2
General von Seydlitz-Gabler’s nights had recently been growing more and more unendurable. He lay there like a lead soldier slowly melting in a furnace, the blood creeping reluctantly through his ageing body. He was thoroughly miserable.
One of the main reasons for his insomnia was an increasing propensity to brood about his country and its leaders. How many times in German history, he wondered, had a general found it necessary to dwell so persistently on the subject?
The General tossed to and fro on his bed, gasping like a stranded fish. He even found it impossible to dream clearly any more. In his younger days he had been able to picture whole battlefields, coronation ceremonies and parades in his dreams—all with such overwhelming clarity that he could identify the battle honours on a flag or the colour of a plume on a helmet. Now he found himself submerged in a confused blur of murky colours to the accompaniment of massed brass bands blaring out Parlez-moi d’amour.
“Time to get up, sir,” said Sergeant Lehmann.
The General struggled painfully to the surface. He levered himself on to his elbows with a groan and swung his bandy legs to the floor. Then he groped for the glass in his batman’s outstretched hand. It was tinned orange juice, a morning treat which von Seydlitz-Gabler got only because Lehmann drank it regularly himself.
While he stood there drinking, a short and rather pathetic figure in a night-shirt, he cocked an eye at his watch. For the first time that day his face assumed a human expression.
“Good God, Lehmann, were you trodden on by a rooster this morning, or something?” he asked testily. “It’s only seven o’clock!”
“The General is breakfasting with her ladyship at the hotel today.” Lehmann spoke as though he were reading the weather forecast. “Her ladyship telephoned yesterday evening and expressed the wish that you should join her, and since the General did not return to quarters until late…”
“All right, all right.” Von Seydlitz-Gabler cut him short and hastily began his morning toilette.
“I’ve already had the car brought round, sir,” said Lehmann, when the General’s normal veneer of majestic elegance had been restored. The batman looked him over critically and seemed satisfied with the result.
Leaving his headquarters at the Auberge Moulin Noir on the eastern edge of the Bois de Vincennes, von Seydlitz-Gabler drove to the Place Vendôme in the centre of the city and stopped outside the Hotel Excelsior, which was his wife’s temporary abode. At least, he hoped it was temporary. Fortunately, circumstances in Paris made it impossible to duplicate the domestic arrangements which had existed in Warsaw.
“I see you so little these days,” said Frau Wilhelmine, after she had greeted him in her hotel room.
“Duty, my love, duty. There are critical times ahead.”
The General gazed into his wife’s blue eyes with unflinching gallantry, then past her at the twin beds, one of which had been intended for him. The virgin counterpane stared at him accusingly. To his relief he noticed that they were not alone in the room. His daughter Ulrike stood by the window, firm-fleshed and graceful as a young racehorse. Even her corn-coloured mane of hair reminded him of a horse.
“We’re all going to have breakfast together,” announced Frau Wilhelmine.
It was a long time since they had eaten en famille. They exchanged a few amicable remarks and chatted about home and Paris. Ulrike, who was temporarily stationed in Fontainebleau, complained that it was dull compared with Paris and said she would rather live in the city.
“Paris is not for you,” Frau Wilhelmine said resolutely, glancing at her husband. “Paris does no one any good. For all that, I may let you come up for a day or two soon. General Tanz is on his way here, I gather, so we shall have to entertain him a little.”
“In that case give me Fontainebleau!”
Ulrike’s spontaneous outburst evoked a stern reprimand from her mother, who was duly backed up by the General. Frau Wilhelmine launched into a lengthy monologue in which she summarized all she had to say on the subject. Numbed by the ruthless logic of her mother’s arguments, Ulrike maintained a sullen silence. Her father, on the other hand, repeatedly assured his masterful spouse how greatly he appreciated her advice.
“I shall discuss the necessary arrangements with Kahlenberge immediately after breakfast.”
“So your bosom pal Hartmann is in it up to his neck again.”
General Kahlenberge was addressing Otto, who had left a report from the garrison authorities on his desk without prior comment, knowing that Kahlenberge would learn the more embarrassing details of the Mocambo Bar affair soon enough.
