Bloody Bush

by Len Levinson

  Jones glowered at Mahoney for a few moments, then smiled crookedly. “You’re gonna have a hard way to go in this outfit, feller.”

  “Who gives a shit?” Mahoney growled.

  Mahoney turned around and walked out of the tent, with Cranepool behind him. Jones ground his teeth together and felt his heart beating faster as he watched them walk across the company area. Turning, Jones stomped past his desk and pushed aside the tent flaps that led to Captain Tugwell’s office.

  Tugwell looked up from Mahoney’s records, which he’d been scrutinizing. Mahoney had won the Silver Star twice and the Distinguished Service Cross once, and Tugwell never had won anything except a Purple Heart for a wound sustained from an artillery shell that had exploded near his tent behind the lines in Italy.

  “I don’t like them,” Jones said, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger in front of Tugwell’s desk.

  “I don’t like them either,” Tugwell replied. “They’re a couple of glory hound wise guys from the Rangers. They’ll shape up here or else.”

  “Mahoney gave me some shit out there,” Jones said.

  “He did? We’ll court-martial his ass.”

  “Nah, there weren’t any witnesses except his sidekick. The fucker’s smart enough not to say anything when there are witnesses around.”

  “He’ll trip up someday, and then we’ll get him.”

  “Yeah,” Jones agreed. “We’ll probably go up to the front in a few days. Maybe we can put the bastard someplace where he’ll get his ass shot off.”

  “Good idea,” Tugwell said.

  Chapter Three

  Mahoney and Cranepool walked toward the pup tents of Charlie Company. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was shining. Charlie Company was bivouacked in a field south of Valognes.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna like it here,” Cranepool said, shifting the weight of his pack on his shoulders.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Mahoney said.

  “That’s what you keep saying, but I don’t believe you.”

  “I really don’t give a shit whether you believe me or not.”

  “You haven’t been right since old Bulldog Boynton got hit.”

  “Shut up about Bulldog Boynton.”

  They came to the line of pup tents.

  “I guess this is where we split up,” Mahoney said. “Good luck in the third platoon.”

  “We shoulda stayed with the Twenty-third Rangers,” Cranepool moaned.

  “Fuck the Twenty-third Rangers.”

  “At least we didn’t have any pricks like Tugwell and that first sergeant.”

  “We might have got one to replace Bulldog Boynton.”

  “Yeah, I guess we might have.”

  “I told you that you didn’t have to transfer just because I was transferring,” Mahoney said.

  Cranepool looked at the ground. “The old outfit wouldn’t have been the same without you and old Bulldog.”

  “Then stop bellyaching.”

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  “I’ll see you at chow, tonight.”

  “Right.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  Cranepool walked to the right in the direction where the third platoon would be, and Mahoney headed to the left. Logically, the platoon farthest on the left should be the first platoon. He walked into that area, seeing men cleaning their rifles and sharpening their bayonets in front of their tents. They joked and smoked cigarettes, talked about the girls they’d left behind. Mahoney asked a young buck sergeant where Lieutenant Andrews was, and the sergeant pointed toward the rear rank of tents. Mahoney headed in that direction, being careful not to trip over tent pegs or guy lines. When he reached the last rank of tents he asked a pfc for Lieutenant Andrews and the pfc pointed to a pup tent. Mahoney walked to it and kneeled down.

  “Anyone home?” he asked.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Sergeant Mahoney looking for Lieutenant Andrews.”

  “Come on in.”

  Mahoney pushed aside the tent flaps and hunched inside. He saw a youthful clean-cut lieutenant lying down reading the Bible. The cover said it was the Douay version, and Mahoney realized that Andrews was a Roman Catholic like himself.

  On his knees, Mahoney saluted. “Master Sergeant Mahoney reporting for duty, sir.”

  Lieutenant Andrews sat up and returned the salute. He wore new green fatigues and Mahoney realized he hadn’t been around for long.

