It was eight o’clock in the evening when Mahoney and Cranepool left the Hotel Ritz. They walked down the Place Vendome, crossed the Champs Elysees, and passed the Louvre. Mahoney scratched his balls and wondered what to do. He’d drunk a lot and was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he could hold his liquor better than most. They could hear little wars taking place throughout the city but not much seemed to be taking place in the neighborhood where they were. Mahoney thought that he and Cranepool should get a hotel room and sack out. Tomorrow if they felt like it they might go out and look for the Hammerhead Division.
“Shit,” said Mahoney, slapping his leg.
“Whatsa matter, Sarge?”
“I shoulda asked Ernie for the name of a good whorehouse. I bet he would have known of one, right?”
Cranepool shrugged. “I’m not so sure I wanna go to a whorehouse, Sarge.”
“You don’t?” asked Mahoney in disbelief.
Cranepool shook his head. “I just don’t believe that sex can be very good if it’s a commercial proposition. I’d rather do it with some girl who likes me rather than a whore who’s doing it just for my money.”
Mahoney put his hand on Cranepool’s shoulder. “Cranepool,” he said, “you’re a nice kid but you’re an asshole.”
Cranepool shrugged. “I guess so, Sarge.”
“But it’s okay—don’t worry about it. The thing you don’t understand, kid, is that your ordinary young girl doesn’t know anything about fancy fucking, whereas your whore knows how to do all kinds of crazy and weird things. But I guess you’re not interested in doing weird and crazy things with women, right? I mean, you just like a nice ordinary put-it-to-her fuck, right?”
“What kind of weird and crazy things do they do, Sarge?”
“All kinds of things—such as for instance, have you ever had a hum job?”
“A hum job?”
“Yeah, a hum job.”
“What’s a hum job?”
“That’s when the whore puts your balls in her mouth and hums.”
Cranepool wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Is that supposed to feel good, Sarge?”
“You’d better believe it.”
“Doesn’t sound so good to me.”
“That’s because you’re a hillbilly and you don’t appreciate fancy fucking. You ever have a girl stick her tongue up your ass?”
Cranepool shivered. “No. I don’t think I’d like that.”
Mahoney sighed. “Cranepool, what am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know, Sarge.”
“Have you ever had a blowjob?”
“Oh sure,” Cranepool said proudly. “You remember that girl Louise who was in the maquis with us? She gave me a few blowjobs.”
“You like that?”
“Oh sure, Sarge. That was kinda nice.”
They fell silent as they crossed one of the bridges over the Seine and made their way toward the Left Bank. Soon they were gawking like tourists at buildings and monuments. The sights were so spectacular that they distracted Mahoney from his quest to find a good whorehouse. Finally fatigue overtook them and they decided to look for a hotel where they could sack out for the night.
General Omar Bradley sat in his office, a telephone to his ear. Crowded into the office watching him were numerous staff officers, among them Captain Gatewood who was standing in a corner.
“I’d like to speak with General Vandenberg,” said General Bradley.
“I’ll get him for you, sir,” said the voice on the other end.
General Bradley looked over the notes Captain Gatewood had written while he waited. Bradley knew that Karl really existed because his G-2 had a file on the weapon. Bradley knew what it had done to Sebastopol and could imagine what it would do to Paris.
“Brad?” said the voice in his ear.
“Hi Hoyt,” said Bradley. “I’ve got an emergency and I need your help. Have you ever heard of Karl?”
“Karl who?”
“It’s an artillery weapon that the Germans have.”
“Artillery weapons aren’t my department Brad, but what about it?”
“Well,” General Bradley explained, “it’s not an ordinary artillery weapon but the biggest and most dangerous artillery weapon ever made. It’s on its way from Russia to Paris right now, and it’s traveling on its own railroad car. It’s going to destroy Paris unless you can bomb the railway lines on the east side of Paris.”
“When do we have to do this?”
“Right now.”
“Right now?”
“My information is that it’ll be crossing the border into France any moment now. We’ve got to stop it, Hoyt. Otherwise a lot of Paris will be leveled, and we can’t let that happen.”
“No, I don’t suppose we can. I’ll get right on it. I’ll have the bomber squadrons out within two hours.”
“I hope that’s soon enough, Hoyt.”
“It’s the best I can do, Brad. I can’t do anything more than that.”
“Let me know when you’ve got those railway lines bombed, will you?”
“Will do.”
