Bloody Bastogne Page 12

  A jeep arrived with a sergeant in the passenger seat. The sergeant got out and walked toward Mahoney and the sentries. The sergeant looked at Mahoney as if he wanted to put him against a firing squad right away.

  One of the sentries reported that Mahoney didn’t know the password.

  “That’s right,” Mahoney said. “I was cut off behind enemy lines, and I’ve been wandering around in the woods for a couple of days.”

  The sergeant looked at Mahoney’s clean uniform and recently shaved face.

  “You don’t look like you’ve been in the woods for a few days.”

  “I spent some time in a farmhouse and got cleaned up.”

  The sergeant took out his .45 and pointed it at Mahoney’s nose. “I think you’d better come with me.”

  Mahoney decided not to argue because he didn’t think it would get him anywhere. He gave up his rifle and marched to the jeep, getting into the rear seat. The sergeant held his .45 on Mahoney as the Pfc behind the wheel drove them to a building in the town.

  Here I go again, Mahoney thought as he entered the building, expecting to be locked up again. He was taken down a hallway and into the office of a first lieutenant with curly blond hair and high cheekbones. On his collar was the insignia of the Signal Corps. The sergeant explained how Mahoney had shown up on the outskirts of town and didn’t know the password.

  The officer told Mahoney to sit down and proceeded to interrogate him. Mahoney stated his name, rank, and unit. He explained what had happened to him during the past few days, leaving out the bit about his arrest in Clervaux and the juicy details of his stay with Suzanne and Cecile.

  “Unfortunately,” said the officer, “I can’t check your story because I don’t have communication with Bastogne. You look and sound like an American, but so do the Germans who’ve infiltrated.”

  Mahoney nodded. “I know. I’ve run into some of them myself, and they fooled me.”

  “Sir,” said the sergeant, “why don’t we ask him some questions that any American would know?”

  “We’ve been advised,” the officer replied, “that the Germans have studied American culture and know pretty much what we do.”

  “Let me try, sir.”

  The officer nodded his assent, and the sergeant looked at Mahoney. “Who’s married to Betty Grable?”

  Mahoney groaned, because he’d never been very interested in the private lives of the stars. “Gee,” he said, “I don’t know.”

  Everybody looked at him suspiciously, and Mahoney knew his goose was cooked.

  Mahoney shrugged. “I haven’t had much time to read about stuff like that.”

  The sergeant looked at him coldly. “It’s Harry James.”

  The first lieutenant was surprised. “I thought it was Artie Shaw?”

  “Naw, Artie Shaw is married to Rita Hayworth.”

  The corporal standing guard at the door took a step into the room. “You’re both wrong,” he said. “Tommy Dorsey is married to Betty Grable.”

  “No he’s not!” said the sergeant.

  “He is too!”

  The lieutenant raised his hand. “Calm down.”

  There was frenzied knocking on the door, and everybody looked at it.

  “Come in!” said the lieutenant.

  The door flew open and a Pfc ran into the room. “Sir!” he said, his face pale with terror. “The Germans are in town!”

  The lieutenant shot to his feet. “What!” He dashed to the window and looked into the street. A column of German tanks rolled down the main street of the village, and hanging onto each tank were German infantry soldiers.

  “My God!” said the lieutenant, becoming as pale as the Pfc.

  Mahoney and the sergeant crowded around him and looked. Mahoney was surprised that none of the Americans in town had shot at the Germans yet, but he remembered that he was with a Signal Corps outfit, and fighting wasn’t their game.

  “What’ll we do, sir?” asked the sergeant.

  “I don’t know.”

  Mahoney turned to the lieutenant. “How many men do you have in town?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  Mahoney grunted. There was no point in taking on a tank column with twenty-six Signal Corpsmen. The only thing to do was flee.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he said, turning toward the door.

  The sergeant pointed his .45 at him. “Oh no you don’t!”

  Mahoney glowered at him. “The krauts are here, asshole. The only thing to do is run for the hills.”

