by Len Levinson
The orderly handed the field telephone to Lieutenant-Colonel Dickerson of the Second Battalion. “Colonel Donovan wants to speak to you, sir.”
Dickerson took the telephone. He was seated in an apple orchard on the outskirts of Saint Lo. “Dickerson here.”
“What the hell’s going on in Saint Lo?” Colonel Donovan asked. “We can hear fighting up here.”
“We can hear it down here too,” Dickerson replied. “I think it must be the First Battalion. They were in that direction and they must have kept going.”
“Sounds like they’re meeting heavy resistance. I think you’d better saddle up your men and go in to help them out. I’ll notify the Third and Fourth Battalions to do the same. How soon can you get rolling?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t think you should wait that long. Get your infantry moving right now, and let the rest catch up later. Any questions?”
“No sir.”
“Carry on.”
The piles of dead bodies in front of Mahoney’s machine gun became so high he couldn’t see over them. He and Cranepool threw out hand grenades to clear them out of the way, and then Mahoney could see German helmets behind the rubble again. He fired his machine gun to pin them down, sweeping the barrel back and forth, puffing his cigar all the while.
Suddenly the machine gun stopped firing. Mahoney pulled the trigger twice, and nothing happened.
“Gotta put in a new belt,” Cranepool said. “It’ll just take a minute.”
Mahoney looked to his side and saw that he’d already gone through one crate of ammunition. Cranepool tore open the second crate, pulled out the belt, and stuffed it into the machine gun. He closed the chamber and Mahoney started firing again.
There was a loud explosion in front of him, and a split second later the wall exploded a few feet away. Mahoney and Cranepool dropped onto their stomachs, then arose with their ears ringing and their nostrils clogged with dust. Soldiers were screaming with pain, and Mahoney realized that the Germans had brought up an artillery piece of some kind.
He grabbed the handles of the machine gun again and pulled the trigger. The machine gun bucked and stuttered on its tripod, and fire spit from its barrel. Well, it won’t be long now, Mahoney thought. They’ll just blow this building down bit by bit, and that will be the end of it.
Captain Pfeffer stood beside the howitzer and directed its fire at the building. He was in the rubble only two hundred yards away, and the howitzer crew couldn’t miss at that range. The sergeant pulled the string and the howitzer fired again. A huge puff of smoke went up from it and the shell hit the building. A wall collapsed and howls of pain could be heard from inside. Captain Pfeffer smiled. His company had fought in the Battle of the Hedgerows for three weeks, and many of his soldiers had been killed. Now it was good to get back at the Americans.
“Reload!” he said.
The howitzer was reloaded and fired again. The building shuddered as the artillery shell exploded against it, and part of another wall fell down. When the sounds of the explosion died down, Captain Pfeffer’s combat-tuned ears heard a crackle of gunfire from the edge of town. He was surprised, because he’d thought the Americans had been cleared out of that area. Could some of them be trying to make a break for their lines? He was confident that the soldiers he had could stop them.
“Fire!” he told the howitzer crew.
The sergeant pulled the string and another artillery shell hit the building. Part of the roof collapsed, but the machine gun in the basement still was firing.
“Aim lower this time!” he said.
Captain Pfeffer watched the crew reload the howitzer. They made adjustments in the height, and Captain Pfeffer could hear the battle on the edge of town growing louder. The sergeant gripped the string and tensed himself to pull it, when a barrage of gunfire broke out behind them. A quizzical look came over the sergeant’s face, and Captain Pfeffer saw blood spurting from his throat. The sergeant slumped to the ground and the string fell from his hand.
A hail of gunfire fell on the howitzer crew, the bullets ricocheting off the metal. They dove to the ground, but some didn’t make it alive. Captain Pfeffer had a bullet in his shoulder, and cursed bitterly as he took the field radio from his orderly.
“We’re under attack!” he screamed to General Meindl. “Request permission to pull back!”
