The Liberation of Paris (The Sergeant War Series) #4

The big black BMW stopped in front of a villa in Saint Cloud, and General Ludwig Felger carried his white French poodle Zizi out of the back seat. Followed by aides and flunkies, Felger entered the luxurious villa and made his way to his office. Upon arriving, he placed Zizi on the floor, where the little dog looked up at him and wagged her tail happily as he took off his cape and handed it to an aide.

Felger was tall and thin except for a paunch that was the result of too much good French food and drink. He had straight blond hair and an aristocratic nose, although he was the son of a shoe manufacturer from Munich. He had served under Rommel in the victorious battle for France in 1940, and since then he’d been having a good time, carrying on love affairs with beautiful French ladies and enjoying marvelous meals.

But now the war was coming back to him, and he had to steel himself for the business of soldiering once more. Lighting a cigarette, he advanced to his map table and looked down. Zizi followed him, still wagging her tail.

The aides and flunkies left the office, and Major Albert von Lubel joined him at the map table. Lubel was a dark-haired man of forty with a bald spot on the back of his head and a lean frame like Felger’s. He limped, for he’d still not recovered completely from a leg wound sustained on the Eastern Front only two months ago. His eyes had a haunted look, and sometimes his hands trembled uncontrollably. He spoke seldom, but when he did his voice had a tone of intensity. Pinned to the front of his tunic was the Iron Cross First Class, which he’d won by personally leading a German counterattack against a numerically superior Russian tank force near Kharkov.

“Hmmm,” said Felger, bending over the map table and moving around little colored blocks and triangles of wood that represented regiments and battalions. “Well, Lubel, the situation is beginning to improve, wouldn’t you say so?”

“Yes sir,” replied Lubel in a voice that sounded as though it was coming in over the radio.

Felger smiled as he looked at his array of military units strung out in a line in front of Paris. He and Lubel had just returned from an inspection of that line, and it had been strengthened considerably since yesterday. He’d requested ten thousand men for the defense of Paris, and to his amazement, they were actually arriving. In less than six hours he’d received a regiment of tanks from the Eastern Front and the famous Messerschmitt Sturm-Battalion, which he had placed on the western end of his line. The Fifth Army would be assigned to his command by morning, and other units were arriving every hour. The high command evidently was taking the defense of Paris seriously.

Felger looked at the avenues of approach he expected the Allied armies to take. “I think we’ll be ready for the enemy when he comes, don’t you, Lubel?”

A muscle in Lubel’s cheek began to twitch. “That depends on how strong he will be, sir,” he replied, looking at the map table.

“Our reports indicate that they’re sending a relatively small force. We should be able to take care of a small force—or even a relatively large one—with what we have now and will soon be receiving.”

Lubel’s hands began to shake. “I don’t think I’m a pessimist, sir,” he said, still looking at the map table and refusing to meet Felger’s eyes.

“I do. I think your unfortunate experiences in Russia have severely damaged your morale.”

Lubel’s eyes flashed as he looked up at his commanding officer. “You have never seen the chaos of large-scale defeat, sir. You don’t know what it is to see your entire front in wild retreat and enemy tanks rolling over the bodies of your men. You can’t imagine what it’s like to receive reports that there are five-hundred-mile holes in your front line. Sir, I must tell you in all honesty and with the full respect due your rank that I have seen an aspect of this war that you have not, and that my experiences have made me very cautious.”

Felger sniffed superciliously. “I still think it’s a morale problem, and I would like you to view our situation more optimistically in the future, do you understand?”

Felger looked down at the map again. “Our situation is quite strong and becoming stronger every hour, Lubel. That surely is cause for optimism. Believe me, when they come we’ll make them pay heavily for their Paris.”

The French 12th Armored Division advanced steadily through cheering crowds and wild celebrations. Beautiful girls, climbing onto the slow-moving vehicles, gave the men bread, wine, fruit, and fleeting kisses.

Cranepool leaned over the tailgate of the old deuce-and-a-half truck and caught a roast chicken, falling backwards into the truck with it. The white houses of a small village could be seen out the back of the truck, along with Frenchmen and women waving flags and shouting encouragement to the soldiers.

As Cranepool tried to raise himself from the iron floor of the truck, Mahoney reached over and grabbed a drumstick of the chicken, ripping it away and bringing it to his mouth. Buck Sergeant Fred Bates snatched a wing and half of a breast came along with it.

“Hey!” yelled Cranepool, trying to get up. “Leave some for me!”

Sergeant Goldberg pulled off the other wing; but Pfc Leroy Washington didn’t make a move for the chicken, although his eyes indicated that he was dying to get his hands on it.

Cranepool, looking mournfully at the remains of the chicken, got up from the floor and sat on the bench beside Washington. There only was a drumstick and a few scraps of meat left. He tore off the drumstick and handed the carcass to Washington. “Here.”

“Thanks,” said Washington, licking his lips.

“I risked my life to catch the chicken,” Cranepool complained, “and all I wind up with is the fucking leg.”

“Be glad you got that,” Mahoney growled, gnawing on his drumstick. He looked out the rear of the truck and wished he could let the tailgate down. Then maybe a frisky young French girl could crawl into the truck and he could feel her up.

A hand appeared above the tailgate, bobbing up and down and holding a bottle of wine.

“Get that!” Mahoney shouted.

Bates plucked it out of the hand, tipped his helmet in gratitude, and sat down. He pulled the cork and took a swig, then passed it to Cranepool.

Mahoney sucked the bone of his drumstick, waiting for the wine to make its way to him. He felt nervous because everything had been too easy so far. The French columns had been moving steadily toward Paris and had met only scattered pockets of German resistance. He knew that the Germans would not give up Paris without a fight and wondered when they’d make their move. Surely they knew where the French 12th was. These towns were full of collaborators and one of them must have passed the word along by now.

The bottle of wine came to Mahoney and he raised it to his lips. The first shot can come at any moment, he told himself. I might as well enjoy myself while I can.

The phone on General Felger’s desk rang. Major Lubel darted like a fox to the phone and picked it up. The voice on the other end excitedly identified itself as Captain Wencke of Intelligence and asked to speak with the general. Major Lubel handed the phone to General Felger and told him who was calling.

“What is it, Wencke?” asked Felger, anticipating that it would be a report on the advancing Allied Army.

“Sir!” said Wencke. “The French are in Orsay!”

Felger wrinkled his forehead. “The French you say?”

“Yes sir. We’ve identified the unit as the French 12th Armored Division commanded by General Georges Duloc.”

“There aren’t any Americans or British?”

“No sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir. They have American Sherman tanks and American equipment, but they’re all French according to my information.”

“When did you receive this report, Wencke?”

“Just moments ago, sir. The French are in Orsay right now!”

“I see,” replied Felger. “Thank you very much, Wencke. Please report any new information to my headquarters immediately.”

Felger hung up the telephone and looked at Lubel. “Good news, Lubel!” he said triumphantly. “We are being attacked by the French, and you know what we did to them in 1940.”

“This isn’t 1940,” Lubel said drily.

Felger sighed, “Ah Lubel—what am I going to do with you? I know you’re a fine officer and a war hero to boot, but you’re the most depressing person I’ve ever met in my life.”

Felger swaggered to the map and looked down at it. He found the town of Orsay and his eyes followed the road that led from Orsay to Paris. That road ran smack into the middle of the 127th Panzergrenadier Division, a crack unit filled with combat veterans.

“Get me General Buchheim on the phone,” Felger ordered.

“Yes sir.”

Lubel lifted the phone and told the operator to put him through to General Buchheim, while Felger looked at the map, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the battle to come. The 127th Panzergrenadiers were dug in and deployed for battle. When the French 12th bumbled into them, it would be a slaughterhouse. French soldiers hadn’t performed very well in this war, and there was no reason to think they’d suddenly shine today. If they could be stopped on their way to Paris, the war might take a turn that would favor the Reich.

“I have him, sir,” said Lubel.

Felger strode toward the telephone and took it from Lubel’s trembling hand. “General Buchheim?” Felger asked.

“Speaking,” said the deep booming voice of Buchheim, a squat, swarthy old soldier with a harelip.

“I have good news,” Felger said. “The French 12th Armored Division is headed your way on the road leading to Paris from Orsay.”

“I know,” Buchheim replied. “One of my reconnaissance platoons advised me of that fact about fifteen minutes ago. We’re getting ready for them.”