  “Yeah, but you may be one of them krauts yourself!”

  Heavy footsteps pounded through the corridor outside. The door was flung open and five German soldiers wearing the uniforms of the Waffen SS charged into the room. The sergeant dropped his .45. An SS sergeant smiled superciliously and indicated with a hand motion that he wanted them to go outside.

  They held their hands in the air and left the room. Mahoney cursed the stupid American sergeant for holding him up and then cursed himself for not bypassing the town.

  They were herded outside with the other GIs. The street was swarming with SS men and tanks. Mahoney still hadn’t heard a shot. The signalmen were surrendering without a fight.

  Mahoney was disturbed because he had been captured so easily. He’d been a combat soldier for more than two years and always thought he knew how to take care of himself. If ever he would be taken prisoner, he thought it would happen only after he had put up a terrific fight, but instead, he was standing in the only street of a village whose name he didn’t know, with a bunch of frightened signalmen, facing the gun barrels of SS soldiers with expressions of contempt on their faces, and it all had happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to do anything.

  He looked at the sergeant who’d taken him prisoner and wanted to strangle the stupid son of a bitch. The sergeant stood near the lieutenant, and Mahoney wanted to hate him too, but then sighed and realized they were only rear echelon soldiers who didn’t know anything about war. If they’d had a real combat soldier for a leader, they might have been molded into a worthwhile fighting force, but their lieutenant was a rear echelon soldier too.

  An SS captain approached them. “All right you men,” he said in a thick German accent, “follow me!”

  He led them between two buildings to a grassy field, then told them to halt and stand easy. Mahoney wondered what was going on. He wanted to smoke a cigarette but didn’t dare reach into his pocket. A dozen SS men stood in a line, holding their rifles and machine guns. They laughed and joked with each other, and Mahoney figured everything was all right.

  Then he saw the SS captain take out his service pistol, point it toward the ground, and work the mechanism that pushed a round into the chamber.

  Uh-oh, Mahoney thought.

  The GIs stood around and talked, paying little attention to the captain loading his pistol or the SS soldiers raising their rifles and submachine guns. Cold fear seized Mahoney, because he had a good idea of what was going to happen, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  The captain raised his pistol and fired pointblank at the back of the GI in front of him. The explosion echoed across the field, and the GI slumped to the ground. The other GIs turned around to see what had happened, and the SS men with submachine guns and rifles opened fire on them.

  Mahoney dove to the ground and lay still as bullets whistled through the air above him. The GIs screamed and bellowed in pain as the bullets sliced through them. They fell to the ground and spurted blood, and those who hadn’t been hit in the first volley tried to run, but they didn’t get far. The SS men continued firing and cut them down.

  In a few seconds everything was still. Mahoney lay under two GIs who had fallen on top of him and whose blood soaked into his uniform. One of them was moaning and twitching, and Mahoney wished the GI would die and get it over with before he attracted the attention of the SS men.

  Mahoney heard random gunshots. Opening his eye a crack, he saw SS men bending over GIs and shooting th
em in the head. Oh my God, Mahoney thought, closing his eye again. It’s all over for me.

  He didn’t know whether to get up and make a run for it, or charge the SS men with his bare hands and die fighting like a soldier. Then, a little voice in his ear told him to lay still and maybe the SS men wouldn’t disturb him. Blood from one of the GIs lying on top of him dripped onto his face, and he could feel it roll down his cheek. The other GI on top of him jerked convulsively. The footsteps of SS men came closer, and Mahoney heard one of them stop inches away from him. Mahoney held his breath and hoped the SS man wouldn’t shoot him. A few moments of unbearable tension passed, and then a shot rang out. At first Mahoney thought his head had been shot away, but then he felt the GI on top of him jolt violently. The SS man walked away. He must have shot the GI who had been moaning and twitching because the GI wasn’t doing it anymore.

  Mahoney heard more shots. SS men were polishing off all the GIs who weren’t dead. Mahoney knew now that he must never let himself be taken prisoner by the Germans if he ever got out of the mess he was in. It was better to die like a soldier with a gun in your hand than be slaughtered like cattle in a field.

