When Hell Struck Twelve

by James R Benn

  It was like that for miles. Finally, we took a turn on a narrow lane going south. It wasn’t the direction the retreating Germans wanted to go, so it was nearly clear. We passed vehicles along the roadside, probably abandoned after they’d run out of fuel. A few dead Krauts lay outside one truck, pockets turned out, their weapons and boots gone.

  “Watch for the Maquis,” Kaz said. “That looks like their work. Or nearby villagers, if any are left alive. We don’t want them mistaking us for the boche.” Maquis was one of the all-purpose terms for Resistance fighters. Originally, they were young men who escaped into the forests and hills to avoid conscription into the forced labor service, which was basically slave labor. They were named after the scrub brush on the high ground and called maquisards after they began to arm themselves and fight the occupying Germans. Now, GIs called any French civilian with a weapon a maquisard. The actual number and variety of Resistance groups, spanning all ideologies and beliefs, was too bewildering to keep track of, so an all-purpose name came in handy.

  “Slow down,” Colonel Harding said, casually raising his carbine in the direction of the trees ahead.

  “I see ’em, Sam,” Big Mike said. A half dozen maquisards came out of the trees, pushing two German soldiers ahead of them. The Fritzes looked stunned, dirt and dust staining their faces, fear bleeding out of their eyes. The Frenchmen waved and laughed. They carried canvas bags, weighed down by whatever loot they’d taken from the dead.

  “Stop,” Harding said. He told Kaz to ask them if any other Germans were in the area.

  “Not alive,” Kaz said, after a back and forth with a guy toting a pistol and wearing a black beret and an even blacker mustache. “He says Saint-Hilaire is twelve kilometers down this road.”

  “Ask him what group he’s with,” Harding said. “Are they FTP?”

  The man laughed when Kaz asked, the leader spitting on the ground before he answered in a torrent, thumping his chest at the end.

  “They are not Communists,” Kaz said. “He is rather adamant on that point. They called themselves the Maquis Henri, and that is Henri. They are from Saint-Hilaire.”

  “Tell Henri we will take the prisoners,” Harding said. Kaz delivered the message, and Henri laughed again. He was having a good time today. I didn’t believe for a minute they were real maquisards, not if they were still living in their village. They didn’t have the look of men living rough in the woods. These were Johnny-come-latelies, eager to cash in on easy pickings and glory now that the Germans were gone.

  Henri spoke again, waving his pistol in the air.

  Then he shot each German in the back. They crumpled, and he delivered two more shots to finish them off.

  “Henri says you may have them now,” Kaz said, carefully adjusting the Sten gun he held in his lap, moving his finger closer to the trigger. “I think we should depart.”

  Big Mike didn’t wait for the order. He drove off slowly, Kaz and I watching from the rear seat for any sudden moves. Henri and his men glared at us, probably wishing they could pull the boots off our feet as well.

  “More like the local mafia than Maquis,” Big Mike said once we were clear. “Maybe we should invite them to the show. They’ll probably sell out to the highest bidder in no time.”

  “They’re bums,” Harding said. “Two-bit thugs who wouldn’t know how to find a buyer outside their little village. But, we might as well get Henri there along with everyone else. You never know.”

  “Colonel, how about you fill us in?” I said. “What show, and who’s invited?”

  “There’s a briefing scheduled for tomorrow at Patton’s headquarters,” Harding said, turning to face us. “We’ve sent out invites to all the Resistance leaders in the sector.”

  “Along with an offer of arms and supplies if they attend,” Big Mike put in.

  “Right. That’ll guarantee the right people get there. Having it at Patton’s HQ is part of the draw as well,” Harding continued. “Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of Georgie Patton with his silver-plated revolver and cavalry boots, even the French.”

  “This briefing is part of the deception campaign, Colonel?” Kaz asked.

  “Yes, the centerpiece. As you suspected, we’ve been advertising our desire for intelligence about German positions around Paris all up and down the line. There are enough pro-Vichy French still around that some might be tempted to tip off the Krauts.”

  “There’s plenty who retreated with them,” Big Mike said. “There’s a chance their pals or relatives could get word to them about what we’re after. Most of the telephone exchanges are working, so it wouldn’t be hard to communicate.”

