by Jana Petken
“Did he approach the British?” Dieter asked.
“Yes, he contacted us in ‘39 to report an approach by the Germans. We encouraged him to accept the Abwehr’s offer, and he was eventually tasked by his German case officers to get to Cairo and report on Allied military intentions and capabilities. He got there via Istanbul under his Italian passport.”
Heller finished the water in his glass, then continued, “He’s had tremendous success slowing down Rommel’s forces with misinformation. The man might have saved Cairo and the Suez Canal. He lost the Germans Tobruk by starving Rommel’s Afrika Korps of fuel. Two months ago, he informed the Axis forces there were fourteen non-existent British divisions in North Africa. Rommel believed him and elected to postpone his offensive against the British until the end of last month, by which time our Montgomery had accumulated his Eighth Army forces.”
“Have the Germans never questioned Obelisk’s inaccuracies?”
“Yes. He claimed he didn’t have adequate funds to recruit top-class informants. The Abwehr accepted his explanation … even went as far as making elaborate arrangements to pass him additional cash.” Heller, evidently proud of his agent, continued, “Their plan resulted in another coup for us. Our warships sunk their submarine, and we captured the courier who was carrying the money to Obelisk. Once you get into the file, you’ll understand why we couldn’t let this operation die. What he’s doing is too damned important. He’s averaging two radio transmissions a week, Dieter. Think about that … two a week!”
“I can see why you want the operation to continue.”
Heller got his box of cigars out and chose one. “It’s a damn shame about Obelisk’s illness. It couldn’t have come at a worse time,” he said as he cut the end of his cigar with a silver clipper.
“Is there ever a right time to be ill?”
Heller grinned. “I suppose not. There are complications in Egypt, which you’ll read about in that file. I won’t go into them now, but when you read up, you’ll see the problems Max has, and will have, to face. It’s ironic. Obelisk is not fond of the British. He told me without a hint of embarrassment that he likes the Germans but resents their treatment of Italian Jews – he’s part Jew, you see.”
Dieter’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Ah.” Then he thought about Max again. “Is my son already undercover?”
“Yes. We got the confirmation four days ago. He lost his Egyptian asset in the process … a long story … another one you’ll read about in this file.”
Heller drew on his cigar then let out a tired sigh. “The whole thing has been rather complicated, to be honest.” He finally handed Dieter the file. “I want you to run Operation Lanner Falcon from Bletchley, under our Ultra Programme. You’ll be Max’s primary controller. His code name is Mirror, as always. His job is to keep the Abwehr busy with distortions of the truth until Obelisk returns. I’ll come to Bletchley tomorrow morning to go into more detail. In the meantime, pick your team, and familiarise yourself with the players here and in Egypt. You can start with Captain Theo Kelsey. He’ll be debriefed downstairs in about an hour. He was in Cairo with Max but wasn’t part of Operation Lanner Falcon. He’ll give you the insight you’ll need into the present conditions in Egypt, and more importantly, tell you how Max is doing. Observe only, Dieter, and don’t mention your relationship to Max; at least, not yet.”
“Has he been told why he was brought back?” Dieter asked.
“Yes, and he wasn’t pleased with being kept in the dark. He’s a good chap, injured at Tobruk last year. He’ll be working for you on this phase of the operation. I’m sending him to you tonight. He can be in on my briefing at Bletchley in the morning.”
Heller picked up the telephone, was silent for a couple of seconds, then said, “Marjory, bring me the Kelsey file, please.”
Again, Heller shifted in his chair, but this time he grinned, and his face brightened. “I wanted to leave this news until we’d discussed our business. I didn’t think you’d be able to concentrate if I told you when you walked in here. It concerns your Paul.”
Dieter’s eyes instantly began to water at the mention of his son. News at last. “Christ, Jonathan, you should have led with this. I’ve been here for over three hours – tell me he’s all right. I can’t – I won’t give Laura bad news…”
“It’s not bad. You asked me to badger Ernst Brandt for news of your boys … well, he finally came through for you. He picked up one of Goebbels’ propaganda newspapers. It contained notices of medal recipients and the like, and the usual stories … you know, sentimental stuff about heroics and important families.”
