Charlie Company took Comblain that day and continued to attack in a northeasterly direction toward Houffalize. The battle seesawed back and forth as Charlie Company and the Third Army made slow but steady progress. The corridor to Bastogne was widened and made more secure, but Patton thought Bastogne couldn’t be considered safe until he secured the line between Houffalize and Wiltz.
Three days after Charlie Company took Comblain, they were dug in on a hill near the town of Bras. It was seven o’clock at night, and the fighting had slackened off. An occasional shell was fired, and sporadic gunshots could be heard, but both armies were trying to get some rest.
Mahoney was snoring in his little hole in the ground when the crunch of footsteps on the snow woke him up. He grabbed his rifle and jumped out of his hole, to see Pfc Spicer stalking toward him. Spicer held out both his hands in the darkness. “Gee, Sarge—calm down!”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“The old man wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
Mahoney followed Spicer to Captain Anderson’s dugout. Captain Anderson sat behind a crate of C rations, smoking a cigarette, looking gaunt and ill.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Mahoney said.
Captain Anderson held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mahoney.”
Mahoney shook his hand. “What for?”
“Your Silver Star has been okayed. You’re to report to division right away for the ceremony.”
“The ceremony?” Mahoney asked.
“Yes. Evidently a number of men will be decorated at the same time. I imagine a lot of reporters and photographers will be there. There’ll probably be a band and a parade of some sort.”
“No shit.”
Captain Anderson handed Mahoney a copy of the orders. “You might as well get started now. You’ll be able to get some transportation at Battalion.”
“When’s the ceremony?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
~*~
It took Mahoney an hour to reach battalion headquarters, where Major Cutler congratulated him, put him in a jeep, and sent him to the new division headquarters in Ledemark.
Mahoney reported to the G-1 in Ledemark and was assigned to a building where soldiers who were to be decorated were being billeted. Mahoney was issued a bunk and a clean uniform, along with new boots. He took a bath and sacked out on clean sheets but was unable to fall asleep for a while because he was used to sleeping in a hole in the ground.
The next day was bitter cold, but the room had a potbellied stove and plenty of wood. Mahoney shaved, put on his new uniform, and shined his boots. He and the other Silver Star nominees had fresh scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast and then returned to their room. They shot the shit awhile, and then a jazzy young officer wearing sunglasses showed up.
“I’m Lieutenant Ingraham,” he said, smiling and showing his teeth. “I’m from the division public information office, and I’ve helped organize this event today. I’ll march you men out when the time comes, and I’ll tell you what to do. We’re going to take some pictures, and some of you will be interviewed by correspondents from your home town newspapers.” Lieutenant Ingraham winked. “I suggest that those of you interviewed bear in mind that you shouldn’t say anything that might be damaging to the war effort, and I think you know what I’m talking about, right?”
Mahoney knew what he was talking about. The Army didn’t want them to complain about the food and fuckups that went on. The folks at home were supposed to think that their boys in Europe were happy and well taken care of as they fought to save the world from Hitler.
Lieutenant Ingraham looked them over, and Mahoney had to admit they all looked sharp in their new, pressed uniforms, cleanly shaven, standing tall.
“I really admire you guys,” Ingraham said with his phony smile. “You’re real heroes.”
Mahoney sat on a footlocker and smoked a cigar, wondering if he was going to be one of the ones who’d be interviewed by a reporter. He heard a commotion and heard a band playing.
“What happens after everything is over?” Mahoney asked.
“You’ll go back to your units,” Ingraham replied.
“We won’t even get a forty-eight hour pass?”
“There’s a war on, Sergeant!”
A Pfc showed up and told Lieutenant Ingraham it was time to march the soldiers to the square. Ingraham led them outside, lined them up, checked them one last time, and moved them out.
The five soldiers marched toward the square, and Mahoney was in front because he was the ranking man. The sound of the band became louder, and they locked into step with the beat. They turned the corner and saw the square. A bunch of high-ranking officers were lined up on the left, and to the right were some company formations of MPs, quartermasters, and anything else they could scrape together to make the ceremony look substantial. Townspeople and GIs on leave stood behind cordons, and Mahoney swiveled his eyeballs around in his sockets, looking at the women, wishing he could get his hands on one of them. He thought of Madeleine and wondered who was kissing her now.
The band played “El Capitan” by John Philip Sousa. Mahoney and the others marched in front of the top brass, and Lieutenant Ingraham told them to halt. He gave them a left-face, and they stood at attention as he stepped back and disappeared into the woodwork like a good PR man.
Mahoney looked at General Hughes and all the top-ranking officers of the division, their medals and insignia gleaming. The band stopped playing. General McCook, the chief of staff of the Hammerhead Division, stepped forward and read the citations, and Mahoney listened to the beautiful flow of words. The general spoke of courage and gallantry and fearlessness in the face of the enemy. He said the men before him were heroic fighters who were a credit to the service and to their country.