“Hartmann’s idiotic behaviour is becoming dangerous. Preaching his kindergarten idealism in public is going too far. Don’t misunderstand me, Otto. I’ve nothing against his personal opinions and I don’t demand gratitude or any other kind of emotional twaddle from my men—all I expect is a grain or two of common sense. There are some things people can’t do if they want to go on working for me. I’ve no use for emotional blockheads.”
“But, sir, what’s he done that’s so terrible?” Otto asked ingenuously.
“He’s been making speeches, so-called defeatist speeches. In the presence of Frenchmen, what’s more.”
“Oh, they didn’t understand half of it. Hartmann speaks French like a first-term beginner.”
“Otto,” said General Kahlenberge, suspicion dawning in his eyes, “were you there, too?”
“Pure coincidence, sir. I was sitting at the bar having a drink when Hartmann suddenly sounded off.”
“Why didn’t you shut him up?”
“He was well away by that time, sir. Also, I didn’t quite get what he was blathering about to begin with. It was all about international understanding, I think.”
“And this was in a brothel?”
“Not a brothel, sir, I swear it—just an ordinary bar.”
“Fair enough,” said Kahlenberge good-humouredly. “I’ll keep you out of the firing-line if they start making any inquiries. But I shan’t lift a finger to help Hartmann—not yet, anyway. Let him cool his heels for a day or two. Maybe it’ll teach him how dangerous it can be, fooling around like that. Later on I’ll dig him out of the shit again. God knows why! He’ll probably have another paroxysm of brotherly love before long. Well, is that all?”
“There’s one point, sir.” Otto switched abruptly to the role of spiritual adviser, a part which he played execrably-much to Kahlenberge’s amusement. “It might be worth remembering that if Hartmann is questioned and has to mention names it won’t be only my name he mentions. There’s someone else involved.”
General Kahlenberge tilted his jaw and studied Otto silently for a moment. His thoughts appeared to be travelling along the right lines. “Otto! You’re not suggesting that Fräulein von Seydlitz-Gabler is mixed up in this, too?”
“Yes, sir.” Otto’s voice was tinged with admiration for Kahlenberge’s sixth sense where matters of delicacy were concerned. “I was detailed to pick up the young lady from the opera yesterday and drive her to her hotel. We made a little detour on the way.”
Kahlenberge seized a ruler and smacked his palm with it loudly, fixing Otto with a quizzical stare. At length he said: “I trust you aren’t planning to spend your leisure time hobnobbing with generals’ daughters.”
“You needn’t worry about that, sir,” Otto protested vigorously. “I’m not a fool. Quite apart from that, the girl’s not my type. I like something you can get hold of.”
Although Kahlenberge was overloaded with work, anything to do with the von Seydlitz-Gabler family interested him intensely. He pressed Otto for details.
Otto hesitated for a few moments to whet Kahlenberge’s appetite. Then he came out with it, eyes alight with glee. Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler had quite a thing about Hartmann, he said. Her voice went all husky whenever she spoke to him or talked about him. The whole business had started in Warsaw under cover of a common interest in music, notably Chopin. It had all been ver
y romantic—little walks hand in hand, exchanges of letters, etc., etc. “Touching, sir, isn’t it?” Otto concluded.
General Kahlenberge replaced the ruler on his desk. Crow’s-feet of merriment appeared at the corners of his eyes.
“Call garrison headquarters for me, Otto. Hartmann is to be transferred here immediately. I’ll take care of any details later.”
Otto withdrew happily and Kahlenberge, surrounded by members of his staff, at once plunged into the mass of paper work that littered his desk. He issued instructions with the crisp precision of a computer punching cards. After an hour, his assistants were drenched in sweat while he still looked as pink and contented as a freshly bathed baby. This buzz of activity continued until General von Seydlitz-Gabler appeared.
The G.O.C.’s arrival signalled the beginning of the so-called overall planning phase. Immediate objectives were defined more clearly and long-range objectives examined more closely. Human beings were converted into the columns of figures so dear to the hearts of logistics experts. Finally, conversation turned to more specialized problems.
