The artillery barrage began on time at eleven-thirty that night. The big guns thundered in the distance, and the men of Charlie Company heard the first shells whoosh over their heads. The shells exploded in the woods and hills on the other side of the Moselle, blowing trees and boulders into the air. The first barrage wasn’t very elaborate and just served as a guide to the artillerymen, who could see where they were landing and make appropriate adjustments. Then, when they had the target area boxed in, they commenced bombarding the Germans in earnest.
The night roared with the constant sound of multiple explosions, and the men of Charlie Company could feel the ground tremble underneath them. They had to cover their ears with their hands, although the shells were exploding several hundred yards away, and they were glad that such a bombardment wasn’t falling on them.
Mahoney sat in his trench, puffing a cigarette. His new carbine was beside him, and bandoliers of ammunition hung from his neck. The supply sergeant had given him a new helmet without a white cross on it, and he’d also given Mahoney a few swallows of Scotch whiskey. They’d all thrown their bed rolls and tent halves into the supply truck because they were going across the river with only light field packs. Hand grenades were stuffed in Mahoney’s pockets and hung from his lapels and cartridge belt. He had a few cans of C rations and an extra pack of cigarettes plus four Hershey chocolate bars. He was ready to kick ass.
Next to him sat Private Riggs, serious one moment and cackling the next. He also carried a carbine plus a brand-new walkie-talkie that Mahoney had taught him how to use. He knew he was going into battle for the first time and was a little scared.
Mahoney heard a voice coming through the walkie-talkie. Riggs raised the device to his face and spoke into it. Then he turned to Mahoney. “Time to move out, sergeant.”
“It’s about fucking time.”
Mahoney stood up and burped as rain pinged on his helmet. “All right, first platoon!” he yelled. “Let’s move it out!”
The men came out of their holes and made their way around trees and over boulders to the banks of the Moselle. The engineers were already there with their stacks of rectangular boats. Mahoney saw the other Charlie Company platoons moving to the riverbank, also, and farther down the line he could see the other companies in the First Battalion moving into position.
The far side of the river flashed with explosions as the GI artillery battalions continued to pour it on. The river was wider tonight, for the heavy rains had made it overflow its banks. Mud was everywhere, but Mahoney’s feet already were wet, and it didn’t matter anymore. When the first platoon reached the boats, they put on life jackets and Mahoney told them to get down. They all kneeled, waiting for the order to load up and go across.
~*~
One of the first shells landed so close to General Kretchmer’s bunker that it threw him out of bed.
“Was ist los!” he cried, on his hands and knees.
The door to his room burst open, and Captain Nagle ran in, stumbling over General Kretchmer and falling down, also.
“We’re under bombardment!” Captain Nagle screamed.
“Calm down, you fool,” Kretchmer replied. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
Both men got up and brushed themselves off. The ground heaved like the deck of a ship in high seas as artillery shells packed with TNT fell all around them.
“Nagle,” said Kretchmer, “go to the conference room and alert all units to prepare for an attack. Have the regiments at our rear move up to the riverbank at once so we can meet the Americans head-on when they come across the river.”
“But, sir,” protested Nagle, “the bombardment is most intense near the river bank. Shouldn’t we hold the bulk of our forces back and send them into battle when the bombardment stops?”
“It may be too late then,” Kretchmer replied. “I don’t want the Americans to establish a beachhead on our side of the river. Get moving. I’ll meet you in the conference room as soon as I get dressed. And order the artillery battalions to open fire immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, my general.”
“Hurry!”
Captain Nagle ran out of the room. Kretchmer pulled his pajama top over his head and reached for his tunic, thinking that if he could throw the Americans back again, the Fuehrer might take note of it and maybe award him the Knights Cross with diamonds.
