At ten o’clock in the morning, the Third Army was rumbling north on a twenty mile front. The men of the Hammerhead Division rode on tanks, and when they reached Luxembourg City, the citizens came out into the streets to cheer because they’d expected the Germans to attack at any moment, but instead the Americans had arrived to protect them.
“PATTON—PATTON—PATTON!” the people chanted, waving American flags and throwing flowers at the soldiers.
Cranepool and his squad rode on one of the lead tanks, and he caught a wreath with the end of his rifle. There was pandemonium everywhere he looked. Girls blew kisses at him, and he wished he could climb down from the tank and grab a few of them. A bottle came flying through the air, and Pfc Grossberger caught it like Joe DiMaggio playing center field. It was red wine, and he dug out the cork with the blade of his penknife.
“PATTON—PATTON—PATTON!” the people screamed.
Slowly the men and tanks made their way through the jubilation, drinking wine and ogling the girls. A massive traffic jam caused the tanks to stop, and little children climbed all over the soldiers, begging for chocolate and touching their uniforms. A few girls made it onto the tanks, and officers loudly instructed the men to leave them alone, but the officers couldn’t see everything, and a few kisses were stolen, not to mention some cheap feels.
Finally the armored column moved out again. It rumbled through the cheering throngs, and Cranepool thought he and the other soldiers might as well enjoy themselves while they could, because soon they’d be in Belgium fighting the biggest German counteroffensive of the war.
Cranepool’s tank approached an intersection, and he saw a soldier directing traffic. Men on the lead tanks were pointing to the soldier, and Cranepool leaned forward so he could get a better look. MPs held back the crowds, who applauded and shouted in a mad frenzy.
“ITS OLD BLOOD AND GUTS!” somebody yelled.
Cranepool saw the stars on the soldier’s epaulettes, and stared in amazement at General George S. Patton Jr. waving the tanks through.
He’d been the one who unsnarled the traffic jam.
~*~
Mahoney spent the night trudging through the woods, because he was afraid to use the road now that Germans were in the vicinity. He was angry with himself for leaving Bastogne although he kept telling himself that he had no way of knowing that Germans were to the south of the city. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but like many good ideas, it had turned to shit.
In the dawn, he saw a huge open space ahead of him through the trees and moved toward it cautiously, thinking it was an open field. Instead, it turned out to be a river valley. The water looked deep and fast, and Mahoney didn’t feel like swimming through it in subfreezing weather. He no longer had binoculars, but he knew the general direction of the road and thought he might be able to dash across the bridge if no Germans were around.
He moved through the woods, and after half an hour he spotted a Bailey bridge over the river. Making his way closer to it, he stopped abruptly when he saw soldiers crawling all over it. He didn’t know whether they were American or German, but assumed they were Americans and were preparing to blow the bridge. Creeping closer, he recognized American uniforms and knew he was safe at last.
He came out of the woods and walked toward the soldiers, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Some of the soldiers ran toward him and challenged him. He gave them the password he’d learned last night in Bastogne, and they permitted him to continue.
He walked onto the bridge and saw soldiers setting TNT charges. A lieutenant was on the far side with some sergeants and a map, and Mahoney walked toward him.
“Sir,” Mahoney said, “I ran into a German patrol on that road last night, and I think it might be a good idea to blow this bridge in a hurry, before they move their main forces into this area.”
The lieutenant looked at Mahoney suspiciously. Like everyone else on the bridge, he wore the screaming eagle patch on his shoulder. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
Mahoney explained who he was and said he’d been out on patrol when he’d encountered the Germans. He neglected to mention that he was trying to escape to the Third Army in the south.
“Do you know anything about explosives?” the lieutenant asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you just volunteered to help out here.”
Mahoney leaned his rifle against a stack of paratrooper rifles and walked back to the bridge. He saw that the work was only about a quarter done, and pitched in to help, tying packets of TNT to the bridge and running the wires back to where the lieutenant stood with the detonator.
Some paratroopers ran toward the bridge from the south. “Sir,” one of them yelled, “the Germans are coming!”
“How many?” the officer called back.
“An armored column—maybe twenty tanks or more—and some personnel carriers!”
The lieutenant ran onto the bridge. “Let’s go men—we don’t have much time!”
