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  Bloody Metz is behind them, and Hammerhead Division of Patton's Third Army is dug in. At midnight, Sgt C. J. Mahoney hears enemy tanks -- surprise attack! An entire German Panzer division blasts through the fog and begins butchering the American troops. Mahoney rips into the Nazis with bayonet and bazooka, until silence sweeps over the slaughter. Soon, Hammerhead is ordered to take the bridge leading into Saarlautern, gateway to the Siegfried Line -- but the Sergeant knows the Germans are prepared to tear them to shreds. Kissing off orders, Mahoney and his kill-crazy sidekick Cranepool head straight down the Nazis' throats on a two-man suicide mission that will either capture the bridge, or wipe out Hammerhead!

  BULLET BRIDGE

  THE SERGEANT 7

  By Len Levinson

  First Published by Corgi Books in 1982

  Copyright © 1981, 2015 by Len Levinson

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  Mahoney awakened suddenly in a muddy foxhole. In the distance, through the sound of rain, he heard the faint snarl of tank engines. Looking around and orienting himself in the darkness, he realized that the noise was coming from the German lines. What’s going on here? he thought.

  He listened for a few more moments, and the sound of tanks became louder. Evidently the Krauts were trying to make a sneak night attack. Mahoney and some of his men were in a forward outpost in no-man’s-land, on the lookout for something like this.

  “Wake up, Riggs!” Mahoney said, shaking the sleeping soldier beside him.

  “Huh ... what?” said Riggs, a goofy-looking young man who was Mahoney’s runner.

  Mahoney slapped him in the face. “I said wake the fuck up!”

  Riggs shook his head and bounded to his knees. “What’s going on?”

  “Go back and tell Captain Anderson that I hear German tanks coming.”

  Riggs closed one eye and raised one ear. “I don’t hear nothing.”

  “That’s because you got shit in your ears. Get going.”

  “Why can’t I call him on the walkie-talkie?”

  “Because the Krauts might be listening to the air waves and I don’t want to tip them off if I don’t have to. Leave the walkie-talkie and the bazooka with me and get your fucking ass in gear.”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  Riggs handed the walkie-talkie to Mahoney and crawled out of the foxhole. He ran in a crouch toward the company command post three hundred yards away, and Mahoney looked toward the German lines, hoping the tanks wouldn’t arrive too quickly.

  He wished he could light a cigarette, but didn’t dare because it might give away his position. He felt sleepy and had a headache. Four days ago he’d been part of the force that had liberated Metz, and he thought he’d be able to have a few days of fun in the city, but instead the Hammerhead Division had saddled up right away and advanced into the Saarland, which General Patton considered the last remaining obstacle between the Third Army and the Siegfried Line.

  Since then the Hammerheads had been pressing the Germans hard and appeared to have them on the run. But this night tank attack was a most unwelcome turn of events. As the rain pelted his helmet and poncho, he tried to figure out what to do about it.

  He didn’t have much to fight with. His rifle platoon had been decimated in the fight for Metz and was at half strength. His best squad leader, Corporal Edward Cranepool from Ottumwa, Iowa, was lying in a hospital in Metz with a bullet in his stomach, and his next best squad leader, Ambrose P. Butsko from McKeesport, Pennsylvania, had been killed in action. There was a rumor that five percent of all headquarters personnel would be turned into riflemen and sent to the front, but none had shown up in Charlie Company yet. Mahoney wondered about the young guys back in the States, screwing all the GIs’ wives, girlfriends, and kid sisters. How come they weren’t here in the foxholes too?

  The bazooka was broken down and leaning against the wall of the foxhole. Mahoney debated whether to screw both halves together and make it operational or leave it the way it was in case he had to move out quickly. He decided to leave it the way it was for the time being. Slinging it over one shoulder and tossing the haversack full of rockets over the other shoulder, he picked up his carbine and crawled out of the foxhole, heading toward the one to his left. The tank engines in the distance were closer, and evidently there were quite a lot of them. Mahoney was becoming impatient. He wanted either to be reinforced or to get the hell out of there.

  ‘HALT—WHO GOES THERE!”

  “It’s Mahoney! Keep your fucking voice down!”

  “Oh hi, Sarge.”

  Mahoney slithered into the foxhole like a big lizard.

  “Hey Sarge—you hear the tanks?” asked Pfc. Higgins from Mobile, Alabama, who was the acting squad leader of the first squad until Cranepool came back.

  “Yeah, I hear them.”

  “Don’t you think we should get the fuck out of here?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for, Sarge?”

  Mahoney narrowed his eyes and looked at Higgins in the darkness. “What was that, young soldier?”

  “I said what are you waiting for?”

  Mahoney lunged forward and grabbed Higgins by the front of his poncho. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Higgins became frightened. “I didn’t mean anything, Sarge.”

  “Then stop asking so many stupid questions.” He turned to Pfc. Don Juan Romero from Costa Mesa, California, who had become the acting assistant squad leader of the first squad. “Go wake up the other squad leaders, if they’re not awake already, and tell them to put their men on alert and await further orders.”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  Romero crawled out of the foxhole. Mahoney looked toward the German lines, but it was pitch black out there. He’d give anything for a cigarette. “This fucking war,” he murmured.

