by Bodie Thoene
John Murphy looked at Mac McGrath, then asked the question he had been waiting for two hours to pose. “First Lord,” Murphy said, “I wonder if you would care to comment on the rumor that you are about to become prime minister?”
“A politician may be in the position of starting rumors or even of being their subject, but he should never comment on them.”
“Understood, sir.” Murphy grinned. “Perhaps you would just comment as to the accuracy of some . . . statements others have made about the present situation.”
“I believe you have phrased it delicately enough now, Mr. Murphy. Frame your statements.”
“Is it true that Clement Atlee and the Labour Party have declared that they will participate in a National Coalition government only if Mr. Chamberlain is not the head?”
“I have heard something to that effect, yes,” Churchill agreed.
“Furthermore, they specifically reject Mr. Chamberlain’s handpicked successor, Lord Halifax.”
“As to that,” Churchill said, “I do not know. However, Halifax has mentioned that he does not feel he can lead effectively from the House of Lords.”
“Meaning he is taking himself out of consideration?”
Churchill pursed his lips and shrugged. “Meaning no more than he intends to mean, I am sure.”
“Doesn’t that suggest that you are the logical choice? that tomorrow you may be prime minister?” Murphy pressed.
Churchill smirked. “I fear we have wandered back into speculation again, Mr. Murphy. Now if you and Mr. McGrath will excuse me.”
“Just one more thing, please, First Lord,” interjected Mac.
Murphy held his breath. He knew what Mac was going to ask, and Churchill was the one person whose answer was worth hearing.
“Is it possible that if you are prime minister, it will be because of the Altmark?” Mac asked bluntly.
Picking at some imaginary lint on the sleeve of his jacket gave Churchill a moment to phrase his reply. “You are very astute, Mr. McGrath,” he said at last. “I have been debating the same chain of events myself. If the Altmark had not been run to earth in Jossing Fjord, then perhaps Herr Hitler would not have stretched out his angry little hand against Norway, or at least not at the time that he chose. In such a case, the present cabinet crisis might not exist, and all the speculation about its outcome would be moot.”
Churchill withdrew a cigar from a leather case and studied it as if he found a message written there. “It is strange, is it not, upon what small hinges great events often turn?”
9
Moving Out
Young Jerome Jardin received word that the patients at the Hospital de la Charité were to be evacuated south so that space might be dedicated to the future victims of bombing in Paris. If there were any.
His blind uncle Jambonneau was very pleased, he told Jerome. Uncle Jambonneau had always wanted to spend time in Southern France with its balmy climate and vineyards and such. He dictated a message of farewell:
Perhaps I shall learn to paint! A new experience for me! Landscapes by a blind man. Ah well, maybe not. Next to seeing the sun, the best thing is to feel the sun warming one’s face. . . .
Promising to send notes often, Uncle Jambonneau gave the address of the sanitarium for soldiers of des Grandes Armee outside Marseilles. As a parting gift, he even bequeathed his “dog,” the rat Papillon, to Jerome forever. It was very touching, especially since Jerome knew how much Papillon meant to Uncle Jambonneau. Jerome was glad that Madame Rose and Madame Betsy wouldn’t mind Uncle Jambonneau’s dog staying with them on a more lasting basis.
And today there would be a special celebration. There were ninety children staying at No. 5 Rue de la Huchette on May 9. Madame Rose Smith had managed through the assistance of friends in high places to obtain tickets to the matinee performance of Snow White for everyone.
Jerome Jardin had been to only one movie in his entire life, and of all the impossible things that Madame Rose and God had arranged, this seemed the most miraculous of all.
Columns of children passed to the Right Bank of Paris over Pont Neuf. Pushing his friend Henri’s wheelchair, Jerome pointed out his former home—the barge Stinking Garlic moored below. The boat looked very fine now. Madame Hilaire and her associate thief had fixed it up. There was a For Sale sign on the end of the gangway. The rudder was in place. The sails and rigging were repaired and tied off neatly. Smoke from the engine sputtered up as the Thief worked on it.
