by Len Levinson
“I guess there wasn’t time, suh. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you. Them’s good boys out there and they know what they’re doing. I do think we ought to give them some air support, though, because once they hit Saarlautern the Germans are gonna give ’em hell.”
“Yes of course,” said General Hughes, somewhat dazed.
“Thank you, suh.”
General Hughes hung up the phone and stared into space.
“Anything wrong, sir?” asked General McCook.
“I’m not sure,” Hughes replied, “but call the Air Force and tell them to give us some air support at the bridge to Saarlautern.”
~*~
The 1st Battalion passed the German armored column, German soldiers in the personnel carriers and gunners in the tanks firing at them. But both adversaries were moving over rough terrain and it was hard to aim with any degree of accuracy. The Germans watched helplessly as the American trucks and jeeps sped by, some of the trucks dragging howitzers behind them. GIs in all the trucks had removed the tarpaulin coverings and were firing at the Germans, but their aim was disturbed by the motion of the truck. Soldiers from both armies manning outposts high in the mountains watched the weird spectacle beneath them and wondered what was going on.
The last vehicles in the convoy contained the 1st Battalion headquarters, and in one of the jeeps, Colonel “Rabbit” Sloan felt as though he was riding a train that was out of control. He was nominally in command, but somehow the men in Charlie Company had taken over and were leading the spearhead into Saarlautern. He was worried, because events were moving too fast for him. This was not a carefully planned military operation but a mad impulse that had originated in Charlie Company. Colonel Sloan thought that somebody ought to have his ass nailed to the wall for running off half-cocked this way. If he got out of this alive, he intended to find out who that individual was and throw the book at him.
“Sir,” said Sergeant Appleton, sitting in the rear of the bouncing jeep, “it’s Colonel Simmons.” He held out the radio microphone.
“Yes sir!” said Sloan.
“Where in the dogshit are you, Sloan?” asked Simmons.
“About three miles out of Saarlautern, sir.”
“Where’s that German armored column?”
“We’re passing them right now.” As Colonel Sloan finished the sentence, a bullet zipped through the canvas roof of the jeep two inches from his nose, and everybody in the jeep, including the driver, ducked. The jeep swerved dangerously out of control, but the driver grabbed the wheel again and steered the jeep in a reasonably straight line.
“Are you there, Sloan?” asked Colonel Simmons.
“Yes sir.”
“I jest received word from division that you’re gonna have some good air support when you hit Saarlautern, so pass the word along. And on top of that, the rest of the regiment will be coming in right behind you, so you won’t be alone. Do you read me all right?”
“Yes sir.”
“I also want you to know that General Hughes is pleased as punch by your decision to go around that armored column and attack Saarlautern directly. He’ll probably pin a medal on you when you get back, boy.”
Colonel Sloan swallowed hard. “But I didn’t make that decision, sir!”
“Who in the hell did?”
“Somebody in Charlie Company. I believe it was Captain Anderson.”
“Who?”
“Captain Anderson.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s one of our younger officers, sir.”
“Then he’s the one who’ll get the medal. I just spoke with General Hughes and he said, and here I quote, that ‘it was a brilliant display of individual initiative.’ Keep up the good work, boy. Any questions?”
“No sir.”
“Stay close to your radio. Over and out.”
~*~
General Dobbeling stood at the map table reading recent intelligence reports on the disposition of American troops descending on Saarlautern. Colonel Wolkenstein approached him and was obviously agitated.
“Sir,” said Wolkenstein, “Major Bleicher just has reported something very strange and dangerous. He says that the bulk of the American force behind him has passed him and will reach Saarlautern ahead of him.”
General Dobbeling blinked. “Passed him? How?”
“They just went around him, sir. The American trucks are faster than tracked vehicles like tanks and personnel carriers.
General Dobbeling closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them. “Well, this is a rather serious turn of events.”
“I think we should blow that bridge immediately, sir.”
