Armored members of the Resistance milled around in front of 74 Avenue Foch celebrating their conquest of Gestapo headquarters. They drank wine and cognac and swaggered about victoriously. A pretty young girl waved shyly at Cranepool and he waved back. Mahoney grabbed Cranepool by the collar and pulled him toward the street.
“Look at you,” Mahoney growled. “Here we are with something important to do and all you can think about is fucking around with broads.”
Cranepool shook loose from Mahoney’s grip. “All I did was wave.”
“If I didn’t grab you, you probably would have run off with her.”
“No I wouldn’t, Sarge. We got something important to do. We gotta save Paris.”
“Don’t you forget it,” Mahoney told him.
Carrying their German submachine guns, they walked down the street and came to a square with a statue of Napoleon in the center. They walked to the center of the square and stood underneath the statue, listening to shooting and explosions coming from all directions.
“I wonder where the Hammerheads are?” Mahoney said.
“They must be where the fighting is,” Cranepool replied.
“Not necessarily, asshole. The maquis are fighting the Germans too. If we head toward the fighting, we’re liable to wind up with more maquis who don’t have radios either.”
“Gee, I don’t know what to tell you, Sarge,” Cranepool said.
“I know you don’t, asshole.”
Mahoney took off his helmet and scratched his head. The trouble was that he didn’t know where to go himself. He had to find a radio because Karl was on its way to Paris, and if it wasn’t stopped it would destroy Paris and all its whorehouses forever.
He looked down a street and saw a sign that said: HOTEL RITZ. That reminds me of something, he thought. He put his helmet back on his head and suddenly it hit him. That big American war correspondent with the mustache had said he’d buy Mahoney a drink if Mahoney ever showed up at the Hotel Ritz. Mahoney wondered if the correspondent might be there now. Correspondents had ways to communicate with their newspapers and maybe that correspondent could help them get word to Bradley’s headquarters about Karl.
“Let’s go,” Mahoney said, heading toward the Ritz.
“Where to?” Cranepool asked, falling in beside him.
“That hotel over there.”
“What’s there?”
“A friend of mine.”
They crossed the square and walked down the street toward the Ritz, in front of which some armed maquis were standing guard over a group of young women whose heads were shaved.
“Hey—what’s going on?” Mahoney asked one of the maquis.
The man pointed with his thumb at the women. “They have been sleeping with Nazis, and we’re going to run them out of town.”
“Oh.”
Mahoney shrugged and with Cranepool behind him, climbed the steps to the hotel. They entered the lobby, where maquis were lying around on sofas and chairs, sleeping or getting drunk.
“Which way is the bar?” Mahoney asked one of them.
The man pointed with his bottle of cognac, and Mahoney strolled toward the bar. He and Cranepool entered the bar and saw that it was packed with men and women in correspondents’ uniforms, plus a lot of civilians. Everybody was drinking and shouting—it was a huge celebration. Mahoney looked over the women and decided he might not mind sticking his dick into a few of them, but he had more important things to do.
Standing at the bar, which had a huge American flag was unfurled behind it, the American correspondent Mahoney had seen on the road to Paris a few days ago was drinking straight whisky out of a glass. The correspondent towered over the men and women around him, and Mahoney figured he was quite a popular fellow. He hesitated to go to him, but he needed help. Moving toward the big correspondent, he realized that he had forgotten the man’s name.
“Mahoney!” roared the correspondent, and Mahoney nearly jumped out of his combat boots.
“You son of a bitch you made it!” the correspondent bellowed. He pushed people away from the bar. “Make way for my friend Mahoney! I’m gonna buy him a drink!” He extended his big ham hand toward Mahoney. “How’re you doing, feller!”
“Not bad,” Mahoney replied, shaking the correspondent’s hand. “This here’s my friend, Corporal Ed Cranepool.”
“How ya doing, Cranepool!” The correspondent shook Cranepool’s hand. “My name’s Hemingway, Ernie Hemingway.” He dropped his glass on the bar and said, “I’ll have another one of these, and how about you, Mahoney?”
“Whisky straight, with a water back.”
“Scotch whisky all right?”
“Not if they got bourbon.”
“No, there’s no bourbon in Paris yet, Mahoney.”
“Then I’ll take whatever they got.”
The bartender poured the drinks and Hemingway introduced Mahoney and Cranepool to the war correspondents nearby, but Mahoney forgot the names as soon as he heard them. The bartender finished pouring the whisky and Mahoney raised his glass in the air and tossed it down. It was smoky and smooth— good stuff.
“Have another,” Hemingway said.
