Mahoney looked across the piles of German dead bodies in the backyards of the buildings facing him. The Germans had made two charges and he was expecting another. He didn’t know how he and his men had held them off before, but somehow they’d have to do it again.
He puffed a cigarette and was glad for the chance to cool the barrel of the German machine gun. The room was filled with acrid gunsmoke and men lay around dead or in bandages wrapped by Pfc. Grossberger. Eleven of the men in the room were still alive. The wounded groaned and the healthy passed them lighted cigarettes.
Cranepool crouched beside Mahoney. “I don’t think we can survive another one of those,” he said, nervous and jumpy.
“We’ll have to,” Mahoney replied.
He looked at the German buildings and his hair nearly stood on end as he saw the ugly snout of an anti-tank gun appear in a window across the yard.
“GET DOWN!” he screamed.
Everybody dove for the floor just as the first German shell hit the outside wall. It collapsed and the room filled with dust and smoke.
“GET OUT OF HERE!” Mahoney yelled.
He jumped up and nearly tripped over debris as he made his way to the door. He and all the men were coughing and spitting, trying to see through the white clouds of dust. They made it into the corridor just as another shell hit the building, breaking apart another wall. Soldiers shouted and crowded into the corridor. Mahoney saw a flight of stairs.
“UP THOSE STAIRS!”
He took huge leaps toward the stairs and went up them three at a time. His men followed him, carrying and dragging the wounded, as more shells hit the building. One shell flew into the corridor below and exploded, blowing apart some of the soldiers trying to get up the stairs.
A handful of men made it to the second floor. Mahoney paused to look at them and wondered what to do. He wished he’d seen stairs that led to a cellar, because he would have felt safer underneath the building, but now, on a high floor, they were more vulnerable to the shelling.
They heard the shouts of Germans in the backyard.
“THE KRAUTS ARE COMING!” somebody shouted.
“UP THE STAIRS!” Mahoney replied.
They ran up the stairs as quickly as they could, hearing Germans enter the building on the first floor. German officers barked orders, and footsteps on the bottom stairs could be heard.
“They’re coming after us!” Cranepool said.
Mahoney ripped a hand grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairs. The building shook with the explosion and Mahoney continued to climb upwards as a few other GIs lobbed grenades down at the Germans following them.
Mahoney wanted to stop and make a stand on one of the floors, but he didn’t think he’d have a chance if the Germans brought their anti-tank gun into the building. He figured he and his men would have to get onto the roof. Maybe they could hold off the Germans up there.
They scrambled up the stairs, dropping grenades down on the Germans, who fired up through the stairwell when the explosions stopped. Private Smith was shot in the back and Pfc. Romero suffered a bullet wound in the foot, but the others continued to run up the stairs.
Finally Mahoney reached the top floor. He pushed open the door to the roof and saw dusk falling over Saarlautern. A chimney, water tank, pigeon coop, and a few other structures were on the roof. Mahoney told his men to take cover behind them and direct a steady stream of fire toward the door.
“We’ve got to keep them off the roof!” he said.
He heard the whine of airplane engines from above. Looking up, he saw a squadron of American fighter planes peeling off for a strafing run. At first he didn’t know who they were going to strafe, but they were heading straight for the roof and looked as if they meant business.
Mahoney jumped up, waved his helmet, and yelled: “WE’RE AMERICANS! DON’T SHOOT!”
In the twilight, the fighter pilots thought they were Germans. They came in low and steady over the rooftops and opened fire. Their bullets tore up the tarpaper on the roof and the GIs ran in a panic for cover. A few of them weren’t fast enough and were mangled by the big .50 caliber machine gun bullets.
“WE’RE AMERICANS!” everybody shouted. “WE’RE AMERICANS!”
The American pilots made a huge parabola turn in the sky and came back for another run. The GIs tried to burrow into the nooks and crannies of the roof as the fighter planes screamed past, sending forth a deadly blizzard of bullets. German soldiers appeared in the doorway to the roof, saw the planes, and fled back down the stairs.
