When Hell Struck Twelve Read online

  There were too many of them. Some dropped dead, others rolled in the grass clutching wounds, but far more pressed on, faces blackened with dirt and gunpowder, snarling screams fueled by doses of Schnapps, fanaticism, and hatred for the subhuman Poles.

  They came closer. The man next to me fired his last bullet. I handed him my pistol as a grenade exploded, showering us with dirt. I tossed my last grenade down the hill, screaming for Feliks as the Krauts got close enough to make out the SS runes on their collar tabs.

  An engine roared directly above us, the Sherman’s treads halting inches from my head. The .50 caliber machine gun spewed fire, Feliks’s enraged screams loud enough to be heard between bursts. The rounds shattered the Germans, the second tank joining in with a crossfire that caught the SS in the open, ripping into flesh and bone, turning men into plumes of pink mist.

  The machine guns were loaded with tracer rounds, bullets with a pyrotechnic charge that lit up and helped gunners aim at moving aircraft. Hitting men at this range, it set their clothing and flesh afire. The tracers ignited the dry grass, the wind fanning the flames as the SS tried to fall back, bullets striking them, sending up sprays of blood, severing limbs, slamming the dead and wounded into the burning earth.

  “Warszawa! Warszawa!” The chant rose up from along the line, men standing and shaking their fists as Feliks and the other tanker unleashed their orgy of death. The grass burned. The dead and wounded burned. Shrieks of pain overcame even the chatter of the machine guns, which finally ceased for lack of targets.

  I stood as well, listening to the Poles shout their revenge for the massacres in Warsaw. In the midst of all the yelling, I heard a familiar voice, and saw Kaz join us. He chanted Warszawa with the rest of them, tears streaming through the dirt and dust on his cheeks.

  The last shots and shouts faded away as the Poles stopped, stunned at their victory. Feliks jumped down from his tank, pistol at the ready. But there was no need. The smoke-filled field held only the dead and dying. Several SS troopers tried to drag themselves through the fire, their uniforms smoldering. Their cries and screams died as they did, bleeding, choking, and burning before us.

  “Let them burn,” Kaz said, his jaw clenched tight. “Hell is too good for them.”

  “Niech płoną,” Feliks said, adding his agreement.

  I found nothing in that sentiment to argue with. What strange creatures this war has made of us.

  Chapter Two

  “I am sorry I have no news of Angelika,” Feliks said. “But I will ask our intelligence people if there has been any word. After the uprising, radio contact was very difficult.”

  “Bury your dead and get some sleep,” Kaz said. “But find out what you can when the time is right.”

  “I feel as if I may sleep forever, or never again,” Feliks said, lighting a cigarette and looking out over the valley below. Explosions blossomed like a garland of black flowers across a distant field. A plume of sudden red and orange marked a fuel tank taking a direct hit. We watched the carnage, smiling.

  Szkopy were dying and that was good. Fewer of them to face on the road to Paris.

  The Canadians had broken through two hours ago. They brought ammunition and supplies and were busy evacuating the wounded. They’d even brought three hundred body bags for the dead. Feliks told them to get more.

  “If you learn anything, contact Colonel Harding at 12th Army Group,” Kaz said. “He will know where to find me.” Harding was our boss in the small club that was the SHAEF Office of Special Investigations. Twelfth Army Group was the top American headquarters in France, not counting SHAEF’s own advance headquarters, where General Eisenhower hung his hat.

  “I will,” Feliks promised as we shook hands. “Good luck with your prisoners.”

  “They’re good and scared after that last attack,” I said. “Nothing like a ringside seat at your own army’s destruction to loosen tongues.”

  I got into the driver’s seat of the jeep and waited while Kaz and Feliks exchanged a few private words. It seemed to me that Feliks had known Angelika pretty well back in Poland when they were working with the Home Army, as they called their underground. Feliks’s identity had been blown and he had to go on the run, escaping to Sweden and eventually England. Each man had his own reasons for worrying about Angelika, so I left them to it.

