by Leo Kessler
"Gentlemen," he said, smiling at them with his perfect white teeth, "I am sure you are surprised to see me in German uniform, but I can assure you that there are plenty more of us who are prepared to lay down our lives for the German cause, and that of a free Indian homeland. Three thousand of us, to be precise." He held up his arm so that they could see the insignia the young officer bore on the upper part of his immaculate tunic.
It was a shield, divided into the three colours of a flag that von Dodenburg couldn't recognize. Surmounted on the flag was a bright springing tiger, above which were the words, Freies Indien.
"Free India," von Dodenburg repeated to himself, wondering what this strange Free India represented, and, in particular, this educated young officer – and what the connection was between him, his organization and the mission which was soon going to be revealed to the officers of SS Assault Regiment Wotan.
The Indian officer dropped his arm and got on with his explanation with almost Prussian efficiency. "Free India is a brigade-strength formation made up of former soldiers of the British Colonial Indian Army. They are all battle-trained and experienced in desert warfare. After they had been taken prisoner by the Afrikakorps, all of them immediately volunteered for the German Army, to help Germany free their homeland, groaning under the boot of the English oppressor..."
Von Dodenburg caught the look of utter cynicism on the Vulture's ugly face, as he watched the young officer proudly explain that the refugee Indian politician Chandra Bose, who had escaped British imprisonment in his homeland, had had his idea to form a legion of the Indian freedom fighters eagerly accepted by Reichsführer SS, their ultimate chief, Heinrich Himmler. It was typical of the Vulture, von Dodenburg told himself. He was concerned solely with his own career – "Gentlemen, I want to be a general like my father before I die," – and his handsome young boys of course. The Vulture had nothing but contempt for ideals and great causes.
Then von Dodenburg forgot the Vulture as the young Indian officer announced proudly, face radiating utter confidence in his words, "Meine Herren, it is our destiny, the elite of Reichsführer Himmler's SS, and the best young men my homeland can provide, together to destroy the colonial might of the cruel British Empire." He broke off, chest heaving, eyes gleaming, and in the sudden silence, von Dodenburg could hear the shocked gasps of the officers all around him. The SS and a bunch of inferior black men fighting together? Impossible!
CHAPTER 7
"Some of my Indian comrades," Singh continued his excited explanations, "have already made a reconnaissance of the main bases of the English oppressors in Iraq. There is one at Shaibah near the port of Basra, to which the English could send troops from India in an emergency. The other is at Habbaniyah, where the English maintain their air force. That is the more important of the two. From it, they could send their aircraft to bomb Baghdad, which is some thirty minutes flying time away from the base..."
Von Dodenburg listened to the handsome young Indian with a certain amount of disbelief, which was obviously shared by the younger SS officers around him. They were clearly not used to being lectured like this by a man who, despite his obvious education and fluent German, was to them a member of an inferior race – an Arab. Colonel Geier, the Vulture, on the other hand, listened entranced, though von Dodenburg guessed that his interest in Lieutenant Singh was probably more sexual than strategic. Yet none of the bored, arrogant SS officers dared raise any objection. All of them knew it wouldn't be wise to cross the Vulture. He'd make life hell for anyone who did. So, despite their disdain and prejudice, they listened in silence, while Singh warmed to his subject.
"It is then our intention to put most pressure on the Habbaniyah base – "
"Our," someone next to von Dodenburg commented bitterly. "Did you hear that black bastard say 'our'? What cheek!"
"Hold your trap," von Dodenburg hissed out of the side of his mouth, as the Vulture turned his head to find out who had made the comment, eye glaring angrily behind his monocle.
"However," Singh went on, "the Iraqis are not the bravest of soldiers. It will be the task of SS Assault Battalion Wotan and the men of the Free India Legion to support them and encourage them to attack without incurring losses ourselves." He frowned, his handsome brown face puzzled. "I have heard that we are to be used later for more important tasks. Therefore we must keep our losses to a minimum."
