Willy from Philly hunched over the wheel and pressed the accelerator against the floorboards. “I ain’t driven like this since the great days of the Red Ball Express,” he said.
Mahoney grunted, wondering how far away Saarlautern was. Wind whistled around the truck as its shock absorbers cried out at the outrage of the badly pitted road. Mahoney and Willy from Philly bounced up and down and rocked from side to side as the truck sped along at sixty miles an hour. Behind the truck was a long snaky convoy of other trucks and jeeps, and the men crowded in the trucks held their rifles ready, peering ahead for the first signs of Saarlautern.
They passed bombed out farmhouses and rolling fields lined with hills and mountains. The sky was gray and looked as though it might rain again at any moment. The drivers had to leave their windshield wipers on all the time to clear mud and dirt away. Everyone felt as if he was part of a great military maneuver.
Willy from Philly turned a bend and Mahoney’s eyes widened at the sight of a bridge and a city straight ahead down a hill. The bridge covered a wide river which Mahoney knew was the Saar. Willy from Philly moved his foot to the brake to slow the truck as it cannonballed downhill, but Mahoney kicked him in the shins.
“Knock that off!” Mahoney said.
“But Sarge!”
“Shaddup!”
Willy from Philly said a prayer as the truck zoomed toward the bridge. Mahoney expected the Germans to start firing at any moment—surely they’d seen him by now. The bridge could be detonated when they were in the middle of it. Too late to worry about that now.
Mahoney took out his bayonet and fastened it on the end of his carbine. He rammed a fresh clip of ammo into the slot and took out a cigar, lighting it up with his Zippo. This is it, he thought. The shit is about to hit the fan.
~*~
In the back of the truck, Corporal Cranepool squinted over the cab and saw Saarlautern appear at the bottom of the hill.
“There it is!” shouted Private Rivers, pointing toward Saarlautern.
“FIX BAYONETS!” Cranepool replied. “AND BE CAREFUL YOU DON’T STAB THE MAN NEXT TO YOU!”
Private Olds pulled his bayonet and lowered its ring over the barrel of his carbine. He tried to imagine himself sticking the bayonet into the body of a German and knew he couldn’t do it. A terrible fear seized hold of him as the first German bullets crackled over head. He felt as though he was paralyzed. I can’t go through with this, he thought. I wish I were dead already.
“Looks like Olds is shitting razor blades again,” said Higgins with a laugh.
Olds couldn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and wished they’d all go away.
~*~
All the phones in the conference room rang at once. Colonel Wolkenstein listened to one, hung it up, and shouted: “The Americans are here!”
General Dobbeling, standing at the map table, spun around. He hadn’t expected them so soon. “How far have they come?”
“They’re approaching the bridge, sir!”
“I’m going to the roof to see for myself. Bring a radio.”
“Yes sir.”
General Dobbeling put on his helmet and ran out of the conference room, followed by Colonel Wolkenstein and several of his aides. An elevator was waiting and they all got on it, and the young soldier at the controls turned the wheel for up. The elevator rose and everybody looked nervously at one another except General Dobbeling, who was calm as always, treating the situation like a chess game. The elevator door opened and the officers climbed the last flight of stairs to the roof. Dobbeling pushed open the door and heard the chatter of machine guns. Rushing to the edge of the roof, he raised his binoculars and saw the American convoy speeding down the mountain toward the bridge.
“Wolkenstein,” he said, “make sure no one uses any artillery on the bridge until Major Bleicher’s men are over!”
“Yes sir!”
Dobbeling looked at the approaching Americans through his binoculars. “Come on you fools,” he muttered, “we’re waiting for you.”
~*~
The truck roared down the hill and Mahoney held his carbine tightly. German bullets ripped into the truck and shattered the windshield, but Willy from Philly kept his head low and his foot on the accelerator. Mahoney peered over the dash and saw puffs of smoke on the tops of the buildings that lined the waterfront. He figured that the Germans had the bulk of their forces up there, and he wondered why they weren’t using any artillery yet.
“Stop at the far end of the bridge!” Mahoney said.
“Hup Sarge!”
Just then a burst of German machine gun bullets raked across the windshield and caught Willy from Philly in the chest. The ex-cabdriver was thrown back against his seat, blood spurting from the holes and the truck careening from side to side as it approached the bridge.
Mahoney lunged to the side, pulled the crank on the door, and when it swung open, pushed Willy from Philly’s bleeding corpse out. Mahoney slid behind the wheel, kept his head low, and stomped down on the gas, chewing his cigar and hoping that Willy from Philly’s fate wouldn’t befall him too.
