“Sir, General Balck would like to speak with you,” said Colonel Wolkenstein.
General Dobbeling took the telephone. “Yes sir?”
“Dobbeling,” said Balck, “have you launched your riposte yet?”
“No sir.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I’ve been forced to pull back, sir.”
“I know that, but you should have been establishing a striking force for your riposte.”
“It’s being established right now, sir,” Dobbeling lied.
“When are you going to launch it?”
“Within an hour or two.”
“I wouldn’t wait too long,” Balck said. “Otherwise the Americans will be in Saarlautern and it will be too late.”
“Yes sir.”
Dobbeling hung up the phone and gritted his teeth. “That idiot!”
“What does he want now?” asked Wolkenstein.
“He wants what he refers to as a ‘riposte.’ I imagine he thinks we’re fencing out here. I tell you Wolkenstein, these fancy generals in their fancy headquarters know nothing about war.”
Wolkenstein smiled. “I imagine some of our officers say the same thing about us.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Dobbeling looked down at the map table. “Well, let’s see what kind of riposte we can develop here. We’ll have to make it good to satisfy our great general.”
Wolkenstein pointed to the main road leading into Saarlautern. “The Americans probably will come down this road fairly quickly as soon as they realized we’ve pulled back. Perhaps we can bloody their noses when they least expect it.” “Perhaps,” replied Dobbeling. “Let’s see what forces we can gather to perform this great military counterstroke.” Wolkenstein sighed. “You’re becoming so cynical, General Dobbeling.”
“I’ve been in this war too long,” Dobbeling said. “Much too long.”
~*~
Mahoney sat in the foxhole with Private Olds, and both of them were eating cold C rations.
“This stuff is really vile,” Private Olds said. “I wouldn’t feed it to my dogs.”
“I notice you’re scoffing it up pretty good though,” Mahoney replied.
“That’s because I’m hungry, but it’s really vile anyway. It’s like canned garbage.”
“How do you know what garbage tastes like?” Mahoney asked, chewing a huge mouthful of food. “You ever eat garbage?”
“Of course not!”
“Then how do you know this stuff tastes like garbage?”
“I can imagine it all tastes pretty much the same.”
“Shove your imagination up your ass,” Mahoney said. “This is nothing like garbage. In the neighborhood where I lived before I joined the Army, people actually did eat garbage. That was during the Depression. I never had to do it myself, but I’ve seen other people eat garbage and it wasn’t anything like this.” Mahoney wiggled his khaki can of C rations in the air. “Garbage is orange peels and potato peels with pieces of fat and gristle, and all of it’s rotting and mixed with coffee grounds and vomit and dead cockroaches. I admit that these C rations aren’t so wonderful, but they’re not like garbage.”
“Maybe not,” Olds said, “but as far as I’m concerned, the difference is only academic.”
“That’s because you’re a punk, a creep, and a weakling, and you don’t know how to think straight.”
Olds had been relaxing with Mahoney for the past several minutes and was losing his fear of him. He was just another big stupid gorilla who was making his life miserable, and Olds was getting tired of being insulted by people like Mahoney.
“Well,” Olds said huffily, “I guess you can say what you like because you’re a master sergeant and I’m a private, but if we were in civilian life, I’d be the one giving the orders and you’d be the one taking them—because out there in the real world, people like you work for people like me.”
“I’d never work for you, asshole,” Mahoney said. “Forget about it.”
“Oh yes you would,” Olds said. “Smarter men than you have come begging for jobs at the business owned by my family.”
“What kind of business is that, Olds?”
“We own a department store in downtown Los Angeles.”
“No shit.”
“That’s right. If you smarten up, Sarge, and learn how to treat me right, I could give you a good job when this war is over.”
“You would?”
“That’s right,” Olds said confidently as he spooned some beans into his mouth.
Mahoney lunged forward and grabbed Olds by the front of his field jacket. “You little scumbag,” Mahoney said through clenched teeth, “what makes you think I’d ever want to work for you? I’d fucking die before I’d work for a piece of shit like you!”
Olds tried to smile. “You’d better think it over, Sarge. Good jobs will be hard to find when this war’s over.”