The airplanes passed over the roof and kept going to another target. Mahoney lay with his nose against the tarpaper, cursing the Air Corps and everything it stood for. Some of his men moaned and writhed on the roof, and Grossberger left his hiding place to check them out.
Another German appeared in the doorway. Mahoney took a wild shot at him and missed. He aimed carefully at the doorway and when a German head and shoulders came into view again he pulled the trigger. The German fell backwards and Cranepool threw a hand grenade after him. The little roof house shook with the explosion and smoke billowed out the door.
The GIs aimed their weapons at the roof house, ready to kill the next German who showed himself.
~*~
The trucks on the bridge were driven into the midst of the fighting in Saarlautern, and the tanks and artillery followed. The tanks fired their cannons point-blank at buildings filled with Germans, and soon heavy artillery arrived in the city, blowing down buildings.
Night fell on Saarlautern, and Captain Anderson came out of the cellar where he’d been hiding with Sergeant Tweed and Pfc. Drago. Captain Anderson had lost contact with his company and feared most of his men were dead. He didn’t know where Colonel Sloan was and the streets surrounding the bridge were chaotic. More tanks and troops poured into the city, and Captain Anderson thought it was about time, because the remnants of the 1st Battalion couldn’t have held out longer.
Bright searchlights cut through the darkness, and Captain Anderson looked toward the bridge. Some of the tanks had searchlights mounted on them to illuminate the buildings. The tanks with searchlights positioned themselves at strategic spots around the bridgehead and the artillery fired salvo after salvo at the buildings.
~*~
Mahoney, lying on his stomach on the roof, felt as though an earthquake had hit the building. The roof tilted to the side and the building trembled as if it was made of toothpicks. Mahoney didn’t know whether Germans or other Americans were shelling the building, but he knew he had to get out of there.
“LET’S GO!” he said “DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS!”
He jumped up and ran toward the stairs, holding his carbine to his hip and ready to fire at the first German he saw. His men followed him and he entered the devastated roof house, seeing no Germans and kicking wooden planks and chunks of plaster out of the way.
He went down the stairs three steps at a time, holding his carbine ready to shoot Germans. Another artillery shell hit the building and the stairs wobbled beneath his feet. He lost his balance and fell asshole over teakettle down the stairs, landing in the fifth floor hallway. Two more artillery shells hit the building simultaneously and the next flight of stairs broke loose, falling into the bowels of the building.
It was dark and Mahoney could barely see. He coughed from the dust and smoke and something told him that he was going to die in that building. His men crowded around looking to him for orders. Mahoney walked to the edge of the hallway and looked to the edge of the hole where the stairs had been. It looked like a fifteen foot drop to the pile of rubble below.
“We’ll have to jump,” he said. “It’s the only way we’re going to get out of here.”
“All the way down there?” asked Private Baker.
“You’d rather stay up here?”
“But I can’t see.”
“Keep your feet close together all the way down, and when you hit, roll,” Mahoney told them.
Another artillery shell hit the building, and they all toppled to the floor. The building felt as though it would collapse at any moment.
Mahoney was the first one up. He slung his rifle crossways over his shoulder and moved toward the edge of the hallway.
“GERONIMO!” he yelled and jumped into the air.
He fell through the air for a few harrowing moments, and then his feet crashed down on a pile of debris. He rolled to the side and tumbled down a hill of bricks, plaster, and wood, cutting open his outer thigh on an exposed nail.
His men followed him down, yelling, spraining ankles, and getting knocked cold. Mahoney told them to get organized as he looked around for someplace to go. He realized that they were in the hallway of a lower floor, and the stairs going down the rest of the way appeared solid.
“LET’S GO!” he said. “FOLLOW ME!”
He descended the stairs and his men came after him, limping but ready for anything. Another shell hit the building and they heard a terrible crashing above them. Timbers and part of the roof dropped into the cavity of the building, and a few chunks landed in the stairwell. Private Mayberry from the second squad was knocked cold by five bricks cemented together, but Corporal Harris caught him and dragged him down the stairs the rest of the way.
