Bloody Bush

by Len Levinson

  “Try again,” said Colonel Reinhardt.

  “Yes sir.”

  Colonel Reinhardt raised his binoculars to his eyes and looked at the spot where his tank had disappeared into the hedgerows. He’d seen a few explosions in that area a short while later, and assumed his tank was blasting the Americans out of their position, but now the tank had fallen out of contact. Could the Americans have destroyed it?

  “They still don’t answer sir,” said the soldier at the field radio.

  “Call Captain Oberg for me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The private cranked up the field telephone, and Colonel Reinhardt scanned the valley with his binoculars. His line had held well, except for the sector that included Captain Oberg’s company.

  “I have Captain Oberg, sir.”

  Colonel Reinhardt took the telephone receiver. “Oberg?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What is happening in your sector?”

  “Nothing at the moment. The American attack has petered out.”

  “I sent a tank down there. Have you seen it?”

  “No sir.”

  “Can you hear it?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Maybe the Americans got it.”

  “Evidently, but it’s the last one they’ll get. I’m moving up A Company and B Company from the reserve. Squeeze together to make room for them on your flanks. When I give the signal, attack and kill those Americans in your sector.”

  “Tanks will be very helpful, sir.”

  “I don’t have many, but the ones I have are on the way. That is all. Await my orders to attack.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The first platoon was huddled behind a hedgerow, eating assault rations out of khaki cans. Fifty yards away the knocked-out German tank sent a thin trail of smoke into the sky. Mahoney had posted lookouts because he expected a German counterattack. He wanted his platoon to be rested and fed so they might have the strength to throw the Germans back.

  Mahoney sat cross-legged on his poncho, eating his hot dogs and beans. The rain had become a mild drizzle; it was one o’clock in the afternoon. Dead bodies were scattered around him, but that didn’t bother him. He used to worry about dying, but he’d become numb to it now. If he could kill the Germans before the Germans killed him, he thought he might survive the war.

  He heard the sound of engines and looked up to see three jeeps drive through a hole in the last hedgerow his platoon had taken. The jeeps sped helter-skelter across the field, dodging dead bodies whenever they could, running over them when they couldn’t. Mahoney wondered who the visitors were, and then spotted Major Bowie in the lead jeep.

  “Oh-oh,” he said.

  Lieutenant Andrews saw Major Bowie too, and stood up, brushing mud and dust off his field jacket. He walked forward to meet the jeep, and Mahoney followed him. The jeeps stopped and Major Bowie jumped out.

  “Where’s Lieutenant Andrews?” he said.

  “I’m Lieutenant Andrews,” replied Lieutenant Andrews, stepping forward.

  Mahoney stood a few yards behind Lieutenant Andrews, watching Captain Tugwell and Sergeant Jones climb out of the third jeep. They all shot dirty looks toward each other.

  Major Bowie clasped Lieutenant Andrews’ hand. “Congratulations Lieutenant—you’ve done a magnificent job!”

  Lieutenant Andrews twitched his nose in astonishment. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Your gallant attack has set a standard that I would like every platoon in my battalion to emulate.”

  Lieutenant Andrews was pleased to receive the compliment, but didn’t feel he deserved it. “Well, I owe it all to Sergeant Mahoney here,” he said, holding his hand out to Mahoney behind him.

  Major Bowie looked and saw a mean grizzled master sergeant. Now he understood who was responsible for the successful penetration of the German line. He held out his hand to Mahoney. “Congratulations, Sergeant.”

  Mahoney shook his hand as though he was used to shaking the hands of high-ranking officers. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I don’t believe I know you.”

  “I just arrived in this battalion yesterday, sir.”

  “From where?”

  “The Twenty-third Rangers, sir.”

  Major Bowie thought for a few moments. “I think I’ve heard of them. That’s Colonel Kersey’s outfit, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, my company commander got shot,” Mahoney explained, “and after that happened my buddy and I thought we should transfer to a regular line infantry company. Colonel Kersey sort of understood and he let us do it.”

  “Fine officer—Colonel Kersey.”