Fortunately most of the charges were in place. Mahoney took some of the blasting caps and wire and ran to the far side of the bridge, where he inserted the caps into the bundles of TNT and then hooked up the wires. He worked his way backwards, crawling over the bridge’s girders like a big monkey, while the paratroopers performed the same function on the other side of the bridge.
Finally, all the caps were set and the wires connected. They ran the wires back to the magneto and tied them in while in the distance they could hear the rumble of the advancing German convoy.
“Thank God, we did it in time,” the lieutenant said, chewing his lower lip. “Let’s get ready to pull the hell out of here.”
Mahoney tied the last wire to the terminal post of the magneto, then stood. “Sir,” he said, “why don’t we wait until the German tanks are on the bridge? Then we can destroy a few of them along with it.”
The lieutenant had a big jowly face. “Too risky,” he said. “I want to blow the bridge and get my men the hell back to Bastogne.”
“All you need are a couple of men here, sir. The rest can return to Bastogne.”
“Are you volunteering, Sergeant?”
“Why not? Are you?”
The officer turned red because he didn’t expect Mahoney to turn it around on him. He was in a corner, and all he could say was, “Sure.”
The officer told one of his sergeants to take the rest of the men back to Bastogne, and he and Mahoney would catch up with them later on the road. The sergeant lined up the men and told them to load into the deuce and a half truck that had brought them to the bridge. A jeep was left behind for Mahoney, the lieutenant, whose name was Zowski, and Zowski’s driver, Pfc Manuel Arruda from Gloucester, Massachusetts. The deuce and a half sped away.
Mahoney, Zowski, and Arruda moved into some trees nearby, taking the detonator and a box containing four bunches of TNT sticks that hadn’t been used. Just as they were getting into position, the German armored column came around the bend three hundred yards away and thundered toward the bridge, its tracks kicking up clods of ice and snow.
“Here they come,” said Zowski, peering at them through his binoculars.
Mahoney clutched the detonator in his left hand and its handle in his right. He could make out the figures of the tank commanders standing in the turrets of their white tanks. They approached the bridge, and Mahoney held the detonator more tightly.
“Get ready,” said Zowski.
The first tank rolled onto the bridge, followed by the second and then the third. The entire bridge could only hold four tanks at a time, and as soon as the fourth one was aboard, Zowski shouted, “NOW!”
Mahoney twisted the handle.
And nothing happened.
Mahoney twisted it again, and still the bridge didn’t blow. The first tank rolled off the bridge to the near side.
“WHAT THE HELL’S THE PROBLEM!” Zowski screamed.
Mahoney twisted the handle again, but still the TNT didn’t go off. Sweat appeared on his forehead although the temperature was twenty-eight degrees. A second tank rolled off the near side of the bridge.
Mahoney uttered a prayer and twisted again. The wires crackled with electricity, and there was an earsplitting explosion as the bridge disappeared in a huge cloud of smoke. The fierce wind blew the smoke away quickly, revealing no more bridge. The tanks that had been on it had fallen into the river below, and the water was so deep they couldn’t be seen.
The commander of the second tank that made it across the bridge had been hit in the back by a chunk of shrapnel and lay dead or wounded in his turret. His crew pulled him into the tank and closed the hatch. The commander of the first tank had already disappeared, and his turret was moving to the side, trying to get a view of what had happened.
Mahoney pulled a bunch of TNT sticks from the box and lit the fuse with a match.
“What the hell are you going to do!” screamed Zowski, looking at the burning fuse with horror.
“We gotta get those tanks before they get us!”
Mahoney stuffed another bunch of TNT sticks into his field jacket pocket, then leapt up and ran toward the lead tank, the TNT with the burning fuse in his hand and his arm cocked back. Somebody in the first tank must have seen him because the cannon and turret swung suddenly in his direction.
Mahoney hurled the TNT high into the air and dove into the snow. The TNT with its burning fuse fell onto the turret of the tank, rolled to its front deck, and dropped onto the ground, Mahoney took the second bunch of TNT out of his pocket and lit the fuse. It sizzled, and he gritted his teeth as he pulled his arm and prepared to throw it.
Just then the first bunch of TNT exploded. It had been on the ground in front of the first tank, and it blew the tank fifteen feet into the air, ripping apart its hull and incinerating everybody inside. Mahoney ducked, then lit the second fuse and threw the TNT at the other tank.