~*~
Mahoney lay on his stomach in the mud as German shells fell sporadically along the front occupied by the First Battalion. He looked at his watch, and it was a few minutes before midnight. Around him, the men of the first platoon glanced around furtively, hoping they would get moving soon because they were sitting ducks where they were. Corporal Cranepool was perched on one knee, peering through his binoculars at the German side of the river. If that was me, Mahoney thought, I’d get a bullet right between my eyes, but that fucking Cranepool can do anything he wants and never gets a scratch on him. God must be looking out for the little asshole.
“Let’s go!” said one of the engineers, standing beside a stack of boats. “Let’s load it up!”
Mahoney looked around and got to his feet. “You heard him!” he bellowed. “Get on the fucking boats and move out!”
~*~
General Kretchmer marched into his conference room and saw all his staff officers gathered around the map table, mumbling and pointing at the little pins.
“What’s the latest?” Kretchmer demanded as he approached the map table.
Colonel Brunchmuller, his chief of staff, saluted. “The enemy bombardment has put much of our artillery out of action. We can only offer meager retaliation, sir.”
“Hmmm,” said Kretchmer, wrinkling his brow as he looked at the map. That meant the Americans could assemble and cross the Moselle without much difficulty. He wondered why they hadn’t used their artillery last night. Perhaps they were trying to take me by surprise. “What about our forward units? What do they have to say?”
“They’re receiving fierce shelling. They don’t dare show their heads.”
Kretchmer’s eyes flashed with anger. “They’d better get up and start firing everything they have at the Americans. It’s their only chance.”
“It’s hard to do that with bombs falling all around you.”
Kretchmer thought of the Knights Cross with diamonds hanging from his neck. “It’s not that hard,” he said. “I’ll show them.” He turned to Nagle. “Have Goerdler bring my Kubelwagen around.”
“But, sir,” said Nagle, “surely you’re not going out there.”
“I am, and you are, too.”
“Me!” shouted Nagle, horrified.
“Yes, you.” Kretchmer turned to Brunchmuller. “You take command here until I return. Order all units to move to the river bank and stop the Americans from reaching this side. Any questions?”
“What if the Americans make it across?” Brunchmuller asked.
“They won’t make it across. We won’t let them. You have your orders. Carry them out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kretchmer took one last look at the map, gave the Hitler salute, and marched out of the bunker, determined to stop the Americans even if it cost his life.
~*~
The team of engineers pushed the assault boat into the river, and Mahoney was on his way to the German side. He and Riggs were traveling with the first squad, and young Cranepool stood like George Washington in the bow of the boat, looking at the other side through his binoculars.
“Get your fucking head down, you birdbrain!” Mahoney shouted.
Cranepool ducked his head. Private Trask pulled on one of the oars, and Private, First Class Novak pulled the other one. The current was strong and dragged the boat downstream. Mahoney looked to his right and left and saw the other boats from Charlie Company also moving across the river. The far shore was ablaze with fires and artillery explosions, but some Germans fired their weapons, and bullets whistled through the air above and around the boats. An occasional mortar round fell, but it was nothing like two nights ago when Mahoney’s boat had been torn apart by machine-gun fire and he had to swim to shore holding his carbine in the air.
American machine guns, set on high ground, raked the German positions, and the shells fell with increased intensity now that the GIs were underway. But the current was much worse tonight, and the soldiers had difficulty controlling the awkward assault craft. Boats crashed into each other, and men fell overboard. Other boats were spun around and around by the current and carried downstream to Luxembourg.
“Keep it steady!” Mahoney shouted to Trask and Novak as Riggs giggled and the bow of the boat drifted dangerously to port. “Straighten this fucking boat out!”
A huge log that had fallen into the river upstream sped beneath the surface like a submarine and struck Mahoney’s boat amidships. It crashed through the plywood and nearly took off Novak’s leg. The shock of the collision caused Private, First Class Berman to fall into the water, and Mahoney watched horrified as water poured into the boat.
“Fuck!” he cried.
