by Len Levinson
He looked at his watch. His staff officers stood around, wondering what was going on in his mind. Lightning Joe counted hours and realized that the Rangers had been in Cherbourg for less than twenty-four hours, and maybe he was expecting too much from them. Maybe he should give them another twenty-four hours, and if they didn’t carry out their mission by then, he’d pull out the stops and capture Cherbourg.
He turned to his legal officer, Major Mike Delsey. “Mike,” he said, “do you think you can get a radio message in to the maquis in Cherbourg?”
“I think I can, sir,” Delsey said.
“Tell them to notify our people there that if they don’t knock out the demolitions system by 1200 hours tomorrow, we’re going to move in and take the town.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Delsey walked back to the truck that contained the headquarters radio system, and Lightning Joe called over his operations officer, Brigadier General Frank Knowland. “Frank,” he said, “notify the corps commanders to pass on the word that I don’t want the attack to be pressed too hard for the rest of today, but that they must prepare for a major assault tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said General Knowland.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mahoney and Cranepool carried Lieutenant Helmut Keller into the basement room underneath the Fleur-de-Lis Cafe. Helmut was as pale as a sheet, and he was nearly choking on the gag they’d stuffed into his mouth. He was certain that the maquis had captured him so that they could torture him to death. So frightened was he that it took a few seconds before he recognized Francine sitting at the table with a bunch of grubby Frenchmen who looked like maquis. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of her, but the gag was in his mouth and no sound came out.
“Darling!” she said with a big smile, getting up and rushing toward him, embracing him and kissing his cheek.
Carpentier made a face. “I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in my life!”
“Stick around,” Mahoney replied cynically.
She pulled the gag out of Helmut’s mouth. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“What’s going on!” he screamed.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “you’re safe.”
Helmut looked down at the faces of the maquis members and the Americans whom he thought were in the maquis. He didn’t feel safe at all. “What are they going to do with me?”
“Nothing.”
What are you doing here with them?”
She smiled sadly. “My dear,” she said, “I happen to be a spy for the maquis.”
“WHAT!”
“Calm down.”
“A spy for the maquis!” he asked in a daze.
“Yes, my dear Helmut.”
His eyes filled with tears. “You’ve never loved me,” he said weakly. “You were only using me to get information. I can see it all now. I’ve been a dupe.”
She embraced him as he stood with his hands and feet tied. “It’s true that at first I was trying to wheedle information out of you, but then I fell in love with you, Helmut. I’ve had them bring you here so that you’ll be safe.”
Mahoney looked at Carpentier. “I can’t take much more of this shit,” he said.
“It’s completely disgusting and obnoxious,” Carpentier agreed. “To think that a fine French girl is in love with a German when Germans are killing Frenchmen every day and putting them into concentration camps.”
Francine looked at Carpentier, her eyes ablaze. “Helmut never put anybody in a concentration camp! They drafted him into the Army and what was he supposed to do, say no?”
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Mahoney said.
“What are they saying?” Boynton asked.
“A lot of bullshit,” Mahoney replied in English.
“We don’t have time for bullshit, Mahoney. We’ve got to find out where those wires are.”
“That’s right, too.” Mahoney looked at Carpentier. “Can we find out where the wires are?”
“Ah, yes,” Carpentier replied. “I almost forgot.” He looked at Francine. “We have kept our side of the bargain by bringing your worthless Kraut boyfriend here. Now it’s your turn to fulfill your side of the bargain. Where have they buried the wires that will detonate the torpedoes in the harbor?”
She placed her hands on her hips and glowered at him. “You all think you’re so smart and yet you haven’t figured it out although it’s as obvious as the nose on your face. They’ve run the wires through the sewer that goes from the fortress to the bay, you fool!”
Carpentier’s jaw dropped open.
“Very interesting,” Mahoney said. “Does anybody know where that sewer is?”
Cranepool pointed at Helmut. “I’ll bet he does.”