As soon as the TNT left his hand, machine gun bullets kicked up snow in front of him. He kept his head low and wished a brick wall was in front of him. The second bunch of TNT sticks landed a few yards from the tank that was firing its two machine guns at Mahoney. The turret of the tank opened suddenly, and one of the crew members pulled himself out. Mahoney realized the German was trying to throw the TNT away before it exploded.
A single shot was fired from the direction of the woods, and the tanker froze for a few seconds, then sagged to the side. The TNT exploded and once again the valley was filled with thunder and smoke as the tank’s side was split open and broken apart.
Mahoney was on his feet and running before all the debris had hit the ground. German tanks on the far side of the river fired their machine guns at him, and the bullets sounded like angry gnats around his ears. He dived into the bushes and landed a few feet from Zowski.
“LET’S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Mahoney yelled.
Mahoney picked up his rifle, and they all ran to the jeep. Pfc Arruda started the engine, and the jeep spun its wheels on the snow, then bolted out of the woods and headed for the road. German machine gun bullets cracked over their heads, and an artillery shell from a tank landed a hundred yards away.
“GO!” yelled Mahoney, holding his helmet onto his head.
Arruda turned left when he reached the road and stomped the accelerator onto the floor. A curve in the road was fifty yards in front of them, and if they could get around it, they’d be safe. The German tankers fired more shells and machine gun bullets, but the little jeep was too fast for them, and it scooted behind the hill.
Mahoney took a deep breath. “We made it,” he sighed, as the jeep careened down the road to Bastogne.
Zowski slapped Mahoney on the shoulder. “You’re a helluva guy!” he said. “I’ll have to put you in for a medal when we get back.”
“I’d settle for a good cigar. You wouldn’t happen to have one on you by any chance, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I?” Zowski unzipped his field jacket, reached inside, and produced three cigars. He passed them out, lit them with his lighter, and they all puffed happily as they sped toward Bastogne.
~*~
General Bradley entered General Eisenhower’s office at Versailles. Ike looked up from the map table, his eyes bleary from insufficient sleep. Bradley saluted and approached the map table.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Ike nodded. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Brad. The German advance is continuing unabated, and it seems to me that you’re getting cut off from your two armies in the north. Therefore, I’ve decided to appoint General Montgomery as temporary commander of those troops until this mess is cleared up.”
Bradley looked at the map and swallowed. “But you’re taking away half of my command, sir.”
“It has to be done, Brad. I don’t see how you can command them effectively from here. It’s no reflection on your abilities.” Ike pointed to the map. “It’s just that we’ve got this goddamned German bulge in our territory, and we’ve got to get rid of it in the best way that we can.”
Bradley felt a flare of anger and thought he ought to resign on the spot, but realized he was only a soldier and had to obey orders just like everybody else.
“Yes, sir,” he said in as strong a voice as he could muster.
~*~
Nobody at General McAuliffe’s headquarters knew who Mahoney was, so he had to bully and bluff his way upstairs to the conference room where McAuliffe was having a meeting with his top commanders and aides.
They discussed the immediate formation of a special combat team consisting of eight tanks that could be rushed quickly to any threatened sector of the city. Then they thought they should organize a few more mobile emergency teams in case the Germans attacked at more than one point at the same time.
McAuliffe happened to look up and found himself looking at Mahoney. At first he didn’t know who he was but then remembered.
“Where the hell have you been?” McAuliffe asked.
“Well,” replied Mahoney, “I took a little patrol south to see what was there, and this is what I found.” He tossed the German epaulette in front of McAuliffe, who picked it up and examined it in the light.
“This looks like the unit designation of the Gross Deutschland Division,” McAuliffe said. “Last thing I heard, they were fighting in Russia.”
Mahoney nodded. “We’re fighting units that aren’t even supposed to be here.”
McAuliffe passed the epaulette to his G-2 officer. “Pass this information along to Corps if you can get through.”
“Yes, sir.”
McAuliffe was about to congratulate Mahoney when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” said McAuliffe.
A captain entered the conference room and saluted. “Sir, we’ve got four German officers outside who’re carrying a truce flag. They’ve brought a note for you from their commander.”
