Slaughter City Page 13

  “Hmmm,” said Knoedler, looking down at the map. “I can see your point. If we could have a few regiments of parachutists dropped on the other side of the Moselle, that would be ideal, but I don’t suppose we could get a few regiments of parachutists, so it’s all rather academic, isn’t it?”

  “Quite so,” agreed Neubacher.

  Also at the table was Lieutenant Franz Stahmer, only twenty-two years old and recently posted to the front after graduating from the University of Leipzig with a degree in mechanical engineering. “Sir, I have an idea,” he said.

  The older officers ignored him as they continued to discuss their precarious position vis-a-vis the Americans.

  “Sir,” Stahmer said louder, “I think I have a rather interesting idea.”

  They continued to ignore him while they spoke of troop withdrawals from exposed positions and maneuvers to straighten their lines. Stahmer, who was short and stout with straight black hair and a round moon face, felt angry at being neglected and disregarded.

  “I believe,” he said loudly, “that I have a way to get behind the American lines!”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “Who are you?” asked General Neubacher, adjusting his monocle as he studied Lieutenant Stahmer.

  “Lieutenant Stahmer, sir!”

  “Don’t you know that you do not interrupt senior officers while they are in conference?” Neubacher turned to Knoedler and sighed. “It’s really amazing, the caliber of young officer they send us these days.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Knoedler.

  Stahmer wasn’t cowed by their attitude, for his father was a millionaire, and he was arrogant as only a millionaire’s son can be.

  “May I be permitted to present my point of view!” Stahmer said.

  “If you must,” Neubacher replied wearily.

  Stahmer placed his finger on the map. “This is a railway line,” he said. “It passes from the railroad station in the center of this city to points east, west, north, and south. The western route formerly extended to France over a bridge that spanned the Moselle River. That bridge has been bombed by the Americans, but as far as I know, the railroad line within the city limits is still more or less intact.”

  “Come now,” Knoedler said, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table, “what is your point, lieutenant?”

  “My point is that we can assemble a locomotive and some railway cars, or even a few locomotives and railway cars, load some of our best troops aboard, and in the middle of the night, when they least expect it, we send the trains west, have them smash through the American lines, and then unload the troops, which can proceed to cut the American supply columns and attack the Americans from the rear.”

  All the officers looked at the train line that led from the central station to the bridge over the Moselle River.

  “Hmmm,” said Neubacher, fingering his Hitler moustache. “I think you might have something here. What did you say your name was?”

  “Lieutenant Franz Stahmer, sir.”

  “Yes, Stahmer. Well, we’ll have to look into this more carefully. The principle problem, as I see it, is whether or not the track is open as far as the American lines. There’s been quite a lot of bombing, you know.”

  “I know,” said Stahmer.

  “I think I’ll put you in charge of this project since you’ve come up with the idea. We’ll want to attack as soon as possible and at night so that we can’t be stopped by their damned planes, so I’ll expect your report within twenty-four hours. Can I rely on you, Stahmer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You are dismissed.”

  Stahmer gave the Hitler salute and marched out of the room, passing SS Colonel Anton Meier, the Gestapo commandant of Lorraine. Meier was lean as a jaguar, with a four-inch scar on his right cheek. He wore a black-leather trench coat and a black helmet with an SS insignia on the side. Tromping toward General Neubacher, he halted and gave the Hitler salute.

  “What can I do for you?” Neubacher asked coolly, for he didn’t like the SS commandant very much.

  “I have developed an idea for the defense of this city, sir,” Meier said. “It can win us a great victory, I believe.”

  The light of the electric lamp on the ceiling cast sharp shadows on Meier’s craggy face. “There is presently in the city of Metz a shipment of poison gas called Zyklon B,” he said. “I suggest that when the wind is right, we release the gas and let it destroy the Americans. My intelligence sources advise me that the Americans have thrown away their gas masks, so I imagine we might wipe the lot of them out,”— Meier snapped his fingers—“like that. What do you think?”

  Neubacher looked at Knoedler in surprise. “I didn’t know we had poison gas at the front.”

  “Neither did I,” replied Knoedler.

  Neubacher turned to Meier. “Are you sure there’s poison gas here?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “It’s called Zyklon B, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s it doing here?”

  “It was on its way to the eastern front, sir.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Meier smiled thinly. “For SS purposes. I’m afraid I cannot elaborate.”

  “Is poison gas being used against the Russians?” Neubacher asked.

  “Not against Russian soldiers, no.”

  “Then what is it being used for?”

  “I told you that I cannot elaborate,” Meier said, because he didn’t dare tell Neubacher that Zyklon B was used to kill Jews and gypsies in the concentration camps. That was top-secret SS information.

  “Where is the gas now?” Neubacher asked.

  “Somewhere,” Meier replied mysteriously.

  “I asked you where!”

  “I cannot divulge that information, sir.”

  “Why not!”

  “It is an SS matter entirely, sir. I offer you the gas for the defense of the city, but beyond that I have nothing to say.”

  “I see.” Neubacher glanced at Knoedler. Both had been in the army long enough to know that the SS went its own way and wasn’t subject to the army chain of command. Neubacher was worried about the Zyklon B because he thought Meier and his SS goons were a bunch of maniacs. Neubacher decided to deal with the matter diplomatically for the time being.

