The Liberation of Paris

by Len Levinson

  “You’re gonna give away our position,” Mahoney said.

  A shot rang out and a bullet whistled over their heads. They ducked and Cranepool turned to Mahoney.

  “I think you’re the one who just gave away our position,” he said.

  Another shot was fired and another bullet whistled by. It was followed by a third shot and then a fourth. Mahoney took a grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin, and threw it in the direction of the shots. The air thundered with the sound of the explosion and a German went flying into the air in one direction while his leg went in another direction.

  “Three down,” Mahoney said.

  They heard stampeding feet. Glancing up quickly, they saw five German soldiers running toward them, their rifles held high. The Germans were only thirty yards away and closing the gap quickly. They’d see Mahoney and Cranepool in only a few seconds.

  Mahoney didn’t know whether to throw a hand grenade or start firing his carbine. The Germans saw them and one lowered his submachine gun to open fire, but as he was pulling the trigger a French bullet caught him from behind and brought him down. Cranepool raised himself to one knee, brought his carbine into his shoulder, and fired off a quick round. It hit one of the Germans in the chest and he tripped over his feet, crashing toward the ground. Mahoney also fired a round, hitting a German in the stomach. Two Germans were left and one of them fired his rifle from the waist as he ran along. The bullet kicked up some sod near Mahoney’s feet. The other soldier fired a submachine gun, but after four wildly flying bullets it ran out of ammo.

  Mahoney and Cranepool leapt to their feet and charged. The German with the rifle took aim at Cranepool and squeezed his trigger, but Cranepool’s rifle fired first and the bullet hit the German in the groin. The German shrieked horribly and dropped to his knees, clutching his balls. Cranepool took more careful aim and shot him between the eyes. The German pitched forward onto his face and was still forever.

  The other German kept coming, swinging his submachine gun like a baseball bat. Standing calmly, Mahoney aimed his carbine at the German’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The German was a big burly man like Mahoney, with a growth of beard on his face and murder in his bloodshot eyes. Mahoney’s trigger traveled the last eighth of an inch, the firing pin was tripped, and nothing happened. The carbine had jammed.

  The German kept coming. He swung his submachine gun at Mahoney’s head, but Mahoney ducked and the weapon whizzed over him. Like a lion, Mahoney sprang at the German, bringing up his knee to kick the German in the balls. The German twisted his hips to the side and received the blow on the outside of his thigh. Mahoney and the German struggled for the submachine gun. They lost their footing and tumbled into the grass, gritting their teeth, kicking and elbowing each other as Cranepool tried to get a clear shot at the German.

  In the frenzy of the battle, Mahoney realized he wasn’t strong enough to pull the submachine gun out of the German’s hands, so he let it loose with one hand and jabbed his thumb into the German’s left eye. The German howled in pain and horror as Mahoney’s thumb sank in to the hilt. The German exploded into a rage of anger and pain, smashing the submachine gun into Mahoney’s face; but Mahoney saw it coming and tilted his head to the side and the gun whacked into his steel helmet. Mahoney grabbed the gun and rolled around on the ground with the German, whose eye was leaking blood.

  “Here Sarge,” said Cranepool.

  Mahoney felt the handle of a bayonet. He grasped the blade in his fist and shot it toward the German’s belly. The German dropped his gun and grabbed Mahoney’s wrist with both his powerful hands. Mahoney punched the German in the mouth with his free left hand, but he couldn’t put much of his weight behind the punch and it didn’t faze the big German, who was twisting his wrist. Mahoney jabbed his thumb into the German’s right eye, and again his thumb sank in all the way. The German screamed horribly, loosening his grip on Mahoney’s wrist, and Mahoney grunted as he pushed the bayonet forward. It plunged into the German’s stomach, and Mahoney ripped upwards. The German bellowed in pain, clawing wildly at the air. Then Mahoney pulled the bayonet out, aimed it carefully, and slashed the German’s windpipe. Blood bubbled out the German’s throat and mouth and he went slack on the ground. Mahoney breathed hard and got to his feet. He held the bloody bayonet out to Cranepool.

