Early in the morning following the battle, the French 12th Armored Division was on the way to Paris. The vehicles were in a long single line with General Duloc’s personal jeep in front, the Cross of Lorraine flying from a little pole on the front fender. The repaired American truck was in the rear, catching the dust and debris kicked up by the vehicles ahead. The G.l.s covered their noses with filthy handkerchiefs to keep the dust out of their lungs.
“Fucking frogs,” Mahoney muttered.
Early in the afternoon the convoy slowed down. Mahoney craned his head around the tarpaulin and saw that they were coming to a little village consisting of a dozen old stone houses. The lead vehicles were stopping, and Mahoney wondered what the hell was going on. The old deuce-and-a-half stopped, and Mahoney jumped off the tailgate and walked forward to the cab.
“What the fuck are we stopping for?” he asked Major Denton.
“How should I know?” Denton asked, his face covered with dust. “Why don’t you go find out?”
Mahoney adjusted the strap of his carbine on his shoulder and walked quickly toward the front of the column. He passed several tanks and trucks and finally came to Duloc’s lead jeep, which was stopped in front of a house. Duloc and a swarm of his men were in the front yard of one of the houses, where some Frenchmen in civilian clothes and a big man dressed like an American soldier were holding eighteen Germans prisoner.
The man in the American uniform had a mustache and a wide grin. He wore his steel pot at a cocky angle and spoke French with an American accent. Mahoney spotted a war correspondent’s badge on his lapel. He was telling Duloc how he and the maquis had captured the Germans in some woods nearby.
“Good work,” Duloc told the big American. “We’ll take the prisoners now.”
“That would be very nice of you.”
Duloc waved his arms and issued some orders. Several of his men gathered around the Germans and marched them away. The big American correspondent looked around and spotted Mahoney. “Hey—are you an American?” he asked in English.
“I sure am,” Mahoney replied.
“Well whataya know about that.” He walked over and shook Mahoney’s hand. “How’re you doing? My name’s Ernie Hemingway.”
“My name’s Mahoney. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be a war correspondent but I guess I’m getting a little carried away. You got something to drink?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well I have.” Hemingway reached into his back pocket and took out a silver flask. “It’s real Scotch,” he said. “Don’t ask me how I got it.”
Hemingway took a swig, then passed the flask to Mahoney, who raised it to his lips and tossed his head back.
“Ah,” said Mahoney. “That’s just what I needed. Thanks a lot.”
“You headed for Paris?” Hemingway asked, stuffing the flask into his back pocket.
“That’s right. You too?”
“Yup. If you’re ever in the neighborhood of the Hotel Ritz, look me up. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Mahoney winked. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Good deal.”
“All right everybody!” Duloc shouted. “Let’s get rolling! Paris is only a few miles away.”
Mahoney shrugged. “See you in Paris, Ernie.”
“Go slow, Mahoney.”
Mahoney turned and ran back to the truck, and the column began rumbling toward Paris.
General von Choltitz stood on the balcony of his office in the Hotel Meurice. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and there was fighting all over the city. Balloons of smoke rose into the summer sky and small arms fire crackled from all directions. Occasionally he heard a large explosion as one of his tanks fired at a rebel stronghold.
He took out a cigarette and lit it, his fingers tingling with tension and anxiety. His troops were holding back the maquis, but when the regular Allied troops arrived from the west they would smash right into the city. It would be a terrible mess and history would blame him for it. His little daughters would be persecuted for the rest of their lives because their father had caused Paris to be destroyed. People would say that he should have surrendered because the war was lost anyway and there was no reason to subject Paris to artillery and tank fighting.
But who can I surrender to? Choltitz wondered, pacing back and forth on the balcony. I can’t surrender to the maquis because they are only rabble, and after all I am a German general from a family with old military traditions. I can only surrender to a general of a legitimately constituted army, but there is no one of that sort around yet. If I send out peace feelers and the SS find out, they will put me up against a wall and shoot me.
The door of his office was thrown open and in burst Lieutenant Richard Fleischer, a young blond officer who had replaced the luckless Lieutenant Grunberger.
“Sir!” said Fleischer, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “A French armored unit is on the outskirts of the city!”
Choltitz smiled. “Really?”
Fleischer was taken aback by Choltitz’s reaction. “Yes sir.”
“Regular army and not maquis?”
“Yes sir.”
“Does the report say how many they are?”
“Division strength, sir. And an American unit, also of division strength, has been sighted to the southwest of the French unit.”
Choltitz rubbed his chin with his fingers. “You don’t say.”
“A colonel from the Engineers is in the outer office and he requests permission to blow up the bridges over the Seine!” Fleischer’s face was flushed with emotion. Paris was his first assignment, and nothing like this had ever happened here before.
“Calm down,” Choltitz said, stepping from the balcony to his office.
“What should I tell him, sir?” Fleischer asked, following Choltitz as he crossed the floor and sat at his desk.
Choltitz leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his ample belly. “Tell him I’m not here.”
Fleischer blinked. “But you are here, sir!”
“No I’m not. Tell him I’m away from my office and you don’t know where I am, and tell him he’d better not blow the bridges without my written authorization.”
“But sir . . .”
“Are you refusing to follow my orders, Lieutenant Fleischer?”
Fleischer imagined himself before a firing squad for refusing to obey the orders of a general. “No sir.”
“Good. Then carry them out.”
“Yes sir.” Fleischer threw the Hitler salute and marched toward the door.
“Just a moment,” Choltitz called out.
“What’s the matter?”
“Tell Captain Schmundt to ring this hotel with troops, and to prevent SS personnel from coming upon the premises. Is that clear?”
“What if Schmundt wants to speak with you about this order, sir?”
“Tell him I’m not here.”
“I see.”
“That will be all, Lieutenant Fleischer. Carry on.”
“Yes sir.”