Bloody Bush

by Len Levinson

  He looked ahead, and over the fields in the distance he saw a row of little beetles on the horizon, only he knew they weren’t beetles. They were tanks, and if they were coming from that direction, they had to be German tanks. They were moving quickly and other rows came into view behind the first row.

  Mahoney’s tank slowed down. “Everybody off!” shouted the tank commander.

  Mahoney grabbed his M-1 and jumped off the tank, landing in a pile of old cow shit. He wiped the dried clods off him and would have cursed were it not for the huge number of German tanks occupying his attention. He looked at them underneath the brim of his steel pot and wondered if this would be the day he’d bite the dust.

  When all the infantry soldiers were on the ground, the American tanks gathered speed and charged the German tanks, which also were attacking.

  “Skirmish line!” said Captain Kirk.

  Charlie Company formed into a skirmish line, and Mahoney took his position beside Cranepool in the second platoon. The men stood apprehensively, looking at the huge mass of German tanks ahead.

  Captain Kirk moved his arm forward and Charlie Company moved out.

  The German and American tanks sped toward each other and began firing cannons. An American tank was the first one to go up in smoke, then two German tanks were knocked out. Both tank armies moved within close range of each other, maneuvering and firing cannons. The ground began to shake with explosions, and shrapnel whistled through the air.

  Through the smoke and flames, Mahoney saw the long ranks of German soldiers behind their tanks. They broke up into smaller groups and ran among the tanks toward the Americans.

  “Fix bayonets!” shouted Captain Kirk. “Marching fire!”

  Charlie Company fixed bayonets and fired their rifles as they marched forward. The tank battle forced them to separate into platoons and squads. Mahoney moved to the center of the second platoon, accompanied by Cranepool and his runner, Pfc Smith. Tanks rumbled around, firing cannons and machine guns, getting blown up. Dirt and jagged chunks of metal flew in all directions, and Mahoney felt his adrenalin flow. He looked ahead and could see the faces of the German soldiers. They marched forward quickly, firing their rifles, and Mahoney decided to take the initiative.

  “Charge!” he hollered, raising his M-1 in the air. “Rip their fucking guts out!”

  The German and American soldiers came together in the midst of the battling tanks. Mahoney saw a big German lieutenant come at him. The German lunged with his rifle and bayonet, and Mahoney caught it on his trigger guard, trying to parry it, but the German had too much force behind it. The German’s bayonet streaked toward Mahoney’s heart, but Mahoney dodged in the nick of time and the bayonet only grazed his left arm, drawing a weal of blood. Mahoney bashed the lieutenant in the face with his rifle butt, and blood squirted out of the German’s nose. The German fell back and Mahoney saw another bayonet coming at him. He rammed the German rifle with his butt plate, deflecting it from its deadly path, and looked at this German for the first time. The German had a mustache like Hitler, and Mahoney flew into a rage. Mahoney wheeled his rifle around and slashed the German with his bayonet, cutting him from neck to armpit. The German gasped for air and fell back, and Mahoney plunged his bayonet into the German’s ribs. Mahoney yanked his bayonet back, but it wouldn’t come out. He pulled the trigger of his M-1 and blew a cavern in the German’s chest, permitting the bayonet to be removed easily.

  Spattered with the German’s blood, Mahoney wiped some off his face with the back of his hand. He saw a German officer with a submachine gun ahead, standing sideways to Mahoney and spraying American soldiers. Mahoney decided that he wanted that submachine gun. He didn’t dare shoot the German officer because there were American soldiers behind him. Mahoney leveled his rifle and bayonet and ran at the German officer, who didn’t hear him coming due to the loud stutter of the submachine. The German officer kept shooting Americans, and finally saw Mahoney out of the corner of his eye. The German swung around, but he was too late. Mahoney pushed his rifle forward and his bayonet sliced into the officer’s kidney. The German howled and twisted as Mahoney pulled his bayonet out. Black blood followed it and the man fell to the ground. Before he hit, Mahoney had snatched the submachine gun out of his hands.

  Mahoney loved German submachine guns and wished something similar could be issued to American sergeants. Glancing around wildly, the thrill of battle stirring his blood, he saw a squad of German soldiers running at him through the smoke. Mahoney bent his knees and pulled the trigger of the submachine gun, waving it back and forth as the Germans went down like wheat underneath a scythe.

  “Charge!” Mahoney cried. “Follow me!” He ran forward all alone, and when his platoon saw him they followed. A German tank’s treads were blown away by an American artillery shell and the hatch of the German tank opened up. German tankers in black berets jumped out of the hatch and Mahoney sprayed them with bullets. They went tumbling down the sides of the tank, shrieking and trying to stanch the blood spurting from their bodies. One German tanker peeked over the top of the hatch to see what was going on, and two of Mahoney’s bullets hit him in the forehead, ripping off the top of his head. Mahoney yanked a hand grenade off his lapel, pulled the pin, and ran at the tank. He tossed the grenade into the hatch and dived to the side. The tank was split apart by the explosion—sheets of flame shot into the air.

