by Len Levinson
“Probably not. The weather is too stormy for their reconnaissance planes to fly, and they’re a very cautious people, you know. They haven’t been hammered into steel like us Germans.”
“Sooner or later they’ll have to realize there’s nothing between them and Saint Lo.”
“I think that by the time they do realize it, the two regiments from the west will be in the line. They should arrive any time now.”
“I hope they’ll arrive in time,” von Choltitz said earnestly.
“So do I,” replied Rommel wearily, “but we only can do our best, von Choltitz. There’s no point in worrying excessively, because it does no good.”
“You’re right, of course,” von Choltitz said, although he wasn’t entirely convinced.
“If anything happens, be certain to notify me immediately.”
“You can depend on me, Herr Field Marshal,” von Choltitz said.
“It looks like a farmhouse,” Cranepool said, peering through the leaves of a hedgerow into the next field.
“I wonder if there are any Germans inside,” Mahoney replied, looking through the hedgerow too.
“We can check it out.”
“It looks like it’s been hit by a couple of bombs,” Mahoney added.
“You’d be hit by a couple of bombs too if you’d been sitting in the middle of this field for the past month.”
They moved down the hedgerow to the path and crept into the field. Putting their feet down carefully, hunching their shoulders, they pointed their Colt .45s straight ahead and made their way to the farmhouse. Stillness was around them and they could hear the hiss of the light rain falling on the ground. Gradually they drew closer to the farmhouse.
Mahoney suddenly stopped. “What was that?” he whispered.
“What was what?” Cranepool replied, moving his head around in an effort to hear something.
“There’s something in that farmhouse,” Mahoney declared under his breath.
“Are you sure?”
“I heard something.”
“Maybe we’d better go back.”
“If we’re this far, we might as well see what’s there. Maybe some young French girls—you never know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mahoney!”
“C’mon.”
They tiptoed closer to the house, holding their forty-fives ready. It was an old stone structure, once painted white, but the paint was peeling or nonexistent in many spots. The roof and one of the walls were caved in from an explosion.
Crouching low, they saw that the door was closed and the window frames were missing. Reaching the house, they pressed their backs to the wall next to the door, listening for sounds.
Something moved inside the house.
“I heard it!” Cranepool whispered.
“Let’s go!”
Mahoney pulled open the door and they rushed into the house. Cranepool tripped over a chair and fell on his face, and Mahoney crouched low, holding his pistol with two hands in front of him, ready to blast anyone there. There was a flutter of wings and a sound of clucking.
“It’s a chicken!” Mahoney said.
“A chicken?” Cranepool replied, getting up from the floor.
“Yeah, a chicken.” Mahoney put his forty-five in his holster and dived on the chicken, but it squawked and flew away.
Cranepool ambushed it next to the black stove and held its wings against its body with his hands. “I got it!”
Mahoney approached the chicken incredulously. “It’s a real fucking chicken. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“This is a farm, Mahoney. It’s natural for chickens to be here.”
“I wonder what he eats.”
“There’s lots of stuff around for a chicken to eat.”
“Think there’s anything wrong with him?” Mahoney asked.
“Like what?”
“Like some strange chicken disease.”
Cranepool looked the chicken over. “He looks okay to me.”
“Then let’s eat the son of a bitch.”
“Here?”
“No—we’ll bring him back to the hill and barbecue him over a fire. We’ll have roast chicken.”
“That’s a good idea, Mahoney.”
Mahoney took out his bayonet. “Give him to me—I’ll cut his fucking head off.”
“What do you want to do that for?”
“Because he might make some noise on our way back.”
“But if you cut his head off, he’ll bleed. There’s a better way to do it.” Cranepool grabbed the chicken’s neck, twisted it, and that was the end of the chicken. “He won’t make any more noise,” Cranepool said. “You wanna go back now?”
“Let’s have a cigarette first,” Mahoney said. “I’m not in any hurry.”
