The fighting was still going on in front of the SS headquarters when Mahoney and Cranepool returned. A few dead SS men were lying in front of the building, and some dead and wounded Frenchmen were behind the barricades with the maquis. Mahoney and Cranepool came running with their heads down, holding their steel pots steady, and stopped beside the young woman who’d told Mahoney she was in charge.
“Hi there,” Mahoney told her. “I’m back.”
She was reloading her Mauser behind the barricade and looked at the burlap bag. “Did you get the Molotov cocktails?”
“Didn’t I?” he asked with a wink, puffing his cigar. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you how I think we should proceed.”
She waved away the smoke with her delicate hand. “We have a new commander. You’d better tell him. He’s over there.” She pointed to the right side of the barricade. “His name is Colonel Chambord.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s a big man like you and he’s wearing a blue shirt.”
Mahoney scuttled to the right, keeping his head down and puffing his cigar. He glanced at his watch and saw it was ten o’clock in the morning. If all went well he thought they could take the building within an hour. The important thing was to strike fast and hard and overwhelm the bastards.
He passed men and women firing rifles behind the barricades and finally came to the big man in the blue shirt. Chambord was conferring with two other men when Mahoney burst in upon them.
“Hi there,” he said, interrupting their conversation. “My name’s Mahoney and this is my pal Cranepool.”
Mahoney looked beside him, but Cranepool wasn’t there. Turning around, he saw Cranepool still back talking with the girl. That little fuck, Mahoney thought.
“Well, he’s not here right now,” Mahoney continued, “but anyway, I’ve got some Molotov cocktails in this bag and I think we ought to blow down the door of that building and storm it.”
The Frenchmen looked at each other and Mahoney in astonishment.
“You have Molotov cocktails?” Colonel Chambord asked.
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Mahoney blew a cloud of smoke into Chambord’s face. “Now here’s my plan, and it’s so simple I’m sure even you French people can carry it out. My friend and I will rush the door and throw Molotov cocktails at it, while you and your people cover us. Got that so far?”
Colonel Chambord nodded, his eyes betraying a trace of anger.
“As soon as the door blows, we all go inside and kill every German we see until they surrender.”
Colonel Chambord spit at the ground. “Those are SS in there. I don’t care whether they surrender or not.”
“Have it your way,” Mahoney said. “Maybe a few of your people can charge the building with us and throw Molotov cocktails through the downstairs windows to shake the Germans up a little. Got it?”
“When would you like to get started?”
“Five minutes from now be okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Mahoney lay the burlap bag on the ground and opened it up. He took all the Molotov cocktails except four out and lay them on the ground. “These are for you and your people, okay?”
“Right.”
Mahoney carried the burlap bag back to where Cranepool and the young woman were.
“Hey Cesspool,” he said. “We got some work to do.”
“Okay Sarge,” Cranepool replied with a whine in his voice—he clearly wanted to stay and talk with the girl.
Mahoney took out two of the Molotov cocktails and handed them to Cranepool. “You take these two, and when I give the signal, we charge the building and throw them at the door. Got me?”
“Gotcha.”
“C’mon with me.”
Cranepool turned to the girl. “Goodbye Marie.”
She made a sad little wave with her hand. “So long, Edward.”
Mahoney cleared his throat. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he said.
He led Cranepool back to Colonel Chambord, who was passing out the Molotov cocktails to his men.
“We’re ready when you are,” Mahoney said.
“We’ll get started in just a few minutes,” Chambord said.
Mahoney and Cranepool kneeled beside the barricade. Mahoney relit the stub of his cigar and Cranepool peeked over the top at the stone building.
