The doctor stopped as Picard crossed the street. He appeared ill at ease, and Picard couldn’t help wondering why.
“Good evening, M’sieu Picard,” Lambert said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat.
“Somebody sick?” Picard asked, looking at the doctor’s black bag.
“Um ... yes,” Doctor Lambert answered uneasily.
“Who?”
The doctor smiled. “I don’t think it’s a good ethical practice to discuss my patients with people outside their families.”
“You don’t have to tell me about the illness,” Picard persisted. “I’m just wondering who’s sick.”
“M’sieu Picard, I’m afraid that information is privileged.”
Picard ran the fingers of his right hand across his chin. “You’re behaving most peculiarly about this, doctor.”
“I think your curiosity about other people is most peculiar, M’sieu Picard.”
Picard looked at Doctor Lambert sideways. “You’re not doing anything you shouldn’t be doing, are you, Doctor?”
Doctor Lambert tipped his hat. “I’m afraid I must be going, M’sieu Picard,” he said. “Good evening.”
Picard frowned. “Good evening to you, Doctor Lambert.”
Lambert turned and walked toward his home. Picard watched him go, then moved in the direction of his own house, wondering if Doctor Lambert had been out performing an abortion or some other illegal activity. Otherwise, why was the good doctor being so secretive? What he’d said about ethical practices was surely nonsense. Doctor Lambert almost certainly would have told him who was sick if he hadn’t been doing something wrong.
Picard walked home slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, rain dripping from his hat. He remembered seeing Louise, and suddenly his mind made a connection between her and Doctor Lambert. Was Louise in town with other members of the Resistance, and had Doctor Lambert been called out to treat one of them? Was that bag Louise was carrying filled with provisions?
Picard quickened his pace. He thought he’d better report all of this to La Roche-Guyon, and let the Gestapo decide whether or not it was of sufficient concern to take action on.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was eleven o’clock p.m. At an airfield in Cottesmore, England, the men and officers of the 101st U.S. Airborne Division were checking their equipment and preparing to board the planes that would fly them into France. They’d received intensive training for this all-important jump; many were veterans of the famous jump in Sicily, where they successfully blocked the advance of the Hermann Goering Division to the beachhead. Now their mission was to perform a similar function in protection of the Normandy beachhead.
So important was their mission that Ike himself was there, shaking hands, slapping backs, and wishing them good luck. As the men and officers reached out eagerly to grasp the hand of their famous commander-in-chief, Ike moved easily among them, talking to them calmly, telling them to remember their training, obey their officers, and fight like the devil.
Though a light drizzle was falling, morale was high. The 101st Airborne was one of the U.S. Army’s elite fighting units, and every man there knew it. They showed no fear; in fact, they appeared eager to get into the fight. Ike was pleased to be among them, proud to be their leader. With men like this, the Normandy invasion could not fail.
A young lieutenant with the general staff insignia on his lapels elbowed his way through the crowd of paratroopers, waving a piece of yellow paper in his hand. “I’ve got an important message for the General,” he said breathlessly.
The paratroopers made way for him and finally the young lieutenant found himself facing Ike. He saluted snappily and handed over the message. “General Bradley wanted you to see this right away, sir,” he said.
He nodded and accepted the message. He unfolded it and read:
Word has just been received by the OSS that the railroad line we discussed at our meeting this morning has been knocked out of action by American Rangers operating in conjunction with elements of the French Resistance.
General Omar Bradley
Ike breathed a sigh of relief. That railroad line and a hundred other little matters like it had been deviling him, but now at least it had been taken care of. He folded the message and tucked it into the pocket of his raincoat, then dismissed the young lieutenant, who saluted, did an about face, and fled.
Ike reached out and shook the hand of a young Pfc with a freckled face, thinking that the Pfc and other paratroopers on Utah Beach would have a far greater chance of survival now that the railroad line was inoperable.
“Good luck, soldier,” Ike said.
“Thank you, sir,” replied the Pfc.
Ike turned and gripped the next hand offered him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
At La Roche-Guyon, Major Richter walked down the corridor of the SS headquarters building to the office of Colonel Spengle, his superior officer. Richter’s face was bandaged and there were eight stitches on the bridge of his nose where it had been broken. The doctor in the hospital had to remove that shattered bone, and told Richter that he’d require extensive plastic surgery if he ever wanted the nose to be straight and normal-looking again.
Richter was in a filthy, brutal mood, because he’d considered himself a rather handsome man, and now, without his front teeth, he looked like a vampire whose nose had been tied into a knot. And on top of everything else, Colonel Spengle wanted to see him? At this time of night, it couldn’t be about anything good. Richter knew he was in for a hard time. He squared his shoulders manfully and approached Colonel Spengle’s big oak door. Raising his knuckles in the air, he rapped three times.
“Come in!” said a deep booming voice from within.
Richter opened the door and entered the office. Colonel Spengle, who had white hair and wore a monocle, sat behind his desk. The office was large, with walls paneled in shiny dark wood, and maroon drapes covering the windows. On the wall behind Spengle was a huge heroic portrait of Adolf Hitler in party uniform, a dagger hanging from his waist.
