Forcing away the lowering thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him, Meyer then taught Anton how to hold, and strip, and cherish a gun; how to soften a pair of boots until they felt like extensions of your own feet; how to cut wood in perfect triangles, and stack it under the eaves to dry, so that you were always two years ahead of what you needed. How to tend wounds with sphagnum moss and birch bark, and how to make tea from wayside herbs and dandelions. Where to find redcurrants and wild cherries and all manner of soft fruits, so that your mother could make you Rote Grütze with Vanillensoße, which you would eat until the juice had stained your mouth and hands and cheeks, and your shirt was red with it as with a hundred wounds.
And finally, Meyer dreamed of his own mother, long dead now, carried off by the influenza epidemic of 1919 when he was barely twelve years old. He remembered praying with her at night beside her bed, her frail hand on his head: ‘Lieber Gott ich bitte Dich, Behüte und Beschütze mich, Amen.’ He remembered the smell of her Speisekammer, the way she made coffee, the taste of her cakes, the scent of nutmeg clinging to her clothes, the crispness of the sheets after she had ironed them in the presses, and the smell of the hot linen. He remembered her voice and the soft touch of her calloused hands on his cheeks. And he thought of her grave, with no one now to varnish the wood of her cross or to replant with wild flowers the borders of her burial place.
Was everything to be forgotten? Was life so insignificant, then, that its memorials mattered for nothing?
Meyer lay back in his bed, with his eyes wide open, and watched the dawn slowly emerge through the cracks in his shutters.
Frayssinet-Le-Gélat
11:30 am: Saturday 10th June 1944
The report of SS-Sturmbannführer and Knight’s Cross holder Helmut Kampfe’s capture by the Maquis was belatedly signalled through to Sturmbannführer Otto Dickmann at the Hôtel de la Gare, St Junien, at 05:00 hours on the morning of the 10th June, just as the first rays of sun were beginning to penetrate through Meyer’s shutters.
It appeared that Major Kampfe’s Talbot motor car had been waylaid at dusk on the previous evening by a roving band of Maquis in La Bussière, a small hamlet situated roughly fifteen kilometres due east of Limoges. Major Kampfe had been forced out of his vehicle at gunpoint and driven away to an unknown destination – two local men who had found themselves, by chance, in the vicinity, had subsequently been shot by the military authorities for claiming not to have any information about the abduction.
As soon as he heard the news of the kidnapping, Major Dickmann left orders for an assembly of all the officers under his command to be held immediately upon his return from an early morning fact-finding mission to Der Führer HQ at Limoges.
* * *
Punctilious as always, Dickmann arrived back from Limoges on the dot of eleven thirty in the morning, his face white with suppressed fury. His eyes drifted across the unfamiliar features of Max von Aschau and Paul Meyer in the throng of familiar officers attending him, without at first seeming to take them in.
‘This has been a black night for us all. I can now confirm to you that rogue terrorist elements kidnapped Major Helmut Kampfe at around nine o’clock yesterday evening. We have good reason to believe that he is being held captive somewhere within a fifteen kilometre radius of the village of Oradour-sur-Glane, and that the terrorists mean to execute him and publicly burn his body at the earliest possible opportunity.’
An angry moan – a susurration, almost – escaped from the room at large. Max glanced swiftly across at Meyer and noticed that he, too, was looking increasingly uncomfortable with Dickmann’s firebrand approach to the Kampfe kidnap. Publicly burn his body? This was certainly a French first, in Max’s experience. Dickmann appeared to be labouring under the not-uncommon delusion that they were all still in Russia.
‘This information comes to us from an impeccable source, namely Lieutenant Gerlach, Sturmgeschützabteilung’s ordnance officer, who managed to escape from his executioners last night and report back to us on their whereabouts, and whom I interviewed in person this morning. I have, in consequence, received instructions to clean up the area and to free Major Kampfe – a man whom I look on not only as a comrade-in-arms, but also as a close personal friend. I must tell you now that I intend to fulfil these orders whatever the cost – either to us or to the terrorists. And I expect all the officers and men under my command to behave accordingly.’
