The Sergeant 9: Hammerhead

Fresh from the slaughter at Bastogne, Sgt. C.J. Mahoney rejoins Charlie Company of Patton’s Hammerhead Division. His new commander is glory-seeking Lt. Woodward, a stiff-spined West Pointer who wields his rank like a bullwhip—all of it stinging Mahoney’s hide. Just as the Sergeant is about to rearrange his new superior officer’s baby face, German bullets and grenades burst through the heavy snowfall. Slicing his way through the blood and guts of no-man’s-land with his kill-crazy sidekick Cranepool, Mahoney is singled out by Woodward for a volley of arrogant abuse. Burning at both ends, the Sergeant blasts hell at Hitler’s advancing troops, saving the entire company from oblivion. Mahoney is up for the Silver Star—but first he vows to settle the score with a particular backstabbing lieutenant!

THE SERGEANT 9: HAMMERHEAD

By Len Levinson

First Published by Corgi Books in 1982

Copyright © 1981, 2015 by Len Levinson

First Smashwords Edition: November 2015

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero

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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

Chapter One

ACHTUNG!

The officers snapped to attention, and the door of the conference room opened. The stooped, hobbling figure of Adolf Hitler materialized out of the darkness of the corridor and advanced unsteadily toward the map table. His complexion was ashen, and his eyes looked bleary and bloodshot. His lips and left arm trembled, and his head had sunk so low he resembled a hunchback.

Stand at ease! Hitler croaked as he staggered to the map table.

Generals and field marshals stepped out of his way. Junior officers stared at him with fascination. Although their Führer had become old and sick, they believed he was still the soul of Germany, and only he could lead the Reich to victory.

Hitler reached the table and gazed at the map of Belgium. While many of the older officers studied him beneath hooded eyes, astonished by the extent to which he’d deteriorated in the few weeks since they’d seen him last.

Begin! Hitler said.

General Alfred Jodl, Hitler’s chief of staff, summarized recent events in the Ardennes sector of Belgium, where Hitler had unleashed his Wacht am Rhein offensive against the Americans only eleven days before. Jodl was a tall, bald man with a long face and jug ears, and he spoke in a steady matter-of-fact voice that offered no insight into his feelings about the calamities he described.

The Second Panzer division had made the deepest penetration into the American position but had been decimated near Celles. Kampfgruppe Peiper, another spearhead unit, had been destroyed in the Meuse Valley. The Americans on the crucial Elsenborn Ridge were beating back every German attack. The 116th Panzer had been stopped cold near Verdenne. Patton’s Third Army had broken through to embattled Bastogne, the key road and rail center in the Ardennes, after the Germans had surrounded and tried to take it for nearly a week.

General Jodl finished his briefing, and the room became silent. Hitler took a new white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his nose, as his eyes roved over the map, noting troop dispositions throughout the bulge that the German Army had made into Belgium.

He turned to Field Marshal Gerd von Runstedt, the commander in chief of the western front. What do you have to say?

At seventy, von Runstedt was the grand old man of the German Army. His face was deeply lined, and his eyes were weary, but he stood erect and faced his Führer.

I think we must begin, he said, by examining the situation objectively. The offensive has not gone according to plan. We have not achieved our goals, and it is unlikely that we shall do so in the foreseeable future. I recommend, therefore, that the Fifth and Sixth Panzer Armies withdraw to a defensive line east of Bastogne, and we hold there until large scale operations can be mounted again.

Hitler’s upper lip curled in contempt. Withdrawal is quite out of the question, he said in a low, tremulous voice. "Only an offensive will enable us to win the war in the west. Moreover, you speak as if Wacht am Rhein has failed. I say to you all that it has not failed. Although we have not crossed the Meuse and captured Antwerp, we must admit there has been a tremendous easing of our situation in the west. The Americans have had to abandon their plans for a winter attack. They have been forced to withdraw fifty percent of their forces from other sectors, and they have suffered immense casualties. Victory in the Ardennes will belong to the side which has the courage to reach for it. Hitler looked at his officers and smiled faintly, showing the ends of his rotting teeth. Now listen closely as I tell you how victory can be accomplished. First, I want three new divisions and at least twenty-five thousand fresh replacements rushed to the Ardennes from other sectors. Second, Field Marshal von Runstedt will consolidate his holdings and reorganize for a new attempt to force the Meuse. And third, we must make a final, powerful assault on Bastogne. Hitler pointed his boney finger at the part of the map that showed the city. Bastogne is the key to the Ardennes. If we’d captured it when we were supposed to, we wouldn’t be having the problems that are bedeviling us now. I want all our forces in the Ardennes concentrated on Bastogne. Above all, we must have Bastogne!"

