The Liberation of Paris Page 17

  “Sarge,” said Cranepool, “I think you’d better ask him before you have any more drinks.”

  “You’re right,” Mahoney said, slamming his glass down on the bar. He turned to Hemingway. “Listen pal, I gotta talk to you about something very important.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll have to talk to you alone.”

  “Come on over here.” Hemingway tilted his head toward the corner at the end of the bar.

  Mahoney and Cranepool followed him to the corner.

  “What is it?” Hemingway asked again.

  “Listen,” Mahoney told him, “I have some important top-secret information that I have to send back to General Bradley’s headquarters, but I don’t have a radio and I don’t know where to find one. Do you?”

  “Of course,” Hemingway replied. “The maquis have a radio operation in the attic of this building. I’ll take you up there.”

  Mahoney breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you could help me.”

  “Follow me.”

  Hemingway waved to his friends at the bar and told them he’d be right back. He led Mahoney and Cranepool out of the lounge and across the lobby to the elevators. On the way, they passed the front desk.

  “You know,” Hemingway said, “you probably could call Laval on the telephone, because the maquis have captured the central phone system.”

  Mahoney stopped cold in his tracks. “They have?”

  “Sure, I heard in on a news broadcast. I’m sure you could get through to Laval.”

  Mahoney thought he should try to use the telephones, because he didn’t have codebooks for a radio message and was worried that the Germans might intercept an uncoded message. He thought it less likely that they’d intercept a phone conversation because there were no more functional German units between Paris and Laval, and the ones in Paris were too busy fighting for their lives to be listening in on people’s phone conversations.

  “I think I’d like to try a phone,” Mahoney said.

  “I’ve got one up in my room,” Hemingway replied.

  They boarded the elevator and rode up to the fifteenth floor of the Ritz Hotel. Hemingway unlocked the door to his room and they went inside. Bottles were everywhere, and uniforms were strewn over chairs and hanging on doorknobs. A desk with a typewriter on top was in the corner.

  “The phone’s over there,” Hemingway said, pointing to the night table beside the bed. “Care for another drink?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Mahoney said.

  Mahoney picked up the phone and told the operator that he wanted to be connected with the United States Army tactical field headquarters in Laval. Cranepool sat on the chair next to the typewriter and took out one of his cigarettes, lighting it up. At the dresser, Hemingway poured drinks for himself and Mahoney and carried a glass to Mahoney, who took it absent-mindedly while talking with the operator.

  Hemingway sat on a chair near Cranepool. “Where are you from, Corporal?”

  “Ottumwa, Iowa. How about you?”

  “I was born in Illinois, but I’ve lived all over since then. I even lived in Paris before the war.”

  “That must have been fun.”

  “Oh, it was,” Hemingway said, a faraway look in his eyes.

  Meanwhile, the operator had finally put Mahoney through to Laval, and a clerk in General Bradley’s headquarters answered the phone.

  “I want to speak with General Bradley right away, and it’s an emergency,” Mahoney said.

  “Who’s calling?” asked the clerk.

  “Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney of the 33rd Division, and I’m calling from Paris.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, it ain’t no fucking joke.”

  Mahoney heard clicking sounds in his ear as he swallowed down some whisky. He doubted whether he’d get through to General Bradley, but he figured an officer he could tell the story to would pick up the phone sooner or later.

  “This is Captain Gatewood speaking,” said a voice on the other end. “What’s this all about?”

  “This is very important, Captain Gatewood,” Mahoney said. “So pay attention. You got a pen and paper ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. My name’s Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney of the 33rd Division. I’m in Paris on liaison duty with the French 12th Armored Division, and I’ve just come upon some important information which I can’t radio back in code because a German shell wiped all our codebooks and our radio out. Are you with me so far, sir?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Today I happened to take part in the capture of Gestapo headquarters here in Paris, and I came across this woman down there in the dungeons who told me that she found out from an officer on General von Choltitz’s staff that the Germans are bringing Karl to Paris. Do you know what Karl is?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” Captain Gatewood said.

