Death Train Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  “If the Sergeant doesn’t stop those trains, D-Day goes down the drain!”

  The speaker was Colonel Fairbairn, special OSS advisor to General Omar Bradley, at a tense meeting of SHAEF only days before the planned Normandy invasion. Thus began yet another do-or-die mission of the man called The Sergeant – C. J. Mahoney (Code Name: Parrot), a big, brawling career G.I. Mahoney was an almost perfect killing machine with an incredible knack for languages … and the Army’s heavyweight champion foul-up.

  His assignment was to stop the personnel and supply trains crafty General Erwin Rommel had lined up to checkmate the assault he knew would come on Omaha Beach. His first try failed when a key bridge wouldn’t blow. Now, with Gestapo Colonel Richter on his trail, it’s last-chance time as Mahoney and a handful of maquis steal an explosives-laden train and head for a fateful rendezvous in a tunnel of death!

  THE SERGEANT 1: DEATH TRAIN

  By Len Levinson

  First published by Zebra Books, under the pen-name ‘Gordon Davis’, in 1980.

  Copyright © 1980, 2013 by Len Levinson

  First Kindle Edition: October 2013

  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 © 2013 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  The night was blacker than Hitler’s heart. Mahoney, a big man dressed in a brown leather jacket and a black beret, crouched behind the bush, the magneto detonator in his hands. With him were Cranepool, Celestine, and Fleury; a company of German soldiers was nearby. It was June 3, 1944, and they were in the province of Sarthe not far from the city of Le Mans.

  To their front was the radio tower. They couldn’t see it but they knew it was there. During the past four hours they’d been crawling all over it, running wires and tying on sticks of TNT. Now the work was done. There was no point hanging around to catch their breaths because a German guard might trip over the wires.

  Mahoney looked at Cranepool and winked. Cranepool nodded his head. Mahoney twisted the handle of the magneto and the tower became adorned with explosions of light. They heard the blast a few seconds later and saw electricity crackling from the broken wires. The wires caught fire and the spiderlike steel structure came crashing to the ground.

  Grass and bushes caught fire, and the figures of German soldiers could be seen silhouetted against the flames. Mahoney could hear them shouting orders and sounding the alarm.

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

  They picked up their carbines and ran into the woods, sweet smelling from a recent rainfall, Mahoney in front, crouched over, the others behind him. They moved quickly, making as little noise as possible, their eyes searching for German soldiers, their fingers on the triggers of their carbines. Mahoney and Cranepool were Rangers from the U.S. Army, parachuted into France two weeks ago to work with the French Resistance in spreading terror and chaos behind German lines, laying the groundwork for the Normandy invasion that everybody, including Hitler himself, knew was coming soon.

  Fleury tripped over a fallen tree and went tumbling to the ground. Mahoney and the others stopped until he got up. Fleury was forty-four years old, a little over the hill for this sort of thing, but he knew the area like the palm of his hand, and he was a French patriot to the marrow of his bones.

  “You all right?” Mahoney asked him.

  “Yes.”

  They plunged into the woods again, Mahoney staying close to Fleury, with young Cranepool behind them, and Celestine out on the right flank, which was the direction of Le Mans, headquarters for the German 25th Panzer Division. They made their way around the trees and through the bushes. There was no path and they couldn’t have seen one anyway.

  Then they heard the dogs. At first the howls were far away, but it didn’t take long before they sounded closer. Dogs could move through the thickest forest like lightning, leaping over bushes and diving past trees. They were vicious and bloodthirsty; the Germans trained them that way. Mahoney had been ready to stop for a rest, but there could be no stopping now. Now he had to wonder how many of them would make it to the road, still a few hours away, where an old Citroen that was supposed to provide their means of getting away, was camouflaged in the nearby woods.

  The barking came closer. Mahoney knew German patrols were being deployed to comb the woods for the criminals who blew up the radio tower. The Germans always referred to Resistance fighters as criminals and terrorists, and somehow that appealed to his imagination, but he didn’t have time to think much about that now. If he and his companions could get away from the dogs, the chances were that they could slip through the German patrols scattered thinly throughout the forest.

  The yelping dogs weren’t far away now, and Mahoney could hear them crashing through the bushes. The time had come to stop and deal with them.

  “Let’s get the fuckers,” he said.

  They turned around, looking toward the sound of the dogs. Mahoney stepped between Fleury and Celestine and told them to fix bayonets and spread out.

  “No wild shots,” he cautioned them. “Make sure you’re aiming at a dog and not one of us.”

