Hammerhead (The Sergeant War Novel Book 9) Page 6

  The Germans lessened their fire as some of them went after the Americans they heard escaping.

  “Cranepool!” said Mahoney. “Let’s go!”

  Mahoney jumped up, and they ran to the right, keeping their heads low. The night was filled with the sound of running feet, shouting, and barking dogs. Mahoney and Cranepool charged through the bushes as quickly as they could go and came upon three German soldiers in a moonlit clearing.

  “Who’s there!” one of the Germans shouted, spinning around.

  Mahoney and Cranepool opened fire before the Germans could get set and cut them down. They jumped over the bodies of the Germans and plunged into the thickest bushes they could see.

  “Stop here!” Mahoney said.

  They lay down amid the tangle of bushes, breathing hard and sweating.

  “That fucking asshole!” Mahoney said.

  “Ssshhh,” replied Cranepool.

  The clearing behind them filled with German soldiers, who inspected the bodies of their fallen comrades.

  “They must be around here someplace,” said a German officer.

  The officer issued orders that sent groups of soldiers down the paths that led from the clearing, but no one thought of combing the bushes nearby. Medics came and removed the bodies from the clearing. The officer chatted with a few soldiers, then walked off in the direction from which he’d originally come.

  The clearing became deserted. Gunshots could be heard from different parts of the woods, along with running men and barking dogs.

  “I think,” Mahoney said, “that we’d better fix bayonets just in case.”

  They pulled their bayonets from their scabbards and fastened them to the ends of their carbines.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Mahoney said.

  They crawled out of the bushes and walked cautiously through the woods, crouching low and holding their carbines ready. They angled around German soldiers whenever they heard them and hid whenever German soldiers came their way.

  The sound of dogs came closer. They barked, whined, and howled as they galloped over forest trails and through the underbrush. Mahoney hoped they weren’t coming in his direction, but after a while he realized that they were.

  “We’d better get ready for those mutts,” he told Cranepool. “I think they’re headed this way.”

  “I was kind of hoping that they were chewing on Lieutenant Woodward by now.”

  Mahoney looked around for a big boulder or a steep hill that would protect their backs, but he couldn’t see anything.

  “Get a tree behind you,” Mahoney said. “They’re gonna be here any minute.”

  Mahoney and Cranepool stood in front of trees and heard dogs yelp and whine as they followed the scent. Mahoney planted one foot behind him, holding his carbine tightly and squinting as he looked for the dogs. His mouth became dry because big angry dogs scared the shit out of him. They were much tougher to fight than men, and Mahoney had already been bitten by German dogs a few times. They were faster than men and could tear out your windpipe in a second.

  “Here they come!” Cranepool said.

  The dogs darted among the trees and shot through the underbrush. They saw Mahoney and Cranepool and sped toward them, leaping into the air.

  Mahoney and Cranepool fired their carbines on automatic and sprayed the air with hot lead. Some of the dogs whined and writhed as they dropped to the ground, but the rest kept coming, and Mahoney figured there were a dozen of them at least. One flew toward Mahoney, and he could see its long white fangs and bloodshot eyes. He fired a burst at it, and the dog’s head disappeared, leaving behind a body and the bloody stump of a neck. The dead dog sailed past Mahoney, and two more jumped at him. Mahoney pulled his trigger and swung his carbine from side to side, peppering them with holes, as a huge Doberman pinscher dove at Mahoney’s legs and dug his fangs into his combat boots.

  Mahoney aimed his carbine low and fired a burst into the animal’s back, disintegrating its spine, and its jaws went slack. A German shepherd snarled viciously and made a lunge for Mahoney’s other leg, but Mahoney aimed his carbine low and ripped the animal apart with hot lead.

