by Gee, Colin
The Oberst settled back into his favourite chair, enjoying both the view from his window and the obvious charms of the new member of the house staff, her splendid bosom so proudly on display in the uniform he had personally chosen for her.
He smiled disarmingly at the maid as she poured his traditional five o’clock coffee, one of the first things she had been told about on her first day of service.
“Thank you very much, my dear,” he shoehorned the maximum amount of charm into the six words.
‘I shall have those fat teats, my beauty, and more besides.’
Finishing up, the maid placed the cup and saucer in the right position and returned the coffee pot to its stand, smiling back at her employer.
“Will that be all, Herr Oberst?”
‘I’ll shoot your balls off if you so much as twitch.’
“For now, Anna-Maria, for now.”
De Valois left the room and headed for a quick exchange with the new gardener’s apprentice, also a member of ‘Deux’.
1700 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
Eisenhower had finished up a briefing on the debacle that had been Operation Casino.
It was now wholly obvious that it had been an elaborate trap, from Station X’s monitoring of the increased Russian radio traffic in the area, through dummy vehicles to draw the attention of aerial reconnaissance, and culminating in the agents talking of big numbers of Soviet tanks and soldiers, probably under the influence of Soviet Intelligence.
Tedder had grudgingly admitted that the subterfuge had been excellently worked out and carried through, displaying a flair hitherto unsuspected.
Clearly, the enhanced radio traffic was a carefully worked web of deceit, using radios and little else.
Elements of eight Anti-Aircraft divisions had now been identified by spies on the ground, although recent events meant that intelligence officers would turn jaundiced eyes to such intel until it was proven by other means.
Once bitten, twice shy on that one.
RAF Bomber Command had taken an awful beating, and would be dysfunctional for some time to come. It was an organisation used to taking casualties on unprecedented levels, but, with Operation Casino, it had exceeded its capacity to absorb the deaths of friends and comrades. In order to preserve the Bomber Force, Harris had withdrawn it from combat for at least seven days.
‘Poor Limeys.’
Bedell-Smith approached with a dead-pan face, partly annoyed because he had got it wrong, partly exuberant because of the end result.
He placed the report in front of his boss.
“What do we have here then, Walter?”
“Report on Stuttgart, Sir.”
Eisenhower swapped his cigarette for the paperwork and tossed the first page.
“Wow!”
Coffee and fresh pastries arrived to sustain the two Generals until dinner.
“And this is all confirmed?”
“From De Lattre himself, Sir. It seems those boys gave the commies a damn good horse-whipping, and then some.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eisenhower shifted his gaze to the third page.
“Yeah, but they paid for it.”
“Yes Sir, they did, but…”
The statement stopped ahead of schedule, drawing Ike’s attention as Bedell-Smith had intended.
“Go on, Walt, spit it out.”
“Sir, you know I was less than comfortable with this ‘Legion’ thing.”
Eisenhower almost giggled.
“I seem to remember you mentioning it.”
Bedell-Smith shrugged in acceptance of the point.
“Sir, these Legion troops may well have paid a high price for their success, and bear in mind that figure is probably not yet complete.”
Ike nodded but let his man continue.
“The thing is, how many troops would it have cost us? More than three hundred dead? Certainly more than the final figure for the Legion troopers, whatever it may be.”
Making to consult the report, Eisenhower slid it across the table so his CoS could see the evidence too.
“At the moment, the French report the loss of nineteen tanks, plus ten other vehicles.”
Checking his way down the list, he found what he sought.
“Two hundred and one dead, fifty severely wounded, with another two hundred and thirty casualties. Less than five hundred as we stand, General.”
Bedell-Smith considered the next statement carefully.
“Their figures on Soviet casualties are a bit hazy. But they do state at least eighty Soviet armoured vehicles, seventeen anti-tank guns, plus they have captured a lot of materiel.”
He joined Ike in a sip of the scalding coffee.
“A rough estimate of over fourteen hundred Soviet dead upon the field. Top line Soviet troops too, so it is believed.”
Eisenhower had missed that bit.
“Plus, they pulled the mission off to the letter, within time, and relieved the forces in Stuttgart.”
Eisenhower held out his hands in mock supplication.
“Ok, Walt, I surrender. You have a point to make.”
“Sir, I was anti, sure as hell. So, to a point, were you.”
He didn’t pose it as a question. It was a statement, and one that got Eisenhower’s hackles raised.
‘Jeez, I wanted the Germans in on the deal. It was my idea! Wasn’t it? Was it?’
“Go on, Walt.”
“There will be teething problems for sure, but I think we need to put aside our prejudices.”
‘Prejudices? Am I? Did I?’
“Sir, we are either allies with the Germans, or we are not, and the way I see it, our actions thus far have not borne out our faith and trust.”
‘Our actions have not borne out our faith and trust?’
Eisenhower felt angry and prepared to remonstrate before deflating swiftly, suddenly understanding that he had avoided using the German forces for anything specific, the committal of one of their infantry divisions in Denmark being at the behest of McCreery, rather than himself; the use of the Legion was because the French had done it themselves, not because he had made the running.
