Bloody Bastogne Page 15

  Mahoney spent the night trudging through the woods, because he was afraid to use the road now that Germans were in the vicinity. He was angry with himself for leaving Bastogne although he kept telling himself that he had no way of knowing that Germans were to the south of the city. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but like many good ideas, it had turned to shit.

  In the dawn, he saw a huge open space ahead of him through the trees and moved toward it cautiously, thinking it was an open field. Instead, it turned out to be a river valley. The water looked deep and fast, and Mahoney didn’t feel like swimming through it in subfreezing weather. He no longer had binoculars, but he knew the general direction of the road and thought he might be able to dash across the bridge if no Germans were around.

  He moved through the woods, and after half an hour he spotted a Bailey bridge over the river. Making his way closer to it, he stopped abruptly when he saw soldiers crawling all over it. He didn’t know whether they were American or German, but assumed they were Americans and were preparing to blow the bridge. Creeping closer, he recognized American uniforms and knew he was safe at last.

  He came out of the woods and walked toward the soldiers, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Some of the soldiers ran toward him and challenged him. He gave them the password he’d learned last night in Bastogne, and they permitted him to continue.

  He walked onto the bridge and saw soldiers setting TNT charges. A lieutenant was on the far side with some sergeants and a map, and Mahoney walked toward him.

  “Sir,” Mahoney said, “I ran into a German patrol on that road last night, and I think it might be a good idea to blow this bridge in a hurry, before they move their main forces into this area.”

  The lieutenant looked at Mahoney suspiciously. Like everyone else on the bridge, he wore the screaming eagle patch on his shoulder. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  Mahoney explained who he was and said he’d been out on patrol when he’d encountered the Germans. He neglected to mention that he was trying to escape to the Third Army in the south.

  “Do you know anything about explosives?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you just volunteered to help out here.”

  Mahoney leaned his rifle against a stack of paratrooper rifles and walked back to the bridge. He saw that the work was only about a quarter done, and pitched in to help, tying packets of TNT to the bridge and running the wires back to where the lieutenant stood with the detonator.

  Some paratroopers ran toward the bridge from the south. “Sir,” one of them yelled, “the Germans are coming!”

  “How many?” the officer called back.

  “An armored column—maybe twenty tanks or more—and some personnel carriers!”

  The lieutenant ran onto the bridge. “Let’s go men—we don’t have much time!”

  Fortunately most of the charges were in place. Mahoney took some of the blasting caps and wire and ran to the far side of the bridge, where he inserted the caps into the bundles of TNT and then hooked up the wires. He worked his way backwards, crawling over the bridge’s girders like a big monkey, while the paratroopers performed the same function on the other side of the bridge.

  Finally, all the caps were set and the wires connected. They ran the wires back to the magneto and tied them in while in the distance they could hear the rumble of the advancing German convoy.

  “Thank God, we did it in time,” the lieutenant said, chewing his lower lip. “Let’s get ready to pull the hell out of here.”

  Mahoney tied the last wire to the terminal post of the magneto, then stood. “Sir,” he said, “why don’t we wait until the German tanks are on the bridge? Then we can destroy a few of them along with it.”

  The lieutenant had a big jowly face. “Too risky,” he said. “I want to blow the bridge and get my men the hell back to Bastogne.”

  “All you need are a couple of men here, sir. The rest can return to Bastogne.”

  “Are you volunteering, Sergeant?”

  “Why not? Are you?”

  The officer turned red because he didn’t expect Mahoney to turn it around on him. He was in a corner, and all he could say was, “Sure.”

  The officer told one of his sergeants to take the rest of the men back to Bastogne, and he and Mahoney would catch up with them later on the road. The sergeant lined up the men and told them to load into the deuce and a half truck that had brought them to the bridge. A jeep was left behind for Mahoney, the lieutenant, whose name was Zowski, and Zowski’s driver, Pfc Manuel Arruda from Gloucester, Massachusetts. The deuce and a half sped away.

