The Occupation Secret
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
PART ONE
Prologue
Night Attack
Valhalla
PART TWO
Leave
Bach
Bettina
Homecoming
Father Bauer
France
PART THREE
Lucie Léré
La Bonne Auberge
Jeanne Léré
Hervé Najac
The Promenade
The Arrival
La Bastide De Marmont
Paul Meyer
Preparation
Anticipation
Tafelmusik
The Maquis
Canteloube
The Proposal
PART FOUR
Monsieur Phillibert
‘Un Amour Comme Le Notre’
Toulouse
Shadow-Play
The Oracle
The Bar Des Amis
Marie Léré
The Feuillardier’s Hut
The Tower
PART FIVE
Dominoes
Erste Licht
The Sea
The Auberge
Oysters
The Room
Goldengrove Unleaving
PART SIX
La Petite Mort
Le Retour
The Capture
Max
The Meeting
The Execution
St Gervais
Flairac Woods
Sanctuary
Grand Jean
PART SEVEN
The Invasion
L’Embuscade
Eberle
Tulle
The Villa
The Road To St Junien
Meyer’s Dream
Frayssinet-Le-Gélat
Oradour-Sur-Glane
Le Champ De Foire
Aftermath
PART EIGHT
The Return
The Cleansing
Walpurgisnacht
The Shrine
‘Collabos’
The Journey
First Dawn
The Farm
The Awakening
St Jean
PART NINE
The Cannery
No Return
Nomansland
Claustrophobia
Fish Heads
Pasajes De San Juan
Glossary
Copyright
‘But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man is the craving for identity with the woman that he loves. He desires to see with the same eyes, to touch with the same sense of touch, to hear with the same ears, to lose his identity, to be enveloped, to be supported. For, whatever may be said of the relation of the sexes, there is no man who loves a woman that does not desire to come to her for the renewal of his courage, for the cutting asunder of his difficulties. And that will be the mainspring of his desire for her. We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.’
From The Good Soldier, by Ford Madox Ford
PART ONE
Khodorov, Ukraine.
November 1943
Prologue
SS-Haupsturmführer Maximilian August Othon Ewald Áuxiliatrix, Count von Aschau, spat out the remains of the rolled-up scrap of newspaper he had been using to make himself a Makhorka cigarette, tipped back his crusher cap, and paused to check the time on the inside of his wrist.
He gave a fleeting smile as he caught the sound of his three remaining tanks firing up their engines against the cold. Grunting like an old man, he moistened the torn edges of the cigarette with the tip of his tongue, sealed the capsule with a dab of spittle, then pinched off the few remaining tobacco flakes and replaced them inside his rubber-lined pouch. Briefly, routinely, he checked out his surroundings with the partially focused thousand-metre-gaze shared by all veterans of the Winter War. Satisfied, he groped inside his camouflage jacket, retrieved the cord attached to his storm lighter, leaned superstitiously away from the stove, and lit the papirosu inside half-frozen hands.
He waited for a few seconds for the tobacco to take effect, and then checked his watch again. The three tanks cut their engines as one. He nodded his head in satisfaction. The resident grime on his face, the spider-work of combat lines around his eyes, the cold-driven slowness of his movements, all served to belie his twenty-eight years of age.
He squinted across the Hindenburg stove at his war comrade and last-surviving friend, Company Sergeant-Major Paul Meyer, tendrils of cigarette smoke dancing between them in the winter-bound air. ‘I hate to waste our Panzer fuel this way, Paul. Hate it. So each night we grow weaker. Less able to move our tanks. And each night the Ivans grow stronger.’ He flicked his head in a Deutscher Blick at the surrounding darkness, checking, out of long habit, to see who was listening. ‘Where is it all going to end, I wonder?’ In the sudden silence left by the stifled Panzer engines the two men could make out the faint sound of the enemy singing.
