Death Train Page 2

  Fleury was kneeling over Celestine, and Cranepool was sitting against a tree, his knees in the air and rifle in his lap. Mahoney knelt beside Fleury.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood. Look.”

  Mahoney looked at the bandage, and it was soaked with blood.

  “A little person like her can’t afford to lose much blood, because she doesn’t have much to begin with,” Fleury said.

  “I know. Okay, let’s move it out. We’ll use the road from now on.”

  He picked up Celestine and carried her over his shoulder again. They moved toward the road, realizing the car couldn’t be too far away and they soon would be on their way back to their camp.

  They stopped and listened at the edge of the road, but could hear nothing. Mahoney was surprised that there wasn’t military traffic on the road carrying troops trying to find them. Maybe the Germans thought they’d gone in some other direction, but Mahoney didn’t see how they could think that. This road would be the most likely destination for saboteurs.

  “Is the car to the right or left?” Mahoney asked Fleury.

  “The left, I think.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “It’s too dark—I can’t see very well. After we go a little way I’m sure we’ll come to a landmark of some kind.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  They moved onto the road and headed left. If they heard any vehicles they’d scramble into the woods to hide. They were in a single file with Fleury in front, Mahoney second, and Cranepool bringing up the rear. It was pitch black, and Mahoney brought his watch close to his eyes. The luminous green hands told him it was four-fifteen. It was going to get light pretty soon. He hoped the car wasn’t very far away.

  “HALT!”

  A searchlight came on, searing Mahoney’s eyes. He broke for the woods, as weapons began firing. WHUMP went something against Celestine, the impact knocking Mahoney off his feet. A carbine fired near him and the searchlight exploded. It was dark again, and Mahoney landed on his side in the gravel beside the road. The Germans were shouting orders and bullets were whizzing over Mahoney’s head. He looked at Celestine. Her waist was a mass of blood.

  He grabbed for her pulse, and there was none. If he hadn’t been carrying her on his shoulder the bullet would have smacked him right in the head.

  He jammed the butt of his carbine into his shoulder and sprayed bullets in the direction where the searchlight had been. Then he scrambled on his hands and knees into the bushes at the side of the road. Once behind the bushes he began running in a zigzag pattern through the trees. He prayed the Germans didn’t have any more dogs with them; he didn’t hear any yet.

  Germans shouted orders and fired into the woods. The bullets zanged into trees and ricocheted off boulders. Mahoney pumped his legs and ran as fast as he could. He wondered how Fleury and Cranepool were making out. Behind him he could hear Germans crashing through the woods. He knew it would be hard for them to find him in the darkness, and that they’d have to move more cautiously than he, because they didn’t know where he was or who might be with him.

  At least that was what he hoped as he charged through the forest like a wild animal.

  Chapter Two

  It was the morning of the next day. Philippe Montriveau was driving his truck on the road between St. Lo and St. Jean-de-Daye in a heavy rainstorm. It wasn’t a good day for driving around, but Philippe had work to do. The back of his truck was loaded with cabbages and onions, for he was a greengrocer. He was seen on this road at this time nearly every day. The Germans never stopped him to ask for identification anymore, and in fact he sold his produce to many of the German military units in the area.

  The windshield wipers slapped back and forth in front of his eyes, which were searching everywhere for signs of troop movements, new fortifications, and the effects of the Allied bombing of the night before. But he couldn’t see much because of the rain. The cabbages and the onions in the rear of his truck was really camouflage; he was a member of the Resistance on his daily reconnaissance mission.

  He rounded a bend and came to a long stretch of flat road. Then the road angled up the side of a small mountain. Philippe was a stout man with a mustache, wearing a cap on the side of his head. His pudgy hands gripped the wheel tightly as he steered around the side of the mountain, looking to his left at the gorge. A railroad trestle was constructed across it, and Philippe wanted to see what condition it was in because he’d been told that it would be one of the Allied targets last night. He peered through the mist and rain, and what he saw sent a chill up his back.