Bradley signed off and hung up the phone. As he looked down at Captain Gatewood’s scribbling, he was hoping the Ninth Air Force could get off the ground soon enough to stop Karl.
Mahoney and Cranepool found a little hotel on the Boulevard Saint Germain that looked comfortable and cheap. They entered the lobby where the proprietor, a short roly-poly man with handlebar mustaches, was sitting behind the check-in counter.
“Americans!” he screamed.
He came out from behind the counter, rushed toward them, and embraced them. Mahoney and Cranepool looked at each other embarrassedly and didn’t know what to make of this sudden turn of events.
“Welcome to my humble establishment!” the proprietor said. “It is so wonderful to have you here! Anything I have is yours! You’d like a room?”
“Yes,” Mahoney said, smelling the garlic on the Frenchman’s breath, “but I don’t know how we’ll pay you since money isn’t any good in Paris.”
“Pay?” the proprietor asked. “How can I expect you to pay when America has done so much for my country?” He scurried behind his counter, reached to the rack, and picked off a set of keys. “Here—the key to the finest suite of rooms in my hotel! They formerly were occupied by a German general, but now they’re yours!”
Mahoney accepted the keys. “Thanks,” he said, ill at ease because people did favors for him so seldom.
“And here,” continued the proprietor, reaching under the counter, “take these with you.” He pulled out two bottles of Calvados brandy. “A gift of the house.”
“You’re awful good to us,” Cranepool said, accepting the bottles.
“It is the least I can do, m’sieu. May I know your names?” he asked, extending his hand.
Mahoney and Cranepool told him their names and shook his hand.
“I am M’sieu Langlois,” said the proprietor. “If you need anything at all, just call me and I’m at your service.”
“That’s very nice of you, Mister Langlois,” Mahoney said.
“Yeah,” Cranepool agreed.
Carrying the bottles of Calvados, Mahoney and Cranepool climbed the stairs to the top of the hotel, where the suite of rooms was. There were two separate bedrooms, and each took one of them. They collapsed fully clothed onto their beds and soon drifted away to slumberland.
In the darkness of night, General von Choltitz stood on the balcony of the Hotel Meurice and watched the fighting draw closer. French soldiers and maquis, fighting Germans from house to house, were drawing the ring around the hotel ever tighter.
Choltitz knew it was only a matter of time before they captured him, and he hoped it would happen soon because the suspense and lack of sleep were wearing down his nerves. He didn’t dare surrender too soon because he was afraid some fanatical Nazi officer would shoot him. He had to wait patiently until the French soldiers came into his office and took him prisoner. He hoped they wouldn’t shoot him on sight.
A bullet ricocheted off the wall nearby and he ducked his head. Crouching low, he entered his office and closed the doors to the balcony. Lieutenant Fleischer, chain-smoking cigarettes, was behind Choltitz’s desk. Fleischer was exhausted, his eyes sunken deep into his head. He rose from the chair so that Choltitz could sit down.
Choltitz waved his hand. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “I’m going to bed and I think you should too. There’s nothing we can do. Circumstances beyond our control are at work here. If we’re rested, we’ll be able to deal with them.”
Choltitz walked out the door and headed toward his bedroom. Fleischer finished his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, and then arose stiffly to make his way to his own bedroom. I have a feeling that tomorrow will be the worst day of my life, he thought.
The B-17 bombers swooped down out of the sky over Soissons. The knuckles of the pilots were white as they clutched their wheels, while in the bellies of the planes, bombardiers glued their eyes to their sights and rested their fingers on the buttons that would release deadly cargos of blockbuster bombs.
In Sweet Sue from Kalamazoo, the bombardier was Lieutenant Ronald Van Zandt from Poughkeepsie, New York. His eyeballs stung from lack of sleep as he looked at the huge railroad-yard complex dead ahead; it reminded him of certain abstract paintings he’d seen in museums before the war. I’ve got to wake up and be sharp, he told himself. This is supposed to be an important mission.
He’d returned to his base at three o’clock in the morning after a night of booze and revelry in London. No sooner had he gone to bed than the alarm had sounded and he was ordered to report to the briefing room. He dragged himself to the briefing room and was told by his squadron commander that they all had to leave immediately on an important bombing mission. Within an hour they were in the air. Now they were over target. Van Zandt wondered if he’d passed out in a toilet someplace and was dreaming all this.
He glanced up from the bombsight and looked through the window. The railroad complex was moving underneath the plane, the railroad ties looking like a maze of toothpicks. He peered through the bombsight again, burped, and saw the crosshairs advance into the yard. He wondered what was down there that was so important that they had to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night.
