Slaughter City Page 11

  The door to the roof opened, and a hand grenade came flying down at him. He dodged out of the way and kept charging.

  “Get that grenade!”

  He reached the top step and dove head first through the doorway, landing on the pebbles on the roof as the hand grenade blew off somewhere behind him. Machine-gun bullets zapped beside him, and he rolled out of the way, looking for cover. Germans fired at him from behind skylights and chimneys, and the third and fourth squads exploded through the doorway and charged on to the roof, firing as they came searching for cover. German machine guns cut down a few of them, and the rest yanked out hand grenades, dropping to their bellies.

  A bullet smashed into the roof two inches from Mahoney’s head as he yanked a grenade from his lapel. He pulled the pin and hurled it toward a machine-gun nest he could see in a corner of the roof, and it was a perfect throw, the grenade landing in the midst of the Germans. They looked at it in total horror, frozen with the realization of what was about to happen to them, and then the grenade blasted them into the air, and one of them was thrown over the parapet.

  That eliminated some of the hostile fire on the roof. His men fired desperately at the other Germans on the roof, who were hiding everywhere, and one of the Germans tried to throw a hand grenade of his own, but he was shot through the head just as his hand went back, and he fell among his comrades, the hand grenade exploding and ripping them apart.

  Mahoney issued orders that sent his men attacking the remaining Germans in waves. The GIs advanced a few feet at a time, slowly closing in on the Germans, who were being pinned down by fire from other GIs. One German managed to throw a hand grenade that blew up two men in the fourth squad, but within fifteen minutes, all the Germans on that roof were overcome.

  The Americans couldn’t stand up and look around because Germans on the next roof were firing at them. Mahoney crouched behind the parapet and lit a cigarette, formulating a way to attack the next building.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Throughout the early hours of the morning, Patton and his generals stood at the map table as reports trickled in on the progress of his offensive. They moved pins around and were pleased with the amount of ground that had been taken. All units up and down the Third Army line had reached their assigned objectives and were pushing forward steadily. Now that they had gas and ammunition, it was like the old days except that the Germans had used the month of October to reorganize and were offering stiff resistance everywhere. Patton thought his casualties were heavier than they should have been, thanks to Ike and the jokers at Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces (SHAEF).

  At eight o’clock, a call came in from General Omar Bradley at EAGLE TAC, and the phone was handed to Patton.

  “What are your plans for today, George?” Bradley asked.

  “I’m attacking,” Patton replied. “Can’t you hear my guns?”

  “What!” Bradley replied. “You’re attacking without air support?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was a pause for a few moments. “I don’t know if that was a good idea, George.”

  “We’re doing okay.”

  “You are?”

  “We’ve reached all our designated objectives so far.”

  “What about Metz?”

  “My Hammerhead Division is fighting inside the city limits.”

  “Why that’s splendid, George!” Bradley said, his voice becoming enthusiastic. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible without air support!”

  “The weather is hurting the Germans as much as it’s hurting us.”

  “Hang on a moment, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Patton stood with a phone next to his ear, looking down at the map table. Even he was surprised at the progress his troops were making without air cover, but he saw no point in admitting it.

  “George?” asked Bradley.

  “I’m here,” Patton replied.

  “Ike is here, George, and he wants to speak with you.”

  “Ike!”

  “That’s right. Here he is.”

  Patton waited and a few seconds later heard the velvety voice of General Dwight D. Eisenhower.

  “George, this is Ike, your supreme commander!” he said. “I’m thrilled by your offensive, boy! I expect a hell of a lot from you, so carry the ball all the way!”

  “Thanks, general,” Patton said with a faint smile. “We’ll carry it, sir—we sure will!”

  “I hear you’re doing real well, George!”

  “As well as can be expected, sir, all things considered.”

  “That’s fine. You just keep on doing what you’re doing. And give your men my best regards. Tell them I expect a lot from them in this campaign.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Patton hung up the phone, his face expressing cynicism. Ike had held him back over a month, giving the Germans an opportunity to regroup opposite the Third Army, and now Ike wanted to give everybody his regards. Sometimes Patton thought that Ike wasn’t tied together very tightly.

  “Everything all right, sir?” asked General Maddox.

  “Nobody’s telling us to stop,” Patton replied, returning to the map table, “so I suppose everything’s okay. Has anything happened while I was on the phone? Where are we now?”

  ~*~

  “My Fuehrer,” said General Jodl, “I’m afraid I have more bad news.”

  Hitler looked up from his desk and the documents strewn upon it. Although it was morning in East Prussia, all the curtains in his office were drawn because sunlight hurt his eyes. “What is it now?”

  “General Patton has launched an all-out offensive in Lorraine,” Jodl said, standing at ease in front of Hitler’s desk. “General Balck requests reinforcements urgently.”

  Hitler shook his head. “Absolutely not!”

  “He says that he is faced with superior numbers of troops and tanks and that he must retreat.”

  “Jodl,” said Hitler sternly, “you will tell Balck that he must hold Alsace-Lorraine regardless of the circumstances. He must fight for time. On no account should he allow a situation to develop in which my forces earmarked for the Ardennes offensive would have to be sidetracked to his army group. Make that clear to him. Do you understand?”

