3

Four years of Nazi rule in Paris had not sanded off the corners of Bernard Rousseau’s resolve.

For this member of the Resistance, fighting back against evil was a core value firmly lodged in the center of his being. That’s why he had volunteered for this early morning mission in the 6th arrondissement not far from the Latin Quarter.

As the cool morning air caressed his cheeks, his thoughts turned to Colette. He knew it wasn’t wise to have allowed himself to fall in love, but he could not deny the solace, the comfort he found in her arms. In the moments when he looked into her gentle gaze—or when his lips touched hers—he could forget that their nation was no longer their own.

Or maybe it was because each day could be his last that he allowed himself the pleasure of her company. It was selfish, he knew, especially since he never let his mind wander to the future. He never offered Colette more than today. She never asked.

As Bernard quickened his steps, he mentally prepared for the possibility of sacrificing everything for a higher ideal—a Communist France where the proletariat was no longer exploited by the bourgeoisie. Where common man could determine his own future, and all men care for their neighbors as seemed only right.

And kill as many Germans as he could along the way.

On a brisk June afternoon in 1940, Bernard had stood stoically on a crowded sidewalk along the Champs Élysées and cursed under his breath while the victorious German Army marched on cobblestones that hadn’t yielded to the leather soles of a foreign invader since the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. Their synchronized goose steps and collective smugness nauseated him that dark day, but it wasn’t until his father’s shocking death that he was motivated to fight the Aryan conquerors.

He eagerly fell in with the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, a Communist-run Resistance group that sabotaged German capabilities, fabricated false identity documents, and generally made themselves a pain in the derrière to the occupying force. The FTP and other confederate Resistance groups kept the candles of liberté, égalité, and fraternité—the tripartite motto of liberty, equality, and fraternity—lit during France’s darkest days.

Their illumination was increasing with each hour. On this cloudless Friday in August, four years and two months after the fall of France, the libération of Paris was imminent. He could feel it in his bones. If things fell as planned, the hated Nazis would be driven out, setting the stage for France’s Fourth Republic to become the world’s second Communist nation, united under Russian hegemony.

“When do you think we’ll see the first patrol?”

The question from Alain Dubois startled Bernard, who willed his mind back to the task at hand.

“Not too much longer.” Bernard smirked. “You know les boches. Regular as clockwork. Since they clocked in at 8 a.m., we should see them stirring at any moment.”

Their perch inside a second-story apartment overlooked the Jardin du Luxembourg, where symmetrical gravel footpaths and scrawny lawns ringed the Luxembourg Palace. Luftwaffe Field Marshall Hugo Sperrle—one of Hermann Göring’s subordinates—commanded this stronghold for German forces that had occupied Paris like an iron fist in a velvet glove. Bernard was directed by his superiors to keep an eye out for anything beyond the usual troop movements. He and Dubois were positioned along the Rue de Vaugirard, which bordered the Luxembourg Garden’s northern flank.

Bernard pulled back a light curtain and held up a pair of binoculars. He scanned the palace grounds before locking on a wooden barrack situated in a rectangular orchard of apple and pear trees about a half kilometer in the distance. Clusters of German soldiers, with rifles slung over their shoulders, milled around a lineup of troop trucks. They were undoubtedly waiting for orders of the day. Or maybe they were being held in reserve to put down the latest insurrection hot spot.

Bernard inhaled a quiet breath of warm summer air—and then heard the unmistakable sound of a diesel motor. He didn’t need binoculars to spot a gray Panzer rumbling toward their position, crawling in low gear and making a racket from the metal caterpillar treads grinding on the granite cobblestones.

“A Panzer III,” he announced. He and Dubois were quite familiar with the medium-sized enclosed armored military vehicle, an obsolete battle tank of the German forces that was seriously outgunned by Russian T-34s on the Eastern Front. In urban hot spots like Paris, however, the Panzer III proved to be a formidable foe against a relatively unarmed citizenry. The only weapon available to partisans was Molotov cocktails.

The next sight caused Bernard’s stomach to tighten. Lashed to the tank turret was a French hostage. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Panzers use a human shield to protect themselves from crude homemade fire bombs.

