The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  Felger looked at the avenues of approach he expected the Allied armies to take. “I think we’ll be ready for the enemy when he comes, don’t you, Lubel?”

  A muscle in Lubel’s cheek began to twitch. “That depends on how strong he will be, sir,” he replied, looking at the map table.

  “Our reports indicate that they’re sending a relatively small force. We should be able to take care of a small force—or even a relatively large one—with what we have now and will soon be receiving.”

  Lubel didn’t reply.

  Felger laughed. “You’re such a pessimist, Major Lubel.”

  Lubel’s hands began to shake. “I don’t think I’m a pessimist, sir,” he said, still looking at the map table and refusing to meet Felger’s eyes.

  “I do. I think your unfortunate experiences in Russia have severely damaged your morale.”

  Lubel’s eyes flashed as he looked up at his commanding officer. “You have never seen the chaos of large-scale defeat, sir. You don’t know what it is to see your entire front in wild retreat and enemy tanks rolling over the bodies of your men. You can’t imagine what it’s like to receive reports that there are five-hundred-mile holes in your front line. Sir, I must tell you in all honesty and with the full respect due your rank that I have seen an aspect of this war that you have not, and that my experiences have made me very cautious.”

  Felger sniffed superciliously. “I still think it’s a morale problem, and I would like you to view our situation more optimistically in the future, do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Felger looked down at the map again. “Our situation is quite strong and becoming stronger every hour, Lubel. That surely is cause for optimism. Believe me, when they come we’ll make them pay heavily for their Paris.”

  “Yes sir,” Lubel replied.

  The French 12th Armored Division advanced steadily through cheering crowds and wild celebrations. Beautiful girls, climbing onto the slow-moving vehicles, gave the men bread, wine, fruit, and fleeting kisses.

  Cranepool leaned over the tailgate of the old deuce-and-a-half truck and caught a roast chicken, falling backwards into the truck with it. The white houses of a small village could be seen out the back of the truck, along with Frenchmen and women waving flags and shouting encouragement to the soldiers.

  As Cranepool tried to raise himself from the iron floor of the truck, Mahoney reached over and grabbed a drumstick of the chicken, ripping it away and bringing it to his mouth. Buck Sergeant Fred Bates snatched a wing and half of a breast came along with it.

  “Hey!” yelled Cranepool, trying to get up. “Leave some for me!”

  Sergeant Goldberg pulled off the other wing; but Pfc Leroy Washington didn’t make a move for the chicken, although his eyes indicated that he was dying to get his hands on it.

  Cranepool, looking mournfully at the remains of the chicken, got up from the floor and sat on the bench beside Washington. There only was a drumstick and a few scraps of meat left. He tore off the drumstick and handed the carcass to Washington. “Here.”

  “Thanks,” said Washington, licking his lips.

  “I risked my life to catch the chicken,” Cranepool complained, “and all I wind up with is the fucking leg.”

  “Be glad you got that,” Mahoney growled, gnawing on his drumstick. He looked out the rear of the truck and wished he could let the tailgate down. Then maybe a frisky young French girl could crawl into the truck and he could feel her up.

  A hand appeared above the tailgate, bobbing up and down and holding a bottle of wine.

  “Get that!” Mahoney shouted.

  Bates plucked it out of the hand, tipped his helmet in gratitude, and sat down. He pulled the cork and took a swig, then passed it to Cranepool.

  Mahoney sucked the bone of his drumstick, waiting for the wine to make its way to him. He felt nervous because everything had been too easy so far. The French columns had been moving steadily toward Paris and had met only scattered pockets of German resistance. He knew that the Germans would not give up Paris without a fight and wondered when they’d make their move. Surely they knew where the French 12th was. These towns were full of collaborators and one of them must have passed the word along by now.

  The bottle of wine came to Mahoney and he raised it to his lips. The first shot can come at any moment, he told himself. I might as well enjoy myself while I can.