  The shooting stopped, and Mahoney heard the SS men talking as they stepped over bodies and moved in the direction of the street.

  “What a bunch of disgusting cowards this bunch was,” said one of the SS men.

  “Yes, they were quite different from the ones we fought yesterday.”

  “Let’s go!” said a voice that Mahoney recognized as belonging to the SS captain. “We must get moving again!”

  The SS men marched away, but Mahoney continued to lie still. The icy December wind whipped across the field, and Mahoney felt blood freezing on his cheek, but still he didn’t move. He tried to think of other things: the streets of New York in the summertime, basic training at Fort Dix.

  The engines of tanks and armored personnel carriers started up on the street, and he heard them head west toward Bastogne. The sound of engines grew fainter. Finally he couldn’t hear them at all. The field was still except for branches rustling in the wind. He was still afraid to move because SS men might have been left behind in the town. He’d have to wait until night to slip away.

  He estimated that it was not more than seven or eight o’clock in the morning. It was going to be a long and horrible day, lying underneath dead GIs. He thought he might get frostbite from lying still, but that was better than a bullet in the brain. To keep from going insane, he’d have to think of optimistic possibilities.

  Mahoney lost track of time. He didn’t know if an hour had passed or only five minutes. Then he heard voices. Someone was coming. He opened one eye but couldn’t see anything. Panic swept over him. Maybe some Germans were coming to bury the American dead!

  He tried to think of what to do. If they were Germans, he’d have to make a break for it now while he still had the chance. If they weren’t Germans, it wouldn’t matter what he did. But on the other hand, what if they were Germans just passing through? If he remained still, they might go away, but if he moved, he’d get that bullet in the head.

  The voices weren’t very close yet, and he thought he might permit himself to move and get a better look. Slowly and imperceptibly, he moved his head in the direction of the voices. It took a long time, but finally he saw civilians coming across the fields from the forest in the distance. Now he realized what must have happened. The townspeople fled when they saw soldiers coming to town and now were returning because they thought all the soldiers had left. He hoped they were right.

  The villagers approached the dead GIs with horror and solemnity. The women held their fists in front of their mouths, and the men appeared to be in a state of shock.

  “The swine,” said one of the villagers, and Mahoney wondered if he was referring to the Germans or the dead Americans.

  “Only the Boche would do such a thing,” replied someone else, and now Mahoney knew whose side they were on.

  He pushed the dead soldiers off him and tried to rise. The women screamed and ran, while their husbands and brothers were frozen to the ground with terror. Mahoney stood unsteadily, and everybody looked at him as if he was a ghost.

  “I pretended to be dead,” he explained, “They didn’t get me.”

  Then in the corner of his eye, he saw another GI stagger to his feet. Again the women screamed, and Mahoney realized he wasn’t the only survivor.

  The other GI was a skinny soldier with a long sorrowful face and wire-rimmed glasses that he was adjusting on his nose with trembling hands. Mahoney walked over to him, as the villagers crowded around.

  The two GIs stared at each other. Mahoney held out his hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Dunphy,” said the soldier.

  “I’m Mahoney.”

  They smiled at each other and shook hands, grateful that they had been spared.

  “What’s your rank, Dunphy?” Mahoney asked.

  “I’m a private. How about you?”

  “I’m a master sergeant.”

  Dunphy nodded. Now he knew who was boss. Mahoney turned to the villagers. “Does this place have a mayor?”

  Everybody pointed to a stout man with a white mustache, who stepped forward. “I am the mayor of Stembelot.”

  “Sir,” said Mahoney, “we’ll need civilian clothes so that we can get back to our lines.”

  The old man nodded. “You shall have whatever you need.”

  Chapter Eleven

  General Dwight D. Eisenhower, in a bulletproof car, was driven into the French city of Verdun. His car was in the middle of an MP convoy, and everyone was on the alert, because G-2 believed that German commando teams were roaming loose behind the American lines, looking for Ike so that they could kill him.

