When Hell Struck Twelve

by James R Benn

  “Shut up, Grant, and go back to Chicago,” Hemingway said, barely breaking stride.

  “Goddamn it, I’m talking to you. You don’t run this place,” the other man said.

  “My fighters deserve a bed, which is more than I can say for a second-rate hack like you,” Hemingway said, this time stopping to face Grant across the room. “I paid for the rooms and that’s that.”

  “Second-rate? At least I’m not a first-rate hack like you,” Grant shot back. The room went silent. Hemingway sneered at Grant, who let out a sharp laugh.

  Hemingway launched himself at the other reporter and swung his fist, landing a blow on Grant’s jaw. Both of them tumbled to the floor and began kicking and punching like two grade-school kids. Grant was older than Hemingway, probably in his mid-fifties, but he gave as good as he got. Before there was any further harm done, a couple of correspondents pulled the two men apart, restraining them as they kept up the curses and taunts.

  “Let’s take this outside, Grant,” Hemingway said through gritted teeth. He shook off the guy holding him back and stalked out of the lobby, not giving us a second thought.

  “Come on, Grant,” a round-faced kid with a mop of dark hair said, picking up the older guy’s wool cap. “Forget about it. Hemingway’s just a lot of hot air.”

  “No kidding,” Grant said, and headed for the bar, along with a few other reporters.

  “Hey, what are you guys doing here?” the kid said, giving us the once-over. “You with Hemingway?”

  “No, just wanted to ask him a few questions,” I said.

  “Andy Rooney, Stars and Stripes,” he said, his voice low as he glanced over his shoulder and motioned us out of the middle of the lobby and away from the remaining correspondents. “What’s up? Are you scouting out a headquarters? Is Patton moving on Paris? I’m dying for some news here, Captain.”

  “Sorry, kid,” Big Mike said. “We just went a bit out of our way because we heard Hemingway was here. It’s not every day you get to meet a famous writer, you know.”

  “He’s a jerk,” Rooney said. “I’ve read his stuff but meeting him in person has ruined all that for me.”

  The front door slammed open, and Hemingway stood at the threshold. “Well, are you coming out to fight, Grant?” He stalked out again, yelling for Grant to come out and put up his fists.

  “See what I mean?” Rooney said. “All Bruce Grant did was say what we’re all thinking, and Hemingway flies off the handle. Grant’s a damn good writer, too. He’s with the Chicago Times, and he covers the war by writing about GIs, like Ernie Pyle does. Hemingway writes about himself.”

  “The French seem to love him,” Kaz said, leaning against the wall and watching the celebration resume.

  “They’re kids,” Rooney said. “He brings them guns and booze and tells them tall tales of Paris nights. He’s not like any American they’ve ever seen. It’s all a great adventure to them.”

  “Hell, Rooney, you’re not much older than they are,” Big Mike said, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  “I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been over here for two years. Some of those fifis were still in high school when I was flying missions with the Eighth Air Force on assignment with Stars and Stripes,” Rooney said. “They’re brave, but they don’t understand they’re bit players in the Ernie Hemingway show.”

  “What do you know of their activities?” Kaz asked. “Are they really reconnoitering the routes to Paris?”

  “Yeah, far as I know, they’ve gone several miles to the east. Farther than any regular troops I’ve seen, that’s for sure,” Rooney said. “And farther than any other reporter has gone, to be honest. Not that Hemingway’s acting like a reporter. He’s violating regulations by going out armed. He’s already bragged about killing a bunch of Germans. No telling how much truth there is to that.”

  “All I want is a few minutes of his time,” I said, as Hemingway’s shouts calling for Grant grew louder. “We’ll wait for him to calm down.”

  “I’m not buying your story, Captain,” Rooney said. “What is it you’re after?”

  “Secret plans for the advance on Paris,” I said. “Satisfied?”

  “Okay, okay,” Rooney said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get all sarcastic, I can take a hint. Just take a seat and have a drink. He’ll show up soon enough. Oh, and call him Papa. He loves it.” Rooney returned to his reporter pals, and we grabbed the last seats in the lobby. I sure as hell wasn’t going to call anyone “Papa,” especially not this booming blowhard.

