Bullet Bridge Page 11

  “Yes sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Dobbeling hung up the phone, frowning. He knew that Balck had been a great general once, but now he just was talking in slogans like the rest of the fools and liars. Apply decisive force to the decisive point at the decisive time. What did that mean in a fluid situation where you were outnumbered and outgunned?

  “What did he say?” asked Wolkenstein.

  “Utter nonsense,” Dobbeling replied.

  “He won’t let us retreat?”

  “No.”

  “So what will we do?”

  “We’ll retreat anyway, but so slowly that it’ll look as though we’re being pushed back. Then we’ll stop in Saarlautern, set up a strong defense, blow the bridge, and turn the Saar into a river of American blood.”

  Chapter Ten

  First thing the next morning, a jeep screeched to a stop in front of Hammerhead Division headquarters. Major General Barton Hughes got out of the front seat and marched toward the front door of the building. General Patton had named him the new commanding officer of the division, replacing “Bayonet” Donovan.

  Hughes was a tough West Pointer and the former chief of operations at XX Corps. He’d commanded numerous smaller units in the past, held all sorts of staff jobs, and Patton decided he was the best man to take over the Hammerheads because he knew the Hammerheads needed a strong hand to keep them under control.

  Hughes was a six-footer, lean and snappy. His face carried acne scars and he wore a dark-brown toothbrush mustache. MPs hollered attention as he marched through the corridors of the building. Aides came out of their offices to see him. They knew that new commanding officers usually drove everybody nuts until they were sure they had everything under control and were getting the respect they felt they deserved.

  Hughes charged into the conference room, and the officers there shot to attention. He told them to stand at ease, then shook their hands and asked their names. His voice was brusque and he seldom smiled. He was the kind of commander who ruled by fear and terror.

  He walked to the map table. “Are we attacking?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” said General McCook, who still was the division’s chief of staff.

  “Where are we?”

  McCook pointed out the positions of the Hammerhead regiments, and Hughes listened with a scowl on his face. Hughes wasn’t a very reflective man and didn’t like to dwell on his shortcomings. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he was apprehensive about taking command of the Hammerhead division, which was one of the most famous fighting divisions in the ETO. He didn’t want to consider that he might not be up to the task and that he might make some decisions that would cause the Hammerheads to lose a battle. These fears nagged deep in his heart, but he covered them up with bluster and aggressive behavior.

  “I don’t like the way they’re moving,” Hughes said.

  McCook had been in the Army as long as Hughes, and he was not easily intimidated. “What don’t you like about it, sir?” he asked.

  “They’re not moving fast enough.”

  “But they just started, sir. The day just has begun.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn about that,” Hughes said. “They’re not moving fast enough.” He pointed at Saarlautern on the map. “I want that fucking city there, and I think we can take it today.”

  “Today sir?”

  “Yes today. I’m going out to the regiments to see what the hold-up is. McCook, I want you to issue orders in my name to get this division moving faster.”

  “How do you want me to word it, sir?”

  “Use your imagination,” Hughes replied, a hostile tone in his voice. “You know how to write English, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then do it and stop asking so many questions.”

  “Yes sir.”

  General Hughes stormed out of the conference room, leaving the staff officers around the map table. They looked at each other, and there wasn’t a happy face in the room.

  “If anybody wants me,” said McCook, “I’ll be in my office working on that order. Holmes, I’d like you to come with me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Colonel Holmes, the division’s G-l (personnel) officer, followed General McCook down the corridor to his office, passing gloomy-faced soldiers still recovering from the death of General Donovan. Now that Donovan was gone, everyone remembered his good qualities and forgot his deficiencies, such as his heavy drinking.

  Holmes followed McCook into the office and shut the door behind them. McCook sat behind his desk and Holmes sat on one of the chairs in front of it. Both of them were from Missouri and had become close friends during their tour of duty together in the Hammerhead Division.

