by Len Levinson
He unbuttoned her blouse. She looked down and saw him pull her brassiere away. He kissed her nipples and she felt the mad itch up and down her spine. He sucked her breast, and she thought, Aw, what am I afraid of? She kissed the top of his head while he nibbled on her nipple, and then he moved his head down, licking her belly, dipping his tongue into the dimple that was her navel, and now he was unbuttoning her pants and pulling them down, kissing, burrowing into her. He drew her pants and underwear away, dropping them over the side of the bed, and then his head sank between her legs, and she felt the touch of his tongue against her most sensitive place.
She moaned and looked down at him slurping her up alive. She spread her legs wider and he cupped her ass in his hands, grunting like an animal and licking frontways and sideways, pushing his tongue inside her and pulling it out, massaging her little nubbin with his lips, and she thrashed her head from side to side on the pillow, thinking, Oh, my God, I’m cured!
Chapter Seventeen
Six days later Mahoney returned to the front in the back of a deuce and a half truck along with some other GIs heading for the Hammerhead Division.
It was another cold, miserable day, for now it was mid-January in the Ardennes. The Germans had spent themselves in their last offensive against Bastogne, and had been on the retreat ever since. It wasn’t a rout, and they still were fighting hard, but slowly they were being pushed back to the borders of Germany.
Mahoney looked out the back of the truck and saw German POWS, on both sides of the road on their march to the rear. The Germans looked ragged and filthy, their hands on their heads. So that’s the master race, Mahoney thought. They don’t look so fucking great to me.
Traffic was heavy on the road as vehicles drove back and forth. There were numerous delays during which Mahoney and the others jumped down and stretched their legs for a while. Finally, at around three in the afternoon, they arrived at the headquarters of the Hammerhead Division, located in a wood near Clervaux, where Mahoney had been when the Battle of the Bulge had started.
Mahoney jumped down from the truck and looked around at rolling, wooded hills. In the distance was a lone mountain wreathed with smoke. It was being shelled, and Mahoney raised his binoculars to take a look. It appeared that some kind of structure was on the top of the mountain.
Mahoney and the others were lined up beside the truck, and a master sergeant read their names off a roster. He told them to return to their units and indicated where those units were. “Any questions?” he asked when he was finished. Mahoney pointed to the mountain. “What’s over there?”
“An old monastery,” the sergeant said. “The 317th SS Panzergrenadiers are holed up in there, and we’re going to take them by assault first thing in the morning.”
~*~
On one of the parapets of the old monastery, Colonel Kurt Richter raised his head and looked through his binoculars at the scene below. The mountain sloped off sharply and was covered with trees all the way down into a valley. That’s where the American artillery was, along with American troops. Shells exploded all around him, blowing away the upper sections of the monastery bit by bit. He knew the Americans would attack soon, probably in the morning. He’d be outnumbered; his orders were to fight to the last man.
He lowered his head behind the parapet. Major Glucker was crouching there with Private Hendl.
“What did you see, sir?” asked Glucker.
“Nothing,” said Richter, “but I know they’re down there. Post guards on all sides of this structure, and let the rest of the men go down below to get some sleep, but they must be ready to come up and fight when the alarm is given.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you need me for anything, I’ll be in my office.”
“Yes, sir. I don’t think it would do you any harm to get some sleep yourself.”
Richter answered with a grunt and held his head down as he made his way to the stairs. He descended three flights, passing statues of Christ and the saints and SS troopers running up and down. Finally, he reached the floor on which his office was located. He marched down the corridor and entered his office, which had formerly been occupied by the abbot of the monastery, but he’d left long ago with his flock of monks.
Richter hung his helmet on the peg, took off his black leather overcoat, poured some water into the basin, and washed his hands and face. As he dried his face with a soiled towel, he looked at himself in the mirror and saw his crooked, flattened nose and the missing teeth in the front of his mouth. The rage burned in his belly as he turned away from the mirror, crossed the floor and sat heavily behind his desk.
