by Bodie Thoene
Rain drummed hard on the umbrella, like impatient fingers drumming on a tabletop. It splashed up from the stones until the cuffs of his trousers were damp. How long had he been waiting? A lone man beneath a black umbrella on the riverbank. He must be a curious sight. He thought he saw the edge of a curtain of an upper-story window stir and then fall back. Was someone watching him even as he watched the house? Perhaps it was little Juliette behind the glass.
He wished someone would raise the shades, that he could have even one glimpse of Elaine’s child—his child. But no one appeared at the windows. No one left the house.
It was almost eleven when Andre returned to the Brasseur Hotel. The proprietor and his wife each glanced up furtively as Andre placed the umbrella on the marble top of the reception desk.
“Was your meeting a pleasant one, Monsieur Chardon?” Henri asked.
“It is very wet.” Andre did not tell him that he had been standing several hours in the rain.
“Your trousers are damp, Monsieur Chardon,” offered Agnes, setting down her knitting. “Perhaps you would like to have them dried and pressed?”
He shook his head and did not look her in the eye. “I have a long way to go today. It will have to wait.”
He left Luxembourg City feeling foolish. What had he accomplished except that he was more miserable than he had ever been? He felt the loneliness of his life more acutely than he had ever felt any emotion, and in the end what difference did it make?
13
Defense Strategies
Andre’s mission to Belgium had left him with a sense of foreboding about the defensive strategies of his own generals. Staying with Lewinski had left Gustave Bertrand grim and confused. Andre sat silently beside Bertrand all the way to the prime minister’s office at the Palais Bourbon in Paris.
They entered the building and went directly to Premier Daladier’s suite. The group that was already present and awaiting their arrival included Daladier, Supreme Military Commander Gamelin, and Gamelin’s aide, Colonel Pucelle.
The diminuitive figure of Daladier straightened his already squarely set shoulders and invited Andre to begin. “Everyone here is already aware of your mission, Colonel, and everyone knows its importance. Please proceed.”
Andre opened his briefcase and extracted a crumpled sheaf of papers. These he fanned out across the table, carefully laying aside two pages that were partially charred. “You understand, gentlemen, that these are not all the contents of the German major’s portfolio,” he explained. “My Belgian counterpart has the rest, but we were provided with these originals so as to better judge their significance and authenticity.”
“Can you give us a summary of what they are?” suggested Daladier.
“These papers purport to be the air-fleet operation orders for the Luftwaffe division based at Cologne.”
This much of the papers’ secret was already known to the men at the table, but not what came next.
“And what are the orders?”
Andre drew a deep breath. “They direct the targeting of air attacks in connection with a German invasion of Holland and Belgium.”
“Exactly!” said General Gamelin. “This is confirmation of what we have always said. The Germans would be fools to try a frontal assault on the Maginot Line. Therefore the attack, when it comes, must be through the Low Countries.”
Andre frowned but said nothing.
Daladier prompted, “You said ‘purport to be.’ Is there some doubt about their authenticity?”
Colonel Pucelle, in a tone that spoke of how anxious he was to curry favor with his commander, answered before Andre could speak. “Pardon me, Prime Minister, but what doubt can there be? The German officer carrying these orders attempted to destroy them, as we can see from the burned pages. In fact, we understand that he tried twice.”
“Is this correct, Colonel Chardon?”
Andre acknowledged the accuracy of Pucelle’s statement. “The gendarme who apprehended the two Germans did not see the first attempt to ignite the papers. Later, when they were awaiting the arrival of the chief inspector, Major Reinberger made a second effort at their destruction—this time in the parlor stove in the farmhouse.”
“But quick action on the part of the gendarme stopped him from succeeding,” announced Pucelle with a triumphant tone. “Surely this proves that the papers are genuine. If the German scheme was to send us false information, why try so hard to eliminate what they wanted us to have?”
There was a murmur of agreement from General Gamelin and Minister Daladier at this reasoning, but Andre still sat silently frowning.
