by Len Levinson
Mahoney wiped the water off his face and continued firing. His men shot at the Germans from behind trucks and the steel columns of the bridge. Mahoney wondered where Olds, his runner, was. The little son of a bitch should have followed me over here, Mahoney thought. Knifefinder would have followed me. Maybe Olds stopped a bullet.
“OLDS!” Mahoney yelled.
There was no answer.
“OLDS!”
In the rear of the lead truck, Private Olds heard Mahoney’s voice and cringed. An artillery shell landed on the superstructure of the bridge nearby, its shrapnel zinging through the air and whacking into the side of the truck. Olds clawed his fingers across the steel floor of the truck and sobbed hysterically.
Corporal Cranepool heard Mahoney call for Olds and wondered where Olds was. He remembered that Olds had been in the rear of the truck, and suspected he still was there. Cranepool raised himself from the sidewalk next to the road and ran back to the truck as American airplanes and artillery stepped up their attacks on the German artillery positions. Reaching the truck, Cranepool dived into the back and landed next to Olds, who was slobbering and whining.
Cranepool slapped Olds in the face. “Mahoney’s calling you, asshole!”
“I can’t move!” wailed Olds.
Cranepool pointed his carbine at Olds’ face. “You’d fucking better move, you yellow-belly cocksucker!”
“I can’t!”
“Shit!” said Cranepool. He snatched the walkie-talkie off Olds’ shoulder and jumped down from the truck. Running in a zigzag pattern across the roadway, he made his way to Mahoney, who was kneeling behind a steel column squeezing off rounds. Cranepool slowed up and dropped down next to him. “Hiya Sarge,” he said.
“Whataya want?” asked Mahoney, firing his rifle. In front of him a German fell out of a window and toppled to the street below.
“I heard you calling for Olds, so I went looking for him. I found him on the truck.”
Mahoney turned to reply, but a German artillery shell landed on the bridge superstructure above them, exploding and sending bits of metal flying in all directions. Mahoney and Cranepool tried to squeeze under their helmets, and when the smoke cleared neither of them had been scratched.
“That little fuck!” Mahoney said. He looked at the truck and contemplated throwing a hand grenade at Olds, but decided that it might damage the truck too much.
“Anyway, I brought you the walkie-talkie,” Cranepool said.
Mahoney took it from him and barked his thanks. Then he called Captain Anderson.
“Where in the hell have you been?” Captain Anderson asked. “I’ve been trying to raise you ever since we hit the bridge.”
“My runner bugged out on me. What did you want to know?”
“I wanted to know how your platoon was doing?”
“You can see can’t you?”
“Not that well.”
“Where are you?”
“About in the middle of the bridge.”
Cranepool grabbed Mahoney by the arm. “LOOK!”
Mahoney looked in the direction of Cranepool’s finger and saw the German armored column descending the hill behind them.
“Oh-oh,” said Mahoney.
Along the bridge, the men shouted and pointed at the German armored column that was advancing with guns blazing.
“Mahoney!” cried Captain Anderson.
“Yes sir!”
“The Krauts are coming!”
“I know!” Mahoney wondered what to do. They had Germans on both sides of them and the swollen Saar River below. “Sir—I think we oughtta try to get into Saarlautern!”
“I think you’re right! Count to thirty and then move your men in!”
“What about the trucks?”
“Leave them right where they are!”
Mahoney lowered the walkie-talkie and looked at his watch.
“What’d he say?” asked Cranepool.
“We’re going into Saarlautern in about a half-minute. Go tell the men.”
Cranepool ran off, and Mahoney looked at the second hand of his watch. He figured Captain Anderson had wanted the pause so he could have the time to get the rest of the company coordinated. The German armored column descending the hill ran into American howitzer fire and American planes. Mahoney thought Captain Anderson wanted to leave the trucks on the bridge to slow down the German tanks and personnel carriers, but he decided to take the lead truck and drive it right into Saarlautern anyway—because one truck more or less on the bridge wouldn’t mean anything but one truck going into Saarlautern could provide cover for his platoon.