  The bridge had been hit in the bombing raid, but ghostlike figures were crawling around it, repairing the trestles and laying new tracks. It must be the German engineer battalion stationed near Chateau-Gontier. The bridge hadn’t been damaged too much and the engineers probably would have the trains running before the end of the day. That meant German reinforcements could be rushed by train to the beaches of Normandy in case of an invasion, and Philippe knew the invasion was imminent.

  As he pressed down on his accelerator, his rear wheels spun out on the slippery wet road. He wrestled with his steering wheel, and brought the truck under control again. It wouldn’t do for him to drive off a cliff with the information he had now. He’d better take it slow and easy so he could get to St. Lo in one piece. Then he could relay the message about the bridge.

  Carefully steering around the mountain, he wondered if the Allied bombers would be able to knock out that bridge in time. If they didn’t, there’d be hell to pay on the beaches.

  Chapter Three

  In a driving rainstorm, a green U.S. Army jeep drove through the front gate of SHAEF Headquarters in Bushy Park outside London. At the wheel was Colonel Bruce Fairbairn of the OSS, a thin man of fifty with a clipped graying mustache. He wore a trench coat and visored officers’ cap, and the rain pounded on the canvas roof of the jeep.

  Fairbairn ground his teeth anxiously as he drove past the Nissen huts and tents. He’d just received the radio message about the railway bridge between St. Lo and St. Jean-de-Daye, and he had to get word to General Carl Spaatz of the U.S. Army Air Corps that the bridge had been rebuilt, and that a bomb attack must be launched against it without delay. Otherwise the Germans would be able to pour reinforcements into the Omaha and Utah beachheads, and place the entire invasion in grave jeopardy.

  The jeep approached two long low hills that actually were two one-story buildings covered with huge nets of camouflage. Fairbairn had learned that Spaatz was at a high-level conference with General Eisenhower and the rest of the top SHAEF brass. Fairbairn believed that the information he had was important enough to call Spaatz out of the meeting.

  He stopped the jeep in front of one of the buildings. Two U.S. Army MPs in white helmets and white gloves stepped forward and opened the door of the jeep. Fairbairn stepped out into the pouring rain. The MPs saluted smartly and Fairbairn saluted back, then ran to the building.

  He went inside, took off his hat and trench coat, and marched toward General Eisenhower’s conference room. Secretaries, clerks, and staff officers looked at him curiously as he rushed through the corridors leaving a trail of raindrops on the polished floor behind him. Finally he arrived at the front door of the conference room. A sergeant was sitting at a desk beside the door.

  “Yes, sir?” asked the sergeant.

  “I’ve got to speak to General Spaatz right away,” Fairbairn said.

  “I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the conference is over.”

  Fairbairn rested his fists on the desk and leaned toward the sergeant, looking into his eyes. “It’s urgent, Sergeant.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but I have orders that the conference isn’t to be disturbed.”

  “I know that, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t of the utmost importance. I think you’d better go in there right now and tell General Spaatz that Colonel Fairbairn has to speak with him right aw
ay, and that’s an order, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant hesitated for a moment. “Yes, sir.”

  The sergeant got up and opened the door of the conference room, slipping inside. In the split second the door was opened Fairbairn could see the big brass crowded around the map table. He knew they were finalizing plans to invade Hitler’s Atlantic Wall, but they weren’t going to get very far if they didn’t knock out the bridge between St. Lo and St. Jean-de-Daye.

  After a minute that seemed like a half hour, the sergeant returned with General Spaatz, who appeared perturbed.

  “What is it?” Spaatz asked Fairbairn.