“Yesterday evening,” Kahlenberge said confidentially, “I had a talk with a group of reliable officers. There were two generals among them. Shall I quote names?”
“Please don’t!” Von Seydlitz-Gabler discreetly raised a well-manicured hand.
“Anyway, they’re unanimously agreed that something must be done if we’re to avoid total disaster, and in their view the situation warrants extreme measures. They’re counting on you, sir.”
Von Seydlitz-Gabler demanded fuller information on various points, his intellectual’s brow furrowed in thought. He gave several portentous nods.
“Please keep me au courant, my dear fellow,” he said finally. “I’m not fundamentally opposed to your aims, but I refuse to sanction them unthinkingly. Above all, I emphatically warn you against any ill-considered use of force. I need hardly impress on you that this conversation never took place—but I think I can say with a good conscience that if my country need me I shall not ignore the call of duty.”
Kahlenberge accepted this noncommittal assurance at its face value. He hadn’t expected anything more, but he made a point of praising the Corps Commander’s unequalled foresight and sense of responsibility.
“Now for the next point,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler. “Tanz is on his way here with orders to report to me. He’s been temporarily placed under my command, and it’s our job to see that his severely depleted division is brought up to strength as soon as possible.”
The next half hour was spent in routine discussion. Both men realized that Tanz’s division would soak up more than just their reserves. Since Tanz enjoyed the favour of the Supreme Commander, only the best would be good enough for him.
“There are going to be a lot of problems,” said Kahlenberge. “Tanz is not a man to be trifled with.”
“He and his men have fought heroically. A pause for recreation would do him a world of good.”
“An excellent idea, sir!” Kahlenberge at once saw possibilities opening up. They might be able to divert Tanz— isolate him, even. However long the respite lasted, it would be worth it.
“General Tanz,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler in his most paternal tones, “is universally respected, by my family in particular. I’m sure my wife will be only too happy to entertain our worthy colleague to the best of her ability, and I’ve no doubt my daughter will help her.”
“Splendid!” said Kahlenberge.
“We can’t entertain him the whole time, of course. That would be overdoing it. What I suggest is that we arrange a few pleasant, peaceful days for General Tanz. Let him devote himself to the Muses, as it were. He shouldn’t find that too irksome in this city. What do you think?”
“I think I know just the man to handle General Tanz’s concentrated programme of entertainment,” said Kahlenberge. “A lad named Hartmann—you may remember him.”
General Tanz’s arrival was scheduled—or ordered, whichever way one cared to regard it—for four o’clock. At three fifty-five, Generals von Seydlitz-Gabler and Kahlenberge posted themselves at a window in the Moulin Noir, confident that they would not have to wait a moment in vain. General Tanz was as punctual as Radio Berlin, the State Railways, or death itself.
At three fifty-seven precisely a motor-cyclist hove into view—General Tanz’s outrider—immediately followed by a Mercedes staff car. It was the same model as that used by Tanz in Warsaw but the fourth in the series. The other three had vanished into the limbo of war.
In the front seats, motionless as statues, sat General Tanz and the durable Sergeant Stoss, whose gloved hands grasped the steering wheel in text-book fashion. In the back sat Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer, tried and tested G.S.O.1 of the Nibelungen Division, and beside him the General’s combat orderly—the latest in the unending succession.
Completing this small but impressive cortège was the General’s second outrider, an equally solemn and motionless figure—more puppet than man, but a puppet forged in steel. To Kahlenberge, there was an icy aura of naked power about General Tanz which seemed to freeze the very air around him. Mars himself had arrived.
“He certainly knows how to set the stage,” grunted Kahlenberge.
“He leaves nothing to chance. A man of iron self-discipline, General Tanz.” There was a trace of rueful admiration in von Seydlitz-Gabler’s voice. “If one didn’t know what a Prussian general was, one would only have to look at him.”
“Poor >Prussia!” Kahlenberge murmured to himself.