“Colonel Chardon, you are still unconvinced,” said Daladier reasonably. “Tell us what you see that we have missed.”
Andre cleared his throat before replying. “It is directly contrary to the policy of the German High Command to ever transport top-secret documents by air, in exact anticipation of what has occurred here. Secondly, the German majors stated that they crash-landed because they became lost and ran out of fuel, yet when the ME-108 was examined, it still had enough fuel to have continued flying.”
“A malfunctioning gauge, or ice in the fuel line,” interrupted Pucelle.
“Please continue, Colonel Chardon,” Daladier urged.
Andre nodded and spoke again. “Thirdly, the two attempts to burn the documents are suspicious, to me anyway.” He looked directly at Pucelle as he continued. “These are Luftwaffe officers . . . not fools . . . carrying highly sensitive papers directly against orders. How many tries does it take to burn something so incriminating?”
“Bah,” snorted Pucelle. “Colonel Chardon is striving to unravel a mystery where one does not exist. General Gamelin stated as long ago as 1937 that any future Nazi threat to our border would have to come through Holland and Belgium and would precisely follow the German Schleiffen Plan. The same strategy they followed in the Great War . . . unsuccessfully, I might add.”
There was a general air of agreement around the table, which only Andre and Bertrand did not share. To be fair, Daladier gave Andre one more chance to speak. “If this is an elaborate trick, Colonel, what could possibly be the intent?”
Andre cleared his throat nervously. “I do not believe this is a trick. However, I do believe that the German officers Hulse and Reinberger allowed these documents to come into the hands of the neutrals intentionally.”
There was an undertone of surprise around the table. Daladier leaned close to drum his fingers on the documents. “Then you feel these Germans wished that we possess the complete details of Luftwaffe plans? They are traitors, in other words.”
“They were reticent to speak with me, Prime Minister, because I am a Frenchman and the enemy of their Reich. But through a two-way mirror I observed a conversation between the German Kurt Hulse and a Belgian plainclothes officer who has befriended him.”
“This Hulse will speak to the neutrals then.”
“I believe his plan was to warn them. But there is more.” Andre drew his breath in slowly. What he was about to say flew in the face of all current military thinking. “At my urging, the Belgian asked this Hulse if he knew of any plans concerning the Ardennes. . . .”
Pucelle snorted. “There could be none. Impassable to artillery . . .”
Andre continued in spite of the prevailing attitude of scorn. “Hulse said that it was just as easy for a Stuka dive-bomber to fly over the Ardennes as it was for it to fly over flat terrain.”
“A dive-bomber could not carry enough explosives to make a dent in—,” Pucelle began.
Bertrand leaped into the argument. “You are forgetting Warsaw, Colonel! You are forgetting Barcelona!”
“Cities!” Pucelle retorted. “Vulnerable to air bombardment. But the entire French front could not be dented!”
“I tell you,” Andre said quietly, “Hulse and Reinberger were warning the neutrals. But we Frenchmen should also be warned about the Ardennes.”
Gamelin shook his head and stuck his lower lip out in disdai
n at the very idea. “A guess is not good enough, Colonel Chardon. I will not move whole divisions to sit idle before an impenetrable line because of an unsubstantiated guess.” He slapped his hand down on the German documents. “This is what we go on. If these documents are authentic, and you believe they are . . .”
“But incomplete,” Andre insisted.
“What other information do we have? Show me proof, and I may look at the Ardennes. But for now you waste our time with speculation!” The general stood, and the meeting was at an end. Andre was dismissed like an errant schoolboy. He would not mention the Ardennes again until he had proof that his theory was correct.
On the way out to the waiting Citroën, Bertrand drew Andre aside. “I know you are disappointed that you could not convince them. But remember that they know nothing as yet about the project going on in your basement. Perhaps our friend Lewinski has come up with something definite.”
Andre gave Bertrand a bleak look. “The truth, Gustave? I do not even know what he is up to.”