“There’s an awful lot of Krauts in there,” Cranepool said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Mahoney jammed a fresh clip into his carbine and flicked the little switch to automatic. Then he fixed his bayonet on the end, took his cigar out of his mouth, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He felt wild and crazy, as he always did before going into battle. He knew that he might get shot down during the next several minutes, but he was also angry and frustrated and wanted to kick ass. He wished he had a pistol and an entrenching tool, because those were good weapons for hand-to-hand combat in close quarters; and he also wished he could be far away from 74 Avenue Foch in a quiet safe place where he could drink booze and smoke cigars and maybe get laid, because part of him was a little afraid.
“Are you ready, Mahoney?” Colonel Chambord asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to start the covering fire now. When I yell go, I want everyone with Molotov cocktails to go.”
Mahoney nodded and chewed the stub of his cigar. Chambord gave orders to open fire, and the French fired heavy volleys in unison at the building. Mahoney looked up and saw the Germans taking cover as hot lead sprayed through windows and at the roof. The volleys continued for several seconds, preventing the Germans from showing their heads and getting clear shots. Mahoney and Cranepool lit the fuses of their Molotov cocktails and Chambord raised his first in the air.
“CHARGE!” he screamed.
Mahoney and Cranepool leapt over the barricades and charged the building, each holding one cocktail high in his right hand, the other cocktail tucked under his left arm, and a carbine in his left hand. The Germans saw what was happening and tried to fire at them from behind the windows. Mahoney and Cranepool hollered at the tops of their lungs as they ran across the cobblestones, bullets whistling around their heads like hornets.
“NOW!” Mahoney shouted.
They hurled their Molotov cocktails at the door and dived to the ground. At the same time Frenchmen threw their explosives through the downstairs windows of the building. Mahoney’s and Cranepool’s cocktails hit the door and exploded with an ear-splitting roar, breaking the thick timbers apart. They lit their second cocktails and Cranepool looked at Mahoney for the order to move out.
“HIT IT!” Mahoney bellowed.
They jumped up and ran to the door, their legs pumping like pistols. Bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones and still they came, gasping for air, wondering if the next bullets would cut them down. When they reached the doorway they threw their second cocktails inside and darted back behind the doorjambs, hearing shouts in German inside.
The cocktails exploded and bolts of flame shot out of the door. Screams issued from inside the building and Mahoney and Cranepool leapt through the door, firing their carbines on automatic. A German stuck his head around a corner and Mahoney aimed a stream of bullets at it, tearing it into a bloody mess. The German shrieked for a second and sagged to the floor as three more Germans ran down a flight of stairs with their Schmeisser machine guns ready to fire. Cranepool beat them to the trigger and sprayed them with bullets. They fired their machine guns at the floor and ceiling as they toppled down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood behind them.
A German darted out of the shadows and Mahoney gave him a bellyful of hot lead. Mahoney ran to the foot of the stairs because he wanted to get one of those Schmeisser machine guns. He scooped one up and leveled a burst at a German at the top of the stairs. The German was looking to see what was going on and he didn’t have his rifle ready to fire, but that was his tough luck. He pitched forward, blood oozing from his chest, and fell headlong down the stairs.
Mahoney moved to the side to let the German land at his feet. He turned around and saw the maquis pouring into the building. Gunfights were taking place everywhere and he heard a great commotion upstairs. To the left of the stairs was a dark corridor which Mahoney wanted to explore. He was advancing down the corridor when suddenly the door at the end of it was flung open and a squad of Germans came charging through.
Mahoney placed one foot behind him and pulled the trigger of the Schmeisser. It trembled in his hands and fire spit out of its barrel as its bullets bit into the SS men. They howled in pain and stumbled over each other, falling to the floor dotted with their blood. Mahoney kept firing until suddenly the Schmeisser ran out of ammunition just as two unscathed Germans fumbled with their rifles and tried to take aim at him.
Mahoney hollered angrily and attacked them, using his Schmeisser like a baseball bat. He whacked one of the Germans against his face, sending him flying against the wall, and kicked the other German in the balls. The German clutched his groin and dropped to his knees, and Mahoney kicked him in the face, knocking him onto his back.
