Dawn brought the crackle of small arms fire. Mahoney awakened in a muddy foxhole, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. The 1st Battalion was deployed on either side of a road between two blue-black hills that were almost the size of mountains. They were in the Saarland, but they didn’t know whether they had crossed the border into Germany itself yet.
Mahoney licked his teeth, which felt as though little wool sweaters had been knitted over them during the night. He was chilled to his bones and had difficulty moving. Yawning, he smelled his foul breath and couldn’t stand himself. He looked at his watch and it was six o’clock in the morning.
Pfc. Joe Knifefinder, a full-blooded Indian from Oklahoma, was in the foxhole with him, wide awake, the walkie-talkie hanging from his neck. Knifefinder was Mahoney’s new runner, replacing Riggs who still was in the hospital recovering from his wounds.
“The sun come out today I think,” said Knifefinder, looking at the cloudy sky.
“Don’t look it to me,” Mahoney said.
“Look it to me.”
“I’m going to take a shit. If anybody wants me, I’m in the latrine.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Mahoney crawled out of the foxhole and walked in a crouch to the latrine that had been dug in the woods nearby. He’d learned, after many years of fighting, that it was best to move your bowels as early in the day as you could, so that you wouldn’t get involved in a battle and then suddenly realize that you had to go—because it would be too late then.
He went to the latrine, washed his hands in water from his canteen, and returned to his foxhole in anticipation of a nice breakfast consisting of cold C rations and a Lucky Strike cigarette.
“Hey Sarge,” Knifefinder said, “you’re wanted at the command post.”
“Oh-oh.”
Mahoney turned around and trudged back to the command post, wondering why he was wanted. Something told him that Tweed had got cold feet and was going to make some trouble about Cranepool. That Tweed could be a chicken-shit son of a bitch at times.
A bullet zipped over Mahoney’s head, and in the distance a German mortar round landed. It was a quiet morning with neither side attacking but everybody doing something to make the enemy realize he was alive and kicking, it had been like this when the Germans had launched that tank attack several days ago, and Mahoney’s nerves still were on edge because of it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if a hundred German tanks came tearing down that road at any moment.
Finally he reached the command post tent and saw a dozen soldiers milling around in front of it. Now he knew what was going on. Some new replacements had arrived and he was going to get some of them. They were a bunch of sorry-looking bastards, and he figured they were the five percent skimmed from headquarters and service units. A bunch of fucking clerks.
He entered the tent and saw Tweed sitting behind his desk. “Who unloaded all that shit outside the tent, Tweed?”
“Them’s new replacements,” Tweed said, “and you’re getting three of them.”
“Do I have to take them?”
“Yes you have to take them. Here’s their names. Have them fall out and take them back with you to your platoon.”
Tweed handed Mahoney a slip of paper and Mahoney read the names. He needed twenty four soldiers to bring his platoon back to battle strength, and instead they were giving him three anemic clerks.
“When are we going to get some real rifle soldiers, Tweed?”
“Get out of here, Mahoney. I don’t have time for your bullshit. I have enough headaches because of you.”
“There mustn’t be any real men back in America,” Mahoney said, “if we have to make rifle soldiers out of shit like what’s standing outside your tent right now.”
“I said get the fuck out of here, Mahoney.”
Mahoney walked out of the tent and saw the replacements milling around with hangdog expressions on their faces. They probably were sick over having been yanked from their nice warm offices far behind the lines and sent to the front. A hot rage built up in Mahoney’s breast because he’d always hated these rear echelon typewriter commandos.
“TEN-HUT!” he screamed.
They looked at each other and wrinkled their foreheads as if to say: what’s wrong with him?
Mahoney charged into the midst of them, pushing, punching and kicking. “I said TEN-HUT, goddamnit!”
The soldiers snapped to attention and stood tall, realizing a maniac had descended upon them. Mahoney walked among them, growling and snarling like an angry lion. “I never saw so many scumbags together at one time in my life,” he said. “You desk jockeys won’t last a fucking week out here. When I say fall out I want all of you to fall out and form one rank over here. FALL OUT!”
The replacements ran to the spot Mahoney indicated and formed a rank, standing stiffly at attention. But they weren’t accustomed to soldiering and their postures were awful. Mahoney closed his eyes and groaned. This bunch didn’t look as if they could hold off the lingerie department of Macy’s.
“The following fuckheads will take one step forward. OLDS! VLAHAVSKY! SPINO!”
The three men stepped forward. Olds resembled an ostrich wearing glasses, Vlahavsky had a pot belly that looked like a sack of shit, and Spino looked like a weasel. Mahoney groaned. How could he fight a war with people like this?