Finally they reached the ground floor. Machine gun bullets whizzed through the windows and more artillery shells tore up the top floors of the building. Mahoney peeked through a window and was nearly blinded by the searchlights. He knew that he was facing the direction of the bridge and that the soldiers outside must be Americans unless something had gone very wrong with the attack. Either way, he’d have to get out of the building before it collapsed on him and his men.
“Those must be our guys out there,” Mahoney said. “We don’t want them to shoot us by mistake, so leave your weapons in here and go outside with your hands up. If any of you have got anything white with you, wave it around.”
A few guys had dirty white handkerchiefs and took them out of their pockets. They followed Mahoney to the front door and Mahoney took a deep breath, raising his hand in the air. He stepped outside and machine guns opened fire in front of him. Bullets whizzed past his ears and he dived off the stoop to the sidewalk below.
“We’re Americans!” he yelled. “Hold your goddamn fire!”
The machine gun fire continued for a few seconds, kicking up splinters of sidewalk all around Mahoney, who realized that he was the only one who’d made it out the door.
Then the machine guns stopped firing. He looked up fearfully and saw figures moving toward him in the glare of the searchlights.
“He’s wearing an American uniform, sir,” said one of the soldiers.
Mahoney lost his temper. “Of course I’m wearing an American uniform, you son of a bitch! That’s because I’m an American soldier!”
The group of men came closer.
“On your feet!” said an authoritative voice.
Mahoney stood, still holding his hands high. He squinted at a young lieutenant and five enlisted men.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the officer.
“Master Sergeant C.J. Mahoney, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 15th Regiment, 33rd Division.”
“What were you doing in that building?”
“WHAT WAS I DOING IN THAT BUILDING!” Mahoney screamed. “WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I WAS DOING IN THAT BUILDING—PULLING MY PRICK!”
“At ease, now,” said the officer. “You can lower your hands.”
Mahoney dropped his hands. “Some of my men still are in that building.”
“Come on out of there!” the officer shouted.
The survivors of the first and second squads appeared in the doorway and descended the steps to the sidewalk, holding their hands high and blinking at the searchlights.
“Where are your weapons?” the lieutenant asked.
“We left them in the building,” Mahoney replied, “because we knew you assholes would start shooting at us.”
“You’re still in the Army, soldier,” the lieutenant said. “You’d better watch your mouth before you find yourself before a court-martial.”
“Aw fuck,” Mahoney murmured.
“Go back in the building and get your weapons. Then return to your unit.”
Mahoney threw a half-ass salute. “Yes sir.”
~*~
Colonel Wolkenstein stood by the telephones in the conference room of his headquarters in city hall waiting for his call to go through to General Balck. The events of the last hour had shaken him because American tanks and artillery had made it into Saarlautern and a major defeat was looming for the garrison there.
“This is General Balck,” said the voice on the other end suddenly.
“This is Colonel Wolkenstein in Saarlautern, sir. I felt it was my duty to inform you that the Americans are here in the city in force because we were unable to blow the bridge.”
There was silence for a few seconds. “Why were you unable to blow the bridge?” General Balck asked, cold anger in his voice.
“The Americans overwhelmed us.”
“You have a whole division there, haven’t you?”
“It looks as though they sent a whole division over the bridge, and they had air support that made it difficult for us to move.”
“Rain is predicted for tomorrow. Their planes won’t be able to fly. I expect you to hold the Americans where they are.”
“My intelligence sections report that they have much more of everything than we. If you want me to hold them, you must give me something to hold them with.”
“I have nothing to give you,” General Balck said. “You must hold them with what you have.”
“That will be impossible,” Colonel Wolkenstein said.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then you are relieved of command herewith,” General Balck told him. “Who is next in command in Saarlautern?”
“Colonel Bach.”
“Put him on the phone.”
“Yes sir.”
