Before The Brightest Dawn (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 3)

by Jana Petken

  “Good God, man, that must be a bit on the strange side for you, what with you interrogating the buggers,” Harry interrupted with a gaping mouth.

  “Yes. You’d be surprised by how many Germans with British citizenship left England to answer Hitler’s call.”

  “No, I’m not surprised at all. Half the Afrika Korps officers speak the King’s English better than the average Northerner.” Harry puffed on his cigarette, looking intrigued by Max’s admission. “Any other brothers serving in Germany’s armed forces?”

  “No, no more brothers.” Max sat back again. He didn’t have to mention Paul. Wilmot was all that mattered here.

  “Fascinating. I’m dying to know more. This will make for good dinner conversation.” Harry’s eyes lit up, as though he’d had an astounding thought. “You must come to a party tomorrow night at the St. George’s. It’s being hosted by the new Governor General of Algeria – name of Georges Catroux – some sort of French liberation fighter, apparently.”

  “That sounds nice. I’ll look forward to it. Now about my favour?”

  Harry rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in an apology. “Yes, of course. I’m all ears.”

  Thank God, Max thought. “I’ve been trying to track down Wilmot. To be honest, I was hoping I’d find a record of his name on the prisoner lists I received while conducting my interrogations at the holding camps, but I’ve finished the job and come up empty.”

  “Hmm, I can’t say I’m surprised. It must be like looking for a flea in a pepper pot. You do know we captured over a quarter million Axis soldiers in Tunisia alone?”

  “Yes, sir, and about half that number are German –”

  Again, the colonel interrupted, this time raising his hand to silence Max. “Old chap, this is a delicate subject … perhaps not one we should be having, but I must ask … do you have evidence your brother is alive? Like us, the Germans and Italians suffered massive casualties. Between the Americans and ourselves, there must be over a thousand Axis troops being treated at our field hospitals, and their dead are still lying in the Western Desert somewhere between Tunis and the railway hub at El Alemain.”

  Max let out a tired sigh. He’d exhausted himself with the question: is Wilmot alive? After going to every prisoner holding camp in the area, talking to Germans, either during interrogation or in a more casual way on his own time, he was at his wit’s end. No one had heard of Lance Corporal Wilmot Vogel who might have served as a Panzer driver or even a cook in God knew what division, company, or platoon.

  Dropping the sir, as he usually did with Harry when they socialised at the St George, Max finally answered, “Look, Harry, I know it’s a long shot at best, but I promised my mother I would find my baby brother or learn what happened to him. You’re right, I don’t know if he’s alive, but I do know I’ve exhausted every avenue on the British side. I don’t think there’s a German or Italian officer that my men and I have not questioned, and I ordered my men to ask about Wilmot. I must have spoken to thousands of German rank and file since the day the Axis troops surrendered. I’ve checked all the military hospitals and army medical posts, and I’ve watched hours of Pathe newsreels, shot from the end of May in Tunisia until today. My only option now is to leave this in the hands of my fellow British intelligence officers while I go to the Americans in an unofficial capacity. And I’m going to have to get a move on.”

  “Ah, Max, now there’s your problem. The Yanks want to keep their administration of the American controlled prisoner camps separate from ours. They weren’t happy that your chaps got to General von Arnim first, and they’re not best pleased about having to accept tens of thousands of Germans on American soil. God knows what their civilians back home will make of having to receive sunburnt, battle-hardened veterans of Rommel’s infamous Afrika Korps.”

  “They’ve already taken a hundred and fifty thousand off our hands,” Max reminded the colonel. “Even before the North Africa invasion, Churchill convinced the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff to begin taking prisoners.”

  “I know the statistics, Max. I have them right here on my desk. The Americans understand we’re unable to meet food and housing requirements set by the Geneva Convention for prisoners, and they, like us, don’t want thousands of German POWs on Europe’s soil. But it doesn’t mean they’re happy about the situation. They certainly won’t want a British Intelligence Officer waltzing into their domain and asking to see the name of every prisoner they have. Hmm, yes, this is most unusual – I don’t know what else to say to you.”