Bernard looked down at a wooden crate containing a half-dozen incendiary devices. “I guess we won’t be needing those.”

Dubois swore in frustration. He leaned in for a closer look as the Panzer approached at low speed. “It’s Louis Michaud!”

Bernard nearly pushed Dubois to the floor to get a better look. Louis Michaud worked on the same maintenance crew at the Louvre Museum, but he had disappeared four days earlier. One of the guys at work said he had answered the call of the French Forces of the Interior—the Resistance group loyal to General Charles de Gaulle. The apolitical Louis, loyal and brave, had bounced from one Resistance group to another during the Occupation. The Germans must have captured him. And now this indignity—being used as a human shield to stop any attacks from the Resistance or citizenry.

“I’ll wager a sou the Panzer is headed toward the Sorbonne.” Bernard mopped a layer of sweat off his forehead with the back of his grimy hand.

“That’s a sure bet,” Dubois said. “Probably going over there to smash a few barricades set up by the students.”

They watched the German tank pass below their perch and rumble east toward Boulevard Saint-Michel. The Panzer commander stood in the gun turret to direct the driver. All tanks had notoriously restricted views when buttoned up in battle, which meant the tank commander was the eyes and ears when the Panzer was on the move. One of the gunners had opened the escape hatch, no doubt to help with circulation of air.

Louis Michaud came into focus, a black armband of the Resistance on his left sleeve. His face was a mask of fright. The Panzer crew members had secured his torso with ropes to the main turret and pinned his arms behind him. At least they weren’t dangling him from the 75-millimeter howitzer, letting him hang like a pig on a pole being led to the fire. Bernard had seen Panzer crews do that before, often for the sport of it. He shuddered at the memory of watching one of his comrades fall off the gun barrel, only to be chewed up by the metal tire tracks like a hand-powered meat grinder.

“What are we going to do?” Dubois pulled back from the window as the Panzer passed underneath their second-story aerie.

Bernard considered their course of action, but there was really only one option. “The same thing Michaud would do if one of us was lashed to a tank turret—he’d save us.”

“But how? We can’t chase after him. We could be shot if we run into a German patrol—”

“Here, grab one of these.” Bernard reached for a Molotov cocktail housed in a dark green bottle that had once held 750 milliliters of red wine. He tossed it toward Dubois.

Dubois snatched the bottle out of the air and placed it in his satchel, as well as a second fire bomb.

Bernard grunted. “Here’s the plan. We’re not going to launch any Molotovs from here. There’s a good chance we’d hit Michaud and burn him to a crisp. Plus we’d expose our position.” He spread the curtain to check the tank’s progress. “The Panzer is headed for the Sorbonne. He’s not moving fast, though. We can cut him off and save Louis.”

“Bernard, think this through. What if the flames get out of control or the tank blows up?”

“Louis would tell us to take that chance. Don’t you think they’re going to kill him anyway?”

Dubois shrugged. “Probably. I guess we owe it to Louis to give it a try.”

Bernard filled another satchel with two more Molotovs. Then he checked the pockets of his navy workpants. A French military revolver and six bullets in his right pocket. A lighter and pocketknife in his left. No identification.

He assessed Dubois. His comrade was similarly armed, except his rusty Belgian Pinfire pistol looked like it had last been fired in the Great War. Not much firepower against an armored tank. Still, they had maneuverability in their favor.

Bernard figured they were as ready as they’d ever be. “It looks like he’s heading over to the Boulevard Saint-Michel because it’s a wide boulevard. Panzer tanks don’t like tight quarters. We can still cut him off.”

The pair of partisans hustled down the building’s central stairwell. Bernard held up his hand when he reached the apartment building’s main entrance and leaned forward and listened. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door. A glance up and down tidy Rue de Condé revealed a deserted street: no cars and no people. Those with the resources had left this neighborhood days ago.

Bernard hurried onto the sidewalk, followed by Dubois. He felt awfully exposed, knowing that a German patrol would shoot first and ask questions later. They scurried down the street, and Bernard took a breath and slowed his gait when he spotted his first pedestrian—an elderly woman out walking her white poodle.