“But we should tell Lieutenant Ferrara that nothing’s out here, so he can pass the word along to battalion.”
“Let them wait. Fuck ‘em,” Mahoney said taking out his cigarettes.
Cranepool took out his pack, and they both lit up. They sat on the floor with their backs leaning against the wall, the dead chicken between them. Mahoney puffed his cigarette and listened to the rain falling on the roof of the farmhouse. The roof was intact over the part of the house where they were, and Mahoney felt comfortable. He’d been born and raised in New York City and like most natives of New York he’d always longed to live in the country. Maybe after the war is over I’ll become a farmer, he thought. Raise chickens and marry some frisky young girl.
“You live on a farm like this, don’t you Cranepool?” Mahoney asked.
“I did. It was a big farm, though—bigger than anything I’ve seen in France. We had a few thousand hogs and about five hundred acres in corn.”
“That must be why you’re so corny.”
Mahoney looked at the chicken next to him and thought of the wonderful roast chicken dinners his mother used to make, but that had been before the Depression hit. During the Depression you had to wait in line four hours for a goddamn orange. What a mess that had been. Mahoney joined the army because of the Depression. He hadn’t been able to find a job so he signed up and sent most of his salary home to his mother and father. Now his father was working at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and his mother had a job in a factory that made bomb sights. Everybody had a job now, but he had to be in the fucking army.
“I heard something,” Mahoney said.
“You’re nuts.”
“Sssshhhh.”
They became silent, but Cranepool couldn’t hear anything except the rain. Then a few seconds later he heard a man say something in German, and another man answer in German.
“Oh-oh,” Cranepool whispered.
“Krauts.”
They froze as they heard the Germans coming closer to the farmhouse.
“I wonder how many of them are there?” Cranepool asked in a whisper.
“We’re gonna find out any minute now,” Mahoney replied, taking out his bayonet. “Get ready.”
Cranepool silently unsheathed his bayonet as they crept to the door. They positioned themselves on both sides of it and crouched, holding the bayonets so that the blades pointed up. The Germans came closer, talking and joking. It sounded as though there were two of them.
The door opened, and there was silence for a few moments. Mahoney licked his lips and tasted salty perspiration. A German, with his rifle at the ready, entered the farmhouse, and a second German followed him. Mahoney and Cranepool sprang at them from behind, clasped their hands over the Germans’ mouths, and ripped their throats open before they knew what hit them.
The men crumpled to the floor. Mahoney dashed to the window and looked outside. He saw German soldiers moving across the field toward the American lines.
“Lots of Krauts,” he said.
“We gotta tell Lieutenant Ferrara.”
“Let’s go,” Mahoney said.
“Wait a minute.”
“What’s the matter?”
“What if they see us?”
>
“They won’t know who we are, because it’s so dark out there. Maybe to be on the safe side we should put on their helmets.”
They unstrapped the helmets from the heads of the dead Germans and put them on, leaving their own steel pots on the floor. Mahoney grabbed his chicken and headed for the door.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“You’re not taking the fucking chicken, are you?” Cranepool asked incredulously.
“Of course I’m taking my chicken,” Mahoney replied in the darkness. “Why should I leave my chicken behind? It’s my chicken.”
“It might attract attention.”
“It has dark feathers—they won’t notice. You worry too much. Let’s go, and try to be inconspicuous.”
“How can we be inconspicuous with that chicken?”
“Shut up and follow me.”
They left the house and closed the door. Moving out into the field, they saw groups of Germans walking across it, carrying rifles, machine guns, and mortars. Mahoney and Cranepool angled toward the nearest hedgerow and continued in its shadow, staying away from the German soldiers around them.
It was eerie being surrounded by so many German soldiers at night. Mahoney imagined that there were Germans in the adjacent fields also, all of them reinforcing ground that had been vacant for several hours. If the Americans had attacked in force earlier in the day, they would have this ground now, but they hadn’t attacked because they didn’t know what was down here. There might have been a panzer division, and you didn’t want to run into a panzer division when you were tired and low on ammunition.