  The snarl of aircraft engines rose from over the horizon, quickly growing louder and more insistent. Big Mike pulled off the road, into the trees and under cover. We all instinctively ducked as four Thunderbolts roared overhead. From up there, we wouldn’t look much different from all the other vehicles they’d bombed and strafed the past few days.

  “So, we get the Resistance people together and brief them on their role in the upcoming attack,” Harding said, scanning the sky through the branches. “Acting as scouts, protecting our flanks, guarding crossroads, that sort of thing.”

  “We make a big deal out of them helping to liberate Paris,” Big Mike said. “But what you two came up with is the icing on the cake.”

  “Right,” Harding said, tapping Big Mike on the shoulder to tell him to drive on. “We’re going to put together a map and a set of phony plans and give our unknown traitor a chance to steal them.”

  “So,” Kaz said, in a tone that barely disguised his disapproval, “you are going to trick our allies into thinking the liberation of Paris is imminent, allow a traitor to escape to the Nazis, and leave the people of Paris in the hands of the Nazis.”

  “Exactly,” Harding said, apparently deciding not to take the bait. “We’ll get everything set. You two get cleaned up and get some sleep. You deserve it.”

  Sleep?

  After what I’d seen in the valley of Falaise I was afraid to close my eyes.

  Chapter Five

  We passed a couple of shot-up trucks and a burned-out German staff car, with no gruesome corpses, a nice change of pace. Big Mike made a turn and we motored up a driveway over crushed white stone, plane trees planted like sentinels on either side. The entrance was so long it took a while for the château to come into sight. Three stories high, a short city block long, with a gray slate roof and too many chimneys to count. Apple trees dotted the gently rolling hills on one side as cows grazed in green fields on the other.

  “Patton knows how to pick ’em,” Big Mike said as we parked the jeep under camouflage netting strung up over the apple trees. He was right. Not a shell hole or broken window to be seen, with a view of lush hills and a gently flowing river. It was marred somewhat by the collection of army vehicles, tents, and stacks of supplies strewn about, but it was still idyllic compared to much of Normandy on this fine summer’s day.

  “I bet the Krauts who had to leave this place were sorry,” I said, grabbing my pack as we climbed out of the jeep.

  “They didn’t get far,” Harding said, leading the way to a row of tents set up in the orchard. “Those vehicles you saw out on the road? That was the German convoy. Ambushed by the Saint-Just Brigade, one of the larger FTP bands.”

  “Yes, we spoke to a young man, Jules Herbert, who is part of that unit,” Kaz said. “A Communist, but he seems dedicated.”

  “They’re good fighters,” Harding said. “That’s why I’m surprised one of them is a traitor. They hate the Germans almost as much as they despise the French fascists.”

  “There are many reasons for betrayal, Colonel,” Kaz said. “But right now, I am more interested in cleanliness and cuisine. I assume General Patton has a decent officer’s mess?”

  “Chow’s pretty good here,” Big Mike said. Which for him meant th
ere was a lot of it. As for me, our jaunt through the valley of death had put me off my feed.

  “I think the general might invite a baron to dine with him,” Harding said, cracking a bit of a smile. “Even if he is only a lieutenant.” Or, it could have been a grimace. With him, it was hard to tell.

  We found a sergeant who directed us to our tents. He pointed out the showers and suggested we get cleaned up, pronto. General Patton was a stickler for proper uniforms in the Third Army command area. Which meant ties, leggings, and helmets worn at all times. This guy was a fine example of Patton’s GI fashion sense. His boots gleamed and his tie, or field scarf as the army insisted on calling it, was tucked neatly between the second and third buttons of his ironed shirt.

  “Watch out for the MPs,” the non-com said. “They’ll fine you if they spot you looking like that.” He waved a hand at us, as if we were hobos stinking up a ladies’ parlor. “Fifty bucks for officers, twenty-five for enlisted men.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” Big Mike said. “These guys just came off the line.”

  “I don’t make the rules,” he said, walking away. “But the MPs enforce ’em. I’m surprised they didn’t stop you at a roadblock.”

