by James R Benn
“Everything all set?” Colonel Harding asked Big Mike, as urns of steaming coffee were carried into the salon.
“Ready, Sam. The engineers have their explosives in place. I’ve got a dozen men ready to rush the room in a panic when the shelling starts. Our radio teams are in place, and there’s a fully loaded jeep parked out front for Kaz and Billy.”
“Okay, let’s get the show started,” Harding said. “Where’s McKuras?”
“Here, sir,” an officer said, entering through the terrace doors.
“Lieutenant Sean McKuras,” Harding said, introducing us as Big Mike opened the main doors. “Our translator for the briefing.”
“I’m hardly needed,” McKuras said. “The colonel can parlez français just fine, but I’m happy to pitch in.”
“Battlefield French from the last war,” Harding said, going modest on us. “Lieutenant McKuras has a degree in French literature and studied at the Sorbonne. He’ll be able to handle any questions much better than I could.”
“Glad to help, and I’m looking forward to heading out with Big Mike,” McKuras said, eagerness lighting up his face. He looked like his college days weren’t too far behind him. Sandy-haired, blue-eyed, with soft, milky-pale skin, he was just the type you’d expect to find at a headquarters desk hunched over piles of paperwork. Overeager at the chance to prove himself.
“Have you been at the front at all, Lieutenant?” Kaz asked, probably wondering as I was if he’d be a liability for Big Mike. Not that trailing us and chatting with locals sounded all that dangerous.
“Not really,” McKuras said. “Prisoner interrogation and liaison work with the Resistance. I’ve been shelled once,” he added, as if it qualified him for a medal.
“Hey, I know you’re an officer and Big Mike is a sergeant, but you need to listen to him when you’re out there on your own,” I said. “You’ll be in no-man’s-land, so don’t start giving orders that will get you both killed, okay?”
“Don’t worry, Captain. I admit, this is an exciting break from routine, but I want to come back in one piece, along with Big Mike. I want to see Paris again, after all.”
“Very well,” Kaz said. “Qu’avez-vous étudié à la Sorbonne?”
McKuras and Kaz yakked in French for a while as the crowd filtered in, most of them making a beeline for the coffee and the ample supply of sugar, which had been impossible to come by during the Occupation.
Jules Herbert came in with Bernard Dujardin and a couple of other rough types. Marie-Claire Mireille entered separately with another woman, older and well-dressed, along with a priest in his black robes.
I recognized Henri and his men, the local Maquis group we’d seen on our drive in. Thieves and killers, but likely not Reds, so I didn’t worry about them other than pocketing the silver.
McKuras waved to a fellow flanked by a couple of musclemen who eyed the crowd with suspicion. They followed him as he made his way to us, not even glancing at the coffee. Bodyguards. This guy thought he was someone special.
Lieutenant McKuras introduced us to Marcel Jarnac, a member of the Front national executive committee, the organizing and political arm of the FTP. No wonder he traveled with protection. Jarnac looked about forty, tall and swarthy, with a long nose that could’ve given Charles de Gaulle’s schnoz a run for the money. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and a three-piece suit that made him look more like a judge than a Communist functionary.
“Monsieur Jarnac has been working closely with us, organizing arms and supplies for Resistance groups in the Third Army sector,” McKuras said.
“Not just for the FTP,” Jarnac said. “For all those who fight.”
I was wrong. He didn’t look like a judge. More of a politician, maybe.
“You must have been in great danger during the Occupation,” I said, trying to get a sense of the man. Everyone I looked at here was a potential traitor.
“As we all were,” Jarnac said. “Except for those who took refuge in London.” He winked and laughed, showing he was just kidding. Such was the stature of General de Gaulle that even the slightest joke at his expense had to be delivered very carefully. “I began with the Brigade Saint-Just, fighting and building up a supply of arms. Now, I go to meetings. Bah.”
One of the bodyguards delivered a cup of coffee to Jarnac, who gave a slight nod, indicating they could relax and take their turn at the sugar bowl.
“It seems you may still be in danger,” Kaz said, watching as the two hulks waited at the coffee urn.
