by Colin Gee
More serious were the wounds sustained by Georges de Walle.
The indomitable Belgian lay on the floor hissing his pain through clenched teeth, a portion of the door framing deeply embedded in his inner thigh, a wound from which blood copiously flowed.
A piece of glass had laid his cheek open, exposing his upper teeth, before it moved on a surgically removed the top of his left ear, both wounds providing more free-flowing exits for his vital fluids.
The smallest but the most dangerous of wounds was a piece of glass that protruded from his neck, so close to the vital jugular that Anne-Marie never even thought about dressing the wound.
It did not bleed overly but undoubtedly had the capacity to kill.
“Gently, Georges… gently now.”
She took hold of the wounded man and relaxed him against an upturned chair.
As she worked she asked a question of her new husband.
“Ernst… is she dead?”
She ripped up her lilac and white dress, to provide a tourniquet for the leg wound and then a wad for the facial wound.
“Yes.”
“Then come and help me here.”
Knocke moved away from the body of Sabine de Rochechouart, her life taken by a piece of the cart that had smashed into her chest and destroyed her heart.
Holding up De Walle’s leg for his wife to work on, Knocke watched her deftly slip a tourniquet above the wound and tighten, bringing more sounds of pain from the Belgian.
All around them, other people were attending to those injured and identifying those beyond hope.
Haefali, his broken arm quite obvious from distance, assisted with the attempt to save the life of the man who had initiated the bomb, a battle that would ultimately be lost.
He had been thrown forward and smashed his neck into the edge of a table, which heavy impact had destroyed much of the soft tissue, the swelling now cutting off his airway.
One of the legionnaires lay still, his cause of death not immediately apparent, but none the less very dead.
Elsewhere in the room, there were three more dead, and a score more injured enough to need more than a plaster or a bandage.
Outside, the bomb and wooden splinters had claimed twelve lives.
Four Poles, seven legionnaires… and Benoit Plummer.
1602 hrs, Sunday, 5th January 1947, Pałacyk Sokół [Falcon Palace], Park Miejski, Skawina, Poland.
The medics had quickly decided that moving De Walle any distance was not a good idea so, adopting a practical approach, they had set up a medical facility within the part of the Falcon Palace unaffected by the bomb blast.
There were a total of eight in-patients and a regular procession of wounded returning for change of dressings and other medical interventions.
Local Polish medical personnel supplemented the Legion staff, and together provided the very best of care.
The Knockes had just left the palace having visited their friend who, despite being in considerable pain was, according to the doctors, going to survive the injuries.
The neck wound had come close to ending his life but the doctor, a man who had plied his trade on the steppes and in the bocage, had skilfully extricated the sliver from de Walle’s neck, all the time marvelling at how close it had actually come to the main vein without actually causing the slightest hint of damage.
There was a hint of infection, and the thigh wound was causing the Deux commander considerable pain, but he grinned and grimaced his way through the Knocke’s visit.
A nurse had come in to administer some pain relief but had retreated to allow the three to say their goodbyes.
Both Ernst and Anne-Marie nodded to her when they left.
“Time for some medication, General Waller.”
De Walle tried to move himself up the bed but pain shot through his damaged limb.
“Let me help get you comfortable.”
The Polish nurse caught hold of his left arm and pulled upwards, virtually dragging the Belgian up the bed, splitting one stitched wound on his shoulder.
“So sorry, General. I didn’t know that was there.”
De Walle nodded his acceptance of her explanation, although he was surprised at the roughness of her approach.
“Haven’t seen you before.”
‘…or have I… you do look familiar come to think of it…’
“I’m just in from Krakow to help out. Only for a few days. Sorry again, General.”
“There’s a few more stitches here and there, It’s all in my notes… err… nurse?”
“Radzinski… Urszula Radzinski.”
“Georges de Walle… I would get up but…”
Radzinski interrupted, ignoring his attempted gallantry.
“Now, some pain relief that’ll help you relax.”
She took a syringe from a kidney dish and filled it with studied care from a glass vial.
“Just 15 mills of morphine to make things go away, General.”
The needle went home and Georges felt an immediate wave of relaxation wash over him, dulling the pain in his thigh and neck almost instantly.
The nurse made a record in the notes, although her signature bore no resemblance to anything intelligible or pronounceable.
‘Ah… no more pain…”
He relaxed into the wave of relief that washed over him but suddenly a part of his brain went on full alert.
‘Mallman… Irma Mallman… Abwe…’
Taking his wrist, Radzinski checked his pulse and waited until the full effects of the narcotic overtook her patient.
De Walle lapsed into a deep sleep.
Removing three more vials from her pocket, Radzinski quickly filled the syringe and injected three further doses of morphine into his veins, a total of 60 mgs dose of the effective barbiturate.
An effective and intentionally fatal dose.
