Doom River Page 16

  Sure enough, there were several tanks moving through the German skirmish line.

  “Get out of here!” Mahoney yelled.

  They crowded to the little exit and ran out one by one. Cranepool was the next to last man to go and finally Mahoney ran out of the bunker.

  “Stay away from roads!” Mahoney yelled.

  The first platoon fell back from its position and joined together in a long, ragged skirmish line, firing from behind rubble and walls at the German soldiers. The tanks fired their cannons and one shell hit the first-squad bunker, blowing it to smithereens. Another tank fired at the second-squad cellar, but missed. The tanks came to the edge of the town where they had to stop because they couldn’t go through the walls and debris. But the German soldiers kept coming, flooding into the town. The tanks moved toward the left in search of a road.

  We can’t let those tanks get behind us, Mahoney thought. We’ve got to move fast.

  “Move!” he yelled. “Let’s fucking go!”

  He paused to fire a quick shot, then fell back. He came to a wall, fired again, and then ran back a few more paces to another wall, where he fired once more.

  “Keep firing as you go!” he yelled. “Keep the cocksuckers off us.”

  Mahoney looked to his sides and saw the third and the second platoons. The company was finally coming together, and that was a good thing because then they could lay down a more concentrated base of fire. Slowly they retreated, firing at the Germans as they did so. The Germans now advanced more slowly because they didn’t know what they were getting into. They didn’t know exactly how many Americans were in the town or where they were, and they didn’t want to move too quickly and leave themselves open to flank attacks.

  Mahoney leaned around a wall and fired at a German soldier, whose knees buckled beneath him. He fired at another German, who dropped behind some rubble. Mahoney fell back several more paces and fired again. Then he dropped back again and fired another shot. Glancing around, he saw Cranepool not far away. The kid appeared calm and collected, squeezing off his rounds and then retreating.

  Private Hammill screamed and fell to the ground. Grossberger, the medic, ran to him; Hammill was shot through the stomach. Grossberger didn’t know what to do, for there was no way to evacuate him. He gave Hammill a shot of morphine to kill the pain, and then ran to Mahoney, who was huddling behind the bottom half of the wall.

  “Sarge!” Grossberger said. “Hammill’s been hit and he needs a doctor.”

  “I guess it’s tough shit for Hammill, then,” Mahoney replied.

  “But we can’t leave him like this!”

  “You wanna bet?” Mahoney squeezed off a round, and a German soldier pitched forward onto his face. There were so many Germans swarming around it was hard to miss them.

  “But Sarge!” Grossberger protested.

  Mahoney glared at him. “If people can’t move, we’ll have to leave them behind. That’s all there is to it.”

  A German bullet hit the wall as Mahoney was looking around it, and tiny splinters of brick ripped into his cheek. He flinched and pulled back, four dots of blood on his face.

  “I can bandage the cuts, Sarge,” Grossberger said, reaching into his medical bag.

  “Get the fuck away from me.” Mahoney fired another round, and another German fell to the ground.

  “I can’t leave Hammill,” Grossberger said, his lips trembling. “I just can’t.”

  “Well, I can. Where the fuck is he?”

  Grossberger pointed. “Over there.”

  Mahoney looked at Grossberger. “If you go near him again I’ll kill you!”

  “But Sarge ...”

  “You heard me!”

  Mahoney dashed from behind the wall and ran toward Hammill. He stumbled on some rubble, fell, got up again, and continued running as bullets zipped all around him. Finally he spotted Hammill lying on his back on the ground. Mahoney stopped next to him and kneeled down.

  Blood welled out of Hammill’s stomach, but he had a smile on his face because the morphine had taken hold. He recognized Mahoney and said huskily: “Hiya, Sarge.”

  “Listen, kid,” Mahoney said, “I got bad news. We can’t take you with us.”

  Hammill swallowed hard. “It’s okay, Sarge.”

  Mahoney took Hammill’s hand and squeezed it. “The Krauts’ll pick you up, kid. Be tough. Good luck.”

  Hammill closed his eyes, and a tear rolled out. “I’ll be okay, Sarge.”

  “Don’t let me down, now.”