  “Thanks,” Mahoney said.

  He looked around and saw a group of maquis watching him. He hadn’t noticed their arrival, but they had seen him kill the German. They looked on respectfully as Mahoney picked up his carbine. He gazed at the big German and realized it had been nip and tuck for a while there. He might have been the one lying on the ground instead of the German.

  Mahoney took off his helmet and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Any more Germans around here?” he asked in French.

  “We don’t know of any others,” said one of the Frenchmen, who was wearing a dirty white shirt and black beret. He took a blue package of Gauloise cigarettes out of his pocket and held them toward Mahoney. “Cigarette?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Mahoney replied. He took the cigarette and the Frenchman lit it up.

  “You two are here all alone?” the Frenchmen asked.

  Mahoney pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb. “No, we’ve got some friends in a truck back there.”

  “Just one truck of Americans?”

  “That’s right. And we’d better be getting back.”

  “Thanks for your help, here.”

  “Thanks for the cigarette,” Mahoney replied.

  Mahoney and Cranepool turned around and walked back toward the truck. They didn’t say anything to each other, for each was preoccupied with the thought that death can come quickly and suddenly, when you least expect it. They’d walked down the road to see what was going on and nearly had gotten themselves killed.

  They climbed over the last hill. The soldiers and Major Denton were milling around the truck, smoking cigarettes and drinking from their canteens. Denton pushed his helmet toward the back of his head as Mahoney and Cranepool approached.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant?” Denton asked.

  Mahoney shrugged. “A few Germans were holed up in a farmhouse but they’re dead now.”

  Denton turned around and walked back to the cab of the truck. “Let’s get rolling, men!” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  The poster on the wall said: AUX BARRICADES!

  Major Kurt Richter of the SS snarled as he tore the poster down. The filthy French, he thought. How dare they challenge the forces of the Greater German Reich?

  His hands clasped behind his back, he stomped down the Avenue Foch, heading for number 74, which was Gestapo headquarters in Paris. He’d had a sumptuous breakfast in his room at the Hotel Meurice and had afterwards screwed his French maid. Now he was ready to conduct his business for the day.

  At number 74 Avenue Foch two SS guards saluted him as he approached the door. He went inside, walking through the corridors and descending the stairs to the dungeon. The walls were damp and made of stone, and screams of prisoners being tortured could be heard.

  Richter made his way to his office. His black SS uniform fit him impeccably, and he wore his visored service cap low over his eyes. He was thirty-five years old and had a scar on his right cheek from a duel when he was a student at Heidelberg University. His nose had been broken and a few teeth knocked out during a tussle in June with a maquis near the town of St. Jean-le-Daye. His nose had been reset by a plastic surgeon and a dentist had installed false teeth to replace the ones he’d lost, but he’d never forget the face of that maquis and prayed that one day he’d show up a prisoner at 74 Avenue Foch. Richter wanted to beat him to mush and then boil him alive.

  Richter turned onto a dark corridor lined with doors. He marched to the end of the corridor and heard a terrible scream come from behind one of the doors. Richter opened the large door at the end of the corridor and saw his secretary, Pfc Manfred Kleber, sitting at his desk.


  “Any new guests?” Richter asked.

  “A woman,” Kleber said. “She was picked up at the former headquarters of the terrorist Andre Sechard. She’s probably not worth holding, because if she didn’t know that Sechard was arrested a week ago, she can’t be very knowledgeable about terrorists.”

  “Perhaps not,” Richter replied, “because if she went to see him she must have had a reason. You have her dossier?”

  “It’s on your desk, sir. Her name is de Chaulieu.”

