Mahoney and Cranepool awoke around the time General Choltitz was signing the official surrender document. The first thing Mahoney did was reach for his morning cigar, and Cranepool went to the toilet to take a piss.
The toilet was bright and clean with white porcelain walls and fixtures. Cranepool stood at the bowl with his cock in hand, pissing away and looking around. The bathtub was large and looked comfortable; he decided to take a bath after he got something to eat.
Then his eyes fell on a strange porcelain device that stood around two feet off the floor. It had a round device and a little nozzle in the center. I wonder what that is, Cranepool thought. After finishing his piss, he buttoned up his pants and moved closer to the device, trying to figure out what it was used for.
Mahoney stomped into the bathroom in his filthy underwear, his cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth. “I gotta take a piss,” he said.
“Hey Sarge—you know what this thing is?” Cranepool asked, pointing to the strange porcelain device.
Mahoney looked at it as he pissed. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’s a water fountain for kids to drink from.”
“Yeah, that must be what it is, Sarge. I can’t think of anything else that it could be used for.”
Cranepool left the bathroom and went to the window. Looking down into the street, he saw crowds of people walking arm in arm and singing songs. There were only sporadic bursts of gunfire in the distance.
Somebody knocked on the door, and Cranepool opened it up. Langlois pushed a table on wheels into the room.
“Good morning my brave American friends!” Langlois said expansively in broken English. “I have brought zum breakfast up for you. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well,” Cranepool replied with a big Midwestern smile.
Mahoney came out of the bathroom, scratching his balls. “You don’t have to speak English,” he said. “My friend and I speak French.”
Langlois pointed his finger in the air. “But I want to improve my English, now that so many Americans and British will be coming here.”
“Have it your own way,” Mahoney told him. “Listen, can you tell us what this thing is in here?”
“What thing in where, m’sieu?”
“In here.”
Mahoney and Cranepool led him to the bathroom and pointed to the strange porcelain contraption.
“Is that a water fountain for children?” Mahoney asked.
Langlois looked incredulous. “A fountain for children?”
Cranepool looked at the contraption again. “I know—it’s to wash socks in.”
“Wash socks?” Langlois asked.
Mahoney looked at him. “Then what the fuck is it for?”
Langlois did not know whether to laugh or cry. He pointed at the device and said in a stentorian tone. “Zat, m’sieu, is a bidet.”
“A what?” asked Mahoney.
“A bidet.”
“What the fuck’s a bidet?”
Langiois scratched his head. “You never have heard of a bidet, m’sieu?”
“If I had I wouldn’t ask you.”
“Well zen,” Langiois said. “I weel explain it to you. A bidet is for women to wash zere poozies.”
Mahoney wrinkled his nose. “Wash their poozies?”
“Oui m’sieu. Like zis.” Langiois squatted over the bidet. “See?” Then he moved off it and twisted a knob on its side. A tiny jet of water squirted into the air. “See?”
“Well I’ll be fucked,” Mahoney said, staring at the contraption. “To wash their poozies.”
Cranepool looked confused. “What do they need a thing like that for?”
Langiois gesticulated with his hands. “To keep their poozies clean.”
“How come American women don’t have things like that?”
“Well, I cannot answer that question,” Langiois replied, his tone of voice suggesting that American women were savages. “Is zere anything else, gentlemen?”
Mahoney and Cranepool shook their heads, and Langiois bowed and left the room. Cranepool walked into the bathroom and started running a bath. Mahoney looked out the window at the big celebration in the streets below. What’s going on? he wondered.
He sat on the bed and took the covers off the plates. There was cheese, some bread, and a pot of chicory coffee. Mahoney picked up a piece of bread and proceeded to dine. After a while Cranepool came out of the bathroom, wiping his bare body with a towel.
“That felt nice,” Cranepool said. “It reminded me of home. You know, Mahoney, it feels like there isn’t a war on anymore.”
Mahoney grunted and continued wolfing down his bread and cheese. Then he drank a cup of coffee, and finally he relit his cigar. Cranepool sat on the bed and began to eat his share of the food. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Mahoney shouted.
Langlois entered the room. “I have come for your clothes so that I can have zem washed, and I weel take ze sheets too,” he said.
Langlois tore the sheets off the beds and gathered up the filthy uniforms, wrinkling his nose at the stench.
“Listen,” Mahoney said to him, “you’ve been awfully good to us, but I’ve got to ask you for another favor.”
Langlois paused on his way out of the room. “What ees eet, m’sieu?”
“I want the address of the best whorehouse in Paris.”
Langlois sighed. “Ah you poor soldiers, you are lonely and you need ze dooby-dooby. I know how you feel, for I was a soldier once myself, you know. I realize I do not look eet now, but I was, yes indeed. In the First War. Under Field Marshal Foch. I fought in ze Somme, you know, and all I thought about, besides staying alive, was ze dooby-dooby. Well let me tell you zat you do not have to go to ze whorehouse, because two very beautiful ladies of the night live here in zis hotel, and I weel ask them to come upstairs and attend to your needs. But I’m afraid you weel have to pay. The ladies are patriotic, but not zat patriotic.”