  “I won’t.”

  “See you around.”

  A bullet slammed into the ground only inches from Mahoney’s knee. He looked around and saw that the bulk of the company had fallen back behind him. Picking his M-1 rifle off the ground, he ran back in a zigzag pattern, his feet splashing through puddles, the rain washing his face. Spotting Cranepool, he headed toward him. Vaulting over some bricks, he fell to the ground beside Cranepool, who rested his carbine on the bricks and squeezed off round after round.

  “Hiya, kid,” Mahoney said.

  “Hiya, Sarge.” Cranepool didn’t look at his friend; he just kept squeezing off rounds.

  Mahoney placed his M-1 atop the bricks and fired at a German in the distance. The German fell back out of sight, and as the shell ejected from Mahoney’s M-l the empty clip flew up in the air. Mahoney fed a fresh clip in and slammed the bolt home. He raised the butt to his shoulder, took aim again, and killed another German.

  The Germans were still advancing steadily but being cautious. Mahoney hoped they didn’t find out they only had to deal with the small group of Americans in front of them. Mahoney was aware that the G.l.s were spitting out a lot of lead and the Germans could be misled into thinking there were more G.l.s than there actually were.

  “Anybody seen my runner?” Mahoney asked.

  “Nope,” said Cranepool.

  “DiMeola!” Mahoney screamed.

  “Here I am, Sarge!” said a voice off to the right.

  “Get the fuck over here!”

  “I can’t!”

  Mahoney chewed his cigar stub. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered. “Keep your head down, Cranepool.”

  “You too, Sarge.”

  Mahoney ran off in the direction of DiMeola’s voice. He stepped into a puddle that he thought was only a few inches deep, but it turned out to be a really big hole and he sank in up to his knee, twisting his ankle.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed.

  When he pulled his foot out of the puddle, his ankle hurt like hell.

  “This is all I need!” he said angrily to the wind and rain. He put a little weight on the foot, and little stabs of pain struck the ankle. “Son-of-a-bitch bastard!”

  DiMeola poked up his head nearby. “You call me, Sarge?”

  Mahoney wanted to gouge out DiMeola’s eyes. If DiMeola had come when he called, this accident wouldn’t have happened. He ran limping toward DiMeola, who was hiding behind some debris.

  “What happened to your foot, Sarge?” DiMeola asked, while firing a shot at the Germans.

  Mahoney stared at DiMeola with wild fury. He wanted to rip his head off his shoulders. Bullets ricocheted off the debris and kicked up water in puddles.

  “Did I do something wrong, Sarge?” DiMeola asked, cringing.

  “Gimme the fucking walkie-talkie, you asshole!”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  DiMeola handed over the walkie-talkie and Mahoney held it to his face. He was about to press the button and call Captain Anderson when his amazed eyes saw Anderson running toward him through the rain. Anderson was followed by Private Pembroke and a mongrel dog. Mahoney waved toward Anderson, who dodged bullets and kept driving. Finally he reached Mahoney and dropped behind the debris. Pembroke got down behind him, and the dog looked at all of them wagging its tail.

  “I’ve been trying to raise you, Mahoney,” Anderson said, “and I couldn’t get through. What’s going on?”

  Mahoney wheezed. “We’re in tro
uble, sir.”

  “I can see that. We’re all in trouble. Why haven’t you answered your radio?”

  Mahoney looked at DiMeola. “Why haven’t you answered the radio?”

  “Because I couldn’t listen to it and shoot at the same time.” DiMeola was terrified.

  “Don’t worry about shooting,” Mahoney said. “You can’t hit anything anyway. Just pay attention to your radio. That’s your job.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  “And stay close to me. What the fuck happened to you?”

  “I don’t know, Sarge. I looked up somewhere back there and you were gone.”

  “Keep your fucking eyes open and wake up!”

  “Hup, Sarge,” DiMeola said sheepishly.

  Mahoney turned to Anderson. “We’re in bad trouble, sir.”

  As the last word left his mouth, a big bullet ricocheted off the top of the debris pile.

  Everybody ducked. Anderson bit his lower lip. He had a growth of reddish beard and his face was streaked with grime. His eyes looked like little round road maps.