General Dobbeling looked down at the map. He took a cigarette out of a gold cigarette case, inserted it into an ivory holder, and placed it in his mouth. “No,” he said, lighting the cigarette. “That will strand Major Bleicher and his armored column.”
“The alternative is to let the Americans into Saarlautern, and we can’t do that.”
“But we need Major Bleicher and his tanks and men also.”
Colonel Wolkenstein expressed himself forcefully. “Better to lose Bleicher’s column than Saarlautern! It is a harsh decision, but we must not shrink from it!”
“Calm down,” Dobbeling said. “The decision isn’t as harsh as you think. We can have Bleicher’s column and Saarlautern too if we blow the bridge as soon as Bleicher and his men are here. It’s true that some Americans will be here also, but they won’t have their tanks with them and there won’t be many of them. They won’t be able to be reinforced because the bridge will be gone, and they’ll be stranded in Saarlautern, surrounded by a superior force. We should be able to wipe them out quickly and then concentrate on the Americans on the other side of the Saar, who’ll have to get here in boats. I have a brigade of artillery set up to handle those boats, so I doubt if they’ll get far. No, Colonel Wolkenstein, the situation isn’t nearly as bad as you describe. In fact, I think it’s quite good. Please be so good as to notify the engineers that they are not to blow the bridge until all of Bleicher’s column has returned. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Carry out your orders.”
Chapter Thirteen
Willy from Philly hunched over the wheel and pressed the accelerator against the floorboards. “I ain’t driven like this since the great days of the Red Ball Express,” he said.
Mahoney grunted, wondering how far away Saarlautern was. Wind whistled around the truck as its shock absorbers cried out at the outrage of the badly pitted road. Mahoney and Willy from Philly bounced up and down and rocked from side to side as the truck sped along at sixty miles an hour. Behind the truck was a long snaky convoy of other trucks and jeeps, and the men crowded in the trucks held their rifles ready, peering ahead for the first signs of Saarlautern.
They passed bombed out farmhouses and rolling fields lined with hills and mountains. The sky was gray and looked as though it might rain again at any moment. The drivers had to leave their windshield wipers on all the time to clear mud and dirt away. Everyone felt as if he was part of a great military maneuver.
Willy from Philly turned a bend and Mahoney’s eyes widened at the sight of a bridge and a city straight ahead down a hill. The bridge covered a wide river which Mahoney knew was the Saar. Willy from Philly moved his foot to the brake to slow the truck as it cannonballed downhill, but Mahoney kicked him in the shins.
“Knock that off!” Mahoney said.
“But Sarge!”
“Shaddup!”
Willy from Philly said a prayer as the truck zoomed toward the bridge. Mahoney expected the Germans to start firing at any moment—surely they’d seen him by now. The bridge could be detonated when they were in the middle of it. Too late to worry about that now.
Mahoney took out his bayonet and fastened it on the end of his carbine. He rammed a fresh clip of ammo into the slot and took out a cigar, lighting it up with his Zippo. This is it, he thought. T
he shit is about to hit the fan.
~*~
In the back of the truck, Corporal Cranepool squinted over the cab and saw Saarlautern appear at the bottom of the hill.
“There it is!” shouted Private Rivers, pointing toward Saarlautern.
“FIX BAYONETS!” Cranepool replied. “AND BE CAREFUL YOU DON’T STAB THE MAN NEXT TO YOU!”
Private Olds pulled his bayonet and lowered its ring over the barrel of his carbine. He tried to imagine himself sticking the bayonet into the body of a German and knew he couldn’t do it. A terrible fear seized hold of him as the first German bullets crackled over head. He felt as though he was paralyzed. I can’t go through with this, he thought. I wish I were dead already.
“Looks like Olds is shitting razor blades again,” said Higgins with a laugh.
Olds couldn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and wished they’d all go away.
~*~
All the phones in the conference room rang at once. Colonel Wolkenstein listened to one, hung it up, and shouted: “The Americans are here!”
General Dobbeling, standing at the map table, spun around. He hadn’t expected them so soon. “How far have they come?”
“They’re approaching the bridge, sir!”
