by Jack Murray
Perhaps, instead, young people were merely doing what young people do. Rebelling against the older generations. Brehme smiled grimly at the thought that the older generation would be, by definition, Manfred’s. What remained were the old, the infirm or those too smart or too rich to get swept away by the waves of war.
Brehme nodded to a few of the townsfolk as he walked to the appointment. Otto Becker’s wife said hello to him as she scurried along the square carrying large bags of food.
‘Feeding the five thousand?’ laughed Brehme but she had already passed him.
He arrived at the town hall and bounded up the steps to Lerner’s office.
‘Just go on through,’ said Heike, Lerner’s elderly secretary.
Brehme gave a brief rap on the door and then entered. Lerner was behind a large mahogany desk. Another man was in the room. He was in his thirties and dressed smartly in a grey suit. Brehme recognised him as Gestapo immediately.
Overlooking the scene, like a mother hen, was a large portrait of the Fuhrer gazing into the distance like a seer. He would have made a good fish wife, thought Brehme. It was clear that neither he nor Lerner would be able to toast their leader in their usual, barbed, fashion.
‘Peter,’ said Lerner somewhat nervously. ‘Thank you for making time.’
Brehme almost yelped in laughter at this. It was their private in-joke for a policeman who no longer had much to police. The look on Lerner’s face put Brehme on his guard. This late afternoon chat was unlikely to end in a shared whisky, a bit of gossip about the latest idiocy of the Nazis and a few ribald tales.
‘May I introduce Herr Keller.’
Tellingly he left the introduction at this. Keller, however, unlike many of the Gestapo he’d met, smiled and stood up. He held out his hand.
‘Please call me Ernst. I try to ensure that working relationships are as cordial as they are professional. After all, we are on the same side.’
‘Of course,’ replied Brehme sitting down and already concerned by the use of the word ‘working’. He shot a glance in the direction of Lerner. It was clear he was uncomfortable and somewhat put out that Keller had taken the liberty of breaking news to his police chief that, by rights, was his prerogative.
‘So we will be working together?’ asked Brehme, attempting to keep the tone light.
‘Yes. From tomorrow. Herr Himmler has decided that our network should expand to towns which either have, or are near to, universities.’
Brehme was incredulous. Ladenburg was a small town with a population that had declined by a fifth as a consequence of the war. There were few if any students here as most were living in nearby Heidelberg. He hid his surprise. Years of interviewing suspects, listening to lies, had given him a face that any poker player would have killed for. It made him able to ask the most outrageous questions and make the most ironic comments without the listener realising where his true thoughts lay.
‘There is a belief that Ladenburg is a centre of treason or espionage?’
Lerner almost choked when he heard Brehme ask this. Not because the question was absurd, which it certainly was, but because Brehme had made it sound like he was asking about the likelihood of rain that night. At that moment, Lerner understood just why Brehme had been such an effective policeman over these years.
‘This is a very good question,’ said Keller, getting serious.
No, it’s not, thought Brehme: it’s a ridiculous question and you are a moron.
‘Thank you, Herr Keller, sorry. Ernst. I’ve often felt that we must give greater attention to the smaller towns in this country. Spies and troublemakers are not going to parade themselves in big cities. No, it is the small towns of Germany which can become a hotbed of trouble if we are not careful.’
Keller slapped the table in a manner of someone who had just been validated.
‘I knew that you were just the man, sir, to understand the challenge we face.’
Lerner was, by now, gripping the table to stop himself laughing at the young Gestapo man. However, as ludicrous an individual as he was, Lerner had no doubt he would be dangerous if crossed. He exchanged glances with Brehme and the message was understood. Don’t push this too far.
For the moment, though, Keller was oblivious to the tacit understanding between the two older men.
‘Have you heard of the Edelweiss Pirates?’ asked Keller.
‘Yes, of course, everyone has. But they are just adolescents rebelling against their parents. They’re only good for getting young girls pregnant,’ said Brehme perhaps more dismissively than he’d intended.