  “It’s an artillery piece of some kind that fires a two-ton shell four miles and it’s on its way here by railroad to destroy the city. Therefore I think you ought to get out the Air Corps and have them pulverize all rail routes coming into Paris so that Karl can be stopped. Otherwise there’ll be a lot of damage here. Got that, sir?”

  “Ah. . . yes. What did you say your name was?”

  “Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney. R. A. one one two eight two two oh three. Colonel Simmons of the 15th Regiment of the 33rd Division will vouch for me, sir. But you’ve got to send out those planes to stop Karl. Otherwise there might not be much left of Paris.”

  “I’ll get to work on this right away, and it’d better not be a joke,” Captain Gatewood said.

  “A joke?” Mahoney asked. “Are you kidding? Who’d joke about a thing like this?”

  “Is that all, Sergeant?”

  “That’s all, sir.”

  They said goodbye and hung up the phone. Mahoney picked up his glass and drank half its contents. Then he reached into his shirt and took out his cigars.

  “You want one of these, Ernie?”

  “Sure. You get through all right?”

  “I think so.”

  Hemingway accepted one of the cigars, and Cranepool gave him a light with his Zippo. Hemingway and Mahoney puffed their cigars, and Cranepool smoked his cigarette.

  “If you need a refill,” Hemingway said, “help yourself.”

  “That’s real nice of you, Ernie,” Mahoney said, getting up and walking to the dresser. “I think I could use a refill.”

  Hemingway sniffed the smoke of the cigar. “This is a damn fine cigar,” he said appreciatively. “Where’d you get it?”

  “A French guy gave them to me.” Mahoney threw another one on the bed. “Here—you can have this one too.” Hemingway scooped it up. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Captain Gatewood, the O.D. (Officer of the Day) at General Bradley’s headquarters, sat at his desk staring at the message he’d just received. It was the strangest message he’d ever seen in his military career, and he didn’t know exactly what to do. Was it on the level? Could it be the work of a spy or a practical joker? Captain Gatewood broke out into a cold sweat. If he reported the message to General Bradley and it turned out to be a joke, he’d be the laughing stock of the American Army. If it was on the level and he didn’t report it, a great disaster would befall Paris.

  He decided it would be better to be a fool than a cause of widespread destruction. Then he realized there was a crude way to check the story. The sergeant had mentioned a colonel who’d vouch for him. Captain Gatewood looked at his notes and found the colonel’s name and unit. He picked up the phone on his desk and put through an emergency call to the 15th Regiment of the 33rd Division. The O.D. for the 15th Regiment answered, and Captain Gatewood asked to speak with Colonel Simmons immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” said Major Jimmy Dowd, the 15th Regiment O.D., “but Colonel Simmons is having chow right now.”

  “I think you’d better get him. This is an
emergency.”

  “Who wants to speak with him?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll have him call you after chow.”

  “I said it’s an emergency.”

  “I said I’ll have him call you after chow.”

  Major Dowd hung up, and Captain Gatewood stared at his phone. He hung it up and again experienced doubt. Was he getting himself into a big mess? Maybe he should just forget about the whole thing. The message probably was a fake. It was too preposterous to be true.

  But what if it is true, he thought. The destruction of Paris will be on my conscience for the rest of my life. Captain Gatewood decided to find General Bradley and give him the message. He rose from the desk and walked to the door, then stopped cold in his tracks. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself. Maybe I should just turn the whole thing over to G-2 (Intelligence) and let them worry about it.

  He returned to the desk and sat down again, wondering what to do. The chain-of-command concept was so engraved into his spirit that he was afraid to take independent action. He lit a cigarette and puffed it, realizing that precious time was passing. The hell with it, he thought, I’ll go see Bradley and tell him everything. The worst thing they can do is throw me out of the army, and I wouldn’t mind that at all.

