Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ‘There you go again: doubting the Führer. What the Führer thinks is none of your business.’

  ‘Surely you can see, Herr Vizeadmiral, that I need the detail to appreciate what I am supposed to be doing,’ Helberg protested.

  ‘You’ll get all the detail you need. In fact, it’s all here in my briefcase – the details of the boat preparation, and the specification for packing the explosives.’

  ‘And the target and the method of attack?’

  ‘You don’t need to know those.’

  ‘How am I to brief the commander?’

  ‘You won’t brief him. He will receive his sealed orders by courier who will deposit them in the boat’s safe. The commander is not to open them until he is five miles out to sea. What’s in those orders is a master plan. A plan too secret to be revealed before the last moment.’

  ‘Will I ever find out what Armageddon is all about?’

  ‘You will indeed! The whole world will!’

  Helberg silently fumed at the lack of trust being placed in him, and longed for the Vizeadmiral to depart.

  ‘That’s about it,’ said Siegler as he buttoned up his leather coat. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned towards Helberg:

  ‘What’s security like here?’ he asked.

  ‘What security? We’re plagued with small-scale sabotage.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Wohlman. He’s okay at dealing with the scrap metal and cable thefts. They’re all tallied on his office wall like hunting trophies. We all know, though, that it’s just a cover to hide the fact that he’s lazy and doesn’t want to look deeper. Endlessly complains that he hasn’t enough men. Especially now that he’s got the extra Armageddon work.’

  ‘And the Gestapo?’ asked Siegler.

  ‘Best not to ask. That Beck prefers his own pleasures to rooting out the Resistance.’

  ‘You’ve got the Resistance inside the base?’

  ‘That’s what we all assume every time there’s another fire or a vehicle is seriously disabled. Not to mention documents that go missing.’

  ‘I’ll have to report back on all of this. Meanwhile, if you can’t rely on Wohlman and Beck, you’ll have to take responsibility for keeping the saboteurs and Resistance away from the Armageddon boat and the lorries. If you fail … do I have to say more?’

  7

  The Vizeadmiral had been hard on Helberg because he thought he would respond to the challenges of Armageddon. Helberg’s reputation as a flotilla commander meant a lot to Siegler. He had no such faith in Wohlman, whom he was to see next. Wohlman’s file showed no more than a soldier who had never distinguished himself in battle nor on exercises. And, if Helberg was right, a man who was not much use on the security front either.

  Wohlman was shocked to learn that Siegler was to call on him as well as Helberg. Base security was a Wehrmacht responsibility. If Siegler dared to interfere … Wohlman’s momentary temptation to make a big fuss faded when he recalled that it paid him not to upset a man of Siegler’s rank. Instead, he determined to make a good impression on the Vizeadmiral. Siegler’s support might prove useful in his struggle for more men.

  Wohlman met Siegler outside Helberg’s office and escorted him to the garrison command section of the office block. He led the way to his own first-floor office, dragging his stiff leg up each of the bare treads. From behind, Siegler saw a tired man pushing himself to keep going. Everywhere he went, thought Siegler, he found burnt-out men like Wohlman – the physical and spiritual casualties of three years of fruitless war. With more men like Helberg, the war would be won, given time. Yet the increasing numbers of Wohlmans suggested that the battle was already lost. These thoughts were reinforced when he entered Wohlman’s bare but grandiose office. Wohlman had taken two standard offices, knocked them together, and stuffed the over-large room with a mass of excellent French furniture – prices were low in wartime. The walls held trophy photographs of Wohlman with various Party dignitaries. But the only evidence of his work was the colourful arrest charts for minor offences, prominently displayed around the walls.

  ‘How are preparations for Armageddon, Herr Major?’ said Siegler once they had settled.

  ‘Slow. Difficult. I assume you saw the sea of mud in the lorry park when you came in? And this,’ he said, waving a signal transcript, ‘announces that the first lorries will turn up tomorrow.’

  ‘Your men will just have to hurry.’