  “Have her brought to me at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richter entered his office and hung his hat on the peg. Sitting behind his desk, he looked through the papers on top of it and found the dossier of Delphine de Chaulieu. He lit a cigarette and began looking through it. After a while there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and two SS guards escorted Delphine into Richter’s office. Her face was pale and she looked terrified. Her hat and cape had been taken from her by a sergeant who wanted them for his wife, and she wore a navy-blue skirt and soiled white blouse. Richter thought her strikingly beautiful.

  “Let her go,” Richter told the guards.

  They released Delphine’s arms, and she rubbed the sore spots with her hands.

  “Please have a seat,” Richter told her.

  She sat fearfully on the chair beside his desk, while the two SS men stood silently on either side of the door.

  Richter held out his pack of cigarettes. “Care for one?”

  “Thank you,” she said, picking one out.

  He lit it with his gold lighter emblazoned with a swastika. “What did you go to see Andre Sechard about?” he asked pleasantly.

  “An artistic problem,” she replied, her eyes darting around nervously as she puffed the cigarette.

  “An artistic problem?” he asked skeptically. “Oh, come now.”

  “It’s the truth,” she insisted.

  “Why would you go to see Andre Sechard the terrorist and criminal about an artistic problem?”

  “He used to be a sculptor and I wanted to ask him about how to make a big casting. I am an artist myself, you see, and I wanted to do a major piece of sculpture.”

  “I know you are an artist,” Major Richter told her, “because I’ve read your dossier, but I didn’t know that Andre Sechard had been one.”

  “We studied together at the Sorbonne. That is how I know him.”

  “You saw him often?”

  “Not for years.”

  “You didn’t know any other sculptor to ask?”

  “No one who worked big like Andre. Large castings have problems that small ones don’t.”

  “Hmmm,” Richter said. “I find it strange that he’s the one you turned to after all those years. Particularly since he was a leader in the Resistance.”

  “I didn’t think about that,” she said.

  “What was your sculpture to be about?”

  “A German and French soldier marching into battle together. I wanted to express the unity of both our peoples.”

  “That was a very kind sentiment on your part,” Richter told her, “but unfortunately I don’t believe you.”

  Her face sagged. “But I’ve told you the truth.”

  “That’s what they all say. I will give you twenty-four hours to tell me the truth. Then I will extract the truth from you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  Richter looked at the SS guards. “Take her away.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The deuce-and-a-half stopped beside a command post tent in the middle of a field filled with Sherman tanks. Mahoney looked out the back of the truck and saw a flag with the Cross of Lorraine on it flying beside the tent. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and the French tankers were sitting around eating lunch.

  Major Denton got out of the cab and walked around to the rear of the truck. “Come down from there, men,” he said. “We’re going in to see General Duloc.”

  Followed by his men, Denton walked into the tent and saw a young French lieutenant sitting behind the desk. “Hello there,” Denton said in French. “My name’s Denton and these are my men. I’m here to see General Duloc.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Denton said in a friendly diplomatic manner, “but I’m from General Bradley’s headquarters and I have orders to speak with General Duloc forthwith.”

  “I said he’s busy,” the lieutenant said. “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Wait?” asked Denton. “But I’m supposed to see him right away. I’m from General Bradley’s headquarters—don’t you understand?”

  “I said you’ll have to wait.”

  Denton’s face turned red with anger. Mahoney also was getting mad. The American Army had equipped and were supplying the French, and Duloc didn’t have time to see some Americans?

  Mahoney pushed Denton out of the way and rested his fists on the French lieutenant’s desk. “What’s General Duloc doing that he’s too busy to speak with General Bradley’s representatives?” he asked in a menacing tone.

  The lieutenant looked at Mahoney’s sergeant stripes. “How dare you talk to me that way!”

  A voice came from the other side of the tent. “What’s the problem, Lieutenant Grévin?”

  “Some Americans are here to see you, sir, but I told them you’re busy.”

  “I’m never too busy to see Americans.”

