French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Two days later, Rudi was reminded of the soldier, his black uniform bore the stains of his rescue effort. “Got in Himmel,” thought Rudi as he climbed onto Helga. “I don’t want to have my arm blown off.”

  An hour later, the PzKpfw IIIs reached the village. It was already flooded with panzers from the 3rd

  Panzer Regiment. There was no petrol to be plundered and the advance grinded to a halt.

  II

  September 5, 1939

  “Sir?”

  Exner Updegrove did not look up from the Daily Telegraph.

  “The Duke of Fenston is here.”

  Updegrove grunted and reached for his cigarette.

  “Shall I set a place?”

  The cigarette was waved in assent.

  “Very good, sir.” Fergus, the fourth generation of gentleman’s gentleman, all under the Earls of Braxtonshire backed from the table, and shuffled his feet on the carpet which was the remains of the eighth lordship’s time in the Hindu Kush.

  The man at the table, the future Earl, ninth in a line dating back to the Stuarts, did not notice Fergus’ departure, his breeding making mere domestic drudges no more important than a wayward insect in the stables.

  The future peer, current Tory MP from Braxtonshire, was focused on news across the channel and the deteriorating European situation. The newspaper headlines over the months screamed about war with Germany, but as a member of the House of Commons majority, Updegrove ignored the demands to declare war. As summer turned to fall, war entered the agenda as German ultimatums against Poland stirred British patriotism. Exner was caught between the choices of continuing to support an appeasement policy which had kept Britain safely out of war or voting to thrust it into its second continental war in a generation.

  It was not the first time an Updegrove faced the decision to go to war, his father had voted for war credits to fight the Hun in 1914. His father would be little help; according to Updegrove tradition the member could vote his conscience without interference. His only source of advice would be the Braxtonshire memoirs.

  Starting with Upton Updegrove, who died in 1701, the Updegrove men composed a brief autobiography offering guidance to future generations. Upton’s experiences, molding the British constitution of 1689 and the “Glorious Revolution,” began the process. Upton had straddled a restive House of Commons and an increasing dictatorial James II, who refused to join the revolt against the monarch until William of Orange’s invasion had deposed James. “Never be a pioneer” could have been etched on the family crest.

  The memoirs did not always provide relevant advice. The sixth lord, who lived in the docile early years of Victoria’s reign, limited his autobiography to suggestions on expanding the estate’s acreage and the building of the cricket field which sat just beyond the windows facing Updegrove’s breakfast room.

  During his dozen years in the House of Commons, Exner balanced family history and the need to prepare for his father’s seat in the House of Lords. The only obstacle was his father’s demand for a grandson framed in terms of a lecture on the inherent stability of the nobility and the continuation of the family name, His father’s obsession with absolute necessity of an heir unsettled Exner; his mind and body suddenly unable to perform. The issue of children was a delicate one with his wife. While sporting her own noble genes, courtesy of the Romanovs, the future ninth earl’s wife was fanatical on the subject of her waistline. A child was certain to wreak havoc on her sculpted figure and the subject of bearing the tenth earl had caused more than one ferocious spat. With war on the horizon the subject had been temporarily relegated to the background and if raised only in the evening, when Exner’s digestion was more under control; the Updegrove stomach unable to handle much controversy in the early hours.

  The scone with marmalade washed down with a bitter coffee or tea was the most Exner could force down even as his day promised to be busy. The small breakfast had one positive consequence; it limited visitors as Englishmen expected a full breakfast of tomatoes, meats, cheeses, eggs and fruit. Updegrove preferred reading the previous day’s news in silence, which allowed him to present the image of a serious young man preparing for public service.

  “My lord,” Roger Smythton Randall entered and performed an elaborate curtsy, much to the astonishment of Fergus but without notice from Updegrove, his Trinity College mate.

