The American column sped down the road to Saarlautern, and the wheels of the trucks and the tank treads kicked stones and mud into the air. In the lead truck, Willy from Philly hunched over the steering wheel and bounced up and down as the truck hit rocks and holes and dips in the pavement. Next to him, leaning back with one big foot on the dash, Mahoney was halfway through a cigar. Mahoney had opened his window a few inches so that the smoke wouldn’t kill Willy from Philly.
In front of the truck were the tanks moving along at top speed with their commanders standing in the turrets. Mahoney liked the look of the tanks because they gave him a sense of security. Each tank had one cannon and two machine guns, enough to destroy anything that might try to stop the column.
Mahoney rolled down the window all the way and looked back, the wind slapping his neck. The column of vehicles behind him faded off into the horizon and looked like a huge metallic caterpillar. Mahoney began to feel excited to be part of this bold military expedition. He detested the war, but sometimes it turned him on.
Behind the cab, Private Olds held his carbine and walkie-talkie, trying not to look frightened although he was in a state of total terror. He imagined death coming at him from a thousand directions: bullets piercing the canvas tarpaulin suddenly and continuing on to put a hole in his heart, bombs dropping out of the sky, land mines on the road. His face was covered with perspiration and his lips trembled. He thought everybody was looking at him, and they were.
“Get a load of Olds,” said Higgins. “He’s shivering worse than a dog shitting razor blades.”
“Leave him alone,” Cranepool said.
“But Corporal—I believe that man is going to crack up over there,” Higgins replied.
“I said leave him alone.”
Olds closed his eyes and felt humiliated. Oh God, help me, he said to himself. It was particularly painful to have somebody like Cranepool come to his aid, because he considered Cranepool a stupid hillbilly.
Pfc. Morgan snorted. “I’ll bet the son of a bitch has got a pussy between his legs.”
Olds opened his eyes and saw everybody looking at him with total contempt, and it almost was more than he could bear. “What are you pigs looking at!” he screamed. “Who do you think you are!”
Cranepool looked at him sharply. “Calm down!”
“You calm down! I’m tired of the way you people talk to me!”
Higgins pointed at Olds. “The panty-waist is getting a little pissed off.”
“It’s better to be pissed off than pissed on,” chortled Private Baker.
Olds balled up his fists. “Who are you calling a panty-waist!” he screamed.
“You,” Higgins replied with a silly grin that pushed Olds over the edge.
Olds leapt at Higgins and grabbed him by the throat. Higgins grimaced and tried to pull Olds’ hands away. They fell to the steel floor of the truck, punching and kicking each other, calling each other filthy names.
Cranepool and the other soldiers pulled them apart as the truck bounced over the road. Higgins and Olds were returned to their seats, where they wiped blood off their faces and glowered at each other.
“There’d better not be any more of this goddamned fighting shit!” Cranepool said harshly. “The next man who tries to pick a fight with another man will have to fight me first.”
This calmed the soldiers down because Cranepool’s ferocity was well-known. Olds wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his field jacket, feeling strangely exhilarated. His heart pumped wildly and his skin felt as though it was buzzing. He was certain that if he had had five more minutes alone with Higgins he would have taken him apart.
It occurred to him that when he’d jumped on Higgins, he’d lost all concern about his personal safety. He wondered if this was what Sergeant Mahoney meant when he said you have to make your fear work for you. When Higgins had started insulting him, he’d felt afraid, but his fear had quickly transformed itself into antagonism and violence. Is that what I have to do with the Germans? he asked himself. Do I have to get mad at them? But how can I get mad at them? I don’t even know them. He took out a cigarette and lit it up. I’ll have to think about this, he said to himself.
~*~
“Oh-oh,” Mahoney said.
“Whatsa matter?” asked Willy from Philly.
“Something’s coming at us on that road up there.”
“I don’t see nothing.”
“You will.”
Mahoney wondered what to do. Anything coming from that direction had to be German. But he had no radio communications with Captain Anderson or anybody else and couldn’t warn them. He hoped the tankers had noticed the dark mass on the road ahead.
The commander of the lead tank raised his head, the signal to stop the convoy. Willy from Philly applied the brakes as the tank commander looked through his binoculars at the mass that was growing larger. Mahoney looked through his own binoculars and saw the German armored column. He couldn’t estimate how large the striking force was, but he could see that it was considerable.