Busying herself elsewhere in the room, Radzinski watched as De Walle’s breathing became less pronounced and he went into respiratory failure.
There was no struggle, no fight to prevent an untimely end, just a nothingness that she observed come to an end as the chest rose for the final time.
‘Sehr gut.’
And in a moment, Radzinski was gone forever.
1631 hrs, Sunday, 5th January 1947,Szczęście Farm, Ul. Ɫanowa, Skawina, Poland.
“Here’s to Georges!”
Anne-Marie raised her glass and they both drank a toast to their friend.
“Close… he’s a lucky man, darling.”
“Yes, so it seems.”
“As are you, Darling. How’s your eye?”
“Sore.”
They relaxed into silence as they grappled with the information that they had been made aware of prior to visiting the makeshift hospital.
“A Jew.”
“Yes, a Jew. Which makes it all clear, I suppose, Cherie.”
Anne-Marie could understand the motivation for a Jew to kill ex-SS, Germans, anyone who could be faintly connected with the death camps.
That the bomb had not claimed such a life was ironic to say the least, although one of the legionnaires slain outside the palace was German, but had always been a legionnaire, even through the German war.
“They’ll be able to trace him by his number… if records permit.”
The arm tattoo had betrayed both him and his likely motivation in short order.
“We’ve lost more friends, Cherie. Will it ever stop?”
The statement was about as un-Anne-Marie-like Knocke had ever heard.
Then he remembered.
A woman carrying a child has other influences on her deportment; ones that involve protecting and nurturing the life in her belly and evaluating the world she will be bringing it in to.
“Our child is fine?”
“Yes, Cherie. All’s well in here.”
She made great play of rubbing her hands over a belly that still had to make show of her condition.
“Anyway, I’ll make us dinner. Will you get
some more wood please, Ernst?”
“Of course.”
They kissed like young lovers and went about their chores.
Anne-Marie busied herself in the large kitchen of the farmhouse that the Legion had refurbished for their few days of peace, but still heard the flick of a lighter as her husband took his simple pleasures outside before bringing in the wood for the fire.
She also heard the sound of a vehicle approaching and shouts of consternation from the armed legionnaires who stood watch over their commander and his new wife.
Having been uncharacteristically unarmed during the wedding, she now had a weapon close to hand, so she grabbed it and moved quickly to the front door, only to see the recently splinted Haefali and two of his men in agitated conversation with Knocke.
Whatever she was watching, Anne-Marie realised that something was very wrong, and she tensed instinctively, scanning around her, ready to act in a second.
All of a sudden the scene in front of her changed to one of calm resignation?... almost solemn?… almost…?
‘Georges?’
Knocke slapped Haefali’s shoulder softly and turned to his wife.
No words were needed.
She could see it writ large cross his face… across Haefali’s face… in their eyes… and in the way they walked.
“No!”
Ernst held out his arms as he approached her and she fell into them, sobbing inconsolably.
The guard legionnaires watched in awe as the iron maiden came apart in her grief, and then joined her in their own way when they were told of De Walle’s death.
He had not been a legionnaire, but he was a popular man who had stood his ground alongside them during some difficult times.
“Come inside, Albrecht. Join us.”
Anne-Marie composed herself and led the two men inside, where they sat down and learned of what had happened, and drank to the memory of her mentor and friend.
“He was found dead on the doctor’s round.”
Anne-Marie took a good sip of the schnapps.
“When we left he was in pain, but there was no clue… we had no idea that he could just…well… go.”
“He had some morphine before the end so…”
“Yes, we saw the nurse. She postponed giving it because we were there. So we left quickly to let him have his medication without delay.”
Knocke stood by the fire, making a study of positioning the latest logs just so, simply to cover his feelings of loss.
Whilst the sudden void inside surprised him, having known the irascible Belgian for under two years, he accepted it for what it was, as he had come to genuinely like the man, and to value his presence and friendship.
He listened in on the conversation as he jiggled the final piece of wood into place.
“The doctor assures me he felt no pain… that he simply drifted off.”
“But why? The same damn doctor said he would be fine… possibly hobble a bit, but that he would survive.”
Haefali shrugged.
“I don’t know, Anne-Marie, really I don’t. Except I’ve seen it before. Men who seemed to recover from wounds, but who simply just died when all seemed well. It happens.”
Knocke joined in.
“Yes, it does, and we should always be prepared for it. This time we dared to hope.”
He reached for the schnapps bottle and filled each glass in turn.
“So my darling… Albrecht… let us drink to our comrades and friends.”
He raised the glass in turn as he named those who had perished on their wedding day, and that very afternoon.
They acknowledged in turn and, when Georges de Walle’s name was mentioned, drained each glass to the bottom.
“I’ll speak to the nurse when I get a chance. See what more she can tell us.”
Knocke acknowledged his wife’s words and sat down in one of the comfy chairs, rather more heavily than he intended, a sign of both the mental strain and his physical tiredness.