Meyer unhooked the curved Meerschaum from between his teeth, spat on the bowl, then buffed the pipe vigorously against his leg. ‘Listen to that, Captain. The Popovs have been given their vodka ration. The commissars must be preparing another attack. We have two, maybe three hours at the most.’ He stood up and blew his nose the farmer’s way, clamping a finger to each nostril in turn. ‘They have women with them, too.’
Max reared back. ‘Sweet Jesus! Don’t tell me you can smell them from this distance?’
Meyer grinned. ‘Hear them. They screech. All the men are basses.’
Max let out a derisive bark of laughter. ‘So. We’d better eat then. Build up our strength.’ He prodded at the overcooked meat in the eintopf – in the rapidly fading light it was indistinguishable from the cabbage swimming beside it. ‘What fresh delicacy has Schmidt managed to scrounge for us this time?’
‘Fox.’
‘Ah.’
‘Don’t worry. They tell me that if you rub it with salt, then pinch your nose and pretend that it’s a haunch of venison, it doesn’t taste so bad.’
‘Better than human flesh, anyway.’
‘Yes, Captain. Better than human flesh.’ The joke had gone stale on them a long time ago. Both men knew it. But still they clung to it for comfort.
Using the shared laughter as cover, Paul Meyer glanced furtively at his commanding officer. The collar of Max von Aschau’s camouflage overalls hung open to reveal the Knight’s Cross he had won at Kharkov, surmounted by the Oak Leaves – which he insisted on calling his ‘vegetables’ – the authorities had grudgingly awarded him after the defeat at Kursk, in honour of his third wounding. Inside his reversible jacket he wore the German Cross in silver, the Close Combat Clasp in gold, an arm stripe to show the single-handed destruction of an enemy tank, the Infantry Assault Badge in Bronze, the Panzer Assault Badge, and the Wound Badge. Even after three years spent living in each other’s pockets, Meyer was still able to summon up a surge of pride that he should be fortunate enough to serve under an officer of the calibre of von Aschau. It could have been so much worse. Look at Schachtel. The man was a worm.
But Meyer was becoming uneasy. The Kursk debacle had affected Max badly. These last few weeks he had become progressively humourless – highly strung, even. As a result of this change in his behaviour he was in imminent danger of losing the exalted boyishness that had so endeared him to the older and more experienced NCOs under his command. The war, it seemed, was finally getting to him – Christ,
it was getting to them all – but to a man like von Aschau the thing seemed almost personal.
Shaking his head to clear it of such negative thoughts, Meyer tapped his pipe out on his knee and indulged in a preparatory clearing of the throat for his newest joke. ‘Listen to this one, Captain. You’ll like it. I promise you.’ He stabbed the stem of his pipe at von Aschau, while his lips began the involuntary chewing motion that was Meyer’s invariable run-up to telling a new story. ‘I have a question for you. And it is this. Why doesn’t Adolf show up at the front anymore?’
Max mimicked a groan. ‘Why, Paul?’
‘Because the Teppichfresser’s petrified we’ll scream out, “Yes, my Führer! Lead us!! We’ll follow you!!!” Meyer let out a smoker’s raucous cackle, revealing the tobacco-mottled remnants of his decaying teeth. His eyes belied his laughter, however, playing intelligently over Max’s face. Weighing his frame of mind. Judging the tenor of his mood.
Max’s face creased into the semblance of a grin. He could feel his affection for Meyer swelling in his throat – the simple presence of the man, the almost palpable aura of good sense and competence he exuded was a priceless comfort in this godforsaken wilderness. ‘You’d better not tell that to the wrong person, Paul. They shoot men here for less. In fact, if I was doing my duty according to that last shit-paper they sent me from HQ, I should stand you up against a tree and shoot you now, and to hell with your fighting record. We’ve reached such a damned stupid pass as that.’
‘The Popovs shoot people too.’
‘It’s a cleaner way to die when the Popovs get you.’
