Doom Platoon Page 2

  Smith approached the table and saluted. “Lieutenant Smith reporting, sir.”

  Captain DiPierto saluted back. “How’s everything out your way?”

  “Heavy shelling.”

  “Lose any men?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good.” DiPietro scanned their faces. “Now that you’re all here, we can begin.” He looked at the map. “Our entire front in the Ardennes is under heavy bombardment. We don’t know where the Germans got the artillery; we suspect it might have come from their Eastern Front. Anyway, we always thought that before the Germans acknowledged final defeat they’d attempt one last desperate counteroffensive. It seems likely that they have such an attack underway right now. It was through this same region that they launched their great attack of 1940 which drove the British forces from Europe and defeated the French. That attack was led by General Von Rundstedt, and we have reason to believe he’s leading this attack. We cannot permit him to succeed again. Unfortunately, we’re weak in this area, so we’ll have to permit slight penetrations in our line as we fall back to more secure defensive positions and await the arrival of reinforcements from the rear. Then we’ll push them back to Germany.” He pointed to the map. “This is our position right now.” He pointed to another spot. “This will be our new position, right outside the town of Dillendorf. We’ll be leaving at 0630 hours. Except for the second platoon.”

  Lieutenant Smith thought he’d misunderstood something. “Did you say all except for the second platoon?”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant. Your platoon has been chosen for a special mission of supreme importance. You’ve got to fight a rearguard action here.” DiPietro pointed to the road that led to Dillendorf. “We expect German tanks to start moving down this road as soon as their troops secure the territory. Those tanks must be delayed so that we can retreat and regroup; otherwise they’ll chew the regiment to shreds. You’ve got to hold them until noon.”

  “How many tanks will there be?”

  “A panzer division.’’

  “A panzer division? How can one platoon hold a panzer division?”

  “The same way the Greeks held the pass at Thermopylae against a numerically superior force. At this point here,” he pointed to the map, “the road narrows between two sizable hills that the tanks can’t negotiate. In other words, they’ll have to come on the road. There are cliffs and caves in the hills, and you’ll set up positions in them. You’ll be reinforced by an anti-tank squad from the weapons platoon. If you can knock out the lead enemy tanks, you’ll block the road to them. Then you’ll keep them pinned down with mortar and small arms fire so they can’t get those tanks out of the way. You’ve got to hold them until noon.”

  “But sir, that’s a job for a unit at least the size of a company.”

  “We need all the forces we can get for the defense of Dillendorf, because if the enemy gets our oil reserves there, they’ll be much more dangerous.”

  “Doesn’t it make more sense to try to stop them on the road?”

  “They can’t be stopped on the road. They can only be slowed down. The road is very narrow there. A platoon should be able to do it.”

  “But they’ll bring in artillery. They’ll blow those hills away.”

  “Just hold them until noon.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you retreat to the Dillendorf defensive line.”

  “But we’ll never be able to get out of there!”

  “You must do your best, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s all,” DiPietro said. “Return to your units and pass on the orders. Platoons one, three, and four will pull out at 0630 hours. The second platoon, augmented by the anti-tank squad from the fourth platoon, will pull out immediately. Any questions?”

  No one said anything.

  “You’re all dismissed, except for Lieutenant Smith. Good luck, men.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lieutenants LeDoux and Kingsbury and Sergeant Neff, left the command bunker.

  Lieutenant Smith looked down at the map. He was six feet two and towered over Captain DiPietro.

  “You’d better get out your map,” DiPietro said, “and mark down the spot we want you to hold.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Smith took out his map as the artillery bombardment thundered around them. He marked the hills and worked out an azimuth to them from his present position.

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Lieutenant,” Captain DiPietro said.

  “So am I.” Smith folded the map back into his shirt pocket.

  “Orders are orders.”

  “I understand.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others.”

  Smith set his jaw. “It’s a suicide mission, but I guess fifteen hundred men are more important than forty.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true.”

  “I just wish I weren’t one of the forty.”

  “You are. My advice to you is to surrender if you make it until noon.”

  “We might not make it until noon.”

  “You have to.”

  “Well, we’ll try.” He put on his helmet. “I guess I’d better get moving.” He threw a snappy salute at Captain DiPietro.

  DiPietro saluted him back just as snappily, then held out his hand. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

  “If I don’t make it back, it’d be nice if you wrote a personal letter to my wife.”

  “You can rely on it.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  Smith turned and marched out of the command bunker. Outside, Stein was waiting with his walkie-talkie.

  “Everything okay, Lieutenant?” Stein asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Follow me. We’re going back to our position.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lieutenant Smith climbed over the side of the trench and crawled toward the second platoon trench. There were huge craters in the ground and fallen twisted trees everywhere. The air smelled like gunpowder and a mist was rising off the snow as dawn broke in the east, where the Germans were. He felt a little numb, as if he were partly dead already. He never realized that his military career would end like this.