“I’m going to the roof to see for myself. Bring a radio.”
“Yes sir.”
General Dobbeling put on his helmet and ran out of the conference room, followed by Colonel Wolkenstein and several of his aides. An elevator was waiting and they all got on it, and the young soldier at the controls turned the wheel for up. The elevator rose and everybody looked nervously at one another except General Dobbeling, who was calm as always, treating the situation like a chess game. The elevator door opened and the officers climbed the last flight of stairs to the roof. Dobbeling pushed open the door and heard the chatter of machine guns. Rushing to the edge of the roof, he raised his binoculars and saw the American convoy speeding down the mountain toward the bridge.
“Wolkenstein,” he said, “make sure no one uses any artillery on the bridge until Major Bleicher’s men are over!”
“Yes sir!”
Dobbeling looked at the approaching Americans through his binoculars. “Come on you fools,” he muttered, “we’re waiting for you.”
~*~
The truck roared down the hill and Mahoney held his carbine tightly. German bullets ripped into the truck and shattered the windshield, but Willy from Philly kept his head low and his foot on the accelerator. Mahoney peered over the dash and saw puffs of smoke on the tops of the buildings that lined the waterfront. He figured that the Germans had the bulk of their forces up there, and he wondered why they weren’t using any artillery yet.
“Stop at the far end of the bridge!” Mahoney said.
“Hup Sarge!”
Just then a burst of German machine gun bullets raked across the windshield and caught Willy from Philly in the chest. The ex-cabdriver was thrown back against his seat, blood spurting from the holes and the truck careening from side to side as it approached the bridge.
Mahoney lunged to the side, pulled the crank on the door, and when it swung open, pushed Willy from Philly’s bleeding corpse out. Mahoney slid behind the wheel, kept his head low, and stomped down on the gas, chewing his cigar and hoping that Willy from Philly’s fate wouldn’t befall him too.
The air was filled with the sounds of machine gun fire and ricocheting bullets. Mahoney could hear the GIs behind him firing at the rooftops on the waterfront. He was beginning to think that his little maneuver was a bad idea. They’re going to chew us up on this bridge, he thought as German bullets pelted the truck.
The truck rumbled onto the bridge, and Mahoney’s heart beat like a jackhammer. Bullets ricocheted off the hood of the truck and he ducked his head, hearing them whiz past his ear. Every second seemed like an hour to Mahoney as he kept his head low and sped across the bridge. He was coming to the end and raised his foot to brake hard, hoping that the brakes still were working.
Suddenly, above his head, he heard an enormous roar. What the hell is that? he wondered as he slammed down hard on the brake pedal.
~*~
On the top of the city hall building, General Dobbeling looked up and saw a swarm of American fighter planes and bombers diving out of the clouds.
“Run for your lives!” somebody screamed.
The airplane engines screamed across the sky and jagged lines of fire spurted from their wings. General Dobbeling threw himself to the roof as a fighter plane approached, its machine gun bullets stitching a path across the roof. Dobbeling felt the roof tremble as the bullets slammed in, and then, when the plane passed, he leapt to his feet and ran to the door. It was only ten yards away and Dobbeling’s calm manner evaporated as he imagined himself being cut in two by strafing bullets. He ran as fast as he could and made it to the door, ducking inside and descending the flight of stairs.
The other officers followed him down, leaving a few of their number bleeding upon the roof. General Dobbeling stood next to the elevator, trying to calm himself down. He hadn’t realized that the Americans would send planes out in this weather, and now the situation was much more serious.
“Wolkenstein—where are you!” he said.
“Here sir,” said Wolkenstein, his face pale and his helmet crooked on his head.
“Order the engineers to blow the bridge at once!”
“But what about Major Bleicher and his column?”
“I said blow the bridge at once!”
“Yes sir!”
~*~
The truck stopped on the far end of the bridge and Mahoney pulled up the emergency brake. He pushed open the door and jumped out, running to the side where he thought the detonation wires would be.
“LET’S GO!” he yelled. “CUT THEM GODDAMN WIRES!”