Fifty metres away a radio set squawked, then hissed into life. Max swivelled around and squinted into the gloom. He waited. Thirty seconds later young Doerr came sprinting across the clearing, a grey sheet of paper clutched to his thigh. He squatted silently beside his commanding officer and handed him the note. Doerr reeked of the familiar soldier mixture of tobacco, feet, sweat, gasoline, and the zinc ointment they all used against lice infestation. Von Aschau, after years on the Russian front, found the odour almost comforting. It was so much better than the bittersweet smell of physical dissolution that seemed to have been assaulting his nostrils ever since the catastrophe at Kursk – the stench of frostbite and bone caries, of pyoderma and lymph infestations. At least Doerr was alive and stinking. They were all alive and stinking.
‘Tell the men to assemble.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
Max straightened up. He could feel Meyer’s eyes boring into him. He crumpled up the flimsy and fed it slowly into the stove. ‘Schachtel wants some more prisoners to interrogate.’
Meyer sucked in his breath. ‘What was wrong with the last bunch we provided?’
‘They died.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Just what I say. They died. The Einsatzgruppe killed them before anyone had a chance to ask them any questions.’
‘Gott in Himmel!’
Max thrust the heel of one hand across his face, as if he were kneading a recalcitrant lump of dough. ‘I’ve decided not to send you this time, Paul. That new sergeant they foisted on us can go. The Berliner. What’s his name?’
‘Schuss. Sergeant Schuss.’
‘He can do it.’
‘They are my men.’
‘And you are my sergeant-major. I simply can’t afford to lose you.’
Meyer waved his pipe. ‘He’s a Jonah. He’ll get them all killed. The man’s not KV, for pity’s sake. Can’t you see he’s finished? Someone strikes a match near him, he leaps for cover. You must have noticed how the men avoid him?’
Max lurched unsteadily to his feet. The remaining eighteen men of the von Aschau battle group were patiently assembling at the far edge of the clearing, waiting for their commander to address them.
With a final glance at Meyer, Max rearranged his expression, straightened his shoulders, and strolled towards the expectant group, his gait belying the bone-weariness he felt in every overtaxed sinew. In a compulsive movement familiar to them all, he raised his crusher cap, smoothed back his unwashed blonde hair, then replaced the cap on his head at a jaunty angle. He stopped close to the men, his feet slightly apart, the shadow of a smile playing across his features. ‘Children, I have some bad news. Our beloved Major Schachtel wants us to go out and fetch him some more Popovs.’
One or two of the men flinched, as if at the detonation of some distant mine. The others stood motionless, their faces attentive, non-committal.
‘So, Sergeant-Major, you know the routine. You will detail five unmarried men for active reconnaissance duty. Two prisoners should be sufficient. The patrol will take no more than two hours at the outside, or they will find themselves overrun by tonight’s attack. When they return, they may take their prisoners to the rear and come back with food, fuel, and schnapps. Schnapps, you hear me? None of that Samahonka rotgut. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, Captain.’
‘Do you wish to lead the detail yourself?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Very well then.’ Max could sense the relief circulating among the men when they knew that Meyer, and not Schuss, would be accompanying them. Incredible how the bastard always had his finger so firmly on the underlying pulse. ‘Carry on, Sergeant-Major.’
‘Jawohl, Herr Haupsturmführer!’
As Max walked away, he could hear Meyer calling out the names of those he would be taking with him. Wahl. Karkowski. Brasick. Krug. Doerr. Some of his best soldiers. Two farmers, a carpenter, a blacksmith and a brewer – the salt of the earth. Each man with his own well-honed technique of survival and killing; each man, an adept at the deadly game of hide-and-seek they were increasingly being forced to play in these endless damned forests, defending this endless damned river. Max brushed vainly at his camouflage tunic. How much longer would he be forced to send good men to their deaths like this? And for what?