There followed an exchange of official courtesies. It unfolded with the fluency of a solemn and carefully planned ceremonial. Tanz stood there motionless for a second or two, his eyes seeking von Seydlitz-Gabler’s. Two paces behind him stood Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer, his faithful shadow. Then Tanz raised his hand, encased in grey doeskin, to his peaked cap in salute. He reported his arrival in firm and ringing tones.
The G.O.C. responded, endeavouring to match Tanz’s firmness and clarity. “I am delighted to have you under my command once more. You and your division have seen heavy fighting and acquitted yourselves admirably. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tanz’s reply was as crisp and economical as the bow that accompanied it.
With the official part of the proceedings over, von Seydlitz-Gabler’s face relaxed into a smile of manifest relief. “And now, my dear Tanz, allow me to extend to you a hearty welcome.”
They all exchanged handshakes, strictly observing the rules of protocol: von Seydlitz-Gabler and Tanz, Tanz and Kahlenberge, von Seydlitz-Gabler and Sandauer, Kahlen-berge and Sandauer.
“Well, gentlemen, let’s make ourselves comfortable,” said the G.O.C. as they went inside. “Would anyone care for some refreshments?”
“The regrouping of my division,” Tanz said, ignoring the suggestion, “must be tackled without delay.”
“Of course,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler with a touch of asperity, “but let’s sit down first.”
Tanz duly sat, taking his signal from von Seydlitz-Gabler, and the other two followed suit. Even when seated, Tanz looked as though he were standing up—straight as a ramrod and controlled in every sinew. Sandauer, who vainly tried to copy him, looked like a sack of potatoes by comparison. His schoolmaster’s face wore a worried frown.
Von Seydlitz-Gabler cast a brief glance at his Chief of Staff, who was sitting slightly behind and to the left of General Tanz. Kahlenberge gave a bland smile. “The regrouping of your division,” he said, “will not be an overnight job.”
“I know,” said Tanz, “but that doesn’t affect my instructions, which explicitly state: ‘soonest’.”
“Soonest could mean two or three weeks.”
“In my estimation, seven to ten days at the most.”
General Tanz was a man for whom each day, including the night that went with it, was a working day. There were no rest days in war-time—not, at least, in any war in which he was engaged.
“Thoroughness,
” declared Kahlenberge, “takes time.”
“But it doesn’t preclude speed.”
Tanz had demonstrated his imperturbability. Von Seydlitz-Gabler disliked demonstrations of any sort, but he did his best to smile sympathetically.
“Our list of requirements, Sandauer,” ordered Tanz.
Sandauer removed a wad of papers from his briefcase and handed them to Tanz, who handed them to von Seydlitz-Gabler, who in turn passed them to Kahlenberge, who propped them on his knees. There was an expectant hush.
“Ten days,” said General Tanz insistently, “perhaps only a week.”
At a nod from the G.O.C. Kahlenberge once more stepped into the breach, and the conversation soon developed into an intricate series of negotiations. Kahlenberge started by speaking of difficulties, then hinted that some of them might possibly be overcome. From there he went on to introduce his next delaying tactic. Corps, he stressed, was in something of a cleft stick because it continually had to meet the requirements of reserve formations as well as front-line units.
As expected, Tanz remained obdurate. He even hinted that he might be compelled, if circumstances warranted it, to contact Supreme Headquarters direct. Von Seydlitz-Gabler hastened to reassure him.
“Don’t worry, my dear chap, we’re used to overcoming difficulties. We work fast, but we don’t rush into things blindly. By the way, did I tell you that my wife sends her warmest regards?”
“Thank you. May I take the liberty of reciprocating them?”
“My daughter Ulrike also asked after you.”
A remote smile flitted across General Tanz’s face. He clenched his hands. “Please convey my warmest regards to the young lady.”
“By all means.” Von Seydlitz-Gabler contemplated Tanz with the air of a fond father—no mean feat in the circumstances. “I hope we shall have a chance of entertaining you to a modest meal in the next few days.”
The Night of the Generals Page 11
