Bullet Bridge Page 5

  Everyone on the platform threw the Nazi Salute, and the top officials shook their Fuehrer’s hand. They accompanied him outside to waiting Mercedes-Benz limousines. Armed SS men from the Liebstandarte Division formed a cordon around the limousines, and Hitler entered one with General Jodl and Joseph Goebbels.

  The caravan of limousines moved across the city of Berlin, and Hitler looked morosely out of the windows at buildings demolished by Allied air raids. He hadn’t been in Berlin for several months, preferring to reside at his headquarters in Rastenberg on the Eastern Front. Now he was returning only because he needed an operation to remove a laryngeal polyp on the anterior third of his left vocal cord, and he intended to leave for Rastenburg again as soon as the operation was finished.

  The caravan stopped at the Chancellery, and Hitler got out of his limousine. Flanked by aides, he climbed the steps and entered the imposing bomb-damaged granite structure that was the political nerve center of the Third Reich. Servants and flunkies lined the corridors, hoping to catch a glimpse of their Fuehrer as he made his way to the conference room.

  Hitler smiled and nodded to them, and occasionally stopped to shake the hand of one of them. He genuinely liked his servants and people often said this was proof of his great humanity, but they didn’t realize he wanted to make everybody in the world into his servant.

  Finally the horde of officials entered the conference room. Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel stood at the map table, ready to brief his Fuehrer on recent developments on both fronts. Keitel was stout, wore a white mustache, and was commander-in-chief of the army. Many considered him Hitler’s most flagrant yes-man.

  Aides helped Hitler remove his coat, and he approached the map table. “You may begin,” Hitler told Keitel.

  “Well,” Keitel began, puffing out his chest, “the situation on the Eastern Front has remained more or less static since you left Rastenburg yesterday, but in the west the Allied armies are threatening to break into the Saar basin.”

  “Where?” Hitler asked.

  “Here,” replied Keitel, pointing with his stubby finger.

  “Hmmm.” Hitler stroked his jaw and considered the dangerous situation in the Saar. Armeegruppe Patton had been attacking the area since November 8th and already had taken the important city of Metz. Patton and his army had become a continual source of worry to Hitler, because Hitler was trying to organize troops and tanks for his big Ardennes Offensive and he was afraid Patton would storm into his staging areas before the offensive could be launched. Also, Patton’s successes resulted in the killing of huge numbers of German soldiers, and everyone was clamoring for replacements. But if Hitler sent the replacements, he wouldn’t have enough soldiers for his big offensive.

  Hitler furrowed his brow and paced from side to side like a wounded tiger as he gazed at the map. His cheeks became pale and everyone could see that he was getting angry. Hitler was even-tempered when things were going his way, but when obstacles fell in front of him, he became hysterical. He thought that Patton might spoil the chances of his big offensive, code-named Wacht am Rhein, which he hoped would change the face of the war. The history of the world hung in the balance, just because one American general was making problems.

  Hitler raised his eyes and fastened them on Keitel. “Patton must be stopped,” he said in a low murderous growl.

  “Yes my Fuehrer,” replied Keitel, who always tried to agree with Hitler.

  General Alfred Jodl, standing on the other side of Hitler, was the army’s chief of staff, but no lackey like Keitel. Although he too was devoted to his Fuehrer, he had a brilliant military mind and the courage to state his beliefs.

  “My Fuehrer,” he said, “we have nothing to stop Patton with, unless you make available some of the troops and tanks being assembled for Operation Wacht am Rhein.”

  “No!” screamed Hitler, pounding his fist on the map table so hard that pencils and coffee cups danced around. “Absolutely not!”

  “Then what do you propose, my Fuehrer?”

  “Transfer troops from fronts that are not so hard-pressed!”

  “We’re hard-pressed everywhere, my Fuehrer.”

  Hitler turned to Jodl and spoke with such vehemence that flicks of his spit flew onto Jodl’s face.

  “Everything is relative, Jodl!” he said. “It is true that we are hard-pressed everywhere, but in some spots we are less hard-pressed! For instance, perhaps a few more divisions can be spared from the northern sectors of our line, which seems to be holding fairly well.”

  “It may not hold so well if we take away those regiments, my Fuehrer.”

  Hitler banged his fist on the table again. “Don’t trouble me with these petty details! You generals should know how to rearrange your lines! Well rearrange them and stop bothering me! I have given you my order, and now you must carry it out!”

  Jodl bowed his head. “Yes, my Fuehrer.”

  ~*~

  Mahoney walked through a bombed-out residential neighborhood in Metz, looking at the women, children, and old men on the sidewalks. He carried a light field pack and his carbine at sling arms and smoked a Philip Morris cigarette. He was in Metz to spring his friend Cranepool out of the division hospital, but first he thought he’d try to find a quick piece of ass for himself.

  He and the rest of Charlie Company had fought for their lives in this neighborhood two weeks ago, but now the war had moved far away and the people were trying to pull their lives together. They’d returned to their devastated buildings and used scrap wood for fuel. Some of their food came from the U.S. Army and the rest they had to scrounge for. They looked at Mahoney with a mixture of fear and resentment, for their lives had been ruined by soldiers like him.

