by James R Benn
“Where were you headed? Where was your unit going?” I asked.
“The Geneva Convention says I am not required to give that information,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I guess we need to find someone who hasn’t signed the Geneva Convention. Any ideas, Kaz?”
“The Francs-Tireurs et Partisans,” he said. “I am certain the French Communist Party did not sign.”
“No, please,” Heinz said, holding up one hand in supplication. “You do not understand. There were no orders. It was a retreat. Not organized. There is a word for it.”
“Rout,” I offered.
“Yes. A rout. We destroyed our equipment to make more room in the trucks for the men. Then the Jabos came. Machine guns, rockets, and bombs. Those who lived walked. My commanding officer said to get across the Seine and then regroup. The last I saw him, he was in a ditch with his legs blown off. A rout, yes. That is the word.”
Jabos. Kraut slang for the fighter-bombers that plagued their every daylight move. His story was the same as the others gave. Confusion, terror, desperation. As true as that was, one of these bastards could be hiding something. So I tried my last trick.
“Sorry, Heinz, but I don’t believe you. It’s time for you to take a walk in the woods with our French allies,” I said.
“What? No,” Heinz said, his mouth gaping open in fear. “You don’t mean with the terrorists, do you?”
“Une promenade dans les bois,” Kaz said. “You must have picked up some French, Lieutenant. I am sure they will treat you with all the fairness you deserve.”
“No, wait,” Heinz said. His eyes darted back and forth as if he was reviewing every message he ever sent, searching for something of value.
“Your time is up,” I said. “I hope you enjoyed your stay in France. It’s about to become permanent.”
“The terrorists,” Heinz whispered, using the term the Krauts employed to describe those who dared to strike back at them. “I can tell you something about them.”
“About the partisans?” Kaz said, glancing at Big Mike and the four partisans standing outside the tent. They weren’t listening.
“Yes. But will that be enough? I know nothing about the Paris defenses, but I can tell you something of the terrorists—I mean partisans—if you will not turn me over to them.”
“Okay, Heinz, it’s a deal. Spill.” He wrinkled his forehead trying to work that one out. “Tell us everything.”
“Yes, I understand. The intelligence chief of my division often worked with the Milice. You know who they are?”
“Yeah,” I said. We knew them all too well. French fascist militia who did a lot of dirty work for the Germans. They hunted the partisans and were often used to infiltrate their ranks. “What’s your division?”
“The 91st Infantry. Colonel Schmid used the Milice to gather information on the partisans. But he also had his own contact with a partisan leader,” Heinz said.
“A leader?” Kaz said.
“All I know is that this man led a group of terrorists and passed on information to my colonel,” Heinz said. “I sent messages to army headquarters in Paris about it.”
“What’s the man’s name?” I said. This was getting interesting.
“Atlantik,” Heinz said.
“His code name,” Kaz said.
“Yes, of course. He would not use his real name, even to his compatriots,” Heinz said. “And the intelligence people use only code names. Is that enough?”
“Just about,” I said. “What kind of information did he pass on?”
“Names. Names of other leaders in his group. He was with the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans. The Bolsheviks. Colonel Schmid once said Atlantik hated Russia and the Communists. Very much.”
“Yet he served with them?” I asked. “Why did he betray them?”
“The French,” Heinz said, giving a small shrug, as if that was the answer to this mystery. Or perhaps he’d never given it much thought at all. He was a radioman after all, just the messenger. It was up to us to make sense of it all and figure out who the hell Atlantik was.
Chapter Three
“Hey, Sam, I think we got something,” Big Mike said when we found Colonel Harding in his tent, standing over a map of the Paris area spread out on a table. A look passed between them, and I got the impression they knew something I didn’t. Which was often the case, but Big Mike’s tone told me the news of Heinz’s story was even more important than I’d thought.