The air was filled with the sounds of machine gun fire and ricocheting bullets. Mahoney could hear the GIs behind him firing at the rooftops on the waterfront. He was beginning to think that his little maneuver was a bad idea. They’re going to chew us up on this bridge, he thought as German bullets pelted the truck.
The truck rumbled onto the bridge, and Mahoney’s heart beat like a jackhammer. Bullets ricocheted off the hood of the truck and he ducked his head, hearing them whiz past his ear. Every second seemed like an hour to Mahoney as he kept his head low and sped across the bridge. He was coming to the end and raised his foot to brake hard, hoping that the brakes still were working.
Suddenly, above his head, he heard an enormous roar. What the hell is that? he wondered as he slammed down hard on the brake pedal.
~*~
On the top of the city hall building, General Dobbeling looked up and saw a swarm of American fighter planes and bombers diving out of the clouds.
“Run for your lives!” somebody screamed.
The airplane engines screamed across the sky and jagged lines of fire spurted from their wings. General Dobbeling threw himself to the roof as a fighter plane approached, its machine gun bullets stitching a path across the roof. Dobbeling felt the roof tremble as the bullets slammed in, and then, when the plane passed, he leapt to his feet and ran to the door. It was only ten yards away and Dobbeling’s calm manner evaporated as he imagined himself being cut in two by strafing bullets. He ran as fast as he could and made it to the door, ducking inside and descending the flight of stairs.
The other officers followed him down, leaving a few of their number bleeding upon the roof. General Dobbeling stood next to the elevator, trying to calm himself down. He hadn’t realized that the Americans would send planes out in this weather, and now the situation was much more serious.
“Wolkenstein—where are you!” he said.
“Here sir,” said Wolkenstein, his face pale and his helmet crooked on his head.
“Order the engineers to blow the bridge at once!”
“But what about Major Bleicher and his column?”
“I said blow the bridge at once!”
“Yes sir!”
~*~
The truck stopped on the far end of the bridge and Mahoney pulled up the emergency brake. He pushed open the door and jumped out, running to the side where he thought the detonation wires would be.
“LET’S GO!” he yelled. “CUT THEM GODDAMN WIRES!”
The men jumped down from the trucks and rushed to both sides of the bridge to slash the wires before the bridge blew. In the corners of their eyes they saw planes strafing and bombing the buildings nearby, and the intensity of German machine gun fire had diminished considerably. Only one man remained in his truck: Private Olds, quaking with fear, tears running down his cheeks, unable to move his feet.
Mahoney ran to the iron fence at the side of the bridge, looked down, and saw a mass of wires as thick as his wrist. Reaching down with his carbine and bayonet, he cut through the wires. Bullets whizzed over his head and ricocheted off the metal superstructure of the bridge, but he gritted his teeth and moved his carbine up and down in a sawing motion. He could see that he already had cut through a few of the wires, but there were a lot more of them to go. Glancing to his left, he saw soldiers climbing all over the bridge, cutting wires. They were probably duplicating each other’s efforts, but the main thing was to get all the wires cut so that the bridge could be saved.
“HERE COME THE KRAUTS!” somebody shouted.
Mahoney looked toward Saarlautern and saw platoons of German soldiers converging on the bridge from all the side streets. He wanted to pull his carbine around and start shooting at them, but the main thing was to cut the goddamned wires. He pushed against the wires with all his strength, knowing he was a clear target as the Germans came closer and opened fire.
The Germans didn’t appear anxious to come onto the bridge, which told Mahoney that they knew it was going to be blown at any moment. Maintaining a respectful distance, they got down on their stomachs and took potshots at the American soldiers. Mahoney saw one American soldier lose his grip on the superstructure and fall into the boiling waters below. A bullet ricocheted off a steel column inches from Mahoney’s head, and just then his bayonet cut through the last wire.
Mahoney threw his body behind a steel column, peered around it, aimed his carbine, and fired at a German lying in the street straight ahead. The German squirmed, and Mahoney knew he got him. He aimed again and fired at a German running across the street, and that German lost his balance and tumbled to the cobblestones. Mahoney fired a third shot at a German hiding behind a lamppost, but that German didn’t flinch and Mahoney knew he’d missed.
