It was evening as the jeep drove into Laval. Mahoney sat in the passenger seat and grimaced every time the jeep hit a bump. Cranepool was crumpled into the jump seat in back and next to him were their field packs.
Pfc Shapiro, who formerly had been a New York cabdriver, was behind the wheel.
They drove into the town, looking at the old buildings and the people strolling the sidewalks. Other jeeps roved up and down the streets and soldiers lounged on street corners.
“I think we’d better stop and ask somebody where to go,” Shapiro said, steering toward the curb.
Two G.I.s were having an argument beneath a lamppost. Shapiro brought the jeep to a screeching halt beside them and they spun around.
“Where’s General Bradley’s headquarters?” Mahoney asked them.
“Go down two blocks and take a left,” one of the soldiers said. “You can’t miss it.”
They drove two blocks, took a left, drove a little more, and came to the old mansion that had become General Bradley’s headquarters. Shapiro jammed on the brakes and the jeep skidded to a stop. Mahoney and Cranepool climbed out and dragged their packs with them.
“You guys got everything?” Shapiro asked.
“Yep,” said Mahoney.
Shapiro shifted into first and accelerated away like a race driver at the Indianapolis 500. Mahoney and Cranepool put on their packs and walked up the front steps of the mansion, where two M.P.s were standing.
“What do you two birds want?” asked one of the M.P.s suspiciously.
“We’re supposed to see Major Denton,” Mahoney replied, taking a copy of his orders out of his shirt pocket and handing it to the M.P.
The M.P. examined the orders, then handed them back to Mahoney. “Room three-twelve.”
Mahoney and Cranepool entered the old mansion. Oil paintings of French noblemen and women hung on the walls of a corridor illuminated by crystal chandeliers. High-ranking officers strolled about, looking with distaste at the two soldiers in steel pots and combat uniforms.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door stenciled with the numbers 312.
“Who’s there?” asked a deep voice inside.
“Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney!” Mahoney said.
“And Corporal Edward Cranepool!” Cranepool added.
“Come in!”
Mahoney opened the door and they entered Colonel Denton’s office. He was a tubby officer with a crew cut who looked like he worked on Colonel Simmons’s used car lot.
“Have a seat,” Denton said in French.
Mahoney and Cranepool sat down. Denton stared at Mahoney’s bruised features.
“What happened to you?” Denton asked Mahoney in French.
“I won the heavyweight championship of the 33rd Division yesterday,” Mahoney replied in French.
Cranepool leaned forward enthusiastically. “You should have seen him, sir,” he said, also in French. “Knocked Kowalski out in the fifth round. The greatest fight I’ve ever seen. Really sensational.”
“Say,” Denton told them in English, “both of you boys speak French pretty well.”
“Mahoney speaks like a real Frenchman,” Cranepool said.
“What are you—his agent?” Denton asked with a chuckle. He knew all about agents because he’d been an executive for 20th Century Fox before the war. “Let’s get down to brass tacks here, boys,” he continued. “We’re moving out first thing in the morning. There’ll be about a dozen of us and we should catch up with General Duloc’s headquarters around noon. We’ll have some communications people with us and a radio. I imagine we’ll be on the Champs Elysees in a few days.” Denton rolled his eyes in anticipation of the pleasure he expected to enjoy.
Mahoney coughed, because his throat was still sore from a punch landed there by Kowalski. “What specifically are we going to do, sir?”
“Liaison work.”
“What specifically does that involve, sir?”
“Transmitting messages and such.”
“But Cranepool and I aren’t in the Signal Corps. We’re infantry.”
“Just take it easy and don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do. The main thing is that you’re able to speak French.”
Mahoney shrugged. “Anything you say, sir.”
“Any questions?” Denton asked.
“I guess not,” Mahoney replied.
“Me neither,” added Cranepool.
“Good,” Denton said. “That’ll be all I guess. We’ve got a house down the street that we’re using as a barracks for soldiers in transit. It’s number thirteen fifty-one. Report to Sergeant Bryans there and he’ll put you up for the night.”