Everybody looked at him as the boat began to sink into the swirling Moselle River. Riggs’s teeth chattered with fear, but he remained still because he was more afraid of Mahoney than he was of the river. Mahoney realized there was only one thing to do.
“Over the side!” he yelled. “Let’s hit it!”
He jumped up and was the first one to land in the water, which was ice cold and chilled him to the marrow of his bones. Riggs splashed beside him, and the other GIs dropped into the water all around the boat.
Mahoney looked at Riggs and thought him more faithful than a dog. I wish I had ten more like him. “Forward!” he shouted. “Hit the fucking beach!”
Mahoney and the men from the first squad held their weapons in the air as they kicked with their feet and stroked with one arm toward the shore. Then, suddenly, the American artillery bombardment ceased because some of their boats had reached the halfway point in the river and presumably would soon touch shore on the German side.
“Oh-oh,” said Mahoney, struggling to make his way through the water.
Sure enough, the fire from the German side gradually increased in intensity because the Germans were able to come up out of their holes and take aim without fear of having their heads blown off.
Bullets zipped into the water all around the first platoon. Private Wilkerson screamed and writhed in the water as blood spurted out of his throat.
Here we go again, Mahoney thought. Why didn’t I stay in that fucking hospital where I was safe from this shit?
~*~
General Kretchmer’s Kubelwagen moved quickly over the forest trails. He held on to the windshield with one hand while gesticulating wildly with his other at the soldiers he saw nearby.
“Forward!” he shouted. “Counterattack!”
He saw a group of men cowering behind trees and jumped out of the Kubelwagen, running toward them and waving his hands. “Follow me!” he yelled. “Push the swine back!”
He pulled his service pistol out of its holster and ran toward the river bank. “Fire your weapons! Keep firing all the time!”
Captain Nagle got out of the Kubelwagen and ran after his commanding general. He drew his pistol also and rammed a round into the chamber, hoping he’d never have to use it because he’d been a staff officer throughout all of his career and never had been this close to fighting before. Up ahead, he watched General Kretchmer rallying the men and exhorting them to fire at the Americans. Now that’s a real combat commander, Nagle thought. Why can’t I be like that?
He followed General Kretchmer and the men with him until they debouched from the woods and could see the river and the American boats upon it.
“Don’t let them come ashore!” Kretchmer screamed. “Blow them out of the water!”
The soldiers, half deafened from the artillery bombardment, saw their commanding general and thought that if he could run around like that, they at least could raise their heads and fire their rifles and machine guns. Even Captain Nagle was emboldened by the example set by Kretchmer and fired his pistol at one of the boats.
“Open fire!” Nagle shouted. “Kill them all!”
The German soldiers, their heads aching from the long bombardment, sighted their weapons on the American boats drawing close to the shore. There weren’t many Germans left, and those still alive were severely disoriented, but they were determined to follow orders and do their duty.
They’d beaten the Americans before, and they could do it again, they thought.
~*~
In the Moselle River the GI boats moved backwards, sideways, and at weird angles as the rowers tried to make it to shore. The soldiers held their heads low in the gunwales now that the German fire had increased in intensity. Every one of the soldiers remembered Patton’s speech and knew they didn’t dare fail in their mission to occupy the east bank of the river. Some of them fired their rifles at the Germans, but the swift current and bobbing boats interfered with their abilities to aim straight.
Captain Anderson’s boat was one of the first to hit shore, and he leaped on to the mud and rocks, firing his carbine from the hip.
“Follow me!” he yelled. “Take the high ground!” The men in his boat followed him, their rifles and carbines blazing. To their left and right, other boats touched shore and disgorged their occupants, who charged into the midst of the Germans, cutting them down with weapons fire and pushing them back with the fury of their attack.
“Keep moving!” said Captain Anderson. “Let’s go!” Anderson didn’t take cover because the German resistance was nothing like what it had been two nights ago when Charlie Company had been pinned down and nearly slaughtered right on the bank of the river. A German rose in front of him, brandishing his rifle and bayonet, and Anderson shot him in the chest.