  In front of me a truck waited with our first batch of prisoners. One infantry major, a captain in the supply service, one lieutenant from an engineer company, and another from a signals unit. It wasn’t hard to pick them out. The Germans used different colors on their shoulder tabs and caps to designate the branch of service. I took the major since he was the highest rank available. The supply captain might have some idea where supplies were being stockpiled, which would tell us where the Krauts might try to rally. Same thing with the engineer if he was involved in building defensive positions. And signals guys ran wire, which had to be hooked up to a higher headquarters. So that’s how I ended up with these four representatives of the master race, all sitting glumly under the watchful eyes of their Canadian guards.

  “Shall we?” Kaz said, taking his seat and holding his Sten gun at the ready. Not that I thought our prisoners were about to jump their guards and vault off a moving truck. Still, a little intimidation wouldn’t hurt. I gave the high sign to the truck driver, and long after I had expected to, we left Hill 262 behind.

  Sam Harding was waiting for us at the Canadian divisional headquarters at Saint-Gervais. HQ was set up in a forest overlooking the village. Camouflage netting was strung up, covering vehicles and tents beneath the trees. Colonel Samuel Harding was regular army, a veteran of the First World War, and a stickler for following orders. Even so, he was a decent guy. But he didn’t look at all pleased to see us.

  “What the hell did you two idiots think you were doing?” Harding demanded as the jeep rolled to a halt.

  “Colonel, it was all my fault,” Kaz said, exiting the jeep as he kept one eye and the barrel of his weapon trained on the prisoners.

  “Lieutenant Kazimierz, it cannot be your fault since you went off with a superior officer. Right, Captain Boyle?”

  “Yes sir,” I said, getting up and standing at what might be thought of as attention. I liked everything about being a captain except for when it made me responsible for whatever trouble Kaz had led us into. He wasn’t much for following orders either. Probably came from being a baron.

  “You could have gotten Lieutenant Kazimierz killed on your damn joyride! You were to wait here for the prisoners, Boyle.”

  “Colonel, Kaz was looking for information about his sister. You remember Feliks, the guy with the Home Army contacts?”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about Feliks,” Harding yelled. He kept on yelling for a while, and I gave myself a mental kick in the pants for not remembering to simply say yessir over and over again when a senior officer gets himself in a snit. “I give orders for a reason, you two! Obeying orders is not optional, do you understand?” He jabbed a finger at both of us. I hadn’t seen him this worked up in a while.

  “Sam, come on, don’t bust a gasket,” Big Mike said, patting Harding on the shoulder. “It’s not their fault the Poles got surrounded, is it?”

  “Dammit, Big Mike,” Harding said, shaking off the hand on his shoulder. It was a big hand. Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski lived up to his nickname. He was broad in the shoulders, tall, and had a neck like a fireplug. But he was as gentle as a lamb when he wanted to be, and soothing words along with hands the size of ham hocks often served him well.

  “Got a good haul of prisoners?” Big Mike asked, changing the subject as quickly as possible.

  “We did,” I said, telling Harding about the officers and the other prisoners following us. There was a POW cage nearby, and they could cool their heels in there while we interrogated our first four Fritzes.

  “Okay,” Colonel Harding said, his bloo
d pressure seeming to return to normal. “You need to rest up before questioning these four?”

  “We both could use some shuteye, sir, but we ought to get to these prisoners while they’re still in shock,” I said. It was true, and I also knew Harding well enough to know self-sacrifice appealed to him. “They’ve been through hell in that valley, and they saw the aftermath of an attack by the SS. Their pals got pretty chewed up. I don’t want to give them time to get over it.”

  “Good,” Harding said. “I’ll get the Canadians working on the lower ranks while you get started on the officers. Anything to do with the Paris defenses is critical.”

  “How about this?” Big Mike said. “Billy and Kaz grab some joe and a quick bite while I take the Krauts and treat ’em real nice. Coffee and smokes, let ’em relax. Then I’ll bring them to you one by one.”