  They nodded, but he could barely make out their faces in the darkness. Cranepool looked wild-eyed and crazy; he was nineteen years old and already had killed too many people for a youth his age. Fleury, with his bushy mustache, had served with distinction in the First World War, and knew his way around a battlefield. And pretty dark-haired Celestine, only twenty-four, had drunk her share of blood, too. Mahoney scrutinized her pale features, noting she was as grim and ready as any front-line soldier.

  His people were in position, and now Mahoney had to take care of himself. He’d rather face a squad of Waffen SS bayonet killers than a pack of dogs. Dogs were smaller and could move faster, making harder targets, and the thought of a dog chewing on Mahoney’s fine Irish tonsils wasn’t very appealing.

 
He snapped the safety catch off his trigger guard and put the carbine on automatic. He stomped his big right foot behind him into the ground and rammed a round of ammunition into the chamber of the carbine. Now he was ready. Let the bastards come.

  The dogs screamed and howled and exploded out of the underbrush. Mahoney saw their jagged furry movement and opened fire. The night bellowed with the sound of automatic weapons, their muzzle blasts illuminating the little forest clearing in jagged light. A dog flew over Mahoney’s left shoulder, blood spurting from his neck, and another one fastened his jaws on Mahoney’s right bicep. Mahoney swung around in a sharp violent movement and smashed the dog’s head against a tree. Another pair of jaws grabbed him by the leg, and Mahoney cracked its skull with the butt of his rifle, moving quickly and getting set again as a second dog jumped at him. He pulled the trigger of his carbine, and it jammed. The fucking things always jammed when you used them on automatic, so Mahoney lunged at the dog with his bayonet, catching it in the gut. Mahoney ripped down with the point, and the dog shrieked in pain, wriggling furiously on the sharpened end. Mahoney flung the dog to the ground and kicked his head in.

  Mahoney looked around but no more dogs were coming at him. Cranepool was machine-gunning one on the ground; Fleury was ramming his bayonet through the backbone of a dog chewing on his leg; and Celestine was rolling around on the ground, her hands around the throat of a dog trying to bite her jugular vein. Mahoney held his carbine by the barrel like a baseball bat and took a swing at the dog. The stock whacked the beast on the side of his head and splattered brains and blood everywhere. The dog went limp and fell to the side. Celestine let him go, his eyes wide with horror.

  Mahoney knelt beside her. “You all right?”

  With her sleeve she wiped the dog’s blood from her cheek. “I think so.”

  “Get up,” he told her. “We don’t have time to fuck around here.”

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. She was a little unsteady but he let her go and looked at the others. Cranepool was wiping his bayonet on a dog’s haunch and smiling peculiarly. Mahoney figured the kid lost his marbles on about his third dead German, but he was a good soldier. Fleury was breathing hard and loading up his ammo clip, an old soldier taking care of business. Mahoney turned to Celestine again, and saw that she was limping.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “A dog bit me.”

  Mahoney dropped to one knee and looked. Sure enough her left calf had been mauled by one of the dogs. Blood was oozing down her ankle into her shoes. She was wearing a long gray cotton skirt and black socks that reached her knees. He knew what her legs looked like in the moonlight with nothing covering them. They had been flawless, but wouldn’t be any more.

  He took the medical dressing from inside his shirt and tore open the cardboard wrapper. Inside was the big square bandage with gauze ribbons on each of its four corners. He tied the bandage tightly against her calf so that it would stanch the flow of blood, but he knew it wouldn’t help much. He decided to put on a tourniquet, and reached into his back pocket for his handkerchief.

  “No-no,” she said, realizing what he was going to do. “We don’t have time.”

  “Shut up and stop moving around.”

  She stood still as he tied the tourniquet below her knee, working quickly and mechanically, his fingers grazing the smooth skin that he’d caressed at other more opportune moments.

  “Okay,” he said standing up. “Let’s get rolling.”

  “Which way?” asked Fleury.

  “Good question,” Mahoney replied.

  He wore a German Army compass on a leather thong around his neck, and took it out. Fleury came to his side and unfolded the map.

  Mahoney squinted at the map. “Where are we now?”

  Fleury pointed. “Around here.”

  Fleury held the map in the palms of his hands and Mahoney laid the compass on top of it, positioning it against the line that led to the Citroen. He read the number where the needle pointed and sighted an azimuth.

  “That way,” he said, pointing into a dark section of the woods.

  He moved swiftly in the direction he’d indicated, tucking the compass into his shirt again. Fleury and Cranepool followed, Celestine behind them. When Mahoney glanced back and saw her limping along, he realized she couldn’t keep up.

  He stopped abruptly. “C’mere,” he told her.

  “Don’t bother about me,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I said c’mere.”

  “Go ahead,” she said weakly. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He lunged back and grabbed her wrist, then pulled her along with him.