  At West Point he’d dreamed of becoming a general some day, but ever since D-Day he’d realized that he’d probably never survive this war. The attrition rate among new lieutenants was very high. They led troops on the front lines and enemy sharpshooters picked them off easily. All the ceremony and bullshit at West Point existed to give young officers the courage and fanaticism to lead their men into machine gun fire and artillery bombardments. If you could make it to Major you’d probably never get killed, but in wartime you were lucky if you could make it until tomorrow. After D-Day he stopped thinking about becoming a general and concentrated instead on staying alive and keeping his platoon out of danger as best he could. But now he had to lead them and himself into the jaws of hell.

  He slid down the side of the trench and made his way to Mazursky, who was puffing a cigar and looking morose.

  “We’re pulling out,” Smith said. “Notify the men to get ready.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To the Dillendorf road.”

  “How far back?”

  “Not very far. We’ll be moving almost directly to our left flank. We’ve got to hold the road against some tanks.”

  “You mean the whole regiment is going to hold the road.”

  “No, just the second platoon.”

  Mazursky’s jaw dropped open and his cigar fell out of his mouth. “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Just this platoon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How come?”

  Lieutenant Smith wondered whether or not to tell Mazursky the truth, then decided he’d better. Mazursky was an
old combat veteran and a Regular Army soldier. Mazursky would know how to handle the situation.

  Smith leaned toward Mazursky and said softly. “It’s a rearguard action so that the regiment can get away.”

  “But what about us?”

  “It doesn’t look too good for us.”

  “You mean. . .” Mazursky’s face crumbled.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “We’ll have a strong defensive position in some cliffs and caves, and we’ll have the antitank squad from the weapons platoon. It won’t be so bad.”

  “The second platoon and the anti-tank squad against tanks? How many tanks?”

  ‘‘ A panzer division.’’

  Mazursky’s eyes goggled. “A PANZER DIVISION!”

  “Not so loud. I don’t want to scare the others.”

  “But we won’t have a fucking chance.”

  “Well, there’s always a chance.”

  “But it’s a suicide mission.”

  “That’s what I told Captain DiPietro. He wished us luck.”

  “That cocksucker. Where’s he gonna be?”

  “Defending the oil dump at Dillendorf with the rest of the division. The orders have come down from headquarters. It’s not his fault.’’

  “Why’d he have to pick the second platoon? Why not the third platoon, or the first platoon?’’

  ‘‘Because we’re the best platoon.”

  Mazursky shook his head. “Oh this fucking rotten war. The better you are, the more likely that you’ll get a bullet in your ass.”

  “There’s always a chance that we won’t get a bullet in our ass.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What was that, sergeant?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Tell the men to get ready to move out. I want you to take the point.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mazursky crawled down the trench, telling the men to drop their cocks and grab their socks because they were going to move out.

  “Where we going, Sarge?” asked Private Morelli, who was eighteen years old.

  “If I told you, you still wouldn’t know. Saddle up and get ready to move out.”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  At the end of the trench Mazursky found Nowicki the BAR man reading a letter from home. Mazursky knew what the letter contained, because Nowicki had received it a month ago and had been reading it over and over again ever since, complaining about it to anyone who listened. The sum and substance of the letter was that Shirley, Nowicki’s girlfriend, was breaking their engagement because she had found another boyfriend, a 4-F welder who earned a hundred bucks a week.

  “Put away that fucking letter and get ready to move out, you scumbag,” Mazursky growled at Nowicki.

  “Yes sergeant,” Nowicki replied forlornly, folding the letter.

  Mazursky felt a rare twinge of pity for Nowicki, who was clearly a psycho case, as evidenced by his compulsive cleaning of his BAR, and his compulsive reading of Shirley’s letter. Mazursky slapped his hand on Nowicki’s shoulder.

  “Forget about her,” Mazursky said consolingly. “She’s a no-good cunt and you should consider yourself lucky to be rid of her.”

  “But I love her,” Nowicki replied pathetically.

  “Love is bullshit. It’s a kind of mental disease. What you need is a trip to a good whorehouse. Next time we go on pass I’ll personally take you to a good whorehouse. I’ll get one French whore to suck your dick and another one to stick her tongue up your ass, and by the time they’re finished with you, you won’t even know who you are, never mind who Shirley is.”

  “But she’s so pretty, sergeant. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure, sergeant.”

  “Imagine her taking a big smelly shit in the morning.”

  Nowicki wrinkled his big hooked nose. “Ugh!”

  “Or better yet, imagine her blowing some guy in an alleyway, which is probably what she’s doing right now.”

  Nowicki closed his eyes tightly. “Oh God!”

  “Pretty picture, ain’t it?” Mazursky asked, grinning like a monkey.

  “Shirley wouldn’t do such a thing!”

  “Sure she would. Any douche bag would. They’re all no fucking good. You know what you ought to do, Nowicki? You ought to do everything you can to get through this war alive, and then go back to Pittsburgh and beat that bitch’s brains out. And when you get finished with her, you could kick her boyfriend’s ass.”

  “I couldn’t do that, sergeant,” Nowicki said, looking forlorn again.