“My sister and I used to live there,” Jerome told Henri.
“Why do you not live there now?” Henri looked at the boat and then down to admire the shine of his riding boots. Another miracle of Madame Rose and God.
“It was stolen from us. But it does not matter,” Jerome replied. “It was a good thing they stole it because my sister, Marie, now has glasses, and we are very happy with Madame Rose and Madame Betsy. I think when Papa comes back from the war and meets the sisters, he will see what a good thing it is we did not stay with Madame Hilaire while he was gone.”
Jerome meant what he said. He did not even feel angry about the Garlic anymore. He had friends and lots to eat these days. He did not have to worry about Marie. He was going to see an American motion picture with dwarfs and witches. And it was spring. There would be flowers blooming at the Maginot Line for his papa to see. Soon the war would be over. How much better could life be?
***
The sun was high above the hills and canyons of Luxembourg as Andre took the road north across the frontier into Belgium.
Yacov perched wide-eyed and attentive on Josie’s lap. Juliette Snow sat sad and solemn in the backseat of the Citroën as the familiar sights of the Grand Duchy fell away. Andre’s papers were checked by a single sentry at the Belgian frontier. They were quickly waved through the barrier to enter the pine forests, rocky promontories, and deep valleys of the Ardennes.
The Ardennes—Belgium’s natural Maginot Line. Swift rivers ran past castles and tiny slate-roofed villages. Summerhouses, stone-walled inns, and taverns lined roads that reached out from Liege like the thin strands of a spiderweb. But the idyllic, storybook beauty could not conceal the vision of coming horror in Andre’s mind as he sped through lonely forests and past high cliffs that dropped away into the river valleys below.
This vacationer’s paradise, this seemingly intractable wilderness, was Hitler’s biggest secret weapon. Behind the peaceful woodlands, Hitler’s Panzerkorps waited for the signal to explode across the border into Belgium.
There was little sign of any Belgian military presence on the serpentine highway. A Belgian motorcyclist roared by, followed by a group of young men on bicycles, who pedaled toward the heart of the forest. Were they among the thousands of German “tourists” Lewinski’s decoded messages had said were being sent across the neutral frontier of the Ardennes in advance of invasion? Dressed in camping clothes suitable for an outing in the area, they were nonetheless grim-faced and hard-looking. They did not look like young students out for a holiday.
Andre did not express his suspicions, but he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator.
Josephine must have felt his urgency to reach Brussels, yet for the sake of Juliette, she pretended that this was nothing more than a lovely excursion. Yacov had fallen asleep in her arms as she taught the child American songs: “Bye, Bye Blackbird” and “Happy Days Are Here Again!” The latter seemed a ludicrous sentiment to Andre, considering that this might well be the last happy day in Europe for a long time.
They stopped at an inn and purchased sandwiches made from famous Ardennes ham. Juliette picked out a half-dozen pastries to take along with them. That and a bottle of cold, fresh milk provided the makings of a picnic. But they ate their meal as Andre drove too fast along the treacherous highway that led into the lowlands.
***
There was in all the world nothing so wonderful as Snow White, Jerome thought. He conceded that his Communist papa would consider the Seven Dwarfs greedy little
capitalists who should have distributed all those jewels from their mines to the poor, but Jerome liked them all the same. He hoped that one day the Dwarfs would meet up with Madame Rose, and their hoarded wealth would become potatoes and shoes and eyeglasses and even tickets to the cinema.
He would like to be around to see it!
The air-raid siren erupted just as Jerome pushed Henri’s chair onto Pont Neuf. There were a few squeaks and squeals from the girls. Everyone craned their heads to search the sky for German bombers. Madame Betsy was calm. Madame Rose was calm. A few German bombers? Nothing to worry about. Walk to the nearest shelter and wait till the all clear.
Below the stone wall of the bridge, the piercing voice of Madame Hilaire echoed: “Mon dieu! Hurry! To the shelter! We must run to the shelter. You know what the fireman has said! The Boche will bomb boats on the quai to block the river first of all.”
