Checking the pockets of those killed in battle is standard procedure, and one of the more melancholy chores of the medic. Although often surprising too. The stuff soldiers carry around beggars belief sometimes: books, food, games, clothes, musical instruments, lucky charms (lots of those), women’s underwear, you name it – Jack Bowyer once found a pet mouse living in the pocket of one poor chap. These personal effects are noted down and placed in envelopes for return to next of kin – although the knickers and other dubious items such as contraband, condoms, dirty pictures, suspicious wads of cash and so on are tactfully omitted (mice too). Theo wasn’t dead when we found him, but we still needed to know who he was, and since he couldn’t tell us, we duly searched him. But there was nothing on him aside from the discs around his neck. No paybook, no identity card, no wallet or photos, nothing but the letter tucked into his chest pocket. I took it out that first night and skimmed through it looking for clues. It was well thumbed, grimy, bloodstained and obviously personal, so having learned only that his forename was Theo, I swiftly returned it to his pocket and forgot all about it.
For about five months. Then recently I decided it must be read properly. This was after the first session with the Rommel papers, when a Theo reference popped up in relation to Rome. Next day I wandered upstairs to question him. He was by then conscious and alert – more or less – but his memory was hopeless and as we spoke I learned little new, then remembered the letter and wondered if it might shed light on the whole mysterious business. Nor did I suffer misgivings about reading it, for by then I needed answers. Getting a peek was not so easy, and I had to wait for his allotted bath night when he went off to the washroom leaving his clothes on a chair. Fumbling through them, it took only seconds to find and read the letter. And again learn nothing useful. Except the power of true love.
Dearest Theo,
How I long for you, long to be with you and feel your arms around me. Our times together seem so distant, yet also so fresh and precious in memory. How they strengthen and sustain me these lonely days and nights. Remember the beach villa at Ténès? The power and tenderness of our lovemaking will remain with me always.
I am standing in a moonlit field in the countryside. A trusted friend is returning to London and has agreed to carry this letter. I have only a few moments to write it; I pray with all my soul that it reaches you, and finds you in good health and heart.
I love you, Theo, and think of you constantly. That we might be together after this war ends is my dearest wish and hope. Will you look for me? I pray so.
Take care and be strong, with all my love, C.
Dawn comes and still the rain falls. I’m lying on the bunk gloomily listening to it gurgle in the gutter when a key rattles in the door and the elderly police sergeant appears, bearing a tray. Black bread, cheese, a hunk of sausage and a steaming mug of ersatz coffee. Breakfast in bed, and suddenly prison life doesn’t seem so bad!
‘Good heavens,’ I say, ‘how marvellous, vielen Dank, Sergeant.’
He bobs his head. ‘I’m sorry it cannot be more.’
‘More? But this is wonderful.’
‘The least we can do.’
I sip the coffee. ‘We?’
‘Like I said last night, you are known.’
‘From the refuge for the destitute, you mean. At the old chapel?’
‘Yes, but not just that.’ He turns away. ‘Now I must go.’
‘Wait!’ An idea comes. ‘Wait, please.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wonder, do you happen to know the deputy Bürgermeister? No, not the deputy, he’s the acting Bürgermeister, Herr… Oh, what’s his name, Oden—’
‘Adenauer. Yes, I know him, of course.’
‘Good! So, I’m wondering, is there any chance a message could possibly get to him? About my, um, situation.’
He turns for the door. ‘It is already done, Captain.’
More follows. After breakfast and a trip to the washroom, I return to my cell to find a bundle on the bed from the Revier – plus a note from Erik:
I send your clothes and shave bag and notebooks, will try and get food, etc. later. Hold on to there if you can! Wheels are rotating! Vorst gone early! Trickey still AWOL but we discover he stole money from Prien, food from kitchen and our map! We think he knows what he is doing! Be strong, Dan, your good friend Erik. PS did you hear it?!
