by Len Levinson
“I’m afraid so.”
“I thought so, and actually so did he. We are aware that you soldiers in Paris have been softened by the easy life there. Don’t think we haven’t heard about the champagne parties and wild sex orgies with French women of low moral character. Therefore the Fuhrer has decided that Karl should be sent to Paris immediately.”
Choltitz wrinkled his forehead. “Karl who?”
“You see what I mean?” Jodl said. “You’re so besotted with champagne and easy living in Paris that you’ve forgotten what Karl is.”
“Oh!” replied Choltitz. “That Karl!”
“Yes, that Karl.”
Choltitz gulped. Karl was the name given to the most lethal piece of artillery ever devised by man. It could hurl a two-and-a-half-ton shell four miles and had been used to blast away the defenses of Stalingrad and Sebastopol. Only one shell could transform an entire city block of buildings into a big hole in the ground.
“It’s on its way to you even as I speak,” Jodl said. “It travels, as you know, on its own railway car.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Choltitz asked.
“The Eastern Front.”
“When will it get here?”
“A few days. Its crew is under orders to begin destroying the city as soon as it arrives. I imagine it will be routed to the Gare de l’Est, and from that vantage point I suppose it can go right to work destroying the nearby Sacred Heart Cathedral, the Town Hall, the Palais Royal, the Place de la Republique, and so forth.”
Choltitz gasped as he thought of all these famous places being blown to bits by Karl.
“Did you say something?” Jodl asked.
“No sir.”
“I suppose I’ll have to tell the Fuhrer that Paris isn’t burning yet.”
“That’s right,” Choltitz agreed.
“He’ll be mad.”
“Tell him that I’m confident our illustrious army will push the Allies back to the English Channel.”
“How wonderful to speak with a general who has faith,” Jodl sighed.
“Faith can move mountains, they say,” Choltitz told him.
“Well, you have your orders, General von Choltitz. Paris must be destroyed. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“That is all. Good day.”
“Good day to you, sir.”
Choltitz groaned as he hung up the phone.
“Bad news, sir?” asked Grunberger, standing nearby with his hands behind his back.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Did I hear you mention Karl?”
“Yes.”
“They’re sending Karl here!”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my goodness!”
“You are dismissed, Lieutenant Grunberger. You may return to your office.”
“Yes sir.”
Grunberger did a smart about-face and marched out of the office, closing the door behind him. Choltitz placed his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands. He gazed sadly through the open balcony at the rooftops of Paris. I think I’m in for a very bad week, he told himself.
Chapter Five
It was the morning after the big fight. Mahoney sat in the latrine, taking his morning shit. The latrine consisted of a pole suspended over a big hole in the ground. The hole was filled with human excrement and flies buzzed around, occasionally landing on Mahoney’s bare bottom. A big square of canvas covered the area so that men moving their bowels wouldn’t get wet when it rained.
Mahoney thought he was going to die. His body ached as if every tank in the Hammerhead Division had rolled over it, his left eye was purple and completely closed, he had a splitting headache, several of his teeth were loose, he had bruises all over his face, and he thought his left hand was broken. But the picture was not totally bleak. He had thirty-two hundred dollars in his back pocket and he was wondering whether to send it to his mother to hold for him, because he wanted to buy a bar when the war was over.
A little private with a freckled face walked into the latrine and unbuckled his belt. He looked at Mahoney and did a double take. “Aren’t you Sergeant Mahoney?” the private asked.
“Yeah,” moaned Mahoney.
“Oh boy, I saw that fight yesterday, Sarge. What a fucking fight! I couldn’t believe it. Wow!” The private let down his pants and sat on the pole beside Mahoney. “You’re the greatest fighter I ever seen. I bet you even could take Joe Louis!”
“Think so?” Mahoney asked.
“Sure. You can take a punch and you hit hard too. If you ever hit that nigger he’ll go out like a light.”
Mahoney reached for the toilet paper and tore some off. A lot of big promoters hung out in Gleason’s Gym in New York and maybe after the war he’d talk to some of them. Maybe he could become heavyweight champion of the world instead of just heavyweight champion of the Hammerhead Division.
Mahoney stood, pulling up his pants. His ribs felt like knives were being jabbed between them. He’d intended to go on sick call that morning but he’d slept too late. They’d let him sleep late because he’d brought glory to the 15th Regiment, and now he hoped they’d let him see a doctor at the dispensary or even a pharmacist who could give him some pills.
A corporal approached the latrine as Mahoney was limping away. “Hey—are you Master Sergeant Mahoney?”
“Yeah,” Mahoney replied.
“Colonel Simmons wants to see you at his office.”
“I don’t think I can make it,” Mahoney said.
“I got a jeep.”
Mahoney followed the corporal around the tents and they came upon a crowd of men.
“Hey—here comes Mahoney!” somebody yelled.
They rushed toward him, and Mahoney held out his hands. “Don’t touch me!” he screamed.
They crowded around and slapped him on his back and shoulders anyway.
“Great fight, Sarge!”
“You were terrific yesterday!”
“What a fuckin’ fight!”
