Bullet Bridge Page 19

  Suddenly the artillery stopped.

  “CHARGE!” shouted Captain Anderson, running in between two tanks. “FOLLOW ME!”

  “YAAAHHHH!” screamed Cranepool, shaking his rifle and charging into the street.

  “HIT IT!” Mahoney yelled.

  Pfc. Knifefinder did an old Comanche war whoop and the Southerners screeched rebel yells. Charlie Company double-timed across the street in a long skirmish line connected with Baker Company on the left and Easy Company on the right. They leapt over the gutter, crossed the sidewalk, and plunged into the piles of brick, plaster, and shattered wood.

  The Germans came up out of the cellars where they had been hiding, pushing walls and ceilings off them and firing at the waves of attacking Americans. Mahoney shot his carbine on automatic as he ran, swinging it from side to side, looking for the movement that would betray an enemy soldier.

  He saw a muzzle blast in front of him and dropped to his stomach, bruising his ribs on the sharp corners of bricks. Pulling a grenade from his pocket, he yanked the pin and waited two seconds, then chucked it toward the spot where he’d seen the muzzle blast. The grenade landed, there was a pause, and then it exploded, sending a German soldier with arms and legs akimbo flying into the air.

  Mahoney was on his feet before the dismembered German landed, and he charged forward. He jumped into the hole where he’d seen the muzzle blast and landed on the mangled corpse. Climbing out, he continued to move forward. He passed an eight foot high section of a wall still standing, and something told him to look at what had been behind it. Turning his head, he saw three German soldiers, all aiming their submachine guns at him. He dropped to the ground, firing his carbine as he went down. German bullets whizzed past his head as he sprayed the three Germans with carbine bullets, and the Germans pirouetted and fell, firing wildly and spurting blood.

  Mahoney leapt up and ran to them, grabbing one of the submachine guns and slinging it sideways across his back. He picked up another submachine gun, stuffed some clips of ammunition into his pockets, and spun around just as a bullet ricocheted into the brick wall near his shoulder. He spotted the German who’d fired at him, gave him a burst from the submachine gun, and the German disappeared. Mahoney didn’t know whether he’d hit him or not. To make sure, he dropped to one knee, took out another hand grenade, pulled the pin, and hurled it behind the rubble where the German had been. Mahoney waited two seconds, then there was a mighty thunderclap accompanied by an orange blast. He got to his feet, charged up the pile of rubble, and jumped behind it, landing amid the arms, legs, and guts of the German who’d been there.

  Mahoney stood in the hole and looked around. GIs and German soldiers were fighting all around him. Mahoney climbed out of the hole and moved forward cautiously because the illumination from the searchlight was making his eyes play tricks on him and made stationary objects appear to move.

  Suddenly, the earth opened up directly in front of him, and German soldiers with paratrooper insignia on their breast pockets erupted out of a hole. Mahoney was so surprised he stepped back and nearly tripped. The lead paratrooper, a big moose like Mahoney, smashed Mahoney with the butt of his rifle and knocked the submachine gun out of Mahoney’s hand.

  Mahoney’s hands stung from the blow but he knew his only chance was to grab the paratrooper’s rifle. He lunged for it as the bayonet on another paratrooper’s rifle ripped open his field jacket and cut the flesh of his left bicep. Mahoney grabbed the first paratrooper’s rifle and thought he was done for, when a group of GIs waded into the German paratroopers and clashed with them.

  The big German paratrooper was taller than Mahoney, and they grunted as they fought for possession of the rifle. The paratrooper kicked Mahoney in the shins and the pain was excruciating, but Mahoney held on. He focused all his energy in one final shove and really dug his feet into the ground. The German paratrooper fell back, losing his balance.

  Mahoney aimed and kicked directly at the German’s groin. The German screamed and let the rifle go. Mahoney turned it around and drove it into the German’s stomach. The German hollered and grasped the bayonet with his hands, trying to push it out of him. His hands bled and he nearly cut his fingers off before Mahoney pulled the bayonet out. He pushed it down again, this time through the howling German’s heart, then yanked it out and looked up in time to see another German paratrooper charging toward him, thrusting his bayonet toward his own chest.