“Simply a precaution,” Jarnac said. “Old habits are hard to break. Look, even Louvet comes with his guard of honor!”
McKuras knew Raymond Louvet as well, leader of the Gaullist Resistance group, Corps Franc Nord. Louvet had his own beefy men behind him, eyeing the crowded room with suspicion. No one had entered with rifles or machine guns, but there were enough revolvers and automatics in holsters, waistbands, and pockets to kick off our own gunfight at the O. K. Corral.
Louvet spoke no English, so McKuras handled the translation while everyone else sipped their hot joe. Turns out Louvet was a former policeman who’d hunted French Communists trying to cross the border to fight in Spain during the thirties, which was a violation of the non-intervention treaty France had signed.
“Now we are friends,” Jarnac said, clapping Louvet on the shoulder. “All patriots. I would even forgive Louvet if he’d ever caught me.” Louvet had a comeback suggesting Jarnac might have thought twice about that if he ever had caught him. Polite laughter followed. I wondered how friendly they’d be after the war, with the Krauts gone and a lot of automatic weapons lying around.
I glanced at my watch and excused myself from the group. I had about ten minutes before the festivities began, and I wanted to get a line on any other FTP people in the room. It wouldn’t do to seem too curious in front of Jarnac, who seemed to be a careful and calculating kind of guy.
I said bonjour to Marie-Claire, who was with the older woman.
“Emilie, this is Captain Boyle,” she said.
“Emilie?” I asked, expecting a full name.
“Just Emilie, until the Germans are gone or in their graves,” she said. She was a little taller than I was, with long graceful fingers that lingered in my hand after I shook hers. Gray flecked her dark hair, and her slightly worn clothes looked like they had been elegant before the war.
“Father Matteu is fetching coffee for us,” Marie-Claire said. “It has been some time since he had real coffee, having recently crossed over from the German lines.”
“Where does la Croix operate?” I asked.
“We have agents from Saint-Malo to Paris,” Emilie said. “Father Matteu oversees arms and setting up the parachute zones for delivery. Or did, I should say. Now our members are eager to join the new French army.”
“Emilie ran a spy network and kept in touch with London via our radio operators,” Marie-Claire said. “Until they were all captured after the invasion.”
“Yes, it was very sad. We had two radio sets, and the operators had both survived for months. An eternity in this sad business. But when they were taken three weeks ago, we simply waited for the Americans to come,” Emilie said. “It seemed to take forever, but then suddenly the Germans were all fleeing. One might almost feel sorry for them. I heard the slaughter was très terrible.”
“It was,” I said. “And I don’t feel sorry for any of them. Except for a couple of stragglers I saw Henri execute yesterday.”
“The Maquis Henri is little more than a gang of chicken thieves,” Emilie said. “No one heard of them until the Germans retreated. They fired a few shots and looted what they could, and now proclaim themselves résistants. Pathétique.”
“They are less than twelve men. We have over one hundred fighters,” Marie-Claire said. “Not as many as the FTP groups, but enough to be counted. And la Croix has been active for over two years.”
“Marie-Claire has been invaluable,” Emilie said. “She has been an excellent liaison with the Saint-Just Brigade. They are the largest FTP group in this area, and it has not always been easy to work with the Bolsheviks. Of course, love eases the way, does it not?” She smiled gently as she patted Marie-Claire’s arm.
“I’ve met Jarnac, as well as Dujardin and Faucon last night,” I said, steering the conversation to my proper duties here. “Any other FTP honchos around?”
“Honchos?” Emilie asked.
“Leaders, commanders. I don’t know all the groups active in the area.”
“Well, there is Olga Rassinier, of the FTP Main-d’œuvre immigrée,” she said, nodding in the direction of a stout woman wearing a skirt and German boots, a pistol stuffed in her jacket pocket.
“It is a group made up of immigrants who fled the Nazis to take refuge in France. Olga is Russian and a charming woman, despite her looks and politics,” Emilie said, with a mischievous smile. “Marcel Jarnac, who you have met, is a political leader of the FTP, and he travels all over France. He’s lucky to have survived so long. And Faucon, who only recently returned from Brittany, is somewhere about.”