  The canvas door parted and General Georges Duloc stepped into Lieutenant Grévin’s section of the tent. Duloc was a tall rawboned man in his forties with close-cropped brown hair and a thin mustache. Lieutenant Grévin shot to his feet.

  Major Denton saluted. “Major Denton reporting, sir!”

  Duloc returned the salute. “Good to see you, Denton. Welcome to the French 12th Armored Division.” His eyes fell on Mahoney, whose face was bruised and left eye was half closed. I wonder what happened to him? Duloc thought.

  “We’re the American liaison unit you’ve been expecting sir,” Denton continued. “We’re supposed to travel with your headquarters and draw rations from your mess.”

  “I’ve been expecting you,” Duloc replied. “General Bradley told me you were coming. Well, pitch your tents wherever you can find room, and if you need anything, see Lieutenant Grévin here. Is there anything else?”

  “When do you think we’ll move out, sir?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then Denton saluted and led his men out of the tent.

  After they were gone, Lieutenant Grévin said, “I can’t stand Americans.”

  Duloc smiled. “You don’t have to like them, Grévin. You only have to get along with them. I’m not too enchanted with Americans myself, but we need them right now, understand?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Good.” Duloc turned and walked back to his office.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lieutenant Otto Grunberger climbed the stairs to Delphine’s apartment, his brow creased with worry. While glancing over communiqués to General von Choltitz earlier in the day, he’d come across one that said Karl had left the Russian front and presently was speeding through the Ukraine on its way to Paris. At the rate it was moving, it would be in Paris the day after tomorrow. He shuddered to think of what would happen to Paris once Karl started firing two-and-a-half-ton shells around.

  He approached Delphine’s door and knocked. Although he had a key of his own, he always knocked first because he didn’t want to disturb her while she was painting, and he didn’t want any of her visitors to know that she had a German boyfriend. Many French people didn’t approve of their women going out with German soldiers. Such women were contemptuously referred to as horizontal collaborators.

  He didn’t hear her footsteps so he took out his key and inserted it into the lock. He opened the door and walked into her vestibule, fragrant with the musky perfume
she wore. He closed the door, latched it, and flinched at the sight of clothes strewn all over the floor. Stepping into her living room, he saw the cushions of her furniture ripped open and the rug rolled up. Blinking and trying to digest the chaos before him, his jaw dropped open as two burly SS men stormed into the living room from Delphine’s studio.

  “What are you doing here?” snarled one of them, a sergeant.

  Grunberger stiffened. “How dare you speak to me that way!” he screamed. “I am an officer in the German Army and a member of General von Choltitz’s personal staff! What is the meaning of this outrage!”

  “Hello there,” said a new voice.

  Grunberger turned in its direction and saw a dapper SS major walk out of Delphine’s bedroom.

  “I’m Major Kurt Richter of the Gestapo,” the man said. “May I inquire as to your name?”

  Grunberger became terrified at the sight of this sinister figure and realized with dismay that something horrible had happened to Delphine. “I am Lieutenant Otto Grunberger and I am a member of General von Choltitz’s personal staff.”

  “Hmmm,” said Richter, swaggering toward Grunberger and looking him up and down. “And you let yourself in here with a key?”

  “That is correct,” Grunberger said stiffly.

  “You must have been very friendly with the Countess de Chaulieu, then.”

  “One might say that.”

  “One might indeed,” Richter replied with a nasty little chuckle. “Are you aware that the countess is a spy for the French terrorists?”

  “Impossible!” declared Grunberger.

  “Then why did she go to see Andre Sechard, one of the most notorious terrorists in France?”

  Grunberger swallowed hard. Now he knew what Delphine had meant when she said she’d take care of Karl. She must have gone to tell Sechard about Karl and got herself arrested.

  “There must be some kind of mistake,” Grunberger said weakly.

  “No, there was no mistake,” Richter told him. “We found her in the headquarters of Sechard, and she asked for him by name.”