Bullet Bridge Page 17

  Meanwhile, the dust was settling in the front room. Mahoney entered it, his handkerchief over his mouth, and heard men groaning. He estimated that half the men in his first two squads were dead or wounded in this room. Pfc. Grossberger the medic was coughing and scooping debris off Private Baker, who had a broken arm and a sprained neck. Mahoney made his way to the spot where the front window had been because he wanted to get that German machine gun. He found it half buried by debris and dug it out with his hands.

  “Can I help you, Sarge?” asked Pfc. Higgins, lying on the floor nearby. He’d just regained consciousness after being knocked cold by falling plaster, and the first thing he saw was Mahoney digging out the machine gun.

  “Get your ass over here, Higgins.”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  Mahoney and Higgins dug out the machine gun and the crates of ammunition nearby.

  “Pick up one of those crates and follow me,” Mahoney said.

  Mahoney lifted the machine gun and stumbled over piles of rubble as he made his way to the door, where he paused and looked down the corridor. Some soldiers from the second squad had piled up a sofa and some chairs in front of the shattered rear door and were firing at the Germans from behind it.

  Mahoney and Higgins moved down the corridor at a crouch as bullets whistled over their heads and ricocheted off the plaster walls, sending showers of white powder flying through the air. They darted into the room to the left of the corridor and saw GIs at both of the windows firing at the Germans in the yard.

  “Make way for this!” Mahoney said.

  GIs scrambled out of the way and Mahoney lowered the machine gun to the floor behind the window sill.

  “Load it up!” Mahoney said to Higgins. “You and you,” Mahoney said to Private Morgan and Pfc. Romero, “go get the rest of the ammunition!”

  “Where the hell is it?” asked Romero.

  “In the front room by the window.”

  Morgan and Romero left the room. Mahoney turned the crank that lowered the machine gun while Higgins fed in a belt of bullets.

  “Anybody see Knifefinder?” Mahoney asked.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Shit!” said Mahoney, squatting behind the machine gun. He pulled the bolt and rammed a round in the chamber, looking through the sights at the Germans firing from the back doors and windows of the buildings across the yard. Pressing the thumb buttons, the German machine gun chattered and spit out hot lead that ripped apart window sills and doors across the way. The Germans ducked, but some of them didn’t move fast enough and received bursts of bullets in their faces and necks. They fell back, gushing blood.

  “KEEP FIRING!” Mahoney shouted. “DON’T STOP FOR ANYTHING!”

  Mahoney fired bursts into the windows and doors in front of him, aiming frantically and trying to keep as many Germans as possible tied down. He figured that as soon as the Germans realized how few Americans were defending the house, they’d charge across the yard and try to take it by assault. Mahoney wished he could have his walkie-talkie so he could call for help. This was the second walkie-talkie he’d lost that day, and evidently Knifefinder was out of action too.

  “HERE THEY COME!” shouted Cranepool.

  German soldiers poured through the windows and doors of the buildings across the yard, charging with rifles and hand grenades in their hands while other Germans inside the buildings fired machine guns in an effort to keep the Americans down.

  “KEEP FIRING!” Mahoney yelled.

  He swung the machine gun from side to side, holding the thumb triggers down. Germans fell to the ground before the lethal spray of his bullets, but the Germans behind them kept charging, howling and preparing to throw their grenades. German machine gun bullets splattered against the windows and doors of Mahoney’s building and Private Rivers shrieked, covering his bleeding face with both his hands and falling backwards.

  “GROSSBERGER!” Mahoney yelled, clenching his teeth and trying to hold his bucking machine gun steady. “GET THE FUCK IN HERE!”

  The Germans continued their charge. Huge numbers of them dropped before the hail of American bullets, but the rest kept coming. A hand grenade flew into the room, but Cranepool caught it with one hand and hurled it back at the Germans. Another German drew his arm back to throw a grenade and Mahoney hit him in the chest with a burst of machine gun fire. The German disintegrated before Mahoney’s eyes and the grenade dropped out of his hand, falling to the ground. Another German tried to scoop it up and throw it, but it exploded in his hands, blowing his arms off and knocking down Germans nearby.

