by Leo Kessler
Aghast at the slaughter of his young volunteers from the Hitler Youth, von Dodenburg acted the only way he knew. ‘Sections one, two and three break into the houses on the left!’ he roared above the vicious snap and crackle of small arms fire. ‘Sections four, five and six – the houses on the right. At the double!’
Frantically the troopers began to batter down the doors with their rifle butts and boots, while their comrades tried to cover them, taking murderous casualties all the time. The first door yielded and a group of panic-stricken youngsters tumbled inside. The survivors of the massacre fought each other for cover, clawing their way in out of that terrible fire over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades. The blinded soldier stumbled down the corpse-littered alley, hands outstretched as he felt his way, sobbing bitterly in blood-red tears from the scarlet pits which had once been his eyes. Von Dodenburg knew he could not leave him. As section after section broke into the houses and began to return the enemy fire, von Dodenburg darted forward, crouched low, firing crazily to both sides. The Maquis concentrated its fire on him. Lead stitched blue sparks on the cobbles on both sides. But he seemed to bear a charmed life. ‘Over here!’ he gasped wildly.
‘Where, sir?’ the boy called recognising his voice.
‘To me!’
Head raised high and at an angle, the boy stumbled through the welter of bodies towards his CO. A Frenchman at one of the windows raised his arm and casually lobbed out a grenade. It landed just in front of the blinded boy.
‘Achtung!’ yelled von Dodenburg.
The boy did not seem to hear. He staggered right into the explosion and it tore him apart. Like a terrible football, his helmeted head rolled towards von Dodenburg, picking its way neatly through the corpses sprawled everywhere, stopping at the Major’s feet.
As a horrified von Dodenburg reeled back to the cover of the nearest house and was seized by eager hands, that terrible sightless stare seemed to follow him accusingly, condemning him for leading these young innocents into the murderous trap of Belleville.
Notes
1 A wood-burning car. (Transl.)
2 Pro-German French para-military formation. (Transl.)
TWO
All was still silent as the Eurekas of Number 7 Commando formed up behind the lean rakish shape of the steam gunboat which would lead them into their attack on the Goebbels Battery. To the Laird of Abernockie and Dearth, who three days before had forced Lord Louis into having Wotan ambushed and who was now quietly vomiting into his vomit bag in the lead Eureka, it seemed that everything was running to schedule. Up front the gunboat was now steaming forward at a steady nine knots, followed by the white V of the Eurekas, while somewhere out in the opaque darkness of the flanks, two further destroyers were supposedly zig-zagging back and forth to add their firepower if trouble came.
But to a green-faced, hollow-eyed Laird, it was clear that their services wouldn’t be needed; despite his earlier fears it was obvious that Jerry was not expecting them. Apart from his usual sea-sickness and a soaked kilt, the crossing had gone absolutely without incident. Now the prospect of getting ashore, whatever might be waiting for them there, was becoming definitely more appealing than the heaving seas.
‘I say, sir, there she is – Fwance!’ Freddy Rory-Brick raised a languid hand and pointed to the dark smudge of the coast which lay ahead.
The Laird tossed his vomit bag over the HQ Eureka’s wooden side, splattering some of its contents on the unfortunate signals sergeant crouched beside him. He looked at the black wall of France, stark, silent and menacing, and felt that quickening of the blood he always experienced when he was about to go into action.
‘Must you always be so ruddy la-di-da, Freddy,’ he snorted, trying to repress his own emotions. ‘Here we are landing in enemy territory and all you can say is – “I say, there she is Fwance.” Ain’t you got no feelings?’
‘Never weally thought about it much, sir.’
‘I don’t know, Freddy,’ the Laird sighed and tried to wring some of the seawater out of his bedraggled kilt, ‘what have I done to deserve a big toff twit like you?’
Freddy grinned lazily. ‘’Spect I have some good points, sir.’
The minutes passed leadenly. Beside them in the Eureka the eighteen commandos started to give their weapons a last check. The sergeant signaller poised over his set. At the blunt bow, the smooth-faced, eighteen-year-old sub-lieutenant skipper prepared to release the gate which would start them on their mad dash up the cliff once the Eureka had hit the beach. The Laird gave his men a quick survey and was pleased with what he saw: his gillies and petty gangsters from the Gorbals looked tough and ready. They wouldn’t let him down.