Mahoney ran across the roadway to the truck and jumped in, noticing Willy from Philly’s blood on the front seat. He slammed the door, started the engine, and goosed the gas pedal. Looking at his watch, he saw that thirty seconds had elapsed. The men shouted battle cries and war whoops as they rushed toward Saarlautern.
Mahoney shifted into gear and drove the truck forward. Olds, huddled in the back of the truck, didn’t want to stay where he was, but he was too afraid to move. Mahoney kicked down the gas pedal and the truck accelerated off the bridge, with the first platoon and the rest of Charlie Company behind him. The Germans saw him coming and opened fire. Bullets zanged against the metal on the truck and Mahoney ducked his head. Before his head went down, he saw a German machine gun nest on the first floor of a building. Mahoney steered toward it and rammed the gas pedal onto the floor. He stayed hidden until he estimated that he was close to the building, then opened the door of the truck and dropped out.
He hit the pavement and rolled to break his fall. Looking up, he saw the truck heading straight for the machine gun nest. Mahoney tore a hand grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, and ran behind the truck. He saw Olds cowering on the steel floor in back.
“OLDS—GET OUT OF THERE!”
But Olds was immobilized by fear, as usual. The truck crashed into the building and Olds flew forward like a rag doll, slamming against the cab. Mahoney ran around the truck and hurled a hand grenade through the opening the truck had made in the brick wall. Then he dashed back to the safety behind the truck, listening to Olds moan. Blood dripped from a gash on Olds’ head, and the hand grenade exploded, making the truck tremble.
Mahoney came out from behind the truck and charged the building.
“FOLLOW ME!” he bellowed.
He jumped up on the hood of the truck and leapt through the opening in the wall, landing in the room where his grenade had exploded. Dead Germans and parts of dead Germans littered the floor, and a German machine gun on a tripod lay on its side amid the carnage. Mahoney picked up the machine gun and turned it around as Germans entered the room through a rear door. Mahoney fired the machine gun, swinging it from side to side on its transverse mechanism and cutting the Germans down. The Germans fell in all directions, shrieking in pain and splashing the walls with their blood.
The rest of the first platoon entered the room behind Mahoney. They looked in amazement at the heap of dead Germans in front of him. Mahoney stood behind the machine gun, chewing the butt of his cigar.
“What are you assholes looking at?” he growled.
He raised the walkie-talkie to his face so that he could call Captain Anderson, but nothing happened when he pressed the button. The walkie-talkie must have broke when I jumped out of the truck, Mahoney thought.
“Where’s my fucking runner!” Mahoney demanded.
Pfc. Morgan was standing in the window. “He’s in the street, Sarge.”
Mahoney stomped to the window and looked out into the street. He saw Olds wandering around without his helmet as if he were drunk. He held both of his hands to his bleeding head and didn’t appear to know where he was.
“That stupid cocksucker had better get his head down,” Mahoney said.
A machine gun fired, and Private Olds spun through the air. He fell to the pavement and didn’t move.
Mahoney shrugged. “Well, I guess that takes care of that asshole.” He looked
around. “Is Knifefinder here?”
Knifefinder raised his hand. “Yo.”
“Go find Captain Anderson and ask him what he wants us to do. And see if you can pick up a walkie-talkie someplace.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Knifefinder jumped through the window and ran down the sidewalk. Mahoney turned to his men and began to count them to see how many were still alive.
~*~
Captain Anderson and part of the third platoon were in a former florist shop on the other side of the street. Through the broken plate glass window they could see that the German armored column was in serious trouble on the other side of the river. Captain Anderson reached for the radio microphone on Pfc. Drago’s back and called Colonel Sloan at battalion.
Colonel Sloan’s battalion command post was underneath a deuce-and-a-half truck in the middle of the bridge. Sloan had no clear idea of what was going on behind him or in front of him. He knew he should do something, but didn’t know what.