  The angry shouts turned to laughter, and in a few minutes Hemingway came back in, surrounded by four partisans loaded down with grenades and carbines. He was grinning, seemingly over his temper tantrum.

  “You boys still here? Come on up and I’ll show you where we’ve been,” he said, waving those big arms for us to follow in his wake.

  “I shall wait here,” Kaz said, stretching his legs out and sliding his cap down over his eyes. “I think two acolytes will be sufficient.”

  I always said Kaz was the smartest of our bunch.

  Hemingway opened the door to his room and the maquisards trooped in, stacking a dozen M1 carbines and some sacks of grenades in a corner. Hemingway ushered them out, then turned to us with an expectant look in his eyes.

  This wasn’t a hotel room. It was an armory with a well-stocked bar. There were more rifles and ammo belts piled up by the bed, and half a dozen Thompson submachine guns laid out over full crates of grenades. Cases of wine were stacked up by the window along with bottles of cognac and whiskey.

  “This is one helluva setup, Papa,” Big Mike said, nodding his appreciation.

  “That it is,” Hemingway said, beaming at the compliment paired with his nickname. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Big Mike,” he said. “This is Captain Boyle.”

  “You can call me Billy,” I said, offering my hand.

  “You know, Big Mike,” Hemingway said, not noticing or perhaps not caring about me, “we should arm wrestle, you and me.” He stood toe-to-toe with Big Mike, his hands on his hips and a broad grin on his face.

  “Nothing I’d like better,” Big Mike said. “After you tell us about that map.” He gazed at a series of maps taped to the wall, forming one large map of the area stretching to the outskirts of Paris. As Hemingway turned, Big Mike gave me a quick wink. He knew how to size up a guy.

  “This is our area of operations,” Hemingway said, sounding more like a general than a reporter. “All the way from Chartres to Versailles. From there, it’s just a hop skip to Paris.”

  “You and your men have been testing the German defenses?” I asked.

  “What defenses?” Hemingway said. “There are plenty of Krauts out there, but it’s hardly a defensive line. Too many of them for our small group, but we’re more like cavalry scouts. Raiders, if you like. All we can do is give them a bloody nose, but if Leclerc and his armor would get moving, we’d all be having breakfast in Paris.”

  “Are you sending this information back to headquarters?” I asked, studying the red pencil marks around Rambouillet. I stuck my right hand in my pocket, beating the shakes to the punch by a couple of seconds.

  “Damn right I am. It all goes up to the 4th Division. I’ve also sent a report direct to Leclerc, but I haven’t heard a word back. The man’s a fool if he doesn’t listen to me,” Hemingway said.

  “What do these red lines signify?” I asked, tracing a route from the center of Rambouillet heading due east.

  “That,” he said, tapping his finger against the map, “is the goddamn road to Paris. It’s wide open.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, studying the map and giving a glance to the stash of booze and the empty bottles Hemingway had by his bed, uncertain if his claims were real or alcohol induced.

  “We ran into an anti-tank unit t
oday and talked their lieutenant into coming forward with us to clear the road of mines,” Hemingway said, puffing out his chest. “They had mine detectors and vehicles to clear trees off the road from where the Krauts dropped them. After they were done, we drove two miles farther on. No resistance. We just came back from another look. It’s still open.”

  “It looks like a heavily wooded area. There could be Germans anywhere,” I said.

  “It’s the Forest of Rambouillet,” Hemingway said. “Used to be the king’s hunting ground. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told Marcel this morning. The Krauts and their damned mines are gone. All we need is to get some armor down that road and I’ll buy us all drinks at the Ritz, damn it!”

  “Wait, who’s Marcel, Papa?” Big Mike said before I could.

  “Marcel Jarnac, one of the FTP leaders. I knew him in Spain. Damn good fighting man,” Hemingway said, clenching his jaw and gazing at his red-lined route. “He’d come for some Resistance confab and caught me before I went out with the boys.”