There were no maps upon it because none were needed. It was clear to him that he and his men were supposed to die in the monastery. Himmler had sent a telegram that said a statue would be erected in Berlin someday to commemorate the heroic struggle of the 317th Panzergrenadiers.
Richter wiped his mouth with his hand. He’d joined the SS to further his career, not get killed. The idea of dying for the Führer and the Fatherland didn’t appeal to him at all now. Now that he’d been dealt the ace of spades, he didn’t want to pick it up. There must be some place in this monastery where he could hide. The Americans wouldn’t stay here forever. They’d move on at some point, and then he’d be able to come out of hiding and run away. Better to be a live coward than a dead hero.
Although he was tired, he decided to get up and start searching for a good hiding place. There must be one deep in the building where nobody would think to look. The Ardennes Offensive had failed—that much was clear. Why shouldn’t he save his own ass?
He got up and put on his topcoat and helmet. Then he left his office and headed for the stairs that would take him to the cavernous basements of the monastery.
~*~
Charlie Company was dug in at the base of the hill, and Mahoney made his way around trees to the command post. Shells whistled through the sky overhead, on their way from the Hammerhead artillery to the monastery. The old structure was taking a terrible pounding, but he remembered what had happened at Cassino. The visible part of the monastery had been devastated, but the Germans had hidden safely in its bowels, and came out fighting when the artillery stopped. Many GIs had died at Cassino, and Mahoney had been wounded in the stomach.
He saw two GIs he’d never seen before, lying in a hole smoking cigarettes.
“Where’s the CP?” he asked.
One of them pointed. Mahoney headed in that direction. Evidently Charlie Company had received some replacements while he was gone. That’s why the Germans were getting their asses kicked in the Ardennes: they weren’t getting replacements, but the Americans were.
Finally Mahoney spotted the blue Charlie Company flag. It was stuck into the snow near a big dugout covered with logs. Mahoney slid down the incline, lowered his head, and entered the dugout. He saw Sergeant Guffey from the Second Platoon seated behind the folding desk. In the other corner was a young soldier Mahoney had never seen before.
“I’m back,” Mahoney said. “Who’s who and what’s what?”
“How’re you feeling, Mahoney?” Guffey asked.
“I’m okay. We got a new company commander?”
“Yeah. Captain Bull Braxton—he used to be with Able Company.”
Mahoney dropped his orders on the desk. “Are you the new top kick?”
“Temporary until we get a real top kick. Lemme see if the old man wants to talk with you.”
Guffey got up and pushed aside the tent flap that gave Braxton some privacy. Mahoney turned to the soldier in the corner. “You the new company clerk?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“What’s your name?”
“Baker, Sergeant.”
Guffey came back through the flap. “He wants to see you.”
Mahoney pushed the flap aside and entered Captain Braxton’s office. Braxton sat behind a collapsible desk and smoked a smelly cigar. Mahoney saluted and reported.
“Have a seat,” Braxton said.
> “Yes, sir.” Mahoney sat on one of the folding wooden chairs.
Braxton had broad shoudlers and a mean face. His hair was curly and black and he had a thick growth of beard.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Braxton said. “You’re supposed to be a good man.”
“I’ve heard about you too,” Mahoney replied. “I’m glad the company’s got a good officer to replace Captain Anderson, not that anybody really could replace Captain Anderson.”
“He was a friend of mine,” Braxton said. “I liked him a lot.”
“They should have pulled him back to the rear. He was starting to crack.”
“Well,” said Braxton, “he didn’t volunteer to go back, and nobody else thought of it. He knew what he was doing. He’s in that big infantry regiment in the sky right now, but tell me, how’d you like to be the top kick of this company?”
Mahoney shook his head. “Naw, I ain’t no fucking clerk. If I had to look at morning reports for the rest of my life, I’d lose my mind.”
“You’re the senior NCO in this company,” Braxton said. “I thought I ought to give you a shot at it at least.”