  He rose and turned toward the door, when the phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Eagle Tac.”

  “Is this Captain Gatewood?” asked a Southern drawl.

  “Yes it is.”

  “This is Colonel Simmons over at the Hammerhead Division. You wanted to speak with me?”

  “Yes sir,” replied Captain Gatewood. “I just received a strange message from a Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney, who said you’d vouch for him. Do you know who he is?”

  “Of course I know who he is.”

  “Do you know where he is right now?”

  “He should be in Paris by now, I imagine.”

  “Would you consider him a reliable person?”

  Colonel Simmons took a deep breath. “I’d trust him with anything except my wife and daughter.”

  “I see. Thank you very much, Colonel Simmons.”

  “What’s this all about, Captain?”

  “Top secret, sir. I’ll get back to you about it when it’s all over.”

  Captain Gatewood hung up the phone and headed toward the officers’ mess to deliver the message to General Bradley. He wasn’t worried about repercussions to his career anymore, because the call from Colonel Simmons had covered his ass.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was eight o’clock in the evening when Mahoney and Cranepool left the Hotel Ritz. They walked down the Place Vendome, crossed the Champs Elysees, and passed the Louvre. Mahoney scratched his balls and wondered what to do. He’d drunk a lot and was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he could hold his liquor better than most. They could hear little wars taking place throughout the city but not much seemed to be taking place in the neighborhood where they were. Mahoney thought that he and Cranepool should get a hotel room and sack out. Tomorrow if they felt like it they might go out and look for the Hammerhead Division.

  “Shit,” said Mahoney, slapping his leg.

  “Whatsa matter, Sarge?”

  “I shoulda asked Ernie for the name of a good whorehouse. I bet he would have known of one, right?”

  Cranepool shrugged. “I’m not so sure I wanna go to a whorehouse, Sarge.”

  “You don’t?” asked Mahoney in disbelief.

  Cranepool shook his head. “I just don’t believe that sex can be very good if it’s a commercial proposition. I’d rather do it with some girl who likes me rather than a whore who’s doing it just for my money.”

  Mahoney put his hand on Cranepool’s shoulder. “Cranepool,” he said, “you’re a nice kid but you’re an asshole.”

  Cranepool shrugged. “I guess so, Sarge.”

  “But it’s okay—don’t worry about it. The thing you don’t understand, kid, is that your ordinary young girl doesn’t know anything about fancy fucking, whereas your whore knows how to do all kinds of crazy and weird things. But I guess you’re not interested in doing weird and crazy things with women, right? I mean, you just like a nice ordinary put-it-to-her fuck, right?”

  “What kind of weird and crazy things do they do, Sarge?”

  “All kinds of things—such as for instance, have you ever had a hum job?”

  “A hum job?”

  “Yeah, a hum job.”

  “What’s a hum job?”

  “That’s when the whore puts your balls in her mouth and hums.”

  Cranepool wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Is that supposed to feel good, Sarge?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “Doesn’t sound so good to me.”

  “That’s because you’re a hillbilly and you don’t appreciate fancy fucking. You ever have a girl stick her tongue up your ass?”

  Cranepool shivered. “No. I don’t think I’d like that.”

  Mahoney sighed. “Cranepool, what am I going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know, Sarge.”

  “Have you ever had a blowjob?”

  “Oh sure,” Cranepool said proudly. “You remember that girl Louise who was in the maquis with us? She gave me a few blowjobs.”

  “You like that?”

  “Oh sure, Sarge. That was kinda nice.”

  They fell silent as they crossed one of the bridges over the Seine and made their way toward the Left Bank. Soon they were gawking like tourists at buildings and monuments. The sights were so spectacular that they distracted Mahoney from his quest to find a good whorehouse. Finally fatigue overtook them and they decided to look for a hotel where they could sack out for the night.