He had been on the go virtually every hour since the bomb had exploded. Visiting the wounded, writing letters to the relations of those who died, or in the case of the Polish casualties, visiting the next of kin in their humble homes.
The others gravitated towards seats surrounding the fire, which drew their eyes as they sat in silence, reflecting on the weekend’s events.
Haefali refilled their glasses and sat down again, aware he was sat with a newly married couple on their honeymoon whilst being aware that he was there without intrusion, sharing their grief and silence like the friend he was.
Knocke shifted in his seat and laughed softly.
“Ernst?”
“I was just thinking, Albrecht. If this is the peace, what would the war be like?”
“Noisier.”
They smiled and clinked their glasses in salute.
Knocke raised his to his wife, whilst she exchanged toasts with the Swiss.
She sipped the fiery liquid carefully as she recalled a quote from Aristophanes.
Anne-Marie decided to share and held her glass out for a final toast.
“A quote I just remembered, from Aristophanes, the Greek poet.”
She had their full attention.
“Our lost friends are not dead, but gone before,
advanced a stage or two upon that road, which we must travel in the steps they trod.”
She let the words settle in their minds before raising her glass high.
“To our friends who’ve gone before.”
Three voices joined in unison.
“To our friends who’ve gone before!”
Triumphant science and technology are only at the threshold of man's command over sources of energy so stupendous that, if used for military purposes, they can wipe out our entire civilization.
Cordell Hull
Chapter 183 - THE TEST
1202 hrs, Monday, 6th January 1947, the Black Sea, 80 kilometres southwest of Sochi, USSR.
“Do you want to abandon the test, Commander?”
“No. We continue… we must continue.”
Nobukiyo and Kalinin watched as the badly injured seaman was taken below, his shattered and mangled arms flopping around uncontrollably as the medical crew attempted to get him out of the way of the deck crew.
Using a megaphone, Nobukiyo shouted his orders.
“Restore the equipment to stowage… prepare to run the test again in ten minutes. Lieutenant Jinyo, have that man replaced immediately.”
“Hai!”
“And get it right this time!”
“Hai!”
The Japanese officer turned back to his guest.
“They were doing well… no blame attached for that I think.”
“I agree, Commander. Freak wave… your men were not at fault. In fact, they were performing excellently.”
Nobukiyo nodded his acceptance of the compliment.
“If I might make a suggestion, Commander?”
“Of course.”
“Double the sea watch. Two pairs of eyes on each quarter might have seen that coming.”
“Yes, I agree. I already gave the order when you were watching the events on deck.”
That he had given it in Japanese meant that Kalinin had not realised that the man had made the small but important adjustment.
“Of course. I should have fully expected you to do so, Commander. You know your business. My apologies.”
Nobukiyo bowed slightly, acknowledging the compliment.
However, the delay would mean that they would only get one more attempt at the practice session before the air cover that guaranteed their anonymity had to return to base.
Tea was brought to the bridge and the two men drank in silence, each in turn taking in the sights of a crew working efficiently in preparation for testing their main reason for being.
Nobukiyo checked his watch and leant towards the voice tube.
“Captain, control room. Standby to initiate missile deployment drill. Standby…
initiate.”
A strange squawking sound emerged from the open conning tower hatch and men spilled out from the hull hatches, accompanied by harangues of encouragement from their divisional officers.
The main hangar door was swinging open by the time that Kalinin shifted his gaze from the bloody red patch that marked where the unfortunate sailor had become pinned under the blast plates during the previous drill.
Initially, they had been welded in place with the intention of being external for the entire mission, but the effect upon performance and an unexpected increase in transit noise levels had changed all that.
So now the heavy blast plates had to be manhandled from the hangar to the bow of the submarine, far enough away as to not affect any of the hatches, or the seals to the main hangar door, not to mention the crew on the bridge.
Three working parties of twelve men, one party to each plate, two runs each to position six plates in all, mounted in place with special bolts that could have their heads struck off to recover the plates, as so far, each test firing, albeit on land, had resulted in the bolts welding to the plates.
The two senior officers observed the plates being dropped into place one by one, in a pre-designated order.
Nobukiyo had a stopwatch running and held it out to his Russian counterpart.
It was eighty seconds over the best time achieved in the dock, something that would earn the handling crews special praise later, regardless of what came next.
The whistles blew and the handling party moved quickly back and across, permitting the second group to run the V-2 and firing pedestal out of the hangar, rear end first.
Some of the plate handlers then reinforced the missile crew, lending their weight to the run down the catapult tracks, now set up for the rocket trolley.
A senior NCO handled the braking mechanism, and important part of the modifications. To send the V-2 off the end of the track would probably be terminal for the missile and submarine, as the new procedures meant that the rockets were pre-fuelled before being loaded into the hangars, a situation considered undesirable but unavoidable.