“You’re very well informed,” I said.
“It is how I have remained alive,” Emilie said. “One must pay attention to who goes where and how often, in order to understand when something is wrong. When the pattern is broken, the Gestapo is often close at hand.”
Colonel Harding and Lieutenant McKuras walked to the front of the room, where Big Mike stood in front of a large map board draped in cloth. People began to quiet down and turn in their direction, abandoning their coffee cups and gossip. Everyone was eager to bathe in the glorious presence of General George Patton.
Kaz edged up to me as Harding called for everyone’s attention. His battlefield French was actually pretty good. I understood a few of the words and was able to get the basic gist. They were great patriots, we were all comrades in arms destined to play a role in the liberation of Paris. That got a round of applause.
“See anybody suspicious?” I whispered to Kaz as the clapping died down.
“I saw no one wearing a Nazi armband,” he said, his voice low. I gave him an elbow in the ribs as I caught sight of Lucien Faucon making his way into the room. He headed straight for the coffee, and I wondered if he and Bernard were fighting brandy hangovers.
Then he stopped short, staring at the front of the room. The French doors to the terrace opened and in walked General Patton, his khaki shirt pressed to attention, stars sparkling, riding boots buffed, slapping his riding crop against his leg. He scanned the room, and I was sure everyone, as I did, felt like he looked them straight in the eye. He conveyed an immediate sense of movement and barely restrained power. I felt his presence in a way I hadn’t in our chance meeting last night. This was Patton at full force, ready to charm and intimidate in equal portions.
He ignored Harding and took center stage, right in front of the covered map. He surveyed the room again, a slight nod signaling approval of what he saw, gave his riding crop one final whack against his leg, and launched into rapid-fire French. It was too fast for me to understand, but I could tell he had the accent down pat. He sounded kind of snooty, like a waiter in a fancy restaurant who thinks you’d be happier in a diner across town.
He carried on for a while, winding up with his riding crop held high, shouting vive la France, vive la liberté to great applause. Then he lowered his arm, raising the riding crop to the assembled résistants, and spoke in almost a whisper.
“Vive le Paris.”
The room exploded in shouts and cries as the crowd surged forward, ready to embrace the general, hard-line Stalinists elbowing Catholics and Gaullists to get closer to Patton. Eyes glistened with tears, Patton’s call to arms unleashing torrents of joy and passion.
Patton snapped to attention, halting the flow of the crowd. He raised his hand to his brow, saluting the gathered fighters, did an about-face, and strode ramrod straight out the terrace doors. It was a helluva performance. I knew it was all part of the deception, but the lump in my throat wasn’t in on the secret.
Harding stepped in, telling the gathering that Lieutenant McKuras would start the briefing. As Big Mike pulled the sheet off the map board, I caught a glimpse of Harding checking his watch. I hoped we were on time.
“Mon Dieu,” Emilie whispered, her hand raised to her mouth.
“C’est Paris,” Bernard said, having moved closer as the throng moved forward.
Yes, it was Paris. The map showed all the roads heading east to the Seine River and the capital city. Paris. The name sent a shiver through me, and I wished it were true. Paris was more than a city to these people. It was the symbolic center of occupied Europe, and every Frenchman and woman in the room thought they were helping to set it free. All but one, that is.
Marie-Claire held both hands over her mouth, tears cascading down her cheeks. Her emotions were genuine and true. I felt ashamed to be deceiving her.
McKuras went over the assignments for each Resistance group, tapping crossroads and positions along the flank of the attack leading to Paris. There was a lot of cheering as each group learned of their role, and no one noticed Big Mike backing up a bit to give himself a better view of the hills visible through the terrace doors.
McKuras tapped his pointer on two red arrows leading to the heart of Paris. One went through the city of Saint-Cyr, the other south through Chartres and then Rambouillet, on the very outskirts of Paris. “La deuxième Division Blindée,” McKuras said. “General Leclerc.”