  “We’ll get out of here somehow, Sergeant. Just keep pulling back and try to keep your line reasonably straight. Try to stay linked up with the third and second platoons. We can make it if we stay together and move as quickly as we can.” He slapped Mahoney on the shoulder. “Good luck, and stay on the walkie-talkie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go, Pembroke.”

  Anderson and Pembroke hunched off into the night.

  Mahoney turned to DiMeola. “You’d better not fuck up again.”

  “Okay, Sarge.” DiMeola held the walkie-talkie to his face.

  “And stay close.”

  “But sometimes it’s hard to listen to the radio and see where I’m going at the same time.”

  Mahoney grabbed the front of DiMeola’s jacket. “You’d better learn fast, you little asshole.”

  Somebody hollered nearby. Mahoney looked and saw a soldier writhing on the ground. The voice sounded like Sergeant Cooley of the third squad. Mahoney heard the clip-clop of running feet and saw Pfc. Grossberger running through the ruined town, his medicine bag flopping at his side. He dropped to his knees beside the squirming Cooley.

  “Stop the pain!” shrieked Cooley. “Stop the pain!”

  Because Cooley sounded as though he was in terrible agony, Mahoney figured he’d better take a good look at him; he might have to appoint a new leader for the third squad.

  “Let’s go,” Mahoney muttered to DiMeola.

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Crouching low and favoring his twisted ankle, Mahoney made his way to the spot where Sergeant Cooley lay. Grossberger was jabbing a needle into the sergeant’s arm, but Cooley’s chest was a mass of blood. Mahoney could see what looked like pieces of wood in Cooley’s chest, and knew they were Cooley’s ribs. He figured Cooley was as good as dead. Grossberger shook his head slowly from side to side to indicate agreement.

  The morphine went to work on Cooley, and he relaxed. Grossberger examined the massive wound in the sergeant’s chest and knew there was nothing to be done.

  “I’m dying,” Cooley whispered.

  Grossberger held Cooley’s hand. “Take it easy, Sarge.”

  Cooley opened his mouth wide and blood foamed out. “Oh, God, I’m dying without a priest.”

  “I’m a Catholic,” Mahoney said.

  Cooley became delirious. He whimpered and his eyes rolled into his head.

  “Bless me, Father,” he whispered.

  Mahoney made the sign of the cross on Cooley’s forehead. “In the name of the Father and His Son and the Holy Ghost, may the Lord bless you and give you peace.”

  Cooley went slack on the ground. Grossberger felt for his pulse.

  “He’s dead,” Grossberger said.

  “I guess that’s another one,” Mahoney replied. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  They ran back to the retreating line. The wall of a ruined building stood up in the air like a ragged tooth, and they all went behind it. Mahoney got down on one knee, leaned around the side, spotted a German in the distance, and pulled the trigger of the M-l. It kicked into his shoulder and the German went down. Mahoney took aim at another.

  “Medic!” somebody yelled.

  Grossberger ran off to attend the wounded man. Mahoney steadied his aim and pulled the trigger again. The rifle fired and a German ducked; Mahoney had missed him. He fired at another German and missed him, too. He brought the next German down. An enemy bullet splintered the stone near Mahoney’s face and he pulled back quickly.

  “You all right, Sarge?” DiMeola asked.

  “I’m all right.”

  Mahoney wiped sweat, rain, and spots of blood from his face. He spit out his dead cigar stub, withdrew a cigarette, and lit it up. Inhaling deeply, it occurred to him that the rest of his cigars were in his pack which he’d left behind in the cellar. He was out of cigars.

  “Fuck!” he said.

  “You say something, Sarge?” DiMeola asked, pressing the walkie-talkie to his face.

  “I said, ‘fuck.’”

  “Oh.”

  Another problem occurred to Mahoney. He had to appoint a new squad leader to replace Sergeant Cooley. He thought immediately of Pfc. Butsko. He believed there was no one better than Butsko, although Butsko was turning out to be a pain in the ass.

  “Butsko!” Mahoney roared.

  “Yo!” replied Butsko somewhere to the right.

