by James R Benn
Dad and my uncle, both Boston detectives, had served in the last war, along with their older brother Frank. He’d died in the trenches, and they never got over it. Especially since in our Irish Republican family, that war was fought pretty much to preserve the British Empire, and America had little reason to send so many boys off to die for that cause.
They didn’t see this new war any differently, at least not when it came to fighting in Europe to save English bacon once again after Pearl Harbor. So, they hatched a plot to get a distant relative of my mother’s, one Dwight David Eisenhower, to agree to take me on as a staff officer in Washington, DC. All of which sounded fine to me, until Uncle Ike was given command of US Army forces in Europe, and took me with him, happy to have a relative in tow who could serve as a military investigator.
The family may have oversold him on my detective credentials a bit. True, I’d been promoted to detective, making the switch from uniform to plainclothes at an early age. But a copy of the detective’s exam had mysteriously made its way into my locker, so I did have some help. It’s the way things work, and I make no apology for it. But it did make it tough when Uncle Ike assigned me to my first few cases. I’d had to rely on instinct and memories of what Dad had tried to teach me about solving murders. He’d been a good teacher, and I had the luck of the Irish, which is how I ended up here, I guess.
Which all makes sense, since I’ve never been able to figure out if the luck of the Irish stands for good fortune or if it’s a sad commentary on our centuries of oppression. Either way, here I was, watching dirty water swirl at my feet, feeling like I’d never be clean again.
I shaved, scraping away stubble and soap, revealing a slack-jawed joe with bags hanging heavy under reddened eyes. I stared at him for a while, wondering who this new guy was. Once, my mom told me I looked like my father when he was a young man. I could see she was right. This is what he must have looked like in the trenches of the First World War.
Chapter Six
“Let’s take a walk,” Harding said, after we’d washed out our mess kits. Patton might have been dining off fine china in the château, but we’d eaten in a crowded mess tent with dozens of guys, all chowing down macaroni slathered in some sort of meat sauce. It wasn’t bad, and it wasn’t good. Kaz sort of pushed it around his plate until Big Mike added it to his pile and wolfed it down.
Harding ate like he was on maneuvers, attacking his food from the flanks and mopping up the remnants. I managed to eat some, surprised at what appetite I had. Kaz looked exhausted, even cleaned up and sporting his tailored uniform.
“You okay?” I asked as we followed Harding and Big Mike outside.
“Well enough, but a trifle tired,” Kaz said. “Nothing that a bath and soft bed at the Dorchester wouldn’t cure.”
Kaz’s home was the Dorchester Hotel in London. A suite of rooms which he graciously shared with me. It was an extravagance, but one he could afford. Kaz’s family was loaded, and his father had been one smart cookie. He saw what was coming in Europe and transferred the family wealth to Swiss banks before the war started. Unfortunately, the family itself was one step behind their dough, and they got caught in the squeeze between the Nazis and the Russians as the former enemies dismembered Poland. Now they were all dead, except for Angelika, victims of the Nazis and their savage extermination of the Polish intelligentsia.
Kaz kept the suite at the Dorchester because his family had come to visit when he was at Oxford, a couple of years before the war. They spent a Christmas together in those very rooms. Now he was a permanent resident of the hotel, where the staff treated him like royalty, and memories were draped like mourning shrouds in every room. He’d moved in as soon as he received his commission in the Polish army-in-exile. Originally, he worked as translator in General Eisenhower’s headquarters, a short walk from the Dorchester in Grosvenor Square. He’d been given the job despite a weak heart, since it was no more strenuous than the work he’d done at Oxford as a student of languages. Many languages, which came in handy at headquarters.
But then I happened along and Kaz ended up as my partner. He’d toughened himself up, taking long, fast walks in Hyde Park and working out with dumbbells before dawn. Now he was wiry and muscled, with enough strength to see him through the worst this war threw at us, or so I hoped.
“Look, this deal with the phony plans is going to be a cake walk,” I said. “We’ll put on a show and do a lot of nothing, then head to London. Harding has got to give us a break after everything we’ve been through.”
“It would be nice,” Kaz said, the words riding a heavy sigh.
“Over here,” Harding said, standing on a stone terrace at the rear of the château. He lit up a Lucky, clicking his Zippo shut as he glanced around. A few GIs wandered by, and a clutch of officers sat around a table drinking Scotch. We were safely out of earshot.
“We’ll be in that room,” Harding said, indicating a set of French doors that opened out onto the terrace.
“The salon, they call it,” Big Mike added. “At last count, we had ten different Resistance groups coming. Plenty of people since they like to travel in hordes.”
“Each group is getting a supply of weapons and ammunition,” Harding said.
“Kind of like party favors for gangs,” I said. “Maquisards, a few local homicidal maniacs, and a traitor thrown in the mix. I hope they don’t start shooting at one another. Or us.”
“Not every Resistance group is like the Maquis Henri,” Harding said. “You know that. But it’s impossible to separate out the bad from the good, so we need everyone we can get. Most of them agreed to come without the promise of supplies.”
“Plus, they get to meet General Patton,” Big Mike said. “He’s agreed to say a few words. The man can draw a crowd, that’s for damn sure.”