“Excellent. I shall leave my headquarters immediately to personally direct the battle. We must stop them, Buchheim. There is no alternative for us because if we don’t stop them, Paris will fall; and if Paris falls, so shall France.”

“We’ll stop them, General. The French were great soldiers in the days of Napoleon, but now they’re a nation of waiters and bureaucrats. We’ll chew them up and spit out their bones.”

“That’s the way I like to hear my commanders talk,” Felger said with a smile. “I’ll see you soon. Carry on.”

Felger hung up the phone and looked at Lubel. “Buchheim is looking forward to the fight,” he said happily. “He’s says he’ll chew the French up and spit out their bones.”

Lubel nodded, forcing a wry smile.

Felger raised his eyebrows. “You don’t agree?”

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Why not?”

“Because these aren’t the same French you and General Buchheim fought in 1940, sir. These French have modern weapons and we must assume that they’ve learned something about modern warfare during the past four years. Moreover, their goal is Paris, which is a sacred place to them. They’ll fight very hard, and I don’t think you and General Buchheim should underestimate them.”

Felger pressed the button that would call his aides. “By sundown tonight,” he said to Lubel, “we shall know which of us is right and which is wrong. I think you might be underestimating the courage and fighting ability of the German soldier.”

The door opened and Felger’s aides poured into the room, expressions of expectation on their faces.

“We’re leaving for the 127th Panzergrenadier Division immediately!” Felger told them. “Put on your helmets and let’s go!”

On a wooded hill near the road that led from Orsay to Paris, General Eberhard Buchheim raised his head over the sandbag fortifications and peered through his binoculars at the road. He spotted a blur of dust and smoke in the distance and focused more carefully on it, wondering if it was the French 12th.

“I see them sir!” said Lieutenant Josef Schnurre, standing next to him.

Buchheim squinted through his binoculars, and in the dust and smoke the unmistakable outline of a tank emerged. “I see them too,” said Buchheim, adrenalin coursing through his veins. “Direct the artillery to prepare to open fire on my command.”

“Yes sir.”

Buchheim smiled as he watched the French armored column rumble toward him. He scanned the terrain on both sides of the road, seeing fields, woods, and hills. His Panzergrenadier Division was deployed on the highest hills, and his artillery had the area in front of it bracketed carefully. The French were rolling into a deadly trap.

“The French,” Buchheim said derisively. “What fools.”

“I’ve notified the artillery,” Lieutenant Schnurre said.

“Stand by.”

“Yes sir.”

Buchheim had a big head, and his helmet fit it tightly. He resembled the actor Erich von Stroheim as he peered down at the French tanks pouring onto the road leading toward the 127th Panzergrenadiers. It took nerve to wait until the French were closer, but Buchheim had plenty of nerve. In the First World War, as a young officer, he’d fought the French at Verdun, the English in the Somme, and the Americans in the Argonne Forest. In this war he’d fought on all fronts so far, and there was a small piece of shrapnel embedded near his spine, in too delicate a position to permit an operation. It bothered him often at night and in cold weather.

“Sir!” said Lieutenant Schnurre. “They’re getting awfully close!”

“Just a few more minutes,” General Buchheim replied. “We mustn’t be overanxious.”

The tanks were close enough now so that Buchheim could see their commanders standing in the hatches and the Cross of Lorraine painted on the turrets. Buchheim had been raised a Lutheran, and in his mind he contrasted the swastika of the German Reich with the cross. He had to admit to himself that the cross was still a more potent symbol to him, but that wouldn’t stop him from ordering an artillery attack when the bulk of the French 12th was within range of his 88s. He could hear Lieutenant Schnurre’s teeth chattering beside him.

Buchheim turned to the pale young lieutenant. “Direct the artillery battalions to open fire,” he said.

As one hundred 88s fired the first barrage, it sounded to the men in the French armored column like a distant peal of thunder.

Mahoney knew immediately that shells were on the way. “Take cover!” he screamed.

They dove to the floor of the trucks as Corporal Rossi steered hard to the left and drove into a field of corn. The shells rained down, whistling their song of death, and then they slammed into the ground, making it tremble with the violence of their explosions. Earth and shrapnel flew through the air, and a few razor-sharp chunks of hot metal tore through the canvas roof above their heads.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Mahoney screamed.

He vaulted over the tailgate of the truck, his carbine in his right hand, and landed in the middle of two rows of corn. Snatching an ear off a cornstalk, he spotted a shell crater fifteen yards away and ran toward it as the second barrage sounded from the direction of the high ground in the distance. He dove into the shell crater and pulled his helmet tightly over his ears.

The second barrage landed, blowing up earth and a dozen French tanks. Cranepool came flying through the air and landed belly down in the crater beside Mahoney. Washington came next, and last was Major Denton.

“What’s going on here!” Denton shouted in horror.

Mahoney ignored him and peered over the top of the crater. He saw Rossi, Goldberg, and Bates taking cover in another hole nearby, and French tanks roaring crazily in all directions. Some French tanks were charred, smoking hulks and French soldiers were running for cover.

“The Krauts are on those hills over there,” Mahoney said, pointing forward with his ear of corn.

Washington raised his head over the top of the hole. “I think I can see Kraut tanks,” he said.

Mahoney looked up cautiously and saw Kraut tanks advancing toward them like giant cockroaches from the woods at the foot of the hills ahead. “Looks like we just fell into a jackpot,” he grumbled. “The fucking frogs should have had recon patrols up ahead, but they’re in such a hurry to get to Paris they’re starting to fuck up.”

He saw the French tanks move into formations and start to roll across the fields toward the German tanks. A big nasty tank battle was about to begin, and if the German tanks broke through they might very well roll over the supine body of Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney.

Mahoney turned to Denton. “I think we should get out of here, sir.”

“I’m all for that, sergeant.”

“Back to the truck!” Mahoney shouted.

He jumped up from the hole and went crashing through rows of corn. The others followed him, as the French and German tanks fired at each other in the distance. The German 88s now were zeroing in on French tanks, and a few shells were falling on the headquarters company of the French 12th. Mahoney saw Duloc’s staff trucks moving back, and Mahoney wanted to move back with them. He knew that generals always picked the safest place to set up their map tables and plan strategy, and that’s where he intended to go.

He reached the rear of the truck and unhooked one side of the tailgate as Cranepool unhooked the other side. Corporal Rossi dove into the front seat behind the wheel, turned the switch, gave her the gas, and nothing happened. He tried again, and still nothing happened. It was turning over but wasn’t kicking to life. Mahoney leapt into the rear of the truck. The others piled into the truck after him, with Washington and Goldberg securing the tailgate. They all lay on the floor of the truck feeling it tremble as the engine tried to start up.

His chin resting on the steel floor of the truck, Mahoney tried to think. He decided that the first order of business would be to try to get the truck running. Otherwise they’d have to abandon it and get out into the cornfield, where they might have to fight German soldiers, or worse, German tanks.

“Do we have any bazookas in here?” he asked, raising his head.

“I dunno Sarge,” Cranepool said.

“Anybody else know?”

Nobody said anything.

“Then I’ll have to look.”

He raised himself and crawled to the boxes in the front of the floor, keenly aware of the sounds of fierce battle not far away. He saw the radio and telephone equipment and some boxes filled with .30 caliber bandoliers, but there was no bazooka.

“All right,” Mahoney said, opening the box of hand grenades, “everybody grab a bunch of these and let’s get the hell out of this truck before a shell hits it.”

Mahoney stuffed grenades into his pockets and clipped them to his buttonholes. Then he pushed the others aside and made his way to the rear of the truck, vaulting over the tailgate and landing in the corn again. At the front of the truck Corporal Rossi and Major Denton were looking at the engine.

The air was filled with smoke and the ground rumbled with explosions. The French had some of their artillery firing and were pounding the German tanks and fortifications, while the German 88s were concentrating on French tanks. Mahoney and his deuce-and-a-half were out of the line of fire, but he knew the situation might not remain this way for long.

“What’s the problem?” he asked Rossi, who had one side of the hood up and whose head was inside the engine compartment.

“The distributor,” Rossi said, his voice muffled by the intake manifold.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“A piece of shrapnel smashed it to shit.” Rossi withdrew his head from the engine compartment, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek. “A freak accident if ever I saw one.”

Major Denton held his .45 in his right hand and cleared his throat. “Can’t you fix it, Corporal?”

“There ain’t nothing to fix, sir. I told you that it’s all shot to shit.”