  The children gazed at him with big hungry eyes, moving closer cautiously, trying to smile. They were ragged and skinny, with faces that reflected the tragedy they’d seen in their short lives. Mahoney winked and took out the candy bars he’d brought with him. The children crowded around him, waving their arms and jumping up and down. Mahoney tossed them the candy bars, and they plucked them out of the air, tearing off the wrappers and stuffing the candy into their hungry mouths.

  Mahoney patted the kids on the head and walked through them, remembering when he was a kid in Hell’s Kitchen in New York. He was grateful he’d never been as bad off as these kids. He’d never missed a meal in those days, although many of his meals hadn’t consisted of very much. He’d always thought there was something wrong with a world that permitted some people to starve, while others lived in the lap of luxury.

  He was aware of the people on the street looking at him, wondering what he would do next. This was an out of the way neighborhood where the military authorities didn’t visit often. Open fires burned in vacant rubble-strewn lots, and people stood around the fires warming their hands. Some sat huddled on the stoops of buildings, shivering. Others watched him from behind windows that had broken panes of glass.

  Mahoney felt self-conscious, but that didn’t stop him. He might be dead this time tomorrow, so he didn’t care what these people thought of him. He wanted to get laid, and to hell with everything else.

  The problem was that it was hard to see what the women looked like. They all wore raggedy clothes and were disheveled. There was nothing glamorous about them at all. But they were women and that was all that mattered.

  He didn’t want one too old or too young, but at first he didn’t see a woman in the middle category. The women looked at him fearfully and many moved out of his path quickly, and he imagined that some of them had been raped during the fighting for the city.

  But some of them didn’t run away and hide, and he knew they wanted whatever he had in his pack and would rent him their bodies in order to get it. They were the tough ones who cared more about survival than about what their neighbors thought of them.

  Mahoney didn’t have a lot of time to check out the merchandise, and figured he’d better make a fast decision and get his piece of ass, because he had to be back in Charlie C
ompany by reveille tomorrow.

  The front door of a house opened and a woman stepped out. Mahoney checked her quickly and thought she was reasonably attractive. He suspected that she’d seen him coming from one of the windows in the house, and then came downstairs to get him.

  She had red hair and wore a black coat that was threadbare in a few spots and lightened by patches of dust. Her hair was gathered into a bun behind her head but many strands hung loose over her ears. She was midpoint between pretty and ugly, with rawboned features and large mouth, but her figure didn’t look bad, although Mahoney couldn’t see much of it underneath the coat. However, the coat bulged out over her breasts, and he considered that a good sign.

  He stopped in front of the stoop and smiled. “Hi,” he said.

  She didn’t smile back. “Hello.”

  Her legs were white, slim, and muscular. Mahoney hadn’t made love to a woman in a long time and began to get an erection. “Why don’t you invite me in?” he said in German. “I’ll give you a package of American cigarettes.”

  “You have food?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I need food,” she said.

  “I have a few cans of C rations in my pack.”

  Her face was expressionless. “Come in.”

  He entered the vestibule and she followed him, closing the splintered door behind them. She passed him and they looked at each other’s faces, making evaluations. He thought she was pretty, but her hostility was unmistakable. She’d screw him only because she needed food and cigarettes for basic survival, and she hated him for the power he had over her. His erection shrank in his pants.

  “Forget it,” he said, moving toward the door.

  She grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  He shrugged. “I’m going to find somebody else.”

  She looked into his eyes imploringly. “Why?”

  “Because I’d rather screw somebody who doesn’t hate me quite as much as you do.”

  “I don’t hate you,” she said softly.

  “Yes you do.”

  Her eyes flashed with rage. “Well, you don’t expect me to love you, do you!”

  “No, and I don’t love you either, but at least we can have a good time.”

  She smiled grimly. “Just like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” she said, “I’ll do anything you say because I’m desperate. Please don’t go.”

  Mahoney wanted to go, but he couldn’t now that she was begging him. “Lead the way,” he said.

  She ascended the stairs, and he followed her, feeling angry at himself. He only had a short while to spend with a woman, and he’d picked one who’d hated him. It would have been much better if he could have found a whorehouse. At least a whore will give you your money’s worth.

  At the top of the stairs she opened a door. They entered a kitchen in need of paint and plaster. A crib was in the corner and Mahoney walked over to it. An infant was sleeping inside.

  “This yours?” he asked.

  She unbuttoned her coat. “Yes.”

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “He’s dead. He was a soldier like you.”

  She took off her coat and hung it on a hook. Underneath she wore a brown wool dress that was torn and mended in several places. She was a big-boned woman, the type who would be a good worker. Mahoney leaned his carbine against the wall and took off his knapsack. He lay it on the table, untied the straps, and took out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Here,” he said, pushing them toward her.

  She picked them up. “Thank you. I don’t smoke myself, but I can use them to buy milk for my baby.”