  A furry blur caught the corner of his eye, and he raised his carbine to fire at it. Two bullets shot out of the barrel of the carbine, and then the bolt went click. Mahoney raised his carbine to protect himself, and the dog chomped its huge drooling mouth on the part of the barrel just above the trigger guard. The dog’s eyes were only inches from Mahoney’s; he could see the insane animal bloodlust inside them. The dog realized he was chewing wood and steel, not human flesh, so he let go and tried for Mahoney’s arm.

  Mahoney whacked the dog in the head with the butt of his rifle, but he didn’t have enough leverage and couldn’t put much power behind it. The dog dropped to the ground slightly dazed, and Mahoney harpooned him in the ribs with his bayonet.

  Another dog collided with Mahoney and sank his teeth into Mahoney’s right bicep. Mahoney reached for the dog’s head and jabbed his thumb and forefinger into the dog’s eyes. The dog yelped in pain but hung on to Mahoney’s arm. Mahoney gritted his teeth, dug his finger and thumb deeper into the dog’s eye sockets, and pulled the squirming dog’s head away. The dog fell to the snow and Mahoney stomped on his head three times until the dog’s skull was bashed in.

  Mahoney heard the grunts of Cranepool and the sound of Germans shouting over the barking and howling of the dogs. He looked around and saw dead or wounded dogs lying all around him. Cranepool was fighting two with his bayonet. One chewed on Cranepool’s right forearm while the other tried to maneuver around Cranepool’s thrusting bayonet.

  Mahoney ejected the empty clip in his carbine and rammed in a fresh one. He ran toward Cranepool and fired at the dog lunging at Cranepool’s legs. His bullets hit the dog in the side, and their impact threw him to the ground. Cranepool grabbed the other dog by its jaw and pressed his fingers into a sensitive nerve. The dog was forced to open his mouth and release Cranepool’s forearm. Cranepool stepped back, and the dog dropped onto the snow. He crouched to spring at Cranepool again, but Mahoney fired a burst at him, and the dog toppled into the snow, his fur covered with blood.

  “Are you all right?” Mahoney asked Cranepool.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  They turned and ran into the woods, leaving dead dogs sprawled all over the snow.

  Chapter Six

  Regiment A of the German 317th SS Panzergrenadier Division entered the town of Comblain at three o’clock in the morning. It was a new unit recently formed in Germany and had been rushed to the Ardennes to help in the fight to take Bastogne.

  Its commander was Colonel Kurt Richter, who rode in the lead armored car, followed by a long column of armored personnel carriers. Richter looked at the buildings of Comblain with distaste because it was a poor little farming town and probably would not have comfortable quarters.

  Richter’s car stopped in front of the headquarters of the small garrison in the town, and his aid, Private Hendl, ran around to open the door. Richter stepped out of the car, wearing a black leather topcoat and shiny black leather boots. A black steel helmet sat squarely on his head, with the aluminum lightning bolts of the SS on the side. He strode purposefully to the modest stone building, paused as Hendl opened the door for him, and entered an office.

  A soldier shot to his feet behind the desk and shouted “Heil Hitler!”

  Richter narrowed his eyes and showed the palm of his hand. “Take me to your commander at once.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The soldier led Richter to a door and pushed it open. Richter marched inside and saw a young captain sitting behind a desk, drinking a cup of coffee. The captain’s knapsack leaned against the side of the desk, and his topcoat hung from a nail hammered into the wall. Richter showed him his palm. “I am Colonel Kurt Richter of the 317th SS Panzergrenadiers,” he said. “I am herewith relieving you of your duties in the Comblain sector as per Special Order Numb
er 312, dated December 26, 1944.”

  The captain rose to his feet and smiled. “The town’s all yours,” he said, “and you’re welcome to it. My men and prisoners will be gone within half an hour.”

  “Prisoners?” asked Richter. “What prisoners?”

  “When this town was taken, there were some wounded American soldiers and a nurse here.”

  “A nurse?” asked Richter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A female nurse?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s rather pretty too.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the local jail with the rest of the prisoners.”