Jerome leaned over the rail. He peered down at the woman he called a crazed anteater—one of those hideous creatures who sucks helpless ants out of their houses—as she ran in circles and waved her arms at the Thief, who moved slowly, wearily, toward the gangway. She dragged him toward the stone steps that led up to the street level.
Poor fellow, that Thief. He thought he was only stealing the Garlic, and he ended up with Madame Hilaire. A fate worse than death. She was louder than the siren, Jerome thought as he pushed Henri’s chair toward the nearest shelter.
***
The sun was setting as Andre, Josie, and the children swooped out of the foothills. Here they came upon a long line of rumbling troop lorries and camouflaged trucks, followed by small artillery pieces mounted on rattling tractors.
Only now did Josie dare to compare the Belgian defenses with what she had witnessed on her journey through the German lines facing Luxembourg. She looked at Andre. “Is this the best they have?” she asked him with dread.
“It is,” he replied curtly. “And it is headed away from the Ardennes, as you see. Entirely in the wrong direction.”
***
Andre drove into the parking area of the Brussels North Train Station just after nine o’clock on the evening of May 9. The city was brightly lit in spite of the fact that Belgian military mobilization was in full swing. It was a strange contrast to Paris and London, and proof that, in spite of intelligence information to the contrary, most Belgian civilians did not believe Hitler would dare violate their neutrality.
Inside the hall of the terminal echoed with soldiers and crowds of men and women who had come to see them off. Andre left Josie with the children on a stone bench beneath the clock and hurried off to purchase passage to Ostend and then on to Dover. He returned a half hour later with tickets but also with grim news.
“No trains to Ostend tonight.” He picked up Juliette, who had been sleeping on the bench. Cradling her against his shoulder, he brushed his lips against her cheek.
“My daddy used to hold us like that,” Josie said gently, lapsing into English. “On the way home from barn dances my brothers and sisters and I would pretend to fall asleep in the back of the pickup. All six of them and me. Just so he would carry us into the house.”
What a time to think of such a thing, she realized.
She put a hand to her head and chuckled. “I must be remembering someone else’s life. It could never have been so easy.”
“It is not supposed to be this hard, ma chèrie,” Andre replied wearily.
How long had it been since he had slept? she wondered. “She is a beautiful child, Andre. Really. And someday—”
“I cannot think of someday.” He shot a hot look at the huffing train that was packed with soldiers leaning out the windows and shouting their farewells. “I can think only of tomorrow—of you and Juliette and the baby safely away from here. The next train leaves at nine in the morning. It is nearly sold out . . . second-class tickets only. It seems a number of wealthy Belgians developed a sudden desire to see England. I should drive you to the Channel myself except . . .” He sighed.
“Except you may be needed here tomorrow.”
“I am needed here tonight. At our embassy. Paris telephoned ahead. They are expecting me there now. A meeting with the military attaché to the king. I would like you to tell him what you saw in Germany. They will make up a room for you and the children to stay tonight. As for the morning? We will just hope the train leaves before the arrival of the Luftwaffe.”
***
It was just after midnight when Sergeant Fiske shook Horst by the arm. Horst bolted upright, reaching for his Luger in the holster that hung over the back of a chair.
“It is me, Major. Fiske. Coded Enigma message from headquarters.”
“So? What is the time, Fiske? Could this not wait till morning?” Horst switched on the light beside the bed and groped for the wristwatch that he had knocked onto the floor.
“It was marked Urgent. Highest Priority, sir.”
“All right, Fiske. I am awake now. Where is the dispatch?”
“It did not seem necessary to bring a copy, sir, for just a one-word message.”
Horst felt a chill even though the room was warm. “What is it?”
“The word, sir, is Danzig.”
“Wake the company commanders,” Horst commanded. “Tell them to order their troops to fall in and stand by their machines. Have the men draw rations for three days. Then tell them I want them here, reporting complete readiness, in twenty minutes.”