Just then there was an explosion on the other side of the bridge. Mahoney turned and saw a huge black cloud of smoke rising in the air behind a parked deuce-and-a-half truck. The Germans have pulled the plug, he thought. They’re trying to blow the bridge and that was one charge that still was wired up. Another explosion went off farther down the bridge on the other side, and then there was silence. Mahoney smiled as he realized that his plan had worked and the bridge had been saved.
~*~
“Sir!” said Colonel Wolkenstein. “The engineers report that they’ve detonated their charges, but most of them have not exploded!”
General Dobbeling looked up from the map table. “Why not?”
“The Americans must have cut the wires, sir!”
Dobbeling thought for a few seconds. “I see. Well, all we can do now is destroy the bridge with artillery fire. Pass the order along to the artillery officer.”
“But sir,” Wolkenstein said, “the artillery officer already has reported that he’s having great difficulty firing, due to the American planes. Also, evidently the Americans have howitzers firing from the other side of the river.”
“I’m aware of all that,” Dobbeling replied wearily. “Kindly pass along the order that I just have given you.”
“Yes sir!”
Colonel Wolkenstein turned and walked back to the telephones, and General Dobbeling looked down at the map of Saarlautern. He knew that if the Americans held the bridge, it would only be a matter of time before their main force entered Saarlautern and captured it. All his troops could do was fight gallantly and kill as many of the Americans as they could, but the Americans had vast reserves of men and equipment and the victory would be theirs in the end.
General Dobbeling puffed the cigarette in his ivory holder. I wonder how long we can hold them back? he asked himself.
~*~
A German 155 fired from the banks of the Saarlautern riverfront, and its shell sounded like a rocket as it passed over the bridge. Mahoney knelt behind a steel pillar, firing carefully aimed shots at Germans hiding in alley-ways and behind the windows of buildings. Another German artillery shell landed in the water underneath Mahoney and threw up a geyser from the river, soaking into his field jacket.
Mahoney wiped the water off his face and continued firing. His men shot at the Germans from behind trucks and the steel columns of the bridge. Mahoney wondered where Olds, his runner, was. The little son of a bitch should have followed me over here, Mahoney thought. Knifefinder would have followed me. Maybe Olds stopped a bullet.
“OLDS!” Mahoney yelled.
There was no answer.
“OLDS!”
In the rear of the lead truck, Private Olds heard Mahoney’s voice and cringed. An artillery shell landed on the superstructure of the bridge nearby, its shrapnel zinging through the air and whacking into the side of the truck. Olds clawed his fingers across the steel floor of the truck and sobbed hysterically.
Corporal Cranepool heard Mahoney call for Olds and wondered where Olds was. He remembered that Olds had been in the rear of the truck, and suspected he still was there. Cranepool raised himself from the sidewalk next to the road and ran back to the truck as American airplanes and artillery stepped up their attacks on the German artillery positions. Reaching the truck, Cranepool dived into the back and landed next to Olds, who was slobbering and whining.
Cranepool slapped Olds in the face. “Mahoney’s calling you, asshole!”
“I can’t move!” wailed Olds.
Cranepool pointed his carbine at Olds’ face. “You’d fucking better move, you yellow-belly cocksucker!”
“I can’t!”
“Shit!” said Cranepool. He snatched the walkie-talkie off Olds’ shoulder and jumped down from the truck. Running in a zigzag pattern across the roadway, he made his way to Mahoney, who was kneeling behind a steel column squeezing off rounds. Cranepool slowed up and dropped down next to him. “Hiya Sarge,” he said.
“Whataya want?” asked Mahoney, firing his rifle. In front of him a German fell out of a window and toppled to the street below.
“I heard you calling for Olds, so I went looking for him. I found him on the truck.”
Mahoney turned to reply, but a German artillery shell landed on the bridge superstructure above them, exploding and sending bits of metal flying in all directions. Mahoney and Cranepool tried to squeeze under their helmets, and when the smoke cleared neither of them had been scratched.
“That little fuck!” Mahoney said. He looked at the truck and contemplated throwing a hand grenade at Olds, but decided that it might damage the truck too much.
“Anyway, I brought you the walkie-talkie,” Cranepool said.
Mahoney took it from him and barked his thanks. Then he called Captain Anderson.
“Where in the hell have you been?” Captain Anderson asked. “I’ve been trying to raise you ever since we hit the bridge.”
“My runner bugged out on me. What did you want to know?”
“I wanted to know how your platoon was doing?”
“You can see can’t you?”
“Not that well.”
“Where are you?”
“About in the middle of the bridge.”
Cranepool grabbed Mahoney by the arm. “LOOK!”