  “Well,” said McCook, “it looks like we’re going to have our hands full with this guy.”

  “Yes,” agreed Holmes, “he’s another one who’s trying to be Patton, but there’s only one Patton.”

  “Thank God,” said McCook.

  “It’s going to be hell around here for awhile.”

  “Yes, but sooner or later he’ll find out that he can’t change this division much. It’s already first class.”

  “It’s the best in the Army,” said Holmes.

  “General Hughes thinks he’s going to put his personal imprint on this division,” McCook replied. “What he doesn’t know yet is that this division is going to put its imprint on him.”

  ~*~

  It was a leapfrog kind of morning. Charlie Company would advance a few hundred yards, get stalled, and then advance again. The hills of the previous day had become mountains and the tanks had to move down the roads between them. Charlie Company was deployed in skirmish lines on both sides of the road and slowly pushed the Germans back to Saarlautern.

  Captain Anderson, walking in the middle of the road, was using the principles of fire and maneuver to move ahead. One platoon would provide covering fire while the other platoons moved forward. His heavy weapons platoon furnished continual mortar and machine gun fire to aid the advance. Captain Anderson figured the Germans had left only a thin screen behind them to delay the advance and that the bulk of the German Army had moved out long ago. He thought it might be a good idea to make a mad charge through the screen and push right into Saarlautern, which was only ten miles away according to the map. He decided to call battalion and try to sell the idea to Colonel “Rabbit” Sloan. Ordering Pfc. Drago to stop, he lifted the microphone off the field radio and called battalion, but was told that Colonel Sloan was at an important meeting and to try again in about a half-hour.

  Behind Charlie Company, speeding toward the front on the same road, was General Hughes in the jeep General Donovan had ridden in the previous day. General Hughes was using General Donovan’s driver, Corporal Martin Braithwaite of Kimball, Nebraska.

  “What the hell outfit is this?” Hughes asked, looking out the window at columns of marching troops.

  “It’s the 15th Regiment, sir.”

  “I know that,” Hughes said testily. “What I don’t know is which outfit in the 15th.”

  “I can stop and ask somebody, sir.”

  Braithwaite hit the brakes, and the jeep skidded to a stop. Hughes leaned out from under the canvas top and pointed to a soldier. “Hey there—what outfit is this?”

  The soldier saw the two stars on his helmet and didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He stuttered, stumbled, and went pale.

  “Speak up—goddamnit!”

  A young first lieutenant ran toward the jeep, stopped, and saluted. “Lieutenant McNeeley reporting, sir!”

  “What outfit is this, Lieutenant?”

  “This is Dog Company of the 1st Battalion, sir.”

  “Who’s up ahead?”

  “I believe that’s Charlie Company, sir!”

  Hughes leaned toward Braithwaite. “Move it out.”

  Braithwaite shifted into first and accelerated aw
ay. He’d felt a chill pass over him because he knew that General Donovan had been killed yesterday with Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion. “Sir?” he said.

  “What is it Braithwaite.”

  “I think there’s something you should know, sir. Charlie Company up ahead is the company that General Donovan was leading yesterday when he got hit.”

  Hughes knitted his bushy eyebrows together. “What the hell do I care about that?”

  “I thought you might want to know.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Just thought I’d mention it.”

  “Keep your mind on your driving, Braithwaite. Can’t you get any more speed out of this thing?”

  “I have the accelerator floored, sir.”

  General Hughes sniffed disapprovingly and took his pipe and pigskin tobacco pouch out of his pocket. He filled the pipe with tobacco, tamped it down, and lit it with his Zippo. Puffing the pipe and filling the interior of the jeep with the fragrance of tobacco smoke, Hughes was disturbed to know that he was heading toward the same company in which his predecessor had been killed. What a rotten coincidence, he thought. He wasn’t a particularly superstitious man, but he wished he wasn’t going there. It was too late to turn back now, however. If he did it would be known throughout the Third Army within twenty four hours that he’d been on his way to Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion, but when he found out that General Donovan had been killed there he turned back.

