by Len Levinson
“What for?” said Denton.
Mahoney didn’t reply; he crawled out from underneath the truck.
“Wait for me, Sarge!” Cranepool yelled.
Mahoney stood up in front of the grille of the truck and Cranepool arose beside him. Mahoney felt his blood rushing through his veins at the sight of French and German soldiers clashing all around them. Moving into the swirling smoke, they heard the roar of a tank to their side. The smoke cleared for a moment and the big black iron cross could be seen on the tank’s turret. Mahoney ripped a grenade off his lapel, pulled the pin, and lobbed the grenade into the tread of the tank, dropping into a nearby shell crater as soon as the grenade left his hand.
Cranepool fell into the hole with him just as the grenade exploded inside the tank’s tread. It blew apart, its fragments flying into the air, and the tank ground to a halt. Mahoney heard footsteps and saw three German soldiers running toward them with their bayonets pointed forward like lances. Mahoney and Cranepool came up out of the hole and charged the Germans. Mahoney was on the left and he lunged forward at a German with his bayonet. The German, a skinny young kid, tried to parry Mahoney’s thrust, but he wasn’t strong enough. Mahoney’s bayonet streaked forward and buried to the hilt in the kid’s chest. He fell to the ground and Mahoney pulled back his rifle, but it was stuck in the German’s chest and wouldn’t budge. In the corner of his eye he saw another German try to bash him in the head with his rifle butt. Mahoney dodged out of the way and grabbed the soldier’s rifle. While he pulled and tugged, grunting and swearing, Mahoney made out that his adversary was around forty years old, an old sergeant with a lantern jaw. The German tried to knee Mahoney in the balls, but Mahoney twisted out of the way and managed to kick the German in the shins. The German screamed and loosened his grip on the rifle. Mahoney pulled it out of his hands and smashed him in the face with it. The German fell back, but before he hit the ground Mahoney ran him through the stomach and then pulled the bayonet out. Blood poured out of the German sergeant’s wound and he groaned in agony.
Mahoney turned and saw Cranepool grappling with another German soldier. Mahoney maneuvered so that maybe he could shoot the German from the side, when a horde of Germans appeared in the smoke and ran toward him with bayonets fixed. Mahoney planted one foot behind him and prepared to take them all on. Something told him that maybe he shouldn’t have left the safety of the truck, when he heard footsteps behind him and was suddenly joined by a squad of French soldiers.
The Germans ran into Mahoney and the Frenchmen. Bayonets and rifles clashed against each other, followed by cries of pain and shouts of triumph. Mahoney neatly parried the thrust of the German in front of him and brought his rifle butt around into the soldier’s face. Then, using his bayonet, he slashed diagonally across the chest of another German, who shrieked at the sudden pain and dropped to his knees.
Mahoney kicked him in the face and kept going. He charged a German soldier and thrust his bayonet toward his heart. The German parried it and pushed Mahoney back. Mahoney grunted and charged again, feinting with his bayonet. The German tried to parry the feint and Mahoney jabbed his bayonet through the German’s rib cage. The German fell back and once more Mahoney’s bayonet became stuck. He pulled and pulled but it wouldn’t come out. So he left it sticking in the German’s chest and took his rifle instead. Breathing hard, his heart chugging like a tractor engine, he peered forward and saw some Germans about ten yards away. He dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired the German rifle. One of the Germans slumped to the ground, and suddenly a bunch of French appeared to aid him in the attack. Mahoney ran forward to join them—his eyes darting around in all directions so that nothing would take him by surprise—when he saw a dead German tanker lying on the ground, his black beret over his face and his submachine gun lying a few feet away.
With a cry of joy, Mahoney picked up the submachine gun and threw the German rifle away. He stuffed clips of German ammunition into his belt and ran forward, eager for more battle now that he had his favorite weapon in his hands. He held the butt of the submachine gun against his hip. It chattered in his hands and Germans toppled twitching and screaming to the ground.