There was an undercurrent of vocal assent, a few of the assembled officers even crying out ‘Schande. Schande.’
Dickmann’s tone reverted to its more customary military veneer. ‘We shall leave here at 1:30 pm precisely. One hundred and twenty men, two half-tracks and eight trucks should be more than sufficient for our purposes. Haupsturmführer Kahn, order the mobilisation.’
Kahn stepped briskly forward. ‘Before I do that, Herr Major, may I present SS-Sturmbannführer von Aschau, and SS-Sturmscharführer Meyer, both of whom have been seconded to us by Tulle HQ pending the outcome of an informal inquiry.’
Dickmann hesitated. His eyes, which had been wandering over the assembled officers with no clear objective, now focused on Max and Meyer as a pigeon-hawk will fix upon its grounded prey. ‘Ah, yes. Now I remember. Jaspert sent me a memo about you. I see that you too are a holder of the Knight’s Cross, Major von Aschau, just like my friend Helmut Kampfe. You will accompany us, gentlemen, on our little hunting expedition? An army always needs its heroes.’
Max clicked his heels and bowed his head. Years of experience with battalion commanders had taught him how to identify when a request was really an order. ‘As you wish, Major Dickmann.’
Dickmann turned to Kahn. ‘The more the merrier, eh, Otto. Remember Fraysinnet-le-Gélat?’ The two men locked eyes.
Max froze in the act of straightening up from his bow. ‘I shall get ready then.’
Dickmann smiled at him, but his eyes were cold, belying the light-heartedness of his tone. ‘You do that, Major. You do that. And get a little lunch inside you. I’m sure that your presence as an observer – even as a participant, if you so desire – will be invaluable to us. And I, for one, never believe in going to work on an empty stomach.’
Max saluted, but he was unable to summon up an answering smile. He could sense the presence of Meyer following him out of the door, but he did not look back. Dickmann’s infectious laughter reverberated off the walls behind them as the man shared what was clearly yet another insider joke with Kahn. Strange, conjectured Max, how swiftly Dickmann had managed to recover his sense of humour after the heavily contrived gloom of that morning’s meeting.
Once he was safely out in the corridor, Max made a beeline for the nearest exit. He stood in the gently falling rain, swallowing in great gulps of fresh air, as if he had just emerged splashing and coughing from a near-drowning.
‘What is it?’ Meyer came up beside him. He stared anxiously at Max’s face through the mizzle. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You heard him. You heard what the man said.’
‘That we’re going in after Kampfe. Yes. Why is that so strange?’
‘Not that. Later. To Kahn. About Fraysinnet-le-Gélat.’
‘Fraysinnet-le-Gélat? Where’s that?’
‘You mean what’s that, don’t you? What happened there.’
Meyer glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Tell me, then. We’re alone here.’
Max gave a snort. ‘It was the scene of a… a what do you call it… a ratissage.’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘It’s an elegant French euphemism for a massacre, Paul. It’s what you do when you comb your hair for lice. Three women – an old lady and her two nieces – were hanged on Dickmann’s orders, and their bodies publicly burnt in the remains of their house. And then a further ten hostages were chosen at random from four hundred people assembled in the square, and immediately executed. And all because the old woman had fired a warning shot from her husband’s antiquated shotgun, out of sheer panic at encountering our soldiers, somew
here in Dickmann’s approximate vicinity. The whole situation was an outrage. An unnecessary outrage. It put back our relations with the local French by at least a year.’ Max shook his head. ‘It’s quite clear that Dickmann intends to conduct a similar sort of operation at Oradour.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘The man has an established reputation for this sort of thing, Paul. Both he and Kahn. The little rat’s example was held up to us by Lammerding at one of his morale-boosting pep talks in Montauban, as someone his commanders should all feel proud to emulate.’
‘But why does Dickmann want us along?’