“I refuse to answer any questions,” Helmut said. “I’m a prisoner of war and all I have to tell you are my name, rank, and serial number.”
Lousteau laughed darkly. “You’ll sing a different tune after we put your balls in a vise.”
Francine bared her teeth like a wild tigress. “You’ll do no such thing!” she screamed.
“We’ll put your damn head in a vise with his balls if you don’t lower your voice!” Lousteau replied.
Francine dived on him, but Mahoney stood up and caught her in mid-air. “I think we should put her and her Kraut in another room someplace, so we can make a few basic strategic plans,” he said as she struggled to break out of his grip.
“You’re right,” Carpentier said. He ordered two of his men to take Francine and Helmut down the hall to another room and maintain a close guard on them. The two men picked up Helmut and carried him out of the room, as Francine followed.
“Don’t hold him too tightly,” she said. “Don’t hurt him.”
They left the room and Boynton looked at Mahoney. “Would you mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?”
“The wires are in a sewer. Now all we have to do is find out where the sewer is.” Mahoney turned to the others. “Does anyone here have any idea where that sewer is?”
The Frenchmen looked at each other and shrugged.
“Is there any way we can find out?” Mahoney asked.
One of the Frenchmen leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “I used to work in the City Hall, and I know that blueprints of the sewer system are stored in one of the record rooms. If the City Hall still is there, the blueprints should be too.”
Mahoney looked at Carpentier. “I think some of us had better go over there right away and get those blueprints.”
“I agree,” Carpentier replied. He stood and called the names of four of his men, who also got to their feet. They left the room, and Boynton turned to Mahoney.
“Now what’s going on?” he asked.
‘They’re going to get the blueprints of the sewer system.”
“Oh, I see,” Boynton said. “Boy, I wish I knew French so that I could understand what was going on.”
“I wish you knew French too,” Mahoney said, because he was getting tired of doing the translations.
Mahoney puffed the cigar that he’d bummed off one of the Frenchmen, and hoped that the blueprints of the sewer system would be intact, but on the other hand, he didn’t look forward to crawling through the shit and garbage of the sewer system that evening. He looked into Boynton’s eyes.
“I hate this fucking war,” he said.
“Mahoney,” Boynton replied, “if there were no more wars and no more armies, guys like you would starve to death.”
“Fuck you, sir,” Mahoney said, puffing his cigar.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was seven o’clock in the evening, and the fortress was wreathed with smoke. American artillery shells continued dropping on the fortress, and its ramparts had become rubble. Wounded German soldiers were being moved to the lower chambers because the upper ones were filled with poisonous fumes. General von Schlieben paced back and forth in front of his desk and realized that the time had come to blow up the harbor and then raise
the white flag of surrender. He’d fought the good fight and his soldiers had nothing to be ashamed of. They all could get a peaceful night of rest as POWs, and in the morning perhaps he could breakfast with General Collins, and discuss the great battles of history.
But first he had to blow up the harbor. He buttoned his tunic up to his neck and smoothed the front. His black boots were highly polished. Placing his hat on his head, he lifted his riding crop off his desk, smacked it against his leg, and marched out of his office.
The next room was the conference room, where he held a conference with his staff every day at nine o’clock in the morning, and over the past week the conferences had become progressively gloomier, with dispiriting news coming in from all fronts, and impossible orders being received over the radio from Berlin. Well, von Schlieben thought, that’s just about all over. I’ll throw the switch myself, and after everything settles down, I’ll send an emissary to General Collins. His surrender requests were worded most decently. I’m sure he’s a gentleman such as myself.
General von Schlieben opened the door to the large office that had been converted into the control room for the special demolition program. He confidently strode into the room, heading for the main switch, and nearly had a heart attack when he saw that the room was filled with SS men in full battle gear.
“Going someplace?” asked Colonel Feldheim, commander of the local SS Gestapo detachment, as he arose from a chair.