  Some of the Germans made it through the withering fire and charged through the rear door.

  “STOP THOSE COCKSUCKERS!” Mahoney screamed, still swinging his machine gun from side to side and chopping Germans down.

  Grunts and shouts could be heard in the hall. Cranepool bounded to his feet and ran out there, seeing that several Germans had vaulted the barricade in front of the door. American soldiers clashed with them in the narrow constricted space in the corridor. Cranepool charged into the midst of them, lunging forward with his bayonet. He impaled a squirming German with it, pulled back, swung around, delivered a vertical butt stroke to the jaw of another German, kicked him in the balls as he went down, stomped on his face, and then harpooned another German in the back. The German shrieked as hot blood spurted out onto Cranepool’s hands, and Cranepool felt the wildness arising inside him. He looked around for another German to kill, but the other GIs in the hallway had beat them back.

  Cranepool felt as if he’d go mad if he couldn’t find an outlet for the violent impulses surging through his body. His heart chugged wildly and his breath came in short gasps. A bullet smashed into the wall inches from his chin, and he ducked behind the barricade in front of the door. Peering over it, he saw heaps of dead Germans in the yard and the rest of the Germans retreating to the safety of their building. Cranepool rested his carbine on top of the barricade, took aim, and squeezed off a round. The German running in his sights pitched forward onto his face. Cranepool moved his carbine a few inches to the right, aimed again, and fired. Another German tripped and fell. He fired at a third German but that one kept running and dove into the doorway of a building.

  The GIs around Cranepool cheered as the rest of the Germans fled to safety, leaving their dead and wounded behind. The muscles in Cranepool’s face were twitching out of control as he returned to the room where Mahoney was still firing his machine gun at the windows and doors of the buildings across the way.

  ~*~

  “Sir—General Balck would like to speak with you!”

  General Dobbeling looked up from the map table. He’d been afraid that General Balck would call at the wrong moment, and now the call had come through. Turning, he walked toward the bank of telephone operators and accepted the phone held out to him.

  “Yes sir?”

  “General Dobbeling,” said a voice that sounded as if it was angry but held under tight control, “I’ve just received word that the Americans are in Saarlautern. Is that so?”

  “A small number of American soldiers are in the city, sir, yes.”

  “How small?”

  “A company or two?”

  “How did they get there?”

  General Dobbeling swallowed hard. “Across the bridge, sir.”

  “ACROSS THE BRIDGE!”

  “Yes sir.”

  There was silence for a few moments, then the voice of General Balck came through again. “Why wasn’t the bridge blown as your orders clearly stated, General Dobbeling?”

  “Because I was waiting for the return of an armored column which I’d sent out against the Americans earlier in the day.”

  “An armored column? Why did you send out an armored column, and how big was it?”

  “It was the riposte you suggested, sir. I sent the 14th SS Panzer. However, they ran into the American spearhead attack on Saarlautern and I ordered them to return. Unfortunately, a few of the American units reached the br
idge before they, but you needn’t worry, sir. We’ll have those few units out of here within the hour, and then we’ll render the bridge unpassable.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said General Balck, “that you sacrificed all of Saarlautern for the safe return of the 14th SS Panzer?”

  “Well not exactly, sir. I...”

  General Balck interrupted him. “General Dobbeling, you are hereby relieved of command. Who is your chief of staff?”

  “Colonel Franz Wolkenstein, sir.”

  “Put him on the phone.”

  “Yes sir.” General Dobbeling held out the telephone to Wolkenstein. “General Balck would like to speak with you.”

  “Me?” Wolkenstein asked, surprised. He stepped toward the phone, took it from General Dobbeling’s hand, and stood at attention. “Yes sir?”

  “Colonel Wolkenstein, this is General Balck. I have just relieved General Dobbeling of command, and I hereby appoint you to take over as commandant of the garrison at Saarlautern.”