Mahoney’s face was expressionless, as if carved from a slab of rock. He knew the brass always used pretty words to make you want to die by the numbers.
The photographers crowded around with their cameras. General Hughes stepped forward, accompanied by a young lieutenant carrying a box of medals. They marched toward Mahoney, who stood with his chest out, chin in, and arms straight down his legs. They stopped in front of him, and General Hughes took one of the medals out of the box. He pinned it on Mahoney’s chest, Mahoney saluted him, he saluted back, and then he shook Mahoney’s hand.
“Good work, Mahoney.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The flashbulbs exploded, and Mahoney blinked. General Hughes and his aide moved to the next soldier to repeat the little ceremony, and Mahoney’s fingers tingled from the cold.
He’d rather have had a night with Rita Hayworth than a tin medal, but at least they cared. They could have said, “Fuck you,” and left him out there in the boonies.
~*~
The crowd applauded the ceremony, but one soldier behind the cordon looked gloomy and had his hands in his pockets. He was Lieutenant Woodward, and he’d come to the ceremony due to a morbid, masochistic impulse. He’d nearly blown his top when he’d read Mahoney would be decorated with other soldiers that day and had become obsessed with the thought that Mahoney was being feted as a hero while he was being transferred in disgrace.
The bandages had been removed from his face, but his jaw was still wired up. He had a headache and felt like screaming. Mahoney had beaten him, and Woodward hated to be beaten. He would have gnashed his teeth if he didn’t have a broken jaw.
Finally he could stand it no more. The band played again, and he pushed through the crowd, to get away. Someday I’ll get even with the son of a bitch, he said to himself. Nobody can treat a Woodward like that and get away with it!
~*~
Mahoney and the four other GIs stood in front of the rank of officers, and the dinky little parade began. The band played “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the assembled companies marched past the officers and decorated soldiers. The commander of each unit saluted, and the marching men did eyes-right while Mahoney and the others returned the salutes. The photographers kept taking pictures, and Mahoney felt like a movie star. His mother would be ecstatic if one of those pictures appeared in a New York paper.
Finally, the last unit marched by, and the parade was over.
The division officers shook hands with the five GIs again and slapped them on their shoulders. Mahoney wanted to tell General Hughes that Captain Anderson was suffering from battle fatigue and should be given a rest but decided not to open that can of worms. If Captain Anderson wanted a rest, he’d have to ask for one himself.
The photographers took pictures and war correspondents crowded around. They were dressed in military clothes but wore no military rank or insignia. One of them was an exceedingly tall woman, perhaps six feet tall. She walked up to Mahoney and asked, “Are you Sergeant Mahoney from New York City?”
“Yes ma’am,” he replied.
“I’m Joyce Summerall from The New York Courier. I’d like to interview you, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, no, ma’am—I don’t mind.”
“Would you mind if my photographer takes a photograph of you and me together?”
“Not at all, ma’am.”
Joyce gave instructions to the photographer, and Mahoney checked her out. She was in her middle or late twenties, and her face had strong, dramatic features. She was like an Amazon queen, and he wanted her to wrap those long legs around him. He knew from experience that tall women were always horny because most men didn’t like to go out with women taller than they, but Mahoney was much taller than she was, and he was ready, willing, and able to give her a run for her money. But he’d have to play it cool at first because he didn’t want to scare her away.
The photographer raised his big camera, and she returned to Mahoney’s side. She linked her arm through his and said, “Say cheese.”
“Cheese,” Mahoney said.
The photographer snapped the picture. “One more,” he said.
“Cheese.” Mahoney felt her long tall body next to his and wondered how to play her. Some women despised men who were shy, and other women didn’t like men who came on too strong at first. He decided just to be himself and fuck the games.
“Would you like to come to my office now for the interview?” she asked.
“Sure, if it’s all right with Lieutenant Ingraham.”
“I’ve cleared the interview with him.”
Soldiers and civilians milled in the square and stared at Mahoney and his Silver Star as he walked with Joyce Summerall to the administration building. He felt like a celebrity but knew that he’d be an ordinary dogface again in a few hours and that maybe tomorrow he’d have a bullet in his brain.
“When’s the last time you were in New York?” Joyce asked him.
“It was back in 1942, just before we left for North Africa.”
“You’ve been away a long time.”
Mahoney nodded.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“No. Are you?”
She appeared surprised by his question. “No, I’m not married.”
“How long have you been away from New York?”
“Five months. It seems like another world, after being in the ETO.”
