Doyle Glass
Author, historian, and sculptor dedicated to honoring those who fought for freedom. He is a master at recounting true stories of brave men and women who were outnumbered and out-gunned but continued to battle toe-to-toe with ferocious opponents in war.
His first book, Lions of Medina, gives a firsthand account of the sacrifices made by the Marines of Charlie Company during Vietnam.
His second book, Swift Sword, chronicles the gut-wrenching story of valiant Marines in Vietnam who endured a horrific firefight isolated on a lone knoll in the Queson Valley.
Coming in 2024, Unthrottled: The Story of Robert Benoist will reveal the harrowing story of Robert Benoist, a famous French Grand Prix World champion in the 1920s and Le Mans race winner in the 1930s, who risked everything as a British secret agent to help rid France of the Nazi occupation during WWII.
Excerpt from Unthrottled: The Story of Robert Benoist
JUNE 26, 1943: THE PING PONG BAR
“What is the phrase again? The one we are to ask the barman?”
Still dressed in his white racing overalls, Maurice struggled to keep up. The night was hot and sticky
and the street, Rue Brunel, just off the avenue Grande de L’Armee, was the last place I wanted to be.
“Have you seen Gilbert?” I said. “He’ll know who we are looking for.”
A few feet up the street, I caught sight of a red neon light. It flashed “Ping,” “Pong,” then “Bar” above a
heavy oak door. Just a half hour before curfew, we didn’t have much time. If we were going to find Dericourt,
it had to be here, tonight.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? Maurice asked.
I said nothing. Without checking my pace, I closed the distance to the flashing light, seized the handle
of the door, opened it, and stepped inside.
The bar was long and narrow. To my right there was a counter fronted by four backless stools, behind
that stood a short, round man who I took to be the barkeep. To the left, there were six tables with three
chairs each. The back of the windowless room opened to a larger square, one that held three ping-pong
tables.
The air was stale and smelled of cigarettes and body odor. And, something else- the smell of grease and
meat.
To my left, three German soldiers sat at one of the tables. They were laughing, smoking, and drinking
beer. In the lap of the largest one sat a pretty, young French girl about the same age as my daughter.
In the back, German soldiers, six of them, occupied all three tables. There were two at the end of each
table, stripped down to their shirtsleeves, talking loud and sweating as they repeatedly whacked about a
small celluloid ball. The clatter of the balls on paddles, the guttural sounds of their voices, the smells, and
the lack of time all scraped at my nerves like sandpaper.
“Nine of them,” Maurice muttered. “We should come back another time.”