The truck stopped and Mahoney jumped down from the cab. He looked to his rear and saw the column slowing down and grinding to a halt. The big question was who had the most tanks and men, the Germans or the Americans. Mahoney walked to the rear of the truck, looking up at heads craning out to see what was happening.
“What’s the hold-up, Sarge?” asked Private Rivers.
“Krauts.”
“Where?”
“Down the road.”
Captain Anderson’s jeep pulled away from the convoy and sped on the shoulder to the truck beside which Mahoney was standing. Pfc. Drago was behind the wheel and Sergeant Tweed was in the back seat. The jeep stopped and Captain Anderson got out, looking ahead to the German armored column in the distance.
“Looks like we’re going to have a little problem,” Captain Anderson said.
“Looks that way, sir.”
“Our orders are not to get engaged here,” Captain Anderson told Mahoney. “We’re supposed to drive on to Saarlautern and secure that bridge, so tell your driver to keep going no matter what, understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“If anybody has to do any fighting, let it be the tanks. You just keep on going. Saarlautern isn’t much more than five or ten miles away, and the bridge probably is ready to blow. Whoever gets there first has to dismantle the detonation system on the bridge as a first priority. Get it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Return to your truck and be ready to move out!”
“Yes sir.”
Pfc. Drago backed the jeep up so that Captain Anderson could give his lecture to the men in the second truck, and Mahoney looked up into the troubled faces at the rear of the first truck.
“Everybody hear that?” he asked.
They nodded their heads.
“There’s going to be some fighting going on pretty soon,” Mahoney said. “Take that tarp off the truck so you can see what’s going on. When we come to that bridge and I give the word, I want you to jump down and rip up any wires you see, because the wires will be set to detonate the explosives. Your best tool for that will be the bayonets on the ends of your rifles. Any questions?”
“Sarge,” said Private Morgan, “it sounds to me as though the Krauts might blow up that bridge while we’re on it.”
Mahoney didn’t know how to answer that because he knew Morgan was right. “Any other questions?” he asked.
Nobody said anything.
“Take the tarp off and be ready to move out.”
Mahoney puffed his cigar and walked back to the cab of the truck, climbing in beside Willy from Philly.
“What’s the scoop?” asked Willy from Philly.
“We’re going to Saarlautern. Move out when I tell you.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Mahoney heard a snarl of tank engines and saw the four Sherman tanks begin to move down the road toward the advancing German armored column. Mahoney thought the operation was turning sour already. If he’d been able to move out earlier in the day with a few tanks and trucks he might have made it to Saarlautern, but now the Krauts had found time to send out an armored column, and the plan wasn’t so good anymore. If he was in charge he’d have called it off. But he wasn’t in charge and the big military machine was grinding forward. Nothing could stop it now except the Germans, unless somebody smartened up in a hurry, and Mahoney didn’t think that was likely.
The lead tank rolled forward down the road while the three tanks behind it pulled off the road and formed a skirmish line. The tank commanders stood in their turrets and issued commands. Seconds later their big cannons fired the first salvos of the battle, and the shells exploded in the vicinity of the German armored column advancing in the distance. Other Sherman tanks from the American convoy rolled forward, passing Mahoney’s truck and fanning out into the fields on both sides of the road. Mahoney could see that a major battle was about to take place and he’d like to get out of that truck and find someplace to hide, but his orders were to attack Saarlautern.
“I don’t like the look of this, Sarge,” said Willy from Philly.
“Shaddup and be ready to move out.”
Just then Mahoney heard the first German shell whistling down.
“Move out!” he yelled.
“Move out where!” asked Willy from Philly frantically.
“Get off this fucking road!”
The shell exploded twenty yards away, its shrapnel splattering against the side of the truck. In the back, Cranepool and the others huddled on the floor, a pile of squirming terrified humanity. Private Olds was at the bottom, in a total panic. He prayed that he could disappear somehow, although he knew that was impossible. The next shell might land right on the truck and blow him to bits!
Willy from Philly gave her the gas and steered off the road. The big deuce-and-a-half rolled off the shoulder and down the embankment to the grassy field, where Willy shifted into second and stomped on the accelerator again.
“Which way should I go?” he asked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“Just keep moving,” Mahoney replied. “When we see how this battle shapes up, we’ll try to go around it and make a dash to Saarlautern.”
“Fuck Saarlautern, Sarge! Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Do what I say!” Mahoney replied, leaning forward and holding onto the dash.