This was, perhaps, a slight exaggeration, acknowledged Brehme to himself but not too far from the truth. He didn’t like what they appeared to stand for, but he doubted they existed in the town.
‘You must not underestimate these young people, Brehme. They are numerous, they are everywhere, and they are against the Fatherland. We know for a fact that they conduct violent attacks against the Hitler Youth. We also know that they help deserters and Jews and seek only to undermine our country. They cannot be allowed to flourish.’
‘So we will be working together?’ asked Brehme again.
‘Yes. From tomorrow. Is there an office that I can use?’
‘I’m afraid there’s only the one office, Ernst.’
‘Then we shall be like flatmates,’ said Keller brightly.
Brehme wasn’t sure if his own attempted smile didn’t look more like the grimace of man who has just stubbed his toe. There was little point in trying to object. All he could do was to make the best of a bad situation. Keller was an idiot. A dangerous one, undoubtedly but an idiot all the same. He, Brehme, had nothing to fear. His attitude towards the Nazi’s was one of forbearance and hope that it was a period that would one day pass in the nation’s history quickly enough for him to enjoy retirement, more time with his son and whatever grandchildren God would bring him.
It was almost six in the evening. There seemed little point in returning to the police station. Instead Brehme walked home. The house echoed to his footsteps. He glanced down, as he usually did, at a photograph of Manfred in his Hitler Youth uniform. He’d insisted on having a portrait taken much to Manfred’s embarrassment. A reminder to his folly. He went into his office to finish off the letter he’d started.
For a few minutes he sat and thought about what to write. There was no doubt the letters were being censored or, at the very least, read. He decided against mentioning his new ‘work mate’.
There was a news broadcast on the radio. He turned it up. They were describing a successful engagement in North Africa. He wasn’t sure how much he should believe about what was said. In the absence of anything else, at least it gave him reassurance that Manfred was alive and well. He took an atlas from the bookcase and opened it at North Africa while he listened to the broadcast.
One item piqued his interest. The news announced that Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Cramer was to return to Germany. Manfred had written about Cramer in glowing terms several times. The return of such a man to Germany was a worry. He wanted Manfred surrounded by the very best leaders. This was his best chance of surviving the War. He wondered what was to become of Cramer. Would he be sent on that fool’s errand in Russia?
Brehme sat back in his chair. He felt impotent. Restless. There was a war going on to which he was contributing nothing except cynicism and doubt. His son was fighting for an idea of nationhood that appalled him. It was all wrong and he could do nothing about it. From tomorrow he would, effectively, become subordinate to a young idiot who represented everything that had gone wrong with his country. Something on the radio broke into his reflections.
The radio announcer was mocking the Americans at this point in the broadcast. This blackened Brehme’s mood further. History would repeat itself, he was sure. No country could take on the British Empire, Russia and the United States and expect to win.
His thoughts turned to the Edelweiss Pirates. He doubted they had much, if any, presence in the town
of Ladenburg. Of their political philosophy he knew little. This wasn’t good enough. His curiosity was getting the better of him. He resolved to find out more.
At that same moment he realised, with some shock, that he would do as little as possible to hamper them in their program. The enemy wasn’t across the channel or the Atlantic Ocean. It was here, within. Sitting in power. Once more a wave of frustration engulfed him. He hated his own weakness. He wanted to act but knew not what he could do. But he had already started. The first act of rebellion always begins in the mind. Peter Brehme was about to embark on something his upbringing, his culture and his profession had trained him to abhor.
14
Tobruk, Libya: 23rd May 1942
‘Good Lord,’ said a voice just in front of Danny. ‘Danny? Danny Shaw?’
Danny was lying on the beach alongside his brother, Tom, and Bert Gissing. He looked up and saw a man standing over him. The man was silhouetted against the sun; the face was indistinct, but the voice was familiar. Danny shielded his eyes and slowly the features of the man took shape.