  ‘My men! I don’t have the men to guard this base and run a building site. I daren’t tell you how unguarded some areas will be for the next few days. And, even if I had the men, there’s no aggregate for miles. The mud you see today will still be mud tomorrow. It’s a disaster.’

  ‘I don’t like what you are telling me,’ replied Siegler. ‘If there’s no aggregate, get some. Use your imagination. Bulldoze a few cottages or something. The job’s got to be done.’

  ‘Herr Vizeadmiral, this base can’t run without French labour and French cooperation. They work well enough. But if we start demolishing their homes—’

  ‘You’re too soft, Herr Major. Anyway, enough of your excuses. Take me on a tour and show me the wretched lorry park.’

  ****

  As he left his office, Wohlman asked his secretary in the outer office to collect some documents from the mailroom. Helga and Marie crossed on the stairs a short while afterwards.

  ‘I’ve got these papers for the major,’ said Marie. ‘Do you want to take them?’

  ‘Best not,’ replied Helga. ‘They’ll only get soaked outside. Put them on my desk, would you?’

  Helga continued down the stairs, while Marie climbed to the first floor. A moment later she had placed the documents on Helga’s desk. There was not a loose paper in sight – everything of any interest had been locked away. That was typical of Helga: punctilious to a fault. (Her cold, prissy manner had earned her the base nickname of Holy Helga.) Marie turned to leave. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the open door to Wohlman’s office. She had seen the Major walking with the Vizeadmiral towards the lorry park. She listened. Not a sound. She approached the door. She pushed it with one finger. It opened a few inches. She gave a light knock. There was no response. Marie looked round the door and saw the empty office. Empty except for the Vizeadmiral’s briefcase, which was lying on Wohlman’s desk. It appeared to be closed, but by no more than two leather straps and buckles.

  Marie’s heart was pounding. She trembled and her legs quaked as she tiptoed towards the desk. She undid one strap. The door! She had left it open. She rushed over to close it and returned to the desk. A pause to listen. No one. Not a sound of any kind beyond the dull roar of the Atlantic rollers. She flicked open the second strap and pulled out the few papers in the briefcase. On top was one with the title “Operation Armageddon” plus the words “From the Office of the Führer”. Her growing knowledge of German was enough for her to understand that a cargo U-boat was to arrive at Cap d’Enfer and to be loaded with 250 tons of high explosive. The details of its target and the date of the attack were to follow.

  With time, Marie might have been able to puzzle out more from the German text, but she knew that her life – or at least her freedom – was now seriously in danger. She had to get out. She put the papers back, re-buckled the briefcase and tried to remember just how it had been placed on the desk. A step on the stairs! It was too late to bother about details. She left the office, closed the door and did her best to walk calmly out of Helga’s office and onto the landing. As she turned towards the stairs she was met by Helga returning from her errand.

  ‘You still here?’ Helga asked.

  ‘Yes … I met a friend on the landing. We chatted a bit.’

  ‘You’d better get a move on. You know you are not meant to hang around here.’

  Marie was terrified at what she had done. She was now in possession of a secret that she was sure was of vital importance to the Allies: an operation in the heart of her own workplace. For her,
the thing that clinched its importance was the presence of the Vizeadmiral. It had to mean that something big was being planned. Whatever the cargo U-boat was about, it made a change from her network’s routine of minor sabotage and the disruption of German communications. Even the failed derailment was of no importance in comparison to this.

  She had to warn London. And, since she was increasingly sure that her network was under observation, she needed to get the warning through the next day.

  ****

  As Marie walked away from the garrison commander’s office, Wohlman and Siegler returned. They were too deep in conversation – or rather in dispute – to notice her. Half an hour later Siegler prepared to leave in order to inspect another Atlantic base. He opened his briefcase to put in a report that Wohlman had given him. Something was wrong. He pulled out the papers and realised that the Armageddon document was now at the bottom of the pile. He could have sworn that he had left it at the top. He began to check that all his papers were still there.

  ‘Something wrong, Herr Vizeadmiral?’

  ‘I’m not sure … No, all my papers are here.’