  “Very fine,” Mahoney agreed. “Very fine.”

  “Where’s your buddy?” Major Bowie asked, looking around.

  “He’s in the third platoon, sir.”

  Major Bowie wrinkled his forehead. “If you’re buddies, why isn’t he in your platoon?”

  “Captain Tugwell didn’t want us to be in the same platoon, sir.”

  Major Bowie turned to Captain Tugwell. “Why didn’t you want them to be in the same platoon, Captain Tugwell?”

  “Um … ” said Tugwell, thinking rapidly, “I needed a corporal in the third platoon.”

  Lieutenant Andrews couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “He’s lying,” he declared. “I offered to trade a corporal with the third platoon, but Captain Tugwell wouldn’t let me. He told me he wanted to keep Mahoney and Corporal Cranepool apart because they were troublemakers.”

  Captain Tugwell’s face turned purple. “That’s a lie!”

  “But sir,” said little Pfc Carrington, “I heard you say that to Lieutenant Andrews myself!”

  Major Bowie looked at Tugwell, Andrews, Mahoney, and Carrington. He knew something was rotten in Charlie Company, and wanted to relieve Tugwell of command, but didn’t have anybody to replace him with at that moment. On the other hand, he thought anybody would be better than Captain Tugwell. It was a front line decision that he had to make on the spot, and he made it. He looked at Tugwell.

  “Captain Tugwell,” he said, “you are relieved of command as of now. Report back to my headquarters and await further assignment.”

  Tugwell nearly fainted, but managed to salute and say: “Yes sir.”

  “I’d like you to leave right now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Captain Tugwell turned and walked back to the rear echelon. Major Bowie looked at Lieutenant Andrews.

  “Who’s the senior lieutenant in this company?”

  “Lieutenant Ferrara of the third platoon, sir.”

  Major Bowie turned to Sergeant Jones. “Tell Lieutenant Ferrara and Corporal Cranepool of the third platoon to report to me here immediately.”

  “Yes sir.”

  A heavy rumble of tank engines could be heard, and Mahoney looked in their direction. They were American Sherman tanks, coming through the openings in the hedgerows. Mahoney counted sixteen of them—an entire tank company. The other three platoons of Charlie Company followed the tanks, and First Lieutenant Anthony Ferrara trudged across the field, a hangdog look on his face. He had a thick black mustache and wore glasses.

  “Lieutenant Ferrara reporting, sir,” he said, saluting Major Bowie.

  Major Bowie saluted back. “Lieutenant Ferrara, I have just relieved Captain Tugwell of command. I now appoint you commander of Charlie Company.”

  Lieutenant Ferrara blinked. “Huh?”

  “Deploy your men across this field and prepare to attack.”

  Ferrara’s eyes darted around behind his eyeglasses and he chewed the ends of his mustache. Before the war he’d been a schoolteacher in Brockton, Massachusetts. “May I ask a question, sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “Can I choose my own First Sergeant, sir?”

  “What’s wrong with Sergeant Jones?”

  “He’s too much like Captain Tugwell.”
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br />   “I see.” Major Bowie thought for a few moments. “How about Master Sergeant Mahoney, here?”

  Ferrara shrugged. “I don’t know him, sir.”

  “I think I can vouch for him.”

  “If he’s good enough for you, then he’s good enough for me, sir.”

  “Good. Get yourself organized and prepare to attack.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Just then they all heard the whistle of a shell coming in.

  “Hit it!” screamed Major Bowie.

  Charlie Company dropped to the mud as a shell burst in the middle of the field. Seconds later another shell landed, and then another.

  “The Krauts are coming!” yelled one of Mahoney’s lookouts at the hedgerow.

  “Open fire!” yelled Major Bowie.

  The American troops already against the hedgerow fired at the Germans charging across the field in front of them. The Germans were supported by four Tiger tanks firing machine guns and cannons at the American position. The American tanks swarmed through openings in the hedgerow and fired their cannons at the German tanks, but their shells bounced harmlessly off the front decks of the enemy tanks.