  The phone on General Felger’s desk rang. Major Lubel darted like a fox to the phone and picked it up. The voice on the other end excitedly identified itself as Captain Wencke of Intelligence and asked to speak with the general. Major Lubel handed the phone to General Felger and told him who was calling.

  “What is it, Wencke?” asked Felger, anticipating that it would be a report on the advancing Allied Army.

  “Sir!” said Wencke. “The French are in Orsay!”

  Felger wrinkled his forehead. “The French you say?”

  “Yes sir. We’ve identified the unit as the French 12th Armored Division commanded by General Georges Duloc.”

  “There aren’t any Americans or British?”

  “No sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes sir. They have American Sherman tanks and American equipment, but they’re all French according to my information.”

  “When did you receive this report, Wencke?”

  “Just moments ago, sir. The French are in Orsay right now!”

  “I see,” replied Felger. “Thank you very much, Wencke. Please report any new information to my headquarters immediately.”

  Felger hung up the telephone and looked at Lubel. “Good news, Lubel!” he said triumphantly. “We are being attacked by the French, and you know what we did to them in 1940.”

  “This isn’t 1940,” Lubel said drily.

  Felger sighed, “Ah Lubel—what am I going to do with you? I know you’re a fine officer and a war hero to boot, but you’re the most depressing person I’ve ever met in my life.”

  Felger swaggered to the map and looked down at it. He found the town of Orsay and his eyes followed the road that led from Orsay to Paris. That road ran smack into the middle of the 127th Panzergrenadier Division, a crack unit filled with combat veterans.

  “Get me General Buchheim on the phone,” Felger ordered.

  “Yes sir.”

  Lubel lifted the phone and told the operator to put him through to General Buchheim, while Felger looked at the map, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the battle to come. The 127th Panzergrenadiers were dug in and deployed for battle. When the French 12th bumbled into them, it would be a slaughterhouse. French soldiers hadn’t performed very well in this war, and there was no reason to think they’d suddenly shine today. If they could be stopped on their way to Paris, the war might take a turn that would favor the Reich.

  “I have him, sir,” said Lubel.

  Felger strode toward the telephone and took it from Lubel’s trembling hand. “General Buchheim?” Felger asked.

  “Speaking,” said the deep booming voice of Buchheim, a squat, swarthy old soldier with a harelip.

  “I have good news,” Felger said. “The French 12th Armored Division is headed your way on the road leading to Paris from Orsay.”

  “I know,” Buchheim replied. “One of my reconnaissance platoons advised me of that fact about fifteen minutes ago. We’re getting ready for them.”

  “Excellent. I shall leave my headquarters immediately to personally direct the battle. We must stop them, Buchheim. There is no alternative for us because if we don’t stop them, Paris will fall; and if Paris falls, so shall France.”

  “We’ll stop them, General. The French were great soldiers in the days of Napoleon, but now they’re a nation of waiters and bureaucrats. We’ll chew them up and spit out their bones.”

  “That’s the way I like to hear my commanders talk,” Felger said with a smile. “I’ll see you soon. Carry on.”

  Felger hung up the phone and looked at Lubel. “Bu
chheim is looking forward to the fight,” he said happily. “He’s says he’ll chew the French up and spit out their bones.”

  Lubel nodded, forcing a wry smile.

  Felger raised his eyebrows. “You don’t agree?”

  “I don’t think it’ll be that easy, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because these aren’t the same French you and General Buchheim fought in 1940, sir. These French have modern weapons and we must assume that they’ve learned something about modern warfare during the past four years. Moreover, their goal is Paris, which is a sacred place to them. They’ll fight very hard, and I don’t think you and General Buchheim should underestimate them.”

  Felger pressed the button that would call his aides. “By sundown tonight,” he said to Lubel, “we shall know which of us is right and which is wrong. I think you might be underestimating the courage and fighting ability of the German soldier.”

  The door opened and Felger’s aides poured into the room, expressions of expectation on their faces.