Mahoney and the Frenchmen continued to move forward, shooting and stabbing Germans. Mahoney must have advanced fifty yards before it occurred to him that the Germans were falling back, and his heart swelled with the joy of victory.
“LETS GO!” he shouted, running after the Germans. “KILL THE COCKSUCKERS!”
General Felger felt as though he had no strength left in his body as he staggered back from the window in the bunker. He’d thought he was going to win a great victory, but now he was tasting the bitter gall of defeat. A soldier from his headquarters company took his post at the window and fired his rifle at the French soldiers advancing up the hill. The German soldiers before them retreated in a wild panic. Felger’s forces were in rout, and he fought his impulse to flee, feeling that the battle had been lost because of strategic mistakes that he’d made and that he should stand and fight to the death.
Felger drew his service revolver and watched Major Lubel draw his. Felger realized now that Lubel had been right all along, that bluster and overconfidence had led to failure. Felger wanted to apologize to Lubel, but it was too late for apologies. General Buchheim had left to lead his troops and try to halt the retreat, and nothing had been heard from him since. Presumably he was dead. Felger’s aides had fled minutes ago. Now Felger had to face the end with Lubel, whom he’d never liked, with some of his headquarters troops, and with his dog Zizi who was running back and forth, yapping nervously.
Lubel checked his ammunition clip and jammed it back into his pistol. He adjusted his helmet on his head and wiped his nose. “Are you going to surrender?” he asked Felger.
“Surrender?” Felger asked haughtily. “Never!” He smiled superciliously. “However, you may surrender if you like.”
Lubel would have liked to surrender, but he didn’t want to appear a coward in front of Felger, whom he hated. “I’ll last as long as you,” he said.
Both men were glowering at each other with undisguised hatred, when a soldier at one of the windows howled in pain and dropped to the floor. Felger and Lubel turned in alarm to look at him. As Lubel moved to take the soldier’s place, he saw in astonishment a hand grenade sail through the window and into the bunker. Horrified, he watched the grenade fly across the room and land on top of the map table. There was a brilliant red flash and a mighty roar. Lubel and Felger were killed instantly in the terrible explosion.
Chapter Sixteen
It was ten o’clock in the evening and the French 12th Armored Division was celebrating its great victory. The men passed around bottles of Calvados, ate American C rations, and sang songs.
At the command post tent, General Duloc sat with his staff officers and discussed the events of the day. A campfire was burning nearby and in its glow the officers studied maps, smoked cigarettes, and told stories of their adventures.
“Now,” General Duloc said triumphantly, puffing his pipe, “Paris lies directly in our path. I doubt whether the Germans will be able to mount much of a resistance against us. I expect that we’ll arrive late tomorrow.”
The officers looked at each other and smiled, for each of them had a relative or friend living in Paris, and many of them were native Parisians. They spoke of the things they’d do once they reached Paris and drank Calvados from tin cups.
Around eleven o’clock, the unmuffled sound of a truck engine could be heard. At first it was far away and nobody paid much attention to it, but after a while it came closer and the French officers couldn’t help noticing that the engine was working fitfully, its gears were grinding, the tappets were tapping, and a couple of the pistons weren’t firing regularly.
General Duloc wrinkled his nose at the horrible sound. “What in the world is that?” he asked.
As if to answer his question, a beat-up deuce-and-a-half truck turned off the road and rumbled over the field tow
ard the campfire. The truck was missing a bumper and fender, it was riddled with bullet and shrapnel holes, and its canopy was torn to shreds. As it approached the campfire, Lieutenant Grévin recognized Major Denton of the U.S. Army sitting in the front seat beside the driver.
“It’s the Americans!” Grévin said.
Duloc shook his head and groaned. “Oh no.”
“I’d wondered what happened to them,” said another officer.
Grévin sighed. “Everything was so nice without them.”