  “You mean you’re in the first platoon?” Andrews asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since about five minutes ago.”

  “But you’re a master sergeant.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’ve already got a platoon sergeant.”

  “What’s his rank?”

  “Sergeant First Class.”

  “I guess he’s gonna have to become a squad leader.”

  “He won’t like that.”

  “Tough shit.”

  Andrews nodded sadly. “I guess it is. How long you been in Normandy, Sergeant?”

  “Since around March, sir.”

  Lieutenant Andrews blinked. “March? But we didn’t land here until the sixth of June.”

  “I landed here in March, sir. You see, I was in the Rangers and they parachuted me behind the lines to work with the Maquis and get things coordinated with them.”

  Lieutenant Andrews blinked again. “No kidding?”

  “It’s all in my records, sir.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I just got transferred here.”

  “How come?”

  “My CO. got killed and I felt like transferring to a regular line company.”

  Lieutenant Andrews looked away. “I’m sorry to hear about your CO.”

  “Well,” Mahoney said, “when the bullet comes with your name on it, there’s not much you can do about it.”

  “No, I don’t suppose there is.” He looked at Mahoney. “I’ve never been in combat.”

  “You will be before long, sir.”

  “I’ll probably have to rely on you a lot, because you have a lot more experience than I do.”

  “Rely on me all you want, sir. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Andrews smiled and held out his hand. “Good to have you with me, Mahoney.”

  Mahoney shook his hand. “Good to be here, sir.”

  Chapter Four

  In a tiny schoolhouse in the little town of Ste-Marie-du-Mont, the Allied high command gathered in the main classroom and planned their next moves in the battle for Normandy.

  Chairs and desks had been removed from the classroom, and a large table installed. It was covered with a topographical map that showed all known troop positions and battle lines. General Dwight D. Eisenhower leaned over the map and looked at the line between Saint Lo and Coutances. General Omar Bradley just had declared that he thought the main Allied attack should come from that line, where the German defenses appeared soft.

  ‘There’s a decent road net behind that line,” Bradley explained, “and if we can get our armor onto it, we can open a hole that will permit us to break out of our lodgement area and head west to central France and the Ruhr.”

  “But we’re not even close to that line yet, Brad,” Ike said, studying the map. “We’ve got to take Coutances and Saint Lo first.”

  “We’ll take them sir.”

  “The terrain appears to favor the Germans.”

  “Yes, that’s why they don’t have many troops there.”

  “I don’t think they need many. Between where we are right now and that line, there are only swamps and hedgerows.”

  “If that’s what’s in front of us, we’ll have to go over it.”

  Ike looked up at General Bernard Law Montgomery, commander of the British and Canadian troops fighting at Caen. “You’ll have to make them think the attack is coming from your sector, Monty. We want the G
ermans to concentrate their forces against you so that we can break out in the west.”

  Monty wore an old brown commando sweater and a beret at a jaunty angle. He’d defeated Rommel at El Alamein in North Africa and wanted to trounce him again. “I think the German will continue to concentrate his forces against mine, since I’m closer to Paris and the Rhine than your American troops, and the roads are good on the other side of Caen. I’ll threaten to break out, and the German will try to hold me in. In the process, I think I can take Caen.”

  “Good,” Ike said, straightening up. “Well then, I guess it’s decided. Brad, move your forces down the Cherbourg Peninsula to the line between Saint Lo and Coutances. How soon can you jump off?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Good. Any questions?”

  Nobody had any questions.

  “Carry on, gentlemen,” Ike said.

  Ike’s aide handed him his helmet, and Ike marched out of the room. Monty and his staff followed Ike, leaving Bradley alone with the map and a few of his officers, for the schoolhouse was his command post.

  Bradley was tall and bald, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He sported no jaunty berets, silver-handled swagger sticks, or cowboy boots. Most of his military career had been spent in army schools at West Point, Fort Benning, and Leavenworth, and one might have thought he was a mere classroom soldier and military theorist, except that when the time came for him to fight, in North Africa and again in Italy, he’d put all his theories into practice and had shown himself to be a brilliant field commander with a clear understanding of what was feasible and what was not in the passion and turmoil of combat.