“If it’s the newspaper I think you’re talking about, it was one of Goebbels’ pet projects.” Dieter snorted. “It has only good news and praise for the Reich in it. Sorry, go on.”
“Hmm, and as much as I hate Goebbels’ propaganda machine, on this occasion, it has brought you good news. Oberarzt Paul Vogel, son of the late industrialist, Dieter Vogel, has become a father. He and his wife were mentioned in the birth section of the paper – a daughter, Erika Maria Vogel, Brandt said.”
Dieter’s head spun. All he could think about was getting out of the office and telling Laura and Hannah the wonderful news. “I’m a grandfather again – ach du großer Gott – my God! I can’t wait to tell Laura.” His misty eyes then widened with hope. “Did Ernst say where Paul was serving? Did he read anything in the newspaper about Wilmot?”
“No, on both counts, I’m afraid.”
“I understand,” Dieter sighed. “Still, it’s better than Brandt reporting that he’d seen my boys’ names on the obituary page. Please, thank Ernst for me.”
Marjory brought in the file and left without a word being exchanged.
Dieter rose and shook Heller’s hand while giving him a boyish grin. “I’m a grandfather twice over – baby Erika – wonderful. Thank you, Jonathan. You’ve made my day. I hope you’ll stay for lunch tomorrow in Bletchley?”
“I wouldn’t miss Laura’s cooking for the world.” Then Heller cocked his head to the side. “When are you going to trim that beard, Dieter? You look like a damn Santa Claus.”
Chapter Sixteen
Wilmot Vogel
1 September 1942
Alam el Halfa, the Western Desert
Wilmot, with his fingers plugging his ears and eyes squeezed shut, hunkered behind a rock and braced for the engineers’ explosive devices to ignite. When the blasts came, the ground beneath his feet vibrated: rocks, stones and hard clay shattered into small pieces that flew into the air like geysers, and a fine mist of sand covered his entire body.
The engineers collected their gear and went on to the next area. Wilmot then supervised his men as they began shovelling the recently blown up stones and gravel into piles. Afterwards, they would deepen the small craters that were to house the guns. The heavy weapons would lie horizontally over the lip of the trenches, be manned by one man, also dug in, and be practically invisible to the enemy using desert camouflage.
A scarf covered Wilmot’s mouth and nose. Goggles shielded his eyes, and his cap kept the sun off his burnt head. He had been stupid enough to remove his headgear for a short while the previous day, but even with his mop of hair to protect him, the sun’s brilliance had reddened and blistered his scalp.
“Obergefreiter, have you got water? No one’s got any water. Can you believe that? This is shit. I’m going to die of thirst,” a bare-chested man digging the hole nearest to Wilmot grumbled as he dug. “What are we doing this for? We’ll be abandoning this place in a couple of hours and giving the gun holes to the enemy. Who comes up with these stupid ideas?”
Wilmot shook his head. Günter was one of those men who never stopped complaining. Wilmot had come over from Italy on the ship with the whiner, and no matter how hard he tried to keep away from him, Günter always managed to stick to him like a leech, nit-picking everything he saw and heard that didn’t please him. He was a fresh recruit and had no idea what hardships men endured in the m
ilitary. He must have been a spoilt brat as a child, Wilmot concluded.
“You’ll get a drink when the tankers return,” Wilmot gave Günter a curt answer.
“That could take hours, Obergefreiter. I heard they had to do almost three hundred kilometres round-trip to fetch fresh water. And what if they’re blown up on the way back? Those English dive-bombers will be able to pick them off like skittles, now the sandstorm has died down.”
The man had a point, Wilmot thought. Tankers often had to backtrack for hundreds of kilometres to fill up, and three full-to-the-brim water tankers had been destroyed on the first day of fighting.
“It’s all right for you. You’re standing there watching while we’re drenched in our own fluids,” Günter now complained.