When Fiske had saluted crisply and left on his errand, Horst slipped into his uniform and pulled on his tall boots. He was buttoning his tunic in front of the mirror when he stopped and studied his reflection in the glass. So it had happened. The signal to launch Blitzkrieg against the West had come. Horst knew he would be summoned to General Rommel in a very short time to hear how soon his units would be rolling across the border to engage the Belgians.
He felt oddly calm. Now that the order was given, the time for introspection was past. He owed it to the men—his men—to offer them the best leadership possible. No second thoughts, no troubling doubts. They were counting on him to help them survive, to live through today and the days that followed, until the ordeal was over. . . .
An hour later Horst was sitting with the other officers of Seventh Panzer as their division commander briefed them. General Erwin Rommel was impeccably dressed in his best uniform, his boots polished to a high gloss. With a Leica camera hanging around his neck, he looked more like a wealthy Berlin staff officer on holiday than a field commander preparing to go into battle.
“We push off at dawn,” Rommel informed the group. “The spearhead of each of our assigned routes will be a reconnaissance team, accompanied by Brandenburgers to deal with any demolition charges the Belgians may have left behind. The main body will follow. Keep the formation tight, gentlemen! I will sack any commander who does not keep to schedule. I have personally promised General von Rundstedt that the Seventh will reach the Meuse River before any other unit in Army Group A. I intend for us to keep that promise.”
Colonel Neumann, one of Rommel’s tank commanders, raised the question all of them were thinking. “And what weight of opposition do we expect to encounter from the enemy?”
“At the same time we move out, General von Bock’s Army Group B will move into northern Belgium and the Netherlands. Their attacks will race toward Rotterdam and Brussels. These actions, together with airborne landings behind the enemy lines in Holland, will convince the Allies that we are doing exactly what they expect and repeating the frontal assault of 1914. Therefore, they will weaken the forces facing us to reinforce the north. To answer your question, Neumann, there will be no serious opposition until we reach the Meuse, and we will be there the day after tomorrow. That will be all, gentlemen. Be ready to move out at 0500.”
10
The Waiting Is Finished
Hotel des Flandres on the Place Royal in Brussels, Belgium, was listed as the second-best hotel in Mac’s Baedeker’s Guide. The establishment that received the hig
hest ranking was the Bellevue, noted in the guidebook as “frequented by royalty and the noblesse; high prices.” Even the location of the two hotels seemed to reflect this snootiness. The Bellevue and the Flandres were adjacent, but the more expensive lodging preempted the view of the park.
All of which mattered very little to Mac. After a late arrival on the boat from England and a midnight train ride into Brussels, he was merely pleased to have a place to sleep.
He was up in the early morning hours of the tenth of May, poring over a map staked out between a silver coffeepot and a creamer on his breakfast table in the dining room. Mac was plotting a route that would take him to the Belgian fortress of Eben Emael east of the town. His assignment was to film the Belgian counterpart of the Maginot Line at what was reported to be the most modern defensive work in the world, completely impregnable.
The white-uniformed waiter appeared to take Mac’s order for toast and marmalade, bacon, three eggs, and a grilled chop. With a raised eyebrow the waiter asked, “And how many will be joining you for breakfast, Monsieur?”
Mac waved him away impatiently and returned to studying the map. Newsreel cameramen, like old soldiers, learned to eat whenever the opportunity existed. For who knew what would happen between this sure thing and another meal?
The distance to where Mac expected to find his story was not far. The map’s inch of space translated into no more than sixty miles.
The bacon, eggs, and toast had arrived at Mac’s elbow, but the chop had not yet appeared when the air-raid alarm on top of the Bibliotheque Royale began screaming out its warning. Mac’s waiter dropped a cup of coffee into the lap of a fat man at a nearby table, adding a different note to the wail of the siren. The service staff all dropped whatever they were carrying and disappeared through the doors to the kitchen, leaving a dumbfounded group of diners staring at each other.