Now it was the Vulture's turn to frown, and von Dodenburg made a hasty guess that there was more to this new assignment than some obscure sideshow in the desert. Not that he had time to consider the matter in any detail. For the Vulture, forcing a smile at the handsome Indian officer, said a little icily, "Please continue with the main subject, my dear Lieutenant Singh."
Singh returned the smile, not realizing what dangerous territory he was entering by responding to the Vulture's perverted overtures. "Jawohl, Obersturmbannführer," he snapped, and continued as ordered, still eager to impart his knowledge of the coming operation to his listeners, apparently unable to realise that these supercilious SS officers, the elite of the German Army, were not impressed.
"As I have just said, the Iraqis are not the bravest and most ardent of soldiers. Therefore we must make them fight." He smiled, displaying those brilliant white teeth of his in what he presumably thought was a winning manner. "How? But first let me tell you a little tale from my homeland. When my country was ruled by its own masters, cruel as they may have been, they had many ways to make their subjects do as they wished. For instance, there was a form of torture they used which was dreaded by even the bravest of my people."
Von Dodenburg groaned inwardly. God, had the Indian no sense? He had obviously been educated in Germany. Yet he seemed to be unable to comprehend the German mentality. Germans, especially of the SS, didn't want to be lectured on supposedly quaint Indian customs. He put his hand to his head and wished he was back in the centre of Athens with bustling cafes and pretty girls, ogling one of them in the hope of taking her to bed before the fighting commenced yet again.
"A man would be stripped naked at the Rajah's request, forced to kneel down in chains and then a pot containing a half-starved rat was fixed, hermetically sealed, to his bottom." Singh smiled at his audience, who, now beginning to stir somewhat uneasily in their seats, were listening intently to the Indian's lecture for the first time. "When the rat refused to do what it was intended to do, a red-hot poker was thrust through the little hole in the pot. Now, this would make the rat do anything to escape being burned. It would run across the prisoner's naked buttocks, which would tickle at first, until the frenzied rat started biting his bottom to get away from the burning poker." Singh smiled winningly again, as if he were fully convinced that his audience were thoroughly enjoying his tale from pre-British India. Behind von Dodenburg, someone said thickly, "Himmler must be mad to give us this crazy man... I think I'm going to be sick."
Von Dodenburg tried to ignore the voice as Singh continued with his terrible account. "The rat tries and tries to get away by biting and biting. But there was no way out. Then the rat, it was said, would start enjoying the taste of blood, become intoxicated with it, spurred on by the poker trying to burn it, until the frenzied creature finds the only way out." Singh paused and delivered his punchline. "The natural exit – the man's arse hole!"
"Oh my God!" the officer who had complained before groaned. "Can't anyone stop the black devil?"
But no one could. Singh's awful account held them in its grip, fascinated them, as they listened ashen-faced, almost as if they were hypnotized by it. "So," he ended at last, "both rat and man die at the same time, but only after the human being has suffered, say, half an hour of superlative torture – unless he has succumbed to a haemorrhage or madness before that happens."
Singh fell silent and gazed at his audience, now wrapped in a shroud of shocked silence, all save von Dodenburg, who was outraged at the Indian's tale of such perverted torture. He kicked back his chair and, braving the Vulture's wrath, as the latter turned to see who h
ad made the noise, demanded in a harsh voice, "Herr Leutnant, what has all this – er – nonsense from the past got to do with whatever operation we are soon going to undertake?" Von Dodenburg's lean face twitched suddenly with barely concerned anger. "Please tell me that, will you?"
Lieutenant Singh was in no way put out by that harsh demand. He smiled – the handsome young Indian seemed to smile a great deal – and said, "Certainly, I shall tell you, sir. We will have to be that rat, making the Iraqis more frightened of us than they are of the damned English. They will not attack if we don't make them do so. Then we must frighten them into doing so. Thus we do not suffer the casualties they will in order to achieve victory."
"And how do we make them fear us so greatly?" von Dodenburg commenced, but the Vulture shut him up sharply with, "That's enough, von Dodenburg! Lieutenant Singh has given a perfectly satisfactory explanation of our intentions in Iraq. After all, whatever way it is to be done, it should be in the interest of every officer in this room that SS Assault Battalion Wotan should suffer as few casualties as possible." He paused very slightly and then added, almost as if he were speaking to himself, "Then who knows, gentlemen, when Wotan will need every man it can muster." He turned again to Singh. "Thank you, Lieutenant, for an excellent exposé. Perhaps you and I can talk in more detail once this briefing is over?"