  ‘Of course they are, Herr Vizeadmiral. There’s nothing wrong with the security in these offices. Only the most trusted people are allowed in here.’

  8

  The garrison office block had been particularly busy that morning. When Marie had reached the top of the stairs at the south end of the building, Beck had just come up the stairs at the north end. He had seen the secretary leave. Now he saw Marie disappearing into Wohlman’s office. What could Wohlman want with Marie? He crept down the corridor and listened at Wohlman’s door. There was not a sound. Not even a rustle of paper or the scratching of a pen nib. He waited a little. Still no sound. Surely not? Not that! Marie was his property. Wohlman! Beck hurried down the stairs and left the building.

  Half an hour later Marie was back at her desk, typing work rotas for the French labour force. A Gestapo sergeant came in with a message from Beck. He wished to see her straight after lunch. Usually Marie’s meagre lunch left her hungry. Today she could hardly swallow a few bits of bread and barely sipped at her soup as she agonized over what to do. Should she go to Beck or should she leave the base now and disappear? She poured another small glass of wine, which she drank quickly, almost choking. Then she decided.

  ****

  Beck was sitting behind his desk on his throne-like chair when Marie was ushered in by a sergeant. She had never been there before. (It was not a place that anyone chose to visit.) She thought it surprisingly small. So small that the huge antique desk, no doubt “liberated” from a local chateau, dominated the scene. On the wall behind Beck was a large photograph of Hitler, to each side of which was a massive Nazi flag. The floor on his side of the desk was carpeted, in contrast to the bare boards on the side allocated to his victims. A solitary utilitarian cane chair was provided for them. There was no attempt at comfort and the air smelt of sweat and disinfectant. Some shelves built into one wall displayed photographs of the glorious moments of Beck’s past. There was Beck as a 16-year-old Brownshirt in Munich before the time of the Night of the Long Knives in 1934; Beck at two Nuremberg rallies; and Beck shaking hands with the Führer in the early years of the war. He had done well for a young man of only twenty-five who, in the early 1930s, had been a casually employed errand boy with little education. Yet an observant visitor would have noticed that Beck’s best years were in the past. He had once fluttered close to the party supremos. Now they no longer had any need of him.

  Marie had little chance to absorb the detail of the scene. She did, though, catch the cold power that Beck’s sense of interior decoration was intended to convey. She began to shiver as she hesitatingly sat on edge of her chair, clutching the fabric of her skirt. Her knuckles were white.

  ‘Snooping again, I see,’ said Beck.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. In Wohlman’s office.’

  ‘I was only delivering some papers. You can ask his secretary.’ Risking a lie, Marie continued: ‘She told me to put them on the Major’s desk. That’s all.’

  ‘All? You were in there a long time. What else were you up to?’

  ‘Nothing. I swear. Nothing at all. I went straight back to my typing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Everywhere I go I find you looking around. Your looking is going to get you into trouble.’

  ‘Herr Beck, I work hard for Germany. You ask my supervisor. He’s always satisfied with my work. Gives me the difficult jobs. And he always asks me to show the newcomers the ropes.’

  ‘Cover! It’s just cover. What are you really doing?’

  ‘Nothing! Nothing!’

  By now Marie was petrified. She was only behaving as she had done for months. So what had changed? Were her sacrifices with Beck now to be in vain?

  What she did not know, was that Beck was incandescent about her – as he imagined – cavorting with Wohlman. He saw no chance of putting a stop to Wohlman helping himself to Marie’s favours except by removing Marie herself from the scene. He had decided to act. He had just the excuse that he needed.

  ‘Let’s forget about the snooping for a moment. Where were you last Friday night?’

  ‘I stayed the night with a friend. I just went for a meal. It got late and I had to stay because of the curfew.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘Michelle Guichard.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s right. Think again. Think of the field between the two beech woods near the lime pit. A Lysander came in, guided by torches. The time was exactly 1.15am. It dropped some packages. You and your friends collected them. There were three of you … Am I right?’

  ‘That’s all nonsense. I know nothing about planes dropping things. I was with Michelle.’