  Mahoney, Zowski, and Arruda moved into some trees nearby, taking the detonator and a box containing four bunches of TNT sticks that hadn’t been used. Just as they were getting into position, the German armored column came around the bend three hundred yards away and thundered toward the bridge, its tracks kicking up clods of ice and snow.

  “Here they come,” said Zowski, peering at them through his binoculars.

  Mahoney clutched the detonator in his left hand and its handle in his right. He could make out the figures of the tank commanders standing in the turrets of their white tanks. They approached the bridge, and Mahoney held the detonator more tightly.

  “Get ready,” said Zowski.

  The first tank rolled onto the bridge, followed by the second and then the third. The entire bridge could only hold four tanks at a time, and as soon as the fourth one was aboard, Zowski shouted, “NOW!”

  Mahoney twisted the handle.

  And nothing happened.

  Mahoney twisted it again, and still the bridge didn’t blow. The first tank rolled off the bridge to the near side.

  “WHAT THE HELL’S THE PROBLEM!” Zowski screamed.

  Mahoney twisted the handle again, but still the TNT didn’t go off. Sweat appeared on his forehead although the temperature was twenty-eight degrees. A second tank rolled off the near side of the bridge.

  Mahoney uttered a prayer and twisted again. The wires crackled with electricity, and there was an earsplitting explosion as the bridge disappeared in a huge cloud of smoke. The fierce wind blew the smoke away quickly, revealing no more bridge. The tanks that had been on it had fallen into the river below, and the water was so deep they couldn’t be seen.

  The commander of the second tank that made it across the bridge had been hit in the back by a chunk of shrapnel and lay dead or wounded in his turret. His crew pulled him into the tank and closed the hatch. The commander of the first tank had already disappeared, and his turret was moving to the side, trying to get a view of what had happened.

  Mahoney pulled a bunch of TNT sticks from the box and lit the fuse with a match.

  “What the hell are you going to do!” screamed Zowski, looking at the burning fuse with horror.

  “We gotta get those tanks before they get us!”

  Mahoney stuffed another bunch of TNT sticks into his field jacket pocket, then leapt up and ran toward the lead tank, the TNT with the burning fuse in his hand and his arm cocked back. Somebody in the first tank must have seen him because the cannon and turret swung suddenly in his direction.

  Mahoney hurled the TNT high into the air and dove into the snow. The TNT with its burning fuse fell onto the turret of the tank, rolled to its front deck, and dropped onto the ground, Mahoney took the second bunch of TNT out of his pocket and lit the fuse. It sizzled, and he gritted his teeth as he pulled his arm and prepared to throw it.

  Just then the first bunch of TNT exploded. It had been on the ground in front of the first tank, and it blew the tank fifteen feet into the air, ripping apart its hull and incinerating everybody inside. Mahoney ducked, then lit the second fuse and threw the TNT at the other tank.

  As soon as the TNT left his hand, machine gun bullets kicked up snow in front of him. He kept his head low and wished a brick wall was in front of him. The second bunch of TNT sticks landed a few yards from the tank that was firing its two machine guns
at Mahoney. The turret of the tank opened suddenly, and one of the crew members pulled himself out. Mahoney realized the German was trying to throw the TNT away before it exploded.

  A single shot was fired from the direction of the woods, and the tanker froze for a few seconds, then sagged to the side. The TNT exploded and once again the valley was filled with thunder and smoke as the tank’s side was split open and broken apart.

  Mahoney was on his feet and running before all the debris had hit the ground. German tanks on the far side of the river fired their machine guns at him, and the bullets sounded like angry gnats around his ears. He dived into the bushes and landed a few feet from Zowski.

  “LET’S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Mahoney yelled.

  Mahoney picked up his rifle, and they all ran to the jeep. Pfc Arruda started the engine, and the jeep spun its wheels on the snow, then bolted out of the woods and headed for the road. German machine gun bullets cracked over their heads, and an artillery shell from a tank landed a hundred yards away.