‘Bloody hell,’ laughed Danny. ‘Dick.’ Danny immediately leapt to his feet and shook hands with Dick Manning. ‘Boys, this is Dick Manning. He was with the RAF.’
‘Still with them as far as I know,’ laughed the airman.
Introductions made, Manning sat down and filled in Danny on his movements since they’d last met.
‘As you correctly surmised, I was sent to Malta last April. Incidentally, you know that Al Bowlly was killed soon after that show?’
‘Yes,’ said Danny sadly. There was silence for a moment then the airman continued.
‘Malta was quite a show. Not sure how I ever made it through. The Nazis chucked everything at us, Danny, and I mean everything. When I arrived, they slackened a bit. Russia, I think. Well, if that was their idea of slack then I’m jolly glad I wasn’t there from the start. It felt like the Messerschmitt’s were attacking every day. But we were gradually building up our strength. More planes, more men. It meant we could fight back rather than take it on the chin; in fact, soon we were able to have a go at them and their convoys.’
‘Thanks,’ said Danny and meant it. They had heard of the devastating impact the RAF were having on enemy shipping.
‘Of course, those German blighters weren’t going to take this lying down and they came back at us. They had better planes than us.’
‘Seems to be the way,’ said Danny sourly. ‘Their tanks are better, too.’
‘Really? Well our Hurricanes were badly matched against their Messerschmitt’s and Stuka’s. They hit us hard last summer. We were reeling for a while, but when the Spitfires arrived in March, we gave them something to think about. With Spitfires, we’re more than a match for Jerry. Unfortunately, they kept bombing the planes on the ground. Thankfully more Spits have arrived. The tide’s turning.’
‘When did you come over?’ asked Danny.
‘Yesterday,’ laughed Manning. ‘I thought I’d relax a little. I think I’ve earned it.’
‘Sounds like you’ve earned a beer,’ pointed out Bert.
‘Best idea I’ve heard in a while,’ grinned Manning.
-
By early evening, Danny was back at the tank leaguer eight miles north of Bir Hacheim. He was heartened by the arrival of some new tanks. Over a dozen Grant tanks and another ten Stuart tanks sat proudly waiting for their new owners. The Grant tanks still gave Danny some cause for worry but they were at least an improvement. He spied Arthur amongst the bunch of men examining them.
‘What do you think?’ asked Danny, looking at the new arrivals.
‘Not much,’ said Arthur who was world weary of these things at the best of times. ‘I mean, do they think that Jerry just comes at us head on? I’d love one of the buggers who designs these things to come and spend a day fighting. They’d buck up their ideas pretty sharpish, I suspect.’
The conversation around the tanks suggested the men were of a similar mind. It quietened a little when two officers appeared and then the posture of the men straightened when they realised who it was.
Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Pip’ Roberts had seen the tank men looking around the new arrivals and went over to hear their thoughts. He tapped the front of the first Grant with his stick.
‘What do you think, Cyril?’ said Roberts to Major Cyril Joly.
‘You know what I think,’ replied Joly. Danny noticed Joly motion with his eyes towards the men. Roberts smiled and nodded. He turned to the men.
‘We’ll put these through their paces tomorrow,’ he announced to the men. ‘I think the enemy will find these a tougher prospect than what they’ve faced until now.’
Danny had to admire the way the colonel was putting a brave face on some of the obvious limitations. He noticed that Major Joly was less sphinx-like in this regard.
‘Any thoughts, men?’
No one wanted to be seen as a bellyacher, so the comments were confined to appreciating that they had, at least, a gun that could match the German Panzer. Joly was studying the men more closely as they spoke. His eyes fixed on Danny. Perhaps it was something on Danny’s face but when the men had finished Joly spoke up.
‘What do you think…?’
‘Shaw, sir.’
‘Shaw. Do you share these opinions?’