  “We’re leaving for the 127th Panzergrenadier Division immediately!” Felger told them. “Put on your helmets and let’s go!”

  On a wooded hill near the road that led from Orsay to Paris, General Eberhard Buchheim raised his head over the sandbag fortifications and peered through his binoculars at the road. He spotted a blur of dust and smoke in the distance and focused more carefully on it, wondering if it was the French 12th.

  “I see them sir!” said Lieutenant Josef Schnurre, standing next to him.

  Buchheim squinted through his binoculars, and in the dust and smoke the unmistakable outline of a tank emerged. “I see them too,” said Buchheim, adrenalin coursing through his veins. “Direct the artillery to prepare to open fire on my command.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Buchheim smiled as he watched the French armored column rumble toward him. He scanned the terrain on both sides of the road, seeing fields, woods, and hills. His Panzergrenadier Division was deployed on the highest hills, and his artillery had the area in front of it bracketed carefully. The French were rolling into a deadly trap.

  “The French,” Buchheim said derisively. “What fools.”

  “I’ve notified the artillery,” Lieutenant Schnurre said.

  “Stand by.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Buchheim had a big head, and his helmet fit it tightly. He resembled the actor Erich von Stroheim as he peered down at the French tanks pouring onto the road leading toward the 127th Panzergrenadiers. It took nerve to wait until the French were closer, but Buchheim had plenty of nerve. In the First World War, as a young officer, he’d fought the French at Verdun, the English in the Somme, and the Americans in the Argonne Forest. In this war he’d fought on all fronts so far, and there was a small piece of shrapnel embedded near his spine, in too delicate a position to permit an operation. It bothered him often at night and in cold weather.

  “Sir!” said Lieutenant Schnurre. “They’re getting awfully close!”

  “Just a few more minutes,” General Buchheim replied. “We mustn’t be overanxious.”

  The tanks were close enough now so that Buchheim could see their commanders standing in the hatches and the Cross of Lorraine painted on the turrets. Buchheim had been raised a Lutheran, and in his mind he contrasted the swastika of the German Reich with the cross. He had to admit to himself that the cross was still a more potent symbol to him, but that wouldn’t stop him from ordering an artillery attack when the bulk of the French 12th was within range of his 88s. He could hear Lieutenant Schnurre’s teeth chattering beside him.

  Buchheim turned to the pale young lieutenant. “Direct the artillery battalions to open fire,” he said.

  As one hundred 88s fired the first barrage, it sounded to the men in the French armored column like a distant peal of thunder.

  Mahoney knew immediately that shells were on the way. “Take cover!” he screamed.

  They dove to the floor of the trucks as Corporal Rossi steered hard to the left and drove into a field of corn. The shells rained down, whistling their song of death, and then they slammed into the ground, making it tremble with the violence of their explosions. Earth and shrapnel flew through the air, and a few razor-sharp chunks of hot metal tore through the canvas roof above their heads.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Mahoney screamed.

  He vaulted over the tailgate of the truck, his carbine in his right hand, and landed in the middle of two rows of corn. Snatching an ear off a cornstalk, he spotted a shell crater fifteen yards away and ran toward it as the second barrage sounded from the direction of the high ground in the distance. He dove into the shell crater and pulled his helmet tightly over his ears.

  The second barrage landed, blowing up earth and a dozen French tanks. Cranepool came flying through the air and landed belly down in the crater beside Mahoney. Washington came next, and last was Major Denton.

  “What’s going on here!” Denton shouted in horror.

  Mahoney ignored him and peered over the top of the crater. He saw Rossi, Goldberg, and Bates taking cover in another hole nearby, and French tanks roaring crazily in all directions. Some French tanks were charred, smoking hulks and French soldiers were running for cover.

  “The Krauts are on those hills over there,” Mahoney said, pointing forward with his ear of corn.

  Washington raised his head over the top of the hole. “I think I can see Kraut tanks,” he said.