“You’re okay, Sarge!”
Mahoney grimaced and tried to push them away. “Get away from me—you fucking bunch of scumbags!”
“Hey, whatsa matter Sarge!”
“Don’t touch me!”
Mahoney, following the corporal, hobbled through the crowd. Soldiers in green fatigue pants and white T-shirts looked at him admiringly.
“What a fucking killer!” somebody said.
“Do you think he’ll ever be able to use that eye again?”
A jeep was parked on a dirt road near some pup tents. The corporal slid behind the wheel and Mahoney gingerly climbed into the passenger seat. The corporal started the jeep and drove away. Every time it hit a bump Mahoney thought his spine was going to crack in two.
“Hey, take it easy, willya pal?”
“Sure thing, Sarge.”
The jeep slowed down and Mahoney held on to the handle on the dash. They passed rows of pup tents and huge wall tents used for mess halls and command posts. Mahoney anticipated that Simmons was going to congratulate him for winning the big fight. He was surprised that Simmons wasn’t at the fight himself but figured the colonel didn’t want to be around to see his man lose. Well his man didn’t lose. Mahoney intended to ask Colonel Simmons if he could go to the 33rd Division hospital for a major checkup, because he was sure he had internal injuries and was dying slowly.
Finally the jeep arrived at the big complex of regimental command post tents. The driver braked and Mahoney crawled out, adjusting his steel pot. The driver led him to a tent where the regimental flag flew from a ten-foot pole and two soldiers stood guard. Mahoney went inside and saw Arnold Goodwin, the regimental sergeant major.
Goodwin arose from behind his desk and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mahoney.”
“Not too hard,” Mahoney said, offering his hand.
“You look like hell,” Goodwin said, shaking his hand delicately.
“I think I’m going to die,” Mahoney told him.
Goodwin held his stomach and laughed. He was forty-five years old and prematurely gray, with the paunch common to old sergeants who had desk jobs.
“I’m not kidding,” Mahoney said.
“The old man wants to see you,” Goodwin replied, his face red from laughing. “He’s thataway.” He pointed to a flap in the tent.
Mahoney ducked his head and went through the opening. Coming up, he saw Colonel Simmons sitting behind a desk, reading a piece of correspondence. Simmons was as tall as Mahoney but lean and rangy. He’d recently made bird colonel and taken over the regiment after the former commander was hit by an artillery shell in the Falaise Pocket.
“Mahoney,” Simmons said in his Kentucky drawl, getting up and extending his hand, “my deep and heartfelt congratulations.”
Mahoney grimaced and held out his hand. “Shake it easy.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I ache all over.”
Simmons clasped his hand. “I’m sure Kowalski is worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better, sir.”
“Have a seat, Mahoney.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mahoney lowered himself carefully into one of the folding camp chairs in front of the desk. Even his ass hurt. I’m never going to get over this, he thought. I’m probably going to be punch-drunk for the rest of my life.
“Everybody in the division is talking about you,” Simmons said with a wide toothy smile on his face. “I’m proud of you, son.”
“How come you weren’t at the fight, sir?”
“There was an emergency meeting yesterday at Third Army headquarters. I had to be there, but you know I would rather have seen you bring glory and honor to the Fighting 15th.”
“I figured you weren’t there because you didn’t want to see me lose, sir.”
Simmons looked hurt. “I didn’t think you’d lose, son. I had faith in you, and you won. My faith in you was justified.”
“When am I gonna get my cushy job, sir?” Mahoney asked.
Simmons grinned and leaned forward. “I got something better for you than that.”
“Better than a nice cushy job, sir? What could be better than a nice cushy job?”
“Paris,” Simmons hissed.
“Paris, France?” Mahoney asked.
“I sure as hell don’t mean Paris, Oklahoma, son.”
Mahoney’s battered face brightened. “You mean we’ve taken Paris?”
“I don’t mean that at all. But we have orders to take Paris, and you’re going in with the first wave.”
Mahoney swallowed hard. “The first wave? Why can’t I go in with the last wave?”
“Because we need men who can speak French. You see, Paris is going to be taken by General Duloc and his French 12th Armored Division, and we need a liaison group to go in with him. That’s what the meeting was about yesterday at Third Army headquarters. We’re trying to round up men who speak French fluently, and that means guys like you. I understand you speak French like a Frenchman. You worked with the maquis behind the lines for a while, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, for a few months.”
Simmons smiled and held up his hands. “Well, you’re going to Paris, son.”
“But my back hurts!”
“You’re young and strong—you’ll recover.”
“But what about my nice cushy job!”
Simmons grinned confidently and leaned forward. “This is your nice cushy job—don’t you see? The French are going to do all the fighting—you’re just going along for the ride. The Hammerhead Division is going to support the French in case they get into any trouble. All you have to do is file reports. It’ll be a piece of cake, and then, when Paris is liberated, you can have a little fun. Get the picture?”
Mahoney shook his head slowly. “The Krauts aren’t going to give up Paris that easily.”
“Nobody said war is supposed to be easy, son, but you’ll be on a liaison detail. You’ll just lay back behind the lines someplace and send daily radio messages to General Bradley’s headquarters. Like I said, it’ll be a piece of cake.”