Sergeant Appleton handed him the radio. “Sir, Captain Anderson wants to speak with you, and he says it’s urgent.”
Colonel Sloan took the microphone and tried to make his voice calm so he’d sound as if he was in control of the situation. “Sloan here.”
“Sir,” said Captain Anderson, “I’ve got my company in Saarlautern but we won’t be here long unless we get reinforced fast!”
Colonel Sloan had no idea any of his men were in Saarlautern yet. “I’ll send the rest of the battalion right in!”
“That may not be enough, sir. A battalion won’t be enough against the garrison here.”
“I’ll call regiment and see what they can do. Meanwhile, you hold on there, Anderson. The rest of the battalion is going right in. Anything else?”
“No sir.”
“Over and out.” Colonel Sloan turned to Major Cutler. “Send the rest of the battalion into that goddamn city!”
“Yes sir!”
Major Cutler transmitted the command on the other radio, and Colonel Sloan told Sergeant Appleton to call Colonel Simmons at regiment. While waiting for the call to go through, Colonel Sloan could hear a tattoo of running feet on the bridge. The rest of his battalion was moving into Saarlautern.
~*~
General Dobbeling and Colonel Wolkenstein looked at the map table as aides moved blocks of wood to indicate troop dispositions and movements. Another aide ran toward them from the radio.
“Sir!” he said. “The Americans are in Saarlautern!”
“What!” said the normally calm Dobbeling.
“The Americans are in Saarlautern!”
“How many?”
“Two or three hundred, according to the commander on the scene.”
Dobbeling looked down at the map. He’d thought he could keep the Americans out of Saarlautern long enough to damage the bridge to the point where it would be unusable, but somehow the Americans had broken through. However, there weren’t very many of them in the city, and maybe they could be pushed out. He tried to think of which units to send against the small American bridgehead. His best unit was the 91st Parachute Regiment, an old battle-seasoned unit.
“Send the 91st Parachute Regiment to the bridgehead at once!” Dobbeling said. “Also the 242nd Tank Battalion! I want those Americans pushed out of Saarlautern at once, and then I want constant artillery salvos on that bridge until it is unusable by the enemy!”
“Yes sir!”
The aide ran back to the radio.
“I hope that will be enough to drive them back,” Wolkenstein said. “Perhaps we should send everything we have to the bridgehead. I think that only an all-out effort can stop the Americans now.”
“No,” replied Dobbeling. “If we send everything we have to the bridgehead, everything we have will be wiped out by the American planes because we’ll be too concentrated.”
Another aide approached the map table. “Sir!” he said. “Major Bleicher requests permission to surrender!”
Dobbeling looked up from the map table. He’d known Bleicher was being hard-pressed, but he hadn’t expected him to cave in this soon. “I’ll speak with him,” he said.
The aide led him to a radio, and Dobbeling accepted the mouthpiece from the operator.
“This is General Dobbeling,” he said.
The strained voice of General Bleicher came over the airwaves. “Request permission to surrender, sir.” The din of artillery explosions could be heard in the distance.
“What is your situation?” Dobbeling asked.
“I’m surrounded by strong enemy tank units and artillery. Their airplanes are attacking me constantly. I only have approximately twenty percent of my force left. We don’t have a chance here. I would like to save the few men I have left.”
General Dobbeling sympathized with Major Bleicher’s predicament, but he had to place military considerations first. The longer Bleicher could tie up a large body of American tanks and planes, the more time Dobbeling would have to destroy the bridge.
“Permission denied,” General Dobbeling said coldly.
“But sir...”
“You have your orders, Major Bleicher. Over and out.”
General Dobbeling handed the microphone back to the radio operator and returned to the map table.
“Where is the 91st Parachute Regiment now?” he asked.
“They’re on their way to the bridgehead,” Colonel Wolkenstein replied.
Chapter Fourteen
Mahoney peered over the window sill and saw the rest of the 1st Battalion pouring into Saarlautern.
“Here comes everybody,” he told his men. “Things are getting better all the time.”