“Okay, Colonel, what’s the plan?” I said.
“We bring everyone into the salon at 0900 hours. General Patton will greet them and lay it on thick about how important this operation is, and the part they’ll play in freeing Paris from the Germans. We’ll have a detailed map of the area between here and Paris up on the board, showing where each group is to position itself at important crossroads and in blocking positions along our flank. It’s marked TOP SECRET in red ink,” Harding said. “What the map will also have are the routes our forces will take into Paris. It shows the French 2nd Armored Division under General Leclerc leading the way, supported by infantry units on either flank.”
“The deception,” Kaz said. “Leclerc’s French forces are a nice touch.”
“Yes. It’s been in the works for a while, but you’ve given us a chance to deliver this misinformation right into the hands of the German command. I’m betting our traitor won’t be able to resist,” Harding said.
“The Germans will doubtless want confirmation,” Kaz said. “I doubt they’d act merely on a verbal report by one man. Or woman, perhaps.”
“We’re going to provide the perfect opportunity. See that hill?” Harding pointed to a long hillside of lush green, topped by a small clump of trees, maybe a quarter mile distant. “An artillery barrage is going to strike that ground, just moments after Big Mike takes down the map and folds it up.”
“I leave it on the table,” Big Mike said. “Then we have more explosions, a lot closer.”
“Engineers have charges set in that field,” Harding said, nodding to the side of the château. “It’ll look like the Germans are finding their range. We herd everyone into the basement shelter. They keep setting them off for a while, long enough to empty out the salon and give our man time to break away from the group.”
“The lights go off, there’s yelling and confusion, and an air raid siren begins to wail. It’ll be the perfect time to swipe the map and run,” Big Mike said.
“How do we know who took it?” I asked.
“If you stole a top-secret plan from a Kraut HQ, would you hang around?”
Big Mike asked.
“No, I see what you mean. I’d take off,” I said, thinking this charade might have a chance of working.
“We’ll have men stationed out front and along the road, in touch by radio,” Harding said. “You and Kaz will have a radio-equipped jeep, so all you need to do is tail him. But don’t get close enough to catch him.”
“Understood,” Kaz said, nodding. “How long do we keep this up?”
“We’ll play that by ear. I want to be sure he knows you’re in pursuit. The Krauts can’t think this was too easy, otherwise they’ll smell a trap. Every MP within fifty miles is clued in, and they have orders to take their time checking identity papers but let the target through. They’re connected to our radio net, so it should be fairly easy to track our quarry,” Harding said. “Ideally, I’d like to have visual confirmation of him crossing over into the German lines.”
“From what we have seen, the front is very fluid,” Kaz said. “It may be some distance before an organized line of defense is reached.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Kaz was being diplomatic. What he meant was we could easily stumble into a Kraut ambush.
“We need to know if this works,” Harding said. “Keep him in sight, no matter where it takes you.”
“I’ll be a few miles behind you,” Big Mike said. “In another radio jeep with a lieutenant from Third Army Intelligence who speaks French. He’s the one giving the briefing tomorrow, after Patton’s welcome. He’s organized a half-track full of GIs from the reconnaissance platoon to tag along with us for added firepower.”
“It should all work out,” Harding said. “Any questions?”
Questions like what are our chances of survival out in front of the American lines in a jeep headed for Kraut territory? ran through my mind. But I kept my mouth shut. Harding was gung-ho on this plan, and I could see we had to keep up the phony pursuit right to the end.
Poor choice of words. Right up to the conclusion.
“Any chance of a week’s leave after we wave goodbye to this turncoat?” was all I asked.
“See me when you get back,” Harding said as he ground out his cigarette. “Now get a good night’s sleep.” He and Big Mike went into the château to check on last-minute details, leaving Kaz and me with the setting sun.
“He could have just agreed to the leave,” Kaz said.
“Maybe he’ll surprise us,” I said.
“Or maybe we won’t come back,” Kaz said, the last rays of sunlight drenching his pale, drawn face. “Goodnight, Billy.”
I watched Kaz walk away, shoulders slumped, and head bowed. It wasn’t his usual style, and I could see a weariness of body and soul weighing him down, the normally jaunty stride now more of an old man’s shuffle.
I didn’t feel all that chipper myself, but I wasn’t ready to stretch out on my cot quite yet, bone-tired as I was. I might actually sleep, and then dream, and all the visions in my mind right now led down nightmare alley. So, I walked. Down the long drive and back again, meandering around the château and through the tent city sprawled around it and into the orchard.
I heard a familiar voice call my name, her French accent lilting and joyful.
“Billy, come join us!” It was Marie-Claire Mireille, along with Jules Herbert and another guy, all gathered around a flickering candle and a bottle of brandy in a tent with the sides rolled up.
“I will,” I said, glad of the distraction. “I didn’t expect to see you both again. You here for the big meeting?”
“Yes,” Marie-Claire said. “My compatriots from la Croix will arrive in the morning, but I traveled with Jules and Bernard.” Marie-Claire introduced me to Bernard Dujardin, leader of the Saint-Just Brigade. We shook hands, and I tried not to think of him as a potential traitor.