“I already thought about it, you little son of a bitch. Shove your fucking job up your ass.” Mahoney let him go and leaned back on the other side of the foxhole. “You know Olds,” he said, picking up his can of C rations and his spoon, “I used to hate you because you’re a coward, but now I just hate you.”
“You think I like you?” Olds asked, his fear turning to anger. “I hate you just as much as you hate me, and maybe more!”
“Yeah?” Mahoney asked. “Well I think that’s good news. Maybe you’re on your way to being a man finally, you little fairy son of a bitch.”
~*~
Scowling, General Hughes walked into the conference room at battalion headquarters and headed for the map table. Colonel Sloan had returned and was accompanied by Major Cutler and several of his aides. They all saluted and General Hughes looked down at the map.
“Has the reconnaissance report come in yet?” Hughes asked.
“Yes sir,” replied Colonel Sloan. “It confirms what Captain Anderson told you: that the Germans have pulled out most of their forces in that particular sector and have left behind a few rearguard units to screen their movements.”
“Are the tanks and trucks on the way to the front as I ordered?”
“Yes sir.”
Hughes pointed to the map. “I want an all-out attack by this battalion down that road. I want you to let nothing stop you, and I’ll expect you to be in Saarlautern by the time the sun goes down. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir, but what about my flanks?”
General Hughes sneered. “You know what General Patton says about flanks, don’t you, Colonel? He says: we’re not going to worry about our flanks—let the Krauts worry about their flanks. Is that a good enough answer for you?”
Colonel Sloan looked nervously at his aides, then turned to General Hughes. “Sir, with all due respect to General Patton and yourself, this movement will place this battalion in an awfully precarious situation.”
“You’re in a war, Colonel Sloan. You’re supposed to be in a precarious situation. Any other questions?”
“No sir.”
“Carry on.”
General Hughes turned and marched out of the battalion headquarters.
~*~
Private Olds took his finger off the button and removed the walkie-talkie from its position against his face. “Sarge, you’re wanted at company headquarters.”
Mahoney wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and threw the empty C ration can over his shoulder. He scratched himself, picked up his carbine, and climbed out of the foxhole. “If anybody wants me,” he told Olds, “tell them I’ll be right back.”
Mahoney slung his carbine over his shoulder and walked to the company command post. Private Olds took out a cigarette and lit it up, watching him go. Olds didn’t know what exactly to make of Mahoney. On one hand, Mahoney was a stupid brute, but on the other, he seemed to be quite capable on a battlefield. Perhaps gangsters like Mahoney find their true element in war, Olds thought. He’s like a pig in shit out here.
~*~
The company command post was beside a jeep on the road to Saarlautern. Sergeants Mayo and Ledbetter were there already when Mahoney arrived, and Sergeant Guffey showed up a few moments later.
Captain Anderson had laid out a map on the front passenger seat of the jeep. “General Hughes was just here,” he said, “and he’s decided that we’re going into Saarlautern today. The tanks and trucks will be arriving before long, and when they get here we’ll load up and move out. The first platoon will go on the first two trucks, the second platoon will go on the next two, and so on. We’ll have to move fast because General Hughes wants us to be in Saarlautern by the time the sun goes down. Any questions so far?”
Mahoney raised his hand. “How strong a force is going on this little trip, sir?”
“This company and Able Company.”
Mahoney groaned.
“What’s wrong?” Captain Anderson said. “You don’t think that’s enough?”
“Hell no.”
“I don’t think we even need Able Company,” Captain Anderson said. “I don’t think there’s anything in front of us.”
“Maybe not now,” Mahoney said. “But what if the Krauts happen to put something in front of us while we’re on the road?”
“We’ll take care of that when the time comes.”
“It might be too late then.”
“I doubt it. Sometimes you have to take chances, Mahoney. You should know that by now.”
Sergeant Ledbetter shrugged. “If we run into trouble, we can always turn around and go back. Those trucks can go both ways down this road, Mahoney.”
“Trucks are awfully good targets when they’re making U-turns,” Mahoney replied.
They continued to discuss the operation for several more minutes, then Captain Anderson told them to report to their units and wait for the trucks to arrive.
~*~
General Dobbeling and Colonel Wolkenstein leaned over the map table in 44th Division headquarters in Saarlautern.