He pressed the button that released the bombs. “Bombs away!” he shouted.
The B-17 trembled slightly as the bomb doors opened and the big blockbusters fell out. Van Zandt looked sideways through the window and saw the bombs float down to the railway yards. All around Sweet Sue from Kalamazoo other B-17s in his squadron were also dropping their bombs. The nose of the B-17 tipped upwards as the pilot began to fly up and around for his second pass. Van Zandt looked back to see the bombs hit. At one moment the yard was pristine and still, and in the next moment the huge gray mushrooms appeared on its surface. The sight never failed to fascinate Van Zandt. The yard became covered with mushrooms as Sweet Sue from Kalamazoo climbed higher into the sky.
In the railroad yard below, the crew of Karl huddled under their railroad car, sticking their fingers in their ears. The ground trembled and debris flew through the air. Major Heinrich Rossbach, the commander of the Karl crew, bit his lower lip as he watched ribbons of railroad ties explode into the air. He wondered what would happen if there was a direct hit on Karl. Would Karl only be demolished, or would he and his men be killed too?
As if in answer to his question, there was a direct hit on the railroad car behind Karl. The sound of the explosion was so terrific that Major Rossbach blacked out for a few moments, and when he came to he couldn’t hear the explosions anymore although he could see them.
He touched his fingers to his ears and felt a sticky liquid. Looking at his fingers, he saw that they were covered with blood. His eardrums had burst. And still the American planes were dropping bombs. They continued to drop bombs for what seemed to be an eternity to Major Rossbach.
He hid his face in his arms and prayed they’d go away.
As dawn broke over Paris, General von Choltitz stood on his balcony in his bathrobe and scanned the neighborhood through his binoculars. The nearby Hotel Continental was nearly destroyed, and the street was littered with the bodies of dead Germans. German tanks and trucks were ablaze all along the Rue Castiglione. It reminded Choltitz of the day he’d taken Sebastopol, charging at the head of his regiment. It was hard to believe that day and this one could occur during the same lifetime.
Choltitz returned to his office and sat on the sofa. He was thinking of the vicissitudes of war. War had been thrilling when the German Army was winning, but now it was just one tragic humiliating defeat after another, and soon the great German fatherland would be ravaged by the Bolsheviks just as the German Army had ravaged the Soviet Union.
The door to the office opened, and in walked Corporal Muller, a dumpy little man who was General von Choltitz’s orderly. “Ready for breakfast sir?” he asked.
“Do we have croissants today?” Choltitz replied.
“Yes sir. A batch was baked freshly last night.”
“Croissants and coffee for me,” Choltitz said.
“Yes sir.”
“The same for me,” said Lieutenant Fleischer from behind Choltitz’s desk.
“Yes sir.”
Muller left for the kitchen, and Choltitz decided to take a bath, shave, and put on a fresh uniform. It wouldn’t do for a general of the German Army to look shabby when he surrendered. There were traditions to uphold.
Choltitz shaved, had his bath, and put on a fresh uniform. He returned to his office, where Fleischer was pacing the floor nervously. The sound of guns and artillery were coming closer.
“It won’t be long now, sir,” Fleischer said.
“No, I don’t suppose so,” Choltitz replied.
“What do you suppose they’ll do to us?”
“I have no idea.”
Choltitz sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette, thinking about Karl. According to General Jodl’s last telephone conversation Karl should arrive sometime today and would start firing on its own, whether Choltitz surrendered or not. It had a range of four miles, so it could set up far from Paris and fire its devastating shells from a safe distance. Choltitz wondered whether to tell his captors about Karl and decided he’d better not, because to do so would be treason, and he was no traitor. Let the Allies find out from somebody else.
Muller arrived with a silver tray, which he set down on a corner of Choltitz’s desk. Choltitz took a croissant and proceeded to butter it, inviting Fleischer to join him. Suddenly there was a commotion outside. The door was flung open and a group of officers in battle dress barged into the office.
“They’re coming, sir,” said one of them, a colonel.
Choltitz calmly munched his croissant. “Throw down your weapons.”
They obeyed, dropping their pistols to the floor. Choltitz took his own pistol from its holster and rested it beside him on the desk. Then he resumed eating his croissant. The German officers looked at each other; all knew that their happy days in Paris would be over officially in the next few moments.
A clatter of footsteps could be heard in the corridor. Choltitz arose behind his desk and brushed the croissant crumbs off his tunic. The door opened and twenty French soldiers burst into the office.