  “Good cop, bad cop,” I said. Big Mike was a Detroit patrolman before the war, so he knew the routine. He was blue through and through, still carried his shield. “We can make that work.”

  Kaz and I headed toward the smell of food. The mess was set up in a large granite barn with wide doors at either end open to the breeze. We loaded up our mess kits with coffee, corned beef hash, and biscuits. Hot joe and warm food never tasted so good.

  After wolfing down my grub like a starving man, I sat back and surveyed the room. Lots of Canadians, of course, sporting their spiffy tanker’s berets. A fair number of French Resistance fighters as well. Tough-looking fighters, their armbands marked FFI. The Forces Françaises de l’intérieur. French Forces of the Interior, but everyone called them fifis. Some armbands were also emblazoned with the Cross of Lorraine, the symbol of General Charles de Gaulle’s Free France. But that was all the uniform they had. They were dressed in everything from a three-piece suit to a working man’s blue coverall, or shorts with loose collarless shirts. And a handful of skirts and dresses as well. Women carried weapons along with the men; they were attired with a bit more flair, but just as deadly.

  “Perhaps we could enlist the help of the fifis,” Kaz said as he finished his coffee.

  “I was thinking of the Poles,” I said. My plan, such as it was, involved a threat to turn our prisoners over to the Polish troops, with Kaz playing the role of the heavy.

  “That could work, but our prisoners are not SS. They would certainly worry about being delivered into Polish hands, but the Poles are still uniformed soldiers. Not so with the fifis.”

  “You’re right,” I said. Any Kraut who’d been part of the Occupation would have reason to worry about being turned over to the Resistance. Especially since they were civilians with no military control to speak of and a good number of Communists in their ranks. “Let’s see if they’ll play along.”

  Kaz nodded. He got a refill of coffee and stopped by a group of fifis. Kaz being Kaz, he selected the group with a couple of women, and soon he had them all at our table. The women had German MP40 submachine guns slung over their shoulders, while the men carried German rifles. None of them looked a day over twenty.

  “Billy, this is Jules Herbert and Marie-Claire Mireille,” Kaz said. “They both speak English. I’ve explained what we require and they are happy to help, along with Florent and Raymond.”

  “Maybe you give us one of the boche, yes?” Jules said, with enough of a laugh to show he was joking but would appreciate the gesture if we were so inclined.

  “Sorry,” I said. “But we work for General Eisenhower, and he wants these prisoners accounted for.”

  “Eisenhower?” Marie-Claire said, clearly impressed. She and the others chatted in French for a moment. “Have you met General de Gaulle?”

  “No,” I said. “But he is a great man.” I wasn’t sure about the leader of the Free French, but I figured it was what they wanted to hear. By the argument that broke out among them, I’d figured wrong.

  “Yes, yes,” Jules said, holding up a hand to stop the squabbling. “We all agree de Gaulle was right to not give up when the Germans occupied France. But some think he waits safely in London while we fight and die. Then he will come in and declare himself the head of the new government.”

  “And why should he not be in London?” Marie-Claire said. “He is the head of the army. This army, the FFI, and the French forces in uniform. Who else is there?”

  I watched the other two men roll their eyes at what seemed to be a familiar argument. They didn’t speak English, but I could tell they’d heard it all before. Shaking his head and grinning, one of them gave Jules a gentle shove.

  “All right,” Jules said, looking a bit embarrassed. “We will not bore you with our politics, Captain.”

  “Jules is with the FTP,” Marie-Claire said. “The Francs-Tireurs et Partisans. They are the fighting arm of the French Communist Party. So, he has his opinions about General de Gaulle.”

  “And Marie-Claire is with the Catholic youth network la Croix,” Jules said, laying a hand on hers. “She is very brave. And a good shot. But so bourgeois.” This time it was Marie-Claire who gave him a shove and that got a laugh. It wasn’t hard to see that these two young fighters were head over heels in love with each other, no matter their political differences.

  “Are you a Communist?” Kaz asked Jules. “I understand not every FTP fighter is.”