The captain handed the note to McAuliffe, who read it quickly.
“Nuts,” he said, throwing the note onto the table.
“What did it say, sir?” asked one of the aides.
“It says that they’ve got us surrounded, and they’re offering us the opportunity to surrender.” McAuliffe looked at the captain. “Escort them back to wherever they came from.”
“They said they need a written reply, sir.”
“I don’t care what they need.”
“Sir,” said the captain, “they’ve delivered a bona fide military communication, and I think that under the commonly observed rules of war they’re entitled to a written answer.”
McAuliffe looked annoyed. “Well, what should I tell them?”
“Tell them to go fuck themselves,” Mahoney said.
“That’s no good,” said an aide.
“What about your first remark?” asked the captain.
“What remark was that?” said McAuliffe.
“Nuts.”
McAuliffe shrugged and bent over the map table. He picked up a pencil, wrote nuts at the bottom of the surrender request, and signed his name.
“Here you go,” he said to the captain, handing him the piece of paper.
~*~
After the meeting, Mahoney slipped out of the headquarters building and set off in search of Madeleine. He stopped a civilian in the street, asked him where the civilian hospital was, and received directions.
Mahoney made his way across battle torn Bastogne. Enemy artillery bombardments and air attacks had destroyed numerous buildings, transforming them into flat, empty lots. Other buildings had only a wall or two standing. Paratroopers double-timed through the streets, moving from one trouble spot to another, and the air was filled with the sounds of artillery explosions and small arms fire. Many buildings and piles of rubble were burning, and the stench was terrible. Mahoney thought Bastogne was the closest thing to hell he’d ever seen.
Finally he came to the hospital, and some of its walls had been damaged by shell bursts. He went inside and stepped over civilians lying in the reception area and the corridors. The air was heavy with the smell of chemicals and rotting flesh. Nobody stopped him, so he walked down a corridor and into a ward, where beds were crammed together and wounded people moaned pathetically.
“May I help you?” asked an elderly nurse.
“I’m looking for a civilian woman who’s working here,” Mahoney replied. “Her name is Madeleine.”
“Madeleine what?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“I don’t know anyone named Madeleine,” the nurse said. “Perhaps you should check with the main office.”
“Where’s that?”
The nurse told him how to get to the office, and Mahoney headed in that direction, elated to think he was getting closer to Madeleine. He admitted to himself that she’d probably forgotten him by now because she met so many men, but something made him believe that she remembered him and would be happy to see him again.
He found the office and asked Madeleine’s whereabouts. An elderly male clerk told him the number of the ward she worked in, and he said her last name was Devereaux.
Lizards crawled through Mahoney’s stomach as he hurried to the ward where she worked. He worried that maybe Madeleine Devereaux wasn’t the Madeleine that he was looking for, but he clicked his teeth together and stepped swiftly as he moved along.
The ward was filled with injured children, and they looked at Mahoney with big, sad eyes that asked, Why is this happening to us? Mahoney became overwhelmed by melancholy as he gazed at them. He had accepted the war as a fact of his life, and it had become almost ordinary to him, but now, in a room full of injured children, old, forgotten attitudes emerged though the layers of personality, and he realized that war was beastly and unnatural, and that it accomplished nothing except the widespread dissemination of misery.
Mahoney noticed a chubby woman with enormous breasts who was arranging the covers on a little boy. She wore a civilian dress, and Mahoney walked toward her. She looked up as he approached.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m looking for Madeleine Devereaux,” Mahoney said.
“She’s sleeping right now.”
“Can you tell me where she is?”
“She’s sleeping in the basement, but you shouldn’t disturb her because she was up for over twenty-four hours straight before she went to bed. She needs to rest.”
“Yes, of course,” Mahoney said, embarrassed that he’d come to the hospital to make love to a woman who was pushing herself to the limits of human endurance taking care of little children. “But just tell me something, so that I’ll know if she’s the Madeleine I’m looking for. Is she about this big,” Mahoney held out the palm of his hand at her height, “with brown hair, brown eyes, and very pretty?”
The woman smiled. “That’s her. Would you like me to give her a message for you?”
“Yes, if you would.”
Mahoney racked his brain for an appropriate message, but everything he thought of seemed corny and ridiculous.
“Never mind,” Mahoney said. “I’ll come back some other time.”