Quickly Mahoney searched among the Germans on the floor for another Schmeisser machine gun and found one underneath a sergeant with a bullet hole through the center of his chest. He pulled the machine gun out of his hands and stomped the German on the nose, just to make sure he wouldn’t get up again.
Mahoney pulled open the door that was now riddled with bullet holes and charged down the corridor in front of him, followed by a group of maquis. He heard bullets firing and explosions all over the building.
Two Germans appeared in the corridor ahead and Mahoney cut them down with a long burst from the Schmeisser. He ran toward their writhing bodies and reached down to snatch up a Walther pistol from a dying captain. Mahoney jammed the pistol into his belt and a Frenchman opened the door. A flight of stairs led down to the cellar and they all descended it, holding their guns ready for any German who dared to show his face.
“The dungeons are down here!” shouted one of the Frenchmen.
They entered a dank stone corridor and looked to their right and left, wondering which way to go. A door at one end opened and SS men charged forward, firing rifles and machine guns as they came. The Frenchmen returned the fire and bullets zinged back and forth in the corridor. The Frenchman beside Mahoney shouted and was thrown backwards by a bullet in his gut, and Mahoney felt a sudden stinging sensation across his left bicep. He gritted his teeth and fired his machine gun at the Germans.
“They’re falling back!” shouted a Frenchman.
“After them!” Mahoney screamed, running toward the Germans and firing his machine gun.
The Frenchmen followed, the sounds of their gunfire echoing throughout the depths of the old building.
In an interrogation room, Lieutenant Grunberger and the Countess de Chaulieu were chained to the wall. Bruno Goerdler was heating up a poker at the little furnace, and Major Kurt Richter paced back and forth with his hands on his hips.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” he said to Grunberger. “What information did you pass to this French whore?”
Grunberger was bleeding from the lips and his eyes darted about like a frightened wild animal. His hands were shackled above his head and he looked at Delphine who was shackled the same way, the front of her blouse torn and her breasts exposed.
Richter stopped and gave Grunberger a backhand. “Speak!”
“I didn’t tell her anything!”
“Liar!” Richter punched him in the mouth. “Pig!” He kicked him in the stomach.
Grunberger clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Sweat poured down his face but he didn’t want to give Richter the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting him. Grunberger wished feverishly that he could break loose from his chains and attack Richter with his bare hands. He’d never been a violent person and always had despised the thought of fighting, but now he was enraged that a person like Richter could exist and wanted to tear him apart.
Goerdler removed the poker from the furnace and raised it in the air. Its point was red-hot. “It’s ready sir,” Goerdler said with a mad grin.
Richter pointed at the red-hot poker. “Do you see that, you stinking traitor?” he said to Grunberger.
Grunberger looked at it but did not reply. Richter reached to the side and prodded his forefinger into Delphine’s left breast.
“If you don’t tell me what you told her,” Richter said, “I shall have my assistant burn a hole through this boob.”
The thought of that atrocity made Grunberger struggle against his chains. “No!”
“No?” Richter asked with a grin. He looked at Delphine who was trembling uncontrollably. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” she replied, her lips quivering with terror.
“We’ll soon see about that,” Richter said, placing his hands on his hips and taking a few steps backwards. “Bruno?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do it.”
“Yes sir.”
Bruno plunged the poker back into the hot coals, and let it rest there for a few minutes. The heat of the fire made perspiration drip down his face and torso. His eyes were narrowed to slits and he smiled contentedly because he was a man who loved his work.
He pulled the poker out of the fire, and it glowed cherry-red. He advanced toward Delphine, holding the poker in front of him like a sword. Richter stepped to the side so he could get a clear view of the poker burning into Delphine’s breast.
“This is your last chance,” Richter said, hoping they’d continue to be stubborn so he could torture them for a while.
Neither said anything. Delphine could feel the heat of the poker as it neared her breast. Sweat poured down her face and her head sagged forward as she fainted.
