Hammerhead (The Sergeant War Novel Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  Charlie Company poured through the hole in the wall, as other units of the Hammerhead Division charged through other openings. They invaded the courtyard of the monastery, firing their submachine guns up at the Germans on the walls. The Germans threw hand grenades down on the GIs, blowing up groups of them, but more Americans kept charging in. The courtyard became chaotic as men from different companies and battalions intermingled with each other. After several minutes of fierce fighting, they cleared the walls of Germans and then headed for the doors and passageways that led to the underground chambers of the monastery.

  Mahoney ran toward a doorway, firing his machine gun. A German appeared in the darkness, and Mahoney gave him a burst in the face. The German fell backwards, clawing at the bloody stump his head had become, and Mahoney jumped through the doorway, his submachine gun still blazing.

  A German stuck his head around a corner, and Mahoney blew it off. Two Germans came down a flight of stairs, and Mahoney chopped off their legs. They screamed as they fell down the stairs, and Mahoney riddled their tumbling torsos with hot lead.

  A door was flung open and six Germans ran into the corridor. Mahoney stood his ground and pulled the trigger of his submachine gun. He held it tightly as it bucked and twisted in his hand, and the Germans did their twitchy death dance, squirting blood in all directions. Mahoney charged down the corridor, and the first platoon followed him. He came to a stone spiral staircase and hopped down it. After a few steps he saw a dozen Germans coming up. They saw Mahoney and raised their rifles to shoot him down, but before they could aim, he and the rest of the platoon opened fire on them. The stone walls echoed with the roar of their fusillade. Germans fell against each other and dropped down the stairs, their blood pouring onto the cobblestones.

  Mahoney ran down the stairs three at a time. He stomped on the bodies of the dead Germans and came to a stone corridor on the next level of the monastery. A shot rang out, and it hit the wall next to Mahoney’s head. Splinters of stone were driven into his cheek, and dots of blood appeared, but he didn’t feel anything in the excitement. He swung around and saw a German soldier ejecting the spent round. Mahoney pulled the trigger of his submachine gun, and the big bullets tore apart the German’s guts. He opened his mouth to scream but was dead before he could get the sound out, and his legs crumpled underneath him.

  Mahoney jumped over him and ran down the corridor. He saw a group of German soldiers ahead of him, and the lead began to fly because on the other side of the Germans were more GIs from the Hammerhead Division. The Germans were caught in the crossfire and shrieked as the bullets ripped into them. The GIs converged, came to a flight of stairs, and ran down it, firing at everything that moved.

  On the next level, Mahoney came to a heavy wooden door. He ran toward it, firing his submachine gun at the doorknob, shattering it and the wood that supported it.

  “SOMEBODY GET READY WITH A HAND GRENADE!” Mahoney yelled.

  Cranepool tore one from his lapel and pulled the pin as Mahoney kicked open the door. Cranepool lobbed the grenade inside, and everybody dropped to their stomachs on the cold cobblestones. The grenade exploded, blowing the door off its hinges and sending a cloud of smoke rolling into the corridor. Mahoney charged into the room, firing the submachine gun wildly, until he realized nothing was moving. He eased his finger off the trigger and saw mangled decapitated bodies, with blood splashed everywhere.

  “LET’S GO!” Mahoney shouted, turning and pushing his way toward the door. “KILL ALL THE BASTARDS!”

  Throughout the monastery, GIs poured down the stairways and attacked the Germans in their subterranean rooms. They worked their way down the levels, throwing hand grenades and firing submachine guns. The Germans fought fanatically, but the GIs swarmed over them, moving ever deeper into the cellars of the monastery.

  It became cooler and damper the lower they went. Companies became mixed with other companies and regiments with other regiments. Resistance became lighter as they progressed into the depths of the monastery, and after a while, they could hear only sporadic firing.

  Mahoney and his platoon found themselves on one of the lowest levels of the monastery. The corridor was lined with doors, and they kicked them open, charging into rooms and firing, but the rooms were empty. They worked their way through the corridor, and at its end was an old, rusty steel door that was locked. It looked as though it hadn’t been opened in centuries.