They heard the fearsome whistle of a shell coming in, and all dropped to their bellies underneath the truck. A shell exploded with a deafening roar fifty yards away, and Mahoney heard high-speed shrapnel whack against the truck. Then the dirt and rocks fell all around them. Mahoney realized that his quest for a cushy job had led him into the jaws of hell.

Major Denton struggled to lower his voice into its full public relations mode. “Well Sergeant,” he said with a public relations smile, “I’m not an infantry officer, as I’m sure you know, and I’m afraid I’ll have to rely on your judgment in this matter. What do you propose we do?”

Mahoney shrugged. “There isn’t anything we can do except hope the Krauts don’t come where we are, because if they do we’ll have to fight.”

“Fight!” Denton said. “Us? But we’re a liaison unit that’s supposed to be traveling with General Duloc’s headquarters!”

“I know, but General Duloc’s headquarters have hightailed it to the rear, and we can’t go with them. All we can do is sit here and hope the Krauts don’t attack us.”

“I see,” replied Denton, turning pale as the full horrible truth of the situation became clear to him. He actually might have to fight for his life before the day was out, and all the public relations in the world wouldn’t help him.

Mahoney turned to Rossi. “Would you know how to install a new distributor?”

“Sure, but where am I gonna get a new distributor?”

“From some other truck that’s been hit, but whose distributor is still working.”

Rossi wrinkled his forehead and tried to look wise. “Ah, I gotcha, Sarge.”

“Get your tools and come with me.”

“Right, Sarge.”

“Wait a minute!” yelled Denton.

“What’s the matter?” Mahoney asked.

“What about me?”

“What are you talking about, sir?”

“What am I going to do?”

“I guess you’ll have to lead the defense of this liaison unit if the Krauts attack.”

Denton’s eyes bulged out of his head. “But I don’t know how to do that!”

“You’ll learn. Let’s go, Rossi.”

Mahoney and Rossi crawled out from underneath the truck, and Denton tried to remember the basic infantry tactics they’d taught him in Officers Candidate School. Mahoney raised himself over the cornstalks and peered through the long green leaves at the battle up ahead.

The German and French tanks were locked in combat now, stopping and firing shells at each other, then moving so that they wouldn’t be stationary targets too long. Field artillery on both sides were shooting up each other’s tanks. He could see the disabled, smoking tanks in the distance. Mahoney couldn’t tell if the Germans or French were winning, but he didn’t want to hang around to find out.

Rossi crawled into the cab of the truck and came down with his little canvas roll of tools. He was a short muscular man and like Mahoney he always looked as though he needed a shave.

“You see any trucks, Sarge?” he asked.

Mahoney pointed through the cornstalks. “There’s one over there.”

Rossi squinted at a ruined truck around a hundred yards away. “It looks pretty fucked up to me, Sarge.”

“But the distributor might still be okay.”

There was a rustling sound close by and suddenly Cranepool appeared in the corn leaves. “Where ya going, Sarge?” he asked.

“We’re gonna try and find a part for the truck. You wanna come along?”

“Sure thing, Sarge.”

“Okay—let’s go.”

Mahoney parted two cornstalks and passed between them. Behind him were Cranepool and Corporal Rossi. They could see tanks gunning each other in the distance, but neither side seemed to have won the advantage. Mahoney hoped they could fix the truck and get out of there before the battle heated up.

They approached the truck cautiously, Mahoney and Cranepool holding their carbines ready for action and Rossi with his .45 in hand. As they drew closer they could see that it was charred and torn apart. It looked as though it had taken a direct hit, and portions of bodies were scattered everywhere. In the artillery smoke Mahoney could detect the new odor of fresh meat, and it made him gag. Sometimes he thought it was more terrifying to be alive and see carnage like this than to be dead and in hell.

The truck had driven directly into the cornfield where it had been hit. The blast had blown away the corn that circled the truck, and beyond that circle were charred and broken cornstalks. The three G.I.s walked into the clearing that surrounded the truck, taking care not to step on heads or arms. Mahoney heard a choking sound behind him and turned to see Rossi bent over and vomiting onto the ground.

Cranepool smirked cockily. “Guess he ain’t used to this,” he said to Mahoney.

“Guess not,” Mahoney replied equally cockily, not wanting to mention that he too felt sick to his stomach. “Hey asshole!” he screamed at Rossi. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Rossi spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He unsnapped his canteen from its canvas container, rinsed his mouth out with water, and spat again. He walked toward the front of the truck with his eyes averted from the bodies on the ground. He didn’t see the mutilated torso of a French soldier, and he tripped over it and fell to the ground next to a severed head that was leaking blood through its mouth, nose, and ears. Rossi began to vomit the water he’d just drunk.

“What a fucking asshole,” Mahoney said. Although his stomach still felt queasy, he had no patience for anyone who could be disabled by the sight of a little blood. “Hey—get up you bastard!”

Rossi arose from the ground, still puking his guts out.

Mahoney kicked him in the ass. “Get over there and look at the distributor!”

Clutching his churning guts, Rossi stumbled toward the front of the truck. Cranepool, a fairly good mechanic himself, went with him, and Mahoney looked toward the scene of the battle. The French tanks seemed to be holding back the German tanks. No German artillery was falling in his vicinity anymore, so he felt reasonably safe.

He looked at the truck; it looked like the German shell had landed in the rear section where the troops were sitting. If so, there would be a good chance that the engine hadn’t been harmed much and the distributor might still be serviceable. He saw Cranepool and Rossi raise the panel that covered the engine.

“What’s the story!” he yelled.

“It looks okay!” Cranepool replied.

“Then get it the fuck out of there!”

“Hup Sarge.”

Cranepool and Rossi went to work on the engine, and Mahoney strolled to the cab of the truck. He looked up and couldn’t see anybody; maybe the driver and whoever was with him had been able to get away? Jumping to the running board, Mahoney looked into the window and saw that the driver and passenger hadn’t gotten away. They were both slumped forward, their backs torn apart by shrapnel that had exploded through the back of the cab. The passenger was a French officer with binoculars hanging around his neck. Mahoney thought the binoculars might come in handy, so he opened the door, pushed the driver backwards, and crawled over him to get at the officer.

The officer was young, evidently a lieutenant. He had a blond mustache and his helmet had fallen off. Mahoney straightened him up and pulled the binoculars off his neck, noticing that they were American-made Bausch and Lombs. As he was about to move backwards, Mahoney noticed the shine of gold on the lieutenant’s wrist underneath his khaki shirt. He pulled the shirt back and saw a gold watch with the name PATEK PHILLIPE printed on the face. His eyes lit up because he knew it was an expensive one. He’d been collecting gold watches since the war began and had been sending them back to New York for his mother to hold for him. He figured they were going to be worth a lot of money someday.

He untied the leather watchband and fastened the watch to his own wrist. He figured the lieutenant must have been rich when he was alive, but now you could see the vertebrae of his spine. Poor bastard, Mahoney thought. Better him than me.

Mahoney climbed down from the cab. “How’re you two fuck-heads doing?”

“We almost got it out, Sarge,” Cranepool said.

“Hurry up! We haven’t got all day!”

Mahoney looked at his watches. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. He hadn’t had lunch yet and felt hungry, so he took the ear of corn out of his shirt, peeled it down, picked off the corn silk, and gnawed away.

Rossi heard Mahoney chomping and turned around. “How can you eat with all these dead people around?”

“No problem at all. Get that fucking thing out of there, willya?”

“It’ll be out in a minute.”

Mahoney chewed on the ear of corn, wishing it could have been cooked but deciding it wasn’t so bad raw. He remembered when he and his pals used to go out to Nathan’s on Coney Island for hot dogs and hot buttered corn when he was a kid, but that seemed like a thousand years ago.

“We got it, Sarge!” Cranepool shouted, holding up the distributor in his greasy hand.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Mahoney said.

Mahoney, still chewing on the corn, led them into the cornstalks again, but after a few paces he thought he heard a new sound in the din of the tank battle. It sounded as though there were more tanks and more shooting. Turning around, he raised the binoculars to his eyes and looked toward the battleground.

His body tensed as he saw hordes of German tanks spilling onto the battlefield from the foothills and woods. It looked as though the Germans were going to run right over the French. If they ran over the French it’d only be a matter of time before they caught up with Mahoney, and one of Mahoney’s great battlefield fears was of being crushed alive by a tank.

Cranepool noticed the expression on Mahoney’s face. “What’s wrong, Sarge?”