  Probably we’d taken an unusual route, but I didn’t feel like explaining myself. I didn’t feel like much of anything, to tell the truth.

  “Well, everyone here does seem well turned out, I must say. I’ve never seen so many Americans with perfectly knotted ties,” Kaz said.

  “General Patton has his own way of doing things and he gets results,” Harding said, stopping in front of a tent. “This one’s mine. You three are next door. Your duffels were sent ahead, so get cleaned up immediately. Big Mike, dig out your field scarf and try to look sharp.”

  “Jeez, Colonel, them things are hardly big enough to go around my neck,” Big Mike said. Nothing Uncle Sam made was ever big enough for the poor guy.

  Harding told me and Kaz to meet him in an hour, and he’d review the rest of the plan for tomorrow over chow. We trooped into our tent and found three cots, each topped with our gear. The shelter had pine boards for a floor and room to stand up—luxurious by army standards.

  “I gotta help Sam,” Big Mike said, after he rummaged through his stuff and came up with a tie. “You guys need anything?”

  “A valet,” Kaz said. “But I shall endeavor to bathe and dress myself.” Kaz had a way of acting as if nothing ever bothered him. Acting being exactly what he did, and he was a lot better at it than I was.

  “We’ll find the showers and get cleaned up,” I said as I sat on my cot, a weariness hanging heavy on my bones.

  “Damn tie,” Big Mike muttered, as he mangled a knot and struggled to button up his shirt at the collar. Whatever his neck size, the army’s wool shirts didn’t come close. I stood up to lend him a hand and nearly fell over.

  “Billy!” Big Mike said as he caught me. “You okay?”

  “Sure, sure, just dizzy. Got up too fast. Probably need some water,” I said, steadying myself with one hand on Big Mike’s arm. I worked on his tie until it looked almost normal, then patted his arm and sat back down again. “There, now you look like a million bucks.”

  “Just so long as they don’t nick me for twenty-five,” Big Mike said as he made his way out of the tent, clapping his helmet on his head. “Thanks, Billy.”

  “Are you all right?” Kaz asked, taking a seat on his own cot.

  “No,” I said. “I mean, yeah, I’m fine. Just tired out, you know?” I unscrewed the cap on my canteen and gulped down the water that was left. It tasted like dust and death.

  “Yes, I know,” Kaz said, his head cradled in his hands. “I am tired as well. I think I shall be tired for a very long time. But now, I must wash off what I brought with me from that hill. Are you ready?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “You go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Kaz stripped to the waist, grabbed his dopp kit, threw a towel over his shoulder, and told me I’d feel better after a shower. I said yeah and made believe right along with him.

  Then I was alone.

  I started to shake. First my hand, then my whole body was overcome with a trembling, a frantic quivering I couldn’t control. I clasped my arms around my chest and fell to the floor, my knees on the rough pine planks. I was crying, weeping tears that spattered on the floor, tiny drops of unexpected anguish.

  I don’t know how long that went on. I made it back onto the cot and tried to get the shakes under control, afraid someone would walk in on me. What Harding would say, I couldn’t even imagine. I held my head in my hands, the last of the welling tears soaking my palms.

  Now, I’m not the crying type, so this frightened me. I’d seen a lot in this war, and nothing had got to me before, at least not like this. I’d had bad dreams, yeah. I may have hit the hooch hard a couple of times, sure. But what the hell was this?

  What’s wrong with me?

  I sat still, waiting for my body to calm down. I couldn’t take a chance on the shakes betraying me in front of Kaz and Big Mike. They depended on me, especially when the lead started flying, so I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t up to it.

  And I was. Wasn’t I?

  Why not? I’d been up to it since North Africa, Italy, and a half-dozen places in between. Since 1942, more than two years ago.

  Maybe that was the problem.

  I decided the best thing to do was not to think about it and go stand under some hot water. I tossed my filthy shirt on the floor, took my stuff, and went off in search of the showers.

  Easier said than done. There were so many tents, guy-wires, and nets strung up that the place looked like a well-armed but disorganized circus had pitched camp around the château. I wandered along a line of twenty-man tents, some marked with the red cross, others doing business as supply rooms, radio rooms, and a mess tent.

