Bloody Bastogne

  On a well-deserved R & R, Sergeant C. J. Mahoney of Patton’s Hammerhead Division heads straight for a hot bar in the freezing Belgian town of Clervaux. A few drinks, a knife fight over a woman, and Mahoney lands in a cell. But the worst of his tough-luck night comes when German bombs start ripping the town to shreds.

  Patton and Hitler have begun the biggest massacre of their wartime careers, a massive slaughter of fire and flesh that is rumbling toward its bloody finale in Bastogne. With death on his heels and a grenade in his teeth, Mahoney sprints from jail and slashes into the enemy troops with bayonets, bazookas and his eager bare hands—and the Sergeant won’t rejoin his unit until he completes his one-man mission of annihilation that will be heard clear back to Berlin!

  BLOODY BASTOGNE

  THE SERGEANT 8

  By Len Levinson

  First Published by Corgi Books in 1982

  Copyright © 1981, 2015 by Len Levinson

  First Smashwords Edition: August 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

  A light snow fell on the little Belgian town of Clervaux, near the border of Germany. It was night, and a lone jeep turned a corner in a secluded neighborhood. Light streamed from the window of a cafe halfway up the street.

  “That must be the joint,” said Master Sergeant C. J. Mahoney, sitting behind the wheel and pointing with a finger of his big glove.

  “Must be,” replied Master Sergeant Frank Hooper, sitting next to him and puffing a cigarette.

  Several jeeps, two deuce and a half trucks, and one Sherman tank were parked along the street. Mahoney steered his jeep into the space behind the Sherman tank, stopped but did not pull up the emergency brake because it could freeze in the cold night air.

  Mahoney turned off the engine, unbuttoned his thick wool overcoat, and took out a cigar, biting off the end and placing the cigar in his mouth. He lit it with his Zippo and took a few puffs to make sure it was burning well. Hooper opened the door of the jeep and stepped into the snow.

  “Colder than a well-digger’s ass,” Hooper muttered, his breath making clouds of condensation.

  Mahoney got out of the jeep and turned up his collar. He wore a knitted GI visored cap underneath his steel helmet, and a Colt .45 was strapped to his waist. He trudged through the snow to the other side of the jeep and joined Hooper. Together they walked toward the cafe.

  They were tall husky men, clean-shaven because they’d heard that whores could be found in the cafe ahead. Mahoney was the taller and better looking of the two, despite a scar on his cheek and a nose that had been broken once and reset a bit out of line. Hooper was wider and heavier, and his face looked like the front end of a bulldozer.

  The falling snow made luminous halos around the street lamps, and the front window of the cafe glowed golden. Already Mahoney could hear the tinkle of a piano and the sound of men’s and women’s voices. His step quickened as he thought of beautiful women smelling of fancy perfume, laughing and offering glimpses of their thighs whenever they crossed their legs.

  They stopped in front of the cafe and looked through the window. The glass was covered with ice and mist, but soldiers in o.d. green and women in bright-colored dresses could be dimly perceived.

  “Hot dog!” said Hooper with a maniacal grin, reaching for the doorknob.

  He opened the door, and Mahoney followed him into the bistro. It was filled with tobacco smoke, and a civilian sat at the piano in a corner, pounding the keys. Near him some GIs and women were singing. The GIs wore the Ivy Leaf patch of the Fourth Division, and some of them looked curiously at Mahoney and Hooper as they made their way to the bar. Mahoney and Hooper wore the black hammer of the Thirty-third Division, known as the Hammerheads, which was part of Patton’s Third Army farther south. They and a handful of other Third Army men had been sent on a reconnaissance mission into the Ardennes sector, which was protecting the Third Army’s right flank, and Patton wanted to know if it was as weakly defended as he’d heard. Mahoney and the rest of the Third Army recon team had confirmed Patton’s suspicions, relayed the information to his headquarters, and would return to their units in a day or two.

  Mahoney and Hooper stepped up to the bar, unbuttoning their heavy woolen overcoats. They placed their helmets on the bar but left their knitted caps on. The bartender, a roly-poly bald man with a curled up mustache, waddled toward them. He was smiling happily because he was making piles of money from the GIs.

  “Got any whisky?” Mahoney asked.

  “Only wine, beer, and brandy.”

  “Two brandies—for me and my father here.”

  The bartender poured the drinks as Mahoney looked around.

  GIs from the Fourth Division lined the bar and sat at the tables, talking with women of all sizes and shapes, from their late teens or early twenties to their late forties.

  “Lookit all the cunt!” Hooper said, grabbing his glass.

  Hooper was more concerned with raw sex than with aesthetics and searched the room for an old babe whom he might take to one of the back rooms immediately.

  He saw a heavily made up blonde sitting at a table in the corner with a drunken GI who wore glasses crooked on his nose and looked like a company cleric. The whore had a big bust and appeared bored. Hooper knew from experience that whores her age usually knew how to give exotic blowjobs, and that was exactly what he’d come here for.

  He pointed with his chin toward the whore. “Looka there,” he said to Mahoney.