  “GO!” yelled Mahoney, holding his helmet onto his head.

  Arruda turned left when he reached the road and stomped the accelerator onto the floor. A curve in the road was fifty yards in front of them, and if they could get around it, they’d be safe. The German tankers fired more shells and machine gun bullets, but the little jeep was too fast for them, and it scooted behind the hill.

  Mahoney took a deep breath. “We made it,” he sighed, as the jeep careened down the road to Bastogne.

  Zowski slapped Mahoney on the shoulder. “You’re a helluva guy!” he said. “I’ll have to put you in for a medal when we get back.”

  “I’d settle for a good cigar. You wouldn’t happen to have one on you by any chance, would you?”

  “Wouldn’t I?” Zowski unzipped his field jacket, reached inside, and produced three cigars. He passed them out, lit them with his lighter, and they all puffed happily as they sped toward Bastogne.

  ~*~

  General Bradley entered General Eisenhower’s office at Versailles. Ike looked up from the map table, his eyes bleary from insufficient sleep. Bradley saluted and approached the map table.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Ike nodded. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Brad. The German advance is continuing unabated, and it seems to me that you’re getting cut off from your two armies in the north. Therefore, I’ve decided to appoint General Montgomery as temporary commander of those troops until this mess is cleared up.”

  Bradley looked at the map and swallowed. “But you’re taking away half of my command, sir.”

  “It has to be done, Brad. I don’t see how you can command them effectively from here. It’s no reflection on your abilities.” Ike pointed to the map. “It’s just that we’ve got this goddamned German bulge in our territory, and we’ve got to get rid of it in the best way that we can.”

  Bradley felt a flare of anger and thought he ought to resign on the spot, but realized he was only a soldier and had to obey orders just like everybody else.

  “Yes, sir,” he said in as strong a voice as he could muster.

  ~*~

  Nobody at General McAuliffe’s headquarters knew who Mahoney was, so he had to bully and bluff his way upstairs to the conference room where McAuliffe was having a meeting with his top commanders and aides.

  They discussed the immediate formation of a special combat team consisting of eight tanks that could be rushed quickly to any threatened sector of the city. Then they thought they should organize a few more mobile emergency teams in case the Germans attacked at more than one point at the same time.

  McAuliffe happened to look up and found himself looking at Mahoney. At first he didn’t know who he was but then remembered.

  “Where the hell have you been?” McAuliffe asked.

  “Well,” replied Mahoney, “I took a little patrol south to see what was there, and this is what I found.” He tossed the German epaulette in front of McAuliffe, who picked it up and examined it in the light.

  “This looks like the unit designation of the Gross Deutschland Division,” McAuliffe said. “Last thing I heard, they were fighting in Russia.”

  Mahoney nodded. “We’re fighting units that aren’t even supposed to be here.”

  McAuliffe passed the epaulette to his G-2 officer. “Pass this information along to Corps if you can get through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McAuliffe was about to congratulate Mahoney when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” said McAuliffe.

  A captain entered the conference room and saluted. “Sir, we’ve got four German officers outside who’re carrying a truce flag. They’ve brought a note for you from their commander.”

  The captain handed the note to McAuliffe, who read it quickly.

  “Nuts,” he said, throwing the note onto the table.

  “What did it say, sir?” asked one of the aides.

  “It says that they’ve got us surrounded, and they’re offering us the opportunity to surrender.” McAuliffe looked at the captain. “Escort them back to wherever they came from.”

  “They said they need a written reply, sir.”

  “I don’t care what they need.”

  “Sir,” said the captain, “they’ve delivered a bona fide military communication, and I think that under the commonly observed rules of war they’re entitled to a written answer.”

  McAuliffe looked annoyed. “Well, what should I tell them?”

  “Tell them to go fuck themselves,” Mahoney said.