“Forward!” Anderson screamed. “Follow me!”
~*~
Mahoney’s finger scraped the bottom of the shoreline, and he came up out of the water like a huge, angry water buffalo. He shook himself off, raised his carbine high in the air, and ran to the river bank, his big feet plunging in and out of the mud.
“First platoon, where the fuck are you!” he bellowed.
He looked around and saw chaos everywhere. Some GIs already were entering the woods, while others were fighting on the beach. Huge shell craters covered the ground, and dismembered Germans lay everywhere. Mahoney didn’t know where his platoon was; in the confusion of the river crossing, it had become mixed up with other units. All he had to command was Cranepool’s first squad and his runner, Private Riggs, who ran ashore behind Mahoney and jumped up and down like an excited monkey.
“Up and at ’em!” Mahoney yelled. “Charge!”
Mahoney flicked his carbine to the automatic setting and fired a burst straight ahead. German resistance was light—he could sense that immediately—and it made him mad because he’d come to fight and wreak vengeance on the Germans for what had happened yesterday.
Cranepool and his squad followed Mahoney as he ran toward the woods. Mahoney leaped over shell craters and stomped on the faces of dead Germans. A German came out of a hole, waving his hands in the air and trying to surrender, but Mahoney gave him a carbine burst in the face, and the German sagged back into his hole, blood spouting from the sausage meat that his head had become. Mahoney jumped over him and looked through the rain and darkness for more Germans to kill. He saw flashes of muzzle blasts toward his left and headed in that direction. Bullets whistled past his ears, and he yanked a grenade from his lapel.
“Hit it!” he yelled.
He dove to the ground and hurled the grenade at the muzzle blasts. The grenade exploded, shaking the ground and filling the night with thunder. Mahoney was on his feet again, charging the carnage. He saw a big hole in the ground and movement within it. Firing his carbine on automatic, the movement became more frantic, like a lot of rats scurrying for shelter, and then his carbine made a big click because the clip was empty.
In the ditch, a German officer, still barely alive, aimed his pistol at Mahoney, who dropped quickly to the ground. The shot rang out; a bullet passed inches above Mahoney’s helmet, and the German tried to fire again, but from out of the night came a walkie-talkie flying through the air, and it hit the German in the face. Mahoney leaped forward, grabbed the German officer by the throat, and squeezed with all his strength. The German tried to pull Mahoney’s hands away but didn’t have the strength. The German went limp. Mahoney let him go and picked up the walkie-talkie. He turned around and saw Riggs standing above him, cackling and jumping up and down.
“Hit him right on the noggin!” Riggs said.
Mahoney realized that the lunatic had probably saved his life. He climbed out of the hole and held the walkie-talkie to his ear; it was still working. He handed it to Riggs.
“Good work, Riggs,” he said.
“Hit him right on the noggin!” Riggs screeched excitedly.
Mahoney looked ahead and saw Cranepool leading his platoon forward, shooting and stabbing Germans. To his right, he saw Corporal Mason with the fourth squad moving closer to Cranepool’s squad. My platoon’s coming together, Mahoney thought, feeding a new clip into his carbine. He rammed a round into the chamber and ran forward to join his men. Riggs followed close behind him, transfixed by all the blood and gore around him, thinking that somehow he had descended into the pits of hell.
~*~
General Kretchmer saw his men falling back and wondered what he could do to turn around the debacle that was unfolding before his eyes. The Americans outnumbered his forces, who had been nearly wiped out by the bombardment, and the German soldiers left weren’t in much condition to fight. Standing near the edge of the woods, he saw some surrendering, holding their hands in the air, but the American soldiers shot them down and kept charging.
