Hell Harbor Page 14

  Nobody raised his hand.

  “Good,” said Colonel Kersey. “All right, let’s bring something into the open right now. This is going to be an extremely dangerous mission and the chances of survival aren’t especially good. Yet the mission is crucial to the further conduct of this war. If you’re successful, you will save thousands and maybe even hundreds of thousands of lives. But I can’t order you to go on a mission of this nature. You must volunteer for it. Therefore, if any of you don’t wish to go on this mission, please step forward and leave the tent. The rest of us will understand, because a mission of this nature requires a degree of gallantry that is far above the ordinary call of duty. Anybody wish to leave?”

  Nobody moved a muscle, although Mahoney figured every one of them would want to run out of that tent. He thought that the mission was suicide and probably impossible to carry out. Yet any man who left the tent would be branded a coward and a scumbag, and the word would spread throughout the Twenty-Third Rangers. The man would be treated like shit for the rest of his military career. Colonel Kersey knew that, and that was the reason he didn’t speak to each man individually, providing the chance to bug out legitimately. He spoke to them collectively to make sure none of them would dare. So now it appeared as though they all had volunteered, although each of them would rather be back in his pup tent, dreaming of Mom’s apple pie and the girls they’d left behind.

  “Good,” said Colonel Kersey with a smile, holding his hands behind his waist. “Superior.”

  Mahoney looked at Cranepool, and Cranepool looked at Mahoney. Their faces betrayed no expression, but their eyes said that the shit really was going to hit the fan this time.

  Colonel Kersey walked down the rank of soldiers, shaking hands with each of them and wishing them luck. Lastly he came to Bulldog Boynton, and shook his hand firmly.

  “Good luck, Bulldog,” Kersey said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I know you can do it.”

  “We’ll do our best, sir.”

  “Your best should be better than anything the Germans can do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When do you think you’ll be ready to jump off?”

  “As soon as the clothes get here.”

  “They should be here within the hour.”

  “We’ll leave fifteen minutes after that.”

  “Carry on, Captain Boynton.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bulldog saluted Colonel Kersey, and Colonel Kersey returned the salute. Then Colonel Kersey made a smart face and marched out of the tent. The soldiers stood at attention as they heard a jeep’s engine start up outside the tent. The jeep shifted into gear and rolled away.

  “At ease,” Bulldog said.

  The soldiers in the tent went limp.

  “Come on over to the map,” Bulldog said. “I want each one of you to memorize every detail on it, because you don’t want to get caught carrying a map with you, got it?”

  They crowded around the map and worked to memorize it although they’d just been awakened after sleeping for only a few hours, and they’d spent the previous day fighting for their lives. Mahoney didn’t like the looks of the mission. He thought about maybe going AWOL in Cherbourg, and then when the American troops showed up, he’d simply say that he’d been captured and just escaped. It wouldn’t be hard to do, and it’d be safer than trying to break into that fortress with eleven other assholes.

  There was just one problem. Colonel Kersey had said that thousands and maybe hundreds of thousands of American lives would be saved if the mission was a success. Would it be worth risking his life to save those other Americans? Mahoney didn’t know yet. He decided to make up his mind once he got to Cherbourg, if he ever made it that far.

  “Anybody got any questions?” Bulldog Boynton asked.

  Corporal Dill from the Third Platoon snorted. “This mission is for shit,” he said.

  “I know it’s for shit, but we’ve got to do it,” Boynton snapped. “Anybody got anything intelligent to say?”

  Nobody opened his mouth.

  Boynton looked around at them. “I don’t like this any better than you do, but it’s got to be done. Okay, I’ll break you down into teams, and like Colonel Kersey said, we’ll split up and rendezvous at the Fleur-de-Lis Cafe on Rue Garonne.” He pointed his finger to the map. “That’s right here.”

  They all looked at the location of the cafe, and then Boynton started pairing them off. Finally he came to Mahoney and Cranepool.

  “I’m going with you two,” he said. “We’ll comprise the command section, understand?”

  “I understand,” Mahoney said, wondering how he was going to shake Boynton when it was time to go AWOL in Cherbourg.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was three o’clock in the morning. Mahoney, Cranepool, and Bulldog Boynton walked down a deserted country road toward the city of Cherbourg. The rain had stopped but the road wasn’t paved and had become a sea of mud. Every time they brought their feet down they went in up to their ankles, but all were wearing combat boots underneath their French civilian clothes. They could hear fierce fighting not far away, because elements of the VII Corps had launched a night attack against the Germans and were making good progress.

  Mahoney, Cranepool, and Bulldog Boynton were on the right flank of the battle line. Their first big job would be to break through the fighting and get behind German lines. It would be an extremely dangerous procedure, but they couldn’t be parachuted in because the Germans had been pushed back to a small area and there were no desolate places left to drop thirteen American Rangers. It would have been possible to leave them behind enemy lines via a submarine, but it would take days to effect the liaison with the Navy and make all the arrangements, and there wasn’t enough time. So the thirteen Rangers had to go in on foot and hope for the best.