  In a coded transmission, Heller had informed Max of Churchill’s recent trip to Washington. It was, in principle, to talk about the planned Italian Campaign, Heller said, but he’d added that the Prime Minister had shared the passenger ship, the Queen Mary, with several thousand Axis Prisoners of War. The United States was wholly unprepared to deal with enemy soldiers on this scale, and it was understandable. Their nation was gearing up its war industry and training troops, and officials had to figure out how to house, feed, and secure incoming POWs in a timely fashion.

  Max now played his last few cards by pouring compliments on Harry. The man lived to be the centre of attention. “You’ve handled our prisoner situation admirably, Colonel. Your records are impeccable, and, I’m betting, much more comprehensive than those of the Americans who are handling the bulk of the Axis forces. There’s not a more popular figure in Algiers than you, and I’m guessing you know everyone who’s anyone on the American side. You could get me inside their camps. They respect you.”

  “Are you still living in the officer’s mess on HMNB HMS Hannibal?” the colonel asked, looking quite proud of himself at the effusive acclamation.

  “I am.”

  “All right. Let me make a couple of telephone calls. I’ll contact you at the base if I have something. I can’t promise anything, Max, but I’ll do my best for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Max stood, saluted, then left, praying that Harry wouldn’t procrastinate on this. Prisoners were already being shipped to the Port of Oran, where they were to be housed in tents surrounded by barbed wire until the United States and Britain were ready to take them. The bulk of the Axis troops were to be shipped across the Atlantic on cargo ships that had brought troops and equipment from America for the eventual invasion of Europe. After unloading their cargoes in Britain, many of these ships, dubbed Liberty Ships, had been earmarked to either return empty to the United States or carry wounded American soldiers. He’d already had the heads up that the vessels were on their way to Oran. He was running out of time in his search for Wilmot.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Max Vogel

  London, England

  4 September 1943

  A heavy downpour accompanied by a strong wind met Max as soon as he’d climbed the last step leading from Piccadilly Circus Underground Station to the street. He ran to the nearest doorway; a closed fish and chip café, already sheltering an elderly man from the rain and wind that was turning umbrellas inside out.

  The white-haired, balding man wore a raincoat two sizes too big for him, drowning his frame and giving him a frail, vulnerable appearance. Not so frail, however, when he poked Max in the back to get attention. “They should call this a sidepour instead of a downpour. Bleedin’ wind and rain together set my headaches off every time,” he complained.

  After the oppressive heat of North Africa, Max was enjoying the crisp cold air, its sting on his desert-lashed face, the wet streets, and the sound of heavy rain. He turned his head and grinned at the man. “There’s nothing like a good drop of rain on the face to freshen up a person.”

  “Where’ve you been, Son?”

  “The desert,” Max answered.

  “Ah, I know all about that place,” the man raised himself to his full height. “I was in the Boer War, end of ‘99. Bit more south than where you lot were fighting. Well done out there, boy … cheered me up no end when you got that nuisance Rommel out of Africa.”

  Max breathed deeply, and Lo
ndon’s ubiquitous aromas crept up his nostrils: petrol fumes from the trams, buses and trolleybuses, manure and sodden grass from Regent’s Park, wet animal smells from Regent’s Park Zoo, and even the somewhat obnoxious odours coming from an overflowing bin at the edge of the pavement; all gave him a sense of being home, with all things familiar.

  “That bloody stink of old fish and chip paper, still smelling of fat and vinegar, puts you off fish and chips for life, don’t it, Son?” The elderly man pointed to the bin and shook his head in disapproval. “I came across the river from Battersea to treat meself ‘ere today. This place used to ‘ave the best ‘addock and chips in all of London … s’ppose they’ve closed today ‘cos they can’t get the fish as regular nowadays … bloody war takes the fun out of living, don’t it?”