  Mahoney stepped forward and parried the bayonet out of his way, maintaining his motion and delivering a horizontal butt stroke to the German’s face. The butt connected with a loud smack and the German sagged to the ground.

  Mahoney looked up and saw a blur coming toward his face. It was another big German paratrooper and he was swinging his rifle like a baseball bat. Mahoney ducked and the rifle butt whistled over his head. Mahoney thrust his rifle and bayonet forward, plunging it into the German’s stomach. The German bellowed and Mahoney pulled his bayonet out.

  Mahoney turned around and saw a German aiming a submachine gun at him. Mahoney realized in a split second that the German was too far away to stab and there was no time to take a shot at him.

  I’m finished, Mahoney thought.

  Lightning shot out of the submachine gun, and Mahoney dove to the ground. Bullets whizzed inches above him, and then the German fell backwards because someone had shot him.

  Mahoney closed his eyes. “Thank you, God,” he muttered. He opened his eyes and was getting to his feet when a German clobbered him over the head with a rifle butt.

  Mahoney saw stars and fell on his face, out cold. With a victorious smile, the German raised his rifle and bayonet and prepared to run Mahoney through. Suddenly a shot rang out and a red dot appeared on the German’s forehead. The German collapsed onto the ground, the smile still frozen on his face.

  Cranepool had shot the German, and he ran toward Mahoney’s body. “MEDIC!” he yelled. “MEDIC!”

  Cranepool knelt beside Mahoney and saw blood leaking out of Mahoney’s nose and mouth. Cranepool felt Mahoney’s pulse but there was nothing at all. Cranepool couldn’t believe it. Mahoney was dead!

  “MAHONEY!” Cranepool screamed.

  Grossberger the medic came running with his bag of medicine and dropped to his knees beside Mahoney and Cranepool. “Whatsa matter?” he asked.

  Cranepool pointed at Mahoney’s unmoving body. “He’s dead!”

  Grossberger’s experienced hand shot out and held Mahoney’s wrist. Grossberger wrinkled his big nose and closed his eyes. Then he unwrinkled his nose and opened his eyes. “He’s not dead, Corporal Cranepool. What made you think he was dead?”

  “He ain’t got no pulse!”

  “Yes he has. Evidently, you don’t know where a person’s pulse is.”

  Cranepool ripped open Mahoney’s field jacket and placed his ear against Mahoney’s chest. He heard the sound of a giant tom-tom. “He’s alive!”

  “I told you he was alive.” Grossberger searched Mahoney’s body for blood but couldn’t find any. He saw the fresh dent in Mahoney’s helmet and took it off his head. A bloody bruise was underneath. Grossberger noticed the blood leaking out of Mahoney’s nose and mouth. “I think somebody gave him a terrific wallop in the head. We’ve got to get him back to the field station. He’s probably got a skull fracture.”

  “I’ll take his arms and you take his legs,” Cranepool said excitedly.

  “No, I’ll have to get a stretcher.”

  Grossberger ran off to get another medic with a stretcher, and Cranepool stayed with Mahoney. It was strange for him to see Mahoney lying helpless like this on a battlefield. Cranepool looked around: the battle was nearly over. A few Germans were walking to the rear with their hands on their heads, escorted by groups of GIs. Bodies of Germans and Americans lay everywhere. Tiny trails of smoke arose from holes in the ground.

  Cranepool hoped Mahoney wasn’t hurt too badly because he didn’t think he ever would get another platoon sergeant as good as Mahoney, and he didn�
�t feel as if he could do the job as well himself. “You’d better get well fast, you son of a bitch,” Cranepool said to Mahoney’s motionless body.

  Pfc. Knifefinder came walking by. “Hey Corporal Cranepool—you see Sergeant Mahoney?”

  “This is Sergeant Mahoney right here,” Cranepool said, looking at the still body beside him.

  “That’s Sergeant Mahoney!”

  “That’s him.”

  Knifefinder got down on one knee. “Is he dead?”