  Colonel Wolkenstein nearly dropped the phone in surprise.

  “Your first order of business is to blow the bridge that General Dobbeling so negligently failed to do,” General Balck continued. “Your next is to defend Saarlautern to the last man. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “I expect you to defend Saarlautern with unrelenting aggressiveness, Colonel Wolkenstein. That is all. Carry on.”

  Wolkenstein hung up the phone and tried to come to grips with the orders General Balck had given him. He’d always known he’d be given a division someday, but not under circumstances like this.

  General Dobbeling stood before him, his right hand extended and his face pale as snow. “Good luck Franz,” he said. “And my congratulations.”

  Colonel Wolkenstein shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. I don’t quite know what to say.”

  “I shall be in my quarters in case you want me for anything. God be with you.”

  General Dobbeling turned, took his helmet off the hook, and marched out of the conference. All eyes turned to Colonel Wolkenstein. He walked to the map table and looked down at the streets that led to the bridge, the words unrelenting aggressiveness echoing through his mind.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “General Dobbeling has just been relieved of command and I have been appointed to succeed him. Colonel Bach will be my chief of staff. I want the following order passed down to all officers of the 91st Parachute Regiment. I want the bridge cleared of all American soldiers within 30 minutes. Any officer who fails to accomplish this task will be put before a firing squad.”

  “A firing squad, sir?” asked Colonel Bach, a short stout man with a thin black mustache.

  “That is correct. A firing squad. Pass the order along.”

  “Yes sir.”

  ~*~

  The jeep reached the summit of the hill and started down the other side. Behind the wheel was Pfc. Braithwaite and next to him sat General Barton Hughes, puffing his pipe.

  Halfway down the hill, a morass of charred and smoking German tanks and personnel carriers covered the landscape. Dead Germans were everywhere. Eight Germans stood with their hands on their heads, guarded by two GIs. A long line of American tanks and trucks were stopped behind the wreckage, and bulldozers tried to clear the road. General Hughes saw some jeeps with aerials parked beside a German tank that had been knocked onto its side. He pointed in that direction.

  “Drive over there, Braithwaite.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Braithwaite turned off the shoulder of the road and the jeep bounced over the field. As he approached the crowd of jeeps he recognized Colonel Simmons from the 15th Regiment and several other high-ranking officers. Braithwaite braked and General Hughes climbed out of the jeep, marching angrily toward the group of officers.

  “What the hell’s the hold-up here!” General Hughes demanded.

  The officers drew themselves to attention and saluted. Colonel Simmons stepped forward, smiling as though his mouth was full of cornpone. He was tall and rangy, with the flushed features and red nose of the boozehound.

  “Ain’t no hold-up,” he said genially. “No hold-up at all.”

  “No hold-up!” General Hughes exploded. He pointed to the line of stopped tanks and trucks. “What the hell is that if it isn’t a hold-up!”

  “We’re just clearing the road, suh. Won’t take but a few more minutes.”

  “A few more minutes!” Hughes screamed. “We don’t have a few more minutes! I want those tanks and trucks to get moving now!”

  “They can’t get around all this congestion, suh. We tried already and it didn’t work. But it won’t take but a few more minutes, suh. Then we’ll go right down there and get Saarlautern for you.”

  General Hughes raised his binoculars and looked at the congestion. There did seem to be an awful lot of wreckage everywhere. A helluva battle must have been fought here, he thought. He focused on the bridge and saw all the trucks.

  “What are those trucks doing blocking that bridge!”

  “They were stopped by the Germans, suh.”

  “I thought we were in Saarlautern!”

  “Some of our men are, but they had to leave their trucks behind. But don’t you worry none about those trucks, suh. We got some soldiers on the way down to ’em now to drive ’em into town, suh.”

  Hughes scanned the landscape with his binoculars and spotted two columns of men at the bottom of the hill marching toward the bridge. The trucks and tanks on the road began to rev up and move forward.