  “Get them from the sides!” ordered the American tank commander.

  A second later a German shell hit his tank, incinerating him and his crew, but his men heard his order and maneuvered to outflank the Germans. They tried to resist the flanking movements, but the Tiger tanks were underpowered and couldn’t keep up with the movements of the outnumbering American tanks. One American tank fired at the side of a Tiger tank and the shell exploded through, disabling the tank and killing its crew. Three American tanks ambushed another of the Germans, and two of those American tanks fired at the same time. Their shells landed on target and turned the German tank into a molten wreckage.

  The two remaining German tanks began to back up, but the American tanks went after them like a school of sharks, firing their cannons. Within ten seconds both German tanks were destroyed.

  Now the American tanks had control of the field, and opened fire on the German soldiers with their machine guns. One German soldier aimed his panzerfaust anti-tank gun at an American tank and fired his shell, which hit the tank and blew it onto its side. As the German soldier aimed at another American tank, he was cut down by a machine gun burst from one of the first platoon’s machine gun crews. The German soldiers couldn’t hold off the tanks, and began to retreat.

  “Charge!” screamed Major Bowie. “Don’t let them get away!”

  Charlie Company charged through the openings in the hedgerow and went after the Germans. They chased them to the next hedgerow, and the tanks blasted big holes for them to go through. The German defenders on the other side of the hedgerow stood fast and fought the Americans hand-to-hand while the American tanks moved forward to blow holes in the next hedgerow.

  We’ve got them on the run, Major Bowie thought happily, watching the fleeing Germans through his binoculars.

  Field Marshal Erwin Rommel sat behind his desk in his office at La Roche-Guyon. Seated opposite him was Lieutenant-Colonel Caesar von Hofacker, a dapper aristocratic officer who’d just arrived and asked to see Rommel.

  “Certain friends of mine in Berlin have asked me to speak with you,” Colonel von Hofacker said mysteriously.

  “About what?” Rommel asked, listening to von Hofacker and trying to read the correspondence on his desk at the same time. He’d never seen von Hofacker in his life and had no idea of what he wanted.

  “About Adolf Hitler,” von Hofacker replied.

  “What about him?”

  “How do you feel about him?” von Hofacker asked.

  Rommel lay down the piece of correspondence he’d been looking at. “In what way?”

  “As the leader of your country?”

  Rommel wrinkled his high forehead. “What are you driving at?”

  Von Hofacker leaned closer. “May I speak bluntly?”

  “By all means.”

  “Can anyone hear us?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I come to you as a representative of a group of officers who are planning to return the Fatherland to sanity,” von Hofacker said. “We would like to know if you would be interested in joining us.”

  Rommel had heard rumors about the plot against the Fuehrer, and hadn’t known whether they were true or not. Now he realized there was something to them after all. “Who are these officers?”

  “I cannot mention their names until I know that you are with us, but rest assured that they include among their number some of the most distinguished names in all Germany.”

  Rommel didn’t know what to say. For all he knew, von Hofacker might be a spy from the Gestapo. “It’s difficult for me to believe that the most distinguished names in Germany would be plotting against their Fuehrer.”

  “Please don’t be coy, Herr Field Marshal,” von Hofacker said. “It’s commonly known that you have quarreled with the Fuehrer yourself. Furthermore you have been heard making statements critical of the Fuehrer’s war policy. The war is lost and everyone with brains knows it. The only question that remains is how good a settlement we can make with the British and the Americans, so we can keep the Russians back. We need you to help us because the German people respect you more than anyone else in the Officer Corps. Will you help us or won’t you?”

  Rommel frowned. “I am an officer and I follow orders. As far as I’m concerned Hitler is my commanding officer, for better or worse.”

  “How much worse do matters have to get?” von Hofacker asked sharply. “The Russians have torn a two-hundred mile-hole in our Eastern Front this week! They’re closing in on the Fatherland even as I speak! Are you going to stand with us to save Germany, or will you let that madman in Berchtesgaden let the greatest nation the world has ever seen be destroyed by sub humans from the east?”