  Everything but showers.

  Every other officer and GI was looking prim and proper in their neckties, not a speck of dirt or an unpolished button to be seen. Except for me, with a towel around my shoulders. I turned a corner, scanning the next row of tents and a line of vehicles parked under camouflage. No sign of Kaz. Everyone looked so damn clean there had to be beaucoup showers somewhere around here.

  “Hey mac,” I said to a corporal who’d just stepped down from a half-track. “You know where the showers are? I don’t want Patton to see me and blow a gasket, know what I mean?”

  “Sir!” The corporal said, coming to attention and giving a snappy salute. Given that I wasn’t wearing a shirt with captain’s bars, and my helmet didn’t announce my rank for Kraut snipers to see, I wondered what was up.

  I returned the salute and saw pity in the corporal’s eyes.

  Footsteps rustled on the ground behind me.

  “Who the hell are you, soldier?”

  I turned to face General George S. Patton himself. I automatically came to attention and nearly knocked myself over with the salute I brought up to the brim of my helmet.

  “Captain William Boyle, sir.”

  Patton returned my salute, his mouth wound down with a sneer that reconnoitered the area around his chin. He looked me up and down while an aide stood a couple of steps behind him, clutching a map.

  “You’re a mess, Captain,” Patton said, wrinkling his nose as he leaned close. He sure wasn’t. He wore a helmet liner buffed to a glossy sheen, his burnished silver general’s stars impossibly bright. Cavalry boots, riding breeches, and buttons polished into sparkling gold added to the dazzle. One hand rested on the butt of his famous ivory-handled Smith and Wesson .357 pistol, and he looked ready to use it. On me, maybe.

  “Just came in off the line, General. I’m looking for the showers to get cleaned up,” I said, hoping he’d grunt and wander off.

  “Which of my units?” Patton demanded. “Where are your orders?” His voice rose an
d broke in a squeak that nearly made me laugh. Which would have been a mistake. I might have been losing my marbles, but I’m not an idiot.

  “I’m with SHAEF, General,” I said. “I’m here with Colonel Harding.” Patton glanced at his aide, who quickly stepped closer.

  “The Resistance briefing tomorrow morning, sir,” the aide said. “This is the Captain Boyle I told you about.”

  “Oh. Ike’s nephew, isn’t it?” Patton’s look softened, the sneer meandering into a smile. “You know, Ike and I go way back. We served together at Camp Meade. Commanded the Tank Corps, one after the other. You here to spy for your uncle, Captain Boyle?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes sir, General Eisenhower and I are related. Distant cousins, but I’ve always called him Uncle Ike. And I’m not here to spy on anyone.”

  “Tell Ike anything you want, Boyle, and give him my regards. And it’s good to see an officer from SHAEF who gets his fatigues dirty,” Patton said. “Where did you see action?”

  “Hill 262, General.”

  “With the Poles? Brave men. They did a hell of a job up there. Well, go get yourself presentable, Boyle. If I see you out of uniform again, you’ll get a fine, Ike’s nephew or not.”

  He brushed past me, moving off at a rapid pace, his aide scurrying behind. I still didn’t know where the showers were, and I wasn’t happy with Patton buttering me up because General Eisenhower and I were related.

  I finally found them tucked behind a long stone barn bordering the apple orchard. I stood under the hot water, wondering if Patton went easy on me because of Uncle Ike. Probably. Everyone thought I had a direct line to him and could put in a good or bad word whenever I wanted. But it didn’t work like that. And I wouldn’t burden Uncle Ike—which I only called him in private—with personal requests or gossip on how Patton ran his headquarters. He had enough on his mind running the war, and if truth be told, one of his biggest problems, other than the Germans, was George Patton’s big mouth.

  I scrubbed, washing off the dirt and grit of Hill 262, the stink of death still lingering in my nostrils. It was hard to believe that a little more than two years ago I was a newcomer to all this, arriving in London a shavetail second looey, fresh from Officer’s Candidate School and shocked at the events that had so quickly delivered me overseas.