The Heroes of Sainte-Mère-Église: A D-Day Novel Read online

  “Jean-Pierre,” he said. “You need to listen. I must go now. They have called Armand and me back to our garrison. The Germans have moved into France. There are reports of thousands of tanks and infantry troops. Their planes are bombing villages in the Netherlands, Belgium, and northern France. They have already taken control of several villages in the lowlands. We have got to get back. I’m counting on you to take care of Mama and Papa. You will be safe. We won’t let them get here. We will fight them off, just like Papa did before.”

  “When will you be back, Philippe?”

  “Only after we have driven them back. But it will be soon. I promise.”

  He then embraced his little brother, got back into the car with Armand, and off they went at breakneck speed, dirt flying from under the tires.

  Alfred said, “I’m scared, Jean-Pierre. My father told me the reason we moved from northern France to Sainte-Mère-Église was because he had heard from relatives in Germany that it was no longer safe to be Jewish and anywhere near Germany. The Nazis were rounding up Jews, taking them away, and they were not returning.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Alfred. You heard my brother. They will never get this far south. Our army is tough and strong and brave. You will see.”

  Jean-Pierre, looking at Alfred with frustration, said, “I wish I were older. I would go fight with my brother. Together we would fight side by side and push the Germans back.”

  Alfred said, “I need to get home. I need to tell Papa that the Germans are trying to cross into France.”

  The boys realized that they still had two kilometers to get home. The walk to and from school every day usually took them an hour. Anxious to see their parents, they both ran. As they did, once again, they looked up and saw the dirt from another speeding vehicle coming in their direction. This time, it was a truck. Alfred recognized it as his papa’s truck. In it he saw his papa, his mama, and his five-year-old brother, Dreyfus. Behind the truck was the same trailer they’d used to move all the way from Verdun, France, near the German border, three years earlier.

  Just as when they moved to Sainte-Mère-Église, all of their belongings—what little they had—were loaded up in the truck and the trailer. When the old truck got closer, Alfred’s papa pumped the brakes hard, causing them to squeak and squeal. Alfred’s mother leaped out of the truck and ran to Alfred.

  “Alfred, get in the truck. We are leaving for Spain. We have packed all of your things in the trailer.”

  Alfred looked at his best friend. “I have to go now, Jean-Pierre.”

  Jean-Pierre tried to be brave and shook Alfred’s hand. “You will be back soon—I know you will. I have your birthday present at my house. I will give it to you when you return.”

  The handshake between the two boys turned into an embrace. Both boys sensed that something evil was happening, and they would probably never see each other again.

  As Jean-Pierre made his way through the narrow streets of Sainte-Mère-Église, he approached the centerpiece of the village, the courtyard of the Catholic church, Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption. Several shops such as Le café Du Quartier, the DuBost bakery, and the pharmacy owned by the town mayor, Alexandre Renaud, surrounded it.

  At the other end of the courtyard, lived the town doctor, Dr. Pelletier. His house was next to the village park, the Park of La Haule. Next to the park was a large barn that stored hay.

  Crossing the courtyard on his way home, Jean-Pierre saw many of the townspeople gathering. This was not unusual. The ancient Roman road marker in the church courtyard established itself as a frequent gathering place for impromptu meetings to discuss events, both important and unimportant. Every Thursday since 1889, cattlemen and farmers from all over the region sold their livestock and produce in the courtyard. However, this time the purpose for meeting was different. This time, Jean-Pierre heard both anger and fear in the voices of those who gathered. Some men were carrying shotguns. Those who had fought in the Great War carried Berthiers, the standard issue rifle used by the French army.

  Even though it was Friday, a line of people filed into the Catholic church. Some were weeping. All stopped to speak with Father Rousseau as they entered.

  In a hurry to get home, Jean-Pierre didn’t stop to listen to the details of the discussions. He crossed through the courtyard as he and Alfred had done so many times before. However, he overheard the men planning a strategy to defend Sainte-Mère-Église from the Germans if they ever made it this far south.