Von Schlieben swallowed hard. Although he outranked Feldheim, the SS colonel had the authority to ship him to a concentration camp or have him shot on the spot. “I just thought I’d check the controls,” von Schlieben said, “because the time is drawing near for me to blow up the harbor.”
Feldheim was slim, with a black mustache similar to Adolf Hitler’s. He had a large nose and von Schlieben always thought he looked a little Jewish. “You needn’t concern yourself about the harbor anymore,” he said in his oily voice. “My headquarters has just received a radio communications from Berlin. The Fuehrer has ordered me to take charge of the harbor demolitions.”
“I see,” said von Schlieben. “You have a copy of the orders for me?”
“Certainly.”
Feldheim took out the orders and showed them to von Schlieben. They appeared to be in order. Von Schlieben handed them back to Feldheim. “I trust that a copy will be sent to me for my files.”
“One is on the way, if it hasn’t been delivered to one of your staff officers already.”
“I’ll check,” von Schlieben said icily.
“I think you should. Your headquarters always has been bedeviled by sloppy staff work.”
“I beg your pardon!” von Schlieben declared.
“It’s the truth,” Feldheim said with a yawn. “Everybody knows it. Even the Fuehrer does.”
“The Fuehrer?”
“Of course. Everybody knows that he wanted someone stronger in command here.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t appoint you,” von Schlieben said drily.
“He could have done worse,” Feldheim said.
Feldheim’s SS men giggled and chortled at that one, causing von Schlieben’s temperature to rise.
“I’m not so sure that he could have done worse,” von Schlieben snapped, smacking his riding crop against his leg. “May I inquire when you intend to blow up the harbor?”
“When this room is in danger of being destroyed or captured by the Americans.”
“Well,” von Schlieben said, “since the responsibility has been taken out of my hands, I won’t concern myself with it anymore. I wish you a good day, Colonel Feldheim.”
“The best of days to you, General von Schlieben,” Feldheim said with a wry smile.
Von Schlieben turned and swaggered out of the control room, slapping his riding crop against his leg. He strutted across the conference room, entered his office, and collapsed at his desk. Opening the bottom drawer, he took out his bottle of cognac, which now was only one-quarter full. He unscrewed the cork and raised the bottle to his mouth, tossing back his head and taking a healthy swig. The fortress trembled with explosions, and von Schlieben could hear their muffled sounds. He returned the bottle to his desk drawer and closed it, wondering seriously for the first time whether or not he’d survive the war.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was eight o’clock in the evening. In the deserted streets of northwest Cherbourg, an old black bread truck turned a corner onto the Rue Vendome and rolled slowly down the block. It was dark and no streetlights were on, the local power station having been reduced to rubble by American bombardments.
The bread truck rolled over a manhole cover halfway down the block and came to a stop just beyond it. The rear door of the bread truck opened and Mahoney stepped out, a crowbar in his hand. Behind him were Bulldog Boynton, Cranepool, Carpentier, Private Gomez, Sergeant Newell, Soulanges, and two other Frenchmen named Langeais and Chaperon. They all carried captured German submachine guns or had them strapped to their backs.
Mahoney jammed the crowbar into the edge of the manhole cover and pried it up. Cranepool and Chaperon grabbed the manhole and pulled it away. The odor of shit and muck came up to them from the sewer. They fastened bandanas in front of their noses and mouths to keep out some of the stink, and Mahoney was the first one to climb down the steel rungs into the sewer. The bottom was ten feet down, and ankle deep with oozy gunk. The others followed him down the ladder and joined him in the sewer, while on the street, a Frenchman replaced the manhole cover, got into the bread truck, and drove away.
All the men in the sewer carried knapsacks filled with explosives. Canteens of water were hooked to their belts. They took out their flashlights and flashed them around, looking gloomily at the concrete pipe, ten feet in diameter that they were inside.
