakened mental condition couldn’t cope with the sudden crisis. Something told him their only chance was to charge—big mad wild charge right through the mortar barrage. A German machine gun opened fire in front of them. Captain Anderson raised his rifle high in the air.
�
��CHARGE!” he shouted. “FOLLOW ME!”
He brought his rifle down, bent forward, and ran toward the German tree line. He didn’t know what the outcome would be, but he thought it was the best thing to do.
Mahoney heard and saw him but was too bewildered to analyze the order. He jumped up and bellowed, “LET’S GO! TAKE THOSE GODDAMN TREES!”
Some men advanced, and some didn’t move. Many were paralyzed with fear, and others were wounded and couldn’t move. But Mahoney saw Cranepool, Sergeant Guffey, and a few others charging through the smoke and explosions. Mahoney looked at Captain Anderson, who was far in front, running toward the Germans, screaming and hollering for everybody to follow him.
Captain Anderson could feel the heat of explosions on his face. Snow and dirt blasted against his helmet and uniform, and the world around him was red and orange flashes. He felt as if he was running through the furnaces of hell, and then he heard an explosion louder than all the others. A terrific windstorm lifted him into the air. The Devil stabbed a pitchfork through his chest. He fell back to the ground, bounced, and then the battlefield went silent. The black curtains fell over him, and he became still.
Mahoney saw him go down. He ran toward Captain Anderson’s prostrate body, kneeled beside it, and saw lungs, ribs and guts. Captain Anderson’s eyes were wide open and staring, and he appeared surprised.
Mahoney knew he was dead. There was no point checking his pulse. He heard running feet and turned around. It was Sergeant Futch and Pfc Spicer, with expressions of horror on their faces. They kneeled on the other side of Captain Anderson and looked at him.
“He’s dead,” Mahoney said to Futch. “You’re the company commander now.”
Futch shook his head. “I’m just a clerk!” he said. “I don’t know anything about war! It’ll have to be you, Mahoney!”
Mahoney realized Futch was right. He felt the full weight of command fall onto his shoulders. His mind started clicking like a machine. First, he had to protect his men. Second, he had to stop those goddamn mortars.