Field Marshal von Kluge was sound asleep in one of the huge old bedrooms at La Roche-Guyon. He’d decided not to appoint a successor to Rommel, preferring to command all the units in his sector by himself. He thought that a unified command might be more efficacious than the fragmented command that had existed when Rommel had commanded Army Group B.
The telephone next to his bed rang. He awoke instantly because he was a light sleeper. Angrily he reached through the darkness for the receiver, because he hated to be disturbed while he was asleep.
“Who is it?” he shouted into the mouthpiece.
“General von Choltitz,” said the voice on the other end. “I’ve just received word from General Meindl that the Americans have launched an all-out attack on Saint Lo!”
Von Kluge turned on the lamp next to his bed and looked at his watch. It was two o’clock in the morning. “At this time of night?”
“Yes sir.”
“Those swine!”
“General Meindl requests permission to retreat. He says he has no hope of stopping the Americans.”
“Then let him retreat.”
“But the Fuehrer has ordered everyone to hold fast.”
“Never mind that foolishness,” von Kluge replied. “Tell Meindl to take whatever measures he thinks are necessary. If he withdraws, tell him to send in a formal report stating that the Americans penetrated his main line of resistance in several crucial places and he barely succeeded in reestablishing a new line to the rear. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” General von Choltitz said.
“Good night,” von Kluge told him, hanging up the phone. He got out of bed and began pacing the floor. The Americans would have Saint Lo by morning, and he knew that his difficulties of the past few weeks would be nothing compared to what they would be in the weeks to come.
Mahoney thought that if the howitzer shot one more shell, it’d bring the building down on his head. Firing his machine gun in nonstop bursts at the Germans, he glanced down at the ammunition crate and saw it was only one-third full. He would finish the ammunition in a few more minutes, and then the party would be over.
He fired the machine gun back and forth at the Germans, but the artillery shell never came. He stopped firing for a few minutes and didn’t see any live Germans behind the dead ones in the yard. Maybe they were planning some kind of flanking movement. Why weren’t they firing the howitzer anymore?
Mahoney pulled the trigger and the machine gun shuddered in his hands. He thought that his best bet was to stop thinking and keep shooting. If the roof caved in on his head he wouldn’t have time to worry anyway. He swung the machine gun back and forth on its transverse rod while chewing the butt of his cigar. He expected an artillery shell to hit him in the face at any moment. The end of the belt came out of the crate like a flat snake and whipped through the air. It passed through the chamber of the machine gun and the last one blew out the barrel. The machine gun stopped firing. There was no more ammunition.
“Well, I guess that’s it for the machine gun,” Mahoney grumbled, lifting it up and throwing it out of the way. He prowled around the cellar and took an M-1 rifle from a dead soldier, returning with it toward the window where Cranepool was aiming his carbine.
“Listen,” said Cranepool.
“What is it?” Mahoney replied, lying on his stomach behind the window.
“Just listen.”
Mahoney perked up his ears and heard a gun battle going on. Heavy fire was coming from the north, where the Americans had been. He wrinkled his nose and listened more closely, and sure enough, there was something big going on. American reinforcements must
have attacked Saint Lo in force. That’s why the howitzer had stopped firing.
Mahoney turned to Cranepool. “I think the cavalry has arrived.”
“I think so too.”
“I guess I’m not gonna have to write a letter to your momma.”
“Not this time anyway.”
Mahoney looked around the cellar. Dead and wounded American soldiers were sprawled all over the floor, and a few survivors continued to fire their rifles from the windows.
“Hello in there!” cried a voice behind the rubble.
“Hello!” replied Mahoney.
“Who are you!”
“Charlie Company of the First Battalion!”
“We’re Easy Company from the Second Battalion!”
Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth. “Welcome to Saint Lo!” he yelled. “What took you so long?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hitler entered the conference room at Rastenburg, his face creased with worry. Saint Lo just had fallen to the Americans on the Western Front, and Army Group Center still had been unable to put together the semblance of a front in the east. He walked toward the big map table and noticed the one-armed officer, Colonel von Stauffenberg, carrying his yellow briefcase.