  Fairbairn took a map from his breast pocket and unfolded it on the desk. “Sir, I hate to bother you, but something very serious has come up and I thought I’d better tell you about it right away. My office has received a transmission from France that a certain critical bridge here,” Fairbairn pointed to its location, “has been rebuilt by the Germans. In view of the pending invasion, I thought I’d better get word to you right away so that you could identify it as a target on the Eighth Air Force’s next bombing raid in France. As you can see, if the bridge isn’t knocked out, German troops could conceivably be brought to the beachheads rather quickly.”

  Spaatz bent over the map and looked at the position of the bridge. He realized that what Fairbairn said was true. The bridge would have to be knocked out, and for good this time.

  “May I take this map?” Spaatz asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get back to you on this.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Spaatz opened the door and returned to the conference room. General Eisenhower was standing around the large map table with General Bradley, Air Marshall Leigh-Mallory, General Montgomery, Admiral Ramsay, General Smith, and others. Group Captain Stagg of the Meteorological Committee, was continuing his discussion of the weather situation. He was predicting a virtual hurricane for June 5, the day the invasion was scheduled to take place.

  Ike looked up from the map table. “What was it, Carl?”

  “A report from the OSS. I’ll have to talk with General Bradley about it immediately after the meeting.”

  “If it’s important, you might as well talk with him now.”

  “Well it is rather important, sir,” General Spaatz said. He looked at the map Colonel Fairbairn had given him and then found the position of the bridge on the large map on the table.

  “According to a radio transmission the OSS has just received,” Spaatz began, “this bridge here,” he pointed to it, “has been rebuilt by German engineers as of this morning. Therefore we’re going to have to knock it out again before the invasion, because as you can see, the railroad that goes over the bridge is a direct troop pipeline to the beaches of Normandy.”

  As Ike and the others looked at the bridge, they all nodded and mumbled that it indeed was a strategic objective.

  “Well,” said Ike, “you’re not going to be able to mount a bomb attack in this weather, Carl.”

  “That’s why I thought I’d speak to General Bradley about it, sir. Maybe he can send in some of our demolition people to blow it up.”

  Admiral Ramsay shook his head. “I don’t know how you’re going to send a demolition crew in if we can’t navigate small boats in this weather.”

  Ike looked at General Bradley. “You have some of your Ranger personnel in France already, don’t you?”

  General Bradley was a taciturn, grumpy-looking man. “Yes I do, sir,” he said in his deep voice.

  “Do you think you can get word to them?,,

  “I think I can.”

  “Good,” Ike said. “Take care of that bridge for us, will you Brad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Four

  Mahoney sat in the only cafe in the small village of Aiglemont, drinking wine. He wished there was some whisky in the joint, but there wasn’t. There was only this damned wine, but it was better than nothing. He was afraid that if he stayed in France much longer, he’d become a wino for sure.

  He’d had a hectic night running over hill and dale, but he’d eluded the Nazis and managed to return to his base in the nearby hills. Cranepool had made it back too, and had been sleeping like a baby when Mahoney left for town. Cranepool said he saw Fleury go down in a hail of bullets, and Mahoney already knew the fate of little Celestine.

  Celestine was the reason Mahoney was in the cafe so early in the afternoon, sitting at a table in the corner and drinking burgundy wine. Mahoney had slept a few hours and then woke up thinking about her. He couldn’t fall asleep again so he came to the cafe. He realized that he’d liked Celestine more than he’d thought, and would miss her very much. He even was sorry about the time he’d punched her in the mouth, but he hadn’t really hit her that hard—and she’d thrown a bowl of beef stew at him first. She’d heard that he’d been fooling around with Odette, which happened to have been the truth, and had lost her temper. Fiery little thing, she was.

  Mahoney knew that you shouldn’t get too close to people at wartime, because you never knew when they were going to bite the dust. But he hadn’t thought he’d been that close to Celestine. He’d just thought she was the best available female to screw. But now his heart ached whenever he pictured her sprawled on the road with her eyes closed and blood pouring out of her side.