Early December in the South Atlantic was hotter than any summer Trevor had ever experienced back home. Once a day the prisoners were allowed a ten-minute turn on Altmark’s deck. It was an amazing relief, if only to have the temperature drop to a hundred degrees from the sweltering hundred and thirty of the hold.
Trevor realized that nothing in the Nazis’ hearts had softened to allow this brief exercise. As Captain Thun had so grandly informed the prisoners, they were to be taken back to Germany and displayed. Britain’s vaunted sea power was being humbled, and the parade of British sailors was the proof. As such, hostages to German propaganda had to be transported alive, if only barely.
The incident of the death of Frankie Thomas had resulted in a curious postscript. As additional proof that the Germans were still far more concerned with discipline than with the welfare of the prisoners, an official proclamation had been posted inside the hold:
Notice to Prisoners
On account of today’s behavior of the prisoners, they will get bread and water only tomorrow. Further, I have given orders that the doctor will not make his regular rounds after this. Cases of severe sickness must be reported at the time of handing down the food.
But if the iron enforcement of German authority had not changed, something in Trevor’s relationship with the rest of the prisoners had. After Frankie’s body had been unceremoniously dumped over the side, every Brit had taken the time to squeeze Trevor’s hand in approval of his attempt to intercede. When Dykes had complained about the loss of their rations, Nob had taken him aside. In a low, unmistakably menacing tone, Dykes had been informed that if he didn’t shut up, his would be the next body going over the rail.
As the calendar slowly crept toward Christmas, the day finally came when Altmark was once again rafted up next to the Graf Spee to receive more prisoners. When the newly transferred captives were added to the crowd in the hold, each was quizzed for news of the outside world and the prospects of rescue. Trevor latched on to a tall machinist’s mate named Dooley who had been on the freighter Huntsman.
“They’ve got the wind up about somethin’,” Dooley reported. “Heard two Heinie swabbies gabbin’ about a big battle comin’. There may be nothin’ to it, but they made a course change, sudden-like.”
Before Dooley had even finished speaking, orders were shouted and the lines securing the battleship to her smaller accomplice were cast off. Sirens blared on the battleship, and the steam whistle of the prison ship shrilled a farewell. In the confusion of the abrupt departure, no one had been commanded to shut the lid over the hold. To come out of the cell unordered would mean being shot, but Trevor risked standing on the ladder and poking his head up just far enough to get a narrow view of the sea across the deck.
At first he could not make out anything but the giant steel wall that was the hull of the Graf Spee. But gradually the raider drew apart from the Altmark, and then Trevor could make out what had caused the sudden departure: Two columns of smoke on the horizon were moving at high speed toward the German ships. As Trevor watched, a third smudge of dark fumes appeared a short distance behind the first pair.
The guns of the Spee roared. She carried three sets of enormous eleven-inch cannons, capable of throwing huge projectiles across miles of ocean. The crash of the guns reverberated within the confines of the hold, as if Altmark herself were under attack.
“What is it? What’s happening?” came the urgent shouts from below.
Trevor had forgotten that he was supposed to be a reporter and not just an observer. “Can’t make out the hulls yet,” Trevor yelled back. “From the way they are coming straight ahead, they must be at least battle cruisers. Maybe the Exeter.”
“Get on with it, man,” Dooley urged. “Tell it all!”
“Spee has the range,” Trevor said. “The cruisers are firing, but the shells are falling way too short. Every time one of those eleven-inchers hits, it throws water two hundred feet in the air. Now I can see . . .” Trevor stopped awkwardly.
“What, man, what?” Dooley pleaded. “I mean, sir. Don’t stop!”
“One of the cruisers has taken a hit,” Trevor reported. “There was a bright flash, and it’s falling back now.”
A groan went up from all the prisoners. “What about the other two?” Nob asked.
“They are zigging—making a smoke screen,” Trevor recounted.
“To cover their retreat, the no-good cowards,” Dykes muttered.