“The Krauts’re bringing up reinforcements. Let’s get the fuck out of here. Double time.”

They ran back through the cornfield to their disabled truck. Mahoney threw the half-eaten ear of corn over his shoulder and plowed a path through the corn with his carbine held in both hands in front of him. He huffed and puffed and his mouth became dry, but he didn’t want to stop for a drink until he made it back to the truck. The sound of battle grew more intense behind them.

Major Denton, Sergeant Bates, Sergeant Goldberg, and Pfc Washington were lying in the corn near their truck when Mahoney returned. Denton arose and brushed dirt from his pressed and starched fatigues, as Mahoney dispatched Cranepool and Rossi to fix the engine of the truck. Major Denton swaggered toward Mahoney. He felt like a combat officer although he’d not yet fired a shot in anger.

“Well,” Denton said cheerily, “I imagine we’ll be out of here presently.”

Mahoney took a Lucky out of his pack. “Let’s hope they fix the distributor before the Germans get here.” Taking out his Zippo, he lit the cigarette.

“What are you talking about?” Denton asked.

“The Germans are attacking in force,” Mahoney replied. “Can’t you hear it?”

“Huh?” Denton raised his binoculars and spun around. He spun the little wheel until the battlefield came into focus, and he sucked in air. “The Germans are breaking through!”

Mahoney looked through his own binoculars. “Not yet they’re not, but they probably will soon.”

“We’ve got to tell General Duloc!”

“He probably knows.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He does.”

“We’d better make sure. I think I’ll call him myself.” Denton turned around. “Sergeant Bates—Sergeant Goldberg—crank up the radio and call General Duloc’s headquarters.

“Yes sir!”

Denton, Goldberg, and Bates climbed into the rear of the truck. Mahoney looked at Pfc Washington sitting on the ground, writing a letter.

“How’s it going, Wash?” Mahoney asked.

“Just fine, Sarge.”

“Where you from, Wash?”

“New York.”

“Yeah? I’m from New York too. What part of New York you live in?”

“Harlem.”

“No shit! I used to go to Harlem once in a while to play cards! There was a place around 138th and Lenox—know which one I mean?”

Washington smiled. “I’ve been there.”

“No shit!”

“No shit.”

“Well isn’t that a coincidence,” Mahoney said. “We might’ve even been there gambling on the same night.”

“Might’ve been,” Washington agreed.

“And now here we are in France.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a crazy world, Wash. You’d better check your weapon, because the Germans are headed this way.”

Washington put away his letter, and Mahoney raised his binoculars. He couldn’t see much in the dust and smoke that now enveloped the battlefield, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the Germans broke through. He hoped Cranepool and Rossi could get the engine fixed before then.

“Sir,” said the radio operator, “I’ve just received an urgent message for General Duloc from a Major Denton.”

“I’ll take it,” replied Lieutenant Grévin, standing nearby. He took the piece of paper from the radio operator’s hand.

Germans on verge of breaking through in this sector. Request immediate reinforcements to forestall looming catastrophe.

“What is it, Grévin?” asked General Duloc, who was standing with his aides around a map table set up hastily in a wooded thicket.

“Nothing new. He’s reporting the German attack in his sector.”

Duloc grunted and returned to the map. Grévin told the radio operator to send Denton a message stating that action was being taken to stem the German advance, then he walked back to the map table.

General Duloc was pointing at the map with his pencil. “We’ll move up the 107th from here and the 85th from here, and that ought to be sufficient to stop them, don’t you agree?”

His aides nodded, and General Duloc issued the orders that would move these tank units into the sector where the German tanks were threatening to break through.

“Well gentlemen,” Duloc said, “now all we can do is wait and hope.” He turned to Grévin. “By the way, exactly where are Major Denton and his Americans?”

“They’re back in the valley, sir.”

“Their truck must have broken down, I imagine.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well,” Duloc said sarcastically, “let’s hope nothing happens to them out there.”

Grévin smiled. “Yes sir.”

Cranepool and Rossi worked feverishly to install the new distributor while Mahoney, puffing his cigarette, sat on the ground and leaned against one of the truck’s tires. The sounds of battle were fiercer now and Mahoney found it difficult to relax. He felt the way he did before his big fight with Kowalski.

Major Denton stood nearby, looking at the battleground through his binoculars. “Sergeant Mahoney, would you come here a moment please?”

Mahoney stood up. “What is it, sir?”

“It looks as if the battle is moving this way. Would you take a look?”

“Yes sir.”

Mahoney was chilled by what he saw through his binoculars. It looked as though the French troops were in a full headlong retreat, and the Germans were in hot pursuit.

“We’ve got to get out of here right away, sir,” Mahoney said, lowering his binoculars. He turned toward the front of the truck. “Cranepool—what the fuck’s going on over there?”

“We’ve almost got it in, Sarge.”

“We don’t have much time!”

“Just a couple more minutes.”

Goldberg, Bates, and Washington gathered around the engine to watch the progress of the work. Mahoney raised his binoculars again and looked at the onrushing French and German tanks. He figured they’d be where he was in about five minutes unless the Germans ran out of gas first.

“We’ve got it Sarge!” Cranepool shouted triumphantly.

Rossi, wiping his greasy hands on his pants, dashed toward the cab of the truck, jumped into it, and turned the switch. He stepped on the starter, pressed on the gas pedal. . . and nothing happened. The engine turned over as before, but it wouldn’t explode to life.

“It’s still fucked up,” Rossi said with defeat in his voice. He tried again but the engine refused to start.

Furious, Mahoney reached up and dragged Rossi out of the cab. “I thought you said all it needed was a new distributor!”

Rossi’s face was two inches from Mahoney’s and Mahoney’s spit flew onto his cheeks. “That’s what I thought, Sarge,” Rossi said weakly.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Mahoney let Rossi go, and Rossi dropped to the ground.

Everyone crowded around Mahoney.

Denton cleared his throat. “What do you suggest we do, Sergeant?”

“Lemme think.”

Mahoney could see the tanks without his binoculars now. He and the others couldn’t run faster than tanks and there were no trees to climb. They couldn’t hide in the corn because the tanks might roll right over them, so the only place to go was underneath the truck.

“Under the truck!” he yelled.

They scrambled underneath the truck and looked fearfully from behind the big tires at the onrushing German tanks.

Sergeant Goldberg tried to claw a hole in the ground with his bare hands. Sergeant Bates’s face developed uncontrollable twitches. Pfc Washington looked as though he was scared out of his wits. Major Denton’s face was pale and he looked like he was going to faint. Cranepool, ever the cool combat soldier, laid his hand grenades on the ground and began loosening the pins. Mahoney heard a sound from the rear and turned around, peering through his binoculars. In the distance he saw a swarm of French tanks speeding across the field to engage the Germans.

“Reinforcements!” he screamed.

“Where?”

He pointed and everybody turned around. Major Denton looked through his binoculars. “By God—we’re saved!”

“Not necessarily,” Mahoney said. “I hate to say it, but I think we’re going to be right in the middle of it.”

Artillery shells whistled overhead as the French and Germans tried to get each other’s range. Mahoney tried to keep his teeth from chattering. Huge clouds of dust were billowing in front of and behind the truck, and then in front they saw tanks!

“Get down!” Mahoney yelled.

They all got on their stomachs and looked around them. Mahoney recognized the tanks as Shermans; they were the French running away from the Germans. The French Shermans had their cannons turned around so they could fire wild shots at the Germans as they fled, and the pursuing Germans fired wildly at the French. Shells were falling everywhere and machine gun bullets whistled through the air as the French tanks rumbled by. Mahoney peeked ahead to see the advancing waves of German tanks with huge iron crosses painted on their turrets. He prayed that the Germans wouldn’t see them. He recalled the carnage around the French truck and realized the same thing could happen to them. His head would be lying in one place and his ass someplace else. Somebody would steal his watches and not give a damn about him, just as he hadn’t cared about the French lieutenant. I’ve got to stop stealing so much, he thought. It’s really disgusting.

The ground shook violently as a shell landed twenty-five yards away. Rocks and shrapnel bit into the deuce-and-a-half, and a piece of something ripped open a tire. The truck lowered a few inches and Mahoney thought that if all the tires were blown, the truck might drop down and crush them all.

