Doom River Page 18

  “We’d better get moving.” Captain Anderson’s shoulder bled from a grazing bayonet wound. “Let’s go.”

  Grossberger stood up and adjusted the haversack holding his medicines, and the survivors of the First Platoon ran off into the night.

  General Hans Dietrich Kretchmer was awaiting news from the front. Near him were staff officers speaking quietly so as not to disturb him. Kretchmer was nervous, though he didn’t show it outwardly. He was afraid something had gone wrong and his attack had failed. If that were so, General Balck would dismiss him and he’d be disgraced.

  Captain Fritz Nagle stepped in front of Kretchmer, came to attention, and clicked his heels together.

  “Sir,” he said, “we just have received word that the town of Villeruffec has been taken and most of its defenders killed as they tried to return to their lines.”

  Kretchmer smiled.

  “Excellent,” he said, pleased that he wouldn’t be disgraced after all. “Issue the orders for the rest of the division to attack their objectives.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nagle returned to the communications center, and Kretchmer looked down at the map. He’d wanted to push the Americans out of Villeruffec first so he could control the roads in the area, and now he was ready for his all-out assault on the American beachhead near Pont-a-Mousson. The remainder of his division would attack the ridge behind the swamp and then bear down on the beachhead itself. They’d push the Americans across the Moselle and destroy their pontoon bridge. That ought to take the wind out of the enemies’ sails for awhile, and give German military units in the area time to reorganize and resupply for a full-scale attack.

  We’ll win this war yet, Kretchmer thought. The Wehrmacht will not let the Fatherland down.

  Captain Anderson and the survivors from the First Platoon sloshed through the swamp. Because they couldn’t hear Germans following them, they thought they were home free. Mahoney, lightheaded from the morphine, hallucinated dancing frogs and singing turtles. He giggled to himself as he moved through the foul-smelling muck.

  Cranepool was beside him. “You okay, Sarge?”

  “I’m fine,” Mahoney said in a dreamy voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cranepool thought Mahoney was behaving as though he was drunk, and resolved to keep an eye on him. Cranepool himself was wounded, having been cut along the ribs by a bayonet. But Grossberger, who had bandaged him up, said it was only a flesh wound.

  “We’re almost there,” Anderson said, trying to give his men hope. “Keep on pushing and we’ll be all right.”

  They moved north toward the ridge, which ran parallel with the Moselle River. Gradually the ground beneath them became drier and finally they came up out of the swamp and entered a forest.

  “Hold it,” Anderson said.

  They stopped. Anderson listened for sounds of Germans following them, but all he could hear was rain pounding the pine trees.

  “We’ll take a break right here,” Anderson said, leaning against a tree and lighting a cigarette.

  Mahoney lit up, too. Pfc. Grossberger came over to examine his dressing.

  “How’re we doing, Sarge?”

  “How about giving me another shot of whatever you gave me before?”

  “I don’t think you need anymore, Sarge. I think you’ve had enough.” Grossberger checked the dressing; it was stained with blood and should be changed, but Grossberger had only one dressing left and wanted to save it for an emergency.

  Mahoney sucked cigarette smoke into his lungs and sat on the wet pine needles, leaning his back against a tree. He felt weirdly content, no longer caring what happened. Why am I always so worried about getting killed? he thought. Nobody lives forever. What’s a few years more or less? What’s the big deal?

  In the distance they heard artillery shells being fired, and everyone turned in that direction. The shells had been fired from the German lines, and several seconds later the ridge up ahead fell under a heavy barrage.

  “Oh, oh!” Anderson said. “I’ll bet the Krauts are gonna attack again.”

  “Who gives a fuck?” Mahoney said hazily. “We attack, they attack... it all adds up to bullshit in the end.”

  Anderson looked at Grossberger, and Grossberger winked.

  “I think we’d better get moving before we get cut off back here,” Anderson said.

  The bedraggled men got to their feet and began moving again. Cranepool walked beside Mahoney, watching him carefully because he’d noticed that Mahoney had a sudden tendency to walk into trees.

  The woods thinned out and the ground angled upwards. They heard shells exploding and rifles firing ahead of them, and sometimes they could see a sudden glow in the rain.

  Mahoney’s arm was now bothering him more, which made him think the morphine was wearing off. His mind cleared somewhat and he wondered why Captain Anderson was leading them directly toward the battle.

  “Sir,” said Mahoney, “why don’t we go that way?” He pointed in the direction of the Moselle River. “If the Germans attack, and we keep going in the direction we’re going, we’re liable to wind up behind enemy lines again.”

  Anderson, sleepy and anxiety-ridden, thought about what Mahoney had said.

  “You’re right as usual, Mahoney. Let’s go that way. Maybe we can circle behind the ridge.”

  They moved to their right, walking along the side of the ridge. Mahoney’s left arm was becoming one powerfully painful throb but he didn’t want any more morphine because he realized now that it messed up his mind.

  “Halt!” yelled a voice in front of them.

  The men of the First Platoon stopped in alarm.

  “Who goes there!” demanded the voice.