The truck sped across the field as tanks from both sides lined up and hurled shells at each other.
~*~
Captain Anderson ordered Pfc. Drago to stop the jeep in the middle of the field. Then he grabbed the field radio and called battalion. Major Cutler’s voice came over the airways.
“Sir,” said Captain Anderson, “we seem to have run into a little road block here. The Krauts have put an armored column in front of us and I don’t think we’re going to get into Saarlautern as easily as I thought.”
“Can’t you get around them?” Major Cutler asked.
“I don’t think we can get around them in force.” Captain Anderson opened his mouth to explain why, but an artillery shell landed nearby, shaking the ground convulsively, and the occupants of the jeep dived out, Captain Anderson letting the radio go.
“Hello—do you read me?” asked Major Cutler.
Captain Anderson reached back to the jeep and pulled the radio down with him. “I read you.”
“What the hell happened?”
“German artillery shell. Things are getting hot here. The only way to get through those Germans is to fight through them, and that means we won’t be able to make that quick advance into Saarlautern.”
“Hmmm,” said Major Cutler. “I’ll have to talk with Colonel Sloan about this when he gets back. Stay close to your radio. Over and out.”
Captain Anderson handed the radio to Drago. “Keep your ear glued to this goddamn thing!”
“Yes sir!” Pfc. Drago took the radio and looked fearfully from beneath the jeep. He saw shells falling everywhere, and one of the American tanks took a direct hit, its turret blowing straight up into the air.
Two artillery shells landed fifty yards in front of Mahoney’s speeding truck.
“YOWIE!” screamed Willy from Philly, wrestling the steering wheel.
The truck careened from side to side across the field, as Willy from Philly tried to dodge more artillery shells. Next to him, Mahoney chewed his cigar and tried to figure out what to do. He thought he could make a wide end run around the battle and get back on the road to Saarlautern, but something told him that was suicide. One truck with the remnants of two rifle squads couldn’t take on the whole city of Saarlautern filled to the gills with armed Krauts.
Mahoney pointed to the holes left by the two artillery craters. “Stop over there!” he shouted.
“Over where?”
“Right over those two holes!”
Willy from Philly pulled the wheel to the right and steered toward the holes. “Right over them, you said?”
“How many times do I have to tell you, you stupid cocksucker!”
Willy from Philly hit the brakes at the right moment and the truck skidded to a halt over the two shell craters. Mahoney pushed open the door of the cab, jumped down, and ran toward the back of the truck.
“Everybody under the truck!” he yelled. “Move your fucking asses!”
The GIs jumped out of the truck and dove into the craters underneath it. Willy from Philly turned off the engine and joined them, and Mahoney was the last one in.
“Olds!” Mahoney shouted.
“Yes?” said a voice like the squeak of a mouse.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Olds’ head appeared in the jumble of soldiers underneath the truck. His face was pale and his eyes bulged out of his head. “I’m here!”
“Get your ass and that walkie-talkie over here!”
Olds crawled and stumbled over the soldiers between him and Mahoney. Pfc. Knifefinder goosed him with the barrel of his M-1, and Olds jumped into the air, banging his head on the undercarriage of the truck. Fortunately he was wearing his steel pot.
“You son of a bitch!” Olds shrieked, spinning around and diving onto Pfc. Knifefinder.
Knifefinder shot a quick left jab that caught Olds coming in, and Olds went down for the count.
“What a fuck-up outfit this is!” Mahoney said angrily, shaking his head and pushing soldiers out of his way as he moved toward Olds and took the walkie-talkie from his shoulder. He held the walkie-talkie against his face and called Captain Anderson. Receiving no response, he tried again. On his third attempt he raised Pfc. Drago and told him he wanted to speak with Captain Anderson.
“Sir,” said Mahoney, “I can’t go forward. What do you want me to do?”
“Stay put,” Captain Anderson replied. “I’m awaiting a call from battalion. Where are you?”
“I’m with my men underneath my truck.”
“Stay close to your radio. I’ll get right back to you. Over and out.”
Mahoney let the walkie-talkie hang from his neck. His cigar had burned down to a stub and gone out. He chewed the stub, watching Private Olds regain consciousness amid the men from the first and second squad. Olds blinked, looked around, saw Pfc. Knifefinder, remembered what had happened, and went for him again.
Pfc. Knifefinder threw an uppercut this time, connecting neatly with Olds’ jaw. Olds’ head snapped upwards and hit the top of the truck again, and he fell unconscious onto two other soldiers who pushed him off them and into the mud at the bottom of the hole.