He stopped walking and glanced briefly back towards the group. They made a strange picture. In the rapidly falling dusk the pine trees loomed over them like a troupe of dervishes frozen in the act of twirling and bellowing their multi-coloured skirts. Thick flakes of snow were spiralling down onto the men’s camouflage capes, hissing against the surface of their portable heaters, settling inside the creases of their massive felt overboots, then gradually melting. At the far end of the clearing Meyer had already charcoaled his face, and was waiting impatiently for Doerr to finish taping up his machine pistol.
Max caught Meyer’s eye and raised one hand. He used the Bavarian greeting. ‘Servus, Spiess. Machs gut.’
Some of the men turned towards him, shocked that their captain would use the slang name for a sergeant-major in their presence. Then they saw Max’s smile and Meyer’s echo of it, and nudged each other, grinning.
Smiling broadly, Meyer slipped the SS collar tab beneath his camouflage tunic, adjusted his scarf, then buttoned the tunic snugly across his throat. ‘Get a move on, Doerr, you leprous little dung-beetle. The Ivans are expecting us. And I’m hungry for my supper.’
Night Attack
The snow hesitated, eased a little – as if weighing up whether or not it was worth its while restarting – then let up for good.
Max braced himself against the lightning-damaged tree and swept his 10x50 Dienst glasses along the outer edge of the forest. Something was wrong. Where was the Russian attack? And why was Meyer not back yet? He had made it perfectly clear that the patrol must return within two hours, prisoners or no prisoners. Meyer had understood his orders. It simply wasn’t like him to disobey them.
Immediately behind Max, the field-grey Tiger blended inconspicuously into the landscape, with only the white gnome emblem and the lemon-coloured runic Wolfsangel symbol of the Das Reich Panzer Division standing out in the grudging moonlight. Max doubled back to the tank and pulled himself hand over fist up the turret. He swung over the lid and dropped heavily down into the unheated cabin. Squatting awkwardly inside the gun-well, he mopped at his face with t
he back of his glove.
‘I want one volunteer from each crew to enter the forest, under Sergeant Schuss’s command, and find out what has happened to the reconnaissance detail. Then report back to me.’
‘May I go, Captain?’
‘Good for you, Schmidt. Hausser, contact the other vehicles and relay my orders to them.’
Max unwound his six-foot three-inch frame and slithered back into the turret. He stood up, raised his glasses, and made another detailed sweep of the forest edge. Nothing. Nothing at all. He let the glasses fall.
A breath of unseasonably warm air flicked at his cheek. An instant later he subconsciously registered the distant echo of a rifle shot.
He ducked swiftly back inside the cockpit, cursing. A slick of cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and was trickling down into his eyes, diluting the thin flow of blood from where the bullet had grazed his head. Christ, but that one had been close. An atavistic surge of fear flushed through his body, making him doubly angry.
‘Sniper! Rake the forest fifty degrees!!’
Below him the heavy machine gun opened up with its evil, staccato snarl. Max shinned back up the ladder, slipped on his headphones and throat microphone and focused his binoculars on the tracer as it arced towards the trees. That would make the bastards jump. His heart was still pumping uncontrollably fast.
‘Forward! Full throttle!’
The Tiger lurched into gear and began to pick up speed.
‘Now take her in.’
He was shouting into the mouthpiece now, struggling to be heard against the demented howling of the engines – struggling to think clearly.
‘Tell the other two tanks to cover us. But they are not – repeat: not – to enter the forest.’
The mass of the Tiger struck the edge of the trees, sweeping the half-grown timber aside. Max unbuttoned his pistol holster and slid the Mauser into his hand. From somewhere behind him the familiar yapping of the Panther heavy machine gun opened up, followed by the slower da-da-da of the captured Russian T-34.
‘I said full throttle!’
A shadowy figure broke cover from behind some nearby trees. Max snapped off a shot. The man pitched forward onto his knees, shrieking, his head tucked beneath him, the arm holding the rifle stretched out in front of him like a peasant in some mediaeval triptych begging for bread.
The Occupation Secret Page 1