‘What time is it, Freddy?’
‘Nearly four, sir.’
‘Good, thirty minutes to go.’
Now there was no sound save the steady throb-throb of the Eureka’s motors and the slap of the green water on their blunt prow. Thoughtfully, the little Commando leader began to strop his skean dhu on the palm of one hand. But he could not quite conceal the nervous tic in his right cheek. Freddy Rory-Brick noted it and told himself the CO was working himself up to his usual beserk battle-rage; some poor Hun was going to suffer this dawn.
It was zero four-fifteen. They could see the dark mass of the coast quite clearly. Here and there a commando nudged his pal and indicated the stark outline of the lone house on the cliff-top which they recognised from their training. Everything was silent. France was still asleep.
The Laird thrust his dagger into the top of his stocking again and picked up his rifle. ‘All right, me lucky lads,’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘The trip round the pier’s over. Stand by!’ He looked at the pale-faced sub. ‘Snotty, when yon gunboat breaks to the right, I want –’
The star shell exploded directly in front of the little convoy with frightening suddenness. A silver spurt of light and then it climbed high into the sky to hang there, bathing everything below in its icy colour.
‘Jerries!’ the sergeant signaller gasped. ‘Over there to the left!’
The two officers swung round and saw the German E-boats were coming in for the attack at forty knots, their multiple cannon chattering frantically. Ahead the gunboat opened fire. The E-boats increased speed.
‘Torpedo!’ the Laird cried.
‘And another!’ Freddy added as another wild flurry of bubbles rose from the water.
Desperately the gunboat tried to avoid the deadly fish, but the first one struck it amidships. It reeled as if punched by a gigantic fist. Scarlet flame leapt a hundred feet in the air. The gunboat came to a halt, ominously listing to one side. But still her guns continued to fire.
As if in command to a secret signal, the E-boats roared round in a huge white arc, cannon chattering again. 20mm shells hissed flatly over the surface of the water, dragging a burning fiery-red tail behind them.
The first Eureka reeled under the cannonfire. Splinters of wood sliced the air and thick white smoke gushed from its shattered engine. Tiny blue flames licked greedily at the wooden stern, as the craft trembled to a halt in the churning sea.
The E-boats circled the stricken Eureka like a pack of timber wolves.
‘Oh, my poor lads!’ the Laird groaned. ‘Where are them bloody destroyers? It’s slaughter!’
‘Yes,’ Freddy agreed as calm as ever. ‘I fear they’ve really got us by the short and curlies!’ He picked up his rifle and began to fire coolly at the nearest E-boat.
‘Bugger that for a lark!’ the Laird roared, suddenly in command of himself again. ‘Hey, you snotty,’ he yelled at the ashen-faced sub-lieutenant. ‘Don’t stand there like a spare prick at a wedding. Get on to that steering. Zig-zag for the coast!’ He spun round. ‘Signaller. Hand signal if you can by this light.’
‘Sir, I’ll try,’ answered the sergeant, springing to his feet as the first tracer started to, wing its way towards them.
‘Signal-scatter and make smoke! It’s every man for himself now!’
; Bracing himself against the wildly swaying deck the sergeant tried to signal. But it was already too late. The E-boats were well within their formation, churning up and down their ranks in great bursts of water, shooting up craft after craft.
The sergeant screamed and reeled backwards, clutching his face. A burning shell fragment had struck him squarely in the nose and ripped a hole in it.
The Laird lowered him gently. ‘Don’t worry, Jock, it’ll be all right.’ But the man was already dead.
‘Freddy!’ yelled the Laird above the chatter of the enemy cannon and the ear-splitting howl of the E-boats, ‘for Chris-sake, make smoke – we haven’t got a chance otherwise!’
Freddy moved with surprising speed. He sprang to the launcher attached to the bow. Tracer hissed through the air all around him, but he managed to grab the trigger of the first launcher and pull hard. A long cannister sailed into the air.