Mahoney chewed his cigar. “Cut that shit out, Knifefinder,” he said.
“What am I gonna do?” Knifefinder asked. “Stand still and let him hit me?”
“I said leave him alone, and you know what I’m talking about. He wouldn’t have jumped on you if you didn’t do something to him. I don’t know what you did, but it was something. Cut it out. Understand?”
“Hup Sarge.”
Mahoney raised his binoculars and looked in the direction of the battle. It had become a classic tank duel, as tanks from both sides charged, maneuvered, and stopped sporadically to fire their cannons. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a German armored personnel carrier speeding across the field in his direction.
“Oh-oh,” he said.
Ordinary rifle and machine gun fire couldn’t stop the personnel carrier, and Mahoney thought it might stop close by and discharge its soldiers. He hoped he had more men than were in the personnel carrier. He thought he’d better call his third and fourth squads to come over and help him out, when suddenly an artillery shell made a direct hit on the personnel carrier, making it disappear in an orange blossom of flame that incinerated everyone inside.
Mahoney breathed a sigh of relief, tossed his cigar butt away, and lit a cigarette. He hoped that the sneak attack on Saarlautern would be called off by higher headquarters.
~*~
At division headquarters, General Barton Hughes was in his office talking to his G-4 (supply) officer, Colonel Chase, when the phone on his desk rang.
“Yes?” asked Hughes.
“This is General McCook,” said the voice on the other end. “Our striking force from the 15th Regiment has run into a wall of enemy tanks on the road to Saarlautern, and they report that they can’t go on.”
“WHY NOT!” thundered Hughes.
“They can’t get by the enemy force in front of them, sir. They need more tanks and more men.”
“How much more?”
“A battalion of men reinforced with a battalion of tanks.”
General Hughes knew that a quick decision was required, and it had to be the right one. He had two choices: he could either stop the quick attack and take Saarlautern in a more orderly fashion, or he could reinforce it and smash right through. He’d been around General Patton long enough to know what choice old Blood and Guts would have made.
“Listen to me carefully,” Hughes said. “Move up the rest of the 15th Regiment and break through that enemy resistance. Place the 28th Regiment in reserve and have them follow the main striking force into Saarlautern. My orders of this morning still are in effect. I want to be in Saarlautern by sunset, is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Carry on.”
~*~
Colonel Wolkenstein stood at the map table of 44th Division headquarters in Saarlautern, looking down at the pins and wooden blocks that indicated the relative positions of German and American forces as of an hour ago. General Dobbeling was out in the city, inspecting fortifications.
“Sir,” said the radio operator, “there’s a call for you from Major Bleicher.”
Wolkenstein walked to the radio and put on the headset. “What is it, Bleicher?”
Bleicher was commander of the armored column sent to deliver the riposte to the advancing Americans. “Sir,” he said, “we’ve run into unexpected resistance. A huge enemy column is on the road and they’ve taken us by surprise. I don’t know how long we can stop them.”
“Hmmm,” said Wolkenstein. “That’s odd. We thought the Americans were advancing slowly on a broad front.”
“They’re not. If you could reinforce me, I think I could wipe them out.”
“No,” Wolkenstein said. “We don’t want to fight them out there in the open. We prefer to fight them here in Saarlautern, which is well defended. Your column was supposed to be no more than a riposte. Return to Saarlautern at once!”
“Yes sir!”
~*~
War is bullshit, Mahoney thought, puffing a cigarette underneath the truck. One moment they tell me to keep going no matter what, and the next moment they tell me to stay put. They don’t know what they’re doing. What a fucking mess. He looked toward the scene of the tank battle, and couldn’t see anything behind the smoke. He didn’t like the idea of staying put underneath the truck. You should either go forwards or backwards, but never stay in the same place.
Private Olds, with a black eye and a bloody nose, held out the walkie-talkie to Mahoney. “Captain Anderson wants to talk to you,” Olds said glumly.
Mahoney took the walkie-talkie and pressed the button. “Mahoney here.”
“The Germans are pulling back, Mahoney!” Captain Anderson said. “Saddle up your men and move them out!”
“Yes sir.”
Mahoney handed the walkie-talkie back to Olds. “Everybody back on the truck!” he said. “The Germans are retreating! We’re going to Saarlautern!”