The retreating French tanks entered the ranks of the advancing French tanks, and they all deployed themselves in an effort to stop the Germans. They made a long skirmish line, halted, and opened fire at the German tanks, which still were moving. The first fusillade knocked out a dozen German tanks, and the Germans themselves stopped and began to zero in on the French.

“We’re right in the middle of a fucking tank war!” Sergeant Goldberg said, burying his face in his hands.

“Calm down,” Mahoney told him. “And everybody be still.”

Sergeant Bates nervously reached for his pack of cigarettes.

“No smoking, you asshole!” Mahoney hissed. “Do you want the Krauts to see the flame from your lighter?”

Something told Mahoney that he’d never see Paris, and that his destiny would be to die in a French cornfield with his old pal Cranepool and a bunch of assholes he barely knew.

“Why have they stopped?” screamed General Felger, looking at the battle through his binoculars.

“Well, sir,” explained General Buchheim, “they appear to have run up against a wall of French tanks.”

General Felger lowered his binoculars, turned, and gazed coldly at short stout General Buchheim. “That should be a provocation to attack, not an invitation to stop and rest. I want my officers to be like mad dogs, attacking any opponent who dares to offer resistance. Order an all-out frontal attack, General Buchheim—and if it fails I shall relieve you of command.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Buchheim with a frown.

Major Lubel turned to General Felger. “May I say something, sir?”

“What is it?”

“I think you ought to reconsider that order, sir. If your attack fails, our lines may very well be breached by a French counterattack. I recommend a more strategic type of attack, sir, with a mobile reserve held in readiness in case of French counterattack.”

General Felger smiled haughtily at Lubel. “I have more experience fighting the French than you, Lubel. When subjected to a determined attack, they always turn tail and run. You’ll see that I’m right. General Buchheim—you have your orders. Carry them out.”

“Yes sir,” replied Buchheim, moving toward the field telephone.

Lieutenant Grévin nearly jumped out of his combat boots. “They’re attacking, sir!”

“I can see them,” General Duloc replied calmly.

They were standing at the edge of a woods at the top of a small hill where Duloc had moved his headquarters for a clearer view of the battlefield.

“It’s an all-out attack!”

“I can see.” Duloc watched the German advance for a few moments and made a quick decision. “Order the tank commanders to fall back slowly in a uniform line.”

“Fall back, sir?”

“Have you developed a problem with your ears, Lieutenant Grévin?”

“But why fall back, sir? Why not fight them? Paris lies directly in our path, sir! Why retreat now?”

“Because I said so. Carry out your order, Lieutenant.”

“Yes sir.”

Grévin moved toward the field telephones, and Duloc raised his binoculars again. He was a wily young general and his plan was to draw the Germans into a trap. They would think the French were retreating the way they always did; but at a crucial moment, when the Germans were least expecting it, Duloc would order a fierce counterattack right down the middle with simultaneous flanking movements around the ends. The Germans would be stopped and engulfed, and at the critical moment Duloc would commit his reserves. Duloc was certain that this plan would crush the Germans and open the road to Paris, where his wife and daughter lived.

Mahoney looked through his binoculars at the French lines and couldn’t believe his eyes. “They’re retreating!”

“Who’s retreating?” Denton demanded, raising his binoculars.

“The fucking frogs!”

Denton looked and quickly saw he was right. Turning, he looked the other way and saw the Germans advancing. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “The French are leaving us. We’re going to be cut off.”

Mahoney spat into the dust. “The fucking frogs don’t know how to fight,” he growled. “All they know how to do is run.”

Utter terror was on Denton’s face. “What are we going to do now?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Mahoney growled and then let loose with a string of curses that nearly peeled the paint off the truck.

General Felger laughed. “They’re running with their tails between their legs,” he said, looking through the slit in the bunker.

“You were right, sir,” General Buchheim said. “Look at them go.”

Major Lubel peered at the battlefield through his binoculars. “The battle isn’t won yet,” he said ominously.

Felger stamped his foot angrily. “Really Lubel—you go too far! We have routed the French and still you’re frightened!”

Lubel lowered his binoculars. “I’m not frightened sir,” he said through his teeth. “I’m only saying that the French have much of their forces intact and they have many military options still open to them.”

“Pah!” replied Felger with a wave of his hand. “You may have been a fine officer once, Lubel, and I respect the Iron Cross you wear on your tunic, but I think your experiences in the East have damaged your will to fight and make rational front line decisions. I think that when this campaign is over I shall recommend that you be declared unfit for combat duty.”

Lubel narrowed his eyes. “As you wish, sir.”

Felger turned to Buchheim. “It’s time to commit your infantry, General. Please issue that order in my name.”

“Yes sir.”

Felger raised his binoculars and looked down at the battlefield. It appeared that a great German victory was developing before him, and he knew that the Fuhrer would be very pleased.

“Here they come,” said Cranepool.

The ground trembled as though a million buffalo were running upon it. Mahoney didn’t need his binoculars now; he could look straight ahead and see the ranks of German tanks bearing down upon him. Their cannons spit lightning bolts as they fired at the retreating French, and French shells burst in their midst, throwing cornstalks and dirt into the air and occasionally blasting a tank to bits.

Major Denton’s hands trembled so severely he clutched them under his armpits. Sergeant Goldberg pressed his face against the ground and mumbled an old Hebrew prayer that suddenly had popped into his mind. Sergeant Bates was frozen with fear and Pfc Washington chewed his fingernails. Only Mahoney and Cranepool appeared capable of action; they watched the approaching tanks through slitted eyes, ready to run or fight, and ready to die.

Cranepool laid his grenades beside him in a row. “If any of those tanks come close, I’ll throw a grenade at the treads.”

“Don’t do that!” Denton screamed.

“Why not?” Cranepool said.

“You’ll attract their attention! We don’t want to attract their attention!”

Mahoney nodded. “He’s right. Stay calm and hope they go by without seeing us.”

The tanks roared closer. They split apart to go around the truck, and the American soldiers ducked their heads and hoped the Germans wouldn’t see them. Mahoney peeked out from behind a tire and saw that the tanks were all buttoned up, which meant their visibility was poor. He was confident that the German tanks would pass without seeing them, but he knew that German infantry probably would be on the way soon and then it would be a different story. “Fuckin’ frogs,” he muttered. “Left us out here to die.”

The tanks rumbled past the truck, some no more than a few yards away. Mahoney heard the terrible gnashing sound of tank treads and smelled the diesel smoke pouring from the tank exhausts. The tanks fired their cannons, nearly deafening Mahoney who stuffed his fingers in his ears and grimaced, and French shells exploded throughout the area. Mahoney thought he was in the middle of the end of the world.

And still the German tanks kept coming, like huge gray monsters flattening everything in their paths. Mahoney figured there must be hundreds of them. Suddenly a French shell landed near a German tank and blew off its treads. The tank was only a few yards away from the truck, and Mahoney reached for his carbine.

“Oh-oh,” he said.

Cranepool picked up a hand grenade.

Major Denton balled up his fists. “I told you to leave those hand grenades alone!” he screamed.

“Leave him alone,” Mahoney growled. “Germans might come out of that tank.”

“Oh my God!” Denton said, pulling out his .45. “Be careful with that,” Mahoney told him.

Mahoney clicked his teeth nervously as he watched the tank.

It was stationary and smoke poured from the place where the treads had been. He couldn’t tell if its engine was still running because there was so much smoke and noise all around him. If he was the tank commander he’d sit tight and fire the cannon, but it was possible that the cannon had been damaged in the blast.

The turret of the tank opened, and Mahoney took aim with his carbine. “Don’t fire at them unless they see us,” he said, “but if they see us, we better open up with everything we have before they have a chance to signal that we’re here.”

Mahoney stared at the open turret so hard his eyes burned, but no heads appeared. A rolling tank passed between him and the disabled tank, blocking his view for a few moments; but when the tank passed, the hatch on the disabled tank was still open and no German was showing himself. I wonder what the fuck’s going on, he thought.

The rest of the tanks thundered past, and then they were behind the truck, chasing the French west to the coast. The disabled tank sat in the cornfield along with other German and French tanks that had been put out of the war. Maybe they’re just waiting for the other tanks to pass by before they come out, Mahoney thought.

A head wearing a black beret appeared in the hatch and looked around. It was no more than ten yards away and Mahoney could see that it was the head of a man who was blond and quite young.

“Remember what I said,” Mahoney whispered. “If they see us—open fire. I’ll give the signal.”

Major Denton cleared his throat. “Exactly what will the signal be, Sergeant?” he asked in a quavering voice.