  The sound of rifle fire grew louder, and German mortar shells fell around the road ahead of them.

  “Sir,” said Braithwaite, “we’re getting awfully close to the front.”

  “So what?”

  “Just thought I’d mention it.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “As a matter of fact I am, sir.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to get myself a driver who’s got more guts than you.”

  “Guess so, sir.”

  Something in Braithwaite’s voice told General Hughes that Braithwaite would be happy to get away from him and receive another assignment. I’ll fix his little ass, General Hughes thought. I’ll send him right to a goddamn line infantry company when we get back, and that ought to make him sorry he ever talked back to a general.

  ~*~

  A few miles ahead, cowering alone in a foxhole, was Private Olds pointing his rifle at his foot. Sweat poured down his face and his finger was poised on the trigger, but somehow he couldn’t pull it back. The anticipation of terrific pain froze his finger. He was afraid he might blow his foot off and cripple himself for life.

  He tried to aim higher, at his ankle, but was afraid a .30 caliber bullet might blow it in half, also crippling him for life. In order to shoot himself in a fleshy portion of his thigh he’d have to hold the rifle at a weird angle and if it bucked hard he might shoot himself in the balls.

  “Why don’t you aim it at your fucking head?” said a voice above him.

  Olds looked up and his heart nearly stopped beating when he saw Mahoney standing on the edge of the hole, his hands on his hips and bullets flying all around his head. Olds smiled weakly. “Hi Sarge,” he whined.

  Mahoney jumped down into the foxhole and pointed his carbine at Olds’ chest. “You want me to do it for you?”

  Olds pressed his back against the mud at the bottom of the hole. He knew Mahoney was a wild man and thought he actually might shoot.

  “I asked you a question, young soldier!”

  “No Sergeant.”

  Mahoney chewed the stub of his cigar. “I ought to anyway, you slimy little piece of shit. You’re no good to anybody anyways.”

  Olds started to cry. “I can’t help it, Sergeant. I’m not a strong person. I can’t take this anymore.”

  Mahoney kneeled beside Olds and snarled, “Neither can anybody else, but we all do, and so can you.”

  “I can’t,” Olds whined.

  Mahoney wanted to punch him in the mouth again, but he’d been doing that so much it was becoming tiresome. “What am I going to do with you, Olds?” he asked, taking out a fresh cigar.

  “I don’t know Sergeant. Can you get me a transfer to the rear?”

  “No. You want one of these?”

  “I don’t smoke cigars.”

  “Maybe you outta start.” Mahoney jammed the cigar into Olds’ mouth and lit the end. “Puff, you little cocksucker.”

  Olds puffed and he thought the smoke was ghastly. He began to cough.

  “Listen to me, fuckhead,” Mahoney said.

  Olds continued to cough, his tongue sticking out and his face turning red.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” Olds said between coughs.

  “Why are you trying to shoot yourself, you stupid bastard, when a German probably is going to shoot you before long anyway?”

  “Because when the German shoots me he’s liable to kill me.”

  “But if you shoot yourself, you’ll get court-martialed and you’ll probably get put in front of a firing squad. Everybody in this company knows you’re a cowardly son of a bitch. Even Captain Anderson knows that. Imagine what your mother might think if you got put before a firing squad?”

  “She wouldn’t be able to face her friends.”

  “How could you do that to her?”

  “Because I’m scared.” Olds puffed the cigar, coughed, and began to bawl.

  “Listen you dumb fuck,” Mahoney said, “can’t you see that your only hope is to try to be a goddamn soldier, instead of crying all the time?”

  “But I’m scared!”

  “So am I!”

  Olds looked at Mahoney. “You’re scared?”

  “You’re goddamn right I’m scared. We’re all scared around here. Are you kidding me? You don’t think I’m scared?”

  “You don’t act scared.”