His English foxes me as usual but I assume ‘hold on to there’ means ‘stay put’ (as if I have a choice) and wheels rotating means developments are afoot. But what’s with the exclamation marks? And as for his PS… Did I hear what?
A tense morning ensues. Various comings and goings continue in reception, the telephone rings and voices are heard, but being stuck along the corridor it’s impossible to know what’s happening, if anything, so I stand, and pace, and sit, and stand again. The rain stops, planes drone overhead, noon comes, I hear children playing and the twitter of sparrows, and then I gradually become aware of a commotion in reception, of raised voices, men’s and women’s, angry exchanges, somebody banging on a desk, a piercing whistle, and finally another shout I recognize as Prien’s, and suddenly all falls to silence.
A minute later the door unlocks and the police sergeant, head shaking, escorts me to reception where a dozen or so people are waiting. I recognize Adenauer, and several helpers from drop-in, and a civilian patient or two. In front of them all, faces set and rifles a-port, stand Prien and two guards.
‘Was ist los?’ I enquire.
Prien straightens. ‘I am sorry, Hauptmann Garland, but Commandant Vorst has ordered your onward transportation. To Berlin.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘For questioning. We are to take you to the station. Guards will meet us there.’
‘I object.’
‘You what?’
‘Excuse me.’ Adenauer pushes forward. ‘As acting Bürgermeister of the municipality of Ulm, it is my contention that following recent developments, this city is now under civilian jurisdiction.’
‘Bollocks. Says who?’
‘Me.’ He nods at the police sergeant. ‘And him.’
The sergeant looks uncomfortable. Adenauer resolute. Prien dubious.
‘No.’ Prien shakes his head. ‘Commandant Vorst—’
‘Is not here. Where is he, by the way?’
‘He… I believe he is away, on urgent business. He left strict instructions—’
‘Away. So too are the officers of the garrison, leaving nothing but a few corporals and privates to protect the people and maintain the rule of law.’
‘Not my problem!’ Suddenly Prien grabs my arm. ‘Let’s go, Garland, I’ve had enough of this.’
‘Einen Moment!’ The door swings open and a small group enters. I spot Erik, and Gertrud Stemmer, and the chauffeur from Herrlingen; then to my surprise Trudi appears and gives a little wave. At their head, however, sweeping imperiously through the door in furs and hat, is Frau Lucie Rommel.
‘Unhand the doctor, Corporal,’ she demands.
‘Yes, but, madam…’
‘Right now, if you please. He is to return to his duties at the Revier.’
‘On what authority?’
‘This.’ She hands him a paper. I glance over his shoulder and recognize the chit Pip Smith gave me back in Stalag XIB. ‘It is his order from the medical services directorate transferring him to Ulm. Commandant Vorst does not have the authority to rescind it.’
Prien hems and haws, but knows he’s beaten, and the upshot is he releases my arm and the whole thing fizzles out. Formalities follow while they straighten out the paperwork; while this is ongoing I wander outside with Trudi and Erik.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say to her. ‘And, you know, supporting.’
‘That’s quite all right.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Doctor Henning telephoned my mother.’
Erik shrugs. ‘I thought the young lady might want to say goodbye.’
‘Ah. And the nu
mber?’
‘Was in your notebook.’
‘Of course. Although hopefully this isn’t goodbye. At least for the moment.’
‘Hopefully.’ She smiles anxiously.
‘So, Dan…’ Erik rubs his hands. ‘Did you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘All that noise. Last night!’
‘What… You mean the thunderstorm?’
‘No, Dan, that was no thunder. That was shelling. The Allies are barely thirty miles away!’
‘Good heavens. Which Allies?’
Trudi looks worried. Erik shrugs again. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
The date is 18 April 1945.