“Let’s get right now to business,” Hitler said, his eyes fixed on the maps.
There were twenty-four officers in the room, and it was uncomfortably warm. Hitler ordered that the windows be opened, then leaned over the table and looked at the maps. He felt a twinge in his heart as he realized that the Reich had shrunk a bit since yesterday. Every day it was smaller than the day before. In 1941 it appeared as though he was going to conquer the world and nothing could stop him, and now his domain diminished every time he looked at the map.
Stepping back from the table, he listened to General Heusinger explain the latest developments on the Eastern Front. Heusinger spoke of the need for reinforcements for Army Group Center, and Hitler nodded, wishing he had something to send, but there was nothing. He’d have to stop the Russians with his genius and his will.
Hitler moved toward the map table again, noticing a yellow briefcase lying at the leg of the table near his feet. There was something familiar about the briefcase, but he couldn’t quite place it because he was preoccupied with his crumbling fronts. He picked up a bunch of sharpened pencils with his left hand and a magnifying glass with his right. Leaning over the map table and propping himself on his left elbow, he peered through the magnifying glass at the Eastern Front. General Korten, the Luftwaffe Chief of Staff, was explaining an air reconnaissance report of Russian troop dispositions in Army Group Center. Hitler listened intently as he examined the terrain around the units General Korten described.
There was a brilliant flash of light, and an explosion shook the room. Hitler’s eardrums burst and he went flying into the air. The swine are bombing us, he thought as he landed on the wreckage of the table. Dense smoke filled the room. Hitler was aching from head to foot. Blood covered his face and his right elbow felt as though it was broken. Then the ceiling fell down on him. He heard screaming and choking all around him. He lost consciousness for a few seconds, and when he opened his eyes his clothes were on fire and he was covered with plaster and lathes from the ceiling. Enemy paratroopers must be attacking! he thought. He extricated himself from the wreckage that buried him and limped wildly toward the door, beating out the flames on his ragged black trousers. “To arms!” he cried. “We’re under attack!”
As dawn broke over Saint Lo, a jeep entered the northern neighborhood of the city, accompanied by two columns of men. In the back of the jeep was the flag-draped corpse of Major Bowie, who had been shot the night before. Scattered rifle fire could be heard in the south of the city, and the jeep made its way slowly through the deserted streets, the soldiers marching along solemnly on both sides of the jeep.
They came to a square facing the church of Ste. Croix, an old Romanesque fortress of God that nearly had been destroyed by bombing. The jeep stopped in front of the church and soldiers lifted out the body of Major Bowie, carrying it across the sidewalk and laying it tenderly on a pile of rubble in front of the church.
He’d told them that he wanted to be the first American in Saint Lo. He hadn’t been able to do that, but his men wanted to make sure that he got there anyway.
The German parachute divisions were pushed out of Saint Lo and forced across the Vire River, where they linked up with remnants of the Panzer Lehr Division and formed a new defensive line.
Alone in Rommel’s former office in La Roche-Guyon, Field Marshal von Kluge studied these developments on his maps. He saw that American troops were threatening Coutances in the west, and that the British might take Caen at any day in the East.
The situation was becoming perilous. He looked at the Fifteenth Army designations on the Channel Coast. The Fifteenth Army still was sitting there, waiting for Army Group Patton.
Von Kluge doubted more and more that there was an Army Group Patton. If there was such a thing, surely it would have landed by now. It was foolish to have an entire army sitting around and scratching while troops were needed urgently in Normandy.
Von Kluge knew that he could not move his Fifteenth Army into Normandy without permission from Hitler, but Hitler was recovering from wounds sustained in the attempt on his life at Rastenburg. Von Kluge had heard that the SS was arresting large numbers of officers believed to be implicated in the plot.