  He heard Dr. Pelletier ask, “What if Paris falls?”

  Mayor Renaud was more optimistic. “The Maginot Line will stop the Germans in their tracks.”

  This made Jean-Pierre think of Philippe, who would soon arrive at his garrison. The troops may already be under attack, even before he and Armand got there.

  Jean-Pierre tried to fight back his emotions, but at that moment he couldn’t. He ran home with tears rolling down his cheeks. He was concerned for everyone he cared about. His brother Philippe, his mama and papa, and his beautiful Angélique. He also worried about his closest friend in the world, Alfred.

  He asked himself, What will happen to Alfred? Why do so many people hate the Jews? Why do the Germans treat the Jews so horribly?

  He had overheard conversations between Alfred’s parents while visiting Alfred’s house. He didn’t understand the seriousness of their words. He recalled how upset Alfred’s mother was after receiving a letter from her sister in Germany, telling of the arrest of Alfred’s uncle.

  “They took him away two weeks earlier,” her sister wrote, “and nobody would say where he was, or when he would be home.”

  She added, “This has been happening to Jewish men for weeks, and nobody has been heard from since.”

  Jean-Pierre hoped that Alfred’s family would make it safely to Spain and that Philippe, Armand, and the rest of the French army could push the Germans back into the Rhineland.

  Jean-Pierre’s family owned a small farm just north of Sainte-Mère-Église. When Jean-Pierre got to the front porch of his farmhouse, he stopped to wipe the tears from his eyes. He wanted his papa to be as proud of him as he was of Philippe. He didn’t want either of his parents to see he had been crying. He also knew the time for boyish tears had passed today. He had to stay strong. He had to be brave because he sensed that soon, many people would be counting on him.

  May 10, 1940

  Courtils, France

  It had been four hours since Alfred and his family drove away from Sainte-Mère-Église. The rain was coming down hard, and the windshield wipers on the old truck only moved at one speed, and that was slow.

  “Joseph, please pull over. It isn’t safe driving in this rain. We can’t even see the road. The rain will subside. Just give it a chance.”

  Joseph gripped the steering wheel tightly as he tried to find the road through the pouring rain. “Ingrid, you heard the radio broadcast. The Germans are slicing through Belgium, the Netherlands, and northern France. It is only a matter of time before they’re at the base of the Pyrénées. We need to get over those mountains and into Spain before they arrive. We have no time to pull over.”

  As Alfred and Dreyfus were sitting quietly, yet uncomfortably, between their parents on the single bench seat of the old truck, Alfred was thinking of his friend Jean-Pierre.

  He felt regret that in the three years since he had become friends with Jean-Pierre, he had not been honest with him. Alfred’s father, Joseph Shapiro, had insisted that the family’s enormous wealth remain a secret. As an additional precautionary measure, they told everyone they met that they were originally from Verdun, France. Although they lived there for a short time after fleeing Germany, they were in fact German citizens. Also, Mr. Shapiro wasn’t just a bank teller, which was his trade in Sainte-Mère-Église, but the president of the largest bank in Berlin.

  Joseph and Ingrid Shapiro were only in their early forties, but at first glance, appeared much older. They were both overweight, though they had lost some body mass since their exodus fr
om Germany. Joseph was mostly bald on top with a thick band of black hair that wrapped around the back of his head. He always wore a baggy black suit, black tie, and white shirt. He stood slightly shorter than the average man.

  Ingrid could best be described as frumpy. Like Joseph, her wardrobe was sparse, and she could usually be seen in one of the four tattered dresses she wore regularly. Her short dark hair revealed hints of gray, and was often slightly messy, as if she attempted to comb it in the morning, but never got around to finishing. Their disheveled appearance was due in part to their desire to conceal their wealth, and also because the stress of living in hiding had caused the pride they once valued to diminish.