  Mahoney smoked a cigarette and was disgruntled as he trudged through the mud. He was wearing dark slacks, a blue jacket with the collar up, and a gray cap with a peak in front. Cranepool had on a suit with shirt and tie, plus a natty wide-brimmed fedora. Bulldog Boynton wore a raincoat too long for him, and a black beret. We look like three shit heels, Mahoney thought. If the Germans see us they’ll throw us right in the clink.

  Each of them was armed with a Colt .45, and each had hand grenades in their pockets. Before leaving the Twenty-Third Rangers, they’d decided they’d rather be armed and take the chance of being searched, than be unarmed and take the chance of being shot without having the chance to fight back.

  They heard rumbling behind them, and turned around. Coming up the road was a column of tanks and armored personnel carriers, headed for the front. The three Rangers got out of the road and let the column pass, and Mahoney wished he were one of the soldiers in that column, because the soldiers were on an ordinary reasonable mission, and not a suicide mission.

  “Wonder what they’re doing here?” Boynton asked after the column had passed.

  “They must be on their way to Cherbourg,” Mahoney replied.

  “I know, but I didn’t think there’d be much fighting on this end of the line.”

  “Guess there will be.”

  Cranepool cleared his throat, preparing to throw in his two cents. “Maybe they’re trying to break through in this sector.”

  Bulldog Boynton looked disgustedly at him. “With only one armored column?”

  “Well,” Cranepool said, “the German line is supposed to be stretched awfully thin in this sector. That’s why we’re going through here, right?”

  “It’s probably just doing a little reconnaissance,” Mahoney said. “Or it might be here to slow down the Germans if they try a surprise attack through this flank. Who in the fuck cares what they’re doing here anyway? It doesn’t mean shit to us.”

  Boynton looked at Mahoney. “You sound like you got a bug up your ass.”

  “I’m sick of this fucking Army, Boynton.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “I think when this war is
over, I’m getting out.”

  “You couldn’t make it on the outside, Mahoney. You’ve found a home in the Army.”

  “Fuck the Army. I’ve had it. As soon as I can, I’m getting out.”

  Cranepool cleared his throat again, because he wanted to participate in the conversation and show that he was an adult soldier too. “I’m gonna put in for Officer Candidate School as soon as I have a chance.”

  “You are?” Mahoney asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’ll be a sorry day for this Army when kids like you become officers.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you’re just a fucking kid and you’re too young to be an officer.”

  “Lieutenant Russo’s an officer, and he’s only two years older than me.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve never seen a worse asshole in my life, except for Colonel Kersey. Those sons-of-bitches are just playing at war, while guys like us have to fight it.”

  Bulldog Boynton reached into his raincoat pocket and took out his flask. “I think Cranepool would make a fine officer in a few years,” he said, unscrewing the cap.

  “A few years?” Cranepool asked. “Why so long? Why not now?”

  “You need more experience.”

  “I got more experience than Lieutenant Russo!”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, if he can be an officer, why can’t I?”

  Boynton took a swig of bourbon and looked sideways at Cranepool. “I shouldn’t tell you this, Cranepool, but you ought to know it. The officers we’re getting these days aren’t worth a fuck. They’re training ’em too fast and filling them full of useless bullshit. But if you want to go to OCS, I’ll sign the papers when we get back. Okay?”

  “That’d be swell, sir.”

  Mahoney harumphed. “Swell for who? It certainly won’t be swell for the guys who have to serve under you.”

  “You’re wrong, Sarge,” Cranepool said. “I’ve been an enlisted man myself so I’ll know how to treat enlisted men. You might even serve under me, someday. Won’t that be a laugh?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be laughing very much,” Mahoney said.

  Boynton snorted. “Oh, it might be pretty damned funny, you might be surprised.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Mahoney said. He looked at Cranepool. “You’d better stop dreaming about being an officer and keep your mind on what’s going on right now, got it?”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  They continued walking down the lonely country road. After a while they saw the tracks of the armored column veer off into a field toward the center of Cherbourg. Mahoney wondered if the column had been lost or if it was on some kind of complicated tricky maneuver devised by a general who had his head up his ass. Mahoney had a deep and powerful loathing for high-ranking officers, and did not want young Cranepool to turn out that way, because he had the makings in him of a good NCO.

  The din of battle was intense toward their left, but straight ahead there wasn’t anything going on. If the Germans had more men and tanks they could scoot through here and envelop the Americans, but they didn’t have more men and tanks. They were outnumbered and slowly being whipped. They couldn’t escape in this direction because they were too heavily engaged in the center of the line. The VII Corps would stay on their asses and mash them into the mud.

  The road entered some woods. Mahoney could smell salt air and realized that Cherbourg and the ocean couldn’t be very far away. He lit another cigarette and decided it would be his last one, because they were getting close to the enemy lines. Boynton took out his flask and had another swig of bourbon. Cranepool looked at the patches of starry clouds visible through the clouds and wondered what it was like to be a pilot in the Air Corps.