The men crawled from underneath the truck and climbed into the back. Willy from Philly got behind the wheel and Mahoney sat next to him, looking at the road through his binoculars. The cloud of smoke still was there, but in back of it, like a long black tail, was the German armored column returning to Saarlautern. Mahoney wondered why they were pulling back, because they didn’t appear to be outnumbered that badly.
Willy from Philly started up the truck and shifted into gear. He kicked the accelerator and the truck leapt forward, nearly throwing three soldiers out the back. The truck bounced and careened over the field as the German column sped to Saarlautern with the American tanks following hot on their heels. Other trucks and tanks in the American convoy were also converging on the road, but Willy from Philly had been a cabdriver in Philadelphia and he got to the road first, cutting the wheel sharply as he turned onto it. The truck screeched on all four wheels, and Mahoney hung on for dear life as the truck straightened out and Willy from Philly slammed the gas pedal onto the floor. The truck shot like an arrow down the road to Saarlautern.
~*~
General Dobbeling returned to the conference room after his inspection of fortifications and saw great excitement among his staff officers at the map table. Colonel Wolkenstein approached and saluted.
“Sir,” Wolkenstein said, “our armored column has been forced to retreat!”
Dobbeling hung his helmet up on a peg near the door. “Why?” he asked calmly.
“Because they encountered an American column coming from the other direction. That spoiled the effect of our riposte, so I ordered the column to return.”
Dobbeling slapped Wolkenstein on the back as both of them advanced to the map table. “Good work, Wolkenstein.”
“There’s just one problem, sir. The American column is following our column back, and I was wondering if we should blow the bridge on that road.”
“No,” said Dobbeling, shaking his head. “Our own people won’t be able to return if we blow that bridge.”
“But we’ve got to keep the Americans out of Saarlautern, sir.”
“We’ll keep them out—don’t worry about it,” Dobbeling said. “As soon as our people are over that bridge, we’ll blow it to kingdom come. Pass the word along to the engineers.”
“Yes sir.”
~*~
Mahoney was no mind reader, but he knew what he’d do if he was commander of the garrison at Saarlautern. He’d blow that bridge as soon as he could. Mahoney wondered if the commander would blow the bridge before his armored column returned. It would depend on how hard up he was for tanks and men, and Mahoney figured he probably would be very hard up because the Germans had been taking a beating ever since D-Day.
That meant the German commander probably would blow the bridge as soon as his armored column made it back. Mahoney realized that if he continued to follow the German column, he’d probably get blown up with the bridge. The only other thing to do was stop as soon as he got to it, but if he did that he’d probably face a court-martial for failing to follow out an order.
There only was one other possibility. If an American force could get into Saarlautern before the German armored column, it could go to work on disarming the explosive charges on the bridge; and if he worked quickly, the rest of the American convoy would show up in time to bail him out.
The problem would be to get in front of the German column, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. The column was moving at the speed of the tanks, which only went around thirty miles an hour. The deuce-and-a-half, on the other hand, could do eighty if it had to, and on top of that, he had Willy from Philly, an ex-cabdriver, behind the wheel.
Maybe he could beat everybody into Saarlautern and save the bridge. If he could do that, the battalion could get a firm foothold in Saarlautern before the Krauts knew what hit them.
“Hey Willy,” he said. “I want you to get off this road and pass that German column up ahead.”
Willy from Philly glanced at him. “What’re you talking about!”
“You don’t understand English, you little fuck?”
“You mean go around everybody?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because I said so!”
“But we’ll get killed!”
Mahoney gave him a backhand in the kisser. “I SAID GET GOING!”
“Hup Sarge,” Willy from Philly said through bruised lips.
“Just don’t get too close to the Krauts when you’re passing them!”
“Hup Sarge!”
Willy from Philly cut the steering wheel to the side and the truck veered off the road. It bounced down the gully and into the field.
“Is this all the speed you can get out of this?” Mahoney asked.
“You just hang onto your hat there, big feller,” Willy from Philly said, as he shifted into third and kicked the accelerator down to the floor. His professional competence was being challenged, and he was going to show the world what a cabdriver from Philadelphia could do when the chips were down.
The truck bounded across the field, Willy from Philly steering in a wide arc that he figured would put him in front of the German column in about three more miles.
~*~
Sergeant Tweed pointed ahead. “Where in the hell is that son of a bitch going?”
Captain Anderson looked at the truck speeding across the field. He raised his binoculars and read the numbers on the rear fender.