Harding looked up, irritated at the interruption, his finger still on the map where he’d been following one of the main routes into Paris. Most officers would have been annoyed at a sergeant calling them by their first name, but Big Mike had such a disarming way of doing it that Harding usually let it slide. Especially if no other brass was around. Besides, Big Mike was an excellent scrounger, and when you have a big, muscular non-com who can obtain whatever’s needed without a lot of army paperwork, even a colonel will cut him some slack.
“What?” Harding said, giving Big Mike a discrete nod. I guess that meant he didn’t need to hold back.
“One of the Kraut POWs told us about a Resistance leader who’s rotten. He’s been betraying his own men to the Germans. He might help move things along,” Big Mike said.
“Help what along?” Kaz asked.
“I’ll explain in a minute, Lieutenant, but first tell me who the guy is. Which Resistance group?” Harding said.
“We only know the code name the Germans gave him. Atlantik. And that he’s with the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans,” I said.
“Also, he hates the Communists,” Kaz said. “But our POW could not explain why he was with the FTP given that hatred, since they are filled with Reds. He simply transmitted messages about him. It was the divisional intelligence officer who knew Atlantik.”
“The FTP is everywhere,” Harding said. “They’re the largest armed Resistance group in France. Your German didn’t know which FTP band this traitor is with?”
“No sir. But Heinz was a signals officer with the 91st Infantry Division. If we knew the area they operated in, that could narrow it down,” I said.
“They’ve been all over Normandy,” Harding said, checking another map. “We ran up against them at Utah Beach, then on the Cherbourg Peninsula. Lately they’ve been fighting to the west of here. Not much help.”
“We could comb the POW cages for officers from the 91st,” I said. “We might get lucky and find their intelligence chief alive. He might be persuaded to lead us to Atlantik. There’s no telling how many deaths he’s responsible for.”
“Cruel deaths at the hands of the Gestapo,” Kaz said. “He should be made to pay.”
“Yeah,” Harding said, barely listening as he stared at the map. “I need to call HQ. Wait here.”
“That was interesting,” I said after Harding was gone. We sat on empty crates while Big Mike grabbed the one chair. Fair enough, he’d probably crush the thin slats on the pine boxes. I rose to study the map and the roads leading into Paris, wondering what kind of fight the Nazis were going to put up there. They’d just destroyed Warsaw. Was Paris next?
“Yes,” Kaz said, shaking out the crease in his trousers. Even though his uniform was stained with the dirt and blood of Hill 262, he wore it like a tuxedo. “There is much you and the colonel are not telling us, Big Mike. We are talking of bringing a traitor to justice. Something tells me you and he have another plan entirely.”
“Sorry. I can’t dish until Sam says it’s okay. Need to know, ya know?” Big Mike said, enjoying his secret.
“And we don’t need to know,” I said, completing the refrain. “So, let’s figure it out.”
“I do like puzzles,” Kaz said, sitting up even straighter. “Where do we start?”
“At the beginning,” I said. “We’re sent off to bring POWs back here for in
terrogation. Big Mike and the colonel stay behind. Why didn’t this big lug come with us?”
“The colonel said it didn’t take three of us,” Kaz answered. “He was right. It shouldn’t have. I did tell him I wanted to go because of Feliks and my fellow Poles, which he understood.”
“Right. Then we jumped the gun, nearly got ourselves killed, but made it back with a haul of POWs. Then Harding blew his top,” I said, trying to break things down and understand what happened every step of the way. It was a trick my dad taught me back when I was a rookie. He always did his best to show me the ropes. I didn’t always pay attention, because I thought there would always be time to learn. Now I knew better.
But breaking things down stuck with me. Dad had said it was important to notice the little things and figure out why they’d happened, not just accept them at face value.
“The colonel was very upset,” Kaz said. “He has lectured us sternly in the past, but today was different.”
“Why?” I asked. Kaz was right. We’d taken tongue-lashings before, but this was different. Anger and impatience were normal, but Harding had been emotional, which was rare.