  “Thank you for your offer, Colonel Meier,” he said. “If I decide to take you up on it, I’ll let you know. I trust the Zyklon B is in a safe place, where it cannot be disturbed by American artillery or bombs?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll contact you if I need to use the stuff.”

  “Very good.”

  Meier rendered the Hitler salute and marched out of the conference room. Neubacher looked at Knoedler. “I’d certainly like to know where that gas is,” he said.

  “So would I.”

  “Is there any way we might find out?”

  “I don’t think so. SS men are tighter than clams.”

  Knoedler touched his fingers to his chin. “I’d feel a lot better if I knew where that gas was.”

  “So would I. There’s no telling what those fools might do with it.”

  ~*~

  Mahoney found Captain Anderson in a schoolhouse with fifty soldiers wearing new green fatigues.

  “They’re new replacements,” Anderson said. “Every platoon will get about a dozen of them.”

  Mahoney looked the replacements over, and they appeared frightened and uncertain. This was the closest they’d ever been to combat, and didn’t know what to expect.

  “I’m expecting the new orders from battalion,” Anderson said. “Sit tight until they arrive.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mahoney said. “By the way, did Butsko and Kubiak ever get through to you?”

  “Yes,” Anderson replied. “I gave them some ammo and hand grenades. I told Butsko to tell you to join all your squads together and try to link up with the second platoon. Didn’t he get through to you?”

  “He got through to t
he Graves Registration squad. He’s dead. Kubiak, too.”

  “Dead?” Anderson asked, surprised

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder what happened to them?”

  “So do I.”

  Anderson was called to the field telephone by Private, First Class Drago, and Mahoney sat on the floor with his back to a wall, taking out a cigarette. They were in a classroom filled with tiny desks and chairs, and none of the men could fit on the chairs, but some of them sat on the desks and used the chairs for footstools.

  Mahoney puffed his cigarette and thought about Butsko and Kubiak. He guessed that the perfume he’d smelled on Kubiak probably came from one of the nurses in the aid station, and both their shirts probably had been unbuttoned by nurses or medics as part of an examination. Mahoney decided he’d been foolish to think that Butsko and Kubiak had been with women. I’m always thinking about sex, Mahoney said to himself. Why am I always thinking about sex?

  Captain Anderson hung up his field telephone and turned to Mahoney. “I’ve got something for you to do, sergeant.”

  “What is it this time?” Mahoney asked, getting to his feet. He sauntered over to where Anderson was.

  “There’s a big church down the street,” Anderson said, “and some Germans are holed up in it. We don’t want to blow the church up because it’s been there for a few hundred years, so somebody will have to go in and kill the Germans.”

  “Is that somebody gonna be the first platoon?”

  “Right. German snipers are up in the steeple, and nobody can move in the streets below except tanks. You’ve got to get those snipers out of there.”

  “Personally,” Mahoney said, “I think they ought to blow up the church.”

  “How can you say that, Mahoney? I thought you were a Catholic.”

  “The church is only a building. If we blow it up, they’ll build another one. What’s the matter with that?”

  “They don’t want to blow it up. It’s too old. Your platoon and fifteen of the new men ought to be enough. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mahoney picked fifteen of the new men and assigned them to the squads of his platoon, nearly bringing it up to full strength again. Cranepool still was leader of the first squad, Private, First Class Stafford became leader of the second, Pulaski replaced Butsko as leader of the third, and Private, First Class Croom was named leader of the fourth.

  “Let’s go,” said Mahoney.

  They stepped on to the sidewalk, bandoliers of ammunition hanging from their shoulders and hand grenades in their pockets. They were not under fire until they turned the first corner and looked down a wide avenue to the church at its end, about four hundred yards down the street. The street was clogged with tanks, and men fired at the church from doorways and windows. It was an old Gothic church with tall spires and flying buttresses, decorated with gargoyles. Puffs of smoke emitted from the belfry where German snipers were firing at American soldiers.

  Mahoney deployed his men in doorways and behind tanks as he tried to figure out a plan of action. Somehow he and his men would have to get inside the church, and the only way to do that would be to blow some doors down. However, that was probably what the Germans expected, and you don’t want to do what your enemy expects. Mahoney raised his binoculars and gazed at the church through them. There probably was a back door behind the church, but the Germans must have that guarded, also. The only thing to do was to go in through the stained-glass windows, most of which appeared to be blown out. The windows were high off the ground. How could they get through them? Mahoney looked at the tanks. Maybe he could use the tanks for ladders and shelter.

  He left his doorway and trotted to the first tank, banging on the hull with his rifle butt. A head popped out of the turret and asked what Mahoney wanted. Mahoney said he needed to talk to the person in charge of the tanks. A hand came out of the turret and pointed to a tank on the other side of the street.

  Mahoney ran across the street and climbed up on the tank. He bent over the open turret and shouted: “Who’s in charge here!”

  A scowling face beneath a tanker’s helmet appeared in the metallic gloom below. “Who wants to know?”