  “No, but Grossberger thinks he’s got a skull fracture.”

  “I don’t believe it. I always thought Sergeant Mahoney had a head like a cement block.” Knifefinder looked at the blood on Mahoney’s scalp. “Somebody must have really hit him a good one. Shouldn’t we take him back to the aid station?”

  “Grossberger’s gone for a stretcher.”

  “I got something that might work as good as a stretcher.”

  Knifefinder took off his pack and pulled out the burlap bag he’d saved from the mail call. “We can lay him on this. You take two corners and I’ll take two corners, and we’ll carry him right the fuck out of here.”

  “Good idea.”

  Knifefinder laid the burlap bag on the ground, and then he and Cranepool rolled Mahoney onto it. A crowd formed around them.

  “Is that Sergeant Mahoney down there?” somebody asked.

  “Sure as fuck looks like him,” another GI replied.

  “I think he’s dead.”

  Cranepool snarled at them. “He ain’t dead, he’s only got a little skull fracture.”

  “I never thought I’d see the day when they’d get Mahoney.”

  Cranepool and Knifefinder picked up the burlap bag by the corners and carried Mahoney back to the street, where the tanks and howitzers were.

  “Goddamn he’s heavy,” wheezed Cranepool.

  Knifefinder walked backwards, looking over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn’t trip over anything. “Well, he’s always been a big son of a bitch,” he said.

  A corner of the burlap bag slipped out of Knifefinder’s hand and Mahoney slid to the ground, hitting his head on on a pile of bricks.

  “You dumb fuck!” Cranepool screamed.

  “I lost my grip,” Knifefinder explained.

  Cranepool kneeled down beside Mahoney. “You probably made his head worse.”

  “Aw c’mon, Mahoney’s tougher than that.”

  They heard footsteps and turned around. Grossberger and Dufresne ran toward them, carrying a stretcher.

  “What’d you move him for!” Grossberger said angrily.

  “We wanted to take him to the aid station,” Cranepool replied.

  “You’ve got to be careful with people who’ve got skull fractures!”

  Grossberger and Dufresne laid the stretcher on the ground beside Mahoney. They rolled him onto it, lifted the ends, and ran off. Cranepool and Knifefinder watched them go.

  “I wonder if we’ll ever see him again,” Knifefinder said.

  “Oh, he’ll be back,” Cranepool replied. “You can’t keep a scumbag like Mahoney down for long.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the end of the week, most of Saarlautern was in American hands. General Barton Hughes set up his temporary headquarters in the city hall where the German 48th Division had their headquarters. His staff took records out of footlockers and laid maps on the big table. GIs from the Signal Corps laid wire and hooked up the phones.

  General Hughes dragged his feet to the office he’d chosen for himself, shut the door, and collapsed on the chair behind the desk. He took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco, telling himself that he should take a bath and shave immediately because you never knew who might show up suddenly. But first he thought he’d smoke a relaxing bowl of tobacco. The fight for Saarlautern had been a hard one and he’d directed every foot of the advance. He’d been constantly amazed by the speed and initiative displayed by frontline units, and now he understood why the Hammerheads were one of the most famous divisions in the ETO.

  “TEN-HUT!” shouted somebody in the outer office.

  General Hughes shot to his feet. Who the hell is out there? Laying his pipe on the desk, he straightened his spine and marched out of his office to the conference room.

  His staff was standing at attention, and General Patton walked among them, shaking hands and joking around. Patton saw General Hughes and turned around. Patton was immaculate as usual, the three gold stars on his helmet gleaming, his boots highly polished, the famous pearl handled revolver at his waist.

  General Hughes walked up to Patton and saluted.

  “At ease!” Patton said.

  Everyone relaxed a little.

  “Well,” Patton said, “so this is Saarlautern. I understand this building used to be the headquarters of the Krauts who were here. No wonder it smells so bad. You’ll have to get a work detail up here with some disinfectant, General Hughes.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Where’s your office?”

  “Down the hall.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Hughes walked down the hall, and General Patton followed at his side. Staff officers and enlisted men passed by and saluted Patton, who smiled and said hello. Hughes was glad to see that Old Blood and Guts was in a good mood.