Altmark bore away northeast, leaving the battle scene behind as the Spee headed southwest. It was clear that there would be no rescue today. All the attention of the British warships was focused on the German raider.
The accidentally uncovered hatch was discovered, and Trevor was curtly ordered to drop down or face more punishment. Just before he complied, he hauled himself up on his hands and peered across the intervening water at the battle. He got a clout on his ear for his audacity and was knocked backward into the hold.
“What’d you do that for?” Dykes muttered. “Tryin’ to get us on bread and water again?”
Trevor came up holding the side of his head, but he was smiling. “Think what you want, Dykes. But it was worth it. The cruisers aren’t running away. They are dashing in and out of that smoke like dogs after a lion. One of them closed to point-blank range before plunging back into cover.”
“And? Go on, man, finish!” Dooley urged.
“I saw the Graf Spee take a hit on her bridge.”
A cheer resounded in the cramped space of the hull that could not have been any greater if liberation had come. This behavior did, in fact, earn the prisoners another day on reduced rations, but not one, not even Dykes, complained.
Mac and Murphy boarded the 7 am train to Nancy from Paris.
The compartment was occupied by a man who snoozed soundly. A copy of the New York Times covered his face. He snored softly beneath bold headlines, declaring the defeat of the German pocket battleship Graf Spee by the British navy at Montevideo Harbor in South America on December thirteenth.
Mac and Murphy leaned forward in unison to read the fluttering newspaper. It had been weeks since they had seen an American publication. The capture of Graf Spee had all of England waving the Union Jack as if the war had been won.
Photographs showed the proud German ship before its defeat and then the smashed hull as it sank slowly into the waters at the mouth of the River Plate. Proclaimed as a glorious victory for the British fleet, the sinking of the warship was an Allied public-relations victory as well. The naval battle, fought an ocean away from France, had been the most exciting news event in the conflict for several months.
The New York Times rose and fell with the even dance of the man’s breathing.
A reprinted German communiqué beneath the photograph of the captain of the battleship announced:
The commander of the Graf Spee, Captain Hans Langsdorf, did not want to survive the sinking of his ship. True to the old traditions and in the spirit of the Officers’
Corps, of which he was a member for thirty years, he made this decision. Having brought his crew to safety he considered his duty fulfilled, and he followed his ship. The navy understands and praises this step. Captain Langsdorf has in this way fulfilled like a fighter and a hero the expectations of his Führer, the German people, and the navy.
Mac read the bit and let out a low whistle. “Really something. The guy went down with his ship.”
From beneath the newsprint a familiar French voice bellowed, “Nonsense, Monsieur! Langsdorf was ordered by Hitler to shoot himself. Which he did in a hotel room in Buenos Aires.” The figure sat up and extended the paper to Mac. It was Leon Noel, the former French ambassador to Poland. He had just returned to France after a trip to Washington, during which he had personally informed Roosevelt of the events in Poland. He had taken along a reel of Mac’s film as proof.
“Bonjour, McGrath. We meet again. This time no one is shooting at us, eh?” Noel ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Your newsreel has been a great success back in the States. It had the president and Madame Eleanor on the edge of their seats. I suppose you have not had such exciting film since we escaped the Messerschmitts in Poland?”
For the next several hours Noel proved to be a prime source of real news. Having just arrived from the States, he was a fountain of information to the two journalists who had been living with the filtered, one-sided versions allowed by the censors. They sat like starved puppies waiting for the next morsel.
“And furthermore, the Royal Navy may have caught the Graf Spee, but not before she off-loaded several hundred British prisoners of war onto a German freighter called the Altmark. The British Admiralty is not printing everything.” Noel yawned. “Oh, by the way, did you hear that the Russians attacked Finland with Hitler’s blessings? It is my opinion that Hitler wishes to let his friend Stalin wear out his army in the blizzards of Scandinavia this winter. Then Hitler will fight Stalin.”