His men were sprawled around the room, guarding windows and doors. They’d felt isolated and vulnerable, but now they weren’t so alone. Mahoney figured they still didn’t have enough of a force to attack anything, and all they could do was hold the bridgehead until more reinforcements arrived. He looked at his watch: and it was 1630 hours (4:30 in the afternoon). It would get dark soon, and he hoped the reinforcements would arrive before then.
“Take a C ration break,” Mahoney told his men, “but keep your fucking eyes peeled anyway. I got a feeling that the Krauts will try to push us out of here before long.”
Pfc. Knifefinder, who had returned to the platoon with a walkie-talkie, held it out to Mahoney. “Captain Anderson wants to speak with you, Sarge.”
Mahoney took the walkie-talkie. “Yes sir?”
“Build a strong defensive perimeter around your position,” Captain Anderson said. “Try to link up with units on your left and right. We want to stay right where we are until the rest of the division arrives.”
“I don’t think they should wait too long, sir.”
“They’re on the way as far as I know.”
Mahoney handed the walkie-talkie back to Knifefinder.
“What’d he say?” asked Cranepool, who was opening a C ration can with his tiny GI issue can opener.
“Nothing we didn’t know already. When you’re finished with that chow, take two men and see who’s to our left. Corporal Harris—you take two men and see who’s to our right. Hurry up with that chow—this isn’t dining room at the Waldorf Astoria.”
Mahoney took off his pack and reached inside for a C ration can. Suddenly he froze and perked up his ears. He heard tanks coming. Bolting toward the window, he looked at the bridge. The trucks were still parked bumper to bumper across it and no tanks were visible.
“Oh-oh,” Mahoney said.
“I hear them too,” Knifefinder muttered.
“Hear what?” asked Corporal Harris.
“Tanks,” Mahoney said, “and they’re not ours.”
A huge explosion went off across the street. Mahoney looked out the window and saw a building that had been hit by artillery, its upper floors collapsing.
“Gimme a fucking bazooka!” Mahoney shouted.
The room filled with a terrible roar. The brick wall broke apart and the ceiling collapsed. Mahon
ey felt himself being buried alive. Coughing and spitting, he tried to work himself loose from the mess that covered him to his waist.
“Get out of here!” Mahoney yelled to his men.
He paused and kicked the debris out of the way and headed for the rear door just as another artillery shell hit the building. A chunk of ceiling big as a man fell on Mahoney’s helmet and stunned him. He sagged to the floor as bricks and plaster dropped on him. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs and choked on the thick clouds of smoke and dust.
“OUT THE BACK DOOR!” he bellowed.
He raised himself and ran toward the door, which glowed faintly in the smoke-filled room. Men coughed and cried in pain. Mahoney turtled his head into his collar and kicked his knees high as he ran toward the door. He passed through the opening and the air was clearer. Cranepool was already there, choking and vomiting. Other men followed Mahoney through the door, holding their hands over their faces and coughing.
Mahoney’s eyes smarted and tears rolled down his cheeks. He looked around and saw a narrow corridor.
Cranepool wiped the vomit from his lips. “I thought you said things are getting better all the time.”
“Shut up.”
Mahoney walked down the corridor that led to the rear of the building. He opened the rear door and saw a backyard area through which four German soldiers were walking. One of them shouted when he saw Mahoney and they all raised their rifles.
Mahoney slammed the door shut and hit the deck as bullets splintered the door above his head. He crawled down the corridor to his men, who also had dropped to the floor.
“Krauts in back!” Mahoney said to them. He looked ahead and saw the front door covered with debris. He and his men were trapped in the building, and Germans were attacking from the rear.
“Man the rear windows!” Mahoney shouted. “Get the fuck going!”
The men ran on their hands and knees to the rear of the building as the rear door was broken apart by gunfire. Cranepool darted left into a room off the corridor and made his way to the rear window. Looking out, he saw the back yard swarming with Germans. He flicked his carbine on automatic, fired a long burst, and sent them running for cover.