  The phone on Rommel’s desk rang. Rommel picked it up. “I’m busy right now and I don’t want to be disturbed,” he said into the telephone.

  “Sir,” said his clerk, “General von Choltitz is on the wire and he says it’s an emergency.”

  “Put him through.”

  There was a clack in Rommel’s ear, and then he heard the deep voice of General von Choltitz. “Herr Field Marshal,” he said, “a very serious situation is developing in my sector. It appears as though the enemy is attempting to break out of their beachhead and capture Saint Lo.”

  Rommel knew von Choltitz well and respected his judgment. “Can you hold them?”

  “Not in our present position. I think that we should fall back and reinforce Saint Lo. I also need more troops and tanks.”

  “So does everybody. Our orders from Berlin are to hold fast with what we have.”

  “That may be impossible. I’ve received word that part of my line already has been overrun. If the Americans succeed in breaking through, it will provoke very serious consequences for all our forces in France. But if we can deliver a crushing blow to them now, they might think twice before trying something like this again.”

  “Quite true,” Rommel agreed. “I’ll contact Field Marshal von Kluge immediately and ask for the Panzer Lehr Division. They’re in reserve at Caen, and maybe they can be shifted here.”

  “The Americans never could stand up to the Panzer Lehr,” von Choltitz said.

  “Of course they couldn’t. Hold fast to your present positions while I call Field Marshal von Kluge. I’ll get back to you as soon as I speak with him.”

  “Very good, Herr Field Marshal.”

  Rommel tapped the lever and cut off the call. Then he told his clerk to connect him with Field Marshal von Kluge and to say it was an emergency.

  Rommel hung up his phone and looked at von Hofacker. “I apologize for this interruption,” he said. “We’re having a problem in the sector of our Eighty-fourth Corps.”

  “There will always be problems as long as Adolf Hitler rules the Fatherland,” von Hofacker said, “and the problems will become worse unless men of courage
do something about it now!”

  Rommel looked at him coldly. “Are you aware, Herr Colonel, that what you’re saying is treason and punishable by death?”

  Von Hofacker returned his stare. “So be it,” he said.

  The phone on Rommel’s desk rang, and he picked it up. “Yes.”

  “This is Field Marshal von Kluge,” said the voice on the other end.

  Rommel explained to him the problem in the sector of the Eighty-fourth Corps and requested that the Panzer Lehr Division be moved west from Caen to reinforce Saint Lo. He also requested permission to pull his troops back and build a strong defensive shoulder around Saint Lo.

  “No,” von Kluge replied after Rommel was finished. “I need the Panzer Lehr at Caen, and the Fuehrer has ordered no pullbacks. Stand by and fight, Herr Field Marshal. This is your chance to show the world why you are called the Desert Fox, or can’t you fight unless you’re in a desert?”

  The sarcasm in von Kluge’s voice was not lost on Rommel, but Rommel knew how to stay calm. “The British and Americans outnumber me in men and tanks,” he said. “If they capture Saint Lo, our Western Front may collapse. If we can keep them away from Saint Lo, we may be able to contain them until the new weapons are ready. I think it is imperative that you give me the Lehr Division.”

  “I think it is imperative that you hold fast with what you have,” von Kluge said icily. “Those are your orders from the Fuehrer and I expect you to follow them to the letter. That is all. Good day, Herr Field Marshal.”

  Rommel hung up his telephone, his lips set in a grim line.

  “What’s wrong?” asked von Hofacker.

  “Stupidity and short-sightedness,” Rommel replied. He looked at von Hofacker and thought for a few moments. “Please tell me more about your plans,” he said.

  The Americans came so quickly that Colonel Reinhardt hadn’t had time to evacuate his .88s. The Americans charged up the hill that he was on and although his machine gun squads sprayed bullets at them, they kept coming. Sweat poured down Reinhardt’s face because he knew they would overrun his position in a matter of minutes.

  His staff looked at him expectantly, hoping he’d issue the order to surrender. But Reinhardt had no intentions of surrendering. He’d received orders to fight to the last man, and he intended to do just that.