Mahoney awoke on the cold stone floor of his cell in the MP station in Clervaux. His head felt as though it had been run over by the Red Ball Express, and he ached all over his body. He had difficulty opening his mouth, because his lips were sealed by dried blood. Moistening the blood with his wetted tongue, he pulled his lips apart and opened his mouth. He touched his teeth with his tongue; some of them were loose.
“Those fucking bastards,” he muttered, getting up and sitting heavily on the wooden cot affixed to the wall. He felt his ribs and bones to discover whether anything was broken, but it appeared that nothing was. The MPs had jabbed him in the gut with their billy clubs, and he might be pissing blood for awhile, but those were the breaks of the game.
He wished he had a cigarette, but the bastards had taken all of them away from him. Glancing at his watch to find out the time, he saw that they’d taken that away too. He cursed them again and shivered in the cold cell. His overcoat had been left behind in the cafe, and he wore only a fatigue shirt with a wool sweater underneath it. He realized he was in a serious mess.
If this had happened in the Third Army, he’d probably be free as a bird right now, but he was in hostile territory, even if it was held by the same U.S. Army that he was in. Hooper would testify that the other guy pulled a knife first, but who knew where Hooper was, and there might not be a trial anyway. They might just take him out back and shoot him down. Afterwards, they’d say he’d tried to escape. Such things happened from time to time in the Army.
And it was all because of a piece of ass, from a whore of all things, and he didn’t even get into her pants. He closed his eyes and remembered her sitting at the table, holding her coffee cup with dainty fingers, her face as pretty as any movie star’s. Naw, he thought, she’s not really a whore, and she’s not just another piece of ass either. She’d touched his heart somehow in the brief time they’d been together, and he hoped he’d see her again someday. He was glad he’d kept that sergeant away from her. Mahoney wondered if he’d died. Fuck him anyway.
He heard a commotion in another part of the jail. Somebody was shouting in German, “The Germans are coming tonight, I tell you! Why don’t you believe me?”
“Shaddup, kraut!” said an American voice, and Mahoney heard something that sounded like a punch in the mouth.
The commotion came closer, and Mahoney saw a group of MPs dragging a German soldier through the corridor. The German’s blond head hung down, and Mahoney realized that the MPs must have really clobbered him. They passed Mahoney and opened a cell farther down the corridor. Mahoney pushed his head against the bars of his cell and could see the MPs throwing the German soldier into a cell.
The MPs walked toward Mahoney, and he held out his hand. “How about a cigarette, boys?”
“Fuck you,” replied one of the MPs.
“Hey—c’mon,” Mahoney said. “We’re in the same Army, aren’t we?”
Another MP stopped and reached toward his shirt pocket. “I can’t deny a man a cigarette,” he said in a Southern drawl.
“Don’t get too close to him!”
“He don’t look so dangerous to me.”
The MP held out a cigarette, and Mahoney took it, placing it between his bloody lips as the other MPs watched glumly. The first MP held out his Zippo and flicked the wheel, bringing the fire close to the cigarette. Mahoney puffed and filled his lungs with the rich smoke.
“Thanks, buddy,” Mahoney said.
The MP winked.
“What’s with the kraut?”
“He’s a deserter. We picked him up tonight.”
“He said the Germans are going to attack.”
The MP cocked an eye. “How you know that?”
“I speak kraut.”
“Yeah, that’s what he told the officer who interrogated him. The information’s been sent up to Corps.”
“Let’s go!” said one of the other MPs.
The MP who’d given Mahoney the light moved off into the darkness with the others. Mahoney sat on his cot and puffed the cigarette, feeling better already. Everybody always said that cigarettes were bad for you and cut your wind, but how could they be so bad if they always made you feel better? He thought of the German and wondered if he was telling the truth about the attack or whether he was just a nut or if he’d been sent by the Germans to confuse everybody. The Germans were tricky people, and you never knew what they could be up to.
Down the corridor, the German muttered to himself. Mahoney arose from his cot and stepped toward the bars of his cell. He’d learned to speak German fluently when he was in North Africa, dealing black market goods to the Germans in the big POW camp near Oran.
“How are you feeling?” Mahoney called down the corridor in German.