“Shall I tell her your name?”
“Mahoney,” he replied.
He turned to walk away, and saw two big eyes staring at him. They stopped him cold.
“Can this kid eat candy?” Mahoney asked.
“Yes, he can.”
Mahoney reached into his pocket and took out a Hershey bar. Breaking it in half, he gave one piece to the child in front of him and the other piece to the child in the next bed. The woman watched benevolently, as the children solemnly put the chocolate into their mouths and took bites. Then, as the taste of fine American chocolate rolled over their tongues, they smiled happily. The other children rustled in their beds and held out their hands, grinning with expectation.
But Mahoney had nothing to give them. “Sorry kids,” he said, “that’s all I’ve got.”
The kids continued to hold out their hands, their eyes pleading for candy. Mahoney wished he had a whole truckful of the stuff to give them. He looked at the woman, who nodded in understanding.
“The poor children,” she said. “And Christmas is coming, too.”
Mahoney blinked because he’d lost track of dates and time. “When’s Christmas?” he asked.
“Only four days,” she told him.
Mahoney left the hospital, wondering how he could steal some candy for the kids. He knew that every box of C rations contained a candy bar, so he thought he’d find out where the C rations were kept and have a little talk with the quartermaster. There were only about forty kids in the ward. It shouldn’t be too difficult to steal forty candy bars.
He stepped onto the sidewalk, and darkness already had fallen on Bastogne. Two columns of paratroopers double-timed by, and a lieutenant as tall as Mahoney pointed at him and shouted, “Hey soldier—what are you doing here?”
“Just visiting somebody,” Mahoney replied.
“Fall in at the end of this column!”
“Yes, sir.”
Mahoney unslung his M-1 and held it at port arms. When the end of the column came abreast of him, he ran into the street and joined the paratroopers. He could have protested and said he was part of General McAuliffe’s personal staff, but he knew that Bastogne was surrounded and thought he should do whatever he was asked.
He double-timed with the paratroopers through the streets of Bastogne. Shells exploded in the sky, casting eerie flashing lights on devastated buildings. Machine gun fire could be heard from points all over the city, and the ground heaved with the impact of explosions.
Mahoney’s ears picked out the sound of a shell whistling down on him.
“HIT IT!” the lieutenant screamed.
The paratroopers fled in all directions, diving into alleys, storefronts, and through windows. Mahoney landed in a cellar as the shell slammed into the street and exploded with a mighty roar, throwing cobblestones and huge chunks of frozen earth into the air.
The lieutenant blew his whistle, and the paratroopers reformed their column of ducks in the street. They double-timed again, holding their rifles at high port arms. They were a snappy bunch of tough, disciplined soldiers because paratroopers were a special elite in the Army and all of them were volunteers who wanted to be more than ordinary dogfaces.
Mahoney felt good to be among them because he’d been in an elite unit once, the Twenty-third Rangers, and they’d been efficient, professional soldiers who knew their way around a battlefield, unlike the draftees and eight balls who filled the ranks of line divisions like the Hammerheads. Mahoney had transferred out of the Rangers because he’d thought they got too many suicide assignments, but sometimes he thought he’d made a mistake, because the Hammerheads drew their share of difficult assignments too, and although the Hammerhead Division was a good outfit, it was nowhere near as sharp or as professional as a ranger or paratrooper unit.
Mahoney’s ears told him they were headed toward a scene of fierce fighting. The Germans must be trying to break through someplace. They turned a corner, and Mahoney saw a six foot barricade of bricks and rubble ahead. Paratroopers lay all over it, firing rifles and anti-tank weapons. American tanks and tank destroyers sat behind it, shooting their cannons and machine guns.
“HALT!” shouted the lieutenant.
Mahoney and the other paratroopers stopped.
“FALL OUT AND TAKE POSITIONS OVER THERE!”
The paratroopers broke ranks and ran toward the barricade. Nobody had to tell them not to bunch up or how to position themselves. They were crackerjack soldiers, and eagerly they climbed the barricade. Mahoney found a spot for himself and looked over the top.
He saw twenty German tanks and about a hundred German soldiers advancing across an icy plain toward the barricade. Between this attacking force and the barricade were destroyed German tanks and corpses, which meant that the Germans had tried to storm the barricade before without success.