  “Yes, I am, and proud as well,” Jules said. “My unit is the Saint-Just Brigade, and we are all dedicated Marxists. We fight and have killed many boche. And lost many of our own.”

  “I applaud your courage,” Kaz said. “But allow me to say it is easy to be a proud Communist when you have never had the opportunity to live under their rule. As a Pole, I know this all too well.”

  “But Stalin is helping to liberate your nation from the Nazis,” Jules said.

  “Be thankful the Russians are not liberating France, young man. They might overstay their welcome,” Kaz said. “Now, enough of politics. Let us plan the farce we will play out for our German guests.”

  We had a tent, shielded from view by camouflage netting. Just right for giving the prisoners privacy, as well as getting them to worry about a lack of witnesses. Big Mike escorted the lead-off player in, aided by Raymond and Florent. Jules and Marie-Claire stood at the entrance, scowls of hatred directed at the boche paraded before them.

  We sat the major down. He looked nervous. Big Mike stood outside with the partisans while Kaz went through a few basic questions with our guest. He was Major Wilhelm Fischer. Infantry, as was obvious by his collar tab. He kept up a stern face until Kaz explained that we needed information, and if he didn’t give it to us, he’d end up giving it to the FTP.

  Fischer protested, probably going on about the Geneva Convention and not being turned over to French civilians, Communists no less.

  “Perhaps I should suggest my Polish friends,” Kaz said to me. “They wear uniforms and are definitely not Reds.”

  I agreed. Kaz made his offer, which got Major Fischer all in a tizzy.

  “Nein, nein, bitte!” He actually wept. Kaz talked to him in a calm voice, but he only got more agitated.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked.

  “He says his men are all dead or captured. He doesn’t know anything about Paris or the defenses there. His unit had no orders other than to escape and head in that direction. For the Seine River. Needless to say, he dislikes the idea of being given to the French or the Poles.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I think so. I shall tell him we will give him to the French if we find out he’s been lying when we talk to the other prisoners.”

  Kaz laid it out for the major, and by the look on his face I decided he was telling the truth. His story made sense. The Seine, which ran right through Paris, was the next logical defensive line for the Germans. In the chaotic retreat, there wouldn’t have been time for more precise orders.

  Big Mike took him away, and we repeated the process for the supply
captain and the engineer lieutenant. The captain’s supply column had been shot up and bombed. The engineer had been ordered to blow up a bridge over the Dives River but had no explosives. They were stunned and frightened at what had happened during the retreat through the Falaise Pocket. The threat of being turned over to the partisans scared them even more, but their expressions told me they’d have sung like stool pigeons if they had any information worth trading for their lives.

  The last POW was our best hope. Unless he was a signals officer who hadn’t seen a radio in weeks.

  “Good news,” Big Mike said, ushering in the nervous lieutenant who kept looking over his shoulder at the partisans outside leering at him with undisguised glee. “Heinz speaks English. Ja, Heinz?”

  “Ja, I do,” Heinz said. “Please, what happened to the others?”

  “What others?” I asked.

  “The other officers. The other three you took away.”

  “I haven’t seen any German officers, Heinz. At least no live ones,” I said, almost feeling sorry for the guy. Big Mike shoved him by the shoulders into a chair, where he sat hunched over, as if expecting to be beaten. “Have you seen any, Kaz?”

  “Who keeps track of a few German officers here and there?” Kaz said. “So many people go missing in wartime, don’t they, Heinz?”

  “I do not know,” he managed to stammer.

  “Sure you do,” I said. “Like all the Jews who went missing in Germany and then in France. And the hostages who were taken and shot by your people.”

  “I am not part of that,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “I transmit signals. I do not give orders.”

  “But you read them, orders coming in and orders going out,” I said. “What do those orders say about the defense of Paris?”

  “Paris? I know nothing about Paris. I have been there on leave, twice, but I have nothing to do with defending it.” He looked back and forth between Kaz and me, struggling to find a sympathetic face.