  Ingrid said, “Joseph, we will never make it to Spain if we drive over the side of a bridge or hit a tree. Besides, the boys need to stretch their legs.”

  “Yes, I have to pee, Papa,” said Dreyfus.

  “You always have to pee, Dreyfus. You must have a bladder the size of a horsefly,” said Joseph. “Listen, all of you. We will stop soon, but I will remind you of what I have been telling you since we left Germany. I am a marked man. You know that. Adolf Hitler himself has put a bounty on my head. That means you, my family, have a price on your head, too.”

  During the rise of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party, Joseph Shapiro was the leader of a strong and vocal opposition to Hitler. He also gave large sums of money to any organization that opposed the Nazi Party. Once Hitler became chancellor of Germany in 1933, those who had been vocally against the Nazis were being rounded up by Hitler’s “brownshirts” and publicly beaten and imprisoned. Sometimes, they would go missing, taken away in the middle of the night and never seen again. Mr. Shapiro knew if he stayed in Germany long enough, he too, along with his entire family, would be among the missing.

  Although it had been four years since he’d spoken to any of his neighbors in Berlin, the last time he had, they informed him that the brownshirts had come by his home looking for him and offered a substantial reward to anyone who could tell them of Mr. Shapiro’s whereabouts. They also informed him that the Nazis had raided his home and loaded up trucks with valuable paintings, silver, and furniture. This, Mr. Shapiro had never shared with his wife, Ingrid.

  Because he knew the Nazi philosophy was gaining strength throughout the entire European continent, Mr. Shapiro didn’t feel his family would be safe if they made it known who they were. So, they used various false names, and everyone thought they were a poor family from northern France who moved to Sainte-Mère-Église because of the Nazi uprising in neighboring Germany.

  “It looks like the rain is coming down even harder,” said Joseph. “I think now is a good time to pull over until the rain lets up.”

  As he looked to the right for a safe place to pull over, he didn’t notice the large hole on the side of the road where the road bank had been washed away from the rain.

  When his left front tire hit the hole, it became submerged below the deep puddle and blew out when it hit the sharp edge on the other side of the hole. As the front wheel hopped out of the deep rift with a violent leap high into the air, slamming down on the asphalt, the rear wheel hit the same hole and suffered an identical fate, causing another violent blowout.

  Joseph tried to maintain control of the truck and trailer, but the two blowouts caused the top-heavy vehicle to lean hard to the left and roll over on its side and down the small embankment. The truck turned over multiple times before finally coming to rest on its driver’s side, as the wheels of the truck continued to spin freely. The accident caused their belongings to scatter for hundreds of meters throughout the wet field.

  Mr. Shapiro lay on his left side, pressed against his door, his family resting on top of him, pinning him to the broken glass of his door.

  “Is everyone okay?” asked Joseph.

  “I think I am, Joseph. Just a little banged up and sore,” replied Ingrid.

  “I’m fine, Papa,” said Alfred.

  “Dreyfus?” Asked Joseph, not hearing a response.

  “Dreyfus?” shouted Ingrid. “Oh Dreyfus!”

  Ingrid lifted her left arm to find Dreyfus unconscious and bleeding profusely from a severe gash across the left side of his head.

  May 10, 1940

  Northern France

  Philippe and Armand were just north of Reims when, in the distance, they saw a French military train headed northeast from Paris. Seeing it gave them a sense of pride and confidence. The steam from the stack blew high in the air as the engine pulled flatbed train cars carrying tanks and antiaircraft guns.

  Trailing behind the flatbeds were several passenger cars loaded with hundreds of French soldiers heading to the front lines.

  “That’s right, boys,” shouted Philippe. “Those Germans are about to learn their lesson for a second time. We defeated them in the Great War, and we will defeat them again.”

  In Armand’s excitement, he increased the pressure on the accelerator causing his 1932 Peugeot to rattle like an empty oil can filled with bolts.

  “We are getting close to Metz, Philippe. God, I hope the Maginot Line holds.”