Kretchmer felt sick and dizzy and didn’t know what to do, although he knew he had to do something quickly. The Americans were charging up the river bank and would envelop him soon. He should get the hell out of there while he had the chance, but he didn’t want his men to see him running away, and he realized that he’d never be able to live with himself if he retreated ignominiously from the field of battle. The only thing to do was stand and fight and set an example for the German soldiers of the future.
He checked his pistol and saw that he had several bullets left in the chamber. He tightened the strap of his helmet and stepped forward resolutely to fight his last battle. He heard running footsteps to his right and turned in that direction. It was Captain Nagle, a panic-stricken expression on his face.
“Sir, the battle is lost!” Nagle said, trying to catch his breath. “You must order a retreat!”
“Never,” Kretchmer replied. “We counterattack at once!”
“Counterattack!” Nagle said. “With what!”
“With the forces at our command.”
“But, sir!”
“I have given you an order, Captain Nagle. Follow me.”
Nagle was unable to move. Part of him was a trained, disciplined German officer, and the other part was a human being who wanted to escape certain death.
“Nagle,” Kretchmer said above the roar of battle, “we all die eventually, but you have a choice between dying with honor or dying like a coward with a bullet in your back. Think of your mother and father, Nagle. What would they want you to do?”
“They’d want me to come home alive,” Nagle replied with a catch in his throat.
Kretchmer gave Nagle a look of utter contempt, then turned and walked swiftly toward the fighting in front of him.
“Hold fast!” he shouted. “Hurl them back!”
~*~
Private, First Class Butsko and his third squad had come ashore downriver from Mahoney and were fighting their way toward the woods, making good progress against scattered resistance. They fired at everything that moved and took no prisoners as they jumped over trenches and shell holes, screaming battle cries and seeking revenge for their buddies who’d been killed yesterday.
They heard a German mortar round coming in on them and hit the dirt. It exploded to their front, covering them with muck and pebbles, but before all the debris hit the ground, they were on their feet again and charging forward.
Through the smoke, Butsko was surprised to see a German officer of high rank, to judge from the ribbons and braids on his uniform. The officer was leading six German soldiers in what appeared to Butsko as a suicide charge.
“Get those cocksuckers!” Butsko hollered, firing from the hip as he advanced.
His men shot down two of the Germans, and Private Braxton was hit with a German bullet in the gut, tripping and falling, doubled up, into a shell crater. The third squad and the Germans came together and clashed hand to hand.
Butsko was out in front because he loved violence and infighting. He pushed his rifle forward and smashed through the futile parry attempt of a German soldier, sinking his bayonet into the German’s chest. The German howled in pain and horror as Butsko pulled back on his rifle and yanked the bayonet out. A geyser of hot blood followed it, and the German sagged to the ground.
Butsko turned, bashed another German in the head with his rifle butt, and when the German fell backward, Butsko ran him through the gut with his bayonet. “That’s for Sergeant Cooley,” Butsko growled, pulling the bayonet out. He looked up and saw the high-ranking German officer in front of him, pointing his pistol at him. Butsko could see that the officer was an old man close to sixty, lean as a rail. Butsko wasn’t afraid and didn’t even close his eyes. He just gritted his teeth and waited for the bullet that would blow him to hell.
It never came. The officer pulled his trigger, but his pistol was empty. As soon as he realized that, he charged Butsko, shouting something in German, and tried to smash Butsko in the face with the barrel of his pistol. Butsko leaped to the side quickly as a cat and whacked the officer in the head with his rifle butt. There was a loud slamming sound, and the officer went flying through the air, landing on his back inside a ditch.
Butsko charged after him, dropping into the ditch. He saw the old officer sprawled unconscious on the ground, and Butsko raised his rifle and bayonet to harpoon him through the heart.
“Hold it, Butsko!” shouted a voice behind him.
Butsko turned around and saw Captain Anderson standing at the edge of the ditch. Blood dripped from the bayonet on Anderson’s carbine, and his left sleeve had been torn off just below the elbow. Anderson jumped into the ditch beside Butsko and looked at the old officer, who was bleeding from the ear and mouth.