“Should I revive her, sir?” asked Bruno.
“Yes,” replied Richter, because he loved to hear the screams.
Bruno plunged the poker back into the hot coals, filled a bucket with cold water from the sink in the corner, and flung it over Delphine. The water plastered her thin cotton skirt against her shapely figure, and she slowly raised her chin from her chest. Bruno withdrew the hot poker from the fire and advanced toward her again. Richter’s eyes glittered with pleasure as the poker drew closer to Delphine’s breast. Richter loved to see people being tortured because it made life intense and fascinating.
“I’ll talk!” shouted Grunberger, who couldn’t stand it anymore.
“No—don’t!” cried Delphine.
Richter felt his mind being pulled in two directions. One part of him wanted to get the information, but the other part wanted to see the elegant French countess writhing and screaming. He frowned. “Talk!” he barked.
“No!” screamed Delphine, and began sobbing uncontrollably.
Richter gave her a backhand across the mouth. Her head snapped to the side and she continued crying wildly, evidently having a nervous breakdown of some kind. Richter turned to Grunberger. “Well?”
Grunberger bit his lower lip. He wanted to tell Richter everything so that Delphine could be saved, but if Delphine didn’t want to be saved?
“Speak!” Richter shrieked, punching Grunberger in the mouth.
Grunberger’s head snapped back and hit the brick wall, then dropped forward. He was still and Richter realized he’d knocked Grunberger unconscious.
“Shit!” Richter growled between clenched teeth, punching the palm of his hand.
Suddenly the sound of gunfire could be heard in the corridor.
Richter spun around. “What’s that?”
Bruno Goerdler, trying to figure out what was going on, knitted his eyebrows together. He moved in long strides toward the door, opened it, and looked out into the corridor.
The sound of gunfire was much louder with the door open, and Goerdler’s eyes goggled at the incredible sight before him. French civilians and an American soldier were charging down the far end of the corridor, machine-gunning the few SS guards who stood in their way.
Goerdler slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. “It can’t be!” he said, an expression of horror on his face.
“What is it?” Richter asked, turning pale as he suspected the truth.
“We’re under attack!” Goerdler said. “French civilians and American soldiers are in the corridor!”
Richter heard machine-gun fire and the sound of people running. Spinning around, he looked at Delphine and Grunberger chained to the wall and wondered if he should kill them both while he had the chance. Then reason overtook him and he thought that if the maquis found him with two dead prisoners in a torture chamber, they’d probably skin him alive. He’d have a better chance if Delphine and Grunberger were unharmed, he thought.
Someone tried the doorknob from the outside. Richter and Goerdler looked at each other in alarm. Delphine was hysterical and confused, and Grunberger was still out like a light.
They heard the roar of machine-gun fire at close range, and then the door splintered before their eyes. Richter reached for his service pistol and Goerdler grabbed the red-hot poker. A huge man in the uniform of the American Army burst through the door. Goerdler raised the poker to slug the American soldier, but the soldier pivoted quickly and fired a burst from a Schmeisser machine gun at Goerdler. The bullets caught Goerdler in the stomach and ripped his innards apart. Goerdler fell backwards, trying to plug the holes with his hands, but he was dead by the time he hit the floor.
Mahoney spun toward Richter, who dropped his pistol to the floor.
“I surrender!” Richter said, shaking from head to foot. “I demand that you treat me according to the provisions of the Geneva Convention!”
Mahoney pulled the trigger of his machine gun, but it clicked—out of ammunition. Mahoney charged Richter with the empty machine gun, and Richter backpedaled, looking at Mahoney’s angry face and suddenly realizing that this American soldier looked exactly like the Frenchman who’d kicked him in the face in Normandy!
“No!” Richter screamed.
Mahoney slugged Richter over the head with the butt of his machine gun, and Richter dropped to his knees, blood pouring from the gash in his hair. He fell backwards and Mahoney stomped him twice on the face, flattening Richter’s new nose and cracking a few teeth.