The Germans moved toward the American lines, talking in low voices among themselves. Mahoney and Cranepool saw them setting up mortars and machine gun nests. It was clear that the Germans were building a defense in depth, so that the Americans would batter themselves bloody trying to break through.
Cranepool and Mahoney passed from field to field, advancing ever closer to their own lines, until finally they came to the base of the hill where Charlie Company was. When Mahoney saw the Germans fortifying the hedgerows at the base of the hill, he realized that it would be the German front line. Straight ahead was no man’s land.
“Just follow me,” Mahoney said to Cranepool, “and hug the hedgerows. Nobody will be able to see us.”
The Germans were busy setting up their defenses, and the two American GIs slipped away from them. Mahoney and Cranepool stayed close to the hedgerow that went up the hill and moved slowly so that their steps wouldn’t make much noise.
“Hey you two!” shouted somebody in German. “Where do you think you’re going with that chicken!”
“Run!” Mahoney cried to Cranepool.
They ran up the hill hunched over, hugging the hedgerow and hoping for the best as a squad of Germans fired their rifles at them. Bullets whizzed around their heads and shoulders, and kicked up mud around their feet.
“You’re gonna get us killed because of your fucking chicken!” Cranepool grumbled.
“Keep moving!”
Americans in the forward trenches fired down the hill at the Germans, and soon a little firefight was taking place in the night. The Germans redirected their bullets up the hill at the American fortifications and away from Mahoney and Cranepool. The two soldiers ran up the hill, passed through a small wooded area, and made their way to the American trenches.
“Halt!” shouted someone ahead. “Who goes there!”
Mahoney and Cranepool stopped cold in their tracks and threw away their German helmets because they knew how trigger happy green GIs could be on the front lines.
“We’re Sergeant Mahoney and Corporal Cranepool returning from patrol,” Mahoney said.
“Advance to be recognized.”
Mahoney and Cranepool moved forward cautiously and saw some filthy bedraggled GIs in a trench.
“Betty,” one of them said, giving the first part of the countersign.
“Grable,” Mahoney replied.
“Pass on.”
Mahoney and Cranepool had entered Charlie Company’s position. They made their way among the trenches and foxholes and finally came to the command post tent. Entering, they saw Pfc Carrington sitting at his desk, trying to get a head start on tomorrow’s morning report. He looked up at them.
“Whatcha got there, Sarge?” he asked.
“My chicken. Is Lieutenant Ferrara around?”
“Yes—I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Pfc Carrington went through the flaps to Lieutenant Ferrara’s office, and Mahoney looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty—he and Cranepool had been gone for two and a half hours.
Pfc Carrington returned. “You can go in now,” he said.
Mahoney and Cranepool entered Lieutenant Ferrara’s office and saluted. He saluted them back, sitting behind the desk that had belonged to Captain Tugwell. His helmet was off and he had straight black hair, parted on the side. A few of the strands were prematurely gray. He looked very young and very old, and his black mustache needed trimming.
“What have you got there?” he asked Mahoney.
“My chicken.”
Ferrara appeared amused. “Where’d you get that?”
Mahoney pointed to the German lines. “Over there.”
“What’re you gonna do with it?”
“Cook it.”
“Save some for me.” He pointed to the folding wooden chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat and tell me what’s out there.”
“Lots of Germans,” Mahoney replied, sitting down. Cranepool sat next to him and looked wistfully at Mahoney’s chicken.
Mahoney explained how the Germans moved into the fields while he and Cranepool were down there, omitting the part about how they were goofing off and smoking cigarettes in the farmhouse.
“How many Germans?” Ferrara asked.
“I don’t know exactly but there are a lot of them and their defenses are deep. It won’t be easy getting through them.”