‘Not us. Me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It seems I’ve been selected as a high-profile scapegoat. Knight’s Cross holder goes in search of kidnapped Knight’s Cross holder. Angrily joins in ratissage of village. Dickmann and Kahn weren’t able to hold me back. That sort of thing. Don’t you see?’
‘Not really.’
‘The bastard is covering his arse, Paul. And high command will be delighted. Once I’ve been involved in something like this, I’m their creature. They can do what they like with me.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘The logic is perfect. The timing immaculate. The Judas Goat already pegged out. You must see it?’
‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘We are not going to do anything. I am.’ Max turned to Meyer. A thin film of Scotch mist burnished his face, giving additional depth to the livid blue intensity of his eyes. ‘I’m not going to stand idly by while they contrive another Tulle and then throw the responsibility back onto me. I’m going to try and put a stop to this thing once and for all, before it spirals completely out of control.’
‘You’re crazy. You’ll never get away with it. The politicos will put you up against a wall and use you for bayonet practice.’
‘Oh really? Then tell me, Paul. How is that different from facing a firing squad for faking Najac’s death?’
Meyer looked down at the ground. He slowly shook his head.
‘When it comes down to it, you see, what in the hell have I got left to lose?’
Oradour-Sur-Glane
1:45 pm: Saturday 10th June 1944
The imminent certainty of his own death surprised Max. He had expected death before, of course, but somehow always tomorrow, or the next day – for he shared with Meyer the visceral, unthinking optimism of the born fighter. Now he was obliged to face up to the fact that he was done for, any way that you cared to look at it.
When they dug up Najac’s grave and found it empty, someone would sooner or later make the connection with Lucie, and he would face a court martial and almost certain execution for terminal derogation of duty and disloyalty to the Führer. If he disobeyed a direct order and attempted to dissuade Dickmann from perpetrating an unnecessary massacre, he would equally certainly face a court martial and execution for treason and disloyalty to the Corps. Where was the difference? A few uneasy weeks spent waiting for the inevitable? At least this way he would be doing something worthwhile with what remained of his life.
Max shifted his knees into a more comfortable position. He was seated in the back of Dickmann’s commandeered deux chevaux Citroen, with Dickmann squeezed in beside him, shouting into the radio telephone. He was so close to the man that he could smell his fear – sense the raw edges of Dickmann’s nerves at the prospect of action. He glanced back at the half-track immediately behind them. Meyer was sitting in the cab, a temporary guest of the 3rd Der Führer Company’s sergeant-major. As Max watched, the half-track broke away from the convoy, followed by its companion.
‘Where are they going?’
Dickmann turned to him. ‘They are following my orders. All the inhabitants to the south of the town are being rounded up as well.’
‘What do you intend to do with them once you have rounded them up?’
Dickmann turned away and stared out of the window. ‘Stupid question.’ He spoke to the glass, not to Max. ‘You fought on the Russian front, didn’t you? Isn’t that where you won your “vegetables”?’ Dickmann made a tinkling gesture with his hand, as if he were holding up a handful of medals and using them as a bell to summon his servants with. ‘What did you do with them there?’
‘We didn’t massacre civilians.’
‘Oh really?’ Dickmann turned to face Max. ‘That wasn’t my experience.’
Max reached across and grabbed Dickmann’s sleeve. ‘You and Kahn are going to conduct a slaughter here, aren’t you? Just as you did at Fraysinnet-le-Gélat? Even you don’t need one hundred and twenty men to pacify an overgrown village.’ When Dickmann didn’t respond, Max shook his head unbelievingly. ‘You’ve no idea these people even had anything to do with it, have you? Kampfe was captured more than thirty kilometres away. You’re simply relying on hearsay.’
‘It is no longer your concern.’
‘Of course it’s my concern. You and your kind are dirtying the war, Dickmann. We should be repelling the Allies on the Normandy beaches, not quailing civilians out here. We are meant to be soldiers, not barbarians. Look, man. It’s not too late to turn back. With the forces available to you here, you could put out a net through the whole area – find Kampfe that way. Then you could punish the people who took him directly.’