  “Get back!” Mahoney said. The first platoon stood backwards, and Mahoney fired his submachine gun at the lock on the door. The powerful bullets tore the rusting metal apart, and Mahoney kicked the door open. Before him was a narrow winding staircase that smelled musty and was lined with cobwebs. It was pitch black, but Mahoney remembered seeing a kerosene lamp in one of the rooms on the floor, and sent Riggs back to get it.

  Mahoney lit a cigarette while waiting for Riggs to return. Mahoney didn’t know it, but two eyes were staring at him in hatred from the other end of the corridor. It was Lieutenant Woodward, who was leading a platoon from the Fifty-third Regiment of the Hammerheads, and his finger tightened around the trigger of his submachine gun. He licked his lips and felt his blood flow hot in his veins. Mahoney had ruined his army career, and there he was now, at the other end of the corridor, puffing a cigarette. Woodward moved sideways into the shadows of the corridor, so that Mahoney wouldn’t see him. Maybe now I can even the score between us, Woodward said to himself holding his submachine gun tightly. Maybe I can get a shot at the son of a bitch.

  Riggs returned to Mahoney with the lamp, and Mahoney lit it with his battered Zippo. “Let’s go,” he said, “but keep your fucking eyes open.”

  Riggs held out the lamp, and the first platoon descended the stairs. A rat squeaked and fled ahead of them down the stairs. The gossamer cobwebs undulated in the faint breeze coming through the door, and Mahoney expected to see Count Dracula come walking up at him in his black tuxedo and black cape.

  They descended to a narrow corridor lined with doors. The only sound came from their footsteps, and they had the eerie feeling they were in a tomb. They advanced cautiously with their machine guns ready. The first door they came to was rotting on its hinges. Riggs held up the lantern and Mahoney kicked it down. A few old barrels were inside, and Mahoney fired his submachine gun at them, then kicked them out of the way. No one was hiding behind them.

  They proceeded to the next room, and it was the same way: a pile of old barrels but no Germans. The platoon inspected all the other rooms on the corridor, and they realized that no Germans had come down this far.

  “Hey, is that a torch up there?” Cranepool asked. He reached up and brought down the long wooden shaft from the wall. Lighting it with a match, it burst into flame. “It works!” he said. “It’s brighter than that fucking kerosene lamp!”

  Mahoney kicked open the last door at the end of the corridor, and Riggs held up the kerosene lamp. The room was larger than the others, and also was loaded with old barrels, but in a corner was a statue of Christ, and Mahoney realized it was a little shrine where monks used to pray when they occupied the monastery.

  Cranepool walked toward Mahoney, torch in hand. “Ain’t no krauts down here,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Mahoney, puffing his cigarette and looking at the statue of Christ. He had an urge to get down on his knees and pray but didn’t feel like doing it in front of his platoon.

  “Riggs, give me the lantern,” he said. “The rest of you guys go upstairs—I wanna be alone for a few minutes.”

  Cranepool held the torch high and led the GIs toward the stairs. Lieutenant Woodward had followed them down to this passageway and hid in one of the rooms with his back pressed against the cold, clammy wall as they passed. The GIs noisily climbed the stairs, talking all at once about the fighting and the Germans they’d killed, and when they were gone, Woodward slipped out of the room, pleased at his good fortune, for Mahoney was down here alone, and Woodward would have his revenge.

  Meanwhile, Mahoney held t
he kerosene lamp in front of him and advanced toward the statue of Christ. He felt tired and wanted to thank God for sparing his life in the fight for the monastery. He tossed his cigarette butt to the floor, stomped it out, and kneeled in front of the statue, placing the kerosene lamp beside him. Crossing himself, he clasped his hands together and prayed.

  Hiding behind the barrels to his right was Colonel Richter, staring at him with his jaw hanging open. This was the room Richter had chose to hide in, and he had some food with him and a kerosene lantern which he’d snuffed out when he’d heard the Americans coming. He didn’t think they’d get this far down in the monastery, and when they had approached, he had thought he’d have to surrender or fight to the death, but they hadn’t bothered to search the room, and he thought he’d be safe if he just stayed put and remained silent.