Mahoney looked in the direction of Cranepool’s finger and saw the German armored column descending the hill behind them.
“Oh-oh,” said Mahoney.
Along the bridge, the men shouted and pointed at the German armored column that was advancing with guns blazing.
“Mahoney!” cried Captain Anderson.
“Yes sir!”
“The Krauts are coming!”
“I know!” Mahoney wondered what to do. They had Germans on both sides of them and the swollen Saar River below. “Sir—I think we oughtta try to get into Saarlautern!”
“I think you’re right! Count to thirty and then move your men in!”
“What about the trucks?”
“Leave them right where they are!”
Mahoney lowered the walkie-talkie and looked at his watch.
“What’d he say?” asked Cranepool.
“We’re going into Saarlautern in about a half-minute. Go tell the men.”
Cranepool ran off, and Mahoney looked at the second hand of his watch. He figured Captain Anderson had wanted the pause so he could have the time to get the rest of the company coordinated. The German armored column descending the hill ran into American howitzer fire and American planes. Mahoney thought Captain Anderson wanted to leave the trucks on the bridge to slow down the German tanks and personnel carriers, but he decided to take the lead truck and drive it right into Saarlautern anyway—because one truck more or less on the bridge wouldn’t mean anything but one truck going into Saarlautern could provide cover for his platoon.
Mahoney ran across the roadway to the truck and jumped in, noticing Willy from Philly’s blood on the front seat. He slammed the door, started the engine, and goosed the gas pedal. Looking at his watch, he saw that thirty seconds had elapsed. The men shouted battle cries and war whoops as they rushed toward Saarlautern.
Mahoney shifted into gear and drove the truck forward. Olds, huddled in the back of the truck, didn’t want to stay where he was, but he was too afraid to move. Mahoney kicked down the gas pedal and the truck accelerated off the bridge, with the first platoon and the rest of Charlie Company behind him. The Germans saw him coming and opened fire. Bullets zanged against the metal on the truck and Mahoney ducked his head. Before his head went down, he saw a German machine gun nest on the first floor of a building. Mahoney steered toward it and rammed the gas pedal onto the floor. He stayed hidden until he estimated that he was close to the building, then opened the door of the truck and dropped out.
He hit the pavement and rolled to break his fall. Looking up, he saw the truck heading straight for the machine gun nest. Mahoney tore a hand grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, and ran behind the truck. He saw Olds cowering on the steel floor in back.
“OLDS—GET OUT OF THERE!”
But Olds was immobilized by fear, as usual. The truck crashed into the building and Olds flew forward like a rag doll, slamming against the cab. Mahoney ran around the truck and hurled a hand grenade through the opening the truck had made in the brick wall. Then he dashed back to the safety behind the truck, listening to Olds moan. Blood dripped from a gash on Olds’ head, and the hand grenade exploded, making the truck tremble.
Mahoney came out from behind the truck and charged the building.
“FOLLOW ME!” he bellowed.
He jumped up on the hood of the truck and leapt through the opening in the wall, landing in the room where his grenade had exploded. Dead Germans and parts of dead Germans littered the floor, and a German machine gun on a tripod lay on its side amid the carnage. Mahoney picked up the machine gun and turned it around as Germans entered the room through a rear door. Mahoney fired the machine gun, swinging it from side to side on its transverse mechanism and cutting the Germans down. The Germans fell in all directions, shrieking in pain and splashing the walls with their blood.
The rest of the first platoon entered the room behind Mahoney. They looked in amazement at the heap of dead Germans in front of him. Mahoney stood behind the machine gun, chewing the butt of his cigar.
“What are you assholes looking at?” he growled.
He raised the walkie-talkie to his face so that he could call Captain Anderson, but nothing happened when he pressed the button. The walkie-talkie must have broke when I jumped out of the truck, Mahoney thought.
“Where’s my fucking runner!” Mahoney demanded.
Pfc. Morgan was standing in the window. “He’s in the street, Sarge.”
Mahoney stomped to the window and looked out into the street. He saw Olds wandering around without his helmet as if he were drunk. He held both of his hands to his bleeding head and didn’t appear to know where he was.
“That stupid cocksucker had better get his head down,” Mahoney said.
A machine gun fired, and Private Olds spun through the air. He fell to the pavement and didn’t move.
Mahoney shrugged. “Well, I guess that takes care of that asshole.” He looked around. “Is Knifefinder here?”
Knifefinder raised his hand. “Yo.”
“Go find Captain Anderson and ask him what he wants us to do. And see if you can pick up a walkie-talkie someplace.”