“He was concerned we would have gotten ourselves killed for nothing,” he said.
“Or, he was upset because he would have blamed himself,” I said.
“This is war, Billy,” Kaz said. “People get killed. But you are right, there was something in how he reacted. And his response about Atlantik was odd.”
“But not to him,” I said. That was another thing Dad taught me. Unless you’re dealing with a fool, which Harding wasn’t, it was a mistake to write off unusual behavior as an unexplainable quirk. Find the motivation, and it won’t seem so odd anymore.
“Yes, I see,” Kaz said. “So Atlantik will prove useful in whatever plan the colonel is working on. The plan he is calling headquarters about right now.”
“Deception,” I said. “He’s going to use this traitor in a deception campaign. How’re we doing, Big Mike?” He made a zipper motion across his mouth, but by his barely stifled grin I knew I was on the right track.
“It must have something to do with Paris,” Kaz said, standing to get a better look at the map and tracing his fingers on the roads leading to the city and the River Seine. “Ah, Paris. Beautiful in springtime. Not so much in August.”
“Paris,” I said, leaning over the map. There were grease-pencil marks on the roads leading to Paris, and other routes to the south. Lines marking the advance of Allied formations. But where were the German defensive lines? No wonder Harding was so desperate for information. He didn’t have a clue where the Krauts were going to put up a fight.
“Everyone wants to get to Paris,” Kaz said. “The Nazis, de Gaulle, all the Resistance factions, and every Allied soldier in Normandy.”
Of course they did. So did I. Who doesn’t want to go to Paris?
Then I understood.
I knew who didn’t want to go to Paris. General Eisenhower and the entire Allied army.
And I understood why Harding was so upset about our galivanting off to Hill 262.
“It’s a ruse,” I said.
“What is?” Kaz said.
“This whole quest for POWs who might know anything about the Paris defenses. Remember, one part of a good deception campaign is painting a believable picture. POWs, Canadians, the Poles, the FFI, us, we’re all part of this effort to create the illusion we’re frantic for dope on the Paris defenses.”
“We are not?” Kaz asked.
“I’d say no. We’ve got the Krauts on the run. Whatever part of their army in Normandy we didn’t destroy or bag in Falaise is hightailing it for Paris. The Seine is a natural defensive position.”
“Paris is home to millions of people and some of the great art treasures of the world,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “Yes, it would be a tremendous advantage for the Germans to fight there.”
“So why not go around it? Our armor can chew up the retreating Germans and leave the rest sitting in Paris. It’d be like one big fancy POW camp. We might even get over the Rhine before winter. Still zipped up, Big Mike?”
“Tight,” was all he had to say.
“I am glad we were unhurt as a result of our unauthorized trip to Hill 262,” Kaz said. “Colonel Harding never would have forgiven himself for sending us on a mere deception errand if we had been killed.”
“So thoughtful of you,” I said. “Okay, Big Mike, let us in on the secret. How does Atlantik fit into this?”
He made the zipper move again.
“Atlantik is a traitor,” Kaz said, tapping his finger on the map, marking the blank places where German entrenchments should have been. “Therefore, he can be useful. If he believes the story created for him.”
“The story of the Allied plan to take Paris,” I said, bending over the map for a closer look at the intersecting lines of rivers, roads, and ridges. “If the Krauts believe we’re going after Paris, they’ll fortify it. Bring in all the troops who escaped the trap at Falaise. Then we swing around and cut them off.”
“If that is the plan, I see the military reason for it,” Kaz said. “But what about the people of Paris? There are millions, with hardly enough food as it is. If this scheme brings more German troops into the city, they could starve.”
“This is war, gentleman,” Harding said, as he strode back into the tent. “We’re here to defeat the enemy as quickly as possible. That’s what Operation Frigate is all about.”
“Sounds nautical, Colonel,” Kaz said.
“This is strictly a land-based operation,” Harding said. “But Frigates are fast ships, very maneuverable, so it’s an apt name. Pack up your gear. I’ll fill you in on the way back to Third Army HQ.”