He tipped his navy beret as he passed by, and then the pair broke into a sprint toward the street corner. When they reached Boulevard Saint-Michel, he saw the gray tank heading in their direction, about 150 meters from their intersection. They had successfully headed off the Panzer.

“Here’s our chance.” For the next minute, Bernard outlined a plan. They would remain hidden, and when the tank passed, they would each rush the armored vehicle from behind and dump the burning gas bombs into the open escape hatch. Once the tank’s hull was ablaze, Bernard would jump on while Dubois would provide cover by shooting anyone exiting the turret.

“Once I’m on the tank, I’ll slice through the ropes binding Louis. Then it’s a matter of jumping off before it’s too late.”

Dubois cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

Bernard ignored his friend’s concerned gaze. “We have to work quickly. No more than thirty seconds.”

They took cover inside an apartment stairwell and listened for the approaching Panzer. Bernard wondered if these were his last minutes of existence.

He reached for the silver Zippo in his right pocket and noticed a slight tremor from the adrenaline rush. Nonetheless, in one smooth motion, he flipped open the lighter and lit the strip of white undershirt stuffed into the neck of the wine bottle. Then he held his flaming weapon steady for Dubois to ignite his own incendiary cocktail.

From his crouched position, Bernard peered around the corner of the stairwell at Boulevard Saint-Michel, where the sycamore and poplar trees that lined the broad sidewalk partially blocked his view. From afar, Michaud looked resigned to his fate, strapped to the tank turret.

He knows this isn’t going to end well for him. He and Dubois had to try. They were his only chance. Even if they weren’t successful in saving Michaud, then at least another Panzer tank would be taken out of commission.

The rumble of the diesel engine reverberated through the neighborhood as the Panzer III drew closer. The tank, Bernard noticed, had started to veer toward the far side of the broad boulevard, perhaps anticipating a right turn into the Sorbonne. This would make for a longer sprint—and give the tank commander more time to spot any partisans approaching from his left flank.

Bernard held up his left hand while his right gripped the flaming bottle. Louis Michaud, he noticed, happened to be looking in their direction—and their eyes locked.

We’re coming to save you!

Bernard waited . . . waited . . . and at the right moment, just as the Panzer passed, he sprinted toward the moving tank. Dubois was in his wake.

Michaud was yelling something, but Bernard couldn’t make it out over the noise. He raised his right arm, closing the distance between him and the Panzer. He needed to get as close as possible to the open escape hatch.

Michaud cried out, shaking his head vehemently. This time Rousseau could make out his words. “Bernard, don’t! Don’t throw it! It’s our tank!”

Bernard paused for a split second—enough time for the tank commander to draw his sidearm and place him in his sights. The tank lurched to an awkward stop. Rousseau and Dubois froze in their tracks, holding flaming bottles in their right hands.

The tank commander, wearing a garrison cap and radio earphones, lowered his pistol and turned to the partisans.

“Michaud’s right,” he called in the accent of a Parisian, eyeing the burning bottle in Bernard’s hand. “We stole the tank this morning. One of their Panzers has our boys pinned down at the Sorbonne. Michaud volunteered to be a hostage so we wouldn’t get hit.”

Bernard looked at the blazing wick—and had to get rid of the Molotov cocktail immédiatement. He waved Dubois to follow him, and they stepped away from the tank and tossed the Molotov cocktails curbside. Two explosions shook the ground, and he wiped the perspiration beading on his brow. Only then, Bernard released a heavy breath and watched the small explosions burn harmlessly.

Bernard slapped his hands and hustled back to the tank, realizing how close he’d come to hurting their own.

“Do you need help?” he asked Michaud.

“I’m just hanging on to these ropes until the right moment to jump off.” Michaud looked like he was counting the seconds.

Bernard sized up the Panzer again. “Unbelievable. Do you guys know how to fire these things?”

The “commander” answered for Michaud. “I don’t, but we’ve got two gunners below with tank experience. You two could help us by creating a diversion. If you have any other Molotovs, put those on the tank and walk in front. You might be able to use them yet.”

Five minutes later, Rousseau and Dubois—with hands held high—walked before the stolen Panzer III into the Quartier de la Sorbonne, where a Panzer IV had parked at the end of the open square. The tank commander trained a pistol on the walking pair to maintain the ruse that Germans were in command. They were just a hundred meters away, surrounded by university buildings, when their tank came to a stop.