“I gotta talk to you about something,” Mahoney replied.
Hemingway smiled and gulped down half his whisky. “Tell me after you’ve had the next drink.”
“But it’s important.”
“Three minutes either way won’t make any difference.”
“True,” Mahoney agreed, watching the bartender pour him another drink. When the bartender pulled the bottle away, Mahoney lifted the glass and drained it dry. “Ah,” he said, wiping the back of his mouth.
“Sarge,” said Cranepool, “I think you’d better ask him before you have any more drinks.”
“You’re right,” Mahoney said, slamming his glass down on the bar. He turned to Hemingway. “Listen pal, I gotta talk to you about something very important.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll have to talk to you alone.”
“Come on over here.” Hemingway tilted his head toward the corner at the end of the bar.
Mahoney and Cranepool followed him to the corner.
“What is it?” Hemingway asked again.
“Listen,” Mahoney told him, “I have some important top-secret information that I have to send back to General Bradley’s headquarters, but I don’t have a radio and I don’t know where to find one. Do you?”
“Of course,” Hemingway replied. “The maquis have a radio operation in the attic of this building. I’ll take you up there.”
Mahoney breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you could help me.”
“Follow me.”
Hemingway waved to his friends at the bar and told them he’d be right back. He led Mahoney and Cranepool out of the lounge and across the lobby to the elevators. On the way, they passed the front desk.
“You know,” Hemingway said, “you probably could call Laval on the telephone, because the maquis have captured the central phone system.”
Mahoney stopped cold in his tracks. “They have?”
“Sure, I heard in on a news broadcast. I’m sure you could get through to Laval.”
Mahoney thought he should try to use the telephones, because he didn’t have codebooks for a radio message and was worried that the Germans might intercept an uncoded message. He thought it less likely that they’d intercept a phone conversation because there were no more functional German units between Paris and Laval, and the ones in Paris were too busy fighting for their lives to be listening in on people’s phone conversations.
“I think I’d like to try a phone,” Mahoney said.
“I’ve got one up in my room,” Hemingway replied.
They boarded the elevator and rode up to the fifteenth floor of the Ritz Hotel. Hemingway unlocked the door to his room and they went inside. Bottles were everywhere, and uniforms were strewn over chairs and hanging on doorknobs. A desk with a typewriter on top was in the corner.
“The phone’s over there,” Hemingway said, pointing to the night table beside the bed. “Care for another drink?”
“If you don’t mind,” Mahoney said.
Mahoney picked up the phone and told the operator that he wanted to be connected with the United States Army tactical field headquarters in Laval. Cranepool sat on the chair next to the typewriter and took out one of his cigarettes, lighting it up. At the dresser, Hemingway poured drinks for himself and Mahoney and carried a glass to Mahoney, who took it absent-mindedly while talking with the operator.
Hemingway sat on a chair near Cranepool. “Where are you from, Corporal?”
“Ottumwa, Iowa. How about you?”
“I was born in Illinois, but I’ve lived all over since then. I even lived in Paris before the war.”
“That must have been fun.”
“Oh, it was,” Hemingway said, a faraway look in his eyes.
Meanwhile, the operator had finally put Mahoney through to Laval, and a clerk in General Bradley’s headquarters answered the phone.
“I want to speak with General Bradley right away, and it’s an emergency,” Mahoney said.
“Who’s calling?” asked the clerk.
“Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney of the 33rd Division, and I’m calling from Paris.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Is this a joke?”
“No, it ain’t no fucking joke.”
Mahoney heard clicking sounds in his ear as he swallowed down some whisky. He doubted whether he’d get through to General Bradley, but he figured an officer he could tell the story to would pick up the phone sooner or later.
“This is Captain Gatewood speaking,” said a voice on the other end. “What’s this all about?”
“This is very important, Captain Gatewood,” Mahoney said. “So pay attention. You got a pen and paper ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. My name’s Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney of the 33rd Division. I’m in Paris on liaison duty with the French 12th Armored Division, and I’ve just come upon some important information which I can’t radio back in code because a German shell wiped all our codebooks and our radio out. Are you with me so far, sir?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Today I happened to take part in the capture of Gestapo headquarters here in Paris, and I came across this woman down there in the dungeons who told me that she found out from an officer on General von Choltitz’s staff that the Germans are bringing Karl to Paris. Do you know what Karl is?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Captain Gatewood said.
“It’s an artillery piece of some kind that fires a two-ton shell four miles and it’s on its way here by railroad to destroy the city. Therefore I think you ought to get out the Air Corps and have them pulverize all rail routes coming into Paris so that Karl can be stopped. Otherwise there’ll be a lot of damage here. Got that, sir?”
