by Len Levinson
It was evening as the jeep drove into Laval. Mahoney sat in the passenger seat and grimaced every time the jeep hit a bump. Cranepool was crumpled into the jump seat in back and next to him were their field packs.
Pfc Shapiro, who formerly had been a New York cabdriver, was behind the wheel.
They drove into the town, looking at the old buildings and the people strolling the sidewalks. Other jeeps roved up and down the streets and soldiers lounged on street corners.
“I think we’d better stop and ask somebody where to go,” Shapiro said, steering toward the curb.
Two G.I.s were having an argument beneath a lamppost. Shapiro brought the jeep to a screeching halt beside them and they spun around.
“Where’s General Bradley’s headquarters?” Mahoney asked them.
“Go down two blocks and take a left,” one of the soldiers said. “You can’t miss it.”
They drove two blocks, took a left, drove a little more, and came to the old mansion that had become General Bradley’s headquarters. Shapiro jammed on the brakes and the jeep skidded to a stop. Mahoney and Cranepool climbed out and dragged their packs with them.
“You guys got everything?” Shapiro asked.
“Yep,” said Mahoney.
Shapiro shifted into first and accelerated away like a race driver at the Indianapolis 500. Mahoney and Cranepool put on their packs and walked up the front steps of the mansion, where two M.P.s were standing.
“What do you two birds want?” asked one of the M.P.s suspiciously.
“We’re supposed to see Major Denton,” Mahoney replied, taking a copy of his orders out of his shirt pocket and handing it to the M.P.
The M.P. examined the orders, then handed them back to Mahoney. “Room three-twelve.”
Mahoney and Cranepool entered the old mansion. Oil paintings of French noblemen and women hung on the walls of a corridor illuminated by crystal chandeliers. High-ranking officers strolled about, looking with distaste at the two soldiers in steel pots and combat uniforms.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door stenciled with the numbers 312.
“Who’s there?” asked a deep voice inside.
“Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney!” Mahoney said.
“And Corporal Edward Cranepool!” Cranepool added.
“Come in!”
Mahoney opened the door and they entered Colonel Denton’s office. He was a tubby officer with a crew cut who looked like he worked on Colonel Simmons’s used car lot.
“Have a seat,” Denton said in French.
Mahoney and Cranepool sat down. Denton stared at Mahoney’s bruised features.
“What happened to you?” Denton asked Mahoney in French.
“I won the heavyweight championship of the 33rd Division yesterday,” Mahoney replied in French.
Cranepool leaned forward enthusiastically. “You should have seen him, sir,” he said, also in French. “Knocked Kowalski out in the fifth round. The greatest fight I’ve ever seen. Really sensational.”
“Say,” Denton told them in English, “both of you boys speak French pretty well.”
“Mahoney speaks like a real Frenchman,” Cranepool said.
“What are you—his agent?” Denton asked with a chuckle. He knew all about agents because he’d been an executive for 20th Century Fox before the war. “Let’s get down to brass tacks here, boys,” he continued. “We’re moving out first thing in the morning. There’ll be about a dozen of us and we should catch up with General Duloc’s headquarters around noon. We’ll have some communications people with us and a radio. I imagine we’ll be on the Champs Elysees in a few days.” Denton rolled his eyes in anticipation of the pleasure he expected to enjoy.
Mahoney coughed, because his throat was still sore from a punch landed there by Kowalski. “What specifically are we going to do, sir?”
“Liaison work.”
“What specifically does that involve, sir?”
“Transmitting messages and such.”
“But Cranepool and I aren’t in the Signal Corps. We’re infantry.”
“Just take it easy and don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do. The main thing is that you’re able to speak French.”
Mahoney shrugged. “Anything you say, sir.”
“Any questions?” Denton asked.
“I guess not,” Mahoney replied.
“Me neither,” added Cranepool.