  “That’s no good,” said an aide.

  “What about your first remark?” asked the captain.

  “What remark was that?” said McAuliffe.

  “Nuts.”

  McAuliffe shrugged and bent over the map table. He picked up a pencil, wrote nuts at the bottom of the surrender request, and signed his name.

  “Here you go,” he said to the captain, handing him the piece of paper.

  ~*~

  After the meeting, Mahoney slipped out of the headquarters building and set off in search of Madeleine. He stopped a civilian in the street, asked him where the civilian hospital was, and received directions.

  Mahoney made his way across battle torn Bastogne. Enemy artillery bombardments and air attacks had destroyed numerous buildings, transforming them into flat, empty lots. Other buildings had only a wall or two standing. Paratroopers double-timed through the streets, moving from one trouble spot to another, and the air was filled with the sounds of artillery explosions and small arms fire. Many buildings and piles of rubble were burning, and the stench was terrible. Mahoney thought Bastogne was the closest thing to hell he’d ever seen.

  Finally he came to the hospital, and some of its walls had been damaged by shell bursts. He went inside and stepped over civilians lying in the reception area and the corridors. The air was heavy with the smell of chemicals and rotting flesh. Nobody stopped him, so he walked down a corridor and into a ward, where beds were crammed together and wounded people moaned pathetically.

  “May I help you?” asked an elderly nurse.

  “I’m looking for a civilian woman who’s working here,” Mahoney replied. “Her name is Madeleine.”

  “Madeleine what?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Madeleine,” the nurse said. “Perhaps you should check with the main office.”

  “Where’s that?”

  The nurse told him how to get to the office, and Mahoney headed in that direction, elated to think he was getting closer to Madeleine. He admitted to himself that she’d probably forgotten him by now because she met so many men, but something made him believe that she remembered him and would be happy to see him again.

  He found the office and asked Madeleine’s whereabouts. An elderly male clerk told him the number of the ward she worked in, and he said her last name was Devereaux.

  Lizards crawled through Mahoney’s stomach as
he hurried to the ward where she worked. He worried that maybe Madeleine Devereaux wasn’t the Madeleine that he was looking for, but he clicked his teeth together and stepped swiftly as he moved along.

  The ward was filled with injured children, and they looked at Mahoney with big, sad eyes that asked, Why is this happening to us? Mahoney became overwhelmed by melancholy as he gazed at them. He had accepted the war as a fact of his life, and it had become almost ordinary to him, but now, in a room full of injured children, old, forgotten attitudes emerged though the layers of personality, and he realized that war was beastly and unnatural, and that it accomplished nothing except the widespread dissemination of misery.

  Mahoney noticed a chubby woman with enormous breasts who was arranging the covers on a little boy. She wore a civilian dress, and Mahoney walked toward her. She looked up as he approached.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m looking for Madeleine Devereaux,” Mahoney said.

  “She’s sleeping right now.”

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  “She’s sleeping in the basement, but you shouldn’t disturb her because she was up for over twenty-four hours straight before she went to bed. She needs to rest.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mahoney said, embarrassed that he’d come to the hospital to make love to a woman who was pushing herself to the limits of human endurance taking care of little children. “But just tell me something, so that I’ll know if she’s the Madeleine I’m looking for. Is she about this big,” Mahoney held out the palm of his hand at her height, “with brown hair, brown eyes, and very pretty?”

  The woman smiled. “That’s her. Would you like me to give her a message for you?”

  “Yes, if you would.”

  Mahoney racked his brain for an appropriate message, but everything he thought of seemed corny and ridiculous.

  “Never mind,” Mahoney said. “I’ll come back some other time.”

  “Shall I tell her your name?”

  “Mahoney,” he replied.

  He turned to walk away, and saw two big eyes staring at him. They stopped him cold.

  “Can this kid eat candy?” Mahoney asked.

  “Yes, he can.”