A German tank fired its cannon, and a length of the barricade not far from Mahoney was blown apart along with the paratroopers who’d been on top of it. Seconds later, an American anti-tank gun fired, and the tank seemed to shrink as it disappeared in an explosion and cloud of smoke.
Another tank fired at the barricade, scoring a direct hit, but it wasn’t enough to blow a path through it, and that’s what the Germans wanted to do. American anti-tank guns kept them back, and the German soldiers huddled behind their tanks. Mahoney looked through his sights for a German to shoot but couldn’t get a clear shot at any of them. He squeezed off a few rounds anyway, to make them keep their heads down.
The battlefield flashed with light as shells exploded and then went dark while the gunners loaded up again. American and German shells flew back and forth intermittently. Evidently, the Germans were getting ready to attack again. Then, out of the night came a swarm of German tanks, including some of the new King Tigers, to augment the German tank force already there. They all joined together and charged the barricade.
Mahoney fired his rifle at the onrushing tanks, although he knew his bullets would do no good. The tanks were such a formidable force that Mahoney figured they’d have to break through. American anti-tank gunners managed to knock out a few of the tanks, but the rest of them kept charging, their engines roaring. They fired their cannons at the barricades, and suddenly Mahoney felt the whole world exploding around him. His ears filled with thunder, and he felt himself falling backward as if he was made of paper.
He didn’t know how long he was unconscious, but when he opened his eyes he was in a crouch, half-covered with rubble. Looking around, he saw that twenty tanks had broken through the barricade and were loose in the outskirts of Bastogne. American anti-tank gunners tried to pick them off, but the tanks were at close range, and their machine guns ripped up the Americans.
Mahoney twisted and kicked, trying to get loose from the rubble. He worked himself free and stepped away from the mess, with bruises all over his body. His helmet felt strange, and when he touched it, he found a big dent over his forehead.
He heard shouting and turned to see German foot soldiers pouring through the holes the tanks had blasted through the barricades.
“FIX BAYONETS!” somebody shouted.
Mahoney pulled his bayonet and stuck it on the end of his rifle. He and the paratroopers in the vicinity ran toward the Germans to prevent them from penetrating too deeply into the city. The American paratroopers and German soldiers closed with each other and fought hand to hand. Mahoney stabbed wildly with his bayonet and slammed Germans with his rifle butt, thinking of the children in the hospital and how these Germans must be kept away from them. When he could get a clear shot, he fired his rifle at the Germans, and when the press of fighting became too tight, he used his knees and elbows.
Bayonets slashed his sleeves and the front of his jacket. German submachine gun bullets whizzed around him, and one grazed his helmet, leaving another dent. A German officer aimed a pistol at Mahoney’s nose, but Mahoney dove toward the German’s ankles as the bullet zipped over his head. He tackled the German officer, brought him down, and then jumped on him, grabbing him by the neck and squeezing.
The German officer gripped Mahoney’s wrists and tried to push him away, but Mahoney was too strong. The officer’s eyes bulged, and his tongue stuck out of his mouth. Mahoney squeezed with all his might and felt something go snap in his hands.
A German clobbered Mahoney over the head with his rifle butt, and Mahoney toppled to the side. He rolled onto his back and blinked his eyes, trying to make the cobwebs go away. A gleaming German bayonet streaked toward his stomach, and Mahoney batted it out of the way with his forearm. The steel of the bayonet struck the pavement beside Mahoney and threw off sparks. Mahoney leapt up and grabbed the German’s rifle. The German tried to kick Mahoney away, and his boot whacked against Mahoney’s ribs, but it wasn’t enough of a blow to knock Mahoney out of the ballgame. Mahoney brought his own boot up and kicked the German hard between his legs. The German howled and let go his rifle, clutching his balls with both hands. Mahoney, enraged by the sneak attack this German had launched against him, took the rifle and rammed the butt into the German’s face.
When Mahoney pulled the rifle back, the German’s nose was flattened and his lips were split open. He went slack and dropped to the ground, but Mahoney cracked him once more before he landed.