“It’s not my idea of a nice cushy job, sir,” Mahoney complained. “I was hoping to get something in the Quartermaster Corps, handling supplies far behind the lines—get what I mean?”
“This’ll be better. Take my word for it.”
Mahoney looked through his one good eye at Simmons and wondered if he’d been a used car dealer back in civilian life. “I got a buddy who speaks good French,” Mahoney said. “Can he come along too?”
“What’s his name?”
“Corporal Edward Cranepool.”
Colonel Simmons looked at the sheet of paper before him. “His name’s already on the list,” he said.
Chapter Six
Lieutenant Otto Grunberger walked down the Boulevard Haussmann near the Paris Opera, his hands clasped behind his back and his brow furrowed with worry. Gunfire sounded in the distance; maquis had captured the Prefecture and German troops were trying to dislodge them. There were also other sporadic incidents of fighting throughout the city, and Grunberger realized that his year of romance and pleasure in Paris was coming to an end. The Allies were coming, there was no question about that. And so was Karl. Grunberger thought unhappily that Paris would soon be nothing more than a pile of rubble, and all the beautiful buildings would become a memory.
He entered a fashionable apartment building and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. He knocked on a door at the end of the corridor, and immediately a slender dark-haired woman opened it.
“Darling,” said the woman, holding out her arms.
Grunberger entered the apartment and embraced her. They kissed on the lips.
“I’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “How have you been?”
“Ah Delphine, you wouldn’t believe it,” Grunberger sighed.
“Come—I’ve just made a pot of tea.”
Delphine led Grunberger into her studio, for she was one of Paris’s foremost portrait artists. On her easel in the middle of a brightly lit room was a half-finished portrait of Colonel Rolf Schenck of the 218th Infantry Regiment. Portraits of other German officers and French people hung on the walls, along with landscapes and street scenes. Delphine wore a white smock with a big black bow underneath her chin. She was a countess and her family was socially prominent in Paris.
“Have a seat,” she said.
Grunberger sat on a chair beside a little round table. A pink ceramic pot of tea was on the table, and Delphine placed before Grunberger a matching pink cup and saucer. Then she sat opposite him. “What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked.
Grunberger sighed. “It’s really too terrible.”
“Now, now, it can’t be that bad. You know how you exaggerate things, sweetheart.” Delphine daintily raised her teacup to her lips and took a sip. “Marvelous tea,” she said. “Lapsong Foolang, it’s called. A friend of mine in Indochina sends it to me. You haven’t tasted yours yet. Come on now—cheer up. We don’t want any glum faces around here, do we?”
Grunberger stared into his teacup. “Paris is going to be destroyed,” he said.
“Oh, stop being so melodramatic. Paris is not going to be destroyed. A few bombs might fall here and there from time to time, but it’s impossible to destroy a city.”
“No it’s not,” Grunberger said. “It can be done, and it’s going to be done.”
“You Germans are so fatalistic,” she replied, crossing her legs and wagging her foot up and down. “Smile, darling, and drink your tea. The world will look a lot brighter after you’ve had your tea.”
Grunberger reached over and grabbed her wrist. “We’ve got to get out of Paris,” he said earnestly.
“Leave Paris?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Never!”
“Paris is going to be destroyed, don’t you understand?” he said, his lips becoming flecked with spittle. “Karl is coming!”
“Karl?” she asked. “Karl who?”
&nb
sp; He removed his hand from her wrist. “Karl is the most terrible piece of artillery in the world,” he explained. “It’s so big it travels on its own railroad car. One of its shells can destroy an entire city block, and it’s on its way to Paris right now. The army is going to use it to destroy Paris!”
She set her teacup in its saucer. “There really is such a device?” she asked.
“Yes!”
“And it works?”
“You should see what it did to Stalingrad.”
“Oh my goodness!” she said. “This sounds serious!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“We’ve got to stop it!”
“I know.”
“You say it’s coming by railroad?”
“Yes, from Russia. We expect it’ll arrive at the Gare de l’Est in a few days.”
She shook her head. “You Germans—you’re such a great people but you waste all your energy thinking up instruments of destruction. This Karl sounds positively diabolical.”
“It is, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. I was an architect before they called me up. I love buildings. I don’t want to destroy anything. I just wish this war was over so we could get married.”
She slid off her chair, got on her knees before him, and rested her cheek on his lap. “The war will be over someday, darling. Be patient.”
“I know the war will be over someday,” he replied, running his fingers through her hair. “But the big question is—will Paris be here?”
“Of course it will,” she said soothingly.
“Not if Karl gets here.”
“I think I can get word to the maquis about Karl,” she said.
“Don’t take any chances,” he told her.
“I have a friend,” she said. “He’ll know what to do.”
“Is he a maquis?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a maquis?”
“In a way.”
Grunberger covered his face with his hands. “If the SS ever finds out what I’ve told you, they’ll torture me to death.”
“Tut tut,” she said, patting his thigh. “They won’t find out.”
Chapter Seven