“I think that’s a general,” Anderson said. “We’ve got to keep him alive because G-2 will want to talk to him.” Anderson bent down and felt the officer’s pulse. “He’s still alive, thank God.”
“Can I take his watch, sir, seeing as how I’m the one who got him.”
“No, because he’s still alive. That would be stealing.”
“Who’d know?”
“I’d know, and you’d know. Join your platoon and resume the attack.”
“Yes, sir.” Butsko bent over and took a good look at the watch; if he ever saw it on Captain Anderson’s wrist, he’d have a few things to say, officer or no officer.
Butsko climbed out of the hole and joined his men, who were advancing into the forest.
~*~
Hiding behind a bush, Captain Nagle saw what had happened to General Kretchmer and thought he had been killed. Terrified, he turned and ran headlong into the woods, hearing gunfire and explosions all around him.
The woods were wet and smoky, with nearly every tree splintered or knocked down. Dead German soldiers lay everywhere, and in the darkness Nagle kept stepping on them. He veered toward the road on which he and Kretchmer had arrived by jeep, hoping the jeep still was there, but as he drew close, he heard soldiers speaking English and realized that the Americans already had control of the road.
His only chance was to keep going through the woods and somehow get to safety. He ran as quickly as he could, stumbling over fallen trees and wounded soldiers. Some of the soldiers called out to him for help, but he ignored them and kept going.
His throat was dry, and his heart chugged like an old engine. A buzzing sound was in his ears, and he expected to be shot in the back at any moment. He tore off his helmet and threw it away so that he would have less weight to carry. He also unbuckled his cartridge belt and let it fall to the ground. Dodging a shell hole, he tripped over a twig and fell head first into the body cavity of a German soldier who’d been blown apart by an American artillery shell. Screeching wildly, he scrambled to his feet, trying to wipe the blood off his face. His stomach couldn’t stand it anymore and went into convulsions. Finally, drained of energy, he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. What did I do to deserve this? he thought. Why do there have to be wars?
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, sir?”
Nagle spun around and found himself looking up at a German sergeant. He didn’t know whether he was hallucinating or not because the sergeant appeared calm and in control of himself. “Who are you?” Nagle asked.
“Sergeant Uebelhor, B Regiment, sir. Are you wounded?”
“No,” Nagle said.
“Then you’d better come with me, sir. It’s not safe out here.”
“Yes, of course.”
Nagle stood up, looking at the sergeant in the darkness and wondering what the sergeant thought of him, all covered with blood and running away from the enemy. The sergeant took his sleeve and pulled him through the woods. After around twenty yards, Nagle saw a white concrete pillbox looking like a huge egg straight ahead. In a narrow slit on the front of the pillbox was the ugly snout of a machine gun.
The sergeant led Nagle to the rear of the pillbox and knocked on the door. It was opened by a private not more than eighteen years old. Nagle stepped inside the pillbox and saw five haggard German soldiers with their machine gun and numerous crates of ammunition.
“How far away are the Americans?” the sergeant asked Nagle.
“Very close,” Nagle replied.
The sergeant looked at the machine gun and smiled grimly. “We’ll be ready for them when they come,” he said.
Nagle, his face smeared with blood, looked at them in astonishment. “Why don’t you get out of here while you have the chance!”
“Because,” replied the sergeant, “our last orders were to hold fast and fight to the last man.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Nagle said. “There are hundreds of Americans heading this way. You won’t have a chance.”
“Orders are orders,” the sergeant told him.
“Not for me,” Nagle said. “I’m getting out of here!”
He pushed open the door and ran off into the woods.
~*~
The First Battalion charged into the mangled woodland area, killing any Germans who were still alive and hadn’t had the sense to flee. They moved forward quickly, hoping to find more Germans to shoot because they still wanted revenge for the humiliating reversals they’d suffered last night. Behind them, on the banks of the Moselle River, army engineers were building a pontoon bridge to replace the one that had been blown away last night. Soon the tanks and trucks would roll across the river and head toward the Saarland.