The men jumped down from the trucks and rushed to both sides of the bridge to slash the wires before the bridge blew. In the corners of their eyes they saw planes strafing and bombing the buildings nearby, and the intensity of German machine gun fire had diminished considerably. Only one man remained in his truck: Private Olds, quaking with fear, tears running down his cheeks, unable to move his feet.
Mahoney ran to the iron fence at the side of the bridge, looked down, and saw a mass of wires as thick as his wrist. Reaching down with his carbine and bayonet, he cut through the wires. Bullets whizzed over his head and ricocheted off the metal superstructure of the bridge, but he gritted his teeth and moved his carbine up and down in a sawing motion. He could see that he already had cut through a few of the wires, but there were a lot more of them to go. Glancing to his left, he saw soldiers climbing all over the bridge, cutting wires. They were probably duplicating each other’s efforts, but the main thing was to get all the wires cut so that the bridge could be saved.
“HERE COME THE KRAUTS!” somebody shouted.
Mahoney looked toward Saarlautern and saw platoons of German soldiers converging on the bridge from all the side streets. He wanted to pull his carbine around and start shooting at them, but the main thing was to cut the goddamned wires. He pushed against the wires with all his strength, knowing he was a clear target as the Germans came closer and opened fire.
The Germans didn’t appear anxious to come onto the bridge, which told Mahoney that they knew it was going to be blown at any moment. Maintaining a respectful distance, they got down on their stomachs and took potshots at the American soldiers. Mahoney saw one American soldier lose his grip on the superstructure and fall into the boiling waters below. A bullet ricocheted off a steel column inches from Mahoney’s head, and just then his bayonet cut through the last wire.
Mahoney threw his body behind a steel column, peered around it, aimed his carbine, and fired at a German lying in the street straight ahead. The German squirmed, and Mahoney knew he got him. He aimed again and fired at a German running across the street, and that German lost his balance and tumbled to the cobblestones. Mahoney fired a third shot at a German hiding
behind a lamppost, but that German didn’t flinch and Mahoney knew he’d missed.
Just then there was an explosion on the other side of the bridge. Mahoney turned and saw a huge black cloud of smoke rising in the air behind a parked deuce-and-a-half truck. The Germans have pulled the plug, he thought. They’re trying to blow the bridge and that was one charge that still was wired up. Another explosion went off farther down the bridge on the other side, and then there was silence. Mahoney smiled as he realized that his plan had worked and the bridge had been saved.
~*~
“Sir!” said Colonel Wolkenstein. “The engineers report that they’ve detonated their charges, but most of them have not exploded!”
General Dobbeling looked up from the map table. “Why not?”
“The Americans must have cut the wires, sir!”
Dobbeling thought for a few seconds. “I see. Well, all we can do now is destroy the bridge with artillery fire. Pass the order along to the artillery officer.”
“But sir,” Wolkenstein said, “the artillery officer already has reported that he’s having great difficulty firing, due to the American planes. Also, evidently the Americans have howitzers firing from the other side of the river.”
“I’m aware of all that,” Dobbeling replied wearily. “Kindly pass along the order that I just have given you.”
“Yes sir!”
Colonel Wolkenstein turned and walked back to the telephones, and General Dobbeling looked down at the map of Saarlautern. He knew that if the Americans held the bridge, it would only be a matter of time before their main force entered Saarlautern and captured it. All his troops could do was fight gallantly and kill as many of the Americans as they could, but the Americans had vast reserves of men and equipment and the victory would be theirs in the end.
General Dobbeling puffed the cigarette in his ivory holder. I wonder how long we can hold them back? he asked himself.
~*~
A German 155 fired from the banks of the Saarlautern riverfront, and its shell sounded like a rocket as it passed over the bridge. Mahoney knelt behind a steel pillar, firing carefully aimed shots at Germans hiding in alley-ways and behind the windows of buildings. Another German artillery shell landed in the water underneath Mahoney and threw up a geyser from the river, soaking into his field jacket.