“Hup Sarge.”
Knifefinder jumped through the window and ran down the sidewalk. Mahoney turned to his men and began to count them to see how many were still alive.
~*~
Captain Anderson and part of the third platoon were in a former florist shop on the other side of the street. Through the broken plate glass window they could see that the German armored column was in serious trouble on the other side of the river. Captain Anderson reached for the radio microphone on Pfc. Drago’s back and called Colonel Sloan at battalion.
Colonel Sloan’s battalion command post was underneath a deuce-and-a-half truck in the middle of the bridge. Sloan had no clear idea of what was going on behind him or in front of him. He knew he should do something, but didn’t know what.
Sergeant Appleton handed him the radio. “Sir, Captain Anderson wants to speak with you, and he says it’s urgent.”
Colonel Sloan took the microphone and tried to make his voice calm so he’d sound as if he was in control of the situation. “Sloan here.”
“Sir,” said Captain Anderson, “I’ve got my company in Saarlautern but we won’t be here long unless we get reinforced fast!”
Colonel Sloan had no idea any of his men were in Saarlautern yet. “I’ll send the rest of the battalion right in!”
“That may not be enough, sir. A battalion won’t be enough against the garrison here.”
“I’ll call regiment and see what they can do. Meanwhile, you hold on there, Anderson. The rest of the battalion is going right in. Anything else?”
“No sir.”
“Over and out.” Colonel Sloan turned to Major Cutler. “Send the rest of the battalion into that goddamn city!”
“Yes sir!”
Major Cutler transmitted the command on the other radio, and Colonel Sloan told Sergeant Appleton to call Colonel Simmons at regiment. While waiting for the call to go through, Colonel Sloan could hear a tattoo of running feet on the bridge. The rest of his battalion was moving into Saarlautern.
~*~
General Dobbeling and Colonel Wolkenstein looked at the map table as aides moved blocks of wood to indicate troop dispositions and movements. Another aide ran toward them from the radio.
“Sir!” he said. “The Americans are in Saarlautern!”
“What!” said the normally calm Dobbeling.
“The Americans are in Saarlautern!”
“How many?”
“Two or three hundred, according to the commander on the scene.”
Dobbeling looked down at the map. He’d thought he could keep the Americans out of Saarlautern long enough to damage the bridge to the point where it would be unusable, but somehow the Americans had broken through. However, there weren’t very many of them in the city, and maybe they could be pushed out. He tried to think of which units to send against the small American bridgehead. His best unit was the 91st Parachute Regiment, an old battle-seasoned unit.
“Send the 91st Parachute Regiment to the bridgehead at once!” Dobbeling said. “Also the 242nd Tank Battalion! I want those Americans pushed out of Saarlautern at once, and then I want constant artillery salvos on that bridge until it is unusable by the enemy!”
“Yes sir!”
The aide ran back to the radio.
“I hope that will be enough to drive them back,” Wolkenstein said. “Perhaps we should send everything we have to the bridgehead. I think that only an all-out effort can stop the Americans now.”
“No,” replied Dobbeling. “If we send everything we have to the bridgehead, everything we have will be wiped out by the American planes because we’ll be too concentrated.”
Another aide approached the map table. “Sir!” he said. “Major Bleicher requests permission to surrender!”
Dobbeling looked up from the map table. He’d known Bleicher was being hard-pressed, but he hadn’t expected him to cave in this soon. “I’ll speak with him,” he said.
The aide led him to a radio, and Dobbeling accepted the mouthpiece from the operator.
“This is General Dobbeling,” he said.
The strained voice of General Bleicher came over the airwaves. “Request permission to surrender, sir.” The din of artillery explosions could be heard in the distance.
“What is your situation?” Dobbeling asked.
“I’m surrounded by strong enemy tank units and artillery. Their airplanes are attacking me constantly. I only have approximately twenty percent of my force left. We don’t have a chance here. I would like to save the few men I have left.”
General Dobbeling sympathized with Major Bleicher’s predicament, but he had to place military considerations first. The longer Bleicher could tie up a large body of American tanks and planes, the more time Dobbeling would have to destroy the bridge.
“Permission denied,” General Dobbeling said coldly.
“But sir...”
“You have your orders, Major Bleicher. Over and out.”
General Dobbeling handed the microphone back to the radio operator and returned to the map table.
“Where is the 91st Parachute Regiment now?” he asked.
“They’re on their way to the bridgehead,” Colonel Wolkenstein replied.