  “That’s because you’re a fucking asshole. Saddle up and get ready to move out.”

  “Yes sergeant.”

  On his way back to Lieutenant Smith, Mazursky chewed his unlit cigar and thought of Sally Mae, the little waitress he’d met during a weekend pass in London. What a cute little bitch she’d been. They’d had a fantastic night together, even did it in the bathtub. He wondered who she was in the bathtub with right now. What a depraved little bitch. You’d never know it to look at her, because she was kind of shy and mousey, but get her alone and watch out. His dick had been sore for four days afterwards. When he went ashore on Omaha Beach it started hurting again when it hit that salty, oily water. He had to fight for his life on the beach with a sore dick. It hadn’t been one of his better days. But he missed Sally Mae anyways. He’d sure like to see her again.

  Moving toward Lieutenant Smith, Mazursky saw the men putting on their packs. He tightened a strap here and adjusted a belt there, smacking the men on the shoulders, trying to put them in the mood for the little operation dreamed up by headquarters. Mazursky hated headquarters and all those fancy officers walking around with swagger sticks, having fantasies about being great military strategists. Those assholes would get heart attacks if they had to spend more than five minutes on the front lines, but they were sending the second platoon to almost certain annihilation.

  Somehow Mazursky couldn’t accept the fact that he might die. Deep down, he thought he was too smart to die. He’d been in situations where men had dropped like flies all around him, and yet somehow he came through with only minor injuries. Somewhere out there he knew there was a bullet with his name on it, but he was confident that somehow he’d be able to dodge it. Why would he be able to dodge it? Because I ain’t an asshole like everybody else, that’s why.

  Lieutenant Smith was at the end of the trench with a group of faces Mazursky recognized as belonging to the anti-tank squad from the weapons platoon. They were led by Corporal Dahl, an Irishman with wide hips and narrow shoulders, who hailed from the Yorkville section of Manhattan, about seventy blocks from where Mazurksy’s mother lived.

  “Hiya Dahl.”

  “Whataya say, Mazursky.”

  “Not much.”

  Lieutenant Smith cleared his throat. “Are the men ready to move out, sergeant?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You take the first squad and move them out in a column of ducks in that direction.” Lieutenant Smith pointed toward the northeast.

  “Column of ducks, sir?”

  “Yes. That way we’ll always present a skirmish line to the enemy.”

  “What if we run into enemy troops that’re in front of us, or behind us, or anywhere except where they’re supposed to be?”

  “We’ll adjust our flanks accordingly.”

  “What if we’re surrounded?”

  “We’ll get into diamond formations.”

  “Then why not leave in diamond formations in the first place, with the anti-tank squad and you in the center?”

  “It’ll be slower that way.”

  “Not that much slower, but it’ll be a lot safer. Remember what happened in the Hurtgen Forest.”

  “Okay, move them out in diamonds, with the first squad on point. You take the first squad, and stay in to
uch over the walkie-talkie, got it?’’

  “Yes sir.”

  Mazursky turned around and, in the dawn, saw the trench full of dirty bedraggled soldiers looking at him.

  “Where’s Fuckbright?” he asked.

  Albright stepped out of the row of soldiers. “Here I am, sergeant.”

  “Follow me, Fuckbright. And keep your ear glued to your walkie-talkie.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  “Hup Sarge? Where in the fuck do you think you are, in boot camp? Just give me a plain yes or no from now on, understand?”

  “Hup Sarge. I mean yes.”

  “You fucking birdbrain!’’

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  German shells were still raining down on the Charlie Company area as Mazursky shouldered his way to the center of the trench. “All right you assholes,” he yelled, “we’re moving out in four diamond formations, with the anti-tank squad in the center. I’ll be in the point squad, and Lieutenant Smith will be with the anti-tank squad. Keep your eyes open and your fucking asses close to the ground. Squad leaders will stay in touch on their walkie-talkies. Any questions?”

  “What happened to breakfast?” asked Private Naughton of Boston.

  Mazursky glowered at him. “ You fat fuck, all you ever think about is food! We’ll have breakfast when we get to where we’re going! Any other questions?”

  Nobody dared ask anything.

  “Okay—move ‘em out!”

  Mazursky crawled to the extreme left flank of the trench where Corporal Ginsberg’s first squad was deployed. “Okay boys, up and at ‘em!” Mazursky yelled.

  Pfc. Miguel Nazario was point man for the squad. He scrambled up the side of the trench, fell into a shell crater, and then began hunching his way across no-man’s land. Next came Privates Winchell and Brouvelli, who took positions on Nazario’s flanks, several feet behind him. Then the two BAR men went out, Privates Nowicki and Johnson, who would be farthest out on the flanks. Finally Mazursky, Albright, Ginsberg, and the last four men crawled out of the trench and took positions so that if the squad could be seen from above, it would look like a diamond moving across the terrain. The other squads would also form similar diamonds, positioning themselves overall so that the platoon itself would look like a large diamond made of five smaller diamonds. This would, as Mazursky pointed out earlier, provide a fairly effective all-round security.