Doom River by Len Levinson

Author:Len Levinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: world war ii, war stories, general patton, the sergeant, mens war adventure, pulp war fiction, sgt c j mahoney
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Ten

Charlie Company reached the top of the hill at five o’clock in the morning, as the first faint glimmer of dawn appeared in the east before them. Captain Anderson deployed his platoons and told his men to find a good defensive position, then moved toward the back of the ridge and proceeded to find one for himself.

The first platoon was on the far left flank of the ridge, and Mahoney organized his men so that they’d form a shoulder that could furnish some protection in case of an attack from the left flank.

There were rocks and trees on the ridge, so it was easy to find comparatively safe spots to lie down. Mahoney found a nice position behind a big boulder and dropped to the ground wearily, leaning his carbine against the boulder. He unsnapped his canteen, pulled it from its case, and took a long drink. Then he sighed. Looks like I’m still alive, he thought.

“Mind if I join you, Sarge?” It was Cranepool.

“Don’t mind at all, kid.”

They both took K rations out of their pockets. Mahoney had beans and Cranepool had hash. They got out their spoons and began to dig in.

“Boy, this tastes good,” Cranepool said, although his mother never served anything like it in her kitchen on the worst day of her life.

“Great stuff,” Mahoney agreed.

“This is a nice spot we’re in up here,” Cranepool said. “I feel like a fucking eagle. When it gets light we’ll be able to see for miles around. I hope they let us stay here awhile.”

“It don’t make a fuck to me either way,” Mahoney replied.

“No, I take that back. I like to keep moving, because the sooner we get to Berlin, the sooner this mess’ll be over with.”

“Whadaya think you’re gonna do when it’s over, Sarge.”

“I’m gonna open a bar in New York City—I told you that a million times, asshole.”

Cranepool pursed his lips together and shook his head. “Naw you ain’t, Sarge. You’re gonna re-up just like all the old dogfaces. You couldn’t run a bar. All you know how to do is shoot people.”

“Look who’s talkin’.”

“Whadaya mean?” Cranepool asked. “I used to be a farmer. My family’s got a big farm in Iowa.”

“You’ll never go back to the farm, kiddo,” Mahoney said. “Well, you might go back for awhile, but you’ll get sick of it. You’ll miss the barracks and the crap games. You’ll be back in the Army, mark my words. I never saw anybody eat this shit up the way you do.”

“That’s because you never see yourself,” Cranepool laughed. “Nobody gets along in the Army as well as you do, Sarge. This is your element, you just don’t realize it. Even the fucking officers are afraid of you. You’re the kind of guy who stays in the Army till you’re old and gray.”

“I’m gonna be old and gray in about a week if things keep going the way they been going.” He finished K rations and chucked the can away. Then he took out a cigarette and lit it up.

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