“Thanks,” Mahoney said, “but all I want is my own platoon back.”
“You got it,” Braxton told him. “You know what we’re doing tomorrow morning, don’t you?”
“Taking that monastery?”
“Right. The division’s got it surrounded. We’re just gonna go up there tomorrow and kick ass.”
Mahoney took out a cigarette. “Why don’t we bypass it and starve the fuckers out?”
“Because Patton wants to station some artillery up there. Anyway, the whole division’s going up there together in one big charge. Some tanks will come along to blow down the walls, and we’ll just storm the joint. It shouldn’t take long.”
“That’s what they said about Cassino, and I know how long it took because I was there.”
“Well this ain’t Cassino. There aren’t that many krauts up there and they don’t have much fight in them, I don’t think. You got any questions about anything?”
“No, sir.”
Braxton winked and held out his hand. “Good to have you in the company, Mahoney. You can return to your platoon now.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Hammerhead artillery pounded the monastery throughout the night, while artillery from other units of the Third Army was transported to the area. By dawn, the new units were set up and had joined in the bombardment of the hill. The monastery was hidden by smoke that pulsated with flashes of light.
Mahoney hadn’t got much sleep, and neither had anyone else in Charlie Company, but he’d dozed intermittently and didn’t feel too bad as he walked back with his company to be issued ammunition for the assault.
The armorer from battalion was there, and to Mahoney’s surprise, they all had to exchange their rifles for new Thompson submachine guns. Captain Braxton was standing nearby, puffing on a cigar. “You won’t need your rifles up there,” he told the first platoon. “Firepower will be more important than accuracy.”
The first platoon left with their new submachine guns and long clips of ammo hanging from their necks and shoulders in O.D. green cotton bandoliers. Their pockets were stuffed with hand grenades, and some of them carried bazooka ammunition in haversacks. They returned to their platoon area, ate C rations for breakfast, and smoked cigarettes, waiting for the order to move out. Light tanks arrived in the company area, snorting and spewing smoke into the air. The tension was building, and some men couldn’t sit still. They prowled around like caged animals, working the bolts of their new submachine guns, talking too fast and laughing too loud.
Finally Captain Braxton came out of his dugout. “SKIRMISH LINE!” he shouted.
They lined up and waited. Mahoney stood behind his platoon, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The trees obscured his view of the monastery, but he could feel the ground rumble under his feet as artillery shells were poured onto it. He was glad he wasn’t up there right now.
The tankers gunned their engines, and the soldier let them pass through the skirmish line. The men closed ranks again, and the tanks stopped in front of them, blowing diesel smoke back into their faces. Finally, the order came down through the echelons of command. “MOVE IT OUT!” yelled Captain Braxton.
The tanks rolled forward, and Charlie Company went into action once again. The men held their submachine guns in both hands and made their way through the woods to the foot of the mountain. The woods had been devastated by previous shelling and fighting, and most of the trees had been knocked down or blown away. The ones still standing looked like they came from another planet.
The tanks ploughed right through the mess, and the men followed. Captain Braxton exhorted them to stay dressed right. Mahoney flashed back to Luxembourg City and the six nights he’d spent with Claire Sackett. What a hot piece of ass she turned out to be. She’d cried when he left, and he’d nearly cried too, but he’d held it down because women didn’t respect men who cried no matter how much they said they did.
They came to the foot of the mountain and kept going. Their legs ached, and they looked at the tanks longingly, wishing they could have ridden up, but there weren’t enough tanks for everybody, so they all had to walk.
The sound of the bombardment became deafening. Mahoney grimaced as he followed his platoon toward the monastery. He couldn’t hear Braxton anymore, but Braxton wouldn’t have anything important to say at this stage of the game. Charlie Company moved up the mountain with the rest of the Hammerhead Division. They’d converge at the top and swarm into the monastery.