The smoke cannisters tumbled into the sea, stark black against the ruddy glare of the blazing Eurekas. The young skipper desperately twisted and turned the wheel and headed for the cover. Two more Eurekas followed him. Angrily one of the German E-boats roared after them to finish them off, cannon chattering furiously. But just short of the sudden bank of smoke, it swung round and slowed down, rearing up in the water like a spirited horse.
The Laird breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘The bugger daren’t come in here in case he collides with one of us,’ he cried to his men. ‘I think we’ve –’
‘Look out, sir!’ a soldier cried. ‘Torpedo firing!’
The Laird swung round to see the E-boat lurching as the two-ton fish shot from its sharp bows. The sub-lieutenant swung the Eureka round wildly just in time. The deadly weapon hissed past them, trailing a series of popping bubbles behind it.
‘Hurrah!’ a cry of heart-felt relief rose spontaneously from the commandos’ throats as it flashed by. But froze the next instant on their lips as the torpedo struck the Eureka ahead of them. The HQ commandos ducked as the hot blast slapped their own craft from side to side as if it were a paper boat on a pond. The roar seemed to go for ever. The Laird, crouched like the rest, felt his ears must burst soon. He struggled to breathe, his nostrils full of the acrid smell.
And then it was over. The Laird thrust his head cautiously over the side. The other Eureka had vanished and there was nothing there to reveal that it had ever existed save the booted foot bobbing up and down on the circle of water that marked its passing.
As the smoke enclosed them and the roar and snarl of the E-boats’ engines grew fainter, the Laird of Abernockie and Dearth realised his was the only craft left. He had exactly eighteen men, including himself, to tackle the Goebbels Battery.
Sick at heart, hardly recognising his own voice, he said softly, ‘All right, snotty, move in. We’re going to attack!’
THREE
‘What is it, Tschapperl?’ Adolf Hitler mumbled sleepily, using the contemptuous Bavarian name that he always called his mistress when he was angry with her.
Eva Braun pushed back the lock of dark blonde hair which had fallen over her plump face and said, ‘Adolf, they want you – on the telephone. It’s urgent. Linge1 was just at the door.’
Hitler blinked in the sudden light and sat up with a groan, his dyed black hair tousled from sleep. He had forced his entourage at the ‘Mountain’, his Bavarian retreat, to sit up with him until two in the morning watching the latest revue film and he was tired.
‘But he knows he has orders not to disturb me before ten,’ he said grumpily. ‘He knows I must have some rest when I’m away from the front. How am I to carry on otherwise, eh?’
‘Yes, yes, my poor little cheetah,’ Eva Braun humoured him and rubbed her generous naked breasts against his sullen face. ‘But it’s France. Something to do with a place called Dieppe … You know me, Adolf, I never understand half these things?’ She smiled winningly.
Hitler’s sleepiness disappeared. ‘What did you say? What was it, woman?’
Eva Braun put her hands in front of her breasts and pouted. ‘Dieppe, Linge said, but you don’t need to shout at me in that manner –’
‘Out of my way!’ Hitler thrust her to one side and swung swiftly out of bed. Clad in his absurdly old-fashioned nightshirt (which, despite Eva’s protests, he insisted on wearing) he strode over to the scrambler phone, picked it up and barked, ‘The Leader.’
‘Immediately!’ gasped the unknown operator.
There was a slight click and an instant later a well-remembered and heartily disliked voice said, ‘Heil Hitler!’
‘What is it, Rundstedt?’
‘As we estimated, mein Führer, the English are landing at Dieppe. They started coming in at four this morning.’
‘Details?’ Hitler rapped, while behind him Eva Braun yawned luxuriously and picked delicately at one of the chocolates she always kept at his bedside.
‘Two main convoys as far as we can gather, with assault troops already being landed in the Varengville–Quiberville area, west of Dieppe.’
‘The Hess Battery?’
‘Correct, mein Führer.’
‘And are they making progress?’
‘Yes, the Battery is under orders not to maintain stiff resistance. And of course I shall not send reinforcements. Before the killing starts, we must allow the English their little victory.’
Hitler frowned. ‘You must not say such things, Rundstedt. The English are a great people. It grieves me greatly to have to kill them. If only that drunken plutocratic Jewish capitalist Churchill would learn sense, we could be allies against the Bolsheviks!’