“Ah. . . yes. What did you say your name was?”
“Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney. R. A. one one two eight two two oh three. Colonel Simmons of the 15th Regiment of the 33rd Division will vouch for me, sir. But you’ve got to send out those planes to stop Karl. Otherwise there might not be much left of Paris.”
“I’ll get to work on this right away, and it’d better not be a joke,” Captain Gatewood said.
“A joke?” Mahoney asked. “Are you kidding? Who’d joke about a thing like this?”
“Is that all, Sergeant?”
“That’s all, sir.”
They said goodbye and hung up the phone. Mahoney picked up his glass and drank half its contents. Then he reached into his shirt and took out his cigars.
“You want one of these, Ernie?”
“Sure. You get through all right?”
“I think so.”
Hemingway accepted one of the cigars, and Cranepool gave him a light with his Zippo. Hemingway and Mahoney puffed their cigars, and Cranepool smoked his cigarette.
“If you need a refill,” Hemingway said, “help yourself.”
“That’s real nice of you, Ernie,” Mahoney said, getting up and walking to the dresser. “I think I could use a refill.”
Hemingway sniffed the smoke of the cigar. “This is a damn fine cigar,” he said appreciatively. “Where’d you get it?”
“A French guy gave them to me.” Mahoney threw another one on the bed. “Here—you can have this one too.” Hemingway scooped it up. “Thanks, buddy.”
Captain Gatewood, the O.D. (Officer of the Day) at General Bradley’s headquarters, sat at his desk staring at the message he’d just received. It was the strangest message he’d ever seen in his military career, and he didn’t know exactly what to do. Was it on the level? Could it be the work of a spy or a practical joker? Captain Gatewood broke out into a cold sweat. If he reported the message to General Bradley and it turned out to be a joke, he’d be the laughing stock of the American Army. If it was on the level and he didn’t report it, a great disaster would befall Paris.
He decided it would be better to be a fool than a cause of widespread destruction. Then he realized there was a crude way to check the story. The sergeant had mentioned a colonel who’d vouch for him. Captain Gatewood looked at his notes and found the colonel’s name and unit. He picked up the phone on his desk and put through an emergency call to the 15th Regiment of the 33rd Division. The O.D. for the 15th Regiment answered, and Captain Gatewood asked to speak with Colonel Simmons immediately.
“I’m sorry,” said Major Jimmy Dowd, the 15th Regiment O.D., “but Colonel Simmons is having chow right now.”
“I think you’d better get him. This is an emergency.”
“Who wants to speak with him?”
“I do.”
“I’ll have him call you after chow.”
“I said it’s an emergency.”
“I said I’ll have him call you after chow.”
Major Dowd hung up, and Captain Gatewood stared at his phone. He hung it up and again experienced doubt. Was he getting himself into a big mess? Maybe he should just forget about the whole thing. The message probably was a fake. It was too preposterous to be true.
But what if it is true, he thought. The destruction of Paris will be on my conscience for the rest of my life. Captain Gatewood decided to find General Bradley and give him the message. He rose from the desk and walked to the door, then stopped cold in his tracks. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself. Maybe I should just turn the whole thing over to G-2 (Intelligence) and let them worry about it.
He returned to the desk and sat down again, wondering what to do. The chain-of-command concept was so engraved into his spirit that he was afraid to take independent action. He lit a cigarette and puffed it, realizing that precious time was passing. The hell with it, he thought, I’ll go see Bradley and tell him everything. The worst thing they can do is throw me out of the army, and I wouldn’t mind that at all.
He rose and turned toward the door, when the phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Eagle Tac.”
“Is this Captain Gatewood?” asked a Southern drawl.
“Yes it is.”
“This is Colonel Simmons over at the Hammerhead Division. You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes sir,” replied Captain Gatewood. “I just received a strange message from a Master Sergeant Clarence J. Mahoney, who said you’d vouch for him. Do you know who he is?”
“Of course I know who he is.”
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“He should be in Paris by now, I imagine.”
“Would you consider him a reliable person?”
Colonel Simmons took a deep breath. “I’d trust him with anything except my wife and daughter.”
“I see. Thank you very much, Colonel Simmons.”
“What’s this all about, Captain?”
“Top secret, sir. I’ll get back to you about it when it’s all over.”
Captain Gatewood hung up the phone and headed toward the officers’ mess to deliver the message to General Bradley. He wasn’t worried about repercussions to his career anymore, because the call from Colonel Simmons had covered his ass.