Even agreeing to move them up into the Ruhr…
‘Goddamnit!’
“So, what do you suggest, Walt?”
His lack of denial being all the confession Bedell-Smith needed.
“Sir, these ‘Legion’ troops have shown that the German is still up for a brawl, and more units of the new Republican Army are forming as we speak. Get Guderian involved, and find out his views. Use his skills, his experience, until we get a handle on the new enemy.”
“I hear you, Walter. But we are nowhere near ready to go over to attacking, even in a limited sense. We tried it with the 12th Armored, the Polish and Patton’s boys, and each time we had our backside handed to us. We cannot yet successfully hit back.”
Bedell-Smith raised his eyebrows and, in any other man, Eisenhower might have detected a mocking tone as his CoS indicated the report lying between them.
“I thought we just did, Sir?”
2002 hrs, Thursday 30th August 1945, Temporary Command post of 1st Legion Brigade du Chars D’Assault, Dagersheim, Germany.
Two salutes, immaculately prescribed, commenced proceedings.
“Good to see you, Ernst, and very well done today.”
The two shook hands and moved to the folding map table, its rickety structure sufficient to provide a platform for a review of the situation map.
A drink was pressed into Lavalle’s hand and he appreciated its cut, the dust and grime of the drive lying heavy upon him.
Knocke finished his brief, leaving out nothing that his senior might need to know.
Lavalle took another deep draught of the coffee, enhanced with something that had been liberated from a local hostelry.
“That’s damn good!”
Knocke smiled. Finishing his brew and waving off a refill, he spoke soft
ly.
“The Algerians don’t look beaten.”
He waved the empty mug towards the main road, down which a steady stream of vehicles and men moved towards safety.
Lavalle automatically looked at the same sight, delaying his response with another visit to the coffee mix.
“On my way up here I saw some who seemed to have little fight but, on the whole, I think you’re right.”
Lavalle then drained his drink.
“I did say they were tough soldiers.”
Both men surrendered to a second attempt to refill, the insistent legionnaire taking it personally that his special coffee and Ansbach Brandy brew had been rejected.
“So, on the assumption that you didn’t know we had special coffee, what brings the Corps Commander to the front, I wonder?”
The two shared a smile, a genuine one between two men who had become firm friends.
“Firstly, I brought with me a replacement for Lange. Legion Officer, extremely experienced and well-thought of, according to the reports he got from the Colloque Biarritz.”
Ignoring the good-humoured grin on his commander’s face, Knocke’s mind, as sharp as a razor, processed that the symposium had only had two legion officers, and one of them had not completed the week due to a recurring malaria problem.
“St Clair?”
“Ah yes, the very same, St.Clair. I won’t embarrass you with reciting your course report. He’s over getting acquainted with his unit as we speak, just in case things start up.”
Lavalle stretched, easing his back after hours sat in the jeep.
“So. Will they start tonight, Ernst?”
“My guess is harassing artillery fire will start once the sun goes down and we lose air. I really don’t see them pulling anything major, but most of the unit will be on alert all night, just in case.”
Knocke didn’t need to add any more, his brief having covered the fact that he had withdrawn some units to safer positions to get rest and to recuperate.
“I must get back tonight, so I won’t stay. However, one last thing.”
Knocke, having moved slightly forward to bid Lavalle goodbye, checked himself immediately.
Slipping something out of his breast pocket, Lavalle pressed a folded envelope into Knocke’s hand.
“Have a look at this, Ernst. It’s an outline of the new order of battle for the Corps. Both you and ‘Tannenberg’ to be increased to divisional strength.”
Ernst sought silent permission to open the envelope now, immediately signalled by Lavalle.
The Frenchman continued talking as the German read.
“I have suggested that 5th RdM stays with you and is absorbed into ‘Camerone’. I assume you are satisfied with that?”
Knocke nodded as he consumed the written word.
“There will be a formalising of the structure so that command groups will be permanent, not be temporary as we have now.”
His tone almost apologetic, Lavalle continued.
“To be frank, this was on the table a few days ago, but there was a feeling that we were running before we could walk.”
The letter was refolded, put back into the envelope, and offered back to Lavalle.
“Keep it please, and let me know what you think when you have time to digest it fully.”
Knocke placed it on the table and weighted it down with his empty mug.
“Anyway, your fight today has shown them that the Legion Corps can do the job, and the Generals are keen to give us our head.”
“Can we sustain ourselves, Sir? Men? Equipment?”
“Since we left Sassy, a further seven thousand men have arrived, and there are more to come.”
Knocke pressed again.
“And equipment, Sir?”
“More serviceable equipment has been discovered, and I am led to believe that there are plans to recommence vehicle production in the Ruhr, and some other places.”
Something about the reply intruiged Knocke, but now was not the time.
Lavalle checked his watch and extended his hand once more.
“I must go, Ernst. Let me know your thoughts tomorrow. I should be back up here in the evening. Until then.”