  Smythton Randall, the Duke of Fenston, exuded an air of delighted aristocracy, thoroughly enjoying his title, only six generations in the making. Settling into the chair offered by Fergus, Smythton Randall extricated his own cigarette from a dented metal case – supposedly halting a Hun bullet intended for his father’s heart at the third battle of Ypres.

  “Where is the babushka?”

  The future Lord Updegrove grunted, his interest focused on the newspaper story. He had less interest in the location of his wife, Babushka to Smythton Randall. It was an odd appellation as Maria was something far from a headscarf wearing Russian grandmother.

  Smythton Randall continued. “She is the sole reason I come to this dreadful old paean to past incompetence dressed up in glory.”

  “She is riding.”

  “A bit late is it not?”

  Updegrove turned the page, eyes narrowed as a story of interest continued down the column. Smythton Randall gave up his attempts to distract his boyhood friend, the Updegroves known for their ability to concentrate when chaos was all about them, a necessary trait for leading men into battle.

  Smythton Randall’s family history was less heroic than his friends. The sixth Lord of Fenston inherited his title after his father drowned in a distant creek on their estate, adding to the family reputation for weakness when it came to horses, women and water. The current lord was determined to shatter the tradition by selling the family stables and leasing out his estate. He settled in London because he preferred the city with its opportunities for engaging in personal behavior that would have scandalized his father.

  One exception to Smythton Randall’s preferences was the future lady Updegrove, the twenty something beauty, one did not ask a lady her age, who had escaped Kerensky’s Russia as a four year old with only the clothes on her back. Every stitch was strained by the heavy weight of diamonds and gold sewn with delicate care. Amidst this wealth were several papers with numbers of French, British, Swiss and American bank account numbers scribbled inside. It was all the fruits of careful planning by her relatives as disaster bore down on the Romanovs.

  “Babushka” was Maria Beresina Romanov, Grand Duke Cyril’s daughter but more importantly the great granddaughter of Czar Alexander II, who was assassinated in 1881; his grandson Nicholas II had suffered the same fate thirty-seven years later. Stunningly attractive with an abundance of light hair and a figure that could not be restrained even by conservative English clothing, Maria Beresina was a fierce anticommunist and awakened the same in her admirer.

  Prior to meeting babushka, Roger Smythton Randall spent his undergraduate years dabbling in Fabianism, Social Democracy, syndicalism, Buddhism and anarchism, all of them distractions for the empty days that dulled the senses of the British aristocracy. Meeting Exner’s new wife, Smythton Randall was charmed by her friendship with Russian ballet dancers, as he preferred not to dabble with Englishmen.

  Maria’s influence on her husband was less clear. The Updegroves were British nationalists; their men serving and occasionally dying in the British military, except for the last in the line. Too young for the Great War, Exner had avoided military service; his father having lost the family zeal for the empire when it interfered with the family line. Smythton Randall finished his cigarette and then poked at the breakfast scone. His varied travels had created a growing distaste for British fare; he preferred picking at his food to allow his fellow Brits to reach their own conclusions about their culinary failings.

  “The Poles,” Updegrove grumbled.

  Smythton-Randall’s stomach sank. The fun loving future peer who skidded through Trinity on charm and the
family name had changed, and for Smythton Randall it was a change for the worse.

  “They want us to join them in their war.”

  Smythton-Randall quivered in his chair. In his quest to suck the marrow from life, he attended a single Lord’s session, bored by a senseless debate over a naval appropriations bill. He recalled some mention of the Poles at the time but had quickly lost interest and returned to his London home never to return to the dreary place with its old man smell.

  “How did Chamberlain ever get tangled up with that Polish lot?”

  Smythton Randall recognized the prime minister’s name and a Maria lecture on the wisdom of not only appeasing Hitler and allying Britain with the Nazis in the fight against Bolshevism. He had lost interest when distracted by an attractive ballet dancer, a former favorite of Prince Yusupov, the assassin of Rasputin.