“When I fire my carbine—that’ll be the signal.”

The men bestirred themselves and readied their weapons. Cranepool picked up a hand grenade and watched the German tank intently. Mahoney put the German tanker’s head in his sights and followed him as he climbed out of the hatch and shouted an order down into the tank. The German walked down the deck of the tank and jumped to the ground, as another head appeared in the hatch. The second German crawled out and then a third one, bleeding from a leg wound, climbed onto the deck of the tank. They jumped to the ground and joined the first German. All of them carried submachine guns.

They looked around. One of them took off his black beret and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Another spoke with the one who was wounded. He placed the wounded man’s arm around his shoulder and helped him walk. The three of them walked to the side of the tank closest to the truck and headed back in the direction they had come from.

The German with the wound and the one helping him were preoccupied with simply moving; but the other German, the one who’d left the tank first, was looking everywhere and moving stealthily, his submachine gun held ready. His head jerked about like a squirrel looking for acorns, and he glanced at the truck several times but didn’t see anything.

Just then an ant that had been crawling up the back of Sergeant Goldberg’s shirt crossed the bridge to his neck, and Sergeant Goldberg reflexively reached back and slapped it.

The German froze and looked in the direction of the truck. Mahoney held his breath. The German bent over and squinted underneath the truck, then pointed to it and shouted.

The Germans dropped to the ground, and Mahoney opened fire. His first bullet kicked up dirt in front of the German who’d spotted them and his second whizzed over the German’s head. All the .45’s bullets went wild, and then Cranepool threw one of his hand grenades and shouted, “Get down!”

The hand grenade toppled lazily through the air and fell in the midst of the Germans. One of them grabbed it and prepared to throw it back, when it exploded. All three Germans disappeared in a red flash explosion, and when the smoke cleared they were torn to shreds.

“Good work,” Mahoney said with a grin. “I’m gonna see if any of those submachine guns are still working.”

Mahoney crept out from underneath the truck and ran bent toward the Germans, dropping to his knees when he came to the first submachine gun. It was blackened and covered with dirt but he worked the bolt and it was okay. He took some long clips of ammunition from a pouch on a bloody German torso, stuffing them into his shirt. He spotted another submachine gun for Cranepool and he worked the bolt once to make sure it was in good shape.

Then something told him to look up. He sucked wind when he saw advancing ranks of German foot soldiers in the distance. Not wanting to make any sudden movements, he lowered himself slowly to the ground and crawled back toward the truck. Major Denton was motioning frantically to him.

Mahoney slithered like a snake toward the truck, dragging the submachine guns with him. He had known that sooner or later the Germans would send their infantry in to mop up. Mahoney realized that he and the others probably were going to get mopped up too unless a miracle happened. He grabbed a stalk of corn that had several ears on it. At least we’ll die with something in our stomachs, he thought grimly.

He crawled underneath the truck and Major Denton bent over him. “German soldiers are coming!” he said in a choked voice.

“I saw them,” Mahoney replied. He handed the submachine gun and a handful of clips to Cranepool, then tore an ear of corn off the stalk and threw it to Denton. “It’s time for chow, boys.”

Denton looked at the ear of corn. “How can you think of food at a time like this?” he screamed.

Mahoney shrugged. “Give it to Cranepool then.” Mahoney threw an ear to Goldberg.

Denton handed the ear to Cranepool, looked at the advancing Germans, then back at Mahoney. “What do you think we should do, Sergeant?” he asked with overtones of profound anxiety.

Mahoney threw an ear of corn to Sergeant Bates. “Surrender, I suppose.”

“Surrender?” Denton asked, blinking.

“You got a better idea?”

“Me?” Denton chewed his lower lip. “I don’t think so.”

“We can’t fight them all,” Mahoney explained, throwing an ear of corn to Washington. “If they see us, the only thing to do will be to surrender. Anybody wearing anything white?”

Nobody said anything. Even their underwear was O.D. green.

“Well,” Mahoney said, “If they see us I guess we’ll just have to hold our hands high in the air and smile in a friendly way.” With a shrug he ripped the green husk off the ear of corn, wondering what German POW camps were like.

At the French command post, General Duloc was poised on the balls of his feet as he peered through his binoculars at the battlefield. He smiled when he saw the Germans charging madly forward. The center of his line was pulling back slowly now, but the flanks were holding. The Germans were rushing headlong into a trap that would snap shut on them. And Duloc decided that the time had come to set it in motion.

“Lieutenant Grévin?” he said, still looking at the battlefield, because he didn’t want to miss anything.

“Yes sir.”

“Order the counterattack.”

“Yes sir.”

Mahoney and the others gnawed their corn hungrily and watched the advancing German line of infantry. It was around eight hundred yards away, but advancing steadily. Mahoney could see the sunlight glint on German bayonets, and he wondered if his blood would stain one of those bayonets before the sun went down today.

Mahoney didn’t feel very optimistic about the outcome of the afternoon. The French had run like cowards and the Germans probably would shoot him and the others. Mahoney had shot Germans who’d tried to surrender and he imagined that Germans often did the same thing. Who wanted to be bothered with prisoners of war? You had to feed them and assign people to guard them, and it was too much trouble.

Mahoney picked a grenade from the ground and dropped it into his back pocket. He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair, trying not to think that he might be killed in the next few moments. He glanced behind him and saw the German tanks far in the distance, still chasing the French. This hasn’t been one of my better days, Mahoney thought.

“Well,” he said aloud, “we might as well get rolling. You ready Cranepool?”

“I’m ready, Sarge.”

Mahoney waved vaguely to the others. “See you later, guys.”

Major Denton solemnly extended his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

“Fuck you,” Mahoney replied. “Let’s go, Cranepool.”

They crawled out the right side of the truck and stood up, looking at the Germans who were a hundred and fifty yards in front of them. Brushing the dirt off their clothes, they walked toward the Germans waving their hands in the air.

“Do you think they see us?” Cranepool asked.

“If we can see them, they must be able to see us, asshole.”

“But there are only two of us and there are so many of them.”

Mahoney jumped up and down and waved his hands. “Ich ergebe mich!” He bellowed the German words for “I surrender.” “Ich ergebe mich!”

The long gray line of German soldiers didn’t react at all.

“I don’t think they heard you, Sarge,” Cranepool said.

Mahoney jumped up and down again, waving his hands wildly. “Ich ergebe mich! Ich ergebe mich!”

Still there was no reaction from the Germans who were quite close now. Mahoney could see the features of their faces, and they didn’t look very friendly.

Cranepool held his hands high in the air. “Are you sure them’s the right words, Sarge?”

“Of course they’re the right words. Ich ergebe mich! Ich ergebe mich!”

There was a burst of submachine-gun fire, and bullets zipped all around them. They dropped to the ground instantly and looked at each other.

“I guess they’re not taking prisoners today,” Mahoney said.

“Guess not.”

“Back to the truck.”

“Hup Sarge.”

Their chins close to the ground, they scrambled back to the truck and crawled underneath it as bullets zapped over their heads and whacked into the metal.

Major Denton looked as though he was going to have a heart attack. “I knew you shouldn’t have gone out there! I knew you were going to draw their fire!”

Mahoney pointed his finger at him. “I’m sick of your mouth. If you don’t shut up I’m going to kill you.”

“But...”

“You heard me.”

Denton’s ears turned red and a bullet hit the front tire of the truck. The tire blew out and the truck lowered closer toward the ground. Mahoney saw that the axle was high enough to keep them from being crushed by the undercarriage of the truck, and he thought the lowered truck would give them more protection. A bullet hit the other front tire, and it began to lose air too.

Mahoney grabbed his submachine gun. “Well boys, I guess this is it,” he said through his teeth. “They’re not taking prisoners today, so we’ve got to fight.”

He crawled toward the front of the truck, aimed his submachine gun at the advancing Germans, and pulled the trigger. The submachine gun shuddered in his hands and orange flame spurted from its barrel. The Germans were standing up as they advanced and the bullets cut three of them down. Suddenly around five hundred Germans in that section of the line hit the dirt.

Mahoney blinked. He could barely believe that one burst had done all that. Cranepool crawled up beside him and together they fired at the Germans who were only two hundred yards away and clearly visible.

“Let’s go!” Mahoney shouted to the others as the submachine gun bucked in his hands. “Grab those carbines and keep the bastards pinned down!”