“The three men whose names I’ve called—stay right where you are! The rest of you fall out!”
The soldiers moved away quickly, leaving the three whose names Mahoney had called.
“All right—dress right you three!”
The three moved closer together, touched each other’s shoulders with their fingertips, and maintained their position of attention.
Mahoney placed his fists on his hips and leaned toward them. “My name’s Mahoney,” he said, “and I’m your new platoon sergeant. I’m sure all of you had important jobs before you got here because you all look like such intelligent fuckheads, but now your jobs are going to be easy. All you have to do is exactly whatever you’re told. If I tell you to jump—you jump. If I tell you to shit, I want you to say how much and what color. We’re at the front now, and you’d better keep your fucking heads down. When things get hot up here, the main thing to do is to keep firing your weapon. Your best chance to stay alive is to keep firing your weapon. Is that clear?”
They all nodded their heads.
“Do all of you know what marching fire is?”
Their eyes darted around nervously but none of them said anything.
“I didn’t think you knew,” Mahoney said. He pointed to Spino. “You—give me your rifle.”
Spino unslung his rifle and handed it to Mahoney, who snatched it out of his hands.
“Marching fire,” Mahoney explained, “is what you do when you’re advancing on foot. Its purpose is to either kill the enemy or make him keep his fucking head down. When you receive the order, you will fire your weapon every third step you take in a likewise manner thusly.”
Mahoney walked in front of them and held Spino’s M-l at his hip, pulling the trigger and saying “bang” on every third step.
“Get the picture?” Mahoney asked.
The three men nodded.
“You also can do it like this.”
He walked past them again, bringing the M-l to his shoulder and pulling the trigger every third step.
“See how it’s done?” he asked.
They nodded again.
Mahoney threw the M-I back to Spino, who almost dropped it. Mahoney glowered at him.
“You drop that, and I’ll fucking drop you.”
“Sorry Sarge.”
“All right now,” Mahoney said, “fall out and follow me back to the platoon.”
Mahoney turned and trudged back to his foxhole, and the three new replacements followed him like baby ducks following their mother.
~*~
A light rain was falling on the Ardennes Forest. General Omar Bradley, commander of the 12th Army Group, and General Troy Middleton, commander of the VIII Corps, were walking along accompanied by members of their respective staffs, inspecting the American positions in the area.
Bradley stopped at a foxhole, and the occupants shot to attention, saluting him.
“How’re you doing out here, soldier?” Bradley asked with a smile.
“Fine sir.”
“Getting enough to eat?”
“Yes sir.”
“Get your mail regularly?”
“Yes sir.”
“Carry on.”
The group of officers walked off, and the GIs returned to their muddy little foxhole.
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth about the food?” one of the soldiers said.
“I ain’t telling him. You tell him.”
“He asked you.”
“You could’ve said something if you wanted to.”
“The food here is shit and you should’ve told him.”
“I was waiting for you to tell him.”
“Why were you waiting for me to tell him?”
The soldiers continued to bicker. No one dared to tell high-ranking officers the truth, because once the high-ranking officers left the area, the low-ranking officers and sergeant would make your life miserable and maybe even put you in a situation where you might be killed. High-ranking officers like Bradley, who’d been low-ranking officers once, must have known this, but they all played the charade anyway.
“Well,” said Bradley to Middleton, “the men appear to be in high spirits out here.”
Middleton nodded. “That’s true, Brad, but my problem is that I’ve got only three divisions covering an eighty-eight mile front.”
Bradley chuckled. “Don’t worry, Troy. The Germans will never come through here.”
“Maybe not,” Middleton replied, “but they’ve come through this area several times before.”
Bradley shrugged. “Supposing for the sake of argument they do come through. Well, what will they get? They only could advance a few miles before we switch more troops to this sector and stop them cold. The Germans don’t have very much left right now, so stop worrying.”
Middleton sighed. “I don’t know, Brad. If I were a German officer I’d think this sector of the line would be awfully tempting.”
“If you were a German officer right now,” Bradley said, “you’d have your hands full and you wouldn’t have the time or troops to devote to a major offensive, so relax, will you?”
“If you say so, sir.”
The officers resumed their perusal of the line, but Middleton couldn’t stop worrying. It was true that other American units would stop any German attack in this area, but by then the Germans would have rolled over his three divisions and probably also his headquarters at Bastogne.
In other words, what Bradley was saying if you stripped away the rhetoric, was that SHAEF was willing to gamble with the lives of the men in his three divisions in order to divert troops to other theaters of war.
Middleton decided he didn’t like that idea very much as he continued to accompany General Bradley through the woods.