Richter marched to Colonel Spengle’s desk and threw his arm into the air. “Heil Hitler!” he said.
Spengle lazily showed the palm of his hand. “Heil Hitler. Sit down, you idiot.”
Richter sat in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk and readied himself for the worst. He’d expected a promotion from Himmler, but now he was afraid he might be shipped to a concentration camp.
Spengle leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. He’d been a sergeant in the Army during the First World War and after the Armistice had joined a Freikorps unit because he couldn’t find a job. He joined the Nazi Party in 1921, along with many other Freikorps men, and had participated in the famous Beer Hall Putsch of 1923. He’d been shot in the leg during that fiasco, and thus became one of the heroes of the Party. Hence his current high rank.
“You bungler,” he said cruelly to Richter.
Richter sat erect and didn’t reply because he didn’t know how to.
Spengle pounded his fist on his desk. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded.
“I did my best, sir,” Richter replied, slurring his words because of his lack of front teeth.
Spengle pounded his fist on his desk again. “Your best! If that was your best, I’d hate to see your worst! There wouldn’t be a soul alive in Germany today if you were doing your worst!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Spengle pounded both of his fists on the desk this time. “You’re sorry? What in the hell do I care if you’re sorry! Your sorrow doesn’t help anything at all! That railway tunnel won’t be repaired for a month at least, and maybe longer! And it’s all your fault! When the High Command finds out about it, they’re not going to blame you! They’re going to blame the entire SS! You have disgraced the uniform you wear! I regret the day I ever met you! I ought to have you shot!”
“If you like, I’ll do the honorable thing, sir,” Richter said, referring to suic
ide, and as a fanatical SS officer he would not have hesitated to do it if ordered.
Spengle pointed his finger at him. “You’re not going to get off that easy, you stupid swine. You’re going to pay for this in the appropriate manner.”
Richter gulped. He thought Spengle was threatening him with incarceration in a concentration camp. He decided he’d better start defending himself. “I took the action that I considered necessary sir, in view of the circumstances. It is true that I failed, but my SS detachment was vastly outnumbered by terrorists.”
“How many of them were there?” Spengle asked.
“I’d say there was a hundred at least,” Richter lied.
“A hundred? That sounds rather improbable.”
“But it’s true, sir.”
“Then you should have had more SS men with you.”
“I didn’t realize there would be so many terrorists.”
“As an SS officer, you’re supposed to anticipate all possibilities and probabilities.”
“I tried to get more SS men, but there weren’t any available.”
“You should have contacted me, and I would have made them available.”
“If I had contacted you and asked for a hundred men to chase a locomotive that may not have been stolen, you would have court-martialed me,” Richter said vehemently.
Spengle leaned back in his chair and sighed. “That’s true.”
“There’s an old saying that a schoolboy’s hindsight is better than a general’s foresight,” Richter said. “It’s easy to say what should have been done after the event, but much harder to know what to do before it happens. I took the best measures I could under the circumstances. We fought a good fight. But we were outnumbered and overrun. It is only through a miracle that I survived.”
Spengle grunted. “Some miracle. Let me see your service revolver, please.”
Richter’s heart sank, because he realized at that moment that he’d never fired it. Withdrawing it from its shiny black leather holster, he handed it to Colonel Spengle and tried to think of an appropriate lie.
Spengle took the pistol, opened the chamber, and sniffed. He sighted down the barrel, and his face grew grave. “This pistol hasn’t even been fired,” he said.
“I had a submachine gun, sir.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From one of the fallen SS men.”
“You waited for someone to fall before you returned the enemy fire?”
“The SS man standing next to me was one of the first to be killed in the ambush. Everyone in the cab dropped to the floor for protection. His submachine gun happened to be beside me, so I picked it up and used it to fight back, but it was futile, for we were so greatly outnumbered.”
“There’s something very strange about all of this,” Spengle said.
“In what way, sir?”
“In many ways. Why, for instance, weren’t you killed with the others?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the terrorists that, sir. But as you can see with your own eyes, I am not without injury.” Richter thrust his face forward so that Spengle could see better.
Spengle recoiled from the hideous sight. “It looks like you’ve been beaten up. How could they have gotten that close? It seems that they would have shot you before they got that close.”
“I can’t answer for the motives of the enemy, sir.”
“But you’ll have to answer for your own, and from the basis of what you’ve told me, one might deduce that you behaved in a cowardly fashion under fire.”
“What!” Richter screamed. “Me? A coward? How dare you, sir!”
Spengle raised his hand in the air. “Calm down.”
“I’ve never heard such a ridiculous thing in my life!”
“I’m sure you’ve heard much more ridiculous things. But I’m not the one who’s accusing you, because to do so would be to imply that there is cowardice in the SS, and it is not in my best interest to do that, particularly in view of the fact that you are my subordinate officer and anything you do reflects upon me. My concern is that someone else—perhaps in the army—will accuse you, and therefore I want you to dream up a more convincing story than the one you told me.”
