Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ‘So will the children go back then?’

  ‘I hope so. I should get some leave in a few months’ time. I’d like nothing better than to see them.’

  And so Madame went on, keeping the conversation to any innocuous thing that Helberg wished to talk about. She easily feigned both interest and concern. Meanwhile she poured champagne and Helberg drank. When he had drunk enough to loosen his discretion, Madame turned the conversation.

  ‘And here? How are things?’

  ‘The enemy’s giving us a tough time just now. The “Happy Time” is long over.’

  ‘Over for good?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘You mean the Allies might win?’

  ‘I’ll tell you the answer to that on the last day of the war.’

  ‘Herr Helberg, I never thought to hear such defeatist words in my establishment. Up there,’ said Madame, pointing to the floor above, ‘the Reich is proving its virility. So why not at sea and on land as well?’

  ‘Dear Madame, you’re not doubting the Reich are you?’

  ‘Me? Not at all. But you …?’

  ‘We’ll win. Yes, it’s hard. Just give us time.’

  ‘How? Just more of the same? It hasn’t worked so far,’ provoked Madame.

  ‘No!’ cried the goaded commander. ‘We’ll …’

  Helberg flustered. The room was hot and he had drunk more than was wise. He didn’t seem able to find the words. His head was swimming.

  ‘You’ll …?’

  Helberg broke.

  ‘We’ve got a secret weapon. You ask any of the base workers. It’s there … moored … a huge cargo boat full of explosives.’

  ‘One U-boat?’

  ‘Yes, one. It’s on a special mission. It’s the Führer’s own plan. He’s called it Armageddon. And he’s chosen my base for the job. It’s a great compliment.’

  ‘You do seem to be making a name for yourself, my dear Kapitän.’

  ‘I hope so, Madame. We all deserve a bit of recognition. The Vizeadmiral says that “Armageddon will be devastating for the enemy in the Mediterranean”. Just wait, you’ll see. And you won’t have to wait long. And don’t forget to think of me when it happens.’

  Madame was delighted by her skilled manoeuvring of Helberg into boasting about an operation that he should never have mentioned. She had not lost her touch but decided that she had found out as much as Helberg knew about the operation. She pressed a small bell-button discretely hidden on the underside of the arm of her chair. A knock on the door followed.

  ‘Come in,’ called Madame.

  A young woman hovered in the doorway, her scanty lingerie ill-covered by her silk gown.

  ‘Is Véronique back yet?’ asked Madame.

  ‘Yes, Madame. She’s just returned.’

  ‘There, Herr Helberg. How nicely timed for our little chat.’

  Helberg got up slowly, his head reeling, and walked uncertainly to the door. He had a vague feeling that he might have said more than he ought to have done. Words and phrases spun round in his head without forming into any clear recollection of what he had said. Then he saw Véronique, who would more than occupy his thoughts for the rest of the evening.

  An hour or so later, Marie was in Madame’s boudoir, eagerly catching up on the latest indiscretions of her visitors, and particularly those of Helberg.

  The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, much to the chagrin of Véronique. Enduring a few hours with a near-comatose man was not her idea of fun. It was well past midnight when she finally helped Helberg to his feet and, with the aid of Madame, guided him down the stairs. He insisted on walking across the salon to the door, while knocking over an aspidistra. Its pot smashed on the floor and an aroma of damp soil accompanied his departure. His driver, who had discreetly waited in a side street, brought the car to the door. Fearing that Helberg would never make it to the car, the driver leapt out and gently lowered the Kapitän into the rear seat. Helberg winked in complicity as if to suggest “Don’t you wish you’d had such a good evening as I have had?”

  ****

  Next morning Helberg was out early and standing on the quay, eyeing the repair work on the cargo U-boat. He was still awaiting some lift from his two cups of strong coffee, while puffing heavily on a cigar. Last night was a hazy memory, although he did recall Madame’s extraordinarily good champagne. The same could not be said for how many glasses he had drunk. It was in this reverie that Beck came up from behind and startled the Kapitän:

  ‘Did you have a good time last night, Herr Kapitän?’

  ‘Yes … why do you ask?’

  ‘I ask,’ said Beck, in a menacing tone, ‘because good times are not always compatible with security. Especially good times in public places.’

  ‘What do you mean “public places”?’

  ‘Maison Charrier. That’s public enough. People coming and going. Conversations listened in on. And those girls know just the right moment in bed when a loosened tongue becomes a betraying tongue.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting they would ever get anything out of me—’

  ‘I suggest nothing, Herr Kapitän. I just warn – or advise, if you prefer. Anyway, just what did you talk about?’

  ‘Herr Beck! How dare you!’

  ‘Not that sort of thing! What military things did you talk about?’