The French looked at the Germans, and the Germans looked back fearfully. The French aimed their rifles and carbines at the Germans, and the Germans raised their hands high in the air.
A young officer stepped forward. “I am Lieutenant Henri Karcher of the army of General Charles de Gaulle!” he declared. “Who’s in charge here?”
Choltitz bowed slightly behind his desk. “I am.”
“You are General von Choltitz?”
“Yes.”
“Are you ready to surrender?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are my prisoner.”
Choltitz breathed a sigh of relief. He and the other officers were marched out of the office. They went downstairs to the front of the hotel, where a huge angry crowd had gathered. The French soldiers formed a ring around Choltitz and the officers and led them toward a truck parked in front of the hotel. The crowd surged forward, waving angry fists in the air.
“Filthy pigs!” one person shouted.
“Scum of the earth!”
“Kill the bastards!”
The French soldiers struggled to keep the mob back, and Choltitz thought he was going to be lynched. A woman reared her head back and spat a huge gob at Choltitz, which landed just beneath his monocle. Choltitz thought they’d throw eggs and tomatoes if they had them, but fortunately there was a food shortage in Paris. He never thought he’d make it to the truck alive, but he did. He and the other officers climbed aboard, and the French soldiers got on with them. The truck started up and drove away as the crowd, shouting curses and throwing stones, ran after it.
As the truck bounced over the streets of Paris, Choltitz smoked a cigarette and thought of the ferocity of the crowd’s emotions. He’d known that some French people didn’t like the Germans, but he hadn’t realized that the hatred was so widespread. Although many French had collaborated actively with the Germans, now he knew that most French despised the Germans and had made the best of things until this day. Well, he thought, it’s a great victory for them. Let them enjoy it.
The truck stopped in front of the Prefecture of Police opposite Notre Dame. Choltitz and the other German officers were told to get out. Fortunately there was no crowd waiting for them, only French soldiers. The Germans were marched into the building, and Choltitz was separated from the rest of them and led through corridors and up stairs until a final door was opened and he was pushed into a poolroom.
General Duloc stood on the far side of a pool table, a wry smile on his face. He’d been part of the French Army that had been defeated in 1940, but he’d been able to escape from France and join the Free French Army of Charles de Gaulle. Now Duloc was back, and it was a thrilling moment for him to have the defeated German general brought before him.
“You are ready to surrender?” Duloc asked.
“Yes.”
They discussed the terms of the surrender, and a French lawyer wrote the surrender agreement. Choltitz stood with his hands behind his back and stared at the green covering of the pool table, thinking that perhaps he ought to tell Duloc about Karl. He knew he shouldn’t and that he would be a traitor for doing so, but the pristine surface of the pool table reminded him of the beauty of Paris, which he didn’t want to see damaged any more than it was already.
He cleared his throat. “General Duloc,” he said, “I have something of the greatest importance to tell you.”
Duloc was standing behind the lawyer and looking over his shoulder as he wrote the surrender document. “What is it?” he asked, turning toward Choltitz.
“General Duloc,” Choltitz said in a tone of utmost gravity, “Paris is in the most serious danger. A terrible artillery weapon that can hurl a two-and-a-half-ton shell four miles has been directed to Paris by Hitler, who has ordered that this city be demolished.”
“Do you mean Karl?” Duloc asked.
Choltitz blinked. “Yes—how did you know?”
Duloc snapped his fingers. “That’s been taken care of already. The United States Army Air Corps bombed the railroad network leading into Paris at dawn today. We believe Karl has been stopped somewhere in the vicinity of Soissons. Don’t worry about Paris, my dear general. Paris is safe.”
Choltitz’s jaw dropped open. “But. . . how did you find out about Karl?”
Duloc smiled superciliously. “I don’t know exactly, but I imagine a French spy discovered the information and relayed it to Allied headquarters, where immediate action was taken.”
Choltitz expelled air from the corner of his mouth. He’d been so worried about Karl, and now it turned out that he had worried needlessly.
“Never underestimate the French,” Duloc said, glaring victoriously at Choltitz.
“No, of course not,” Choltitz replied, trying to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice. He had, after all, been part of the German Army that had conquered France in about three weeks in 1940. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go right ahead,” Duloc told him. “The surrender document will be ready for you to sign in a few moments.”
Duloc leaned over the lawyer’s shoulder again, and Choltitz took out his package of cigarettes. The German occupation of Paris was officially coming to an end.