by Gee, Colin
The young soldier was confused for a moment, his furrowed brow and gaze at the former SS Hauptsturmfuhrer beside him betraying him momentarily. The officer shrugged and smiled, motioning with his head in silent encouragement.
“Well actually, Sturmbannfuhrer, Herr Fenstermacher managed a full walk around the park only last week.”
Now Kowalski couldn’t help himself.
“May I ask something, Commandant?”
Von Arnesen grinned and gestured with his head, at the same time accepting a fruit pastry from the other private.
“Soldier, can I ask, which leg and what is the dog?”
“Herr Fenstermacher lost his right leg at the Battle of Dogger Bank in 1915, Sir. His dog is a Weimaraner called Blucher, named after his ship that day.”
Von Arnesen chose his words carefully.
“Herr Maior, these men know each other, each other’s families, and the history behind each man.”
He looked around the quiet group.
“Each of these men has a relationship with the man by his side, regardless of rank. These men have a bond beyond that of a normal soldier.”
Von Arnesen shot to his feet.
“Stillgestanden!”
The entire mess room came to their feet, rigidly at the attention. The sound of scrpaed chairs and clicked heels echoed in the mess, and then all was silent.
“Hauptscharfuhrer Dietmar Olsen. Schutz Walter Riedler is a holder of the Iron Cross First Class, is he not?”
“Jawohl, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Von Arnesen nodded gently as he continued.
“How did he earn the award?”
“Riedler single-handedly counter-attacked a trench that had been captured by Soviet soldiers, saving the lives of two comrades who had been captured and were about to be executed. In the process, he engaged eight men in single combat, killing three, wounding two more, and driving the survivors off, restoring the position to German control. It was his second action, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Walter Riedler was actually blushing with embarrassment.
“Who were the two men he saved that day?”
Olsen looked Von Arnesen in the eye, the faintest glimmer of a smile flickering at the side of his mouth.
“You and I, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“As you were,” declared Von Arnesen, nodding at Olsen as he resumed his seat, closely followed by everyone else.
“How is your sister Lottie anyway, young Riedler?”
“Very well, thank you, Sturmbannfuhrer. I should have a niece or nephew before Christmas day.”
Von Arnesen smiled at Kowalski, having just shown him a number of reasons why his men were the best of the best, with an esprit de corps second to none.
He reinforced the message.
“Political ideology plays its part at first,” he conceded, “But it is always the comrades by your side, those men with whom you share everything, that inspire you. It is unthinkable to let down a comrade, even unto death, and we are all comrades here!”
Kowalski got it.
The last of the fruit pastry disappeared, and Von Arnesen showed his pleasure by licking his lips noisily.
A senior Legionnaire non-com strode purposefully into the mess and presented himself to Von Arnesen, his exaggerated salute interrupting the wiping away of sticky sweet residue around the officer’s mouth.
“Sir, you asked to be informed when Colonel Knocke has returned. He is in his office.”
Placing his serviette on the table, Von Arnesen stifled a belch.
“Thank you, Braun. We will be there directly.”
The NCO fired off another salute, turned on his heel and strode purposefully away, intending to visit himself upon his Regimental Headquarters Flak section, which had incurred his wrath that very morning over the important matter of dirt on a gun sight.
1308 hrs, Monday, 27th August 1945, Headquarters Building, 1st Legion Brigade de Chars D’Assault ‘Camerone’, The Rathaus, Waldprechtsweier, Germany.
Von Arnesen and Kowalski walked back to the headquarters building, discussing the recent thigh wound that had given the German a lame gait, and entered through the main door, watched but unchallenged by the two legionnaires standing guard.
Inside, the uninitiated might have seen chaos, but to the two military men it was organised high-pace activity, as staff personnel laboured long and hard to get the Brigade organised and ready for its next deployment.
A female officer wearing the uniform of the Free French approached the Legion officer, proffering a clipboard for his attention.
“Excuse me a moment,” Von Arnesen accepted the report and swiftly took in its contents before adding a comment and signing off on it.
Whilst he waited, Kowalski’s eyes swept the room, avidly taking in details from the charts and maps on the walls, noticing the uniforms of the Legion and the hated SS melded together betraying those of German origin, and pure French uniforms indicating those who were French Army proper.
The second woman in the room was a different matter to the plain and nondescript officer who had approached Uhlmann.
She was a raven-haired beauty who made the uniform of a French Capitaine look extremely sexy, even when half-hidden behind a desk straining under the weight of files.
Her eyes flicked up, holding his for a second, the brief contact broken when she nodded at him and bent herself again to the task she was undertaking.
“Always important to make sure we have enough paper clips, Major.”
Von Arnesen’s slap on the shoulder interrupted a stirring in the GRU officer’s mind, the briefest of flirtations with his memory bank.
The moment was gone.
Von Arnesen led the way through the throng and into the outer office, staffed by three legionnaires and two officers, one of each kind according to their uniforms.