  “I think,” said Colonel Simmons, “that they got the road clear now, suh.”

  General Hughes turned and saw the tanks and trucks rolling down the hill toward the bridge. Colonel Simmons ran toward the road and waved his hands.

  “Let’s go goddamnit!” he yelled. “Move these sons of bitches out! Double-time! Git the fuck out of here!”

  General Hughes turned to Colonel Statler, the S-3 (operations) officer for the 15th Regiment. “What’s the latest from your people in Saarlautern?” he asked.

  Colonel Statler pinched his lips together and shook his head. “They’re holding on by the skin of their teeth,” he replied.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mahoney looked across the piles of German dead bodies in the backyards of the buildings facing him. The Germans had made two charges and he was expecting another. He didn’t know how he and his men had held them off before, but somehow they’d have to do it again.

  He puffed a cigarette and was glad for the chance to cool the barrel of the German machine gun. The room was filled with acrid gunsmoke and men lay around dead or in bandages wrapped by Pfc. Grossberger. Eleven of the men in the room were still alive. The wounded groaned and the healthy passed them lighted cigarettes.

  Cranepool crouched beside Mahoney. “I don’t think we can survive another one of those,” he said, nervous and jumpy.

  “We’ll have to,” Mahoney replied.

  He looked at the German buildings and his hair nearly stood on end as he saw the ugly snout of an anti-tank gun appear in a window across the yard.

  “GET DOWN!” he screamed.

  Everybody dove for the floor just as the first German shell hit the outside wall. It collapsed and the room filled with dust and smoke.

  “GET OUT OF HERE!” Mahoney yelled.

  He jumped up and nearly tripped over debris as he made his way to the door. He and all the men were coughing and spitting, trying to see through the white clouds of dust. They made it into the corridor just as another shell hit the building, breaking apart another wall. Soldiers shouted and crowded into the corridor. Mahoney saw a flight of stairs.

  “UP THOSE STAIRS!”

  He took huge leaps toward the stairs and went up them three at a time. His men followed him, carrying and dragging the wounded, as more shells hit the building. One shell flew into the corridor below and exploded, blowing apart some of the soldiers tryin
g to get up the stairs.

  A handful of men made it to the second floor. Mahoney paused to look at them and wondered what to do. He wished he’d seen stairs that led to a cellar, because he would have felt safer underneath the building, but now, on a high floor, they were more vulnerable to the shelling.

  They heard the shouts of Germans in the backyard.

  “THE KRAUTS ARE COMING!” somebody shouted.

  “UP THE STAIRS!” Mahoney replied.

  They ran up the stairs as quickly as they could, hearing Germans enter the building on the first floor. German officers barked orders, and footsteps on the bottom stairs could be heard.

  “They’re coming after us!” Cranepool said.

  Mahoney ripped a hand grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairs. The building shook with the explosion and Mahoney continued to climb upwards as a few other GIs lobbed grenades down at the Germans following them.

  Mahoney wanted to stop and make a stand on one of the floors, but he didn’t think he’d have a chance if the Germans brought their anti-tank gun into the building. He figured he and his men would have to get onto the roof. Maybe they could hold off the Germans up there.

  They scrambled up the stairs, dropping grenades down on the Germans, who fired up through the stairwell when the explosions stopped. Private Smith was shot in the back and Pfc. Romero suffered a bullet wound in the foot, but the others continued to run up the stairs.

  Finally Mahoney reached the top floor. He pushed open the door to the roof and saw dusk falling over Saarlautern. A chimney, water tank, pigeon coop, and a few other structures were on the roof. Mahoney told his men to take cover behind them and direct a steady stream of fire toward the door.

  “We’ve got to keep them off the roof!” he said.

  He heard the whine of airplane engines from above. Looking up, he saw a squadron of American fighter planes peeling off for a strafing run. At first he didn’t know who they were going to strafe, but they were heading straight for the roof and looked as if they meant business.