  “Well I’m not trying to shoot my foot off or anything like that, but I’m scared.” Mahoney jabbed his forefinger into Olds’ chest. “You’ve got to make your fear work for you.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “You make it move you forward instead of backwards. You turn it against the Krauts instead of against yourself. Think about it, birdbrain. The more Germans you kill the better chance you’ll have of getting out of here. When all the Germans are dead you and I go home, and you’ll go home a hero, not the guy who shot his foot off. Wouldn’t you like to go home a hero? Girls love a hero, you know. You’ll be getting more ass than a toilet seat.”

  “But I’m scared,” Olds whined.

  “If it weren’t for the Krauts,” Mahoney said, “you wouldn’t have to be here, and neither would I. Why don’t you get pissed off at the Krauts instead of yourself? Why don’t you want to go out there and kick ass?”

  “Because I might get killed.”

  “Do you think you’re going to live forever? Don’t you realize that you’re going to die anyway? What’s a few years more or less? It’s better to die a lion than a sheep, Olds. You’ve got to get that through your head.”

  “I can’t,” Olds moaned. “And I hate this cigar. Here— take it back.” Olds held it out.

  Mahoney took the cigar out of Olds’ hand and threw it over his shoulder. He was beginning to feel sorry for Olds. Olds was a born coward and that was it. He couldn’t help himself. What could be done to change him? Mahoney snorted and looked Olds up and down. Olds really wasn’t little, although Mahoney kept thinking of him that way. Olds was nearly six foot tall, but was a gawky gangly son of a bitch with a long neck like a giraffe and an enormous Adam’s apple.

  “I guess I’ll have to make you my runner,” Mahoney said.

  “Your runner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t want to be your runner!”

  “Well you’re my runner as of now.”

  Mahoney grabbed Olds by the collar and dragged him out of the foxhole. Mortar rounds smashed into the ground and bullets flew through the air as Mahoney pulled Olds across the muddy
plain, and Olds kicked and screamed every inch of the way. When they reached Mahoney’s foxhole Mahoney threw Olds in at the feet of Pfc. Knifefinder, who was smoking one of Mahoney’s cigars. Knifefinder looked at Olds as if sniveling slobbering soldiers were commonplace and continued smoking the cigar.

  Mahoney got into the foxhole and kneeled beside Knifefinder. “I got bad news or good news, chief, depending how you look at it. You’re transferred to the first squad as of right now and this pile of shit here is my new runner.”

  “Him?” Knifefinder asked. “That chicken coward?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’d I do wrong, Sarge?”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, you’re probably gonna be my next new squad leader, if you live that long. But I gotta keep an eye on this fucking scumbag because he’s a psycho case.”

  “Aw shit, Sarge.”

  “You’ll like Corporal Cranepool. He’s a crazy son of a bitch.”

  “He can’t be any crazier than you.”

  “Get going. Report to Corporal Cranepool. Tell him that this scumbag is here and you’re there, got it?”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Knifefinder tossed the walkie-talkie to Mahoney, picked up his gear, and departed for the first squad. Mahoney held the walkie-talkie in front of Olds’ face.

  “You know how to work one of these?”

  “Yes Sergeant.”

  Mahoney dropped it into Olds’s lap. “It’s all yours now, asshole.”

  ~*~

  “A jeep is coming,” said Sergeant Tweed.

  Captain Anderson turned around, and sure enough a jeep was barreling down the road toward him. As it drew closer he spotted the two stars on the license plate. Astonished, he watched the jeep skid to a stop. A two-star general got out, and Captain Anderson thought he must be the new division commander. He drew his feet together and saluted.

  General Hughes returned the salute. “Why aren’t you moving ahead, Captain?” he asked angrily.

  “We are moving ahead, sir.”

  Hughes looked around. “Doesn’t look it to me.”

  “It’s slow going, sir. There are Krauts up ahead and we’ve got to work through them.”