“Good afternoon Capitaine Thiessen, Major Kowalski to see the Colonel, and he is expected.”
Thiessen nodded pleasantly.
“One moment please.”
He knocked on a bright red door and entered immediately, emerging quickly and inviting the Polish officer forward.
The door shut behind Kowalski and he found himself alone with Knocke.
Knocke, immaculately dressed as always, stood at the window, appearing to examine everything in sight with a professional eye,.
He turned sharply.
“Please sit, Herr Maior,” the ‘please’ escaping Knocke’s lips in such a way as to indicate that the German was experiencing an inner struggle.
When both were seated, the modest desk forming a ‘No Man’s land’ between them, Knocke deliberately lit a cigarette and sat in silence, his eyes challenging the man opposite.
“I received your positive reply, Knocke. My superiors are pleased and have ordered me to tell you that all three are safe and well. They will not be harmed if you do as you are told.”
Knocke sat impassively now, his emotions clearly under control.
“This is all about information. You provide it to me and that, plus my continued safety, ensures that your wife and daughters will continue to enjoy a comfortable life.”
The GRU agent stopped, expecting some sort of response from the German. None was forthcoming, and he felt strangely uneasy.
“I will give you the details of a reporting line,” he tapped his jacket pocket, “But I will also visit and take my information away in person when I can.”
The feeling of unease deepened as the unblinking eyes held their line, boring into him at every opportunity.
He decided to establish his superiority.
“Knocke, I am not easily intimidated, and the silent game doesn’t impress me. I hold the cards here. You would do well to remember that.”
Taking a quick breath, anxious to press on, Kowalski stood.
“As a token of your compliance, I require some information now. When I leave this office, I want the full order of battle of this unit.”
He moved off to the window, placing h
imself in the precise position the German had been stood when he entered.
As if to establish his superiority further, Kowalski recalled some conversation from the legion mess, adding almost as an after-thought, “I already know of your impending deployment to Augsburg, and of the subsequent counter-attack obviously, and more details of that will be needed before you move off.”
Turning back to the desk, he resumed his seat.
Knocke finally spoke.
“I will require proof that they are alive.”
Kowalski leant forward, broaching the barrier of the desk.
“You require? You require? You request is what you mean, Knocke.”
The German stubbed out his cigarette and wiped an imaginary speck of ash from his sleeve.
“Require, request, whatever word you choose, Herr Maior. The end result will be the same. Without proof, my usefulness to your superiors is nil. You supply irrefutable proof, and I will play your games.”
Kowalski realised that he had lost the initiative.
“There is already a plan to provide you with proof, but it will take some time to implement, Knocke.”
A nod of acceptance was all that was forthcoming.
“However, my superiors have needs that must be satisfied now. A token of your compliance, such as I have requested.”
Knocke opened a folder on the desk in front of him and lifted out the sole document therein, a four page report detailing the precise make-up of the 1st Chars D’Assault Brigade ‘Camerone’.
‘How did he know that?’
Momentarily thrown, Kowalski took the document and skim read it before sliding it into his briefcase.
“Very good, Knocke, very good,” the first for the file, the second most probably for the anticipation of his request.
“Proof, Herr Maior. Get me proof, or our relationship is over,” Knocke’s eyes carried a coldness not seen before, “And you will die.”
Both men stood, their chairs scraping on the wooden floor with the speed of their movement.
“Never ever presume to threaten me, you German bastard.”
Knocke said nothing; no words were necessary.
“I assume this pass will hold good for all eventualities?”
“That is so, Herr Maior.”
The GRU agent went to turn away and then thought the better of it.
“The proof you need will come. Until then you will do as you are told. Are we clear, Knocke?”
The expression on Knocke’s face was similar to that of an Owl about to feast upon a helpless rodent.
“Alles klar, Herr Maior.”
The jeep started first time, and the Polish officer moved out of the security cordon, bumping along the road so recently damaged by the passage of a number of Legion Panther tanks.
Kowalski hardly noticed, his thoughts all-possessing.
He smiled, safe in the knowledge that he possessed irrefutable physical evidence of Knocke’s treachery, and that the man was now forever entwined in his betrayal.
If the German went along with Soviet plans then he would prove useful; if he didn’t, then the evidence of his betrayal would fracture the legion.
Knocke lit another cigarette as he watched the Russian drive away.
A knock on the door received the expected invitation, and the sound of people shuffling into the office broke Knocke’s small reverie.
Turning around, he assumed the parade ‘at ease’ position, making eye contact with the three people opposite.
He beckoned them to sit, taking his own seat and moving four folders to one side.
“He asked for the order of battle as we expected.”
The four others folders all contained information that the agent could have asked for.
“So, I am now a Soviet spy.”
De Walle pursed his lips.
“That will be what he thinks obviously. So, he will now provide proof of your family’s existence, which is what you need. But we play a dangerous game here.”
Von Arnesen had nothing to add to that.
“If it all goes bad then I can just disappear from the Brigade, a victim of accident or whatever.”