  “Let’s go, DiMeola.”

  They ran out from behind the wall and were halfway across some Frenchman’s back yard when a shell whistled over their heads. They dropped to the ground and it landed a few hundred yards away, making a big orange flash and demolishing the remains of a house. Getting to their feet again, they ran in the direction of Butsko’s voice. Spotting some soldiers behind a pile of debris, they headed for them. The group was composed of Corporal Goines and his machine-gun section—minus their machine gun.

  “How we doing?” Mahoney asked them.

  “Do you have to ask?” Goines shrugged.

  “You see Butsko anywhere around here?”

  “He’s over there.” Goines pointed.

  “Butsko!” Mahoney yelled.

  “Yo!”

  Mahoney and DiMeola took off once more in the direction of the voice. They ran past a dead G.I. but didn’t bother to stop to see who it was. Before them, behind a stone gate, was Pfc. Butsko with Sergeant Updike and Private Smith of Fargo, North Dakota. German submachine-gun bullets raked the top of the gate and they all fell low.

  “Butsko,” Mahoney said, “I got a new job for you. You’re the new squad leader for the third squad. Get over there and take charge.”

  Butsko blinked. “What happened to Sergeant Cooley?”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “He’s dead?”

  Mahoney nodded.

  “I’m the new squad leader?” Butsko had a black eye from where Mahoney had punched him earlier.

  “Yeah.”

  Butsko shook his head. “But I don’t know if I can handle it.”

  “I wouldn’t give you the job if I didn’t think you could handle it. Get going, asshole, and just keep pulling back slowly. Don’t let any big gaps open between your squad and the others.”

  Butsko wiped his mouth with his hand. “Where’s the third squad?”

  Mahoney pointed to the right. “Somewhere over there.”

  In a crouch, Butsko moved off in the direction of the third squad.

  “I think that’s a mistake.” Sergeant Updike shook his head. “Butsko is a bully and a wise guy.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Your face is bleeding, Sarge.”

  “Keep pulling back.” Mahoney wiped the blood away.

  “Sarge,” said DiMeola. “Captain Anderson wants to speak with you.”

  Mahoney took the walkie-talkie. “Yes, sir?”

  “Your platoon looks like it’s out too far. Move ’em back,
Mahoney.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  “Back!” Mahoney yelled. “Move it fucking back!”

  Far behind the lines, Colonel Sloan lay in his pajamas on his cot. He snored like a buzz saw and dreamed about Lansing, Michigan. When a hand grabbed his shoulder and shook it, Sloan went for the .45 under his pillow.

  “It’s me,” said Major Cutler.

  Blinking his eyes, Sloan sat up. He could hear faint sounds of gunfire coming from miles away.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Charlie Company, sir. Captain Anderson just called to say he’s retreating from Villeruffec.”

  “Retreating?” Sloan asked, anger in his voice. “Why?”

  “He says he’s under heavy attack, sir.”

  “I gave him no permission to retreat!”

  “He says he can’t hold on, sir.”

  “He should have asked me for permission to retreat!” Sloan said, getting out of bed. He pulled on his fatigue pants. “I’m running this battalion, not him!”

  “He did ask for permission, but I didn’t want to wake you up, sir.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to hold fast, and he said he couldn’t. He requests artillery support.”

  “We don’t have any artillery.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Did he say how many Germans are attacking?”

  “He says he thinks it’s a battalion.”

  “I’m sure he’s exaggerating. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sloan put on his combat boots. He knew that if he lost Villeruffec he’d get hell from regiment and division. Patton might even get in on the act, because he hated to give up ground.

  “Can’t we send him any help?” Sloan said.

  “I sent Baker Company to bail him out. They should be on their way right now.”

  Charlie Company backed through the town of Villeruffec, fighting from behind whatever cover they could locate. They left their dead and seriously wounded behind, and maintained a steady stream of fire against their pursuers. The Germans attacked cautiously, spreading out all across the town to probe for Americans. They didn’t know that all the Americans were close together in a ragged skirmish line, keeping away from roads so they wouldn’t come under direct tank fire. Gradually, the Americans were approaching the western edge of the town.