‘I understand, mein Führer,’ von Rundstedt answered respectfully. He knew that the ‘Bohemian Corporal’, as he called Hitler contemptuously behind his back, admired his ability as a commander; but he knew too that Hitler would not hesitate to break him as he had broken so many other generals during these last few years. Runstedt could not afford to make a serious mistake.
‘And the Goebbels?’
‘The details are still vague, mein Führer. The E-boats which were sent to intercept the English have not yet radioed back full reports. But from what we do know, my Intelligence here at St Germain concludes that we have destroyed most of the troop transports off Berneval.’
‘Grandios!’ Hitler exclaimed and Eva Braun watched amused as her lover stamped his right foot on the floor. The gesture which looked so impressive when he was booted and in uniform looked absurd in a nightshirt and bare feet. ‘But I put it to you, Rundstedt, you must not let the Goebbels Battery fall. It is decisive for our plan.’
‘It will not fall,’ the Field Marshal answered with the authority of fifty years of command in his voice. ‘Tonight I shall take the liberty of calling you again and then, mein Führer, I shall report to you that no Englishman remains on the soil of France – alive. I promise that.’
‘So be it then, my dear Field Marshal. Let the English die in their thousands on the beaches of France at the behest of the Bolshevik beast. It will be a great victory for you and the Reich.’
Hitler put down the phone and stared thoughtfully at his own image in the big mirror opposite the bed.
‘Sweet one!’ Eva cooed, swallowing her chocolate, and holding out her plump arms towards him, ‘come back to bed. I shall get you back to sleep again – soon.’ She thrust out the smooth bronzed curve of her stomach and opened her legs provocatively.
Hitler was oblivious to her charms. Already he had stripped himself of his nightshirt to reveal his misshapen genitals and his head was buzzing with new plans. Churchill had been in Moscow only twelve days before for nearly a week. Once the attack had been wiped out, Hitler would ensure that Goebbels told the world Dieppe was a desperate attempt to open a Second Front in Europe, an attempt forced by Stalin on Churchill at the Moscow meeting.
He frowned and wondered if he could make more of it than a propaganda victory. He knew that the drunkard Churchill was just as much of a dictator as he was. But the English Prime Minister still had to contend
with Parliament, many of whose members hated him. Was there no way that he could turn the failure at Dieppe into an attack which would enable Churchill’s enemies in Westminster to get rid of him?
He pulled on his brown shirt and began tucking it into his breeches. On the bed, Eva Braun sprawled on the silken covers in naked abandon, wide awake now, and bored, munching chocolate after chocolate. Before her she saw stretching another long purposeless day with only the servants to talk to, being hastily hushed out of the way when important people arrived at the Berghof lest the outside world learned that the lonely olympian figure of their Leader kept a mistress.
Hitler hesitated in his dressing as a horrifying thought flashed through his mind. What if the British did somehow capture the Goebbels Battery? He shivered, tugged at his breeches and walked slowly over to the picture window. Behind the Alps the sun was already beginning to rise, a blood-red ball flushing the harsh sky pink, while the snow-capped mountains were etched in stark silhouette against the sky. Hitler stared out at the coldly beautiful scene which he loved for its cruel Germanic grandeur.
Speaking to the mountains he asked: ‘What if my Wotan does not reach the Battery in time?’
But the only answer from the mountains was the faint hush of the cold wind.
Note
1 Hitler’s personal valet.
FOUR
‘I’m dying,’ the Butcher moaned. ‘Shitting well croaking before yer eyes!’ He looked up at them from his perch on the well-scrubbed wooden seat of his personal thunderbox in the NCOs’ latrine and groaned again, his big face green and greasy with sweat.
Outside the Tommy naval guns, making the preliminary offshore bombardment, thundered and the Butcher was mortally afraid, as he always was at the prospect of violent action. Yet he dared not move from his perch.
‘Why bother me now, Schulze? Can’t you see how bad I am? Great balls of fire, my arse is going to burst at any minute.’
Schulze and Matz looked down unsympathetically at the pain-racked Sergeant-Major. ‘See,’ Schulze exclaimed. ‘You don’t have to see – I can smell it. The green smoke, in here is strong enough to make old Matzi’s hair curl – if the little cripple had any.’