“That’s Mahoney’s vehicle,” he said.
“I wonder where he thinks he’s going?”
Captain Anderson figured it out in a few seconds. “He’s going to Saarlautern.”
“What the hell for?”
“He wants to beat the Germans there and try to hold the bridge.”
“He can’t do that!” Tweed replied.
“All he has to do is hold it until the rest of us get there and prevent the Krauts from blowing the bridge.”
“He’ll never make it,” Tweed said. “The son of a bitch has gone nuts this time, I think!”
“If he has, he’s taking us with him. Drago, follow him.”
“Huh?” asked Drago.
“I said follow him.”
“But sir ...” said Tweed.
Captain Anderson interrupted him. “We’ll have more of a chance if we have more people there. If we can hold that bridge until our main forces arrive, it’ll be easier for us to take Saarlautern. Hang on, Sergeant.”
Drago turned off the road and the jeep bounced up and down as it went after Mahoney. Captain Anderson leaned out the door and waved to the other trucks, motioning for them to follow. At first the drivers couldn’t believe what Captain Anderson wanted them to do, but they followed orders and sent their trucks crashing through the field.
~*~
Willy from Philly looked in the rearview mirror. “Holy shit!”
“Whatsa matter?” asked Mahoney.
“Everybody’s coming after us!”
Mahoney rolled down the window and looked back. Sure enough, the seven other trucks from the company and Captain Anderson’s jeep were following him across the field. Mahoney became more confident. We won’t be alone, he thought. Maybe we can hold that bridge after all.
A bullet slammed into the hood of the truck, and Mahoney ducked his head. Bullets kicked up dirt and mud all around the truck. In the back, the GIs wrestled with each other in an effort to get lower as bullets whistled over them. Mahoney peered over the window on the door. His truck was abreast of the German personnel carriers, and the German troops were firing at him.
“FASTER!” Mahoney said.
“If I go any faster we’re liable to tip over!”
“I said go faster, you son of a bitch!”
Willy from Philly pushed down on the accelerator and the truck hit a little gully, bouncing off and flying into the air. Mahoney felt the terrible sinking sensation of weightlessness, and then the truck slammed down to the ground and kept going. He peeked out the window again and the German personnel carriers were three hundred yards away. They had half-tracks instead of wheels in back and couldn’t go as fast as a truck. Slowly, Willy from Philly pulled ahead of them.
“FASTER!” Mahoney shouted.
Willy from Philly gritted his teeth together and held the wheel with all his strength as bullets whizzed by. The streets of South Philadelphia had got pretty wild at times, but he’d never seen anything like this.
~*~
General Hughes leaned over the map table, planning the moves in his approach to Saarlautern. General McCook walked swiftly toward him.
“Sir, Colonel Simmons wants to speak with you, and he says it’s urgent.”
General Hughes harumphed. “Everybody thinks everything is urgent,” he said, “but it seldom is.” He muttered to himself as he walked to the telephone and picked it up. “General Hughes speaking.”
Colonel Simmons, the commanding officer of the 15th Regiment, spoke with a lazy Kentucky drawl. “Just thought I’d let you know, suh, that my 1st Battalion has passed that German armored column on the road to Saarlautern and that maybe they should have some air support, because they’re gonna have one hell of a time once they get to that bridge.”
General Hughes blinked. “Who told them to do that!”
“Do what, suh?”
“Pass that German column!”
“Well suh, I guess they decided to do it themselves. I guess they figured they’d best beat those Germans to Saarlautern, because if the Germans got there fust they’d most likely blow that there bridge.”
“They didn’t check with anybody?”
“I guess there wasn’t time, suh. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you. Them’s good boys out there and they know what they’re doing. I do think we ought to give them some air support, though, because once they hit Saarlautern the Germans are gonna give ’em hell.”
“Yes of course,” said General Hughes, somewhat dazed.
“Thank you, suh.”
General Hughes hung up the phone and stared into space.
“Anything wrong, sir?” asked General McCook.
“I’m not sure,” Hughes replied, “but call the Air Force and tell them to give us some air support at the bridge to Saarlautern.”
~*~
The 1st Battalion passed the German armored column, German soldiers in the personnel carriers and gunners in the tanks firing at them. But both adversaries were moving over rough terrain and it was hard to aim with any degree of accuracy. The Germans watched helplessly as the American trucks and jeeps sped by, some of the trucks dragging howitzers behind them. GIs in all the trucks had removed the tarpaulin coverings and were firing at the Germans, but their aim was disturbed by the motion of the truck. Soldiers from both armies manning outposts high in the mountains watched the weird spectacle beneath them and wondered what was going on.