  “But, my Fuehrer,” Jodl said, “there often comes a time in battles where an army must retreat or lose everything.”

  Hitler rose unsteadily to his feet, his face drained of color. Lightning bolts of rage shot out of his hypnotic eyes, and Jodl regretted having raised that objection to his Fuehrer.

  “My good Jodl,” Hitler said in his deep, hoarse voice, “our most severe losses seem to come from our ‘glorious’ retreats, the ones we make so that we don’t lose everything. But when we stand and fight, quite often we win victories that no one except me thinks we can win.”

  Jodl could have mentioned instances where the German army stood and fought and got wiped out, such as in North Africa under Rommel, but he decided to be prudent this time. “Yes, my Fuehrer,” he said softly.

  “Furthermore,” Hitler added, “even if the enemy offensive in Alsace-Lorraine should create major inroads into our territory and fortifications, we must accept that risk for the sake of my Ardennes buildup. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my Fuehrer.”

  “Transmit my wishes to General Balck.”

  “Yes, my Fuehrer.”

  Jodl turned around and walked out of Hitler’s office, wondering exactly what he should tell Balck, for on the one hand Hitler ordered that Balck stand fast, and then he also said it was all right to retreat. I’m sure I’ll think of something suitably equivocal by the time I get to the communications office, he thought. I always do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At Metz, by ten o’clock in the morning, the rain had stopped, the sun came out, and American planes attacked the forts that ringed the city plus German strongholds within the city itself. Mahoney and his third and fourth squads stood on the roof of a building and w
atched the planes swoop out of the sky, dropping bombs and strafing targets. The sky became crisscrossed with vapor trails as the planes dived and climbed into the sky again.

  Mahoney removed his canteen out of its case and took a swig. He had his two machine-gun sections set up on the roof, and thus far his platoon had cleared out four houses. From the streets below he could hear the sounds of American Sherman tanks dueling German Tigers and Panthers. American howitzers had been moved forward and set up, and their shells were reducing stubborn pockets of resistance to piles of rubble. The GIs were ripping into Metz systematically, but they still had a long way to go before they could say the city was theirs.

  “Okay, fuckheads,” Mahoney said, “let’s get the next building.”

  He put his canteen into his case and snapped the case shut. Then, his submachine gun in his right hand, he ran and jumped over the alley, landing on the roof of the next building. As his feet slammed down, he knew he could be heard throughout the building, and any Germans there would get ready for a fight, but at least there weren’t any of them on the roof. The American planes had driven them into the buildings, and it wouldn’t be easy to get them out.

  The rest of the men jumped the alley and advanced behind him toward the door that led down into the building. A face appeared in the doorway and ducked back. Butsko had been ready for that and hurled a hand grenade into the doorway. He and his men dropped on their stomachs, and the hand grenade exploded, ripping out the walls of the little roof house. An American plane zoomed past just over their heads as they rushed the doorway, and Mahoney was first inside.

  He saw a German soldier plastered all over one of the shattered walls. Mahoney ran past him toward the stairs, aiming his submachine gun down, when the bullet whistled past his ear. He dodged backward, jumping into his men.

  “Don’t follow me so close!” he yelled, pulling out his hand grenade, his next to last. He yanked the pin and tossed the grenade to the landing below, then kneeled so the shrapnel wouldn’t take his head off by mistake.

  The grenade exploded, sending billows of smoke up the stairs, and Mahoney jumped over the banister, landing on the next flight of stairs, only a few steps from the landing. He hopped down the three stairs, firing his submachine gun as he went, and when he reached the landing, he spun around like a madman, firing into all the doorways, as his men followed him and spread out to take the rooms one by one.

  During the course of the fighting that morning, Mahoney had worked out a plan of attack for taking houses, and now he didn’t have to give orders anymore; they just went from building to building doing the same thing. When they had one floor cleared, they took the floor below it, and so forth. After they’d killed every German in the building, they went up to the roof again and jumped to the next building, where they’d do it all over again.

  Slowly, they made their way into the building. Mahoney threw his last grenade on the fourth floor and had to borrow some from men who hadn’t thrown many of them. He’d had ten men killed so far and four wounded seriously enough to be evacuated.

  On the first floor, Mahoney kicked open a door and charged into a butcher shop. German soldiers hid behind meat cases and chopping blocks, firing at the Americans, who fanned out as they entered the room, overwhelming the remaining Germans, but the Germans managed to kill two more of Mahoney’s men, and when the smoke had cleared, he only had ten left, including himself.

  “Butsko,” he said, “take two men and see if anybody’s down in the basement. Hamm, see if you can find any steaks in the cooler.”

  The three men left the group to carry out their orders, and Mahoney took off his helmet, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. He looked at Riggs, who was standing nearby like a puppy dog, waiting for an order to do something.

  “Gimme the walkie-talkie.”

  “Hup, sarge.”