“A riposte,” said Dobbeling, “should be swift and unexpected.” He pointed at a road leading toward the American lines. “Perhaps if we sent a small armored column down this road and took the Americans by surprise, we might be able to inflict some damage on them and hold up their advance. What do you think, Wolkenstein?”
“I agree, sir. That also would give us time to strengthen our defense here in Saarlautern. But the troops must be ready to pull back after they’ve done their damage. We’ll need them here in Saarlautern for the final throw of the dice.”
“That’s true,” said Dobbeling. “Issue the orders. I’ll want one of our crack units for this mission.”
“What about the 91st Parachute Regiment?”
“No, I want experienced tankers.”
“I’d say that our best tank unit is the 14th SS Panzer. Shall I send them?”
“Yes. But make sure you impress upon them that I don’t want them to linger on that road. I want them to do their work and then hurry back here, is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
~*~
Mahoney sat with Private Olds in the foxhole, waiting for the tanks and trucks to arrive.
“You know,” Mahoney said, puffing one of his cigars, “I think I’ve finally figured out what’s wrong with you, Olds. You don’t think you’re an ordinary person like everybody else around here. You think you’re somebody special, and that your life is more important than everybody else’s, and that’s why you’re so goddamned scared all the time. You don’t want to lose that miserable ratty little life of yours.”
Olds raised his nose in the air. “Well, maybe you’ve got nothing to live for, but I do.”
“What have you got to live for?”
“Well, let me put it this way, Sergeant. I was living very well before I was drafted, and I want to go back to what I had. You and those like you weren’t living so well, and I imagine that life isn’t as important to all of you as it is to me.”
“Says who?” Mahoney asked skeptically.
Olds sniffed. “Says me.”
“Who’re you? Who gives a fuck what you say? What’s so great about your stupid cunty life? You’re just another serial number out here, Olds, but you can’t seem to get that through your head.”
“Maybe you’re just a serial number,” Olds said, “but I’m not.”
“Well you sure as fuck aren’t a man either. I’ve seen women who’ve got more backbone than you.”
Olds flinched because the worst thing you can do to a man is compare him unfavorably to women.
Mahoney lifted up one side of his helmet. “I hear the trucks.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“That’s because you’re a jerk off, but that’s okay, I really don’t give a shit about that.” Mahoney jabbed his big finger into Olds’ chest. “But let me tell you one thing, sonny boy. If you ever do anything that gets anybody killed around here, I’m going to beat your fucking head in, do you get my drift?”
“I get your drift, Sarge.”
“Good.”
Mahoney stood up in the foxhole. “Everybody up!” he bellowed. “The trucks are coming.”
The first platoon came out of their holes and walked to the road. On the horizon the trucks could be seen growing larger and coming closer. The other platoons assembled on the road, and after an interval the tanks and trucks arrived.
Charlie Company trudged toward the trucks. The convoy would consist of four tanks followed by Charlie Company in trucks, and behind Charlie Company would be four more tanks, then Able Company in trucks, and finally four tanks bringing up the rear.
Mahoney stood at the rear of one of the trucks and watched his men pile in. Pfc. Drago ran up to him.
“Sergeant—Captain Anderson wants to talk to you.”
Mahoney followed Drago back to Captain Anderson, who was standing beside his jeep with Sergeant Tweed and Captain Lawrence Braxton of Able Company. Captain Anderson introduced Mahoney to Braxton and Mahoney threw a half-ass salute which Braxton returned with a good-natured nod.
“Mahoney,” Captain Anderson said, “I want you to take the lead truck. We won’t be able to have radio communication while we’re on the road, so basically your orders are to just keep going right into Saarlautern. Once you get there, secure that goddamned bridge so that the rest of the division can use it. Any questions?”
“What if we have trouble on the road?”
“Keep going.”
“What if I can’t keep going?”
“If you can’t go through it, go around it. If you can’t go around it, go over it. Just make sure that you’re in Saarlautern when the sun goes down.”
Mahoney took one step backward, raised his stiffened fingers to his helmet, and threw a snappy salute. “Yes sir!” He turned and walked away.
Captain Braxton scratched the stubble on his chin. “So that’s Mahoney, huh?”
“That’s him,” Captain Anderson replied, looking at the map.
“He’s supposed to be one crazy son of a bitch.”
“He is.”
“I never realized he was so big. He’s over six foot, isn’t he?”