The squads from Mahoney’s platoon managed to find each other and move forward as a unit into the forest. As dawn became a faint glimmer on the horizon behind them, they advanced in a skirmish line, their eyes squinting straight ahead for signs of German resistance.
Suddenly, a machine gun opened fire in front of them, and three GIs were spun around by the bullets smacking into them.
“Hit it!” yelled a chorus of voices.
The soldiers who hadn’t been shot didn’t wait for the order; they already were on their way to the ground.
“Medic!” called one of the soldiers who’d been hit.
Private Grossberger arose and ran hunched over toward the fallen GIs, but another machine-gun burst sent bullets zipping into the ground near his feet, forcing him to drop down and move the rest of the way on his belly.
“So that’s the way they want to play,” Mahoney muttered, looking for the location of the machine gun. It started firing again, and its muzzle blast could be seen through the bushes and the gray dawn.
“On my signal,” Mahoney shouted, “first squad, move out and second and third squads cover!”
The second and third squads fired at the muzzle blast they’d seen, and Cranepool jumped up with the first squad, running madly through the brush and hopping over logs on their way toward the enemy machine gun. After rushing fifteen yards, they flopped down and began firing at the pillbox, which they could see clearly now.
Now the second squad moved forward while the other squads covered their movements, and finally the third squad moved up, Mahoney and Riggs traveling with them.
Mahoney looked ahead at the pillbox as his men fired at the little slit in its front. He’d taken about a hundred pillboxes in his military career, and it was no sweat if you had some TNT with which to blow in the back door, but he didn’t have any TNT, so they’d have to take it frontally, moving forward slowly and then dropping a hand grenade into the slit or firing a bazooka shell through it.
“Corporal Shackleton!” Mahoney yelled.
“Hup, sarge!”
“Get the fuck over here! Everybody else keep firing, goddammit!”
The first platoon peppered the pillbox with rifle and BAR (Browning automatic rifle) fire as Corporal Shackleton, the new temporary platoon leader of the weapons squad, ran forward and dove into the mud beside Mahoney.
Mahoney looked at him. “Get your bazooka man up here.”
“My bazooka man’s been hit. He’s back on the beach.”
“Then who’s got the fucking bazooka?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s back on the beach with him.”
“What!” screamed Mahoney.
“I said it’s back on the beach with him.”
Mahoney grabbed Shackleton by the front of his shirt and glowered at him as German machine-gun bullets whistled over their heads. “You should’ve given that bazooka to somebody else, you fucking shitbird!”
“Jeez, sarge,” Shackleton replied, “things were happening so fast down on the beach that I didn’t think of that.”
“Well, I’m not going to think of you when it comes time to make new sergeants in this platoon. Get the fuck away from me before I kill you.”
Riggs cackled nuttily as Shackleton crawled away.
“Shaddup, you fucking moron!” Mahoney snarled at Riggs.
Riggs became serious instantly. Mahoney looked forward at the chattering machine gun inside the pillbox and wondered who to send forward with the hand grenade. He didn’t want to send Cranepool because he usually picked him for the dirty jobs and it wasn’t fair to expose him to danger all the time. Corporal Mason from the second squad probably would get himself killed, and Butsko from the third squad would be a big, slow-moving target. Shackleton from the weapons squad definitely couldn’t handle it. It’ll have to be me, he thought ruefully. Oh, shit.
“Everybody cover me!” he yelled. “I’m going forward!” He turned to Riggs. “You stay put right here. If anything happens to me, notify Captain Anderson.”
“Where you going?” Riggs asked.
“To fuck your kid sister. Here, hold my carbine.”
“But I ain’t got no kid sister,” Riggs replied, wrinkling his nose.