  “You say something, Sarge?”

  “Shaddup.”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  Mahoney sat down in the foxhole and wondered if Riggs had got through to Captain Anderson yet.

  ~*~

  In the Charlie Company command post bunker, Pfc. Drago was reporting the tank attack to battalion headquarters, while Captain Anderson and Master Sergeant Tweed looked at the map. They too had been awakened by the sound of tanks in the distance.

  Pfc. Drago kept the telephone pressed against his face and turned around. “They say to stand by, sir.”

  “Damn,” said Anderson, looking at the map. He was freckle-faced and had just turned twenty-three.

  The door burst open and Private Riggs entered, out of breath. He puffed out his chest, saluted, and blurted: “There’s tanks coming in front of our position!”

  “We know,” said Anderson.

  Riggs didn’t know how to respond to this because he wasn’t too bright. He’d thought that he was bringing exciting news, but evidently it wasn’t news at all.

  “Report back to Sergeant Mahoney,” Anderson told him. “Tell him to move his platoon back to the company position.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Riggs ran out the door, an
d Captain Anderson looked at the map again. He knew that the battalion of which he was a part was spread thinly throughout the area and doubted whether it could stand up to a serious tank attack. He wondered how many tanks the Germans were sending into battle. It sounded like quite a lot of them.

  He wished battalion would call back and tell him what to do.

  ~*~

  In the lead tank, standing in the turret and holding the grips, was Captain Alfred Kroll of the German Army. He wore a big black beret and his eyes glittered with excitement as his tank company rolled over hills and valleys toward the American line.

  His company was part of a full-strength panzer division sent to break the spearhead of the American advance into the Saar. Until three days ago his division had been in the northern part of the line, opposite the British Army, but the British Army hadn’t been attacking too strenuously, so it was decided to send the division south to stop General Patton’s Third Army.

  The tank bucked and rolled as it thundered over rocks and shell craters. Captain Kroll was proud to be in front of the whole panzer division, the first to go into battle. He’d fought under Rommel in Africa and Guderian in Russia. He was considered the very model of a modern German panzer leader.

  “Faster!” he shouted over his microphone to his men below. “Faster!”

  Kroll knew that speed was of the essence in a surprise attack. He knew that the Americans must have heard them coming by now and were getting ready. What they didn’t know was that a fierce artillery bombardment had been prepared to knock them senseless just before the tanks made contact.

  Kroll looked at his watch. It was almost 0315 hours. In approximately two minutes the artillery bombardment would begin. He was confident that an important victory would be won by his panzer division within the next few hours, and it would stall the American advance, if not stop it completely.

  Who knows? Kroll thought. The entire course of the war may be changed by this battle.

  “FASTER!” he yelled. “PREPARE TO OPEN FIRE!”

  ~*~

  The German artillery barrage began promptly at 0315 hours. Hundreds of shells fell onto the American positions, followed by hundreds more. The ground shook as though an earthquake had hit, and geysers of dirt and flame blew into the air. The XX Corps was blanketed with explosions, particularly the Hammerhead Division, which was at its point. And at the point of the Hammerhead Division was Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion. The shelling was so intense that communication lines were destroyed along with all structures above the ground. The men clawed the dirt in their foxholes in an effort to get deeper. Some shit their pants, some had their eardrums broken, and some vomited up their suppers.

  Riggs had been halfway to Mahoney’s foxhole when the bombardment began, and he dived into the nearest hole in the ground. His helmet fell off when he landed and he put it back on again, terrified by the hell that suddenly was falling on him. He peered over the top of his hole and saw a vision of destruction like the end of the world. Trucks were blown into the air and mess tents utterly demolished. Men ran panicked in all directions and were cut down by screaming chunks of shrapnel. Riggs trembled all over. He knew that he should try to make his way through the bombardment and pass Captain Anderson’s message to Sergeant Mahoney, but he was afraid to stand up and start running. He knew that if he did he’d be blown to bits.

  But on the other hand, he knew where his duty lay. He should try to deliver the message to Mahoney. Those were his orders, and orders were orders. The Army system of command had so terrorized him that he’d rather face a fierce German bombardment than disobey an order. Better to be killed by the Germans than be put before a firing squad comprised of his buddies.

  Riggs gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He uttered a prayer, clutched his carbine, and bounded out of the hole. He ran across the battlefield like a jackrabbit, as artillery shells fell all around him and shrapnel whistled past his ears. Jumping over shell craters, running around piles of sandbags, he held his helmet on his head and expected to be killed any moment.

  It looked as though the whole world was on fire. Men screamed all around him and directly in front of him a shell made a direct hit on a foxhole, ripping apart three men and blowing them into the air.

  Riggs gulped and kept going, his tongue hanging out and his ears ringing. The explosions nearby were so powerful that they made his stomach and lungs contract. His feet flew over the mud and he barely could see where he was going. He wasn’t even sure he was going in the right direction. A shell exploded directly in front of him and a tiny piece of shrapnel zipped through the air, whacking him in the left shoulder and spinning him around. He lost his balance and fell into the mud.