  “My name’s Master Sergeant Mahoney. I need some tank support because I’ve got to take that church up ahead.”

  The man in the helmet climbed the ladder and looked out of the turret at the church. “We’ve been told not to fire at the church. It’s famous.”

  “You can shoot your machine guns, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, provided we don’t break anything. Our fifty calibers really tear the shit out of things, you know.”

  “Well, basically,” Mahoney said, “we just want to hide behind the tanks until we get to the church, and then we want to climb up and go through the windows. You can do that for us, can’t you?”

  “I suppose,” the man said. “How soon will you be ready to move out?”

  “About five minutes.”

  “That should be enough time.”

  Mahoney returned to his platoon, took them inside a building, and told them what to do. He said that once they got inside the church, they should spread out quickly and kill the Germans. He and Cranepool would take the first squad and get the snipers in the steeple. He told his men that they should be cautious but at the same time move fast. “Any questions?”

  A big man with narrow shoulders and a fat gut raised his hand. “How can we be cautious and go fast at the same time?” he asked in a Southern drawl.

  “What’s your name?” Mahoney asked.

  “Private Cruikshank.”

  “You just go as fast as you can, but watch your ass. You understand that?”

  “I think so, sergeant.”

  There were no more questions. Mahoney led them out into the street and deployed them behind the tanks. He banged on the hull of the tank belonging to the officer in charge, who came up with his brow furrowed.

  “We’re ready to roll,” Mahoney told him.

  “So are we.” The officer spoke into the mouthpiece of his headset. “Move it out!”

  The tanks rumbled down the cobblestone street. Soldiers hiding in doorways watched Mahoney and his men pass. The buildings along the avenue were half destroyed, and the tanks went around huge shell craters. Mahoney looked over the tank at the church up ahead. He could see life-sized statues of the saints around the doors. It really was a beautiful church, but he wondered if it was worth one human life.

  The Germans in the church saw the tanks coming and fired at them and the men hovering behind them. The tanks fired a few bursts from their .50-caliber machine guns, tearing chunks of marble off the building, and Mahoney and his men fired their rifles at the puffs of smoke on the steeple and in the windows. The Germans must know we’re coming, he thought. They’ll fight harder than ever now.

  The tanks drew closer to the church and veered to the right side of it. Mahoney looked up at the steeple and saw objects falling through the air.

  “Hand grenades coming down!” he yelled. “Take cover!”

  The men looked up, and the green ones didn’t know which way to go. Some tried to crawl under the moving tanks, others ran for shelter and were cut down by the snipers. Mahoney stayed close to the tank and tried to get some metal between him and the hand grenades. They exploded in midair, sending shrapnel flying in all directions, ricocheting off the tanks and cutting down a few of the GIs.

  The tanks continued to roll to the side of the church and soon were out of range of the Germans in the steeple, but Germans fired out of the broken stained-glass windows on the side of the church.

  The tanks inched closer to the windows. Mahoney and his men threw grenades through the windows, then climbed on to the tanks and jumped. They burst through the jagged glass openings, covering their faces with their arms, and landing among the pews and granite columns inside the church.

  At first, there was chaos as Germans rushed toward that side of the church and opened fire and the GIs tried to pick them
selves up from the floor. Shattered German bodies lay beneath the windows, the victims of the hand grenades.

  Mahoney, on one knee, hid behind a pew and fired his carbine on automatic at the Germans, his head filled with memories of his Catholic childhood in Hell’s Kitchen and his days as a choirboy at Saint Paul’s. Never had he dreamed that he’d be killing people in a church, but that’s what he was doing.

  A German raised his head behind a pew, and Mahoney simultaneously fired a burst at him, tearing off the top of the German’s head. Another German threw a grenade at Mahoney, who dodged to the side, ran three paces, and dived between two pews. The grenade went off, making the floor quiver and echoing across the vast expanse of the church. Mahoney threw a grenade of his own in the direction from which the German grenade had come and ducked down again. The grenade made a terrific blast, and portions of German bodies were thrown into the air.

  Mahoney saw that his platoon had the Germans outnumbered. “Forward!” he yelled, “keep moving forward!”

  His men crawled through pews and hid behind statues of saints, firing at the Germans who seemed to be withdrawing in the direction of the altar.

  “Stay after them!” Mahoney cried, firing his carbine from behind a pillar that went all the way up to the ceiling of the church. While changing clips in his carbine, he glanced up and saw angels and stars painted on the ceiling. He almost felt like getting down on his knees and saying a Hail Mary and an Our Father because that’s the way churches affected him, but this was no time for foolishness.

  Mahoney and his men kept pressing the Germans, who continued to retreat toward the altar which was huge and magnificent, made of white marble, and showing the crucified Christ surrounded by saints, angels, and crowds of people dressed in the garb of the sixteenth century. Mahoney advanced through a row of pews, turned a corner, and saw a German officer lying on the floor, blood leaking from his stomach and a pistol in his hand, aiming shakily at Mahoney. The officer gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger, and a bullet whistled past Mahoney’s ear. Mahoney aimed down and pulled the trigger of his carbine, spraying the German officer with hot lead and sending him into convulsions.