“Well, when you have my experience and seniority, you’ll be exempted from menial duties as well, but until then, dig the damn hole and shut up. And put your shirt on. You won’t get off work details if you burn like a piece of toast.”
Fed up with the man and feeling unwell, Wilmot left the line of diggers and found a bit of shade behind a lorry that towed an 88mm anti-aircraft and anti-tank gun. He clutched his stomach, groaning as diarrhoea dribbled out his arse then down the length of his short trousers and onto his bare leg. Liquid gold, the men called the shits. Steaming hot Frankfurter Würstchen sausage was the name used to describe a more solid variation which Wilmot had not yet been lucky enough to experience. The cramps and shits came without notice at times; they had turned farting into a dangerous game of wait and see, for one never knew if a fart or shit would come out.
He wiped his leg with his face scarf then cursed at his own stupidity; without the scarf, he’d probably choke to death on sand and dust. Ach, never mind, he thought, wiping as much dung off his skin onto the sandy floor as he could while still feeling sick at the thought of wrapping the stinking scarf around his nose and mouth again. He’d take a scarf off one of the enemy corpses lying about.
He slid to the ground and rested his head against the side of the vehicle. He’d been in the desert for less than three weeks and was experiencing acute gastric pains and fainting fits that came at the most inopportune moments. On the Russian front lines, he’d been used to a diet of bread and potatoes, but when he’d got his first meal in North Africa, he’d been shocked to see a plate of hard biscuits and beans. Occasionally, the beans were enlivened by small amounts of cheese and dehydrated vegetables. Sometimes they got tins of Italian meat, the ancestry of which were always the cause of much debate. He missed potatoes. He’d asked where they were and had been told that bread and potatoes went mouldy too quickly in the heat.
It was a monotonous diet and low in vitamins. Wilmot had found out that the British, on the other hand, luxuriated in tinned fruit and vegetables and something called bully beef. That gave the Axis troops the motivation to fight and capture allied supplies.
“Taking a break?” a voice asked.
Wilmot opened his eyes and looked up. His moment of contemplation on food and shits was over, and just as well, for he hated self-pity. “I’m having a bit of trouble with my bodily functions, Unteroffizier. I needed a few minutes to settle my problem,” Wilmot said truthfully to the senior ranger.
The man stretched out his arm to shake Wilmot’s hand, but then he saw the brown-stained scarf lying on the ground next to Wilmot and retracted it. “Ach, it happens to us all. You’ll get used to it. I’m Uwe Schmidt.”
“Willie Vogel.” Wilmot perked up. It was comforting to see a genuinely friendly face, albeit one that was showing signs of stress from being in the desert for a long time. He had the strained look of Haupt, Wilmot’s officer pal from Russia.
Uwe sat next to Wilmot and handed him his flask. “There’s a mouthful of water left in there, but you can have it. It might be a while before the tankers get to us.”
Wilmot guzzled the remains in the flask, inadvertently crunching on gritty sand that was lying in the bottom of it. “It’s like nectar of the gods,” he sighed nonetheless when he handed the flask back to Uwe.
“I knew this offensive was going to go to pot as soon as they told us we were attacking under a full moon. I blame the Italians,” Wilmot said to the desert-hardened man sitting next to him.
“Generaleutnant Rommel agreed with the Italian Supreme Command,” Uwe said, putting Wilmot in his place. “We’re facing long supply lines and lacking reinforcements, and it was he, not the Italians, who decided to strike the Allies while their build-up was still incomplete. The plan was sound. We were supposed to break through the southern part of the front because it was held by weaker forces than the rest of the British line and afterwards advance by way of Alam el Halfa to Alexandria. Maybe if the first wave hadn’t been bogged down in a minefield, our lot would have broken through. Who knows?”
Wilmot had joined the 90th Light Infantry upon his arrival in the Western desert. His division and the Afrika Korps had led the Italian XX Motorised Corps in the failed second wave. He still felt the adrenalin running through him after surging forwards against a barrage of enemy tank fire the previous day. “Yes, well, attacks always sound straight forward on paper, but they rarely go according to our commanders’ plans.”
The two men paused their miserable conversation to get out their packs of cigarettes.