General Duloc threw his cigarette butt into the campfire. “I’d hoped that we’d lost them,” he said.
The truck stopped and the door on the passenger side opened. Major Denton climbed down and figures could be seen jumping from the tailgate. They assembled and walked toward the campfire, and as the light illuminated them, the French officers could see that the Americans were filthy and bedraggled, their uniforms torn and bandages tied around their arms and legs.
Major Denton marched stiffly to General Duloc and saluted. “Good evening, sir. I’d like to get some rations and fresh uniforms for my men, and we’ll also need repairs on our truck. Who shall I see about taking care of these matters?”
Duloc stood and looked at the Americans in amazement. He’d thought they’d been hiding in a safe spot someplace, but now it appeared that they’d been in the thick of the fighting. The master sergeant among them had two German submachine guns slung from his shoulders, two German pistols stuck in his belt, ammunition hanging everywhere, and five gold watches on his wrist.
“Where have you been?” Duloc asked.
“Well sir,” Denton replied, “It’s a long story but to make it short: we got cut off from the rest of you and were behind German lines for a while.”
“Looks like you’ve seen some fighting.”
“Yes sir, we did. And now, if you don’t mind, we’d like to get something to eat and maybe see some medical people.”
“Yes of course,” Duloc replied. He turned to Lieutenant Grévin. “Take them to the mess tent and have some medics take a look at them. Tell the transportation officer to take care of their transportation
“Yes sir.” Grévin looked at the Americans. “Come with me, please.”
The Americans followed Grévin in the direction of the mess tent. Duloc sat down on his camp chair and puffed his pipe. “They look like they’ve had quite a bad time,” he mused.
“Too bad it wasn’t harder,” said another officer.
Duloc puffed his pipe. “The Americans are a strange people,” he said. “They can be exceedingly perplexing at times, but they’re always full of surprises. Sometimes I can’t stand them, and other times I’m very grateful they’re on our side. I’d certainly hate to have them as enemies.”
With a shrug, Duloc removed his pipe from his mouth and reached for his cup of Calvados.
Chapter Seventeen
The phone rang on General von Choltitz’s desk, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“This is General Jodl,” said the voice on the other end. “Is Paris burning?”
“As a matter of fact it is,” Choltitz replied. “But there are only small fires in certain specific areas.”
“You mean the entire city of Paris is not aflame!”
“Not yet.”
There was a pause. “The Fuhrer won’t be happy to hear that.”
“I think it would be premature to torch the city. We’re not under serious attack yet.”
“I have received information from Model’s headquarters that the Allies are moving steadily toward Paris.”
“They’re not here yet,” Choltitz replied, “and I don’t think I should destroy the city until I have no other alternative.”
“Have you blown up the bridges over the Seine yet?”
“No sir.”
“One wonders what you are waiting for?”
“We might need those bridges ourselves to ship troops to the front,” Choltitz explained.
“You’re not getting any more troops to send to the front.”
“I still don’t think the bridges should be destroyed until it’s necessary. You’re not here and I’m afraid you don’t understand what the situation is.”
“That may be so,” Jodl agreed. “The best analysis of a situation always comes from the person closest to it. But let me advise you that Karl is on the way, and its crew is under separate orders from the Fuhrer. It will begin to destroy Paris as soon as it arrives, unless the orders are countermanded personally by the Fuhrer himself.”
Choltitz gulped. “Where is Karl now?”
“My latest information is that it has crossed the border into East Prussia. It may arrive in Paris the day after tomorrow.”
“Good grief!” Choltitz said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing—I just wouldn’t like to see Paris destroyed if it weren’t necessary.”
“You worry about Paris too much, General von Choltitz. The soft life is getting to you, I can see that. Well, I must deliver your report in person to the Fuhrer. That will be all. Good day and Heil Hitler!”
“Heil, Hitler,” Choltitz said without enthusiasm, hanging up the phone.