*
Ten months earlier, and following his disastrous Margival conference, Rommel, as ordered, went back to work, dutifully throwing himself into Normandy’s defence. Though as diligent and hard-working as ever, close colleagues nevertheless noticed a change in him. He was less hands-on with the details, less emphatic with instructions, and less interfering, preferring to dispense advice and encouragement rather than criticism and orders. He began by making the front-line tour he’d planned so carefully for Hitler, driving from position to position talking to staff officers, field commanders, NCOs and the men themselves. All were buoyed up by his arrival, if disappointed their Führer couldn’t make it. But from senior generals to the lowliest private, all told him the same story. Germany was losing in Normandy.
The statistics were staggering. Over a million men were now pitted against each other along a front barely eighty miles wide. Yet three-quarters of these were Allied troops. By late June 1944 Montgomery’s 21st Army Group had assembled over forty divisions in Normandy, as opposed to the dozen or so in Rommel’s Army Group B. And many of his were divisions in name only, so badly under-strength that they barely made a brigade. The 346th had been decimated at Bréville, and 21st Panzer was buckling under the onslaught. One of his divisions in the west, originally of ten thousand men, now comprised less than seven hundred.
Casualty figures everywhere were horrific, with an estimated hundred thousand Germans killed or injured thus far. Total dominance of sea and air meant every Allied move was preceded by devastating bombardments by fighters, bombers, rockets, artillery, even ships, which razed whole regiments before they could even engage the enemy. And when they did engage, overwhelming superiority in manpower, equipment and supplies ensured the defenders could never win. Nor fall back, with Hitler’s ‘stand or die’ directive accounting for thousands more casualties, most of them pointless. And of his hundred thousand dead and injured, Rommel had received less than ten thousand replacements.
It could not go on, and he knew it. Nor was he alone in this assessment. Time and again senior colleagues pressed him to act before Army Group B was wiped from existence. Men like Leo Geyr of Panzer Group West, Hans Funck of 47th Panzer Corps up near Cherbourg, Carl Stülpnagel of 17th Army, even Nazi hard-liners like Sepp Dietrich, whose 1st SS Panzer Corps was struggling so desperately on the Orne. Many were former rivals of Rommel’s, some had been his harshest of critics, yet as he drove from one to the next, all now looked to him to halt the madness.
‘Your Fall Grün proposal, Erwin,’ Geyr told him. ‘You should proceed with it.’
‘Without Führer approval? Impossible. I’d not get the support of the others.’
‘They’ll come round. Talk to them.’
‘No. The order must come from the top.’
‘He’ll never agree. He’d rather everyone die.’
‘I will try one more time. I will go to Berchtesgaden and insist he listen.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then God help us all.’
CHAPTER 9
The vehicle that collected Theo from General Gale’s Normandy headquarters in July 1944 was not the usual truck or Jeep but a real car, a Citroën saloon with French number plates and steering wheel on the left. That was the first clue. The second was the driver, a corporal who said nothing the entire time but was wearing a 2nd Army flash on his shoulder, implying something unusual. The third was the drive itself, which was long and circuitous, perhaps thirty miles, and took him well outside 6th Airborne’s operational zone. Hunched resignedly in the back, he stared through the window at the shadowy countryside, recalling other road trips to unknown destinations. Pushed to the floor of a partisan car in Rome; chauffeured to Gale’s madhouse in Wiltshire; the long night drive to Salo with the Gestapo: these journeys in his experience rarely presaged anything good. Beyond the window the night was dark and the sky overcast, the Citroën’s headlights were taped to thin slits, and he could tell only that they were travelling vaguely west. Passing successive small villages with names that meant nothing, they reached the larger town of Bayeux, drove right through and on another mile to a hamlet called Blay, followed a high stone wall and pulled up outside iron gates manned by guards. A muttered exchange followed, papers were scrutinized, a flashlight shone in his face, then the gates were opened and the Citroën crunched on to gravel. A large house loomed into shadowy relief at the end of a driveway, but before they reached it they turned down a bumpy track, lurched into woodland and stopped.
‘Wait here.’ The driver slammed the door and disappeared. Minutes passed, Theo heard the ticking of the engine as it cooled, and an owl hooting in the trees. To the north searchlights played over distant clouds, otherwise all was quiet.