Carpentier shone his flashlight on the map of the Cherbourg sewer system that they’d taken from City Hall. “This way,” he said.
They followed him through the mire and abominations that filled the sewer. Their footsteps echoed throughout the tunnels and passageways of the sewer system, making it appear as though patrols of men were marching about all around them.
They came to an intersection of sewer pipes, and Carpentier led them to the left. They were about a mile from the section of the sewer where the wires were located, and hoped to arrive there within an hour. There was no way of knowing whether or not that section of the sewer was guarded, but they’d worry about that when they got there. A more frightening possibility was that the Germans might blow up the harbor while they were down in the sewer. The explosion could rupture the sewer system, causing water from the bay to pour in and drown them like rats.
There’s no point in thinking about depressing things like that, Mahoney figured as he trudged with the others through the sewer. The powerful stench was seeping through the red bandana over his nose and mouth, making him nauseous. Rats skittered around the walls of the sewer and he thought that this would be a helluva place to die, in a river of shit with rats nibbling on your fingers.
He decided that this particular mission was the worst thing that had happened to him since he joined the Army. It wasn’t so bad fighting like an ordinary soldier in a normal battle, but this sewer business was horrible and nightmarish. He told himself that if he got out of this mission alive, he’d transfer to a regular infantry outfit. Weird assignments no longer seemed interesting and glamorous to him, and he realized that they increased his chances of getting knocked off. He’d be much better off in a regular infantry line company. So what if the soldiers weren’t as good as rangers? He knew how to watch his ass and that’s what he intended to do for the rest of the war, if only he survived this sewer.
A few steps behind him, young Cranepool slogged through the gunk at the bottom of the sewer. He carried his submachine gun with its buttplate snug against his hip and its barrel pointed up at the ceiling. The sewer didn’t bother him as much as Mahoney because he’d been shoveling shit on the farm for most of his life and w
as used to it. He was thinking that when this mission was over he’d talk to Bulldog Boynton about becoming a buck sergeant. He’d have enough time in grade next month, and wanted very much to become a sergeant because everyone knew that sergeants were the backbone of the Army. As a sergeant, it would be easier for him to go get into OCS. They might even send him to West Point! Cranepool thought his future in the Army looked extremely bright. When he returned home in his officer’s uniform someday, the local girls would cream in their pants.
Beside Carpentier at the head of the column, Bulldog Boynton trudged along stolidly, ever on the alert for strange sounds and unusual shadows, a professional soldier to the core. His mind was devoid of any thoughts not connected with the mission he was presently on. He figured the best way to fight an enemy in a sewer was to get down into the muck and take the battle to him. As your own men were killed, you’d use their bodies as barricades. You’d send detachments through the sewer system to encircle your foe. And you’d fight until you were killed, because a good soldier never surrendered.
The group of men made their way through the sewer system of Cherbourg, moving ever closer to the length of pipe that passed from the fortress to the bay. They heard the faint sounds of explosions far above them, and the pouring of water in the far reaches of the sewer system. Their searchlights flashed before them like an amorphous creature with a hundred eyes. Certain sections of the sewer smelled so terrible that they gagged and tried to hold their breaths. To keep from throwing up, Mahoney forced himself to think of flowers and babies, of the roller coaster at Coney Island and Glenn Miller’s orchestra playing “Pennsylvania Six-five-oh-oh-oh,” and of the long supple legs of Shirley the nurse. He realized now for the first time that he’d never even found out her last name.
Carpentier held up his hand, and the column behind him stopped. He took out the map and studied it in the light of his flashlight. “We’re almost there,” he said. “Be on the lookout for Germans.”
They moved out again, holding their submachine guns at the ready, listening and watching for signs of German guards. Mahoney hoped there were no guards and no alarm system, because a firefight in a sewer would be a horrible thing. But he doubted that there’d be any serious trouble. The Germans probably never dreamed that someone would find out their nasty little secret.