  “That’s true,” Max nodded, as he poked his head into the street and lifted his face. The rain was still heavy, and the sky was slate-grey with not a white or blue patch in it, but he’d be there all day if he didn’t make a move. He looked at the old man’s disappointed face, went into his pocket and brought out five shillings. “There’s a nice restaurant around the next corner on the left. You have a good day. Mind how you go.” He smiled as he gave the pensioner the money.

  When he arrived at Piccadilly’s Regent Palace Hotel, Max went straight to the restaurant where Jonathan Heller was already seated at a table. Upon his return from North Africa the previous night, Max had been surprised to find the note in his post box at MI6 Headquarters. Meet me tomorrow at 1300 at Regent Palace Hotel for a spot of lunch. Take the morning off. Jonathan was buying him lunch, and in one of London’s finest restaurants where much of the food was by far off ration and exclusively available to the wealthy. Something was wrong.

  The two men shook hands. Max sat, and within seconds a waiter was asking him what he wanted to drink. “Scotch, if you have it,” Max answered the stooped man who looked to be a stone’s throw from his eightieth birthday.

  “I must say, this is nice, Jonathan. What have I done to deserve this, apart from getting home alive?”

  Heller shrugged. “I thought for once in our lives, we could have an out-of-office meeting. You’ve just got back and have your reports and debriefing to get through this afternoon. I wanted to give you some time to settle in before going to headquarters.” Heller sipped his whisky, then coughed twice as he set it down.

  Shit. Bad news is coming, Max predicted. After all their years working together, Max knew Heller’s tell as well as he knew his own face in a shaving mirror. “This is not a social outing, then. What’s going on, Jonathan?” he asked outright.

  “That depends on what you call social. I aim to enjoy my lunch…” Heller was saved by the waiter who brought Max’s drink.

  “Can I take your order now?” the man asked, peering over his rimless glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

  “I’m having the Chaufroid de Volaille Yorkaise – chicken and potatoes to us mere mortals,” Heller said.

  “I’ll have the same,” Max told the waiter, without taking his eyes off Heller.

  After the waiter left, Max persisted, “Tell me … why are we here?”

  “You’re leaving the country at midnight, for France … Paris.”

  Max downed his whisky in one, swallowing the burn of the bitter news he’d heard with the whisky. It would be his last alcoholic drink today. No going to Bletchley this evening to see Judith, to take her out for a drink at the local pub where he’d hoped to book a room for a romantic night with her. No talking to his parents about Wilmot, or seeing his sister and godson, Jack, or hearing about the latest news from Frank and his cousins in Kent. No bloody time for anything!

  “Are you serious? I’ve spent nearly six months away.” Wracked with disappointment, he added, “Whatever this is … why me?”

  Heller, annoyed by Max’s terse question, retorted, “The agent I was supposed to use was killed in Paris yesterday. It’s Mike Preston, Max.”

  “Christ … I’m sorry to hear that,” Max said, shame replacing his earlier petulance. He and Mike had come up the ranks together, but they hadn’t crossed paths in over two years.

  “Does Linda know?”

  “Yes. I sent a man around to Mike’s house early this morning.” Heller gripped his empty tumbler, and like Max, looked as though he wanted another. “Losing men never gets any easier, does it?”

  When the waiter returned with plates shaking in his weak, old hands, Max stood and took them before gravy splashed over him. “Thank you,” he said with a respectful tone.

  After setting Heller’s dinner plate in front of him, Max looked at his. The mushy green hill with three small chicken fillets strategically clinging to it, surrounded by fried onions and boiled potatoes separated by green leaves looking like soggy weeds, turned his stomach. He was no longer in the mood to eat after hearing that Mike was dead and he was going to France. “I don’t care how much poking around the chef did to enhance the appearance of this food, it still looks inedible. I should have had spam in one of its many forms,” Max said, then he apologised. “Sorry, Jonathan. I’m being an ass. Call it travel fatigue, war fatigue, whatever. I’m being an obnoxious prick. I appreciate the gesture of lunch.”

  “And, so you should. I’m personally paying for this.”