Bates grabbed Mahoney’s carbine and Washington took Cranepool’s. They hid behind the hubs of the flattened tires and fired at the Germans, who themselves were directing a withering fire at the truck. Bullets ricocheted off its fenders and ripped into its bumper a few inches above Mahoney’s head. Germans on the far flanks advanced and took positions where they could fire at the sides of the truck. Major Denton and Sergeant Goldberg fired their .45’s, which were completely ineffective at that range, but they hoped stray bullets might kill some Germans.

The bolt on Mahoney’s submachine gun clicked, indicating that the clip was empty. He ejected it, rammed in a new one, and opened fire again, spraying lead from side to side at the Germans on their stomachs before him. He didn’t know why he was fighting back, because death was certain. It would only be a matter of time before the Germans brought up some heavy weapons and blew them off the face of the earth.

“Keep them pinned down!” he said, his submachine gun rocking his body. “It’s our only chance!”

A German soldier got to his knees with a panzerfaust (an antitank weapon), and Mahoney gave him a burst in the face. Some other Germans were trying to set up a machine gun, but Cranepool raked them with bullets and sent them flying in all directions. A German officer stood and moved his arm forward, indicating he wanted his men to attack, but Pfc Washington shot him between the eyes with Cranepool’s carbine.

Another officer leapt to his feet and ordered a charge, but Mahoney poured a burst of six into his belly. As the officer fell backwards, his men leapt to their feet and charged the truck. Sweat poured down Mahoney’s and Cranepool’s faces as they held their triggers back all the way and swayed the barrels of their submachine guns from side to side. A bunch of Germans dropped to the ground but the rest kept coming. One of them reared his hand back to throw a hand grenade but a wild shot from Major Denton’s .45 hit him in the chest. The bullet made a tiny hole going in but ripped out his kidney and liver on the way out. The German fell to the ground and the hand grenade went off, blowing up the Germans nearby and sending shrapnel slicing through the bodies of Germans a little farther away.

The German attack faltered. The American soldiers underneath the truck felt encouraged by the knowledge that they’d stopped so many Germans, and fought even harder, firing their weapons as quickly as they could. The surviving Germans attackers pulled back slowly to their main lines, and the Americans cheered.

The next moment a ferocious hail of German bullets raked the truck and kicked up dirt all around them. Mahoney pressed his chin into the ground and peered under the brim of his helmet at the Germans. A wave of them were attacking while others were laying down a steady base of fire.

“Shoot back!” Mahoney yelled. “Our only chance is to shoot back!”

He fired his submachine gun wildly and caught the lead Germans across the legs. They screamed horribly and fell to the ground, writhing in pain and rolling around. The other Germans kept coming, but they ran into a hail of lead from the combined firepower of the Americans’ weapons.

The Germans kept charging, and it was hard for Mahoney and the others to fire accurately because German bullets were thick all around them. The Germans advanced to within fifty yards of the truck and kept coming. Mahoney and Cranepool returned their fire, shooting a few down and missing the rest. The Germans charged on, holding their rifles and bayonets in front of them, and then when they were twenty-five yards away their commander told them to hit it and they all fell down. They opened fire, and the Americans fired back as best they could, bullets flying around them like swarms of angry hornets. Mahoney could see that the Germans were going to attack in waves, and when they got close enough they’d lob hand grenades under the truck.

“Keep firing!” he shouted. “Show them what Americans are made out of!”

Even Major Denton fired back and fought hard. All the Americans under the truck figured they were as good as dead and thought they might as well go out in a blaze of glory. Unable to return fire with precision, their visibility hampered by smoke and the whiz of bullets, they didn’t see the German soldier set up a panzerfaust and fire it. The shell flew through the air and landed on the front grille of the truck, exploding on contact and tearing away the grille along with the front half of the engine.

Underneath the truck, the Americans were half deafened by the explosion. Mahoney’s ears rang but he continued firing the submachine gun. The bolt clicked and he ejected the empty clip. Reaching for a new one, he realized it was the last one left. He gulped as he loaded it into the chamber. Well, the game is just about over, he thought. He lifted his head and fired the submachine gun, and his bullets whistled over the heads of the Germans in front of him.

A second wave of Germans leapt up from the main line and charged the truck. Mahoney swung his submachine gun around and fired at them. He saw some fall, but the rest kept coming. Cranepool’s submachine gun chattered next to him and Germans dropped to the ground, but most of them kept driving and dived to the ground near the first wave.

Now both attacking waves fired at once and the Americans beneath the truck could barely raise their heads. Bullets ricocheted everywhere and all the tires were flattened. Another panzerfaust shell hit the truck, exploding the right front fender into the air. Mahoney fired as best he could and then his submachine gun went “click” and he knew he was out of ammunition.

“Hey Cranepool—you got any ammo left!” he yelled above the roar.

“I think so.”

Cranepool reached into his belt pouch and found only one clip left. “Here you go, Sarge,” he shouted, throwing it to Mahoney.

Mahoney jammed it into the submachine gun. “How many you got left?”

“That was my last one.”

Suddenly Cranepool shouted “Shit!” and laid down his submachine gun. He was out of ammunition, but he still was game. He took his bayonet out of its scabbard and vowed to defend himself with it if he was still alive when the Germans came within reach.

Mahoney’s submachine gun stopped firing; now he was out of ammunition too. He dropped it and closed his eyes, hoping that the bullet with his name on it would finish him off quickly. Opening his eyes, he saw Cranepool lying on his stomach with his bayonet in his hand. Mahoney saw Washington and Bates also lying on the ground; evidently they had run out of ammunition too. Goldberg and Major Denton were still firing futile shots from their .45’s. The smoke beneath the truck was so thick that Mahoney could only see the outlines of the other men, and they looked ghostly to him, as though they were already dead.

Mahoney knew that the final grains of sand were pouring out of his hourglass. He was nervous and scared and couldn’t think very coherently, but he expected to be killed at any moment. He pressed his face against the ground and grabbed dirt with both hands. Let’s get it over with, you cocksuckers, he thought. Make it quick and clean.

He looked up, and to his amazement he thought he saw the front waves of Germans pulling back. Rubbing his eyes, he looked again and they still appeared to be pulling back. I must be seeing things, he thought. They can’t possibly be pulling back.

“Hey Sarge!” Cranepool cried. “They’re retreating!”

Mahoney’s jaw dropped open. It was true—the Krauts really were pulling back! But why?

“Hey look!” shouted Washington.

Mahoney turned to squint in the direction Washington was pointing, and through the smoke and haze he saw tanks headed toward the truck.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” he muttered.

“They’re German tanks!” Washington said.

“German tanks?” Mahoney asked. Then the truth dawned on him. The Germans were retreating! The French must have launched a counterattack! Amazed, afraid to believe that this was so, he watched the German tanks speed across the field, heading in the direction from which they’d originally come. Their turrets were turned around and they fired their cannons at the French in hot pursuit behind them. The German tank formations were in complete disarray as they thundered past the deuce-and-a-half. Their treads threw up clods of earth and their exhausts belched hot smoke. They rolled toward the lines of German infantry, who panicked and ran out of the paths of the tanks, but some couldn’t make it and were mashed into the ground.

Mahoney blinked in amazement. In a matter of seconds the whole desperate situation had been turned around, and he could barely believe it. They had been in the jaws of hell but now suddenly they were free again.

“Here come the frogs!” said Washington.

The French tanks were rolling across the field at full speed, firing cannons and machine guns at the retreating Germans. They roared forward and came abreast of the Americans underneath their truck.

“Vive la France!” Mahoney shouted. “Vive de Gaulle!”

The French tanks rolled past the truck and continued their pursuit of the Germans. Mahoney realized that he now was behind his own lines. He breathed a sigh of relief and reached for a cigarette. I don’t think I can take many more like that, he told himself as he lit the cigarette with his Zippo.

The Americans beneath the deuce-and-a-half weren’t the only ones who viewed the sudden turn of events with disbelief. In the German bunker, General Felger gnashed his teeth as he watched his tanks retreating across the field. He’d thought he won a great victory, but then suddenly the French counterattacked and caught half his tanks in a gigantic pincer movement. The other half of his tanks got away, but a French tank corps was right behind them. The German tanks looked as though they were going to retreat all the way back to Berlin, and Felger couldn’t let that happen.

“Stop them!” Felger screamed.

General Buchheim’s countenance had changed from that of a confident warlord to a fat little man who was naked and afraid. “I told them to stop but they won’t,” he said weakly.