Dickmann reached inside his holster before Max had any chance to react. He rested the Mauser lightly on his lap, then turned to Max with a supercilious smile. ‘Please hand me your weapon.’
Dickmann’s adjutant turned around from his position beside the driver and stared at both of the men with a shocked face.
‘Lange. Take out your pistol and cover Major von Aschau.’
Lange hesitated.
‘That is a direct order, man. Do what I say!’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Max eased his pistol from its holster and handed it, butt first, to Dickmann, who passed it casually across the seat to Lange. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘I? Mad? Hardly. I simply refuse to tolerate bleeding heart officers under my direct command, threatening to take the law into their own hands and foul up a delicate and sensitive operation. Now kindly shut and buckle the lid of your holster, von Aschau. I don’t want any of my more susceptible men to suspect that a bona fide hero like you – a man whom they may wish to emulate – is entering a combat zone disarmed by his own commanding officer.’
Max shook his head incredulously, but did as he was told. He would hold his fire for now. There would be other times. Times when he could make use of Dickmann’s obvious vanity, and turn it against the man.
Dickmann allowed a pensive expression to flit across his face, as if he were having trouble making up his mind about something. ‘I was specifically asked by Colonel Jaspert not to inform you of this, von Aschau. But I have taken an abrupt, even quite prejudicial dislike to you, and now it pleases me to do so.’
‘Inform me of what?’
‘Only this. That your father, your elder brother and your sister’s husband, the traitor von Wammensee, have all three been detained by the military authorities in Munich accused of subversive behaviour prejudicial to the tenets of the state. They and forty more idiots of the same ilk – who signed their names to a proclamation, God help them, to put pressure on the Führer – are to be paraded at a show trial in Berlin before being publicly executed. Pour encourager les autres, one presumes.’
Max turned deathly pale. ‘You are talking nonsense. This is insanity. My father is not a traitor. He fought and bled for this country in the Great War.’
‘You obviously live inside a den of snakes, von Aschau. The chances that you have not been tarnished by your proximity to these turncoats is infinitesimal. You’re a disgrace to your regiment and to the Corps.’
‘You’re lying through your teeth, Dickmann.’
‘I can assure you that I’m not. I received a set of verbal orders from Colonel Jaspert only this morning – namely, to steer you towards a heroic death, only coi
ncidentally at the hands of your own people. I can picture the headlines in the Schwarze Korps Journal already: “Shamed by his father’s actions, gallant Major von Aschau, late of the Waffen-SS and holder of the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves for conspicuous gallantry, preferred to die in combat rather than face his family’s disgrace.”’ Dickmann turned his face away from Max, as though he were dealing with an already dead man. ‘Lange, when we get to Oradour, you will make sure that Major von Aschau is guarded at all times. But I want him visible. Keep him in the main square. I want the men to see him and to know he is supporting them. It’s always comforting to know we have a hero behind our actions.’
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer!’
Dickmann squinted out of the window. ‘Look. The sun is coming out to greet us.’ He canted his head to one side, and smiled in an avuncular manner at his adjutant. ‘If he gives you any trouble, Lange, shoot him. Major von Aschau’s unfortunate death from a stray terrorist bullet will give what we are about to do an even more extreme justification.’
Le Champ De Foire
2:40 pm: Saturday 10th June 1944
Meyer stood in the Champ de Foire at Oradour and gazed in burgeoning disbelief as the men were separated from their families and forced to sit in three rows, with their faces to the walls, at the northern and eastern ends of the square. He had already witnessed the rounding-up of every single person at the hamlet of Orbagnac, and the subsequent torching and destruction by grenade of the farms. Every minute, or so it seemed, more people were being driven into the main square as a result of similar operations in the outlying districts. Max’s instincts had been right. The situation was shaping itself into a tragedy. Was this really what Lammerding wanted? Or had everyone at High Command gone temporarily insane?
The Occupation Secret Page 31