Chapter Two

A raging snowstorm blew over the Ardennes. Mahoney withdrew his head into the collar of his field jacket and bent into the wind as he trudged through the snowdrifts. He was on the outskirts of Bastogne, heading for the encampment of Charlie Company, which was in the woods up ahead.

He heard the snowflakes against his steel helmet, and whenever he looked up, the icy flakes crashed into his eyeballs, making him blink. His inhalations sucked the snowflakes into his nostrils, and if he opened his mouth, they tickled his tongue. He couldn’t see farther than ten feet away, and he relied on his compass to bring him back to Charlie Company.

When he reached the woods, he kneeled beside the wide trunk of a tree and unbuttoned his field jacket to get a cigarette. The warm air from his woolen shirt rose to his face, and he smelled the perfume that Madeleine wore.

Mahoney took out a Lucky Strike and lit it with his old Zippo. Still kneeling, he inhaled and thought of Madeleine. She was a little brunette with a cute face and nice figure. He’d met her in a tavern in Clervaux on the night of December 15, a few hours before the Germans began the Battle of the Bulge. They’d become separated, and found each other again in Bastogne. He’d still be with her and might have married her, but he had been ordered to return to Charlie Company.

Mahoney puffed the cigarette and thought of Madeleine, her dreamy eyes and the way she moved when he held her in his arms. It was strange how some women left you cold and others made you do flip-flops. Mahoney had fallen hard for Madeleine, and now he imagined that she was alone in her little room, crying into her handkerchief and chain-smoking cigarettes. He’d told her he’d come back to Bastogne to marry her when the war was over, but he’d only said that from bravado, to make her feel better, because he knew that the odds were against him surviving the war.

Mahoney buttoned his jacket and trudged on. There was no point thinking about things he couldn’t do anything about. Madeleine had gotten along without Mahoney before she’d met him, and she’d get along without him now.

Mahoney moved toward Charlie Company. He was a big man, over six feet tall, with a broad shouldered, husky build. Several days before the Battle of the Bulge had begun, he’d been sent on temporary duty into the Ardennes on a reconnaissance mission and had been caught up in the thick of the fighting. He’d wound up in Bastogne with the 101st Airborne Division, and they’d held off the Germans for six days until elements of Patton’s Third Army had come up from the south and broken the German stranglehold on the city.

Now he was returning at last to his old outfit, and it would be great to see the gang again. He’d felt like an orphan in Bastogne because he hadn’t known anybody there, but in the Hammerhead Division, he had many buddies and was even on good terms with the commander of his regiment.

His legs were tired from pumping through the deep snow. He saw a huge boulder and thought he’d take a rest behind it. He stomped toward it and kneeled beside it, reaching for his canteen, which was filled with brandy. Taking a swig, he returned the canteen to its case, then reached for another cigarette, smelling Madeleine’s perfume again.

He lit the cigarette and puffed, looking at the blizzard that swirled around him. The boulder protected him from the wind; it was like being in the calm eye of a hurricane. Charlie Company was out there somewhere, and he would run into them before long. He hoped his old buddy, Cranepool, was still alive because they’d been together since the landings in Sicily.

Something moved in the woods in front of him. He covered the lit end of his cigarette with his hand and narrowed his eyes, peering through the snowfall. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but then he realized that soldiers in white camouflage suits were out there, heading toward Bastogne.

Germans wore white camouflage suits in the Bulge, but Americans did not. Mahoney pushed his cigarette into the snow where it sizzled and went out. Slowly he dropped to his stomach and unslung his rifle. Three Germans moved cautiously through the snow from left to right in front of him. They evidently were on patrol and had made it through the American lines.

Mahoney wondered what to do. If he fired his rifle he might get one of them, but the other two could get away, or worse, circle around and kill him. If he let them go, they might kill other Americans, sabotage something, or bring important information back to their commander. All he could do was try and get them all at once with a hand grenade.

He laid his carbine on the snow and took a hand grenade from the breast pocket of his field jacket. He pulled the pin and looked at the Germans, who were thirty yards away, carrying their rifles in their hands and hunching through the woods slowly. They appeared cautious and alert they knew they were behind the American lines and had to be careful.

Mahoney rose to his knees, reared back his arm, and hurled the grenade with all his strength, dropping back onto his stomach in the snow. The grenade sailed through the air and landed in the midst of the Germans, who shouted in alarm and dived in all directions. Mahoney waited for the grenade to explode, but seconds ticked away, and nothing happened. The grenade must have been defective, or maybe its arming lever had frozen.

Mahoney cursed underneath his breath and wondered what to do next. The Germans knew someone was out there, but they didn’t know how many or where. If he fired his rifle he’d give away his position, and if he threw another grenade, they’d see him.

One of the Germans shouted, and they all jumped up, running toward Bastogne. Mahoney sighted on the lead German and squeezed the trigger of his carbine. The butt kicked his shoulder and the shot echoed through the woods as the German’s legs collapsed underneath him, and he fell shrieking to the ground.