  Mahoney jumped to his feet and ran forward. A platoon of Germans emerged from behind a tank and charged Mahoney. He stood his ground, gritted his teeth, and pulled the trigger of the submachine gun. The Germans fell like tenpins in a bowling alley, but some still kept coming. They fired their rifles and the bullets whizzed all around Mahoney. The smell of gunpowder was thick in his nostrils as he continued to mow them down. One by one they lost their footing and toppled to the ground, until finally there were two left, and Mahoney’s submachine gun stopped firing. He shook it, but it wouldn’t start up again. The two Germans thundered toward him and Mahoney realized he was out of ammunition. Looking around frantically, he saw a dead German soldier. Mahoney scooped up his rifle and barely had time to get it into position when the German soldier on the left thrust his bayonet forward. Mahoney parried it to the side, and then the other German tried to run Mahoney through. Mahoney swung his rifle to the other side and parried that attack too. Mahoney and the two Germans lost their balance and fell to the ground. Mahoney was up first, with rifle and bayonet. He jabbed one German in the cheek as the German was trying to rise, the bayonet cutting the German’s face open to the bone. The German screamed and covered his face with his hands as he fell backwards, and Mahoney bashed the other German on the helmet with the butt plate of the rifle. The German was a big fat fellow and he was dazed, falling back on his ass. Mahoney crouched low and thrust his bayonet into the German’s stomach. The German vomited blood, coughed, and fell to the side.

  Mahoney looked ahead and saw a vast number of Germans. He looked behind him and saw a vast number of Americans. Tanks roved about, shooting cannons at each other. Allied airplanes dived from the sky, firing cannons at the German tanks. The battlefield was becoming a swamp of dead bodies and blood. Devastated tanks were smoking everywhere.

  Mahoney decided that the only thing to do was go forward. “Follow me!” he cried. “Blood and guts!”

  The battle raged for three days, and the Germans slowly gave ground. General Patton devised an end run on his right flank and threw the Germans off balance. As the battle moved out of the hedgerows into open country, Patton turned his reserve tank battalions loose. He used the same blitzkrieg tactics that the Germans had employed so successfully against the Poles and the French, and the German front collapsed. Germans retreated in a wild panic, and the Third Army went after them, snapping at their heels, destroying tanks and artillery emplacements. American tanks rolled over the Germans and charged into the heart of France, sometimes moving so rapidly that the Germans didn’t have a chance to blow up their ammunition dumps and oil tanks before p
ulling back.

  Meanwhile in the north, the British armored divisions broke through the German ring at Caen. The British and American armies moved toward each other like a giant nutcracker, catching the German Army Group B in its center.

  The Allies finally had broken out of Normandy, and there would be no stopping them now.

  At the edge of the battle zone, in a canvas tent, Field Marshal von Kluge looked at his maps. His usually immaculate hair was mussed and he hadn’t shaved for three days. His boots were covered with mud and his eyes were half-closed from lack of sleep.

  It was night, and far off in the distance he could hear explosions. He had heartburn because he’d been eating out of cans like everybody else. Three days ago his son had been killed in the fighting near Falaise, and yesterday he’d watched helplessly as his communications truck had been strafed by Spitfires, killing four of his most valuable staff officers.

  “It’s all over,” von Kluge mumbled to himself. “I have lost the battle.” He gazed at the map and didn’t even know where the lines were. It appeared that there no longer was a front, only a killing ground near Falaise where Army Group B was slowly being annihilated.

  Von Kluge gazed at the map and shook his head. Who would have dreamed that it would come to this? He’d won great victories for the Reich and once had stood on the balcony of the Chancellery in Berlin with Hitler himself, as tens of thousands of Germans had cheered. Swastika buntings flew in the breeze and the band played Die Fahne Hoch. The Fuehrer had shaken his hand and the crowd went wild. His son had been on the balcony too, applauding proudly. Now that son was dead and perhaps the dreams of the Thousand Year Reich had died with him and Army Group B.

  Von Kluge looked around his command post tent. He felt old and tired and was afraid that American tanks might show up at any moment. The bitter taste of defeat was in his mouth. I have failed the Reich, he thought. I don’t want to live any longer.

  The field marshal who had strutted at the heads of hundreds of parades shuffled like an old man to his desk and sat down. His canteen of water was on the desk, next to a communiqué from the Fuehrer notifying him that he was being replaced by Field Marshal Model.

  Von Kluge unbuttoned his tunic and reached into his shirt to a little leather pouch hanging from a gold chain around his neck. He opened the pouch with his fingers and withdrew a small capsule. He held the capsule up in the light of his kerosene lamp for a few moments, and smiled sadly. Then, in a sudden movement, he popped it into his mouth. He bit down on the capsule, and his mouth filled with a metallic fluid. He swallowed it down and lifted his canteen to wash the taste out of his mouth. Drinking two draughts of water, he let the canteen slip out of his hand. Field Marshal von Kluge slumped to the side and dropped to the ground, as the chair tipped over.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Hammerhead Division arranged itself in parade formation outside of the town of Gondreville. The American advance had been so rapid that the town hadn’t been bombed, and scouts reported that the Germans had left two days ago. Upon receiving this information, General Naughton decided to stage a victory parade through the town and then resume pursuit of Germans on the other side.