  He took another slug of wine, wishing it had more bite. His beret was hanging on the back of the chair next to the one he was sitting on, and you could see the thick unruly black hair that he always attempted, without much success, to part neatly on the left side. He had a ruddy complexion and his nose, which had been broken once in a barroom brawl in Wrightstown, New Jersey, just outside of Fort Dix, was only slightly crooked. He also had a scar on his left cheek, acquired in the battle for the Kasserine Pass in North Africa. It had been his first experience in actual combat, and he’d acquitted himself rather well although the battle was a humiliating defeat for the U.S. Army. He’d taken command of his company after all the officers were killed. He’d led a fighting retreat from an exposed position, killing numerous Germans and saving the lives of many American soldiers although he had a bullet in his leg, another in his shoulder, and a German had swiped him across the cheek with a bayonet during a bitter hand-to-hand confrontation.

  Mahoney had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his exploits in the Kasserine Pass, and had been promoted to master sergeant. This brought him to the attention of his superior officers who noticed that he had a peculiar facility for learning foreign languages, a facility he himself had not known he possessed. Until, for instance, looking for a whorehouse in Oran, he was forced to learn a few words of French here and there. Before he knew it he was able to carry on entire conversations with French people, and moreover, he was able to mimic perfectly their accent and pronunciation, which caused them to call him Le Perroquet, the parrot, an appellation that stuck and later became his official code name.

  He also learned to speak German through certain of his black market dealings with German prisoners of war at the big camp outside of Oran. Mahoney was quite surprised by his ability to absorb foreign languages, because he’d always been a lousy student in school. Three times the nuns didn’t promote him to a higher grade, and finally they’d expelled him from school altogether after a fight in one of the school corridors that he still insisted to this day that he didn’t start. But those nuns were crazy anyway. A woman would have to be insane if she didn’t like to get drunk and have fun.

  His skill at languages was duly inscribed on his personnel records along with the circumstances that caused him to be awarded the DSC, and were duly noted by officials from the Ranger battalions, who regularly combed servicemen’s records looking for unusual types like Mahoney. They offered him a transfer to the Rangers and told him he’d get a special paratrooper’s pay and special training at the Ranger base not far from London. When Mahoney asked if he’d be able to get into London once in a while, they said he’d get regular passe
s, whereupon he signed on the dotted line.

  However all did not go smoothly with Mahoney in the Rangers. On his first pass to London he got into a brawl in a Piccadilly pub with a British commando who made some disparaging remarks about the fighting skill of the American fighting man. Mahoney caused eighteen stitches to be sewn into the commando’s skull, while he himself sustained only a blackened eye and split lip. For this he was busted down to buck sergeant and not given any more passes for three months.

  In the fighting in Sicily, Mahoney became a sergeant first class and also won the Silver Star for his participation in a Ranger raid on the German supply dump near Vizzini. At Salerno he became a master sergeant again. Then he was returned to England for special training in clandestine warfare behind enemy lines. Now he was in France drinking cheap burgundy wine. He hoped the war would be over soon so he could go back to New York and have some fun.

  Mahoney raised his hand, and the waiter, who was sitting at a table near the door to the kitchen reading a newspaper, got up and came over. Mahoney asked for another bottle of wine in the flawless accents of the ordinary French man. The waiter went to the kitchen to get the wine. Mahoney looked around the cafe. The few people sitting at the gnarled old wooden tables were talking or reading newspapers. He wondered if any of them were informers, because Normandy was crawling with Nazi sympathizers and collaborators, but he felt safe, his papers were in order, and he had an alibi for why he was in that particular cafe on that particular afternoon.

  The door of the cafe opened and Leduc walked in, looking around. Leduc spotted Mahoney and walked to his table. He was a tall thin man who chain-smoked foul-smelling Algerian cigarettes and who was a fearless fighter in the resistance unit to which Mahoney was attached.

  Leduc sat down at Mahoney’s table and scrutinized his face. “How drunk are you?” he asked.