  “It’s Churchill’s bunch.” If Chamberlain was respected at the Updegrove estate, Churchill was treated with something less than complete disdain. His anti-communism pleased Maria while his attacks on fascism awakened her suspicions he might fight Hitler to Stalin’s benefit.

  “The French won’t go with us,” Updegrove said. “I met Laval and he won’t send the French Army into the Siegfried line to be slaughtered.”

  Smythton Randall was lost. Laval could have been anyone and the Siegfried Line melded with the Maginot Line, exact locations somewhere on the continent.

  “I won’t vote for war,” Updegrove said, bringing his hand down on the table.

  Smythton Randall wondered if he would have to vote. Some senior members of the Lords tried to explain his duties, but they were irrelevant to his everyday existence.

  Exner was on his feet, pacing the floor, arms flailing at each point he made. “Who gives a damn about the bloody Poles? Beck is no better than the rest of the miserable Slavs. If only the Germans could provide a little discipline.”

  Smythton Randall was not listening, distracted by the unmistakable sounds of Maria’s accented English berating Fergus for some violation of royal protocol about which he knew little. Her presence promised to make Smythton Randall’s visit worthwhile. The clacking of riding boots marked the movement of the former and future, if she had her way, princess of the Russian ruling family.

  Maria fit well into her jodhpurs; the red coat and black riding hat all competition grade even if she was not. She slowed upon seeing her husband pacing the floor and turned to Smythton Randall.

  “Fergus revealed you were here.” Tension between the lady of the house and the gentleman’s gentleman amused Smythton Randall. The dispute was pure jealousy, each envious of the other’s access to the future lord, with Updegrove caught in the middle. Fergus had been employed by the family and could only be made redundant by the current Lord Braxtonshire. Princess Maria could never be made redundant and woe to the man or woman who made the attempt.

  “Is this official or pleasure?” Maria asked, offering her hand to Smythton Randall who jumped to his feet to kiss it.

  “A little of both,” he lied. Smythton Randall had never known official business; the landed gentry usually able to avoid such unpleasantness.

  The blue eyed, blond haired Maria sported a German nose all part of the Prussian heritage of the Romanov line.

  Maria nodded at Exner. “You have upset him.”

  “The Poles did that,” Smythton Randall said, though unaware why anyone would get so upset about a country that few understood.

  Updegrove halted his pacing to receive his wife’s kiss. “They are at it again, dragging the empire into another war, just like the Russians in fourteen.”

  Maria sniffed but said nothing. Her current hatred was focused on the Bolsheviks, while her czarist relatives aroused little loyalty and even less love. She could not dispute the general listlessness of Nicholas II’s regime and its foolishness in 1914 of attacking Germany and Austria with barely armed peasant soldiers.

  “Britain will never go to war on behalf of the Slavs,” Maria announced. She turned to her guest. “You came for me?”

  Smythton Randall’s mouth curled, hinting at desire. “The Duke of Bedford is inviting you to discuss the war and the Bolsheviks.”

  Maria squinted. “I don’t know him.” She turned to her husband. “Could this be your father?”

  The future lord sighed. “My father and Hastings Russell are not on speaking terms. Something about the Defence Act of 1925.” He closed his eyes, recalling the long arguments between the two men in excruciating detail, the eighth Earl’s anger undiminished by the passage of time.

  “What would I have to do?” Maria asked.

  Smythton shrugged. “I was to deliver the message. You must call the lord for instructions.

  Maria kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You are an exquisite messenger boy.” She backed away. “Fergus,” she called, accent making it sound like “Fah gus.”

  The gentleman’s gentleman appeared instantly, as if nearby and overhearing the entire conversation. “Yes?”

  “Hastings Russell, the Duke of Bedford, ring him up.”

  Fergus bowed and backed from the room. Maria blew Smythton Randall a kiss and followed the gentleman’s gentleman. He turned to his friend. “You won’t vote against the war?”