  Anderson cupped his hands around his mouth. “Charlie Company, First Battalion, 15th Regiment, 33rd Division!”

  “Holy shit!”

  An enormous number of men emerged from the woods in front of the first platoon. In front was Captain Brown of Baker Company, carrying his map case, his runner at his side.

  Captain Brown trudged toward Captain Anderson. “So I’ve found you at last. I’ve been trying to find you for hours.”

  “Over here?” Anderson asked. “You were way off.”

  “There must be something wrong with my compass. Where’s the rest of your company?”

  “This is all that’s left as far as I know.”

  Brown stared incredulously at the remaining eight men. “This is all!”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Wow!”

  “We’d better get moving, Captain. It sounds like something big is going on up ahead.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking. It sounds like a major attack.”

  The First Platoon joined Baker Company and went crashing through the woods, trying to move around the ridge and reach friendly territory. The soldiers from Baker Company looked at the men of the First Platoon; they could tell from their wounds and ragged appearance that they’d been through hell. As they continued their trek, the sounds of battle became louder. Shells began to fall nearby, and they could hear men shouting in the distance.

  Anderson was walking beside Brown. “Maybe we ought to stop and check our position. We wouldn’t want to blunder into the Germans.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I left my map case behind. Let me use yours.”

  “Everybody take a quick break!” Brown said, unstrapping his map case. “But be ready to move out at a moment’s notice!”

  Anderson bent over the map and traced with his finger the path his men had taken since they left Villeruffec.

  “I think we’re right here,” he said, pointing.

  “Boy, were we way off!” Brown said.

  “You couldn’t have been farther off if you tried.”

  They moved out again in the direction they hoped would bring them to the Moselle. The sounds of fighting got closer, toward their left now. Mahoney’s arm hurt fiercely. He estimated that
they were between the ridge and the Moselle River, and ought to turn more to the right. He was opening his mouth to make that suggestion, when suddenly they heard a great commotion up the hill. Looking in that direction, they flicked the safety catches off their weapons. Figures emerged in the rain, running down the hill. More and more of them appeared, and Mahoney realized they were American G.I.s running for their lives. The First Platoon and Baker Company watched dumbfounded as the G.I.s first engulfed them, then ran past them down the hill.

  “You guys had better get moving!” one of them shouted. “The Germans are coming!”

  Bullets began whistling all round them and shells exploded in their midst. Nobody had to give the order; the First Platoon and Baker Company joined the others and ran down the hill in the headlong rout. Occasionally they’d see a man trip and fall after being shot in the back.

  Mahoney ran with the others, feeling dizzy from loss of blood and the after-effects of the morphine. He stubbed his toe on a fallen log and was on his way down when Cranepool grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up again.

  “C’mon, Sarge,” Cranepool said. “You can make it.”

  Mahoney wasn’t so sure, but he kept moving his feet and Cranepool pulled him along by his jacket. He heard German machine guns go burp burp and saw American soldiers falling in great numbers, screaming and writhing on the ground or laying still, dead as doornails. Artillery shells and mortar rounds exploded in their midst, blowing G.I.s into the air. The explosions knocked over trees and sent them crashing to the ground. Mahoney and Cranepool jumped over a fallen tree and kept going, crouched over and making low silhouettes. Mahoney saw Butsko up ahead, holding his rifle high and running like the fullback on a football team. I’m not going to make it, Mahoney thought. This is the end of the road for me.

  A soldier from Baker Company only a few feet away pitched forward, a widening red stain on the back of his field jacket. One man from the First Platoon was hit with a machine-gun burst, and spurted blood in all directions as he tumbled to the ground. Cranepool pulled Mahoney down the hill.

  “C’mon, Sarge,” he said, “we don’t have much farther to go.”

  Mahoney heard roaring in his ears and thought he was going to faint. Then he realized that the roaring was the sound of the Moselle. They were getting close to the river. He might get away after all!

  Mahoney got his second wind and jumped over the bodies of dead G.I.s, praying the river would materialize before his eyes. He heard explosions on the hill behind him, which meant that the Americans on the other side of the Moselle had scraped together some shells and were trying to stop the Germans. Pfc. Grossberger screamed and went tumbling head over heels down the hill.

  “My medic,” Mahoney shouted.

  He and Cranepool ran toward Grossberger, who was lying on his back with his tongue hanging out. He didn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere. Mahoney slapped his face lightly, as bullets zipped overhead.

  “Are you okay?”

  Grossberger opened his eyes. “Am I dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Grossberger sat up and examined himself. “I must have tripped.”

  “You fucking asshole.”

  They got up and continued running down the hill. The ground leveled off and Mahoney’s heart expanded with delight when he saw the river straight ahead. G.I.’s were running across the pontoon bridge upstream from them, pushing each other in total panic. Mahoney, Cranepool, and Grossberger were running toward the bridge to become part of the mob on it, when suddenly a German shell hit the bridge, blowing pontoons and G.I.s high into the air. The bridge split into three pieces.

  “Into the water!” Captain Anderson shouted. “It’s our only chance!”