  The Hammerhead Band was brought up from the rear and lined up at the front of the division. General Naughton and his staff would follow the band, and then would come all the regiments and battalions of the Hammerhead Division, followed by their tankers and artillery batteries.

  When all was ready, an aide gave the signal and the band started up with John Phillip Sousa’s Washington Post March. The bandmaster raised his baton in the air and moved it forward. The band stepped out, with the entire Hammerhead Division behind it.

  The townspeople knew they were coming and lined the main street of town. French flags flew from balconies and the girls wore their finest dresses. In front of the town hall, a local band played the Marseillaise. Little children gleefully ran up and down the streets, and old men stood on the curb and smoked pungent French cigarettes, wondering what their liberators looked like.

  The bandmaster moved his baton up and down and the Hammerhead Division followed him into Gondreville. Housewives threw bouquets of flowers at the grimy American soldiers and old men slipped them bottles of brandy. French children rushed at the American soldiers, but M.P.’s and local policemen kept them back.

  One by one the Hammerhead companies marched into Gondreville. General Naughton stopped at the town hall and shook hands with the mayor and local priest. The Hammerhead band formed ranks to the side of the town hall and continued playing the Washington Post March because it was the only song they knew. General Naughton stood at attention and prepared to take the march-past.

  His headquarters company was the first one on the line and its commanding officer screamed: “Hiiiiiggghhhhhs right!” The guide-on flags came down and the soldiers moved their eyes forty-five degrees to the right. The company officers saluted and General Naughton returned the salute. His headquarters company looked neat and soldierly, but then his regular front line companies marched by and they were ragged and filthy, unshaven and frequently out of step, but their chins were high and their shoulders were back, because they all knew that they were winners.

  Farther back, just entering the town, was Charlie Company of the First Battalion. Captain Kirk was in front, marching along stiffly with his chin tucked in, just the way they’d taught him at West Point. A lanyard dangled from his forty-five holster and he looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the cheering of the ecstatic French people.

  Behind him were his two platoon leaders—his other two had been killed in the fighting—and behind them, all alone in the middle of the street, was First Sergeant Botcho, chewing a wad of tobacco and looking like a dog who wanted to bite somebody.

  Then came the rest of Charlie Company, and Mahoney was on the right side of the second platoon rank, carrying a German submachine gun at sling arms, with clips of German bullets sticking out of his belt, pockets, and shirt. Beside him was Corporal Cranepool carrying a carbine at sling arms and a German Luger in his back pocket.

  Mahoney’s helmet was on the back of his head, and he was in a good mood. Under his breath he was singing the ribald lyrics to the Washington Post March:

  “Oh the monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole to show his asshole to the world … ”

  The people cheered and threw flowers. Housewives blew kisses at the soldiers and young girls waved. The old men cried, remembering their victory marches after the First World War. Somebody handed Mahoney a bottle of cognac, and he took a swig, then passed it to Cranepool. Thus the bottle began to make the rounds of the second platoon.

  The sound of the band came closer as Charlie Company neared the town hall. The cognac made Mahoney feel lighter and he puffed his chest out proudly. In the corner of his eye he saw some pretty girls. They waved to him and blew him kisses. Children screamed and old ladies waved handkerchiefs.

  It was bedlam in front of the town hall, and Mahoney saw the guidons go down. He snapped into an eyes-right and marched past the review stand, seeing the officials of the town and all the Hammerhead brass. General Naughton stood in front of them all, saluting Charlie Company as it marched by.

  General Naughton passed from Mahoney’s line of vision, and in the corner of his eye he saw the guidons go up. He looked ahead again and saw beautiful French girls holding out bottles of wine. He took one of them and a group of street urchins broke through the MPs and gendarmes. The urchins ran toward the American soldiers, pulling on their uniforms and kissing their hands.

  Pandemonium broke loose as the townspeople charged through the opening made by the kids. Waving flags, holding bottles of wine, they ran toward the American soldiers and embraced them. People in the buildings threw down flowers and confetti, and the parade came to a halt as the people of Gondreville shook hands with the American soldiers, kissed them, and thanked them for driving the Boche away.

  Mahoney picked up a little kid and put him on his shoulder. H
e shook hands with an old man and was kissed by an old lady. He was jostled by the crowds as a young nun walked up to him and shook his hand. She said: “God bless you,” in French, and Mahoney said: “Merci.”

  Turning around, he saw a beautiful woman of thirty with big boobs and long brown hair. She held out her arms to Mahoney, and he lowered the kid to the ground.

  “Bienvenue,” the woman said with a wink.

  She had a wedding ring on her hand, but Mahoney didn’t give a shit. He clasped her in his big arms and she pressed her hands against the back of his neck. Their lips found each other and they kissed in the middle of the street, as the crowds swirled around them, and the band played on.

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  Other titles in the SERGEANT series

  DEATH TRAIN

  HELL HARBOR