Mahoney looked up and saw the man and woman chained to the wall. He heard fighting in the corridor behind him but decided to stay a few more moments and free them. He advanced toward the woman, whose graceful bosom was naked and quivering, and unsnapped the catch on the shackle. Her hands fell loose and she dropped to her knees on the floor.
Mahoney picked her up and propped her against the wall. “Are you all right?” he asked in French.
“Yes . . . I think so,” she said weakly. “You are American?”
“Yes ma’am.” He rubbed her wrists which had deep red marks on them from the shackles.
“I have something important to tell you!” she said urgently.
“What is it?” he asked.
Her face was white and her eyes bugged out of their sockets. “You must stop Karl!” she said.
“Who’s Karl?” Mahoney asked as he moved to the side and unshackled Grunberger, who dropped to the floor in a heap.
Delphine bent over Grunberger and rolled him onto his back then looked up at Mahoney. “Karl is a deadly weapon,” she explained. “It fires a two-ton shell four miles and each shell can destroy a city block. It’s on its way to Paris right now—to the Gare de l’Est—because Hitler wants to demolish Paris!”
“Demolish Paris?” Mahoney repeated, fearing that all the city’s wonderful whorehouses might be destroyed before he even got to them. “Where did you get this information?”
“From him,” she said, touching Grunberger’s face tenderly. “He is a German officer on General von Choltitz’s staff, and he told me about Karl. I tried to get word to the maquis, but the SS arrested me and then they arrested him.” She jumped to her feet and grabbed Mahoney’s shoulders. “Please—you must notify your army! You must stop Karl!”
Mahoney looked at her and realized the whorehouses of Paris were in grave danger. “Sure,” he replied. “I’ll do everything I can.” He wrinkled his forehead and wondered what he could do to stop Karl.
Cranepool, Colonel Chambord, and a few other Frenchmen entered the room and stared at the bizarre scene.
“What’s going on in here?” Chambord asked.
“You must stop Karl!” Delphine screamed, and then fainted because the excitement was too much for her. She collapsed on top of Grunberger.
“They both need medical attention,” Mahoney said. He pointed at the unconscious Richter. “That fucker is still alive.”
“Who’s Karl?” Chambord asked.
“It’s the name of a big artillery piece that is on its way to the Gare de l’Est to destroy Paris. We’ve got to stop it somehow. I guess the best way to do that is for me to radio the American Army and have them send the Air Corps on a bombing raid over all the railway routes heading toward Paris. Do you have a radio?”
Chambord shook his head. “No.”
“Do you know where I can find one?”
“Not offhand.”
“Hey Sarge,” said Cranepool. “All we have to do is find the French 12th Armored Division. They’ll have some radios.”
Mahoney nodded. “That’s true, and the Hammerhead Division should be showing up sooner or later with radios too. In fact, they might be here already. The only problem is—where the hell are they and the French 12th?” He looked at Colonel Chambord. “Do you know?”
Chambord shook his head. “No.”
Mahoney looked at Cranepool. “Then we’ll have to go out and find them.”
“Let’s go.”
Mahoney turned to Chambord. “Everyone must try to get this message through to Allied headquarters in Laval.”
“We’ll do our best.”
“By the way, did you find any American pilots in here?”
“American pilots? No, I do not think so.” Chambord looked at one of the Frenchmen with him, and the Frenchman shook his head. “No,” Chambord said to Mahoney, “evidently there were no American pilots here.”
Mahoney cleared his throat and spit a lunger onto the floor. He had joined the attack on 74 Avenue Foch because there were supposed to be American prisoners in its dungeons; but now he realized the French probably had told him that only so he’d join them. He’d exposed himself to danger for nothing, but at least he’d found out about Karl.
“Let’s go, Cranepool,” he said. “We’ve got to find us a radio.”
Mahoney and Cranepool left the dungeon room and began their long ascent to the street.