Ferrara nodded, making notes on a pad. “I’ll send this information to Major Bowie right away. You two had better get some rest, because I imagine the Germans will attack in the morning.”
Mahoney and Cranepool went outside and found themselves a vacant section of trench. Cranepool plucked the feathers off the chicken and gutted it while Mahoney built a fire low in the trench so that it couldn’t be seen by the Germans, and then went out and found a thin branch with which to skewer his chicken. He skinned the branch, stuck it through the chicken, and sat on his haunches before the fire, browning the chicken over it. After several minutes a crowd began to form in the trench.
“Whatcha got there, Sarge?” asked Pfc Woodcock.
“What does it look like?” Mahoney growled.
“It looks like a chicken.”
“Then I guess that’s what it is.”
“Can I have some?” Woodcock asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I risked my life for this chicken, and it’s mine.”
“Aw Sarge . . .”
“Shaddup.”
Mahoney cooked the chicken, smelling its delicious aroma. There’s nothing like a fresh chicken, he thought. As he kept turning it over, the skin turned golden brown. It sputtered and crackled, and everybody licked their lips and drooled. The fat dripped into the fire and sizzled. Mahoney gazed at his chicken and his stomach felt vacant as the Grand Canyon.
Finally the chicken was done. Mahoney removed it from the fire and sniffed it, nearly fainting from the voluptuous aroma. He placed it on his mess kit, took out his bayonet, and cut it in half putting the smallest half in the mess kit Cranepool held in his trembling hands.
Now Mahoney had to decide what to give Lieutenant Ferrara. He decided on a few slices of white meat, and thought he should give at least a wing to Pfc Carrington for carrying the chicken back to Lieutenant Ferrara. He gave these portions to Pfc Carrington, who ran off with them to the command post tent, and was about to dig in himself when he saw the
sorrowful eyes of Pfc Woodcock.
Oh, what the fuck, Mahoney thought wearily, he helped me a lot with the bazooka today.
“Here you go, Woodcock,” Mahoney said, handing him the drumstick.
“Gee, thanks Sarge!”
Woodcock commenced chewing the meat off the drumstick, and then noticed Sergeant Eng Kee slobbering all over himself a few feet away. He gave Sergeant Kee a few slices and then saw Pfc Sanchez winking and blinking and clicking his teeth. Groaning, Mahoney gave some chicken to Sanchez and a few morsels to Private Ira Goldstein, who looked as though he’d die unless he got some chicken. He gave a slice to Private Thomas Dobbs and a chunk to Sergeant Plutarski. When Mahoney looked at the chicken again, he saw that there was hardly anything left.
“Aw shit, you guys might as well take it all,” Mahoney said, handing over his mess kit.
Chapter Seventeen
In the morning an attack was launched along the entire XV Corps Front. Mahoney and Charlie Company advanced down the hill in front of them and fought the Germans in the hedgerows below. By noon they had advanced about a quarter of a mile, and then the Germans counterattacked and pushed Charlie Company back to its hill. At six o’clock Charlie Company counter-counterattacked and picked up around fifty yards.
At eight o’clock, as twilight was falling, Mahoney and Cranepool laid belly down against a hedgerow and watched a tank battle in the farmer’s field in front of them. The American tankers had learned not to take the Germans head-on anymore, so they swarmed around and attacked the German tanks from the side. The German tanks were outnumbered by about five to one, and although they managed to knock out some American tanks, the American tanks eventually overwhelmed them by sheer force of numbers.
The American tanks moved forward to the next hedgerow. One of them tried to go through the hedgerow but the three-foot mound at the bottom of the hedgerow made it roll up into the air and stall. Somehow the mound and the branches above it were impenetrable even to a tank that could move through a forest and knock down mature trees.
While the tank was stalled in its hull-up position, a German soldier on the other side of the hedgerow aimed his panzerfaust at the hull of the tank and fired. He scored a direct hit on the most vulnerable part of the tank, and another American tank was destroyed.