Around Mahoney men were grunting and shouting, looking into each other’s blazing eyes and trying to rip out each other’s guts. Mahoney turned the German soldier’s rifle around so that he could use the bayonet and attacked the nearest German, a private who didn’t look much more than sixteen years old. The young soldier saw Mahoney coming, but he didn’t flinch or try to run away. Instead he stood his ground and tried to parry the thrust of Mahoney’s bayonet, but he didn’t have the strength. His parry only deflected Mahoney’s bayonet an inch or two to the side, and instead of receiving the bayonet in his heart, he got it right in the middle of his chest.
The bayonet went in to the hilt, and Mahoney couldn’t yank it out. He pulled the trigger of the rifle, but nothing happened. The young German must have emptied a clip and hadn’t had time to reload. Mahoney looked frantically on the ground for something to fight with and spotted a German submachine gun, his favorite weapon for close fighting.
He bent over to pick it up, but a German soldier appeared from the crowd of squirming, struggling soldiers around Mahoney and tried to harpoon Mahoney with his bayonet. Mahoney saw the metallic gleam just in time and pulled back. The bayonet streaked past his chest, and he grabbed the German’s rifle, wrenching it out of his hands and hitting him in the shoulder with a horizontal butt stroke.
The German lost his balance and stepped backwards. Mahoney went after him and slashed down with the bayonet, which hit the German in the face, sliced through his cheek, cut off his tongue, ripped apart his jaw muscles, and came out through his other cheek.
The German raised his hands and tried to hold his face together, as blood streamed through his fingers. Mahoney pulled his rifle back and then shot it forward, sinking the bayonet into the German’s stomach, then yanking it out easily as the German collapsed onto the sidewalk.
Mahoney looked around for the submachine gun. Another German soldier ran toward him, and Mahoney threw the German rifle at him, making him swerve out of the way. Mahoney scooped the submachine gun up from the ground, spread his legs apart, bent his knees, and fired at the German. The burst of bullets shattered the German’s ribs and lungs, and the German went flying backwards.
Mahoney held the submachine gun tightly because in close fighting you didn’t want to hit any of your own people. He fired it carefully, blowing away one German after another. The submachine gun shook in his hands, and he loved the feel of it and the way it demolished any German who stood in front of him.
Mahoney heard a series of ferocious explosions behind him. Glancing backwards, he saw one of the King Tigers and two other German tanks shattered and belching smoke. Then, before his eyes, another of the German tanks blew apart in a brilliant red flash.
Mahoney shouted victoriously. One of General McAuliffe’s mobile tank units finally had arrived at the trouble spot. He charged the Germans in front of him, tearing apart their faces and torsos with bursts of submachine gun fire, and they fell back because they could see their tanks retreating.
The two groups of soldiers separated, as the Germans retreated and the Americans tried to get out of their way. Mahoney looked around, saw that no tank was about to run him over, and dropped to one knee, firing the submachine gun at the fleeing Germans. He cut a few of them down, and then the submachine gun ran out of ammo. Looking around, he couldn’t see any other submachine guns, so he picked up an M-1 lying next to a dead American paratrooper.
He heard a terrific roar behind him and turned to see a German tank bearing down on him. He ran to the side, but another German tank was heading in that direction too. Everywhere he looked, he saw German tanks coming at him, and some of them were the monstrous King Tigers. They fired their cannons at the force of American tanks and tank destroyers pursuing them and rumbled angrily toward safety.
Mahoney didn’t know which way to run because German tanks were everywhere. He dodged one of them, and it passed by, spewing out a cloud of diesel smoke that made Mahoney cough. He ran by another tank, and then, twenty yards in front of him, one of the big King Tiger tanks was hit in the treads by an anti-tank shell.
Mahoney pulled a hand grenade out of his pocket because he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, the hatch on top of the tank opened, and a head appeared, because the tankers inside wanted to get out of the big, stationary target. Mahoney ran toward the tank, jumped onto its rear deck, and the German tanker turned around. Mahoney punched him in the mouth, threw the grenade down the hatch, and jumped off the tank, running as fast as he could toward safety.
His grenade exploded inside the King Tiger, and a column of smoke shot straight into the air from the turret. Mahoney stopped to let another German tank pass, and when it came abreast of him, he tossed a grenade into its treads, then ran in a crouch behind the tank.
That grenade ripped the tank’s treads apart, so it couldn’t move anymore. Mahoney paused on the other side of the tank, took out a third grenade, and pulled the pin. As soon as the tank’s hatch opened, he lobbed the grenade inside and then resumed his dash for safety.