~*~
It was night in Berlin. Adolf Hitler and General Jodl stood in the Chancellery before a huge map of Europe laid on a red marble table top.
“General Balck reports that Saarlautern will fall unless the garrison there is reinforced,” General Jodl said.
“There will be no reinforcement,” Hitler said, wearing his brown party jacket with the red, white, and black swastika armband. “The garrison there must stage a heroic resistance and fight to the last man.”
“General Balck has issued exactly those orders, my fuehrer.”
“Good. It must be clearly understood by all commanders that they must give up no ground as long as they possess the means to fight.” Hitler’s head wobbled with emotion and his right hand shook. “We are buying time now, Jodl. With every passing day we draw closer to Operation Wacht am Rhine, and then the world will know that our blood sacrifice was not in vain.”
“Yes my fuehrer.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” said Jodl.
The door opened and the insect-like Reichsfuehrer Heinrich Himmler entered, accompanied by a tall young Lieutenant-Colonel in the Waffen SS. Himmler and the young officer marched to Hitler, halted, and threw the Hitler salute.
“Mein Fuehrer!” said Himmler. “It is my honor to introduce to you Lieutenant Colonel Joachim Peiper!”
Peiper had straight black hair, handsome features, and the glittering eyes of a maniac. Hitler stared for a few moments at him, and Peiper thought his head would burst from the pressure building up inside of it. He’d been astounded when he’d received word that Himmler wanted to speak with him personally and nearly floored when Himmler told him the Fuehrer himself wished to meet him. Peiper gazed at the Fuehrer’s pale twitching face and saw on it the destiny of the Fatherland.
“Colonel Peiper,” Hitler said in the hoarse voice that Peiper had heard over the radio and through loudspeakers at mass meetings for nearly twenty years, “I am so happy to meet you.”
Hitler extended his hand, and Peiper shook it, feeling high voltage electricity passing from Hitler’s hand to his.
“I have one question for you, Colonel Peiper,” Hitler said. “Do you believe that one man can change the course of history?”
Peiper replied through a throat constricted by awe. “Yes, my Fuehrer, because you have changed the course of history yourself.”
Hitler smiled faintly, showing brown rotting teeth. “And so shall you, Colonel Peiper,” he said. “And so shall you.”
Hitler paused for dramatic effect, and Peiper wondered what his Fuehrer was talking about. Hitler indicated the map with a wave of his left hand.
“Colonel Peiper,” Hitler said, “a gigantic military operation has been planned in secret by me and the OKW during the past several weeks. Complete details will be furnished you by General Dietrich, but I can tell you now that it is an attack that will roll over the American line in the Ardennes and proceed to Belgium, cutting the Allied forces in half and capturing the port of Antwerp, thus denying them the supplies they’ll need to continue this war.”
Colonel Peiper looked at the map and saw huge arrows drawn through the Ardennes sector. He wondered where the troops and tanks would come from for such a military operation.
“You’re probably wondering,” Hitler said, “where the troops and equipment have been found for this operation. They have come from both the Russian and Western Fronts, and there is no doubt that we will completely overwhelm the Americans and drive through to victory. The Allies will be defeated in the west before they know what has happened, so sudden and vicious will the attack be. And now, you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here, isn’t that correct?”
Peiper clicked his heels together. “That is correct, my Fuehrer.”
Hitler pointed his finger at Peiper’s face. “Because you, Peiper, will lead the spearhead of the attack!”
Peiper’s jaw dropped open. “I, my Fuehrer?”
“Yes you, Peiper. You have been selected for your ruthlessness and devotion to the cause of National Socialism, and I know you shall not fail.”
Tears of emotion welled up in Colonel Peiper’s pale blue eyes. “This is a great honor, my Fuehrer,” he said. “I shall do whatever you ask and bring back to you the prize of victory.”
“Excellent,” said Hitler, nodding his head. “I know that I and all of Germany will be proud of you. That is all. Report to General Dietrich and he will give you your orders in detail.”