Von Kluge himself was implicated in the plot. He hadn’t joined it, but he’d known of its existence and hadn’t reported it. He’d adopted a wait-and-see attitude—if the plot succeeded he’d join it, and if it didn’t he’d pretend he’d had nothing to do with it.
Now he was worried that Hitler would find out he’d known about the plot. The SS presumably was torturing the officers they’d arrested, and one of them might blurt out the name of von Kluge.
Von Kluge decided he didn’t want to bring his name to the attention of Adolf Hitler so soon after the attempted assassination. Therefore he wouldn’t ask Hitler for permission to move the Fifteenth Army south. He’d wait a few days, until things quieted down. He knew it was wrong to wait, from a purely military point of view, but from the viewpoint of his own neck, it seemed like the most sensible thing to do.
He decided to place the Fifteenth Army on alert, so that it would be ready to move to Normandy instantly when the time came to present the formal request to Hitler.
Mahoney and Cranepool walked through the devastated city of Saint Lo in search of something to eat. It was ten o’clock in the morning and they had no idea of where the Charlie Company chow truck was. They knew that most of Charlie Company had been killed during the night. They also knew that Major Bowie had been shot before they even hit town last night. The First Battalion no longer existed as a coherent military unit, but Mahoney and Cranepool thought they’d worry about that after they got some chow.
They carried M-1 rifles at sling arms and had bandoliers of ammunition hanging from their necks. They were bleary-eyed and unshaven, stoop-shouldered and tired. Mahoney still had his dirty handkerchief tied around his left arm and Cranepool had a cut on his cheek from a flying rock.
They walked past ruined buildings, as dogs barked at them and jeeps roared back and forth on the street. Officers carrying briefcases rushed in and out of buildings that had become command posts. Tanks could be seen crossing the intersection up ahead.
“I smell food,” Mahoney said, raising his dirty nose in the air.
“Where?” Cranepool asked eagerly.
“That way!”
They walked down a side street and came to a big square. A statue of a man in armor was in the center of the square and beside it was a mess tent with its walls rolled halfway up.
“I told you I smelled something,” Mahoney said.
They crossed the square, heading for the chow tent. A big hospital tent was nearby and Mahoney saw a nurse leaving it.
“Cunt!” Mahoney said.
�
��Where?”
“Over there.”
Cranepool looked and saw a gawky woman of forty with buck teeth, but he hadn’t seen a live woman in over a month and she looked like a movie star.
“Wow!” Cranepool said. “What a doll!”
“Yeah!”
“Let’s go talk to her.”
“After we get some chow.”
“But she might be gone by then!”
“There must be other nurses over there. After we get some chow we can go over there and say something is wrong with us. I’ll take out my dick and say it hurts, or something like that.”
“Good idea,” Cranepool said.
They entered the mess tent and saw cooks stirring stew in big cauldrons. Other cooks were frying liver and onions on grills. Mahoney and Cranepool nearly fainted from the aroma.
The mess sergeant looked up from the grill where he was transforming good liver into shoe leather. He was a burly guy with a big pot belly, wearing fatigues and a white cook’s hat. “Whata you two want?”
“Can we have something to eat?” Mahoney asked with a friendly smile.
“Chow ain’t until twelve noon,” the mess sergeant growled, turning over a piece of liver so it could burn on the other side too.
“But we haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“What outfit you with?”
“Charlie Company, First Battalion, Fifteenth Regiment, Thirty-third Division.”
“Why don’t you go to your own fucking mess hall?”
“We don’t know where it is.”
“That ain’t my problem,” said the mess sergeant. “You gotta get your rations from your own mess hall.”
“But I told you we don’t know where it is!” Mahoney replied.
“That ain’t my problem,” the mess sergeant grunted. “Go see the chaplain and get your ticket punched.”
Cranepool decided it was time to turn on the charm. He pushed Mahoney out of the way and smiled at the sergeant. “Aw come on, Sarge,” he said. “We’re hungry as hell.”