There was a pause, and then the German soldier replied, “Who’s there?”
“An American soldier behind bars like you.”
“You speak German!”
“What’d you say about an attack?”
“Early in the morning, there will be a major offensive against this area!” the German said fervently. “I told your captain, but he wouldn’t believe me!”
“Why did you desert?”
“Because I hate the Army and the Nazis, and I couldn’t take it anymore. My country is being destroyed.”
Mahoney sat on his cot and puffed his cigarette, wondering if the German was telling the truth. He decided he couldn’t do anything about it either way, so he stretched out on the cot, rested his head on his arm, and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling.
~*~
On the German side of the Siegfried Line, Field Marshall Walther Model stood with his aides in the darkness and watched the troops and tanks of the Fifth Panzer Army advance to their attack positions. Moveable ramps had been brought up from the rear and laid on the dragon’s teeth of the Siegfried Line, so that the tanks could pass over. All roads leading to the front had been covered with straw to muffle the sound made by the tracks of tanks and personnel carriers. Ammunition for the opening artillery barrage was being carried forward by hand, to save gas and avoid the noise that trucks would make. Military police roamed the lines making certain there was no unnecessary movement. Strict radio silence was being observed.
Field Marshall Model stood with his hands in his greatcoat pockets and thought about Operation Wacht am Rhein as the tanks and men streamed past him. He knew that Hitler was gambling everything on this offense, and he was one of the officers who thought it could not succeed. He’d told Hitler that there weren’t enough tanks, men, and supplies to carry the attack all the way to Antwerp, but Hitler had disagreed. All Model could do was follow orders. He was commander of Army Group B, which comprised the three panzer armies that would participate in the attack. Hitler had transferred all responsibility to his shoulders, and he’d done his usual, thorough job, but deep in his heart he thought the war was lost.
He heard footsteps approaching in the darkness. Turning, he saw Lieutenant General Hasso von Manteuffel, barely five feet, four inches tall, a former German pentathlon champion and commander of the Fifth Panzer Army in whose sector Model stood. Like Model, Manteuffel also doubted that the attack could push all the way to Antwerp and had argued for more modest objectives.
Manteuffel saluted Model. “Everything is going smoothly so far,” he said, standing stiffly and looking up to the taller Model, who nodded.
“Yes,” replied Model, who wore a monocle in his right eye. “Let’s hope that the Amis don’t get suspicious.”
“We’ve received no reports of changes in their dispositions.”
Model looked at his watch. It was two o’clock in the morning. “We have just a little more time to go. Let’s hope they stay unsuspicious.”
~*~
At Eighth Corps headquarters in Bastogne, Corporal Donald Riley of Abbotsford, Wisconsin, sat with headphones on in front of a radio set. He was sleepy and anxious because it was a few minutes after two o’clock in the morning, and his relief had not yet shown up. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the copy of Stars and Stripes spread open on the space in front of the radio set.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Riley turned around and saw Pfc Arnold Scheuer of Columbus, Ohio, his relief,
“What’re you sneakin’ up on me for!” Riley exploded.
“I’m not sneaking up on you.”
“About time you got here.” Riley stood and handed Scheuer the headphones.
Scheuer put them on and sat at the bench. “Anything going on?” he asked.
Riley gathered up his Stars and Stripes. “The krauts are on radio silence.”
“Did you report it?”
“Of course I reported it.”
“I wonder why they’re on radio silence.”
Riley looked askance at him. “You know what we do when we go on radio silence, don’t you?”
Scheuer shrugged. “We’re usually getting ready to attack.”
“Right.”
Riley turned and walked away. Scheuer took out pencil and paper because he intended to write his girlfriend back home. Then he turned the knob and scanned the airwaves, listening to the frequencies that the Germans usually used for transmission. He heard nothing except faint whistles and static. He picked up his pencil and wrote the date on the upper right-hand corner of the blank piece of paper. If the Germans were on radio silence, that was the problem of G-2 (Intelligence). Let them worry about it.
But in G-2, the report of radio silence was filed with the other reports of unusual activity behind the German lines. The consensus was that either the Germans were on maneuvers in the area, or they were trying to fool the Americans into thinking that an attack was about to be launched.