Felger turned around and his eyes blazed with fury. “Tell your tank commander that if he doesn’t counterattack immediately I’ll relieve him of command and have him shot. Tell him to pass the word along that any man who fails to stop and fight will be shot and his family in Germany will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

“Yes my general!”

“And if you can’t convince them, the same treatment will apply to you. Do you get my drift?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then get to work!”

General Buchheim picked up the field telephone, and General Felger turned to the battlefield again. His eyes passed those of Major Lubel, and Felger thought Lubel was looking at him reproachfully.

“What are you looking at?” Felger screamed.

“Everything,” Lubel replied.

“I suppose you feel vindicated, now that it appears that you were right and I was wrong.”

“I cannot take pleasure in my vindication when the blood of good German soldiers is soaking the ground out there.”

Felger narrowed his eyes to slits. “All battles are bloody, Lubel. All soldiers know that. But a great field commander never shrinks from the sight of blood or hesitates to spill it if he thinks it will win him victory. This battle isn’t over yet by any means. Watch, and you may learn something.”

Lubel raised his chin slowly. “Let’s hope that you learn something,” he said softly.

“What was that!”

“I said that all of us can learn from the great battles of history, sir.”

Felger looked coldly at him, then turned and trained his binoculars down on the battlefield. His tanks were in full retreat, and there was even the danger that French troops would overrun the hill he was standing on. But he was confident that German soldiers would stand and fight when ordered to do so in a forthright manner.

General Duloc watched calmly as the Germans pushed his tanks back once more. At the final moment, when the Germans had reorganized themselves and mounted an attack, he wasn’t surprised because he knew that the Germans were well trained and always fought well. But he still thought he had them beat.

“Lieutenant Grévin,” he said. “What do we have in reserve?”

“Only the 5th Battalion, sir.”

“Order them to attack in the middle of the line between the 415th and 60th Battalions. Have the 25th and 41st Battalions pull in from the flanks and follow the 5th. Tell them to split the German line in half and then form two encircling movements, one on each side of the German flanks. Do you understand that?”

“Yes sir.”

“And order the infantry commanders to lead their men in a skirmish line behind the tanks.”

“Yes sir.”

“Carry out your orders.”

Lieutenant Grévin moved toward the field telephones, his brow furrowed with worry. He knew that General Duloc was throwing everything he had into the battle and that there was nothing to do now except pray for victory.

The French tanks retreated and passed the old deuce-and-a-half again. The German tanks advanced, firing shells every several yards. Mahoney knew that German troops would be right behind the German tanks. Soon he and the others would be in the same pickle they were in before. And he knew they really wouldn’t have much of a chance once they were behind the German lines again.

He raised his binoculars for a look at the German tanks, and in the smoke of battle he thought they’d stopped. Huge numbers of shells whistled overhead and the battlefield shook with innumerable explosions. He looked behind him and saw that the French tanks had stopped also. The French and German tanks had reached a standoff, maneuvering laterally and lobbing shells at each other. Mahoney realized that the old truck was right in the middle of the battlefield. He and the others were stuck in the worst possible place.

A shell landed near the front of the truck and rocked it from side to side. Another shell landed behind the truck and filled the air with bitter fumes. Bursting shells flashed all around them and Mahoney thought he’d suffocate in the smoke. It became so thick he couldn’t see ten yards in front of him, but then a gust of wind came and cleared some smoke away. The hair stood up on Mahoney’s head as he saw that the German troops were advancing with them!

He thought he heard more battle cries behind him and wondered if there was some kind of weird echo effect taking place underneath the truck.

“The frogs are coming!” Washington shouted.

Mahoney turned around and through the billowing clouds saw French tanks and French troops advancing. The French and Germans were attacking each other and soon would collide right in the middle of the battlefield.

They watched in awe as the French and German forces met and clashed with each other. Tanks from each side drove into each other’s ranks, firing cannons and machine guns. The soldiers fought hand to hand, and some of the soldiers fired antitank weapons. A vicious pitched battle was taking place around the truck, and finally Mahoney couldn’t stand the suspense of hoping the Germans wouldn’t spot them. Something snapped in his mind, and he thought he’d rather be out there fighting than hiding underneath the truck and waiting for the ax to fall. He checked to make sure the bayonet was secure on his German rifle, and said, “I’m going out there.”

“What for?” said Denton.

Mahoney didn’t reply; he crawled out from underneath the truck.

“Wait for me, Sarge!” Cranepool yelled.

Mahoney stood up in front of the grille of the truck and Cranepool arose beside him. Mahoney felt his blood rushing through his veins at the sight of French and German soldiers clashing all around them. Moving into the swirling smoke, they heard the roar of a tank to their side. The smoke cleared for a moment and the big black iron cross could be seen on the tank’s turret. Mahoney ripped a grenade off his lapel, pulled the pin, and lobbed the grenade into the tread of the tank, dropping into a nearby shell crater as soon as the grenade left his hand.

Cranepool fell into the hole with him just as the grenade exploded inside the tank’s tread. It blew apart, its fragments flying into the air, and the tank ground to a halt. Mahoney heard footsteps and saw three German soldiers running toward them with their bayonets pointed forward like lances. Mahoney and Cranepool came up out of the hole and charged the Germans. Mahoney was on the left and he lunged forward at a German with his bayonet. The German, a skinny young kid, tried to parry Mahoney’s thrust, but he wasn’t strong enough. Mahoney’s bayonet streaked forward and buried to the hilt in the kid’s chest. He fell to the ground and Mahoney pulled back his rifle, but it was stuck in the German’s chest and wouldn’t budge. In the corner of his eye he saw another German try to bash him in the head with his rifle butt. Mahoney dodged out of the way and grabbed the soldier’s rifle. While he pulled and tugged, grunting and swearing, Mahoney made out that his adversary was around forty years old, an old sergeant with a lantern jaw. The German tried to knee Mahoney in the balls, but Mahoney twisted out of the way and managed to kick the German in the shins. The German screamed and loosened his grip on the rifle. Mahoney pulled it out of his hands and smashed him in the face with it. The German fell back, but before he hit the ground Mahoney ran him through the stomach and then pulled the bayonet out. Blood poured out of the German sergeant’s wound and he groaned in agony.

Mahoney turned and saw Cranepool grappling with another German soldier. Mahoney maneuvered so that maybe he could shoot the German from the side, when a horde of Germans appeared in the smoke and ran toward him with bayonets fixed. Mahoney planted one foot behind him and prepared to take them all on. Something told him that maybe he shouldn’t have left the safety of the truck, when he heard footsteps behind him and was suddenly joined by a squad of French soldiers.

The Germans ran into Mahoney and the Frenchmen. Bayonets and rifles clashed against each other, followed by cries of pain and shouts of triumph. Mahoney neatly parried the thrust of the German in front of him and brought his rifle butt around into the soldier’s face. Then, using his bayonet, he slashed diagonally across the chest of another German, who shrieked at the sudden pain and dropped to his knees.

Mahoney kicked him in the face and kept going. He charged a German soldier and thrust his bayonet toward his heart. The German parried it and pushed Mahoney back. Mahoney grunted and charged again, feinting with his bayonet. The German tried to parry the feint and Mahoney jabbed his bayonet through the German’s rib cage. The German fell back and once more Mahoney’s bayonet became stuck. He pulled and pulled but it wouldn’t come out. So he left it sticking in the German’s chest and took his rifle instead. Breathing hard, his heart chugging like a tractor engine, he peered forward and saw some Germans about ten yards away. He dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired the German rifle. One of the Germans slumped to the ground, and suddenly a bunch of French appeared to aid him in the attack. Mahoney ran forward to join them—his eyes darting around in all directions so that nothing would take him by surprise—when he saw a dead German tanker lying on the ground, his black beret over his face and his submachine gun lying a few feet away.

With a cry of joy, Mahoney picked up the submachine gun and threw the German rifle away. He stuffed clips of German ammunition into his belt and ran forward, eager for more battle now that he had his favorite weapon in his hands. He held the butt of the submachine gun against his hip. It chattered in his hands and Germans toppled twitching and screaming to the ground.

Mahoney and the Frenchmen continued to move forward, shooting and stabbing Germans. Mahoney must have advanced fifty yards before it occurred to him that the Germans were falling back, and his heart swelled with the joy of victory.

“LETS GO!” he shouted, running after the Germans. “KILL THE COCKSUCKERS!”

Chapter Fifteen