‘Ah-ha, there you are!’
A face grinned at the window. It took a moment to identify it in the darkness; the stubbled chin, the rumpled uniform, the red glow of the cigarette between the lips.
‘Captain Grant? Is that you?’
‘In the flesh.’ Grant opened the door. ‘Good to see you!’
They shook. ‘You too, but…’
‘Yes I know, they finally let me out, can you believe it!’
‘Well, no, but that’s good, sir, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. And call me Dennis. I hear you got a bullet in the bum.’
‘Oh, yes, only a splinter though. In the thigh.’
‘All healed?’
‘It was infected but fine now.’
‘Good to hear.’ Grant took his arm, leading him along a path into the woods. As they went they passed pickets keeping guard. ‘I got the call two days ago. Came over on a destroyer, by Jove. Then transferred to a patrol boat which brought me closer, then clambered into one of those amphibious six-wheeled truck things…’
‘DUKW?’
‘That’s the one, and the damn thing drove me straight up the beach! Bloody marvellous, didn’t even get my feet wet!’
‘Marvellous, yes, er, Dennis. But can I ask why?’
Grant squeezed his arm. ‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’
They entered a clearing. Ranged around it, dimly lit and heavily camouflaged with foliage, draped nets and branches, were several large tents, a scattering of small vehicles and motorcycles, and two lorries with large hut-like structures built on to them. Wires and aerials festooned the trees like decorations, and one truck had a large radio antenna turning on the roof.
‘So listen, Theo, old chap.’ Grant stopped by a tent. ‘This is all a bit cloak and dagger, I know, but believe me it needs to be. Don’t get put off, just be yourself, stand your ground, and listen carefully to what’s said, OK?’
‘Said about what?’
‘You’ll see.’ With that he lifted the flap and ushered him inside.
About a dozen people waited within. Two were radio operators sitting at consoles with headphones about their ears; another, a major in American uniform, lounged by the entrance, while others lingered in shadow around the edges. A single woman, a FANY officer he noticed with a start, stood to one side with a notepad, and centre stage, leafing through a file, was a British army colonel.
‘Is this him?’ the colonel asked.
‘Yes, sir. May I introduce Acting Lieutenant Theodor Trickey.’
The colonel turned pages. ‘Then who is Andr
eas Ladurner?’
‘That’s him as well.’
‘An alias?’
‘Well not exactly, you see—’
‘Can’t the guy speak for himself?’ the American quipped. Theo turned and glanced, but didn’t recognize him. Stand your ground.
‘Yes I can. My full name is Andreas Theodor Josef Victor Ladurner-Trickey. It was shortened to Theodor Trickey for enrolment in the British army, whereas Andreas Ladurner is the name I used whilst in Italy.’
‘Doing undercover work for Grant and the SOE,’ the colonel said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And he gave you the codename Horatio.’
‘I… Excuse me?’
‘You heard. Did he?’
‘No.’
‘Then who did?’
An attentive hush had fallen. ‘May I ask what this is about, sir?’
‘Not yet. And I will ask once more. Who gave you that code name?’
‘It wasn’t a code name, not then, it was just a… a sort of nickname.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Lieutenant. Who gave you the name!’
‘Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel.’
*
Some kind of contact had been made, he learned over the next ten minutes. The colonel’s name was Matheson, he was with 2nd Army Field Intelligence, and he did most of the talking. The FANY woman wrote down everything on her pad; the rest watched and listened in silence. Apparently, Matheson explained, an American diplomat in Switzerland called Dulles had been maintaining low-level links with German resistance cells for some months. These groups aspired to much, but in reality delivered little; however Dulles kept contact in case something substantive developed. Lately it had, with growing rumours of overthrow and even assassination circulating; then out of the blue a startling new message had arrived from a different source.
‘Dulles received it in person,’ Matheson said, ‘recognized it as significant and forwarded it to his superiors in Washington. They in turn sent it to London.’
The Bridge Page 14