  “Where?”

  “The blonde in the corner.”

  Mahoney had become accustomed to Hooper’s taste in the few days they’d been together and spotted her instantly. “She’s real nice,” Mahoney said. “Why don’t you go over there and tell her how wonderful you are.”

  “I’m on my way,” Hooper said, placing his helmet under his arm and lifting his glass off the bar.

  Hooper swaggered confidently toward the blonde whore, who looked up at him and smiled when she saw him approaching. She figured that although he wasn’t very good-looking, he wore sergeant’s stripes and probably had more money than the Pfc with his arm around her shoulder. The whore hit the Pfc in the ribs with her elbow, and he slid off his chair, collapsing onto the floor. Hooper grinned as he sat down in the scarecrow’s chair, placing his arm around the whore’s shoulders. The whore beamed because she thought she’d finally found herself a winner.

  Mahoney leaned his back against the bar and swallowed another gulp of brandy. He knew it was much easier to get along with women if you weren’t particular, but he’d always liked beautiful women and always went for the best looking one in his vicinity. There’d been times when he’d had to settle for whores like the one Hooper was beginning to paw, but that had only been after he’d exhausted all the other possibilities.

  He scanned the room back and forth, wondering which whore to pick, when the back door opened and a young corporal entered the room, followed by a brunette in her early twenties. The brunette had shoulder length hair and lovely lips. Her figure was understated rather than voluptuous, and her legs appeared shapely. Mahoney considered her the best-looking wh
ore in the joint.

  The corporal blushed and smiled sheepishly as his drunken buddies at a nearby table applauded him. The piano player continued to pound out the same song and the crowd of drunks nearby tried to sing along. The corporal said something to the whore, but she shook her head and walked toward the bar. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes spoke of boredom and resignation. She stopped at the bar and asked the bartender for a cup of coffee. Seconds later, Mahoney squeezed in beside her.

  “Hi,” he said with a smile.

  She looked up at him because she was five foot six and he was six foot four. “I’m taking a break,” she said. “Maybe you’d better find another girl.”

  “There’s nobody else that I want.”

  She shrugged and smiled, then turned away from him as the bartender placed a cup of black coffee in front of her. She gazed into it as if it contained the answers to all her questions. She touched the handle of the cup, and Mahoney admired her small delicate hand. She’d probably just blown that corporal, but she looked lovely anyway. Mahoney felt an ache in his heart when he thought this young woman had to screw the troops in order to stay alive. He could sense her despair and the tragedy of her life because he’d known despair and tragedy too. He’d been in the war since the first landings in North Africa, had been wounded many times, and many of his closest friends had been killed in action.

  “I’ll pay you just to talk with me,” he said. “We don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to.”

  She looked sideways at him for a few moments. “I’m not a very good talker,” she said. “I still think you ought to find another girl.”

  “I don’t want another girl.” He placed five bucks on the bar.

  She thought for a few moments, then covered the money with her tiny hand.

  He picked up her cup of coffee and his glass of brandy, carrying them through the cigarette smoke to a table for two against the far wall. It had a candle burning inside a holder that had once been a bottle of cheap wine, and there was a dirty tin ashtray half-filled with butts. The piano player switched to a boogie-woogie tune.

  Mahoney and the girl sat at the table. She took a cigarette out of her pocketbook, and he held out the flame from his Zippo. She puffed the cigarette to life while scrutinizing his face. Mahoney wondered what she saw. Whenever a woman looked at him that way, he was afraid he wouldn’t measure up. Despite all his romantic conquests of the past, the only woman who really mattered was the one he was with at the moment.

  “You from around here?” Mahoney asked.

  “No,” she replied, sipping her coffee.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Somewhere.”

  Mahoney realized she didn’t want him to know. Most whores were as secretive as espionage agents in enemy territory. “What’s your name?”

  “Madeleine.”

  “I’m Mahoney.”

  “Why do you have a different insignia on your shoulder than the other soldiers here?”

  “I’m from an outfit farther south, and I’m up here on temporary duty.”

  She inhaled her cigarette and blew the smoke through pursed lips. Mahoney felt awkward because he didn’t know what to say to her. She was tired and evidently didn’t have the energy to make conversation.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m being a pain in the neck.”

  She examined him again and puffed her cigarette. “That’s all right. It’s my fault. I should be more entertaining, I suppose, but I’m awfully tired.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re pretty, and it’s nice to just sit here with you. You may not feel so well, but you’re making me feel better.”

  She smiled. “You’re sweet. After I finish this cup of coffee we can go in back.”

  Mahoney sipped his brandy and looked at her. He was amazed by how attractive she was, but he knew she wouldn’t stay this way long. A few years of screwing the troops, and she’d look like a hag. He wanted to tell her to find some other line of work, but she’d probably tried and couldn’t.

  “You look sad,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Thinking about your girl back home?”

  “I don’t have a girl back home.”

  “No? A handsome soldier like you? I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth. I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who the hell knows?”