  They entered General Hughes’ new office, Hughes sitting behind the desk and Patton perching on the chair in front of him.

  “I wanted to talk with you alone, Bart,” Patton said, “because I wanted to congratulate you on the fine job you’ve done here in Saarlautern.”

  “Thank you sir,” replied Hughes.

  “You displayed gallantry and made use of sound military tactics in your assault. I knew I was putting the right man in command of the Hammerheads, and you’ve vindicated my judgment.”

  General Hughes thought he’d better tell the truth before Patton found it out from some other source. “Sir,” he said, “I really didn’t plan this assault the way you think I did. We probably wouldn’t even be here right now if one of my line battalions didn’t take it upon themselves to charge into this city without any support at all.”

  “But you knew they were doing it, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes sir.”

  “And you didn’t try to stop them, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Patton shrugged. “That’s pretty important, Bart. A general has to know when to get the hell out of his men’s way and let them do their job. A lesser man, in the position you were in, would have told everybody to stop so he could get his bearings and figure out what to do. You had enough sense to let your boys keep rolling. That’s the mark of a leader, as far as I’m concerned.”

  General Hughes smiled because Patton’s remarks made sense to him. For the first time, he felt as though he’d contributed something significant to the assault on Saarlautern. “The men in this division are great soldiers,” he said, his chest swelling with pride. “They deserve the fine reputation that they have.”

  Patton leaned forward. “Let me tell you something, Bart. Men like the Hammerheads can make or break an officer. You have to know when to push them and when to back off. Sometimes you have to treat them like children and other times you have to respect them for the fighting men that they are. I thought you’d figure out how to handle them when I appointed you their commander. This is the first time you’ve commanded a division and you’ve got a lot to learn, but I’m sure you’ll be all right.” Patton looked at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to be moving along. Keep up the good work, Bart.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Patton stood, and General Hughes saluted him. Patton returned the salute and left the office. He marched down the corridor, nodding to the GIs who saluted, and left the building, climbing into his jeep and driving off to another sector of the Third Army front.

  ~*~

  Mahoney opened his eyes and saw a white wall. His head felt as if it had been hit by a Mack truck. “Oooohhh,” he moaned.

 
; “Sergeant Mahoney’s awake,” said a female voice.

  Mahoney couldn’t move. “Ooooohhhhh.”

  A pretty young nurse appeared in his line of vision, and Mahoney recognized her as Nurse Jackson, the petite one with the famous rear end. Beside her was another nurse Mahoney didn’t know.

  “How are you feeling this afternoon, Sergeant Mahoney?” Nurse Jackson asked, taking Mahoney’s pulse.

  “Oooohhhhh,” replied Mahoney.

  “I don’t think Sergeant Mahoney’s feeling very well this afternoon,” Nurse Jackson said to the other nurse, whose nametag said OBOJSKI. “His pulse is normal, though.”

  “What happened to me?” Mahoney groaned.

  “You’ve got a concussion,” Nurse Jackson said spryly.

  “Is that bad?” Mahoney asked.

  “It’s better than the skull fracture that everybody thought you had when you came in here.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Three days.”

  “I’ve been out cold for three days?”

  “No, you woke up a few times and talked, but I guess you don’t remember,” Nurse Jackson said. “You said some things that were disgusting.”

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t think I’d repeat things like that, do you?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “It was that bad, huh?”

  “Yes.” She let go of Mahoney’s wrist. “Well, you just take it easy there, Sergeant Mahoney, and in a few days I’m sure you’ll be up and around.”

  Mahoney tried to grin. “How can I take it easy with babes like you walking around in front of me?”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage. Everyone else does.”

  “Did you work in a bank by any chance before you joined the Army, Nurse Jackson?”

  “What makes you ask that, Sergeant Mahoney?”

  “Because you’ve got some awfully nice assets, Nurse Jackson.”

  “Close your eyes and get some rest, Sergeant Mahoney. Thoughts like that aren’t doing you any good at all.”