  He knew that one of the Americans had stayed behind, and couldn’t resist taking a look at him. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as they focused on Mahoney. It’s him! Richter said to himself. He stared at the face of the man who’d beaten and kicked him on three separate occasions, and his heart began to pound. Fate had delivered his eternal adversary to him in this musty cellar. It was uncanny, and Richter knew that if he didn’t kill that American sergeant, the American sergeant would kill him.

  Silently, Richter drew his service pistol and leaned forward to get a straight clear shot.

  At the same moment, Lieutenant Woodward tiptoed down the corridor toward the room where Mahoney was praying. Woodward’s palms were sweaty on his submachine gun, and he ground his teeth together. From above, he could hear the victorious shouts of the GIs, but he only thought of Mahoney and paying him back for ruining his military career. Woodward had no idea of what he’d do after he killed Mahoney. His mind was so clouded by a lust for revenge that he didn’t care.

  Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw something move near a stack of barrels. Craning his neck in that direction, he saw a German with a pistol. Woodward’s instincts took over, and he swung to the side, lowered his submachine gun at the German, and pulled the trigger.

  At the very same moment, Richter spotted Woodward in the doorway, and he peered out from behind the barrels and fired a quick shot at the American lieutenant.

  Both discharged their weapons at the same time. The tiny room echoed with the sound of their muzzle blasts, and Mahoney jumped to his feet in alarm. A black hole appeared on the front of Woodward’s field jacket, and Richter was doubled over, coughing up blood. He fell and lay still. Woodward took a step toward Mahoney, then his legs gave out beneath him, and he pitched onto his face.

  Mahoney was shocked, and adrenalin thundered through his veins. He knew that a German was back there and that the first thing he should do was to make sure the SS man was out of action, but he felt it was more important to see to the soldier who had just saved his life. Mahoney noticed the lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders. Kneeling, he turned the officer over, onto his back, and found himself looking into the agonized features of Lieutenant Woodward.

  Mahoney couldn’t believe his eyes. “You—you saved my life!” he stuttered.

  Woodward glared up at him. “Son of a bitch!” he gasped from somewhere deep in his throat. Then he coughed and vomited blood.

  “Medic!” Mahoney called.

  Lieutenant Woodward went slack, and his eyes glazed over. His jaw dropped open, and blood oozed from his mouth. Mahoney felt for his pulse. He couldn’t find any beat.

  Mahoney heard a scuffle behind him and turned, suddenly remembering the German who he’d left lying behind the barrels. Crouching low, he crawled along the floor, keeping out of sight, as quiet as he could be. As he neared the fat, wooden vat nearest him, he pulled out his switchblade. He pressed the little button on the side, and the blade flashed out, sharp and shiny.

  Cautiously, he poked his head behind the barrels and saw—nothing!

  “Son of a bitch,” Mahoney mumbled, following the trail of blood into the shadows, to where a trap door led down into a pit of darkness.

  “Got away?” asked a voice behind him. He turned to see a medic he’d never seen before and some soldiers he didn’t know.

  “Hey,” said one of the soldiers, “it looks like Lieutenant Woodward!”

  The medic kneeled beside Woodward and checked him over. “Dead,” he pronounced.

  One soldier smirked. “Couldn’t happen to a more deserving officer.” He looked at Mahoney. “What happened?”

  Mahoney pointed to the blood stains leading to the trap door. “Kraut officer shot him.”

  The soldier came up behind him. They looked down into the deep, black hole. “Got away,” muttered the soldier, “got away for sure. I saw a map of this place just before we charged this morning—place is riddled with caves, underground passageways—a regular labyrinth!”

  “Yeah?” asked Mahoney.

  “Shit,” said the soldier, “looks like that Nazi’s hurt bad enough that he’ll never find a way out. Looks like he just put himself into his own, natural mausoleum...”

  Mahoney winced, then stood, took off his helmet, and gazed across the room at the body of Lieutenant Woodward. Then he turned to the trap door, which the soldier was now closing and locking, and he shrugged. He took a few steps and kneeled again before the statue of Christ, crossing himself once more and resuming his prayer.

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