  ‘Have you seen Michelle lately?’

  ‘No. We only meet now and again.’

  ‘You won’t be meeting again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We took her in after the drop. She’s told us everything. Now it’s your turn to confess.’

  Marie was too wise, even in her distressed state, to fall for the “She’s told us everything” ploy. In any case, Michelle was no more than a friend. She occasionally covered for Marie, while knowing nothing of her nocturnal activities. So Marie gambled on Beck’s account of the recent drop being largely guesswork.

  ‘Whatever you say, I was with Michelle. She’ll be back soon, I’m sure. I expect she’s gone to see her mother. She’s in an old people’s home in Toulon.’

  ‘You’re a stubborn little one, aren’t you? I thought you would at least talk to me. So be it. Perhaps you will talk to someone a little less patient than me.’ By now Beck was standing over Marie. He leaned down and fondled her breasts … ‘Or perhaps not just yet.’

  ‘You can go,’ said Beck as he returned to his chair.

  Marie stumbled out of Beck’s office into the cold grey afternoon. In a daze she walked back to her office and reported to her supervisor.

  ‘Could I go home now, please? I’m feeling very unwell.’

  ‘You look it. Yes, you can go. Make sure you’re not late tomorrow.’

  Marie passed out of the gates and began to run. After half a mile or so, she fell exhausted onto a rocky outcrop at the side of the road. She crossed herself. When was the last time she had done that, she wondered. Did that mean that God was now the only help she had left? She got to her feet and walked apprehensively into the town and entered the church. She knelt at the confessional and crossed herself. The priest pulled back the curtain on his side of the grille. For a moment, Marie was silent – the priest was used to this in the confessional. Then, hesitantly, she began: ‘In the name of the Father … and of the Son … and of the Holy Spirit … My last confession was … nearly a year ago …’ She paused. The priest waited, expecting her to confess some serious sin that was bothering her. Still Marie said nothing. She began to sob.

  ‘My child …’ the priest began.

&nbs
p; Marie had recalled her absolute vow to trust no one until the war was over. Not even a priest. She muttered a quick: ‘Je suis désolée …’

  ‘Sorry about what, my child?’

  Marie did not stop to answer. In tears of loneliness and despondency she ran out of the church into the pouring rain. Her shawl fell from her head. She let it drop as she ran on until she reached the headland that looked out over the wild sea. Her momentary temptation to return to her faith was over. All she had was her network. She was sure that its end was near. But there was one last thing to do: warn London.

  Back at her lodgings, Marie placed her childhood teddy bear on her bedroom windowsill. Lucien would see it and meet her at the bus stop tomorrow morning.

  9

  Marie slept badly that night. Several times she awoke with a start, thinking she had heard a thump on the front door. Once she heard the rumble of a military vehicle. Each time, she tensed with fear before relaxing a little, telling herself not to be so anxious.

  When she reached the bus stop the next morning, Lucien Beaumier was there. Short, podgy and with the pallor of a man who spent more time in his shed with radios than out in the fresh air, Lucien was a boon to the Resistance. In the pre-war years he had exchanged technical talk with every amateur radio enthusiast in the area. No one knew better than he did where to go for a spare valve, a new quartz crystal or an electrolytic capacitor – all items the possession of which could lead to a call from the Gestapo.

  ‘I’m glad I saw you,’ Marie said to disguise this pre-arranged rendezvous. ‘I’ve finished reading that book that you lent me. It contains a lot of interesting material.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,’ replied Lucien.

  They sat at separate seats, Marie being in the row in front of Lucien. She got up first as they neared the base, leaving a book on her seat. Lucien stood up, “accidentally” dropped his coat onto Marie’s vacated seat, retrieved his coat and the book, and followed her out of the bus.

  In fact, Marie had not read the book and Lucien had no intention of reading it either. The words ‘a lot of interesting material’ told him that an urgent radio signal was hidden down the book’s spine. He kept his transmitter in a cave up in the hills. He would have to find an excuse to get the afternoon off work and take a walk into the country.