Knocke spoke directly to De Walle.
“But if it goes right, then we can feed the Soviets misinformation,” and switching to make eye contact with the third person sat opposite, he continued, “And my family can be returned to me.”
They held eye contact, Anne-Marie de Valois understanding the importance of his family, as well as his needs, his wants and his fears.
It was a dangerous game indeed.
The war against Russia will be such that it cannot be conducted in a knightly fashion. This struggle is one of ideologies and racial differences and will have to be conducted with unprecedented, unmerciful and unrelenting harshness.
Adolf Hitler
Chapter 72 - THE BOMBERS
0312 hrs, Tuesday 28th August 1945, Soviet medical facility, Former Concentration Camp [Nordhausen sub-camp], Rottleberode, Germany.
She awoke with a start, her eyes gradually coming into focus, the feel of a cool, damp compress on her forehead assisting her in coming to terms with the unexpected appearance of the outside world.
Tatiana Nazarbayeva had been extremely unwell, the aggressive viral infection striking her down until now, when its stranglehold had finally been broken.
She gently pushed the tending hand aside, and tried to raise herself up in bed but her strength failed her.
Forcing her eyes to open as far as they could, she tried to shake off the tiredness that threatened to send her back into a deep sleep.
“How long have I been here?”
The nurse shrugged.
“I’m not sure, Comrade Polkovnik. I am new to this hospital, but you were here before I arrived. One moment please, Comrade.”
The nurse took up the record sheet, flipping the page.
“You were brought here on the 16th August, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“And today is?”
“The 28th, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Tatiana’s mouth dropped wide open, her shock at her prolonged absence from duty wholly apparent.
“I will fetch the doctor, Please lay back and relax, Comrade.”
She did so, still reeling from the news that she had been unwell for twelve days.
Taking in her surroundings, she saw little to stimulate the mind. A modest room with one window, with nothing but trees to see, although the darkness of night did not even permit her that view. A bedside table and an armchair completed the ensemble in the freshly painted white room, all illuminated by a single light bulb, also very obviously recently installed.
The doctor arrived quickly, examined Nazarbayeva, and was very pleased with what he found. He was especially pleased from a personal stand point, as a number of extremely important and powerful people had made it quite clear that his continued happiness was dependent on the female GRU officer’s recovery.
The notes appeared again and he made his notations, whispering instructions to the nurse, who nodded constantly as he went.
The doctor missed the clip and the folder dropped to the floor with a slap, rousing a sleeping figure curled up on an armchair.
Tatiana did not notice and croaked a request.
“Comrade Doctor, I am thirsty. May I have a drink?”
“Of course, Comrade Polkovnik,” and he nodded to the nurse, who was already filling a glass.
A hand came into Tatiana’s vision, gently relieving the nurse of the task.
“Allow me, Comrade Nurse Lubova.”
Tatiana focussed hard, her heart racing at the timbre of that voice.
“Yuri?”
“Tatiana.”
Starshina Yuri Romanovich Nazarbayev smiled lovingly into his wife’s eyes as he placed the cool glass to her lips.
Both Doctor and Nurse beat a hasty retreat.
She consumed the water greedily, coughing as her efforts took a wrong turn.
“Yuri, what are you doin
g here, my husband?”
“I was ordered to attend here and aid your recovery, my love.”
“Ordered? You were given leave to come to me?”
Yuri Nazarbayev smiled the smile of a man with a secret, and turned away to his tunic. He extracted two documents, neatly folded but already heavily thumbed.
“No Tatiana, I was ordered.”
She took the proffered documents and opened them one at a time, her eyes taking in the enormity of the papers in front of her.
“Oh.”
There was a lot she could have said. After all, it was rare enough that a soldier received a direct written order and pass signed by the Theatre commander himself, but there it was; Zhukov’s signature standing out proud on a document ordering her husband to immediately attend his wife, and providing him with authority to make the journey by any means he chose.
The second document ordering Yuri Nazarbayev to his wife’s side was even more of a shock, signed as it was by Generallissimo Joseph Stalin.
‘Oh!’
Yuri told the story as he used a damp cloth to wipe his wife’s face and neck.
Zhukov’s order had arrived first, and Yuri’s Colonel was already in a blue funk trying to cope with the thought that the great man’s attention had focussed on his unit. The order from Stalin almost unhinged him when it was hand delivered by an NKVD Major, who had treated it like it was unstable dynamite.
Starshina Nazarbayev suddenly became a man to fear, given his impeccable credentials, and the most powerful of friends.
Yuri was a humorous man, something that the young Tatiana had found hugely attractive when they were courting. His humour surfaced now, although it failed to mask his concern and worry.
He recovered the first letter, folding it and sliding it back inside his tunic pocket.
“Comrade Marshall Zhukov?”
The second received the same meticulous attention and the pocket was buttoned in place.
“Comrade General Secretary Stalin?”
He patted the pocket, almost as if checking the two messages were still there.