  “You mustn’t have tried very hard.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I never found anybody worth the effort. Anyway, I move around a lot, and it’s hard to get romances going when you’re always leaving for someplace else.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I suppose a soldier’s life is very difficult.”

  “I don’t think it’s any more difficult than yours.”

  She sighed. “Well, the war will end one day, and then life will return to normal.”

  “Sometimes I think the war will never end,” he said. “Sometimes I think it’ll go on forever.”

  “Don’t say that. I don’t think I could bear it.”

  He looked into her eyes. “You know, the longer I sit with you, the lovelier you become. I think I could fall in love with somebody like you. You’d definitely be worth the effort.”

  She smiled. “You probably haven’t seen any women for a long time. That’s why you’re saying that.”

  “No, it’s true. It’s hard to say why one person is attracted to another person, but you ring all my bells, kiddo.”

  She lifted her cup of coffee to her lips. “Don’t talk like that because I’m liable to believe you.”

  “I want you to believe me.”

  “What for? You don’t have to tell me stories. I’ve heard a million of them.”

  He placed his hand on hers. “I’m just telling you the way I feel. You may not like it, but it’s the truth.”

  “The truth?” She made a sarcastic expression. “I know why you’re talking this way. You just want me to give you a better time back there, but don’t worry, you’ll get your money’s worth.”

  “Lady,” Mahoney said, “if you just laid still with your eyes closed, I’d have a good time.”

  She looked at him, and her eyes softened. She touched the palm of her hand to his cheek. “You know, you’re awfully nice. I don’t know why I’m arguing with you. I suppose if we had met under normal circumstances, I might have fallen in love with you too. You’re very good-looking, and you have a nice way about you.”

  Like the tentacle of an octopus, an arm dropped down out of the smoke and grabbed Madeleine’s arm.

  “Hiya baby,” said a big staff sergeant with a head like an artillery shell. “Remember me?”

  She wrinkled her nose and looked up at him. “You’re hurting my arm.”

  The staff sergeant loosened his grip a little. “Let’s go fickey-fick in the back room, baby.”

  “I’m busy.”

  The sergeant chortled. “The whole world’s busy. Let’s go.”

  Mahoney stood up. “Take your hands off her.”

  The sergeant looked at Mahoney and scowled. He had tiny pig eyes and a mouth full of big teeth. “Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I said, take your fucking hands off her.”

  The menace in Mahoney’s voice was unmistakable. The sergeant knew that Mahoney meant business. He looked Mahoney up and down. Mahoney was taller than he, but he had more body weight. Soldiers at nearby tables were looking, and the sergeant couldn’t back down.

  “Who’s gonna make me take my hands off her?” the sergeant asked.

  Mahoney brought his left fist up from the table in a movement so fast it was a blur. His fist slammed against the sergeant’s jaw and lifted him off his feet. The sergeant went flying through the air and landed on his back in the middle of a big round table. The girls sitting at the table shrieked and jumped backwards, and the men got out of the way. Mahoney dived onto the sergeant, grabbed him by the neck, and prep
ared to bash his head against the table.

  The sergeant reared back his right fist and walloped Mahoney on the mouth. Mahoney saw stars, let go the sergeant’s neck, and wobbled to the side. The sergeant hit Mahoney again, and Mahoney sagged off him, falling from the table and landing stomach down on the floor. The sergeant lunged at him, but Mahoney rolled out of the way and jumped to his feet.

  The sergeant got up and glowered at Mahoney. Girls screamed, and the Fourth Division soldiers cheered for the sergeant, whom many evidently knew. The bartender tried to get through to break up the fight, but the Fourth Division men wouldn’t let him pass.

  The sergeant wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and looked at it. “You fucking cocksucker!” he snarled at Mahoney.

  Mahoney motioned with his hand. “C’mon,” he said, “any time you feel froggy, just go ahead and jump.”

  The sergeant reached into his pocket and came out with a switchblade knife. He hit the button and the four-inch blade snapped out and gleamed in the light from the candles. He sliced the air a few times with the blade and then advanced sideways toward Mahoney.

  The sergeant bared his teeth at Mahoney. “I’m gonna cut your fucking ass off,” he said.

  Mahoney saw a bottle of wine sitting atop a nearby table. He rushed toward it, lifted it by the neck, and smashed it down on the edge of the table. Wine and shards of glass splattered in all directions, and Mahoney turned to the sergeant, waving the broken edge back and forth. “You’re gonna eat this fucking bottle—that’s what you’re gonna do,” Mahoney replied.

  The two men circled each other as the soldiers and whores held their breaths. Mahoney and the sergeant feinted toward each other and drew back, concentrating completely, looking for an opening.

  Hooper came out of the back room with his blonde whore and saw the crowd. He dragged the whore behind him and pushed his way through, his jaw dropping open when he saw Mahoney with the broken bottle facing the staff sergeant with a big knife.

  The sergeant tried to smile and show confidence, as sweat made rivulets on his forehead and dripped down his cheeks. He rocked from heel to heel, flicking his knife through the air, knowing that a false move could cost him his life.