  “You saw Jarnac this morning?” I said. “Big, tall, long-nosed guy, about forty?”

  “That’s him,” Hemingway said. “He had as many questions as you do. Come on, Big Mike, let’s have a drink. Your friend too, if he can handle it.”

  Big Mike and I looked at each other for a second and made for the door. Hemingway stepped in front of us, a surprised look on his face. After all, he was used to people wanting to be around him, hanging on his every word.

  “Sorry, Papa,” Big Mike said, running interference and shoving me out of the room. “We gotta go.”

  We left Hemingway sputtering curses after us, surrounded by weapons, booze, and the aura of his own self-importance.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We thundered down the stairs, pushing aside reporters and partisans as Big Mike hollered for Kaz to wake the hell up. He stumbled groggily after us as we pushed open the doors and sprinted to the jeeps.

  The radio was squawking. A gaggle of Resistance fighters gathered around, drawn by the noise.

  “What has happened?” Kaz asked, gasping for breath as Big Mike picked up the receiver on his set.

  “Remember Jarnac telling us he didn’t want to see Hemingway again? Well, he’d already been here this morning asking about which road to Paris was clear.”

  “Marcel Jarnac is Atlantik, then,” Kaz said.

  “Yeah. He was the traitor all along. Now Hemingway’s given him all the information he needs about a clear route through the Forest of Rambouillet.”

  “Not everything he needs,” Kaz said. “It is still a dangerous route.”

  “Jules and Marie-Claire,” I said, grasping what he meant. Big Mike looked up from his radio wide-eyed, I thought at the mention of the two young fighters. But it was something else.

  “The devil’s in the tower right now,” he said. The second line of the Rimbaud poem. The clock had struck twelve and the Allied army was headed for Paris.

  So was our killer, a traitor with a map worth thousands of lives. And two kids he was probably using to draw fire before it hit him. Jules would do anything Jarnac asked, and Marie-Claire would stick by him, no questions asked.

  “Damn! How close is Sam?”

  “That was him on the radio,” Big Mike said. “He’s about five miles out. He said Leclerc is taking the exact route that was on the phony map. This whole thing is FUBAR, Billy.”

  “Jesus Christ! Wait here for Harding,” I said. “We’ll take the road into the forest, toward the château.” Fucked up beyond all recognition didn’t begin to describe it if the Germans knew where to expect Leclerc’s armor.

  “I saw it on the map. We’ll be right behind you,” he said.

  I started the jeep and gunned it down the road, taking a right after the hotel and heading for the local château, which was on the outskirts of town, right at the border of the forest.

  “Are you sure?” Kaz asked as we took a corner too fast, barely missing a cart on the side of the road. The jeep skidded as I downshifted, swerving until I finally regained control.

  “Yeah, it all fits. Jarnac didn’t want us to know he went to Hemingway to scout out an escape route. He has the map. As a matter of fact, I think he’s always had it,” I said, taking a deep breath and rethinking everything that had happened back at Patton’s HQ.

  “Then why did Fassier run?”

  “I don’t know why. I thought it was because of the map. We should have focused on what we knew for certain, instead of assuming too much,” I said. We’d passed the last of the buildings now, and the road thinned out into a wooded lane. Civilians on bicycles rounded a bend, and I slowed to avoid taking half of them out.

  Once past the cyclists, I floored it on the straightaway, my mind putting all the pieces together so that they finally made sense.

  The knife. It hadn’t been put in the coffee urn to hide it. It was there to hold the map above the coffee. The folded map was balanced on the knife hilt, keeping it clear of the coffee at the bottom. It had been Jarnac who took it. Jarnac who killed Bernard and ran down McKuras after he’d been spotted. Jarnac who plucked the map from the urn after it was all over and calmly drove away.

  Maybe it was Jarnac who killed Fassier, but whoever had done it, that murder was over something else. Fassier was a convenient patsy, and even more so conveniently dead.

  I explained it all to Kaz as fast as I could.

  “Now that you mention it,” Kaz said, holding on to avoid being spilled out of the jeep, “when Jarnac made a demonstration of showing his knife, along with all the others, did you notice anything?”