The hands parted and transitioned into precise salutes, marking an end to proceedings.
The waiting soldier saw his opportunity.
“Another coffee, Standartenfuhrer?”
“If I have another one of those you will have to pour me into my tank, Hässelbach!”
The man turned, grinning madly.
“And Hässelbach, if I have to tell you again that it’s Colonel, you will be greasing the wheels ten times a day!”
The coffee manufacturer laughed as he disappeared to sample the rest of his wares.
The wrath was play, and those in earshot understood that it was just a small exercise in the art of leadership from one capable of great displays.
2047 hrs, Thursday 30th August 1945, Deuxieme Bureau operations house, Holzhofstrasse, Baden-Baden, Germany.
The meal had been created by a master chef, once noted as a rising star in Paris, before the jackboot descended on his country and truned him into a soldier.
Now he served in French Military Intelligence but, with an eye to less violent times, he liked to keep his hand in.
This, De Walle knew only too well, and he had played on it to get the man to create a wonderful meal for him and his guests.
A simple salad of lettuce and tomato, topped with hollowed boiled egg, the egg yolk creamed and mixed with roasted garlic and black pepper, all garnished with bacon and cheese. That was followed by baked whole Rabbit with medallions of fresh venison, served with a beetroot and onion compote, Dauphinoise potatoes, and creamed cabbage. To finish off, a dessert of Crème Brulee accompanied by raspberries soaked in Benedictine.
It had been a working dinner, although the serious business had often been interrupted with moans of pleasure and favourable comments.
The man had worked wonders with the venison and rabbit, the gravy being almost worthy of bottling in its own right.
Now, filled with the finest cuisine, the five finished their discussions with cigars and the very finest Napoleon.
De Walle, stuffed to the brim and feeling extremely amenable, relit his cigar, creating a light smoke screen between his guests.
The man in the uniform of the Dutch Brigade stretched contentedly, Michel Wijers preparing his body for the short walk to the hotel.
“So, gentlemen. We have the basis of a plan, lacking only the most important details. Where and when?”
That was about the gist of it.
“We all have assets who could turn up the first piece of information, allowing us to fix the date.”
Lieutenant Colonel Rossiter USMC, the merest hint of a gravy mark declaring defeat in his stalwart effort to keep his jacket clean, grunted his agreement and added to the winding-up.
“Find us the location and I can run the operation, once I have the assets in place. And I will get them ready on the basis of your present information, General.”
The Luftwaffe Oberst, commander of the 40th Transportstaffel, had already declared his needs. Parts for his aircraft and experienced technicians to service the specialised craft. Promises to seek out both vital cogs in the plan reassured him, as did the presence of the fifth person.
Rossiter looked at the man, once a sworn enemy and adversary in the dark world of military intelligence, inviting the German’s own closing statement.
“We will find them, rest assured Kameraden.”
The dinner at an end, the five stood as one, exchanged handshakes and left to go to their billets.
De Walle remained, watching from the first floor window.
Rossiter and Wijers walked together, openly and without concern, their presence in Baden-Baden plausible even if their true identities were known to an observer.
Trannel, Luftwaffe Oberst, his uniform back at his squadron base, walked in an affected and uneasy civilian gait, his feet only
recently venturing in the murky world of espionage.
Last to leave, and so slick in his field craft that De Walle almost missed the man, was Reinhard Gehlen, ex-GeneralMaior and one-time head of intelligence gathering for the Nazi regime.
De Walle tested a second glass of the Napoleon as he thought through the day.
It had been Uhlmann’s idea, prompted by his belief that the USMC Lieutenant-Colonel Rossiter was something more than he presented. That was confirmed by asking a direct question in Versailles, bringing the Marine head of OSS an invitation to dine in Baden-Baden, along with an opportunity to run an important operation in Soviet-held territory.
Draining the glass, Georges De Walle decided enough time had elapsed for him to leave the building.
Speaking to no-one in particular, he nimbly descended the stairs.
“Much rests on you, Herr Gehlen.”
2105 hrs, Thursday 30th August 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.
On entering the spartan room, her Commander in Chief greeted her with a huge, unforced grin.
Having returned her impressive salute, Zhukov stepped around his desk to pour some tea from a small service on the tatty wooden bureau to one side.
“You are looking well, Polkovnik. The doctors kept me informed, of course.”
“Thank you, Comrade Marshall, I am feeling much better.”
“You haven’t met my right-hand, have you?”
Zhukov knew she hadn’t, so it was delivered as a statement.
He indicated his CoS with a hand still containing an empty tea cup.
“Comrade Polkovnik-General Mikhail Malinin,” his introduction interrupted by another formal salute from the intelligence Colonel, “This is Polkovnik Tatiana Nazarbayeva of the GRU.”
Malinin was not actually in the habit of shaking the hand of any common Colonel, but he had heard much about the present company and it seemed appropriate.
Zhukov gave each a cup of tea and returned to his chair.
“Please sit. So what wonderful news do you bring me tonight, Polkovnik?”