“Good,” Denton said. “That’ll be all I guess. We’ve got a house down the street that we’re using as a barracks for soldiers in transit. It’s number thirteen fifty-one. Report to Sergeant Bryans there and he’ll put you up for the night.”
Chapter Eight
Delphine de Chaulieu walked swiftly down the Rue de Tolbiac on the West Bank of Paris. She wore a large floppy black hat and a black cape over her shoulders, hoping these would serve as a disguise, but they only made her more conspicuous. However, she didn’t know they made her conspicuous because she’d never undertaken in her life the type of dangerous mission she was on now.
She was going to see Colonel Andre Sechard, a maquis, to tell him about Karl. Sechard’s real name was Lucien Beauseant, and he had been a sculptor before the war. He also had been one of Delphine’s innumerable lovers, and in May of 1940 he’d told her he was going into the Resistance. She’d found out that his headquarters was in a sausage factory here on the Rue de Tolbiac, and now she was going to tell him what she knew about Karl.
She saw the sausage factory straight ahead on the other side of the street. No customers were coming and going, because there was no meat in Paris and hadn’t been for months. She crossed the street, looking furtively behind her, but could see nothing suspicious. No one would imagine that she was on a mission of the utmost significance. She looked like a Parisienne out for a little walk, or so she thought.
She came to the front of the sausage factory. Looking casually through the window, she saw a man sitting behind the counter, and reading a newspaper. Adjusting her cape on her shoulders, she opened the door of the factory and stepped inside. The man looked up at her from his newspaper.
“We don’t have any,” he said.
She put her hands on the counter and leaned toward him. “I must speak with Andre Sechard,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. “In back,” He turned and looked significantly at the double doors that led to the factory.
Glancing around her, Delphine moved toward the doors. She pushed them open and entered a large room with four long butcher’s tables in the middle and a kerosene lamp glowing on one of the tables. Crates were stacked along the walls, and no one was in sight. She saw a door at the end of the room and assumed it was the office. Andre must be in there.
She walked toward the door and rapped her knuckles on it. “Andre?” she asked.
There was no answer. She rapped again.
“Andre?”
The door opened and her eyes bulged at two burly SS men in black uniforms and black helmets with white lightning-bolt runes on the sides.
“Looking for someone?” one of them asked.
“No,” she replied, stepping backwards.
“No?” asked the SS man, advancing toward her. “Didn’t I hear you say the name Andre?”
“No sir,” she replied, turning and breaking into a run.
They caught up to her in seconds and lifted her by her arms off the ground.
“Let me go!” she shrieked, squirming from side to side.
“Andre Sechard was arrested a week ago, you little fool,” the SS man told her. “He’s in the dungeons at 74 Avenue Foch right now, and you’re going to join him there.”
Chapter Nine
Mahoney and Cranepool were called out of formation after breakfast and told to report to Major Denton’s office at headquarters. Carrying their field packs, they trudged down the street and made their way through the big mansion to Denton’s office.
“Come in,” said Dento
n when they knocked on the door.
They entered the office and saw four men with Denton. They all were dressed in fatigues and had their field packs with them. Mahoney wrinkled his nose when he saw that one of the soldiers was a Negro.
“Well, we’re all here now,” Denton said, standing behind his desk and rubbing his hands together. He too wore fatigues, and the insignia of his rank, a bronze oak-leaf cluster, was on his collar. “Let me introduce you all to each other.”
Mahoney found out that his companions would be Tech Sergeant Mark Goldberg, Buck Sergeant Fred Bates, Corporal Danny Rossi, and the black man was Pfc Leroy Washington. Denton issued .45 caliber pistols to Goldberg, Bates, Rossi, and Washington, and carbines to Mahoney and Cranepool.
“All right,” said Denton, “there’s a truck waiting out back for us. Let’s hit it.”
They left the office, descended the stairs, and followed Denton to the rear courtyard of the mansion. A deuce-and-a-half truck with a tarpaulin roof was parked in the gravel driveway, and Denton told them all to assemble in front of it.