Harding looked excited, or at least what passed for excited when it came to his usually stony countenance. I almost said something about risking our lives for a deception campaign, but I didn’t want to spoil his good mood. Besides, I had the feeling there were plenty more risks to come.
I knew a thing or two about ships. I’d walked a beat close to the South Boston Naval Annex, part of the big Boston Navy Yard. I’d seen the frigates they built there. Solid little ships, just right for dropping depth charges on submerged submarines. But lightly armed, and no match for the faster destroyers and cruisers lurking over the horizon.
And what was over the horizon to the east was a badly beaten, but still deadly, army.
Chapter Four
“Patton’s moved up to Saint-Hilaire,” Harding said from the front seat, as Big Mike gunned the jeep and sent us careening down a rutted path. “There’s a château outside of town where Third Army is setting up headquarters.”
“Things are moving pretty fast,” Big Mike said, glancing at me and Kaz as he rounded a bend, a meek glimmer of apology flitting across his face.
“Jeez, Big Mike, keep your eyes on the road, willya?” I said, gripping the side of the jeep. “Just because the Krauts didn’t kill us, there’s no reason for you to have a go at it.”
“Sorry, fellas, but we don’t have much time,” Big Mike said, as he took a turn onto a wider country lane. “We’ve got a lot to set up.”
“Colonel,” Kaz said, tapping Harding on the shoulder. “I believe this road leads to La Fresnaye. Which is on the south side of the Falaise Pocket.”
“It’s the quickest route,” Harding said. “Reports are this area has been cleared of Germans.”
“Reports?” I said. I wasn’t much for betting my life on an army report.
“Air reconnaissance and the French Resistance,” he said. “Both report the tail end of the Kraut retreat passed through here a few hours ago. All that’s left are dead, wounded, and maybe a few shell-shocked stragglers.”
“Flyboys and fifis, huh?” I said, as I checked my Thompson for a full clip. “Let’s hope none of those stragglers try to jump us for the jee
p.” If I was a straggler anxious to make it back to the Fatherland, a jeep would be just the ticket. I tried to stay alert and scan the thick undergrowth for signs of movement, but I was too damned tired and started to nod off.
Then the smell hit me. We’d been on a downward slope and Big Mike braked as we rounded a turn which emptied us into the open and flat valley floor. The road ran straight through fields and meadows flanked by ditches and overgrown embankments.
Bodies were everywhere. Tangled limbs and sprawled torsos displayed in every conceivable form of twisted agony. Burned bodies. Dismembered bodies. Bodies so untouched the men appeared to be sleeping. Beneath them lay bloated bodies, the unfortunates who were first to die on this killing ground, decomposing below the blanket of the most recent victims of our bombs and bullets.
Big Mike slowed the jeep to guide it around the rotting remains in the road, then gave up. There were too many on every yard of roadway, so he simply drove over them, avoiding the worst of the entwined dead, leaving them to their final embraces. Shot-up trucks and upended tanks smoldered with acrid fumes, oil and burnt flesh mingling into the perfume of mechanized violence.
“My God,” Kaz whispered, holding a handkerchief over his mouth. “No wonder they were so desperate to get out.”
“I had no idea,” I said, the stink of the dead rising into my nostrils. We’d seen the artillery fire and fighter-bombers working over the roads from up on Hill 262, but it was all distant and removed, like watching a movie. Here, I could see the vehicles shredded by machine-gun fire, the bodies blown apart, the scorched and smoking wreckage of everything from tanks to staff cars and bicycles.
It was worse than I had ever imagined any hell to be.
“Hang on,” Big Mike said, as he avoided a shell hole in the middle of the road. The jeep swayed as it jolted through the drainage ditch clogged with corpses.
I retched at the stench and the sound of cracking bones.
Big Mike drove grimly on, his hands white-knuckled at the wheel. No one spoke.