The trees started to thin out, and Mahoney looked up at the cloud of smoke at the top of the mountain. It was only a few hundred more yards to go, and his mouth went dry and he remembered Cassino. So many men had died for that god damned hunk of rock, and he hoped today wouldn’t be a repeat performance.
The men trudged up the mountain. Their legs were sore, and they wondered if they’d be able to walk once they got up there. Their chests heaved, and their lungs burned. Sweat plastered their filthy underwear to their bodies, and they all smelled terrible, but they just wanted to make it through the day alive.
They passed the tree line and came into the open for the final push to the summit. Artillery shells exploded all over the monastery, and the Germans still were deep under the ground, waiting for it to stop. The GIs advanced cautiously behind the tanks, hoping the artillery wouldn’t stop too soon. All the regiments of the Hammerheads swarmed toward the plateau on which the old monastery sat. Then the officers told their men to stop and to get down. The word was passed along that the units were in position. The only thing holding them back was the artillery barrage, and now the time had come for it to stop.
~*~
Inside the monastery, the SS men sat in the corridors, hearing the muffled sound of explosions overhead. They sat with their rifles, machine guns, and anti-tank guns, ready to run topside and get into position as soon as the artillery barrage ended.
The SS men were gaunt and unshaven, half-mad from the incessant bombardment. They were battle-hardened soldiers, and they knew all the tricks. Smoking cigarettes, they looked at the ceiling, from which dust and chunks of stone fell down on them. They knew that it was dawn, and the battle would begin in earnest soon.
In his office, Colonel Richter sat behind his desk, wearing his helmet and black leather topcoat, staring at the photograph of Adolf Hitler. Richter admired the penetrating eyes and noble expression of his Führer, believing him the greatest man who had ever lived. At one time Richter thought it would have been a privilege to die for the Führer, but he’d changed his mind. He was too young to die. He’d found a remote subterranean room in the monastery, and he’d go there as soon as it was clear that the battle was lost. He’d hide, escape, and live to fight for the Führer again.
Suddenly the artillery barrage stopped, and Richter jumped up from behind his desk. He pulled his service revolver from its holste
r and dashed into the corridor. “TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!” he shouted. “HURRY!”
~*~
Outside, the tanks lined up around the monastery and fired salvo after salvo at the stone walls. Charlie Company stood behind three tanks that rocked back on their treads every time they fired. They aimed at the same spot in the wall, and finally, their shells broke through. Captain Braxton waited impatiently for the tanks to make the hole big enough for his men to use and chewed the butt of his cigar, feeling his anxiety level rise.
Meanwhile, the Germans erupted from the subterranean depths of the monastery, setting up machine guns and antitank weapons on parapets and piles of rubble. Individual SS men fired their rifles at the tanks and men below, and the soldiers huddled behind the tanks for cover.
One of the tanks in front of Charlie Company fired a shell at the wall in front of it, and the wall collapsed, leaving a hole ten yards wide.
“CHARGE!” yelled Captain Braxton. “FOLLOW ME!”
His cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth and his submachine gun in both his hands, Captain Braxton ran toward the smoking opening in the wall. German bullets kicked up ice and dirt all around him, but still he kept going, and all of Charlie Company charged behind him, screaming and shouting, heading for that big hole.
Mahoney was in front of the first platoon, and he fired his submachine gun from the waist at the Germans on the high walls of the monastery. He saw Captain Braxton leap through the big, jagged hole in the wall, and then he went in behind him, finding himself in the courtyard of the monastery.
He spun around, looked up, and saw SS men on the high walls. He fired his submachine gun at them, and they lost their footing, dropping their rifles and toppling slowly through the air, as the wounds in their bodies spouted blood. A German raised his arm to throw a hand grenade, but Mahoney got him before he could turn it loose. The German jittered and jiggered and fell to his knees on the wall, his hand grenade landing beside him. The grenade exploded, and when the smoke cleared, there wasn’t enough left of the German to put in a coffee cup.