“Six-four.”
“I pity any German whoever gets in front of him,” Captain Braxton said.
~*~
“All right—everybody into these two trucks!” Mahoney bellowed.
His men let the tailgates down and loaded into the trucks. Behind them, the other GIs in Charlie Company and those in Able Company also climbed into trucks. Private Olds, carrying the walkie-talkie, walked up to Mahoney.
“Where do you want me to go?” he asked.
“In the first truck with the first and second squad.”
“You mean in back with the men?”
“Where in the fuck else would I mean?”
“Can’t I ride in the cab with you?”
“No.” Mahoney grabbed Olds by his sloping round shoulders, spun him around, and kicked him in the ass. “Get going!”
Olds flew two feet off the ground, landed, and limped toward the truck. Mahoney walked around it and jumped up on the running board to see who the driver was.
A soldier wearing a knitted khaki cap with a little visor turned from his steering wheel and looked at Mahoney. His face was covered with three days’ growth of thick black beard that reached nearly to his eyeballs. He grinned, showing shiny straight teeth. “Hi there,” he said.
Mahoney looked at him disapprovingly. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Willy from Philly.”
Mahoney did a double take. “I mean your rank and real name, asshole.”
“I’m Pfc. William Labrizi, but I’m generally known as Willy from Philly.”
“My name’s Mahoney and I’m going to be riding with you.”
“Anything you say, Sarge.”
“Since you’re driving the lead truck, I suppose you must be a pretty good driver.”
“That’s right. I used to be a cabdriver in Philly.”
Mahoney puffed his cigar and didn’t know whether that was good or bad. “Be ready to move out.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Mahoney jumped down from the cab and walked back to watch his men loading into the trucks. The rain had stopped and the mud on the road was three inches thick. He fastened the top button on his field jacket because he felt a chill. It was the end of November, and if the temperature continued to drop they might get some snow.
He climbed into the rear of the lead truck, where his first two squads and Private Olds sat on two benches underneath the khaki tarpaulin. Mahoney crouched on the steel floor of the truck between the benches.
“All right now,” he said, “you all know where we’re going and what we have to do when we get there. We might have a little trouble along the way so be ready for anything. You might as well try to get some sleep on the road, but keep one eye open for trouble. Any questions?”
Private Rivers raised his hand. “When do we eat?”
“You just ate, you fucking chowhound!” Mahoney replied.
“But when are we gonna eat again?”
“How the fuck should I know? In Saarlautern I guess. Maybe there’ll be a restaurant open that you can go to. Anybody else?”
Nobody said anything so Mahoney jumped down from the back of the truck just as the four big Sherman tanks rolled by on the side of the road. Their commanders stood in the turrets looking around at the gloomy afternoon. Mahoney strolled back to the second truck and spoke with his third and fourth squads. While he was there, Captain Anderson called out his name. Mahoney stuck his head out the back of the truck.
Captain Anderson, Sergeant Tweed, and Pfc. Drago were in a jeep parked at an angle on the shoulder of the road.
“Move ’em out!” Captain Anderson shouted.
“Yes sir!”
Mahoney jumped down and ran forward to the first truck, getting into the cab with Willy from Philly. The four tanks already were rumbling down the road.
“Move it out,” Mahoney said to Willy from Philly.
“Hup Sarge,” replied Willy, blipping the accelerator and shifting into gear.
~*~
On top of the city hall in downtown Saarlautern, Colonel Franz Wolkenstein looked through his binoculars at the armored column moving out of town across the bridge. Visibility was poor and his breath made little clouds of condensation as he followed the progress of the tanks and armored personnel carriers. At first he hadn’t had much faith in this riposte, but now that it was underway he felt a strange sense of exaltation. He’d been a frontline officer for years before being assigned to staff duty, and he missed the action and thrill of command that he used to experience in battle. Now, watching the armored column, he wished he was on it, going out to deliver a surprise blow to the Americans. He figured that the Americans were advancing cautiously and not expecting anything unusual. Then, suddenly out of the gray afternoon, the black SS panzers would strike like a whirlwind, tearing the Americans apart.
Wolkenstein sighed, accepting the role that fate had assigned to him, and stepped toward the door that led down into the building. He could now report to General Dobbeling that the panzer column had left Saarlautern for the American lines.