At the mention of Leclerc’s 2nd Armored Division, a Free French unit, the crowd erupted in another roar of approval. The French were liberating their own capital. It was too good to be true.
If only they knew.
“Merci!” Marie-Claire said, kissing me on both cheeks, then going for Kaz. Jules embraced her as Bernard and Emilie hugged each other in a frenzy of celebration. Jarnac grabbed Harding’s hand and pumped it for all it was worth. Olga gave Lucien Faucon a bear hug, moving on quickly to others in her group. Lucien seemed stunned by the news, not as delirious and overjoyed as the others. Was he our man? Or was the moment simply too much for him? If the traitor was in this room, he’d probably be happier than anyone else with such prize information so tantalizingly close.
Harding glanced at his watch.
Shells screeched across the sky, exploding in the fields just visible through the glass doors. Another salvo arrived, peppering the hillside with fiery explosions, cratering the grassy pastures and shattering trees.
“Move away from the glass!” Big Mike bellowed as people edged slowly forward, curious and apprehensive at the same time. McKuras repeated it in French as the charges next to the château went off, melding perfectly with the distant artillery fire and creating the illusion that the Germans were zeroing in on us.
Half a dozen officers ran into the room from the terrace, holding their helmets down as they made their way inside, screaming about Kraut artillery fire. They played their role well, moving wide-eyed through the crowd and telling everyone to make for the air-raid shelter.
“Dans la cave!” McKuras shouted, telling everyone to take to the cellar. Big Mike led the way, waving his arm for everyone to follow. Another round of shells hitting the hillside got everyone going, just as the lights flickered. Kaz and I followed behind, ushering the crowd down a narrow marble staircase.
Everything went dark.
A few people screamed, until a sharp voice, maybe Jarnac, told everyone to calm down. A flashlight beam played on the wall ahead, and Harding urged people to follow him into the cellar. I could see Big Mike opening a thick wooden door, the shining light reflecting off rows of bottles in what was obviou
sly the château’s cavernous wine cellar. A ripple of laughter spread through the group as someone commented on the ready supply of champagne.
“Leave the door open for any others,” Harding yelled to us. Also, to allow our man to get out, which could have already happened. The staircase had been wreathed in semi-darkness, and the large cellar itself was lit by nothing but the single flashlight. As we entered, I felt bodies brush by in either direction as excited chatter echoed throughout the stone chamber, confusion swirling the musty air.
A flow of GIs entered the cellar, mixing in with the French and pushing the crowd even farther in. I heard Kaz call for me as we were separated by the press of bodies. Then the flashlight went out and the cellar went black.
A single gasp rose from the mass of people jammed together. Then the frantic press of flesh as the crowd moved as one toward the faint light at the door.
“Kaz!” I shouted over the confused babble of curses and shrieks, as everyone tried to squeeze through the narrow doorway. Officers shouted orders to stay calm, which only eliminated any chance for actual calmness.
“Here,” Kaz said, grasping my arm as we were pulled along by the flow of flesh, which was making its way to the door in unspoken agreement that aboveground explosions were preferable to the inky darkness below. Marie-Claire clung to his other arm, and I hoped this deception was worth the fear I saw on her face.
“It sounds like the shelling stopped,” I said to her. “We’ll be out in minute.”
She nodded bravely, and we shuffled along in spurts and stops, bodies crammed as we neared the doorway. Shouts echoed from the stairs and the slow slog slammed to a halt.
“It sounds as if someone is hurt,” Kaz said, standing on his toes to see ahead. I heard a GI coaxing someone to get up and figured there’d been a fall on the stairs.
Then came the scream. The kind of scream that didn’t mean it was too dark, or too crowded, or someone had twisted their ankle. This scream meant blood and death, and it was filled with up-close terror.
“Lights!” I yelled over my shoulder, hoping Big Mike and Harding would sense that something was seriously wrong. Two flashlights snapped on, light playing on the walls before me. I pushed through the tightly packed throng, Kaz at my heels, still holding on to Marie-Claire. We made it up a few steps and saw folks standing in a circle at the landing, staring at the floor. Here, there was enough light to make out their faces, pale with unexpected horror.