Chapter Eighteen
Early in the morning following the battle, the French 12th Armored Division was on the way to Paris. The vehicles were in a long single line with General Duloc’s personal jeep in front, the Cross of Lorraine flying from a little pole on the front fender. The repaired American truck was in the rear, catching the dust and debris kicked up by the vehicles ahead. The G.l.s covered their noses with filthy handkerchiefs to keep the dust out of their lungs.
“Fucking frogs,” Mahoney muttered.
Early in the afternoon the convoy slowed down. Mahoney craned his head around the tarpaulin and saw that they were coming to a little village consisting of a dozen old stone houses. The lead vehicles were stopping, and Mahoney wondered what the hell was going on. The old deuce-and-a-half stopped, and Mahoney jumped off the tailgate and walked forward to the cab.
“What the fuck are we stopping for?” he asked Major Denton.
“How should I know?” Denton asked, his face covered with dust. “Why don’t you go find out?”
Mahoney adjusted the strap of his carbine on his shoulder and walked quickly toward the front of the column. He passed several tanks and trucks and finally came to Duloc’s lead jeep, which was stopped in front of a house. Duloc and a swarm of his men were in the front yard of one of the houses, where some Frenchmen in civilian clothes and a big man dressed like an American soldier were holding eighteen Germans prisoner.
The man in the American uniform had a mustache and a wide grin. He wore his steel pot at a cocky angle and spoke French with an American accent. Mahoney spotted a war correspondent’s badge on his lapel. He was telling Duloc how he and the maquis had captured the Germans in some woods nearby.
“Good work,” Duloc told the big American. “We’ll take the prisoners now.”
“That would be very nice of you.”
Duloc waved his arms and issued some orders. Several of his men gathered around the Germans and marched them away. The big American correspondent looked around and spotted Mahoney. “Hey—are you an American?” he asked in English.
“I sure am,” Mahoney replied.
“Well whataya know about that.” He walked over and shook Mahoney’s hand. “How’re you doing? My name’s Ernie Hemingway.”
“My name’s Mahoney. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be a war correspondent but I guess I’m getting a little carried away. You got something to drink?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well I have.” Hemingway reached into his back pocket and took out a silver flask. “It’s real Scotch,” he said. “Don’t ask me how I got it.”
Hemingway took a swig, then passed the flask to Mahoney, who raised it to his lips and tossed his head back.
“Ah,” said Mahoney. “That’s just wh
at I needed. Thanks a lot.”
“You headed for Paris?” Hemingway asked, stuffing the flask into his back pocket.
“That’s right. You too?”
“Yup. If you’re ever in the neighborhood of the Hotel Ritz, look me up. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Mahoney winked. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Good deal.”
“All right everybody!” Duloc shouted. “Let’s get rolling! Paris is only a few miles away.”
Mahoney shrugged. “See you in Paris, Ernie.”
“Go slow, Mahoney.”
Mahoney turned and ran back to the truck, and the column began rumbling toward Paris.
General von Choltitz stood on the balcony of his office in the Hotel Meurice. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and there was fighting all over the city. Balloons of smoke rose into the summer sky and small arms fire crackled from all directions. Occasionally he heard a large explosion as one of his tanks fired at a rebel stronghold.
He took out a cigarette and lit it, his fingers tingling with tension and anxiety. His troops were holding back the maquis, but when the regular Allied troops arrived from the west they would smash right into the city. It would be a terrible mess and history would blame him for it. His little daughters would be persecuted for the rest of their lives because their father had caused Paris to be destroyed. People would say that he should have surrendered because the war was lost anyway and there was no reason to subject Paris to artillery and tank fighting.
But who can I surrender to? Choltitz wondered, pacing back and forth on the balcony. I can’t surrender to the maquis because they are only rabble, and after all I am a German general from a family with old military traditions. I can only surrender to a general of a legitimately constituted army, but there is no one of that sort around yet. If I send out peace feelers and the SS find out, they will put me up against a wall and shoot me.