  “Jesus,” I said, as I replayed the scene in my mind. It had been there all along. “He pulled the knife from his boot, but he sheathed it at his belt.”

  “In an empty sheath,” Kaz said. “He had two knives. Not so unusual for a man living a life clandestinité, but I should have seen the implication. It was done right in front of us.”

  “Goddamn. Right now, let’s focus on finding Jarnac and those two kids.” We roared past the château, a grand affair with four turrets and a front lawn the size of a football field. The road narrowed to a wooded lane, leafy branches overhead creating a tunnel of sunlit greenery. A truck rumbled down the road toward us, a red flag flapping above FTP splashed across the hood. I pulled across the road as Kaz flagged them down.

  There were two men in the cab and four others in back, all of them eyeing us with suspicion until they recognized us from this morning’s meeting. Kaz fired questions their way, telling them we needed to speak with Comrade Jarnac and it was très important. Had they seen him?

  Yes, Jarnac had gone forward with young Jules and his companion. Yes, they were in two cars, in case one broke down. No, they didn’t know where they were going, it was all very secret. Jules was to return once Jarnac reached his destination. Yes, it was dangerous, but they’d been assured by Le Grand Capitaine that the road was free of mines and boche.

  When? Just minutes ago, they’d seen them off at the edge of the forest.

  I gunned the jeep, spitting gravel as we sped around the truck, Kaz grabbing his Sten, looping the sling over his shoulder and bracing it on the hood. The good news was we’d catch up with Jarnac soon, since he was likely lagging behind Jules and Marie-Claire, watching from a safe distance. Which was also the bad news, since they were his sacrificial lambs, out front to take fire on what they thought was a safe route.

  I drove hard and fast, sending the jeep airborne as we crested a rise and the road descended into a rutted cascade of gravel and dirt. Kaz was holding onto his Sten with one hand and the side panel with the other, his feet braced to keep his body, and his aim, steady.

  We hit a flat stretch of paved roadway as the woods began to thin out, and in the distance a vehicle appeared as it rose on the hilltop, vanishing as it descended.

  “There!” Kaz shouted, pointing
to a second vehicle as it followed the first. “Jarnac!”

  I was hitting sixty, and the jeep wasn’t about to go any faster. But I knew Jarnac was going slower, since Jules would have no reason to speed across the countryside, no matter what tale Jarnac spun for them about the road being clear of Krauts. And with Jarnac trailing them, I was sure we’d be on him in minutes.

  We were out of the woods, driving through open rolling fields. The road began to curve here and there as it wended its way across the terrain dotted with copses of trees and stacks of freshly harvested hay. I had to slow up on the bends but gained speed when the road dipped and the ground evened out as we began to parallel a stream on our right.

  Then Jarnac was right in front of us, driving an old Citroën coupe with no FFI markings. He was playing it safe every way he could. Ahead, Jules and Marie-Claire motored along, oblivious to what might lie around the next curve in the road.

  “Take out his wheels,” I shouted to Kaz. “I want him alive.”

  “If you insist,” Kaz said, and settled in to take aim.

  A machine gun shattered the air, the rapid fire of the German MG 42 sounding like a sheet of canvas being torn over and over again. An explosion, then a fireball erupted ahead.

  “Damn him,” Kaz muttered, and fired his Sten at Jarnac’s auto, emptying the clip in one burst, any notion of taking him alive gone with the thought of the carnage Jules and Marie-Claire had driven into.

  Slugs punctured the rear of the Citroën, the metallic pings sharp against the dull hammering of the Sten gun. Jarnac’s car fishtailed wildly as Kaz dropped the clip and reloaded, and we both braced for the vehicle to crash into the ditch or roll over in front of us. I followed close on, desperate to keep Jarnac between us and the Kraut gunners ahead.

  Finally, the Citroën lurched into the ditch, the passenger’s door swinging open as the car tilted with its nose buried in the dirt. I got out with my Thompson, signaling Kaz to stay put and give me cover. I ran to the rear of the car, alert for any sign of movement.