The other Germans dropped too. Mahoney heard them talking frantically. He saw a sudden move, and then a black German hand grenade flew toward him through the blizzard. He jumped to his feet and dashed around the boulder, but before he could make it, a bullet ricocheted off the stone a few feet from his head.

He dove behind the boulder, and seconds later the German hand grenade exploded on the other side. Snow and earth flew into the air and landed all around Mahoney, who took out another hand grenade, pulled the pin, and peeked around the corner of the boulder.

He saw the Germans running toward Bastogne. Mahoney took a deep breath and threw his grenade at them. It flew through the air and was swallowed up by the blizzard. The Germans stopped running and fell to the ground. Seconds later, the grenade exploded in their midst, and in the big red flash, Mahoney saw the torso of a German somersaulting in the air.

Mahoney knew he’d gotten two of them, and the other probably was wounded. All he had to do was sneak up on the last one, which shouldn’t be difficult because it was one on one now—or so he thought.

Something rustled behind him, and his panic lights went on. He spun around and the corner of his eye spotted a German in a white uniform flying toward him, knife in hand. Mahoney raised his carbine just as the German stabbed downwards, and the German’s wrist was stopped by the carbine. Mahoney kicked him in the balls, but the German dodged out of the way. He lowered his arm and tried to stab Mahoney in the side, but Mahoney struck first, smacking the German in the face with the barrel of his carbine. The force of the blow ripped open the German’s cheek and he howled in pain as he took a step backwards.

Mahoney lowered his carbine and fired from the hip. The carbine kicked in his hand, and a black hole appeared on the white camouflage suit of the German. The German’s jaw dropped open, and he stared at Mahoney in disbelief. The knife fell from his hand, and blood oozed through the hole. The German closed his eyes and sagged to the ground. Mahoney shot him again to make sure, then returned to safety behind the boulder and wondered if any more Germans were out there. Of the original three he’d seen, one possibly might be alive. He peered around the boulder but could see no movement, and he couldn’t hear anything except his own heavy breathing.

He was sweating underneath his field jacket although it was twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Looking behind him, he saw the German lying motionless on his stomach. Mahoney didn’t dare move because he didn’t know how many other Germans might be about. One might be drawing a bead on him right now! He dropped to his knees behind the boulder and chewed his lip, wondering what his next move should be.

He heard movement in the woods to his left. Holding his carbine ready, he eased in that direction behind the boulder and took a look. Figures in dark uniforms were coming through the woods, and as they drew closer, Mahoney could perceive American field jackets and helmets.

Watch out! Mahoney said. There’s krauts around here!

The GIs all dropped to their stomachs on the snow. Who the hell’s there? asked one of them.

Master Sergeant Mahoney from Charlie Company! I already saw four Germans around here, and there might be more! I think I killed three of them!

There was silence for a few moments. Then a voice said, Where the hell are you?

Mahoney exposed his rifle and shook it. Over here!

You stay right where you are, and we’ll sweep through the area.

The voice issued commands and the GIs spread out. They moved through the woods, and Mahoney took out another cigarette, smelling Madeleine again and realizing sadly that one day her fragrance would be gone from his clothes, and he wouldn’t think about her any more. He puffed the cigarette and looked at the German laying dead behind the boulder. The blood was freezing in his wound and snow already had filled his eye sockets. Mahoney wondered if he had anything useful on him.

Bending over the dead German, Mahoney pulled up his sleeves and saw two watches. One was a German make and the other a gold Hamilton, probably stolen from a dead GI. Mahoney had two watches on his left arm but decided to take the gold Hamilton anyway. He unstrapped it from the German’s wrist and attached it to his.

Mahoney cut away the white camouflage suit and found a wallet in the German’s back pocket. The wallet contained a few marks, some identity cards, and a picture of an elderly man and woman, whom Mahoney took to be the soldier’s parents. Soon they’d find out that their son had been missing in action, and those smiling faces would be covered with tears.

Mahoney tossed the wallet in the snow and searched through the soldier’s jacket, finding a German compass. He examined it and thought it might work better than the one he had. Slipping it into his pocket, he looked up and saw three GIs approaching.

The area’s clear, said one of them. Looks like you got all four of them. What outfit you say you were in?

Charlie Company from the First Battalion. You got any idea where they are?

We’re from Easy Company in the Second Battalion, the sergeant said, pointing. I reckon Charlie Company is thataway.

Thanks, Mahoney said, moving in that direction. See you around.

Chapter Three

In a little village south of Bastogne, General George S. Patton Jr. held a meeting with his corps and divisional commanders. A pot-bellied stove radiated heat through the room, and the officers gathered around a map of the area,