Wilmot lit his, and still thinking about how he’d felt before the previous day’s battle, reiterated, “I knew we were going to fail. I can’t tell you why I was more nervous about this offensive than any other I’ve experienced in the war, or why I was pessimistic, but I had this strong feeling we weren’t going to find a way through the British lines.”
“Fear plays terrible tricks on a man’s mind, Willie.”
“That’s the thing, Uwe; most people think I’m an optimist. If there’s a silver lining to be found, I’ll find it. Ach, maybe you’re right. Maybe I was scared.”
Uwe chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve been terrified since the day I landed in this desert.” He drew on his cigarette and flicked an ant off his leg. “Did you hear about the commander of the 21st Panzer Division getting killed?”
“No, but I heard we lost the commanders of the Afrika Korps and our 90th Division.”
Uwe nodded. “They’re still alive but badly wounded. It was a bit of a shambles after they left the field.”
“No one is infallible, eh?” Wilmot mused.
“The tanker we were expecting was torpedoed and sunk on its arrival in Tobruk. We were supposed to get four hundred tons of fuel yesterday, and we received a fraction of it because the transport planes had to use it themselves on the long trip.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I have my fingers in the supply chain and every other logistical chain. Got to know what’s going on, so you can tell your men something. If we waited for news from the top, we’d never find out anything.”
Wilmot wondered if the fuel shortage had caused the latest rumour that was picking up steam. Apparently, Rommel intended to break off the attack. “Do you think we should turn around?”
Uwe swept his eyes around the area before answering. “Yes. This is a no-go. We’ve got petrol shortages, and we lost materials and men yesterday … far more than anyone expected. If we try to move forward again, we’ll get hammered by Allied Spitfires from the air.” Uwe let out a tired sigh. “I hate the thought of retreat.”
Wilmot’s rank of senior lance corporal meant he was often given information that never reached the grunts in the lowest ranks. He enjoyed this privilege, but sometimes he wished he could go back to a simpler time when he was an ignorant Schütze blindly following orders and hoping for the best. “You know, Uwe, before the ship docked in Libya, I pictured this place being full of vast swathes of sand dunes, camels, and the odd oasis with swaying palm trees. Not for a moment did I imagine this stony, barren desert. It’s horrible. … I’ve tried, but I can’t say anything nice about it. This place must be pure hell for the men dealing with logistical support.�
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“It’s a nightmare,” Uwe said, trying to flick more ants off his arm. “Problem is, everything we need to fight and stay alive has to be transported from Italy. The crossing to Libya is about ninety kilometres, but the ships carrying our supplies have got to run the gauntlet past Malta. God knows how much stuff we lose on those cargo vessels that get hit by the Royal Air Force and British Navy. Then when the supplies land, the lorries have got to travel along the Litoranea Balbo – the Via Balbia road. The Italians built it. It extends through this filthy armpit of a country without a tree or shrub in sight for as far as the eye can see. It’s the only main road in Libya.”
“Christ. Imagine if we’re waiting for cigarettes and they’re on the last truck in the convoy leaving Tripoli…” Wilmot joked. “The war will probably be over by the time that truck gets to us. How far does the road stretch?”
“About eighteen hundred kilometres from Tripoli to El Alamein. It’s rough. I’ve been here for eighteen months and I’ve spent as much time fixing vehicles as I have fighting. Tank tracks are always getting torn off and tyres split every five minutes. The sand blows up because of the constant movement of vehicles and trucks, and it blocks the tanks’ air filters. Before they changed to the new desert filters, the walls of the engines were scoured to a standstill after eight hundred kilometres or so. I can’t count the number of times breakdowns have delayed our advances. I’m having one more cigarette before I go back to work – join me?” Uwe sighed again, as though he had the weight of the world on him.
“I will. Have you been here from the beginning?” Wilmot asked.
“Yes. When we got here, there was no heavy artillery support. We were sent to Libya as a blocking force, because the Italians were losing ground to the British. They don’t know how to fight, those Italians. They prefer singing opera.”