“Bonjour,” Bernard said, passing me the bottle as I sat down. “Drink, eh?”
“Santé!” I said, slugging down the liquor. “You speak English?”
“A little,” Bernard said, with a slight nod. “I learn from American comrades.”
“Bernard fought in Spain,” Jules said, “with the International Brigades. He knew many Americans from the Abraham Lincoln Battalion.”
Jules spoke with awed pride about his leader’s role in that terrible civil war. In the 1930s volunteers from all over the world had gone to Spain to help the government fight against General Franco’s fascists. Germany and Italy helped Franco, and the Soviet Union supplied the Republican government. It was an out-of-town run for the real war, and it got rave reviews in Berlin.
“I followed the news of the Lincoln boys,” I said, feeling the booze warm my gut and relax me. My hand felt it too. Nary a shake. “They had an Irish Republican unit.”
“Oui,” Bernard said. “Good men. They died well.” He took a long pull from the bottle and gave it to Marie-Claire, who took a dainty sip. Bernard looked to be thirty or so, with the kind of worn face that comes with strife and worry. Gaunt, dark, and lined. Ten years ago, he probably looked a lot like Jules, fired up with an idealist’s belief in his cause. Now, he looked haggard and worn.
“But you stood up to the fascists,” Jules said. “If more had done so, you would have won.”
“Well, they did not, and we lost,” Bernard said. “But now, we can finish off the bastards, yes? We will have our victory.”
“Peace,” Marie-Claire said, as if uttering a prayer.
“Lucien!” Bernard called out, waving at another maquisard, and ignoring Marie-Claire’s whispered plea. Jules squeezed her hand as the newcomer joined us. He wore a beret and a neckerchief knotted beneath a white shirt. A worn leather jacket, a pistol at his hip, and a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth completed the picture. He was a good-looking guy with a strong jaw who would have been at home on the cover of Life magazine as a dashing Resistance fighter.
“Lucien Faucon,” he said. “Le Commandant, Action de la jeunesse française.”
“French Youth Action,” Bernard said. “Lucien is a good Communist. He fought in Spain as well.”
“Those days are gone, my friend,” Lucien said. He spoke perfect English, with a clipped accent that told me he’d learned it from a British teacher at a good school. “This is the war we fight today. So, no more talk of Spain.”
“Oui, I know it pains you to speak of it, forgive me. How was Brittany?”
Lucien explained he had been sent by the FTP leadership to organize forces in the province of Brittany and to assist Patton’s drive to clear out the Germans and secure ports there. “Your General Patton is a reactionary, but he fights the boche well, so I hope to shake his hand,” Lucien said.
“I am surprised so many Communists are eager to meet General Patton,” Marie-Claire said. “I hear FTP units from all over are sending representatives.”
“Oh, they come for weapons, too,” Bernard said, taking another slug of brandy. “As well as to see the great Patton. What must he think of so many Red maquisards, eh? If he had gone to Spain, he would have fought for Franco, I am sure!”
“There you go, Bernard. Do you ever let an hour pass without bringing up Spain?”
“Yes. When I sleep, but then I dream of it.” They reverted to French and began to argue the way old friends do when they revisit ancient grudges. Harsh words mingling with laughter amidst the scent of brandy and cigarette smoke.
I said goodnight, feeling like a third wheel. Marie-Claire left with me and took my arm as I walked her to a tent set aside for female résistants.
“Jules adores those men,” she said. “His own father disapproves of him, and still supports Vichy, even after all that has happened. Jules looks to Bernard, especially, as a leader and a man who acts on his beliefs. Lucien, we have just come to know. The Communist Party sends him where he is most needed. Bernard and the Saint-Just Brigade are closer to where la Croix operates, him I know well. The Germans have done the impossible i
n our part of France.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Brought the godless Marxists and the devout Catholics together, of course. We have cooperated to attack the Nazis and shared our intelligence. Before the war, we detested each other.”
“What do you think of them? The Francs-Tireurs et Partisans.”
“Oh, for the most part, as individuals, they are good men, those in the FTP. They are willing to fight. But if they come to rule France, I will be very afraid. The Communists did horrible things in Spain, as they do in the Soviet Union. They massacred nuns and priests and killed many on their own side who did not adopt the party line. Trotskyites and anarchists, for instance. To me, their differences were unimportant, but if anyone did not worship Stalin, it was the end of them.”
“What does Jules think of that?” I asked.
“He admits there were excesses, but he cannot blame the Party. It means too much to him,” she said. “But, I have faith. General de Gaulle will unite us, and then we can live our lives in freedom. Once the boche are gone, of course.”
“And then you and Jules . . . ?” I asked, leaving the question open.
“Yes, then we will have to return to what we were. It will be hard to be ordinary once again. We do not even know each other’s real names. Too dangerous. Isn’t that strange? We have embraced clandestinité so long I wonder if we can give it up. Will we even remember the people we were? Ah, here I am. Goodnight, Captain.”
She vanished behind the tent flap, leaving me alone in the moonlight. A walk with a pretty girl should have cheered me up, but all I was left with was the faint memory of who I’d been before this life of war and secrets.
Chapter Seven