  “Let me go!” she protested.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  Mahoney dragged her beside him, carrying his carbine in his left hand. Fleury and Cranepool had their carbines at the ready, on the lookout for a German patrol. No more dogs could be heard; a good sign. Celestine stumbled and dropped her carbine. Mahoney scooped it off the ground and told Cranepool to sling it over his shoulder.

  “Don’t take away my rifle,” Celestine said dazedly.

  Mahoney realized she was weak from loss of blood. “Shut up and do as you’re told.”

  He pulled her along beside him, and they made their way through the woods. Branches scratched their faces and perspiration plastered their clothes against their bodies. They tried to be quiet but you can’t do that when you’re moving quickly through the woods. Mahoney hoped the Germans hadn’t found the car by the road. He also hoped the German patrols wouldn’t find them in that big forest.

  They stopped beside a huge boulder to listen to the sounds of the forest. They couldn’t hear anything that sounded like a German patrol. Mahoney took out his compass and checked his azimuth. He figured they were about two and a half miles from the road.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked Celestine.

  “All right,” she whispered.

  “Liar.”

  They moved out again. An owl hooted and they jumped across a brook. Mahoney would have liked to stop for a drink but you never knew what kind of diseases might be in water like that. They continued to plough their way through the woods, pausing occasionally to listen for Germans and to check their direction. Mahoney glanced at his watch; it was four o’clock in the morning. If they didn’t get out of the woods by sunup, they could expect to spend the evening in a Gestapo interrogation center—or in a cemetery.

  They continued moving through the woods. Mahoney was glad there was no moon, because without one, it would be extremely difficult for a German patrol to spot them. He held the carbine in front of him in an effort to keep the branches away, but they came flying at him anyway, and he hoped one of them wouldn’t put his eye out.

  Before Mahoney joined the army about ten years ago, the only woods he’d ever known were in Central Park. He was from Yorkville on the East Side, the son of a longshoreman, and he’d been an altar boy when he was young. He’d joined the army during the Depression because there hadn’t been much food in the house and he’d figured he was eating too much of it. There were no jobs so he went out to Fort Hamilton and signed up. He didn’t think he’d like the army very much, and in a way he was right. He didn’t like certain things in the army, like the inspections and the chickenshit, but there were other things he liked very much, such as the steady paycheck every month, the whorehouses near every army base, the camaraderie of the barracks, and the outlet it provided for his basically violent nature. If Mahoney had not gone into the army he almost certainly would have wound up in jail.

  Now Celestine fell to the ground, wrenching Mahoney backwards. He bent down to look at her and saw her eyes half-closed. She gasped for air and tried to pull her hand away from Mahoney’s grip.

  “Leave me here,” she said. “I know I’m slowing you down.”

  “You’re not slowing me down.”

  “I can’t go on, Mahoney.”

  “That’s what you think.”


  He picked her up and draped her over his shoulder. She was light and frail as a bird, which was deceptive because he knew what a little tiger she could be when you got her alone in the dark. He wasn’t about to leave a good piece of ass like her behind; moreover, you could rely on her in a tight situation.

  He checked his compass again and they all moved out, Fleury on his left and Cranepool on his right. They climbed the hills and passed through valleys. They came to a river thirty feet wide and went right through it. Although it was May the water was quite cool. Though it felt invigorating at first, Mahoney knew it would feel shitty in a little while, because wet feet quickly became blisters and pain.

  Suddenly he heard something. He held up his hand. “Hold it!”

  They all stopped and listened. In the distance the faint sound of a motor vehicle could be heard. That meant the road wasn’t far away, probably no more than a few hundred yards.

  “Move out again,” Mahoney said, “but slowly and quieter than before.”

  They stepped forward, trying to be silent, but to Mahoney’s ears they sounded like a herd of elephants. They made their way around boulders and trees, listening for German patrols. Then the woods began to thin out a little.

  Fleury pointed straight ahead. “The road’s just over there,” he said.

  “I’ll go check it out,” Mahoney replied. “All of you stay here and take a break.”

  Mahoney lowered Celestine to the forest floor. Her eyes were closed and she was out cold. He loosened the tourniquet on her leg and looked at her face for a second, because he loved her in a way, and then took his carbine and hunched toward the road.

  He moved slowly and silently, the way they’d taught him in the Infantry School at Fort Benning, the way the Indians used to walk, touching his toes down lightly first, then following with his heels. Every several steps he stopped and listened. He heard only insects twittering and the breeze trembling the branches of the forest. Finally he came to the road. He lay behind a bush and looked to his left and right, but could see no movement. He felt tired and would like to lie still for a while, and maybe light up the half of a French cigar that he had in his pocket, but there was no time for that. He got up and made his way back to the others, not worrying about being so silent now that he was certain there were no Germans about.