He dashed over the cobblestones and couldn’t throw more hand grenades at tanks because he didn’t have any left. Tanks roared by him like angry elephants, and he tried his best to stay below their machine gun fire, but despite his efforts, a few of the big bullets whizzed past him, and he almost could feel their heat against his face.
Finally, he ran clear of the retreating tanks and climbed up on a barricade, where he saw an anti-tank gun that had fallen onto its side, with dead paratroopers lying around it, evidently the victims of an exploding shell.
Fortunately, the shell hadn’t blown up the anti-tank ammunition. Mahoney fed a round into the back, closed the back plate, and took aim at one of the German tanks. He pulled the trigger, and the tank’s turret was blown away in a sudden blinding flash. Loading the anti-tank gun again, he fired at a big retreating King Tiger, but he’d aimed too quickly, and the shell flew over the tank, exploding harmlessly onto the ground.
The German tanks retreated until they were out of sight in the darkness. Paratroopers in the street and on the barricade cheered, and Mahoney took out a cigarette and lit it up. He felt exhausted, and his uniform was torn to shreds.
The crews of the American tanks and tank destroyers opened up their hatches and came into the cold night air to cheer along with the paratroopers. The mobile defense force had stopped the Germans this time, but what would they do if the Germans attacked in force at three or four points in the city at once?
Mahoney decided he didn’t want to think about that just then. He sat down on the barricade and puffed his cigarette, hoping help would arrive before things got worse in Bastogne.
~*~
The Hammerhead Division stopped for the night near the town of Arlon in southern Belgium. General Barton Hughes, the divisional commander, sat inside his command post tent, poring over maps and trying to determine the best routes for his regiments to take tomorrow.
His tent flap opened, and one of his clerks entered. “Sir, Colonel Simmons would like to see you.”
“Send him right in.”
The clerk departed, and several seconds later, Colonel Simmons entered the small, enclosed space. He walked to Hughes’s desk and saluted, and Hughes pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”
Simmons was a tall officer with graying hair and a pot belly. He sat and looked at General Hughes, who was still poring over papers on his desk. Hughes puffed a pipe, and his face was covered with acne scars partially hidden by a big black mustache. He’d only commanded the Hammerhead Division for six weeks, taking over when the previous C.O. had been killed in action trying to lead some men up a hill. Simmons didn’t know what to make of Hughes, who could be a real hard ass at times, but who seemed to know what he was doing usually.
Finally Hughes looked up. “What’s the problem?” he said abruptly.
Simmons couldn’t help missing old General Donovan, who had usually greeted him with a smile and some bourbon whisky, but for Hughes he sat erectly and said, “Sir, some of the men in my regiment have asked me to speak with you. It seems that a sergeant from Charlie Company is in Bastogne right now on TDY, or at least they think he’s there right now, and they’d like you to send our regiment into Bastogne first, so they can get him out.”
Hughes shrugged. “He might not be there anymore.”
“The men know that, sir, but they want to get in there first anyway. They all think he’s still alive. I know him pretty well, and he’s one of those guys who always comes out of the horseshit smelling like a rose.”
Hughes was surprised that such a fuss was being made over one soldier. “What’s his name?”
“Master Sergeant C. J. Mahoney, sir.”
Hughes scratched his head. “Seems to me that name rings a bell.”
“He’s the divisional heavyweight champion, sir.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Hughes said. “Now I remember who he is. Wasn’t he one of our first men to enter Saarlautern?”
“That’s the one, sir.”
Hughes recalled meeting Mahoney briefly. He’d been a big mean looking son of a bitch. Hughes figured that if some of the men in the Fifteenth Regiment were anxious to rescue Mahoney, they might fight a little harder on the way to Bastogne.
“All right,” Hughes said. “The Fifteenth goes first. I imagine you might want to put Mahoney’s company right up on the point.”
“Yes sir—-that had been my intention.”
“Good. Go to it, Simmons. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“We expect to make contact with the Germans sometime tomorrow,” Hughes said. “I want you to hit them hard and not stop for anything.”
“You don’t have to worry about my men hitting the Germans hard,” Colonel Simmons replied. “They’ll be going for broke all the way to Bastogne.”