“You ain’t got no fucking brains, either. Stay put and shut up.”
“Hup, sarge.”
Mahoney took a hand grenade from his lapel, pinched the ends of the pin together so the pin could be pulled easily when the time came, and dropped the grenade into his shirt pocket. He adjusted his helmet on his head and crawled parallel to his skirmish line, heading toward the right so he could move toward the bunker from the side.
His men fired incessantly at the bunker, and the German machine gun returned their fire, sending a hail of bullets over their heads but not hitting anybody. Mahoney knew it was difficult for the Germans to take aim with all the bullets ricocheting around the slit in the bunker. They must realize that someone was trying to sneak closer and blow them up. He didn’t understand why they didn’t try to surrender or fly the coop. Maybe they realized they were going to get killed no matter what they did.
He ran parallel to his platoon skirmish line, passed the last man on the end, and continued for twenty yards. Then he dropped to his stomach and crawled toward the bunker from an angle that the machine gun couldn’t reach, taking advantage of the cover provided by boulders, shell holes, and fallen trees. Looking at the pillbox, he figured that the machine gun couldn’t transverse this far to the side and couldn’t shoot him even if the Germans knew he was coming. He continued crawling until he felt certain he could reach the pillbox in one final burst of speed, then took the hand grenade out of his pocket. Examining it to make sure he could pull the pin out quickly, he signaled to his platoon to intensify their fire, then leaped up and ran toward the pillbox, the grenade in his right hand. When he was halfway there, he pulled the pin and prepared to let it fly.
He thought the pillbox was as good as out of action as he drew closer to it, running as quickly as he could. Then, suddenly, he saw two Germans come out of the back of the pillbox! They turned toward him and raised their rifles to shoot him down. Mahoney dodged to the side, pulling the pin out of the hand grenade. He dropped to the ground, letting the lever go as bullets exploded into the mud beside him. The grenade went pop, and its firing mechanism became activated as Mahoney continued rolling through the mud, trying to count. When he reached four, he stopped suddenly and chucked the grenade at the two Germans.
One of them tried to catch it, hoping to throw it back, but that’s why Mahoney let the lever go ahead of time. The grenade exploded in the German’s hands, blowing away his arms and head. Shrapnel sliced the German next to him apart, and Mahoney yanked another grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, charged the slit in front of the bunker, and saw the machine gun traversing from side to side, spitting lead at his platoon. Mahoney reached the pillbox, pressed his back against it, let the lever fly off, and started counting again. When he reached four, he leaped into the air and tossed the grenade into the slit, then ran three steps and dove behind a fallen tree.
The machine gun stopped firing, and there were shouts inside the pillbox. Then the grenade exploded, sending billows of smoke out the slit. The first platoon charged, flanking the pillbox so that they could catch anybody coming out the rear door. It opened, and a German sergeant staggered out, his uniform half blown away and blood pouring from wounds on his face and body.
Butsko happened to be standing in front of him, and he brought his rifle to his shoulder, firing pointblank at the German. The bullet hit the German in the chest and sent him flying back into the pillbox. Butsko stepped forward at the head of his squad and cautiously approached the opened door. He looked inside and saw blood and shattered bodies everywhere. One of the bodies moaned softly, and Butsko shot it through the head.
The rest of the platoon crowded around the door and peeked inside. Mahoney pushed soldiers out of his way so he could get a good look, too. The pillbox was out of action for the rest of the war.
“Riggs!” he yelled.
“Hup, sarge.”
“Gimme my carbine!”
Riggs made his way through the crowd and handed the weapon over. Mahoney slung it over his shoulder and pushed his helmet to the back of his head.
“Take ten,” he said, “while I call the CO. and find out where the fuck we’re supposed to be.”
The soldiers sat on the ground and took out their packs of cigarettes while Mahoney took the walkie-talkie from Riggs and spoke the code name for Captain Anderson into the mouthpiece.