  Mahoney looked up cautiously and saw Kraut tanks advancing toward them like giant cockroaches from the woods at the foot of the hills ahead. “Looks like we just fell into a jackpot,” he grumbled. “The fucking frogs should have had recon patrols up ahead, but they’re in such a hurry to get to Paris they’re starting to fuck up.”

  He saw the French tanks move into formations and start to roll across the fields toward the German tanks. A big nasty tank battle was about to begin, and if the German tanks broke through they might very well roll over the supine body of Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney.

  Mahoney turned to Denton. “I think we should get out of here, sir.”

  “I’m all for that, sergeant.”

  “Back to the truck!” Mahoney shouted.

  He jumped up from the hole and went crashing through rows of corn. The others followed him, as the French and German tanks fired at each other in the distance. The German 88s now were zeroing in on French tanks, and a few shells were falling on the headquarters company of the French 12th. Mahoney saw Duloc’s staff trucks moving back, and Mahoney wanted to move back with them. He knew that generals always picked the safest place to set up their map tables and plan strategy, and that’s where he intended to go.

  He reached the rear of the truck and unhooked one side of the tailgate as Cranepool unhooked the other side. Corporal Rossi dove into the front seat behind the wheel, turned the switch, gave her the gas, and nothing happened. He tried again, and still nothing happened. It was turning over but wasn’t kicking to life. Mahoney leapt into the rear of the truck. The others piled into the truck after him, with Washington and Goldberg securing the tailgate. They all lay on the floor of the truck feeling it tremble as the engine tried to start up.

  His chin resting on the steel floor of the truck, Mahoney tried to think. He decided that the first order of business would be to try to get the truck running. Otherwise they’d have to abandon it and get out into the cornfield, where they might have to fight German soldiers, or worse, German tanks.

  “Do we have any bazookas in here?” he asked, raising his head.

  “I dunno Sarge,” Cranepool said.

  “Anybody else know?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Then I’ll have to look.”

  He raised himself and crawled to the boxes in the front of the floor, keenly aware of the sounds of fierce battle not far away. He saw the radio and telephone equipment and some boxes filled with .30 caliber bandoliers, but there was no
bazooka.

  “All right,” Mahoney said, opening the box of hand grenades, “everybody grab a bunch of these and let’s get the hell out of this truck before a shell hits it.”

  Mahoney stuffed grenades into his pockets and clipped them to his buttonholes. Then he pushed the others aside and made his way to the rear of the truck, vaulting over the tailgate and landing in the corn again. At the front of the truck Corporal Rossi and Major Denton were looking at the engine.

  The air was filled with smoke and the ground rumbled with explosions. The French had some of their artillery firing and were pounding the German tanks and fortifications, while the German 88s were concentrating on French tanks. Mahoney and his deuce-and-a-half were out of the line of fire, but he knew the situation might not remain this way for long.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked Rossi, who had one side of the hood up and whose head was inside the engine compartment.

  “The distributor,” Rossi said, his voice muffled by the intake manifold.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “A piece of shrapnel smashed it to shit.” Rossi withdrew his head from the engine compartment, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek. “A freak accident if ever I saw one.”

  Major Denton held his .45 in his right hand and cleared his throat. “Can’t you fix it, Corporal?”

  “There ain’t nothing to fix, sir. I told you that it’s all shot to shit.”

  They heard the fearsome whistle of a shell coming in, and all dropped to their bellies underneath the truck. A shell exploded with a deafening roar fifty yards away, and Mahoney heard high-speed shrapnel whack against the truck. Then the dirt and rocks fell all around them. Mahoney realized that his quest for a cushy job had led him into the jaws of hell.

  Major Denton struggled to lower his voice into its full public relations mode. “Well Sergeant,” he said with a public relations smile, “I’m not an infantry officer, as I’m sure you know, and I’m afraid I’ll have to rely on your judgment in this matter. What do you propose we do?”