  “It will be the end of the empire if we fight another war. Our only hope of protecting Europe from Bolshevism is Germany and Hitler.”

  His friend knew too little to disagree. “I didn’t listen much to my father,” he said unnecessarily. The battle between the fifth and six lords over politics, Britain, the monarchy and food, were well known among their friends. “But he told me one thing I remember: always vote for war and war spending.”

  “Your father owned munitions plants and a shipyard.”

  “Self-interest makes the world twirl.”

  “Maybe.” The Smythton Randall’s had tripled their wealth during the Great War and Roger’s father was decorated by the king for service to the nation. He eyed his friend. “Why so interested in my vote?”

  “I was warned.”

  Updegrove blinked. “Warned?”

  “Against visiting here.” Smythton Randall slumped in his chair, the picture of utter miserableness.

  Updegrove froze. A warning would only originate from MI5: the interior police responsible for hunting down anyone with ties to foreign governments. Some of Maria’s family was forced to leave for France, Ireland or America when they became too vociferous in supporting the Nazis against the communists. Anglo Saxon law may have frowned at the corruption of blood, but MI5 didn’t always abide by Anglo Saxon law.

  “They said you were a potential security threat.”

  The future lord’s mouth sagged, fingernails digging into his thighs, the two friends and partying companions, brothers in the dwindling British nobility could only stare past the other. The silence concerned Smythton Randall who worried he had betrayed some ancient tradition, something his father tried to drill into him with a stint in military school, even though Roger had been more interested in buggery.

  Exner choked. “You don’t believe it?”

  “I am here.”

  Updegrove smiled at the vote of confidence. “I am not a security threat and neither is Maria. She is angry at the Bolsheviks for what happened to her family.”

  “Hastings Russell may be able to help you.”

  Updegrove cocked his head. “He knows about that?”

  “He’s the one who warned me.”

  Exner restrained a chuckle. If MI5 suspected Lord Smythton Randall, they had to believe the Germans were desperate for contacts, his friend able to offer little of value to the Nazis.

  “I will talk to Maria,” Updegrove promised. “No more talk about the Nazis protecting us from the Bolshies.”

  “And your vote.”

  Updegrove eyed his friend. “You are worried.”

  “I like to party here. Maria has the best weeks.”

  Smythton Randall was referring to Maria’s taste in whiskey and the band
of Russian dancers she invited. “I will speak to my father about this.”

  Smythton Randall relaxed, his duty done. “Where is Fergus, I need a drink.”

  “It is not yet ten o’clock.”

  “Somewhere in the empire it is six and that is time to drink.”

  Fergus was found and produced whiskeys for both men: three fingers for the future earl, one for the earl in waiting. Updegrove raised his glass. “To the empire.” Smythton Randall nodded, having nearly emptied his glass as his friend raised his. Updegrove sipped and eyed his friend, uncertain of his vote.

  7

  September 29, 1939 0900

  “The Poles are trapped,” explained Lieutenant Schmidt. “The Russian border is east, the Pripet Marshes to the south and we are closing in from the north and west. They can escape only by squeezing between the Bug and the marshes around Brest Litovsk, which brings them through us.”

  The lieutenant was leaning over a map, the fifth such one that Rudi and his men had studied in the drive north then east into Poland. The current map had one feature different from the rest: a thick black line marking the Polish border with the Soviet Union. The Second Panzer Division had rushed into position for two reasons. The first was to cut off Polish forces before they could retreat across the Rumanian border. The second was to prevent a Russian move west, made possible by the collapse of the Polish army.

  With the Russians fixed in place, the 2nd Panzer Division’s main concern became the remains of the Polish army. “What are we facing, Herr Lieutenant?” Rudi asked.

  “Mostly infantry on foot with remnants of a cavalry brigade.” Schmidt replied. “The 31st Infantry Division will be arriving from Warsaw for the final push but until they arrive we are to hold our position. Corps headquarters believes the Poles will try to break through this gap and into Rumania.”