“All right,” Denton said, prowling back and forth in front of them. “We’re all set to jump off. Each of you men has been chosen especially for this mission and I know you’ll give it your all. We’ll be working with the French Army, and I expect each and every one of you to give the best possible impression of the American Army to the French. Is that clear?”
Everybody grunted or nodded in agreement.
“All right—that’s it. Saddle up and let’s get rolling.”
Corporal Rossi climbed up into the cab of the truck; he was the driver. Major Denton went around to the passenger side, and the others climbed into the back of the truck. Two G.I.s hanging around nearby pushed up the tailgate, and Mahoney put in the hook so it wouldn’t fall down. Then he turned around and looked at the others, who all were glancing at each other curiously. He realized he was the senior man in the rear of the truck, the one to give the orders if Denton wasn’t around.
The truck started up. Mahoney looked at the big field radio and coils of wire on the floor. There also was field telephone equipment, some boxes of ammunition, and a few crates of C rations. The truck moved forward, kicking up dust from its rear wheels. Mahoney looked back and saw the mansion become smaller through the opening at the rear of the truck.
Next stop Paris, he thought happily.
The old deuce-and-a-half rolled across the French countryside. It was a sunny summer day and the soldiers in the back of the truck lounged about with their shirt sleeves rolled up, smoking cigarettes and talking about women. Through the opening at their rear they saw troops on the march, tanks, and other trucks. They passed through little villages and long stretches of farm country. Sometimes the roads were crowded, forcing them to creep along at a snail’s pace; at other times they were alone and Corporal Rossi floored the gas pedal.
Mahoney’s shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his waist. His dog tags and the gold crucifix his mother gave him before he shipped out to Europe hung out. He was thinking of the whorehouses of Paris and of beautiful young women when he became aware of shooting in the distance. At first he didn’t pay much attention to it and continued to think of naked females, while Corporal Bates spoke affectionately of a certain waitress he’d met on a three-day pass to Atlanta.
The shooting became louder, and Mahoney’s ears perked up. The truck seemed to be heading straight for it. He figured maybe thirty or forty people were involved in the fight, and hoped the little battle wasn’t blocking the road.
Cranepool heard the noise too. “Wonder what that’s all about?” he asked.
Bates was annoyed at having his story interrupted. “Wonder what what’s about?”
“The shooting.”
“What shooting?”
“Listen.”
Everyone in the back of the truck stopped talking, and above the rumble of the truck the exchange of rifle fire could be heard.
“Sounds like some fighting,” Bates said.
“No shit,” Mahoney replied.
Sergeant Goldberg wrinkled his forehead. “Somebody must’ve found some Germans.”
Cranepool nodded. “They must have got cut off behind our lines.”
The truck slowed down and stopped. Mahoney heard the cab door open, and a few seconds later Major Denton appeared behind the truck. “Mahoney,” he said, “could I speak with you for a moment?”
“Yessir.”
Mahoney jumped down from the truck and faced Major Denton.
“Something’s going on up ahead,” Denton said. “Can you hear it?”
“Yessir.”
“I think that maybe you and your buddy Cranepool ought to go up and see what it is. We wouldn’t want to ride into the middle of a war, would we?”
“Guess not, sir.”
“Since you and Cranepool are infantry, I’m sure you’ll be able to make the best evaluation of the situation.”
“Yessir.”
“Report back as soon as you can, and don’t take any chances.”
“Yessir.”
Mahoney climbed back into the truck, as Denton returned to the cab.
“Cranepool,” Mahoney said, “we gotta go see what the commotion is up ahead.”
“Hup Sarge.”
“We’d better get some extra ammo and some hand grenades just in case.”
They opened the crates and slung bandoliers of ammunition around their necks. They stuffed extra hand grenades into their pockets.
Corporal Bates chuckled. “Looks like you two are gonna take on the whole German Army by yourselves.”