"Why, certainly, sir. Yessir, I should be very glad to do so, Obersturmbannführer."
Under his breath, von Dodenburg cursed. He knew the Vulture. For a while at least the handsome young Indian was going to be his bosom friend until the inevitable break came and the Indian would be sacrificed by the CO. For, as sexually predatory as he was, the Vulture was still no fool. When danger loomed up for his career – his aim to become a "general just like my old father did', as he often boasted in the officers" mess – the Vulture would strike and remove that danger remorselessly.
A few minutes later, they had come to attention, saluted the Vulture with a self-satisfied Lieutenant Singh grinning happily at the CO's side, and left the briefing room, blinking in the glare of the midday sun, each man preoccupied with his own thoughts. For even the thickest of Wotan's officers knew that they were being prepared for a mission: a kind of mission that they had yet to experience in nearly two years of total war.
Von Dodenburg set his cap at the usual rakish angle, favoured by the arrogant, confident young bloods of SS Wotan, though at that moment he felt very uncertain. What kind of assignment had they really been given, he asked himself. For it was clear from Singh's briefing that they were to be involved in some kind of combined operation on what seemed to him the other side of the world. But how were they going to get there? What was to become of their armour? At that point it was the dash and the skilled use of their armour which had made SS Wotan feared by the enemy and favoured by the Führer, who had often praised Wotan as the elite of the elite – "my very own fire brigade" – sent to the front, where the danger was most acute. Von Dodenburg shook his head, even ignoring the shy glances of a very pretty Greek girl, ripe for picking, bursting out, it seemed, of her expensive Paris frock. A lot of questions, he told himself a little miserably, with damned few answers to them.
But Kuno von Dodenburg had not long to dwell on the implications of that briefing. For a well-known voice broke into his reverie, with its usual impact, which meant that its owner was either drunk or in trouble. "Schulze, the big rogue," he muttered, even as Schulze came staggering round the corner, drunkenly pushing a wicker-basket pram in front of him, in which reposed Corporal Matz, clutching a bottle of ouzo to his skinny chest like some overgrown, obscene baby, tossing handfuls of worthless Greek coins to the crowds of cheering barefoot kids. But it wasn't the sight of his drunken old hares that gave von Dodenburg pause; he'd seen them drunk time and time again before. It was the two burly military policemen, sweating and angry under their steel helmets, trying to clear the kids out of the way and get at the two SS NCOs.
Von Dodenburg didn't hesitate. Drunk as they were, he'd need the two veterans again in the near future – he was sure of that. "Still gestanden!" he ordered. "Na, wird's bald?"
The effect of that sharp command penetrated even Schulze's addled brain. The big non-com stumbled to an abrupt stop. Matz, still clutching his precious bottle, fell out of the pram on to the road, where he immediately started to gulp the fiery white alcohol down, a huge grin of absolute delight on his wizened face. "You Bavarian barnshitter," Schulze said thickly. "Can't you see our officer – "
"Trapp, trapp!" Von Dodenburg cut him off sharply as the taller of the two MPs stepped forward, saluted and snapped, "Drunk and disorderly, sir! Stole one civilian perambulator, attempted to thrust a hand up the mother's dress without permission and – "
"Good... good," Von Dodenburg cut him short a little wearily. How often had he heard similar complaints from other military policemen about the misdeeds of the two old hares. "Leave them with me. I'll take care of them."
"Yessir. And the pram, sir?"
"I'll see it's returned."
The MP hesitated. But not for long. Schulze raised his mighty right haunch, grinned contemptuously at the policeman and then gave one of his celebrated musical farts, well known and respected throughout the SS NCO corps. The policemen fled, as did the kids, leaving Schulze, weakened a little by the effort of that mighty breaking of wind, to gasp, "Aeroplanes, sir. They're painting frog roundels on the division's Junkers fifty-twos, sir. We're gonna jump out of aeroplanes or something."
