The American armies pushed past Saint Lo and prepared for Operation Cobra, the attack that would break them loose from Normandy for once and for all. The attack would be preceded by carpet bombing similar to that which began the battle for Saint Lo. There were several miles of hedgerow terrain in front of rolling green plains suitable for armor. The objective was to fight through the hedgerows and then turn the tanks loose on the Germans.
The Thirty-third Division became part of Patton’s Third Army and was brought up to full strength with replacements. They were on the right side of the line between Saint Lo and Coutances, the jump-off point, and when Mahoney and Cranepool caught up with them, they found out that they had a new commanding officer, a new exec, and a new first sergeant named Hamilton Botcho.
Botcho was as tall as Mahoney and had round shoulders like a gorilla. His two top front teeth were missing and his nose was mashed against his face. He also needed a shave.
“Where the fuck you guys been?” Botcho asked, in the command post tent.
“In Saint Lo,” Mahoney replied.
“I thought you two were fucking dead and that’s the way I carried you on yesterday’s morning report.”
Mahoney shrugged. “Well, we’re alive.”
“I can see that.” He looked at Cranepool. “What you got under your arm?”
“A crate of C rations, Sergeant.”
“What are you—fucking hungry or something?”
“No sergeant.”
“They what are you doing with fucking C rations?”
“Just in case, sergeant.”
“In case of what?”
“In case I get hungry.”
Botcho snorted. “If you get hungry, go to the fucking mess hall! That’s what it’s there for! I don’t want my men carrying around crates of C rations! Are you a trooper or are you a cook?”
“I’m a trooper, sergeant.”
“Then put those C rations on the floor over there!”
“Yes sergeant.”
Cranepool placed the crate of C rations on the floor. Botcho banged around his desk, sending pieces of paper flying into the air. “I don’t have your records anymore and I don’t know a fucking thing about either of you. For all I know you might be deserters. I don’t even know where to assign you. Go take a walk and let me think about it. Come see me after chow tonight and maybe I’ll have an answer by then. Okay—beat it.”
Mahoney cleared his throat. “Aren’t we gonna meet the company commander?”
Botcho turned down the corners of his mouth. “Whataya wanna meet him for?”
“Aren’t new company commanders supposed to meet their soldiers?”
“Fuck you,” Botcho said with a wave of his hand. “Get out of here. I’ve got things to do.”
Mahoney and Cranepool left the tent.
“What do you think of him?” Cranepool asked.
Mahoney shrugged. “I think he’s okay.”
“But if he’s okay, why didn’t he let me keep my C rations?”
“Because he could see you’re a fucking asshole, that’s why.”
They heard a roar behind them and jumped two feet off the ground. Turning around, they saw a tank with four long prongs bolted to its front deck. The tank steered around them and kept going across the field, spewing oily smoke from its big exhaust.
“What a funny-looking tank,” Cranepool said.
Mahoney stared at the tank, his forehead wrinkled. “Yeah.”
The tank stopped and the top hatch opened. A young second lieutenant poked his head out and took off his helmet. He climbed out of the hatch and stood on the front deck, leaning against the cannon. The engine of the tank was turned off and a sergeant climbed out of the hatch.
Mahoney and Cranepool walked toward the tank and looked at the four prongs in front.
“Hey sir,” Cranepool called up to the lieutenant, “what are these things for?”
The lieutenant smiled and wiped perspiration from his forehead. “They’re called hedge spades. They cut through hedgerows like they were made of fudge.”
“No shit,” Cranepool said.
‘That’s right,” the lieutenant replied.
‘They really work?”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s a great idea, sir,” Cranepool said. “I wonder who thought of it.”
“A sergeant from New York, I heard,” the lieutenant said.
Cranepool turned to Mahoney. “Hey—how about that. The tank can go right through hedgerows. The guy who thought of this must be a smart son of a bitch, huh?”
Mahoney stared at the hedge spades. “Must be,” he agreed.