  “You may return to your offices,” he told his staff members.

  They saluted and marched out of the room, leaving him alone with the map. A few scraggly hairs stuck up on top of his head, and his glasses were perched low on his nose. He leaned over the map and gazed down at Coutances and Saint Lo.

  They were two little obscure towns that no one except their citizens ever had cared about before, but now they were becoming key objectives in the battle for France. Both were the hub for road nets leading deeper into France, and therefore they both would make beautiful springboards for the big Allied attack.

  They had to be taken. And soon.

  Coutances lay in the path of the VII Corps that recently had taken Cherbourg. The XV Corps faced Saint Lo. Bradley decided to call both corps commanders and their division commanders to his headquarters that evening, to lay strategies for the capture of those towns.

  Chapter Five

  The Hammerhead Division was part of the XV Corps, and as the big meeting took place at General Bradley’s headquarters, Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion was sitting down to a meal of meat loaf and potatoes in the field next to their mess tent.

  Mahoney sat with his mess kit in the midst of his platoon, feeling greatly dispirited. Lieutenant Andrews had introduced him to all of the NCOs and men, and except for a handful of combat veterans, they all looked like potential casualties to Mahoney. He didn’t believe he’d ever seen such a bunch of fucked-up eight ball soldiers in his life. His four squad leaders all were combat veterans, and Mahoney wondered how each of them survived Utah Beach. Plutarski of the 1st Squad had an ass as big as a tank, plus three or four chins—Mahoney hadn’t been able to count them exactly. Mahoney knew he couldn’t depend on Plutarski if fast movement were required. In charge of the second squad was Staff Sergeant Eng Kee, a wiry Chinaman who wore glasses. How could anybody with glasses hit anything with an M-1 rifle? The 3rd Squad was commanded by Corporal Harvey Shapiro, a Jew from Los Angeles and also an eyeglass wearer. He looked like the guy who’d owned the little grocery store in Mahoney’s old neighborhood in New York, and Mahoney didn’t think that such a person could be much of a soldier. And last but not least was Buck Sergeant Vincent Lagamba, who had been a waiter in a restaurant in Lansing, Michigan only two years ago.

  How am I going to fight a war with these assholes? Mahoney wondered, stuffing half of a boiled potato into his big mouth. He felt uneasy, because he didn’t think he could rely on such people when the going got tough. He’d joined the Rangers a few years ago because he thought that they were professional soldiers, the cream of the army, and that he’d have a good chance of survival with such men fighting beside him. He hadn’t realized that such men always get the toughest most dangerous assignments. Now he was back in a regular line company again, and his survival didn’t look too good here, either.

  I’m not going to survive this war, Mahoney told himself. I’m going to get shot any day now and that’ll be the end of it so I might as well stop worrying. There’s no safe way out for me.

  Lieutenant Andrews sat down on the grass next to Mahoney, a mess kit full of food in his hand. “I’ve just come back from Captain Tugwell’s tent,” he said. “Boy, are you on the shit list over there.”

  “We didn’t hit it off very well,” Mahoney replied, biting a slab of meat loaf held in the air on the tip of his fork.

  “That’s putting it mildly. Tugwell hates you, Mahoney.”

  “I don’t think much of him, either. He’s a scumbag as far as I’m concerned, but I guess I shouldn’t say things like that to you, sir, since you’re an officer and all that stuff.”

  Lieutenant Andrews cut into his meat loaf with a fork. “You can say anything you like about him, Mahoney. You and I have to work closely together, and we might as well be honest with each other. There shouldn’t be any secrets between us. I don’t think much of Captain Tugwell either, to tell you the truth.”