  His shoulder felt as if it had been touched by a flaming torch. Riggs looked at the blood pouring out and was aghast. That’s my blood! he thought. I’m fucking bleeding to death!

  “MEDIC!” he shouted.

  He looked around, but there was no response.

  “MEDIC!”

  He realized that nobody was around to save him, and he’d have to save himself. He snapped open the pouch on his cartridge belt and took out the rectangular dressing that all soldiers carried with them. Ripping away the paper wrapping, he pressed the dressing against his wound, but it quickly became soaked with blood. I’m gonna die, Riggs thought. I’d better find a medic fast. He remembered Pfc. Grossberger, the medic who traveled with his platoon. Somehow I’ve got to get back there.

  He slung his carbine crossways on his back so that he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore and got up off the ground. Throwing out his left foot, he ran toward the first platoon positions, while holding the dressing against his bleeding shoulder.

  The landscape became a nightmare of explosions, fire, and pain. Riggs saw arms, legs, and torsos of dead soldiers. Tripping over a rock, he fell into the mud next to the decapitated head of Private Stafford from the third platoon. Riggs had known Stafford rather well because Stafford was a runner too. Now all that remained of Stafford was his head lying on its side, the tendons of its neck exposed to the air.

  Riggs quivered in horror at the sight of it. Leaping to his feet, he ran like a wild man toward the first platoon position. He didn’t feel the pain in his shoulder anymore and didn’t feel weak. Somehow, the sight of Pvt. Stafford’s head had filled his bloodstream with adrenalin. He sped into no-man’s-land as shells fell with an even greater intensity than before. Ahead, he could make out the terrain occupied by the first platoon. Aiming toward Sergeant Mahoney’s trench, he tucked his head low and pumped his legs like pistons. Out of the night he saw the foxhole loom up. He took a running leap and flew through the air, landing in the foxhole beside Mahoney.

  Mahoney had been looking through his binoculars toward the German lines, and spun around when Riggs landed. Riggs’ face was pale and he still held the crimson dressing to his shoulder.

  “Sarge,” said Riggs breathlessly, “Captain Anderson said to move the platoon back to the company position.”

  Mahoney stared at Riggs in disbelief. “You mean you ran all the way up here through that shit out there?”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “I wanted to get the message through to you, Sarge.”

  Mahoney wheezed. “Riggs, we all know you don’t have all your marbles, but I never realized you were this bad off. How can I move back to the company through that shit out there? You should’ve found yourself a hole and stayed in it.”

  “I had to get the message through to you, Sarge.”

  Mahoney cupped his hands around his mouth. “GROSSBERGER!” he screamed.

  Riggs saw black waves rising underneath his eyes. “I think I’m gonna faint, Sarge.”

  “GROSSBERGER!”

  Out of the smoke and flame came Grossberger the combat medic, carrying his haversack of medicine and bandages, a short wiry man with eyeglasses taped to his head. A shell exploded near him, upsetting his balance, but he kept on running. He
neared the trench and slid in, landing between Mahoney and Riggs. He opened his haversack and went to work on Riggs.

  Mahoney turned to the German lines again and raised his binoculars to his eyes. He couldn’t see anything except rain and mud and had no idea of how far away the German tanks were because the sound of the bombardment drowned out tank engines.

  He lowered his binoculars and tried to figure out what to do. He couldn’t move his men anywhere because of the bombardment, so he figured they’d just have to stay put and fight the tanks off as best they could until help arrived, presuming help was on the way.

  He picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the button. The shit had hit the fan and he no longer was worried about the Germans listening in. “Red Dog One to King Dog,” he said. “Red Dog One to King Dog—over.”

  He heard a buzz and some crackling in his ear, then the voice of Pfc. Drago came through. “This is King Dog—this is King Dog—over.”

  “Lemme speak to Captain Anderson—over.”

  “Hang on a moment.”

  Mahoney listened to the earpiece and watched Grossberger apply sulfa powder to Riggs’ bloody shoulder. The wound didn’t look serious enough to take Riggs out of the war for good, but he might wind up in a field hospital for a few weeks. Mahoney flashed on Cranepool and wondered how he was making out.

  “This is Captain Anderson,” said a new voice in his mouthpiece. “How’re you doing up there, Mahoney?”

  “So far so good, but we’re pinned down.”

  A German shell exploded twenty yards from Mahoney’s foxhole, and the shock wave made the walls of the hole cave in. Mud and stones flew through the air along with razor-sharp bits of shrapnel.

  “Are you all right Mahoney?” asked Anderson.

  Mahoney spit some dirt out of his mouth. “I think so. Is help on the way, by any chance?”

  “Yes. We’re getting two tank regiments.”

  “I hope that’ll be enough.”

  “If it’s not we’ll get more. The shelling will most probably stop when the German tanks get close. As soon as that happens, pull your men back with the rest of the company.”