  Max tried to slow down the angry pulse banging against the side of his neck by drinking the tumbler of water the waiter had brought to accompany the whisky. “What can you tell me about the mission, apart from it’s in France?” he finally asked.

  “Nothing, at least not here and not now.” Heller swept his eyes around the room, then added quietly, “Anthony Eden and Stuart Menzies will be at your briefing later today.”

  Max’s level of interest rose tenfold, even as the volume of his voice fell. “The Foreign Minister and Chief of MI6 in the same room? Must be big.”

  “It is, but for now, eat your lunch and tell me about Wilmot. Your mother was hounding me for months for news, and when she found out you’d seen him on an American film reel after the surrender, she sent me a cake. I’m surprised she didn’t write to you a dozen times while you were in Algiers.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “Oh, she did, but as usual, I replied with a rundown of my daily diet, how hot the weather was, and my assurances that I was well and not in too much danger.”

  Max stabbed his chicken and grumbled, “Damn it, Jonathan, I was so close to seeing Willie in person before he was shipped out. I missed him by hours.” Max had been in constant touch with Heller, keeping him abreast of the information he’d picked up from German and Italian Staff Officers. Anticipating victory in North Africa in March, MI6 had been keen to get their hands on the most up-to-date intelligence before the Americans. Max had honed in on Rommel’s successor, Generalleutnant von Arnim, practically stealing him away from American intelligence before they could get their paws on him. Even as Allies, they were in constant competition with one another, as Harry in Algiers had pointed out.

  “It’s a damn shame, Max. When you told me you’d seen Wilmot on an American Pathe newsreel and that you were heading to Oran on the coast, I thought you might manage to track him down.”

  Max chuckled to himself, “I was crying and laughing at the same time when I saw him. The camera was inches from his face. He was smiling into the lens as if he were deliberately mocking the Yanks, and then he gave the camera the middle finger. I’m surprised they didn’t edit him out altogether – ach, that’s my brother for you – always has to get the last word.” Max grew serious. “To be honest, I got a bit of a shock when I saw his face. He was gaunt, black rings under his eyes, hair sticking in every direction from his head, and an ugly black scar from his outer nostril to his hairline. God knows what sort of hell he’s been through…”

  “Same hell as all soldiers – Allied or Axis. Was he always a strong supporter of the Third Reich?”

  Max, taken off guard by the question, especially coming from Heller who should know better, retorted, “He’s no fanati
c, if that’s what you’re implying. If he were, the SS wouldn’t have thrown him in the Dachau prison camp.” Max apologised again. “Sorry, Jonathan. I had enough of having to defend my brother in Algiers. I told the Americans, and I’ll tell you. Wilmot is a man who is – was – proud to serve his country. That’s all.”

  To get over the uncomfortable silence that followed, Max and Heller tucked into their dinners.

  Max, having controlled his emotions, then continued, “After finally seeing a list with Willie’s name on it – he’s a Staff Sergeant, apparently, which is probably why I didn’t get the response I was looking for from other German prisoners – I presumed he was still a corporal…”

  “Or they didn’t want to tell you they knew him,” Heller suggested while chewing a piece of chicken.

  “Yes, there is that.”

  “How was the treatment of prisoners out there?” Heller asked.

  “Good. No nonsense, no war crimes to deal with, or gratuitous executions on either side. Field Marshal Rommel adhered to the Geneva Convention, unlike the SS and Gestapo butchers in Europe. I tracked down some British Eighth Army soldiers who’d been captured by the Afrika Korps. They were at an abandoned Wehrmacht medical post near Bizerte. The men’s wounds had been treated, and a German doctor and three corpsmen had remained with them even after their unit had left to surrender.”

  Heller stretched out his hand and patted Max’s arm. “I know you’re disappointed, Max, but Wilmot is alive and will probably be treated lawfully in an American Prisoner of War Camp. If I were your parents, I’d be glad he’s going across the Atlantic. At least he doesn’t have to face the prospect of fighting in Europe. His war is over, Max.”