“The other tank is calling us on the radio,” the tank commander announced from the turret.

“Don’t answer it!” Bernard yelled.

“We won’t, but the other tank is pleased to see us,” the tank commander said. “Tanks always work in pairs, so he’s probably been waiting for reinforcements before he storms the student barricades. That’s a Panzer IV, which has fewer vulnerabilities.”

Bernard turned back around to face the Panzer IV. From his vantage point, the howitzer gun barrel was pointed at a nine o’clock position—toward the main student square.

The tank commander ordered Michaud to get ready to jump. The partisan loosened the knots and poised to free himself. “Thirty seconds, guys. When I give notice, run for cover.”

Michaud, though he was no longer bound, remained in the hostage position. The commander crouched, and Bernard heard all sorts of bearing numbers being exchanged with the gunner, who was working to bring the main gun and sights in line with each other. The gun barrel twitched from slight adjustments.

“Allez vite!” Go quickly!

Michaud didn’t have to be told twice. Rousseau and Dubois dropped their raised arms and bolted toward the tank hull, where they grabbed their satchels and gathered up Michaud, who had leaped to the ground. Together, the three sprinted for a nearby alcove. They had nearly reached safety when a deafening explosion rocked the Panzer III. With a white flash, the first cannon shot streaked toward the Panzer IV. The turret storage box on its rear exploded, scattering tools, sleeping rolls, rations, and even pitching underwear and uniforms into the plaza. Scraps of laundry hung from nearby tree branches.

Time stood still for a long moment until the enemy tank crew began swinging their turret in the direction of the Resistance tank. Bernard watched the scene unfold from his perch behind a column. “They’re turning in our direction!”

“Reload, reload!” screamed the tank commander.

Bernard held his breath. He figured the Panzer III gunner was struggling to set the point of aim by mentally calculating the error margin. The delay only prompted more pandemonium inside the tank as shrill voices pleaded for him to fire off another shot. Precious seconds passed. The howitzer of the wounded Panzer IV continued to swing around, but the German armored vehicle didn’t have the renegade tank in his sights yet.

“Shoot! Shoot!” The partisan tank commander was clearly panicking.

The “French” tank lurched as a second projectile exited the howitzer barrel—but missed completely. Bernard reached into his satchel and drew out both Molotovs.

“What are you doing?” Alarm creased Dubois’ face.

A quick flick of his Zippo, and a pair of cloth strips were ablaze. Bernard set off for the Panzer IV, the voices of his comrades yelling for him to come back. He ran like the wind, closing the distance just as the Panzer IV’s cannon was in position to fire. From a distance of twenty meters, he lobbed one flaming bottle after another.

The first Molotov struck the back of the turret, and the second smashed into the escape hatch, dousing the occupants within and exploding into an orange inferno.

Screams erupted from the tank’s interior. The gunner, his gray uniform on fire, managed to haul himself onto the hull, then fling himself upon the concrete. He cried in agony and rolled his burning body to put out the flames.

A third projectile whistled across the square and struck the center of the German tank, underneath the caterpillar tread. The Panzer IV burst into a giant fireball. A column of flames funneled up from the open turret like a giant Roman candle. The shock wave from the blast knocked Bernard into the air. Pain shot up his arms as he tumbled to the concrete.

The partisan covered his head as chunks of metal peppered the square. Scrambling to his feet to escape the rain of shrapnel, he sprinted back toward the Panzer III, which was already backing out and turning around.

“Let’s go!” the tank commander yelled over the din.

Dubois and Michaud dashed for the relative safety of Boulevard Saint-Michel.

Bernard looked downrange at the inferno. Already, several students had come out of the shadows, their arms raised to shield themselves from the searing heat—the tank now enveloped in a whirlwind of flames. They also kept their distance from the burning soldier, who—summoning his last ounce of strength—failed to tamp out the flames. His body contracted unnaturally.

The grotesque smell of charred flesh and fumed diesel wafted past Bernard. Grasping his stomach, he leaned over and disgorged his breakfast.

It was a smell he would never forget.