  “It will, Armand. Our boys have been training for this moment for years.”

  Looking in his rearview mirror, Armand noticed three planes approaching from behind. “We have company, Philippe.”

  Philippe turned his head around and glanced through the rear window. Approaching them rapidly, staying low and parallel to the road, were three planes. With a loud roar and lightning speed, they flew right over their car before gaining altitude.

  “Did you see the black crosses on the fuselage?” asked Philippe. “Those are German planes.”

  They continued to watch them as they headed toward the supply train in the distance. In single file, all three planes quickly gained altitude. They made an abrupt turn to the left and then dove in the train’s direction, following a path directly over the tracks.

  As they zeroed in on the train, the first plane, a Messerschmitt 109, opened fire on the passenger cars, spraying a ray of bullets into the roof of each car, penetrating the wooden roofs. Philippe and Armand watched as some of the windows were shattered by the strafing bullets and others were sprayed with the blood of French soldiers.

  After the first plane veered to the right, the second plane, a Junkers Ju 87, dove sharply over the flatbed train car that was carrying the tanks. It dropped a large bomb directly on the first tank, causing it to explode into a massive fireball. That plane also veered, following the Messerschmitt into the horizon.

  Finally, the last plane, also a Junkers Ju 87, followed the same path as the previous two. It flew directly over the steam engine itself. Once again, another massive bomb was released from the bottom of the plane, scoring a direct hit, it created an explosion that was larger than the last.

  The train continued to stay on the tracks for several seconds before it tipped over on its right side. A violent shrieking noise could be heard over a kilometer away. Dirt and smoke rose high in the air as the remaining cars slammed together like an accordion, resulting in a third massive explosion.

  Armand pulled the car over to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes, causing the car to skid through the dirt.

  They sat quietly in disbelief at what they had just witnessed. Philippe felt sick to his stomach as a rush of emotions overcame him. He considered opening the door to vomit but fought the urge. Armand broke the silence. “They didn’t stand a chance, Philippe. What the hell are we up against?”

  May 10, 1940

  Étain, France

  “Don’t let them escape,” shouted SS-Sturmbannführer Gunther Dettmer. “Kill them!”

  The small squad receiving the order from Dettmer hesitated. Had they heard his instructions correctly? Why was he ordering the cold-blooded execution of innocent women and children?

  “What are you waiting for? Did you not hear me? Take them out—now!”

  The group of villagers were exiting the little village of Étain, which had the misfortune of being
in the path of the advancing German army. It had been set ablaze by air strikes, mortar rounds, and the firepower of dozens of Panzer tanks.

  The fleeing villagers watched as SS soldiers approached and forced them to halt on the edge of the road. Mothers held their crying children closely. The elderly made the sign of the cross and whispered prayers. Moments later—machine gun fire. Then—silence.

  May 10, 1940

  Northern France

  Though many meters away, the smell of the burning train was pungent—a mixture of wood, oil, and burning flesh.

  Armand opened his trunk and removed their weapons. He was slightly shorter than Philippe and looked up as he handed him his MAS-38 submachine gun.

  As Philippe inserted the only ammunition clip he had with him, Armand grabbed an ammo box and loaded his bolt-action MAS-36 carbine rifle. “How much petrol do we have, Armand?”

  “Not enough. And with all hell breaking loose, it will not be easy to find any.”

  “Let’s find a farm. If we tell the farmer we need to return to the front, he’ll give us what we need.”

  “That’s if the Germans haven’t already raided all the farms.”

  After they had traveled another twenty kilometers, cars headed south passed them at speeds that were far too fast for the narrow dirt roads. Tied to their roofs were suitcases and furniture.

  Later, they met large numbers of refugees. They were on foot. Some with nothing but the clothes on their backs, others with ox carts loaded with valuables. Their faces reflected exhaustion and defeat. Many had no place to go. They knew from living through the last war that their farms and villages in Belgium and northern France were no place to be during a German assault.