Mahoney puffed his cigar. “Pay them with what? I’ve heard that money isn’t any good in this town.”
Langlois threw out his hands. “Money is nothing anymore, but do you have cigarettes?”
“I’ve got a couple packs,” Mahoney said.
“I think I’ve got three,” Cranepool added.
Langlois turned down the corners of his mouth. “That should be sufficient, gentlemen.”
“You’re sure they’re pretty?” Mahoney asked.
Langlois kissed his fingertips. “Very pretty. I weel leave now and get zem for you, yes?”
Cranepool raised his hand. “One more thing,” he said.
“What ees eet, m’sieu?”
“What’s the big commotion outside?”
Langlois blinked in disbelief. “Have you not heard ze news?”
“What news?”
“You have not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“But m’sieu,” Langlois said, astonished, “do you not know zat ze German General von Choltitz has surrendered?”
“He did?”
“Of course he did! Paris is free! Zat is what ze commotion to which you refer is about! General de Gaulle is supposed to arrive on ze Champs Elysees at any moment!”
“No shit,” Mahoney said.
“Shit?” asked Langlois. “What is shit?”
“Never mind,” Mahoney replied. “I gotta take a shower.”
Langlois shrugged and left the room. Cranepool wrapped himself in a towel and lay on the bed, hoping the two French whores would be pretty.
At Hitler’s headquarters in Rastenburg, General Jodl walked down the bombproof corridor toward his Fuhrer’s office. Jodl was bald, had jug ears, and a long chin. He approached Hitler’s door and knocked upon it twice.
“Who’s there?”
“General Jodl, Mein Fuhrer.”
“Come in.”
Jodl entered the office, marched to Hitler’s desk, and threw the Hitler salute. Hitler sat behind the desk wearing his tan party jacket with swastika on the sleeve and Iron Cross hanging from the breast pocket. He scowled at Jodl because he was in a rotten mood.
“Mein Fuhrer!” Jodl said. “I’m afraid I have disheartening news.”
“What is it this time?” Hitler asked morosely.
“General von Choltitz has surrendered to the French, Mein Fuhrer.”
Hitler’s spine stiffened. “Surrendered?”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer.”
“But what about Paris, Jodl?” Hitler asked, leaning forward. “Is it destroyed?”
Jodl shook his head sadly. “I regret to inform you that Paris has not been damaged very much at all.”
“What!” Hitler shot to his feet and pounded his fist on his desk. “But I gave clear and unequivocal orders that Paris was to be destroyed!”
Jodl stepped backwards because Hitler was frothing at the mouth and some of the spit had landed on Jodl’s lip. “Evidently those orders were not obeyed,” he replied, wanting to wipe the spit away but fearful that Hitler would be offended if he did.
Hitler’s face twitched with anger and his left arm shook uncontrollably. “Where is Karl?”
“Karl is in the town of Soissons. It cannot proceed because the rail lines leading toward Paris have been severely bombed this morning.”
Hitler dropped into his chair and his eyes went white. “This cannot be,” he whispered.
Jodl sat on a chair in front of Hitler’s desk. He did not know what to say, so he sat silently and wondered what he could do to placate Hitler.
Hitler balled up his fists and shook them in the air. “I am surrounded by traitors!” he screamed through clenched teeth. “I am lied to on all sides! Generals always lie!”
“I have never lied to you, Mein Fuhrer,” Jodl said.
“Not yet,” Hitler grumbled. He picked up a pen and let it fall, thinking of the increasing dimensions of the catastrophe that was befalling Germany. Historically, the loss of Paris had meant the loss of France; and with France lost, the Allied armies would swarm into Germany immediately thereafter. Moreover, on the Eastern Front the Russians had just launched a major offensive on the Romanian frontier, encircling twenty-seven German and twenty Romanian divisions. If the Allies won France they’d also capture his V-l and V-2 rocket launching sites. “The situation is deteriorating badly,” Hitler admitted.
Jodl nodded his head sadly. “It is indeed, Mein Fuhrer.”
“But,” Hitler said, “Germany has been in dangerous waters before and has survived. Our new submarines and jet aircraft will be ready soon, and Speer is raising twenty-five new divisions. We’re not knocked out of this war yet by any means. And moreover, the overconfidence of our enemies will cause them to make a serious mistake one day, a mistake which we shall exploit to the fullest. And then,” he continued, getting shakily to his feet, “Germany will rise again and push its enemies back! We shall roll over them and smash their bodies into the ground! Ultimately the sun will never set on the German flag, and those of us who have led this great crusade against Jewish Bolshevism will be hailed as heroes and saviors by good people everywhere!” Hitler, his face flushed with excitement, looked down at his chief of operations. “Is this not true, Jodl?”
Jodl always had been susceptible to the charm of Hitler’s personality, and on this occasion, as on so many others, he only could smile and say, “Yes Mein Fuhrer, it most assuredly will be exactly as you say.”