They entered the administration building, and Joyce glanced sideways at him. It was true that she had difficulty with men because of her height, and Mahoney towered above her. She thought him sexy and handsome. When she’d been told to interview him, she’d fought to get out of it because the big news story in the ETO just then was the friction between SHAEF and Field Marshal Montgomery’s headquarters, and that’s what she’d wanted to cover. She’d thought Mahoney would be a typical, dumb, inarticulate GI and getting a story out of him would be like pulling teeth, but he didn’t seem dumb and inarticulate, and he was so nice and tall. She thought he sort of resembled the actor John Garfield.
They entered the building and made their way to the offices reserved for the press. Some of the war correspondents were in the corridor as they passed, and they gazed at Mahoney in admiration. To Mahoney, they all looked like a bunch of old men or young 4-Fs, and the few women he saw reminded him of schoolteachers he’d seen in New York.
They came to her office, and he stood to the side so she could enter first. She took off her GI cap, and he helped her remove her woolen overcoat.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Mahoney said. “Is it all right if I smoke?”
“Sure.”
She left the office, and he looked down at her desk. It was covered with press releases from the Public Information Office, plus some articles she was working on. To the side was a framed picture of a man and a woman, whom he took to be her parents. There were no pictures of guys. Mahoney had the feeling that he could fuck her if he wanted to. She seemed to go for him, but he’d been mistaken about this kind of thing in the past. He’d thought he’d had it made with certain women, grabbed them, and then gotten a punch in the mouth. He’d learned that you could never be a hundred percent sure of a woman.
She returned with two mugs of hot coffee, and he wanted to rip off her clothes then and there. There was nothing like tall women with long legs.
She placed his cup of coffee on her desk. Her hand was trembling. “I thought you were going to smoke a cigarette,” she said.
“I forgot,” he replied, fumbling for his pack of Luckies.
“Have a seat.”
He lit the cigarette and sat in the chair. She got her pencil and paper ready. Her hair was dark brown and straight, pulled back to a bun behind her head, and she had the most incredible cheekbones.
“What part of New York are you from?” she asked.
“Well, I lived all over, but most of the time, I lived on 53rd Street near 10th Avenue.”
She wrote down the information, aware that the address was in Hell’s Kitchen, one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. He was a tough guy with good manners, an irresistible combination. And he was so tall and strong-looking.
“What school did you go to?” she asked, trying to act cool.
He answered her questions and glanced at his watch. Precious time was flying by, and when the interview was over he’d have to return to Charlie Company. He’d have to make his move pretty soon. He looked at her pointed breasts outlined beneath her fatigue shirt. He imagined what they’d look like if she didn’t have her fatigue shirt on.
“How long have you been in the army?” she asked.
“Is the door locked?” he replied.
She looked at him and their eyes met. “No.”
“Mind if I lock it?”
That was the fateful question, and they both knew what he was talking about. She didn’t like to be easy, but she also didn’t want to be an idiot. She blushed faintly, looked away, coughed, and said, “Why don’t you lock it?”
He sprang from his chair like a big jaguar, crossed the room, and flicked the latch on the door. She stood behind the desk, moved away from the window, and he caught her in the corner, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her toward him.
Their lips met in soft combat. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and pressed her groin against him, feeling his big weapon, and it made her dizzy. He licked her tongue and fumbled with the buttons of her fatigue shirt. They sank to the floor, moaning and kissing on their knees, and he cupped her breasts in his hands while she reached down and squeezed his shotgun, and it nearly fired.
They fell to the side on the polished wood floor, chewing lips and tearing at each other’s clothes. He unstrapped her bra and pushed it out of the way, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs as she unbuttoned his fly, snaked her hands into his undershorts, and wrapped her long, elegant fingers around the barrel of his gun. Her nipples became hard in his mouth, and he went from one to the other, kneading her breasts, while she rubbed her face against his head. He rolled her onto her back, took off her boots, and pulled down her fatigue pants. Her underpants were pink and silky, and he threw them over his shoulder.
He touched her groin with his fingers, and it was hot and steamy like a jungle in Africa. She twitched as he stroked her, and he eased his tongue into her mouth. She sucked it while fondling his weapon, pulling it closer to her aching emptiness.
“Now,” she whispered urgently, “please!”
He loved it when they begged, and he always wanted to deny them so they’d get hotter, but he couldn’t deny himself. He slid it in, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming.
I must be crazy, she thought in her feverish mind. I can’t really be doing this on the floor of my office.
He pushed it in all the way, and she didn’t ache so much anymore. They kissed wildly, bruising each other’s lips, as spittle rolled out the corner of her mouth. She wrapped her long legs around him, and his sex fantasy had come true. He began to pump her, and she rocked from side to side. Mahoney felt weird tickles all over his body. He held her fanny in his hands and they moved and grooved, as the world spun around them, and somewhere, in the distance, typewriters went clackety-clack.