  Richter took off his helmet, revealing short straight blond hair, and turned to Hendl. “Get me my adjutant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hendl sped from the room, and Richter looked at the captain again. “Where is this jail you’ve mentioned?”

  The captain told him the street and gave him directions. Then Major Franz Glucker, Richter’s adjutant, entered the room and saluted.

  “You wanted to see me, sir.”

  “There are some American prisoners in this town, Glucker. Go with a few squads and take them into custody.” He told Glucker the location of the jail and Glucker saluted again, marching out of the office.

  The army captain was surprised by Richter’s order. “You’re not going to let me take the prisoners away, sir?”

  “No,” Richter replied, unbuttoning his leather coat. “Hendl, throw more wood on this fire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But first hang up my coat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hendl helped Richter remove his coat, and the captain stared in amazement because he was in the regular German army and never had dealt with the SS before. “Why are you keeping the prisoners here?” the captain asked. “Won’t they be in your way when you mount your offensive?”

  “They might have important information. I want to interrogate them.”

  “They’ve already been interrogated, sir. I can send for the reports.”

  Richter smiled superciliously as he sat behind the desk. “I know how to conduct interrogations, Captain, and I don’t want to hold you up. You may leave whenever you wish.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The captain threw the Hitler salute, picked up his pack, and marched to the door.

  Richter turned to Hendl, who was throwing wood into a black potbellied stove. “When you’re finished over there, make my bed and heat some water for a bath.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richter took a cigarette from a silver case embossed with a swastika and lit it with a matching lighter. He and his men had been travelling almost continuously for thirty-six hours, and although he felt tired, he was looking forward to the attack in the morning. Richter had spent most of his career in the Gestapo, but now the Allies had recaptured most of Europe, and there wasn’t much for Gestapo men to do. He’d been transferred to the SS. Most of his soldiers had been ex-Gestapo men or prison guards, so they were in the same predicament as he, and the rest were draftees. Richter was eager to do well in the Waffen (combat) SS because he didn’t want his career to stagnate.

  Richter was on his second cigarette when Glucker returned. “Sir,” he reported, “I’ve taken the Americans into custody.”

  “The nurse too?”

  “Yes, sir.” Glucker smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. “She’s quite a beauty, sir.”

  “Bring her to me at once.”

  Glucker left the officer just as Hendl entered, carrying trunks filled with sheets and blankets.

  “Hendl,” Richter said, “is there a bathroom in this place?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, a very nice one,” Hendl said. “It’s right down the hall on your right.”

  Richter strolled down the hall and found the bathroom, where he took a leak. Then he stood in front of the mirror and washed his hands, looking at the stubble on his cheeks and at his slightly misshapen features. Whenever Richter looked into a mirror, he always became annoyed that the plastic surgery done to his face hadn’t restored it to its former symmetry. His nose was slightly crooked, one cheekbone a millimeter or two higher than the other, and his chin a bit out of line. He imagined everyone could see these defects although most people never looked that closely.

  He’d gone under the plastic surgeon’s knife twice in his life, after two severe beatings. The first had been at the hands of a French Maquis in Normandy shortly before the Allied invasion and the second in Paris, after an encounter with a big American master sergeant.

  The weird part of it was that the American master sergeant and French Maquis had looked identical, and sometimes Richter thought they were the same person although that didn’t make sense. Richter had the face engraved on his mind and prayed that a day would come when he’d meet the man again, so he could exact retribution.

  He washed his hands and face and returned to the desk, lighting a third cigarette. When he was halfway through it, Major Glucker returned with the nurse.

  She wore a wool U.S. Army overcoat, and a wool muffler covered her hair, which was blond like Richter’s. She was of average height and appeared buxom beneath her overcoat. Richter thought she had a lovely face and smiled at his good fortune in finding her in the town.

  Glucker gave the Hitler salute and shouted “Heil Hitler!”