“You could say that upon inspecting my service revolver you found that it had been fired recently and repeatedly.”
Spengle thought for a few moments, then nodded. “That’s true.”
“A doctor can say that I was grazed by a bullet.”
“It’s best not to draw too many people into an alibi like this. Maybe you should stick to the story that you were overrun.”
“Very well, sir.”
“But there’s one way you can redeem yourself to me and to the world.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“By catching the terrorists.”
Richter smiled and pulled his map from under his black SS jacket. “I’ve been thinking the same thing sir,” he said, “and here’s my plan.” He spread the map out on Colonel Spengle’s desk. “When I last saw the terrorists, they were headed this way,” he indicated the direction on the map. “As you can see, there are many towns in that way. I propose that I be permitted to take an SS detachment of considerable size and search those towns, spreading terror everywhere we go. I think that very well might turn up the guerillas, don’t you think so?”
Spengle adjusted his monocle. “Tell me, Richter— is there a town called Rouget in that direction?”
Richter brought his face closer to the map. “Why yes—here it is, sir.” Richter pointed to the town.
Spengle looked down at the location of the town. “We’ve just received a communication that there has been suspicious guerilla activity in that town this very evening. It may be that the people you’re looking for are in Rouget even as we speak. I suggest that you take your SS detachment to that town first and see what’s going on.”
“I’ll be ready to leave as soon as my detachment is here,” Richter replied.
Spengle reached for his phone. “Let me see what I can scrape together for you,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In the sub-basement of the church in Rouget, Mahoney lay on a blanket spread on the floor and smoked a cigarette. He’d slept for almost two hours but had been awakened by strange sounds that turned out to be Louise and Cranepool fucking surreptitiously in a corner. Mahoney found that he couldn’t fall back asleep again. He’d never been able to relax when he knew somebody else was getting laid. It always made him think he should be getting laid too, and that led to thoughts of who to lay, what personality deficiencies of his were preventing him from getting laid, etc.
Mahoney thought about Odette, sleeping on the other side of the room. Why shouldn’t I crawl over there and knock off a piece? he asked himself. But there were many reasons why he shouldn’t, the first of which was that Celestine wasn’t even cold in her grave yet, and he really ought to get some sleep, because it would be a long journey back to St. Pierre tomorrow. They couldn’t use open roads, so they’d have to hike cross-country, which would be grueling and time-consuming. If he was smart he’d just close his eyes and go back to sleep.
But he wasn’t smart. He thought that if Louise and Cranepool could do it, so could he. He stubbed out his cigarette butt on the floor and rolled onto his stomach. Sniffing the air, licking the film off his teeth, he crawled slowly and silently among the others, who were snoring and twitching in their sleep. Agoult had a big smile on his face and Mahoney wondered what he was dreaming about. Louise let out a little love cry and Mahoney bit his lower lip. Noise like that drove him mad with lust. He was annoyed that she and Cranepool had made up earlier in the evening, because Mahoney had intended to plunk her himself. She had the cutest ass in all of France, he estimated, but Odette wasn’t so bad. Good old Odette. He wondered where he’d be without her.
As he approached her she was lying on her back with her head on her rolled up jacket and her legs spread wide. Drawing closer, he could see her blond curls and
pert mouth. Her breasts rose like two mountains and he began to get an erection. He hoped she wouldn’t give him any trouble, because he felt sexually ravenous, and he might be compelled to use a little force. There was something about women that scared the shit out of him because they had the power to make him do crazy things he wouldn’t ordinarily do if he had his wits about him.
He lay on his side next to her and placed the palm of his hand on her cupcake.
She opened her eyes instantly and reached for her carbine.
“Calm down,” Mahoney whispered.
She looked at him. “It’s you!”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
She grabbed his hand and threw it off her. “What do you think this is!”
He moved closer and nuzzled her neck with his shaggy face. “Cherie,” he cooed.
She pushed his forehead back. “Take your hands off me,” she said sternly.
“Whatsa matter?”
“You treat me worse than a dog, and now you want to get friendly? Forget it.”
When have I treated you worse than a dog? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve been treating me like a dog ever since we left St. Pierre. Get away from me. I hate you.”
He kissed her ear. “But cherie ...”
“Don’t do that to me.”
He kissed her ear again. “Don’t do what to you?”
“That!”
She tried to push him away without much conviction. This is just like war, he thought. You have to keep trying until you wear down their resistance. He stuck his tongue into her ear and cupped one of hisbig hands over one of her big breasts.
“You bastard,” she whimpered.
“Be nice.”
“You make me sick.”
“I love you, cherie”
“You men are all alike. You’re only nice when you want something.”
“That’s better than never being nice at all.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I don’t deny it, but I’ve always been nuts about you.”
“Hah!”
He wormed his hand under her sweater and squeezed her succulent breast. His dong was throbbing in his pants and an artery in his neck was pounding. “I’m crazy about you,” he said, fastening his mouth on hers.
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