  Ike believed the reports were exaggerated, but he had other things to worry about. Last night, after analyzing all the information available to him, he had been forced to conclude that the Germans had launched an all-out offensive against his First Army.

  Hitler and his high command believed it would take a week for the Western Allies to reach this conclusion, but Ike had come to it in only three days.

  Ike had scheduled a meeting in Verdun for all his top commanders, and now, finally, his car stopped in front of the old castle where the meeting was to take place. Surrounded by MPs with Thompson submachine guns held ready, Ike entered the castle and made his way to the conference room. All the brass came to attention when he entered, and he told them to stand at ease. Aides took his coat and helmet, and he advanced to the conference table, glancing at the troubled, unhappy faces. Only one face appeared confident, and it belonged to Lieutenant General George S. Patton, Jr.

  Ike stood at the conference table and rested his fists upon it. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the present situation is to be regarded as one of opportunity for us and not of disaster. From now on there will be only cheerful faces at this conference table.”

  Patton grinned and puffed out his chest. “Hell,” he said, “we ought to let the bastards go all the way to Paris, and then, when they’ve extended themselves to their limits, cut them off and chew them up!”

  Everybody smiled at the brash and irrepressible Patton, but they all thought he really didn’t mean what he said. However, they were wrong. Patton was willing and even anxious to do just that because he liked bold, unexpected moves and sweeping strategies.

  Ike was much more practical. “No,” he replied, “we’re not going to let them cross the Meuse. We’ll stop them where they are, but first we’ve got to take some pressure off the First Army.” Ike turned to Patton. “George,” he said, “I want you to go to Belgium and attack the Germans in force. How soon can you get moving?”

  The room was silent because everyone expected Patton to explode with anger. They all knew he was in the middle of his Saar campaign and that he wouldn’t want to break it off.

  But Patton only said, “Immediately.”

  Ike blinked. “You mean today?”

  “I mean as
soon as you’re finished with me here.”

  Ike became annoyed because he knew it could take a week or more for Patton to pull back his army, turn it north, and advance two hundred miles into Belgium. General Bradley noticed Ike’s anger and thought he’d better say something.

  “George,” he said, “exactly how long will it take for you to actually engage the Germans in Belgium?”

  Patton looked him in the eye. “In forty-eight hours with three divisions: the Fourth Armored, the Twenty-sixth, and the Hammerheads.”

  Ike couldn’t take it anymore. “Don’t be fatuous!” he snapped.

  Patton turned to him. “I’ll get there on time.”

  The officers in the room murmured. Some thought Patton could do it, and others figured he was bragging as usual. They didn’t know that Patton had anticipated Ike’s order and had set his staff to work on the move north before he’d come to Verdun. One code word on the telephone to his chief of staff would be sufficient to put the three divisions mentioned into motion.

  Patton enjoyed the consternation he’d caused. He lit up a stogie and pointed to the map, which showed a big German bulge into Belgium. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this time the krauts have put their heads into a big goddamned meat grinder, and I’ve got my hand on the switch.”

  Even Ike became infected by his confidence. “All right, George,” he said with a smile. “I’ll expect you to attack no earlier than the twenty-second, and no later than the twenty-third.”

  “Yes sir,” Patton replied. “I’ll hit them on schedule, and I’ll be in Bastogne by Christmas just as sure as I’m standing in front of you right now.”

  The meeting continued. Ike told General Devers to move up elements of his Ninth Army to cover the hole Patton’s Third Army would leave after he pulled out. Then he ordered Hodges to deploy the First Army so that it could attack the northern flank of the Bulge. Several other secondary matters were disposed of. Finally the meeting was adjourned.

  Patton pounced on the nearest telephone and called his headquarters in Nancy. When his chief of staff came on the phone, Patton spoke the code word that would pull his three divisions off the line and send them north into Belgium. When Patton hung up, he turned around and saw Ike standing beside him.