Von Dodenburg nodded his understanding grimly. Now he knew, at least, how they were going to reach their objective, and he didn't like it one bit. On the road, a happy Matz nuzzled his bottle, and then, after a hefty drink, broke into, "Ain't it a pity she's got only one titty to feed the baby on... poor little bugger, he's got only one udder."
Von Dodenburg shook his head, whether in resignation or dismay, he didn't know himself at that particular moment. Then they were off, the elegant young SS officer in the lead, followed by the creaking old pram being pushed drunkenly by Schulze, while, back in his seat, Matz continued to chortle merrily about the poor little bugger with only one udder for nourishment.
CHAPTER 8
Now the blood-red ball of the sun had slipped over the horizon and was colouring the sea a thousand feet below a dark, threatening hue. To their front the mountains of the Turkish coast were beginning to flush a dirty pink. Von Dodenburg rubbed the sleep from his eyes and told himself that at least the weather was good as the squadron of Junkers 52s carrying his First Company into the unknown droned on.
They had spent the previous day at Sofia Airport, being prepared for the last stage of their flight to French-held Syria by their new allies the Bulgarians, and it had been obvious that although the Bulgarians were not going to be involved in the Iraq venture, they were preparing for some kind of military operation. There were troops everywhere, and on all sides of the great sprawling airfield, stores were being piled up, while on the perimeter roads, batteries of artillery and tank squadrons rumbled by, coming from the capital heading eastwards. As Schulze had commented to his running mate Matz as they sold Wotan stores to the Bulgarians in exchange for bottles of fiery Bulgarian plum brandy, "The balloon's soon gonna go up here too, old house. I can smell the lead in the air already." To which Matz had replied sourly, "Well, don't smell too much of that frigging plum brandy, old house. Cos it's got to last till we get to where we're going – and God frigging well knows where that is, old house."
Now, as the plane rocked with a sudden turbulence caused by thermals rising from the sea below as the air grew warmer, Schulze, too, woke up, licked his parched cracked lips and said to Matz, slumped on the leather-steel seat next to him, "Pass the flatman." He meant the flat bottle of plum brandy.
Matz opened his eyes and said, "What d'yer mean, pass the frigging flatman? You greedy sod, you supped the last of it yersen last night. Without leaving a drop for me."
Schulze took the complaint calmly. "Rank hath its privileges,"
he answered. "Remember I'm a sergeant. You're just a lowly corporal, Corporal Matz."
By way of an answer, Matz made a crude suggestion with his dirty middle finger. It was an obscenity that Schulze ignored, remarking only, "Can't, Corporal Matz. Got a double-decker bus up there already." He laughed.
Despite his worries, von Dodenburg smiled at the interchange. Matz and Schulze always acted as if they were the worst of enemies, but when the chips were down and the shit started to fly, they were prepared to fight to the death for one another. They were true comrades. Then he dismissed the two rogues and concentrated on his problems.
His knowledge of the overall plan was limited. They would fly to Damascus in Syria, refuel once more there, and then, avoiding British air patrols if there were any, they'd slip across the border with French pilots at the controls of the Junkers – the French knew more of the Iraq border area than their own Luftwaffe pilots. Once safely over the frontier, they'd land in the desert. Here Lieutenant Singh, still asleep at the moment, would guide them to where his own Free Indians were camped. Together, the Wotan troopers and the Indians would exert pressure on the rebel Iraqis to attack and capture the British airbase at Habbaniyah. What Wotan was supposed to do after that, von Dodenburg had only the vaguest of ideas. But he felt sure the Führer wouldn't want to waste one of his elite SS battalions on such a godforsaken place as Iraq. There had to be more to the coming campaign than that.
He looked to where the handsome Indian still slept and told himself that the young officer knew more than he did. He'd seen him deep in conversation with the Vulture more than once in the last forty-eight hours before they had set off: conversations which had ended abruptly whenever anyone came close to the two officers. And it was certain that these weren't just sexual overtures that the Vulture was making to Singh. There was more to it than that.