  Mahoney looked sideways at Lieutenant Andrews. “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. I think he’s unnecessarily harsh with the men. Lieutenant Ferrara of the Third Platoon told me that whenever there’s been any fighting, Captain Tugwell was as far behind the lines as he could get, trying to tell people what to do through field telephones and walkie-talkies.”

  “I’ll bet his first sergeant was back there with him,” Mahoney said.

  “He was.”

  “Oh boy, what an outfit I fell into,” Mahoney groaned.

  “Well, we can still build a good platoon, you and I.”

  “Out of what?”

  “We’ve got some good men here.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  Lieutenant Andrews didn’t reply, because he knew the remark could apply equally to himself. He’d just arrived in Charlie Company and he hadn’t been tested by combat yet. Maybe he’d be a coward, or completely inept.

  Mahoney noticed Lieutenant Andrews’ reaction. “I didn’t mean you, sir,” he said.

  “Well, I haven’t proven myself either.”

  “You’ll be okay. You look strong and you don’t wear glasses. Just listen to me and you’ll make it.”

  “But that’s not the way it’s supposed to be, Mahoney. You’re the one who’s supposed to be listening to me.”

  “I’ll listen to you after you get a little experience,” Mahoney said. “Until then, you’d better listen to me. Let me give you a tip right now. A platoon is supposed to function like a team, and the best way for that to happen is to bring together as many people as you can who know each other and who’ve worked with each other. Since you’re so friendly with Lieutenant Ferrara of the Third Platoon, maybe you can arrange to trade one of your squad leaders for Corporal Cranepool, who I know from the Twenty-third Rangers. He and I work very well together. Both of us, with you in charge, of course, can form the nucleus of a real fighting platoon.”

  Lieutenant Andrews looked at Mahoney and considered what he’d said. Andrews knew Mahoney was trying to bullshit him into getting his buddy Cranepool into the 1st Platoon, but in another way Mahoney was right—people who’d worked together and fought together successfully should be kept together.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Lieutenant Andrews said.

  “I think you ought to go about it this way,” Mahoney said. “You should tell Lieutenant Ferrara to speak to Tugwell and a
sk him to transfer one of your men, Plutarski for instance, to his platoon, and he’ll trade one of his men for him. He doesn’t have to say it’s Cranepool.”

  Lieutenant Andrews shook his head. “I don’t like being underhanded, Mahoney. I’ll go to Captain Tugwell and talk to him about it myself.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I was you, sir.”

  “You’re not me, Mahoney. I think I can have a straight talk with Captain Tugwell and get what I want.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake, sir.”

  “After chow, I’ll go directly to Captain Tugwell and talk with him about it. He’s a difficult person, but I think he’ll listen to reason.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well,” Lieutenant Andrews said, “I guess after chow we’ll find out who’s right and who’s wrong.”

  Mahoney laid his mess kit on the ground and took out his package of Camels. “We sure will,” he said with a frown. “Cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke,” Lieutenant Andrews said.

  “I didn’t think you did,” Mahoney replied.

  Chapter Six

  It was seven o’clock in the evening. Lieutenant Andrews entered the command post tent and saw the company clerk, Pfc Jerome Carrington, sitting at his desk.

  “Where’s Sergeant Jones?” Lieutenant Andrews asked.

  “He’s in with the old man.”

  “Tell Captain Tugwell I’d like to speak with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pfc Carrington got up and went through the tent flags into the area that Captain Tugwell used for his office. Lieutenant Andrews waited in front of the desk, looking down at the orders and rosters and carbon copies of morning reports. The desk was lit by a kerosene lamp, and a light pitter-patter of rain was falling on the tent.

  Lieutenant Andrews was from Maine, and he’d spent many nights in tents before he’d joined the Army. He’d gone hunting with his father and Uncle Joe all over Maine and the province of New Brunswick in Canada. The sound of rain on the roof of a tent always had seemed comforting to him somehow, as though he was safe and secure, but he didn’t feel that way now, because Germans weren’t very far away, and indeed the sound of artillery and small arms fire could be heard from the direction of the front lines.