Danny found himself reddening a little as all eyes turned towards him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a grin erupt over the face of Arthur. Unseen by the officers, Arthur nudged him in the ribs.
‘Well sir, I think the Grant is an improvement on what we’ve had. As the men say, the gun means we can take a pop at the Panzers from the same distance. They won’t like that. Of course, this assumes that they come at us head on. It’s not always the case, though, as we know.’
Joly and Roberts were both nodding thoughtfully.
‘But that’s not the biggest issue.’
Danny noticed Arthur suddenly spin his head round. This was obviously going to be a new one on him.
‘Careful, Danny boy,’ said Arthur in a stage whisper so bad that it might have been heard in Cairo. The group laughed at this, including the two officers.
‘Go on, Shaw,’ said Roberts. ‘Don’t worry, we need to know these things. It might save lives.’
Danny turned to the tank and stepped backwards. If Arthur had been surprised by Danny’s tone before, he was now close to shock. All eyes followed Danny as he continued stepping backwards and looking along the line of tanks. He pointed to one of the Stuart tanks further up the line.
‘If you look at the Stuart and then compare it to the Grant, you’ll see that it’s quite a bit shorter. Now that’s all very well for me although it’ll make no odds to a short arse like Arthur here.’
The soldiers and the two officers erupted into laughter at this, none more so than Arthur although not before he had pronounced Danny a ‘cheeky git’.
Roberts and Joly glanced at one another.
‘I think I see what you’re saying, Shaw,’ said the Lieutenant Colonel. ‘You’re concerned about our ability to hide hull-down on a ridge.’
‘Yes, sir, the top of the tank’s going to stick out like a sore thumb. We’ll lose the element of surprise and give the Panzers a nice target to aim at. Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful to be able to lob a few fourteen pound shells in Jerry’s direction but next time can you ask the powers that be to stick the big gun in the turret and have done with it.’
‘I shall tell them personally what Private Shaw thinks.’
Danny laughed good-naturedly along with the rest of the men. The two officers departed leaving Danny at the mercy of a dozen berets slapping him around the head, none harder than Arthur. He was laughing too much to care.
The laughing stopped a few moments later as they heard aircraft overhead. Silence fell as a couple of dozen eyes peered up into the sky nervously. Two planes came into view.
‘Messerschmidts,’ said one man.
The two planes were not accompanied by
any others. They posed no threat at the height they were flying. Danny relaxed a little. The two planes were a reminder that the training over the last few weeks was for a purpose. The number of these reconnaissance flights by the enemy had increased. They were coming again. The warmer weather heralded the return of the war. Danny exchanged glances with Arthur. His friend’s face was taut.
‘Let’s get a cup of tea,’ said Arthur.
-
The next day was the 24th May. Danny was assigned to a new tank. Whether it was because of his comments the previous day or some form of divine retribution, his new tank was one of the Grants. He smiled ruefully as Arthur cackled away at the news and confirmed his previously well-hidden belief in the existence of the Divine.
The Grant, unlike the Stuart, could host seven people although six could operate it if need be. The larger hull just about managed to incorporate the extra bodies. Danny was handed the role of gunner on the seventy-five-millimetre gun. He and another new arrival, Angus McLeish, walked together to their new tank. They were greeted by the tank commander, Captain Benson, who introduced them to the crew.
‘Men, this is Private Shaw, and Private McLeish. They are joining us in our new tank. It’s all a bit new for us too. We’ve been using the Stuart up until now. Shaw will be our gunner on this big chap here,’ said Benson, putting his hand on the cannon of the seventy-five-millimetre. I think McLeish it makes sense for you to be the loader.’
McLeish was a year younger than Danny and had arrived the previous month. Taller than Danny he was all skin, bones and acne. However, he seemed pleased to be on the big gun albeit as a loader.
‘This is Wodehouse, no relation to the writer. He’s our driver. We call him ‘PG’ although I gather his first name is Sebastian. I think he prefers ‘PG’.