  Mahoney took two more packs out of his pack and gave them to her. “Take these too.”

  She shook her head. “No, we agreed on one pack.”

  “I said take them,” he said gruffly. “I can get more. We get plenty of cigarettes.”

  She smiled faintly, her first so far. “Thank you.”

  He took out a few cans of C rations. “Take these too.”

  “Would you like me to warm them up for us right now?” she asked.

  “I don’t have time,” he replied. “Keep them for later.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  He looked her up and down and realized that she’d become prettier as she’d become friendlier. The hard lines on her face were softer, and he saw that she was just a woman with a lot of troubles trying to get along as best she could, and she probably wouldn’t mind a good fuck with a man who treated her right.

  He walked around the table, looked into her eyes, and placed his hands on her hips. “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Where’s the bedroom?”

  “In there.”

  She took his hand and led him to a door.

  “Go in there and take off your clothes,” she said. “I want to look at the baby.”

  He entered the room and took off his helmet, placing it on the dresser. The room was immaculate and no sheets were on the bed, only two wool blankets. Mahoney felt sorry for the woman. What a terrible life she had. He sat down on the bed and sighed.

  She entered the room. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You look sad.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “If you’re okay, why do you look so sad?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Why aren’t you taking your clothes off?”

  He stood and unbuttoned his shirt. “I am taking my clothes off.”

  He undressed, and she stood in front of the mirror, letting her hair down and combing it out. She hummed a little tune, and Mahoney thought of how strange women were in their moods. He unlaced his combat boots, pulled them off, and lowered his pants. Stepping out of them, shivering in the cold room, he climbed onto the bed and pulled the wool blankets over him.

  She pulled her dress over her head and folded it carefully over the back of a chair. Her body was long and rangy, just the way he’d imagined it, and her breasts were round and pendulous. She removed her brassiere and underpants, folding them carefully too, and he realized that she didn’t have many clothes and had to take care of what she had.

  With a coquettish smile, she got into bed with him, pulling away the hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Well, here we are,” she said.

  He ran his hands over her body. “Yes, here we are.”

  He lay on his back, and she lowered her lips to his. They kissed gently, tasting each other, gaining familiarity through their fingers. Gradually they became more passionate, writhing against each other, chewing each other’s lips. She gripped his cock tightly, and he touched the soft damp place between her legs, making her quiver and sigh. Still on top of him, she spread her legs and impaled herself with him, and slowly slid down onto it. When he was in her all the way, she went limp.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s been so long.”

  “How long?” he asked.

  “I’ve stopped counting. What’s your name?”

  “Mahoney.”

  “I’m Krista.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hello.”

  She kissed his ear, and he grabbed her shapely ass, pulling her tighter against him. They did the bump and grind, grunting and moaning as they kissed and tried to make the war go away.

  Chapter Four

  “Time for your medication, Corporal Cranepool,” said the cute little nurse.

  Cranepool looked up from the copy of Stars and Stripes that he’d been reading while lying in bed in the division. The nurse, who was blond like Cranepool, held out the little cup of pills, and Cranepool took it from her.

  “How are you feeling, Corporal Cranepool?” she asked with a smile as she filled the glass with water.

  “Just fine, Nurse Jackson,” Cranepool replied.

  She handed him the water and gazed meaningfully into his eyes. Cranepool knew what that gaze meant because he’d bec
ome a shrewd young man since he’d joined the Army and seen some of the world. This nurse liked him, but he didn’t know whether or not to follow through.

  In other circumstances, he wouldn’t have hesitated. The nurse presumably knew every nook and cranny in the hospital, and he’d just ask her where they could get together. She’d play cutesy for a little bit, and then she’d tell him. They’d arrange a rendezvous and get down to business.

  But Cranepool had been reexamining his life ever since he’d been wounded. Mahoney, before leaving for the front several days ago, had visited Cranepool at the hospital and pointed out, during their conversation, that Cranepool had never been wounded or even scratched back in the days when he didn’t drink, gamble, or chase girls. Gradually he’d become more interested in these pastimes until he was as corrupt as any other soldier, and finally he’d stopped a bullet in a fight beside some railroad tracks in downtown Metz. Mahoney had suggested that there was a direct link between all these things. He said that the angels had been protecting Cranepool as long as he was good, but once he started to go downhill, they bugged out like a GI on K.P. with the mess sergeant looking the other way.

  Cranepool didn’t want to believe Mahoney, because he liked to get drunk, shoot craps, and screw girls. But on the other hand he didn’t want to get killed.

  He tossed the pills down his throat and drank the water, looking into Nurse Jackson’s blue eyes. She winked at him. Cranepool felt himself getting an erection, and he’d like to jam it between Nurse Jackson’s healthy young thighs.

  He handed her the glass, and she lingered, pretending to check his bed while waiting for him to make a pass. But he didn’t because something told him that if he got her alone in a broom closet someplace, he’d get a bullet right in the middle of his forehead on his first day back at the front.

  She furrowed her brow and looked at him. “You sure you’re all right, Corporal Cranepool?”