  “HALT!” said a voice in front of them.

  The three Rangers halted.

  “Who goes there!” asked the voice, which was coming from behind some trees.

  “Captain Boynton of the Twenty-Third Rangers and two of my men!”

  “Advance to be recognized!”

  Boynton, Mahoney and Cranepool looked at each other, then shuffled toward the direction of the voice.

  “Halt!” said the voice.

  The three Rangers halted.

  “Betty,” said the voice, giving the first half of the night’s password.

  “Grable,” replied Bulldog Boynton.

  “Pass on,” said the soldier, who came from behind the tree, grinning proudly because he’d done the whole thing right. Another soldier came from behind another tree, also quite pleased with the performance.

  Bulldog Boynton walked up to them. “How far away are the Germans supposed to be?”

  “Not far,” said the soldier.

  “How far’s not far supposed to be?”

  “Couple of miles I reckon. How come you’re dressed in civilian clothes, sir, if you don’t mind me askin’.”

  “I mind,” Boynton said gruffly. “Return to your post.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three Rangers continued to walk down the road. They passed the pup tents and trenches of the American soldiers who were supposed to hold the road in case of an enemy attack. Some of the soldiers were manning machine-gun nests and antitank guns. It wasn’t much of a defense but probably all that was required in view of the circumstances.

  They passed through the American defenses and entered no-man’s-land. It was peaceful and quiet, and the countryside smelled like an ordinary summer night after a heavy rainfall. On either side of the road were rolling fields punctuated by small islands of forests.

  “I think it’s time we got off the road,” Boynton said.

  He led them onto the shoulder on the right side of the road, and then into the grassy field. It was like stepping through a big wet sponge, but Mahoney’s feet had been wet for hours now. Sooner or later he’d have to find dry socks and put them on, otherwise he’d get the dreaded trench foot, which immobilized so many soldiers.

  They moved across the field, hugged the edge of a wooded area, and then made their way across another field. Boynton was in the center, six feet from Mahoney and Cranepool. Boynton took a swig of bourbon and Mahoney wished he could smoke a cigarette. Cranepool thought how nice it would be to fly a nice dry airplane above the battlefield, shoot down a few German Messerschmitts, and then land in a field somewhere far behind the lines, where there were clean beds, PXs, and places where you could meet girls.

  The sound of a loud metallic clank issued from a wooded area straight ahead, and they all dropped to their stomachs. The filthy water in the field seeped through their clothing, and Mahoney cursed under his breath. They heard another metallic sound, and then some laughter. A man called someone else a fool in German.

  “Krauts,” Mahoney said softly.

  “I wonder how many?” Boynton asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out. One of us will have to go and have a look-see.”

  “You just volunteered. Go ahead.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Mahoney mumbled as he commenced crawling across the field. He had seventy five yards to go before he hit the woods, and was glad it was a dark and moonless night, otherwise his silhouette might show up against the grass, and he might become the target for a German sharpshooter. Using his knees and elbows for locomotion, he made his way across the wet grass. He cursed the Army, the war, Bulldog Boynton, and Colonel Kersey. He wished he had a cigar and he’d like to go to sleep in a warm dry bed. He wondered what Shirley was doing just then, and hoped she wasn’t screwing another guy.

  He reached the edge of the woods and lay still in the darkness under some bushes. The Germans were talking in low voices about the war and what it would take to make them surrender. Mahoney knew that German defenses were light at this point in the line, and wouldn’t be surprised if these Germans were the only ones in the area. But there was only one way to find that out. He’d have to crawl closer and see.

  Slowly and silently, he crawled into the woo
ds, pausing every few feet to listen to the Germans. They didn’t appear to be aware of his presence, so he continued forward, afraid to breathe too heavily for fear that they’d hear him. It was slow going, but it was better to be slow than dead. Finally he parted a few clumps of leaves in front of his eyes and saw in the darkness a huge ominous-looking tank parked in a clearing, and beside it were three German soldiers, talking and eating food out of cans. They didn’t even have a guard posted, or did they? Surely they must have someone looking out for them. But where was he? Mahoney couldn’t see or hear him. He could wait until the three Germans said something to him and he responded, but that might take more time than he had to spend. He decided to return to Captain Boynton and tell him what he’d seen. Let old Bulldog make the decision—he was the senior man on the mission.

  Mahoney turned around carefully. He crawled out of the woods even more slowly than he’d crawled in, taking it an inch at a time. At the edge of the woods he rested for a few minutes, then crawled into the field again, knowing he’d be an easy target for that guard if the moon was out, but the moon wasn’t out, thank God.

  A half-hour had passed between the time he’d left Bulldog Boynton and the time he returned.

  “What in the fuck took you so long?” Bulldog asked as Mahoney crept to within whispering range of Boynton and Cranepool.

  “There’s a tank in there with three German soldiers having dinner,” Mahoney replied, “plus I think they have a guard out but I didn’t see him.”

  “What kind of tank?”

  “I don’t know, I couldn’t see too clearly.”

  “You see anything else?”