  Mahoney spotted life jackets scattered on the ground. The Combat Engineers must have left them behind when they pulled out. Mahoney picked one up and put it on, as did Cranepool, Grossberger and the other G.I.s who still had the ability to think rationally.

  Mahoney, Cranepool, and Grossberger ran into the river and started swimming. Mahoney couldn’t use one arm, but was able to make good progress with his good arm and his strong legs. Cranepool had a strong grip on Mahoney’s jacket and pulled his friend along with him. The river was full of swimming G.I.s, and the Germans shot at them like ducks in a barrel. Soldiers shrieked with pain as they were killed in the water.

  Then, suddenly, heavy volleys of rifle and machine-gun fire began erupting on the American side of the Moselle. The G.I.s hadn’t fired before because they were afraid of killing their own men, but now they could see that most of their own men were in the water.

  Bullets zipped over Mahoney’s head and debris from the destroyed bridge floated past him. Each end of the bridge was still tied to shore, but the middle of the bridge was gone and both the two end joints were pointed downstream, straining to break loose from their moorings.

  Mahoney knew that if he wasn’t wearing the life jacket he couldn’t have made it, but the jacket was keeping him afloat and Cranepool continued to pull him as he kicked his feet and tried to swim with one arm. His left arm felt numb and his shoulder had a terrible ache.

  “C’mon, Sarge,” Cranepool said. “Just a little farther.”

  Bullets blipped into the water all around them. A shell exploded nearby, sending six G.I.s and a ton of water into the air. But the German fire had diminished considerably now that the Americans were firing back from their side of the river. Mahoney saw dead bodies float past him downstream. He remembered crossing this river two nights ago. Was it only two nights? It seemed like two years ago. We’re gonna have to do this whole thing all over again, he thought. What a fucking mess!

  The swimming G.I.s neared the safe side of the river. Some of them touched bottom and scrambled up the shore to safety in the fortifications that had been constructed, fortifications behind which American soldiers fired everything they had at the Germans on the other side of the river.

  Mahoney heard Captain Brown cry out and fall face down into the water. Captain Anderson was near him and moved to help. Brown raised his head and Anderson grabbed him, pulling him toward the shore. Mahoney gulped air and swam with all his strength. A dead G.I. floated past and Mahoney pushed him out of the way. Bullets whistled over his head, many of them heading toward the Germans. Mortar and artillery shells were flying both ways, but most were flying from the German side.

  Finally Mahoney’s feet hit bottom. Jubilant, he sloshed through the water and ran toward dry ground. Cranepool was beside him and Grossberger a few feet behind. Mahoney leapt and kicked hard, inspired by the knowledge that safety was only ten yards away. Expecting a German bullet to split his spine at any moment, he ran toward the sandbagged trench ahead. He saw G.I.s in the trench get out of his way and he jumped over the sandbags, landing on his ass in the muddy ditch. Cranepool dropped in beside him and a few seconds later Grossberger dove in head first.

  Cranepool shouted for joy.

  “We made it!” He slapped Mahoney on his good shoulder. “We made it!”

  “Yeah!” Mahoney said happily. “Yeah!”

  “I never thought we could do it but we did!” Grossberger grinned like a little monkey.

  Mahoney turned around, got on his knees, and peered over the sandbags. Some G.I.s were still in the water, swimming to shore, but a considerable number had become corpses and were floating downstream. Flashes of light came from the woods across the river, from where the Germans were firing. An occasional American shell landed on the hill that was lit up like a Christmas tree with muzzle blasts from German rifles.

  Mahoney made a fist with his good hand and pounded it on the sandbag. “You fucking cocksuckers!” he screamed. “We’ll be back!”

  “That’s right!” Cranepool added. “We’ll be back!”

  Then deep fatigue overtook Mahoney and he dropped to his knees in the trench, closing his eyes and breathing heavily.

  “Hey,” said one of the soldiers nearby, “you want a cigarette?”

  “You
bet your fucking ass I do,” Mahoney replied, turning toward him and holding out his hand.

  Grossberger touched Mahoney’s arm. “How’re you feeling, Sarge?”

  “It hurts.”

  “Maybe you need another shot.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  The G.I. lit a cigarette for Mahoney and gave it to him. Mahoney puffed it as Grossberger shot him up with morphine again. Mahoney sat in the trench and leaned back against the dirt wall. The morphine took effect almost immediately and he felt warm all over. He closed his eyes and the pain diminished. Yellow lights flashed in front of his eyelids and he thanked the Lord for sparing his life once more.

  The river valley echoed with rifle fire, as Mahoney dropped off into unconsciousness.

  PICCADILLY PUBLISHING

  Piccadilly Publishing is the brainchild of long time Western fans and Amazon Kindle Number One bestselling Western writers Mike Stotter and David Whitehead (a.k.a. Ben Bridges). The company intends to bring back into 'e-print' some of the most popular and best-loved Western and action-adventure series fiction of the last forty years.

  To visit our website, click here

  To visit our blog, click here

  To follow us on Facebook click here

  Read more on the Author

  Titles in this Series

  Death Train

  Hell Harbor

  Bloody Bush

  The Liberation of Paris