  General Omar Bradley sat in his office, a telephone to his ear. Crowded into the office watching him were numerous staff officers, among them Captain Gatewood who was standing in a corner.

  “I’d like to speak with General Vandenberg,” said General Bradley.

  “I’ll get him for you, sir,” said the voice on the other end.

  General Bradley looked over the notes Captain Gatewood had written while he waited. Bradley knew that Karl really existed because his G-2 had a file on the weapon. Bradley knew what it had done to Sebastopol and could imagine what it would do to Paris.

  “Brad?” said the voice in his ear.

  “Hi Hoyt,” said Bradley. “I’ve got an emergency and I need your help. Have you ever heard of Karl?”

  “Karl who?”

  “It’s an artillery weapon that the Germans have.”

  “Artillery weapons aren’t my department Brad, but what about it?”

  “Well,” General Bradley explained, “it’s not an ordinary artillery weapon but the biggest and most dangerous artillery weapon ever made. It’s on its way from Russia to Paris right now, and it’s traveling on its own railroad car. It’s going to destroy Paris unless you can bomb the railway lines on the east side of Paris.”

  “When do we have to do this?”

  “Right now.”

  “Right now?”

  “My information is that it’ll be crossing the border into France any moment now. We’ve got to stop it, Hoyt. Otherwise a lot of Paris will be leveled, and we can’t let that happen.”

  “No, I don’t suppose we can. I’ll get right on it. I’ll have the bomber squadrons out within two hours.”

  “I hope that’s soon enough, Hoyt.”

  “It’s the best I can do, Brad. I can’t do anything more than that.”

  “Let me know when you’ve got those railway lines bombed, will you?”

  “Will do.”

  Bradley signed off and hung up the phone. As he looked down at Captain Gatewood’s scribbling, he was hoping the Ninth Air Force could get off the ground soon enough to stop Karl.

  Mahoney and Cranepool found a little hotel on the Boulevard Saint Germain that looked comfortable and cheap. They entered the lobby where the proprietor, a short roly-poly man with hand
lebar mustaches, was sitting behind the check-in counter.

  “Americans!” he screamed.

  He came out from behind the counter, rushed toward them, and embraced them. Mahoney and Cranepool looked at each other embarrassedly and didn’t know what to make of this sudden turn of events.

  “Welcome to my humble establishment!” the proprietor said. “It is so wonderful to have you here! Anything I have is yours! You’d like a room?”

  “Yes,” Mahoney said, smelling the garlic on the Frenchman’s breath, “but I don’t know how we’ll pay you since money isn’t any good in Paris.”

  “Pay?” the proprietor asked. “How can I expect you to pay when America has done so much for my country?” He scurried behind his counter, reached to the rack, and picked off a set of keys. “Here—the key to the finest suite of rooms in my hotel! They formerly were occupied by a German general, but now they’re yours!”

  Mahoney accepted the keys. “Thanks,” he said, ill at ease because people did favors for him so seldom.

  “And here,” continued the proprietor, reaching under the counter, “take these with you.” He pulled out two bottles of Calvados brandy. “A gift of the house.”

  “You’re awful good to us,” Cranepool said, accepting the bottles.

  “It is the least I can do, m’sieu. May I know your names?” he asked, extending his hand.

  Mahoney and Cranepool told him their names and shook his hand.

  “I am M’sieu Langlois,” said the proprietor. “If you need anything at all, just call me and I’m at your service.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Mister Langlois,” Mahoney said.

  “Yeah,” Cranepool agreed.

  Carrying the bottles of Calvados, Mahoney and Cranepool climbed the stairs to the top of the hotel, where the suite of rooms was. There were two separate bedrooms, and each took one of them. They collapsed fully clothed onto their beds and soon drifted away to slumberland.

  In the darkness of night, General von Choltitz stood on the balcony of the Hotel Meurice and watched the fighting draw closer. French soldiers and maquis, fighting Germans from house to house, were drawing the ring around the hotel ever tighter.