Mahoney didn’t reply; he wasn’t too happy about going out on a patrol. Now it was a little clearer to him why he and Cranepool were in the liaison team. They were supposed to do all the fighting.
“Let’s go,” Mahoney said.
They jumped out of the truck and walked forward. The road was a gray ribbon cutting through green fields. It had little hills and dips, and after the first hill the truck was hidden from view.
Mahoney took out a cigarette and lit it up. “Shit,” he said, “maybe we should just sit down for a while and the fighting will stop all by itself.”
“Naw, let’s see what’s going on, Sarge.”
Mahoney could see that Cranepool was as curious and eager as usual. Cranepool was one of those farm boys who loved the action of war. It was like a game to him, and no matter how much horror and slaughter he saw, somehow it never tainted him. At least not yet.
They continued to trudge along the road. At the top of the next hill Mahoney looked back. Before them was a taller hill.
They climbed it and the shooting became louder. At the top they looked down and saw a white farmhouse about seven hundred yards ahead. A pale cloud of smoke wafted into the air around the farmhouse, and Mahoney could see the scene of the fighting.
They crouched down quickly; they didn’t want to be easy targets silhouetted against the sky. Mahoney puffed his cigarette and wondered what to do. He didn’t feel like going down there and getting mixed up in the fight.
Cranepool squinted his eyes as he peered ahead. “There must be some Krauts holed up in that house.”
Mahoney nodded. “Maybe we ought to go back to the truck and call for some troops. A couple of platoons of infantry should be able to wipe that little pocket of resistance out.”
“Let’s see first, Sarge. Maybe we don’t have to go through all that trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Mahoney said.
“Yes, but by the time they get here and get into action, we might not make it to Paris.”
Mahoney thought of the whorehouses of Paris. “Maybe you’re right.”
They moved off the road and into the field. The field was covered with knee-high grass, and they slowly drew closer to the farmhouse. They could see figures in the yard firing at the house from behind trees and an outbuilding, and they could see muzzle blasts coming from the windows of the farmhouse. The figures on the lawn wore civilian cl
othes, and Mahoney guessed they were maquis. The Germans must have been hiding in the house. Now the maquis were going to wipe them out.
Suddenly a side door of the house burst open and German soldiers came running out.
“Hit it!” Mahoney said.
They both dropped down in the grass and peered through it to see Germans running and shooting their way across the lawn, heading toward them.
“They’re making a break for it!” Mahoney said.
The maquis had only a few men covering that side of the house and the Germans broke through easily. More Germans ran into the field toward Mahoney and Cranepool. The other maquis started firing at the fleeing Germans, who drove head first into the grass out of sight.
“Oh-oh,” Mahoney whispered. He’d counted eight Germans, and they all had been heading in his general direction. The day would get awfully messy if all eight of them stumbled on him and Cranepool.
Cranepool looked ahead into the grass. “I’ll bet they’re splitting up,” he whispered. “That’s what I’d do if I was them.”
Mahoney nodded in agreement, feeling uneasy. The Germans could pop up anywhere. He couldn’t see very far through the grass and the grass wouldn’t stop a bullet. Nor could he signal to the maquis that he was there because a German might take a potshot at him.
Cranepool pointed his finger straight ahead. Mahoney listened and could hear something moving fifty yards away. He winked at Cranepool, took one of the grenades from his pocket, pulled the pin, and hurled it toward the noise. He and Cranepool heard the grenade fall with a thud, and then heard some frightened shouts in German. The grenade exploded with a bright red flash and the ground shook. Mahoney and Cranepool saw two Germans flung into the air like rag dolls and then drop to earth again.
Cranepool winked. “Two down,” he whispered.
There was a sudden silence. Mahoney wondered where the other Germans were. He heard the maquis giving each other orders in French at the other side of the field. They probably were wondering who threw the hand grenade.
Something rustled in the grass in front of Cranepool. He raised his carbine to take a shot, but Mahoney put his hand on the carbine and pushed it down.