  “Find something to do,” Richter told him.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Glucker turned and walked out of the office. Richter smiled and looked at the nurse. “What is your name, please?” Richter asked in German-accented English.

  “Claire Sackett,” she replied.

  Richter had conducted many interrogations in his career and now heard her fear. “Take off your coat, and sit down.”

  She untied the muffler. Her hair was wavy, nearly reaching her shoulders. Private Hendl entered the room as she was unbuttoning her coat.

  “The bedroom is ready sir,” he reported.

  “Leave me alone for a while.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hendl left the office, and the nurse removed her coat. Underneath she wore O.D. fatigue pants and a shirt, and Richter gazed at her bosom in admiration. She draped her coat over the back of a chair, and Richter got a glimpse of her bottom, which was full and shapely. She looked like a strong, healthy woman who might become fat in ten years, but Richter thought she was magnificent now.

  “How old are you?” Richter asked.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Have a seat, please.”

  The nurse sat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. Her face was pale, and she looked terrified.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said soothingly. “Nothing will happen to you as long as you cooperate.” He took out his cigarette case and held it out to her. “Care for one?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, leaning forward and taking one.

  He lit her cigarette, and she returned to her chair, taking a deep inhale.

  “Are you married?” Richter asked.

  “No.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “St. Augustine, Florida.”

  “Ah,” said Richter, “I believe I read someplace that it’s very warm in Florida.”

  “Yes, for most of the year.”

  “I see,” said Richter. “Would you come with me, please?”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Just down the hall.”

  “Should I take my coat with me?”

  “You may leave it here.”

  They rose from their chairs and walked side by side down the corridor. Richter could sense her soft feminine body beside him, and blood throbbed in his neck. He entered the bedroom and said, “In here, please.”

  She followed him in, saw the recently-made bed, and knew what was coming next.

  “Take your clothes off,” he told her.

  “No,” she replied, setting her jaw.

  “I don’t have any time to waste,” he said crossly. �
�If you don’t do as I say, I’ll simply have your wounded American soldiers shot.”

  Her lips trembled. She didn’t know what to do. If she didn’t go to bed with him, he’d kill the GIs, and if she did go to bed with him, she didn’t know what would become of her mind because the weird part of it was that he was turning her on! It was true. There was something about his black uniform and black shiny boots that was getting to her, along with his cruel but handsome features. Claire had always been a little wild when it came to sex, and sometimes she worried that she was a nymphomaniac, but she’d never thought she could feel sexual desire for an enemy of her country. Her head began to spin, and she sobbed softly into her hands.

  “Stop crying,” he snapped. “I can’t bear it when women cry. Well, I guess I’ll have to issue the order to have those Americans shot.”

  “No!” she said.

  He turned to her. “Then take off your clothes.”

  Her hand trembled as she unbuttoned her fatigue shirt. Richter smiled and puffed his cigarette as he saw her big, round breasts straining against her brassiere. She unsnapped the brassiere, and her nipples swung from side to side like rosebuds in the wind.

  “You’re really quite lovely,” he said. “Hurry up with the rest of your clothes.”

  She sat on the bed and untied her combat boots, dropping them to the floor, as he unbuttoned his black tunic. Hanging it on a bedpost, he sat on a chair and pulled off his shiny black boots. She stood and pushed down her fatigue pants and underpants, stepping out of them. She bent to pick them up, and Richter’s mind was inflamed by the sight of her blonde pubic hairs.

  One boot on and one boot off, he dashed across the room and pressed his face against her bottom, drooling and licking between her legs. She moaned and dropped to her hands and knees on the floor, as he pushed his tongue inside her. He grunted and slobbered as he licked both her orifices, and she whimpered, wagging her fanny from side to side and clawing the carpet. I’m a sick disgusting human being, she thought, nearly fainting from the pleasure she was receiving, and she figured this was by far the most demented thing she’d ever done in her life—and she’d done some pretty demented things.

  ~*~