  Mahoney took the walkie-talkie and tromped toward the front door of the butcher shop. He unlatched the door and opened it, hearing an increase in the sounds of battle. Stepping on to the sidewalk, he looked right and left and saw troops running down the street. An American tank was set up at an intersection, and its machine guns were firing at something while its big cannon was elevated in the air.

  Mahoney stepped into the street as far as he dared, raised the walkie-talkie to his face, and said: “Lightning One calling King Lightning—over.” He let the button go and heard only static and scrambled voices. Pressing the button again, he spoke the code words and still couldn’t reach Captain Anderson. After trying two more times, he realized that the tall buildings made radio communication impossible. He’d have to send a runner and thought Riggs might get lost or fall into the hands of the Germans. Someone else would have to go.

  He returned to the shop, and Private Hamm was there with the rest of them.

  “No steaks, sarge,” he said. “Not even no bones.”

  Mahoney took out a cigarette and lit it up. He sat down on the floor and took off his helmet. “Take ten,” he said.

  Butsko returned from the basement. “Nobody downstairs, Mahoney.”

  “Any booze?”

  “If there was, I’d have it with me.”

  “If there was, you’d probably stash it away someplace so you could come back later and have it all for yourself, you little fuck.”

  Butsko grinned. “Who me, sarge? I always take care of my buddies because they take care of me.”

  “I want you to do something for me, Butsko,” Mahoney said. “I want you to find Captain Anderson and tell him that we need ammo, grenades, and all the usual shit. Got the picture.”

  “Hup, sarge.”

  “You think you can find him?”

  “He’s gotta be around here someplace. I’ll find him.”

  “Take with you whoever you want and get going.”

  “Hup, sarge.”

  Butsko picked his buddy Kubiak, who was from Duquesne, Pennsylvania, which wasn’t far from Butsko’s home town of McKeesport. They left the shop through the front door and turned left. Mahoney puffed his cigarette and had a drink from his canteen.

  “I changed my mind,” Mahoney said. “We’re gonna stay here until Butsko gets back, so we might as well have chow.”

  He took off his pack, removed a can of C rations, and looked at the words stenciled on the side: sausage patties.

  “Anybody want to trade beans or macaroni for some nice sausage patties?” he asked.

  Nobody replied, and they all looked away from Mahoney.

  Shit, he thought, taking out his tiny can opener and cutting into the lid. I wonder if these things really are made out of dog food like everybody says.

  ~*~

  Two blocks away, Butsko and Kubiak saw Private, First Class Drago leaning out a first-floor window and holding his radio aerial high in the air.

  “What’re you doing,” Butsko asked, “goosing butterflies?”

  “Captain Anderson is trying to raise the platoon leaders.”

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  “In here.”

  Butsko and Kubiak climbed the stoop and entered the hallway of the building. They came to a doorway and went inside, seeing Captain Anderson and Sergeant Tweed sitting in a sumptuous living room that had bullet holes in the walls and bloodstains on the rug.

  Captain Anderson appeared surprised to see them. “Where are you two coming from?” he asked.

  “Down the street,” Butsko said. “Sergeant Mahoney sent us here to ask about getting more ammo, hand grenades, and further orders.”

  “Where is he?”

  Butsko pointed. “Thataway.”

  Anderson leaned forward on the maroon sofa he’d been sitting on and looked at the street map he’d laid on the coffee table. “C’mere, Butsko,” he said.

  Butsko sauntered over.

  Anderson pointed to the map. “If you and I are here right now, where is Mahoney in relation to us?”

  Butsko placed his filthy fingernail on the map. “Around here.”

 
“What’s your situation?”

  Butsko explained that Mahoney had split up the platoon, and he didn’t know what had happened to the first and second squads, but the third and fourth had lost about a dozen men.

  “Tell Mahoney,” Anderson said, “to link up with his first two squads and move in this direction.” He pointed to the map. “Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Anderson didn’t believe him. “I’ll write it all down. Meanwhile, you and Kubiak go next door and see the supply sergeant about getting some ammo and grenades for now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Butsko and Kubiak walked back to the kitchen, while Captain Anderson wrote his message on a sheet of paper.

  ~*~

  A half hour later, Butsko and Kubiak were on their way back to Mahoney and the third and fourth squads. They were festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, and each carried the handle of a crate of hand grenades. They smoked cigarettes and felt the mild sense of freedom a soldier enjoys when he’s on his own and away from his commanding officers and sergeants.

  They were taking a short cut and walking down a street that had been the scene of bitter fighting earlier in the day. Walls of the houses were pitted by rifle fire and fragmentation explosions, windows were blown out, huge craters were in the street, and some building facades had been blasted away completely.

  They smoked cigarettes and chatted about their former happy lives in Pennsylvania. Halfway down the block, Butsko looked up at the window of a building and was astonished to see the face of a beautiful blonde girl. He stopped in his tracks and ogled her. She smiled and stepped back from the window.

  “Did you see that!” Butsko said.

  “See what?” Kubiak replied.

  “The babe.”

  “What babe?”

  Butsko pointed. “The one in the window there.”

  “I don’t see no babe in the window there.”

  “She was there just a minute ago!”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “She was!”

  “You shit, too, if you eat regular.”

  “She smiled at me!”