The last vehicles in the convoy contained the 1st Battalion headquarters, and in one of the jeeps, Colonel “Rabbit” Sloan felt as though he was riding a train that was out of control. He was nominally in command, but somehow the men in Charlie Company had taken over and were leading the spearhead into Saarlautern. He was worried, because events were moving too fast for him. This was not a carefully planned military operation but a mad impulse that had originated in Charlie Company. Colonel Sloan thought that somebody ought to have his ass nailed to the wall for running off half-cocked this way. If he got out of this alive, he intended to find out who that individual was and throw the book at him.
“Sir,” said Sergeant Appleton, sitting in the rear of the bouncing jeep, “it’s Colonel Simmons.” He held out the radio microphone.
“Yes sir!” said Sloan.
“Where in the dogshit are you, Sloan?” asked Simmons.
“About three miles out of Saarlautern, sir.”
“Where’s that German armored column?”
“We’re passing them right now.” As Colonel Sloan finished the sentence, a bullet zipped through the canvas roof of the jeep two inches from his nose, and everybody in the jeep, including the driver, ducked. The jeep swerved dangerously out of control, but the driver grabbed the wheel again and steered the jeep in a reasonably straight line.
“Are you there, Sloan?” asked Colonel Simmons.
“Yes sir.”
“I jest received word from division that you’re gonna have some good air support when you hit Saarlautern, so pass the word along. And on top of that, the rest of the regiment will be coming in right behind you, so you won’t be alone. Do you read me all right?”
“Yes sir.”
“I also want you to know that General Hughes is pleased as punch by your decision to go around that armored column and attack Saarlautern directly. He’ll probably pin a medal on you when you get back, boy.”
Colonel Sloan swallowed hard. “But I didn’t make that decision, sir!”
“Who in the hell did?”
“Somebody in Charlie Company. I believe it was Captain Anderson.”
“Who?”
“Captain Anderson.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s one of our younger officers, sir.”
“Then he’s the one who’ll get the medal. I just spoke with General Hughes and he said, and here I quote, that ‘it was a brilliant display of individual initiative.’ Keep up the good work, boy. Any questions?”
“No sir.”
“Stay close to your radio. Over and out.”
~*~
General Dobbeling stood at the map table reading recent intelligence reports on the disposition of American troops descending on Saarlautern. Colonel Wolkenstein approached him and was obviously agitated.
“Sir,” said Wolkenstein, “Major Bleicher just has reported something very strange and dangerous. He says that the bulk of the American force behind him has passed him and will reach Saarlautern ahead of him.”
General Dobbeling blinked. “Passed him? How?”
“They just went around him, sir. The American trucks are faster than tracked vehicles like tanks and personnel carriers.
General Dobbeling closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them. “Well, this is a rather serious turn of events.”
“I think we should blow that bridge immediately, sir.”
General Dobbeling looked down at the map. He took a cigarette out of a gold cigarette case, inserted it into an ivory holder, and placed it in his mouth. “No,” he said, lighting the cigarette. “That will strand Major Bleicher and his armored column.”
“The alternative is to let the Americans into Saarlautern, and we can’t do that.”
“But we need Major Bleicher and his tanks and men also.”
Colonel Wolkenstein expressed himself forcefully. “Better to lose Bleicher’s column than Saarlautern! It is a harsh decision, but we must not shrink from it!”
“Calm down,” Dobbeling said. “The decision isn’t as harsh as you think. We can have Bleicher’s column and Saarlautern too if we blow the bridge as soon as Bleicher and his men are here. It’s true that some Americans will be here also, but they won’t have their tanks with them and there won’t be many of them. They won’t be able to be reinforced because the bridge will be gone, and they’ll be stranded in Saarlautern, surrounded by a superior force. We should be able to wipe them out quickly and then concentrate on the Americans on the other side of the Saar, who’ll have to get here in boats. I have a brigade of artillery set up to handle those boats, so I doubt if they’ll get far. No, Colonel Wolkenstein, the situation isn’t nearly as bad as you describe. In fact, I think it’s quite good. Please be so good as to notify the engineers that they are not to blow the bridge until all of Bleicher’s column has returned. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Carry out your orders.”