  ‘With the girl, nothing – I think. With Madame, how hard we are working on the base, my wife at home—’

  ‘The base! That’s dangerous territory. Don’t you know how these people work? A titbit here, a titbit there … It all builds up. You’re running very close to the wind, Herr Kapitän. I’m wearing myself out chasing brazen treason, while you’re handing over the Reich’s secrets by the bucket-load. You just don’t take this war seriously enough. The French are our enemy. They can’t be trusted on the base, let alone outside. Take my advice, if you want a good time, do what some of the other senior officers do. Get yourself a little place in the country and keep your woman there.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’

  ‘Never mind what I do. It’s the Gestapo’s job to ask questions, not answer them.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought this was … how shall I say … man to man.’

  ‘Take it how you like, Herr Kapitän – provided you stay away from Maison Charrier. Good day to you.’

  With a click of his heels and a smart salute, Beck walked briskly back to his office.

  Helberg stared for a while at the departing Gestapo man before calmly taking a long drag on his cigar. He exhaled the smoke with the feigned ease of a man at peace. Inside, he seethed at the effrontery of a predator whose own sexual adventures were known throughout the base. Even so, he had no fear of Beck. His record in counteracting crime and sabotage was pathetic. His frequent attempts to gain a big city posting had led to nothing. Beck was stuck at Cap d’Enfer, as were most of the other officers on the base. Meanwhile, if only he, Helberg, could make a success of the cargo U-boat and get his other patrol boats to sea, perhaps his own fortunes would then change.

  16

  While Helberg had been drinking his coffee that morning, Marie had handed over another book to Lucien as they stood at the bus stop.

  ‘It contains a lot of interesting material,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lucien. ‘I’ll read it later today if I can find the time.’

  In their private code, reading times were Lucien’s way of telling Marie when he hoped to radio a message to London. Marie was reassured to hear that, later that night, London would know of the Mediterranean destination of the U-boat.

  Meanwhile Marie had another more personal matter on her mind. Standing beside Lucien at the bus stop with no one else in sight she thought this was a safe moment to tell him about her concern.

  ‘Lucien … there’s something …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s difficult. It’s about us.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not exactly. Only the war. It tou
ches everything. Including us.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. We used to be so close. When you first came here you would always turn up at the Saturday dance. And we went for walks in the hills. We were very happy. I miss that.’

  ‘I know you do, Lucien. So do I.’

  ‘So why don’t we get together again?’

  ‘I’ve told you: the war. We know too much about one another to be close any more. If one of us were taken in today, that would be bad enough. And if we …’

  Marie trailed off. She always tried to suppress the thought that she or her colleagues might break down under torture. Lucien was twenty-five years old, the sole wage-earner in his mother’s household. His father had been killed during the collapse of the Weygand line in June 1940 and his younger sister was still at school. As the years passed, his longing for marriage and children grew. He had told Marie all this a year or so ago. All she had said was: ‘Let’s see how the war goes.’ Marie, Lucien knew, was wedded to the cause of France. He supported that too. He risked his life every time that he climbed into the hills to reach his hidden radio. Yet it was not enough for him. He craved Marie. Every vision he had of the future had her in it.

  ‘Lucien,’ Marie continued, ‘we already see too much of each other. You sit at my table too often in the canteen. You come into the Café Grégoire when I do … You must remember that in this war we have to be strangers for the sake of France. I know it’s hard, but no sacrifice is too high to regain our country.’

  Lucien was quiet for a while before saying: ‘I wish I had your dedication, Marie. I can’t …’ With tears in his eyes he turned away. He walked to work that day.

  Later Marie’s thoughts turned to the message that Lucien was carrying. She feared that it might be her network’s last chance. They had achieved so little, yet risked so much. If London did not respond, or if the whole thing was a sideshow, what then? Perhaps she should abandon it all and go off with Lucien – off to somewhere beyond Beck’s reach.

  ****

  When the message reached London there was nothing to indicate its horrific sequence. Things had not gone well when Lucien climbed up to the cave in the hills. He connected the newly charged battery, switched on the radio and immediately a valve blew. There were no spares in the cave so Lucien returned down the hillside into the town. He cycled three miles out into the countryside on the other side of the town to a dump where he kept his supply of radio parts, all scavenged from pre-war radios and phonographs – it was too risky to keep such spares at home. The light was fading as he cycled back to town and out to the other side. At the foot of the hill he hid his bike in a patch of thick brambles and began his climb up to the cave. He knew the way well enough to avoid too many false turns in the poor light.

  With the new valve in place, Lucien checked the radio. It worked. He switched it off to avoid its carrier wave being detected, and began to code Marie’s message. He used a keyword cypher – a method that he knew was near to unbreakable if it is used for a very small number of brief messages. He felt no qualms as he switched on the radio again and tapped out the Morse version of the coded message.

  Weary, scratched and bruised from his earlier climb up to the transmitter, Lucien returned to the road. At first he was not surprised that he could not find his bicycle. After a few minutes searching he began to get worried. Perhaps he had the wrong bramble patch? As he looked around for another patch he heard the click of a weapon being cocked.

  ‘Hands up,’ came a voice from the dark.

  Lucien felt his short, stout legs weaken and his heart seemed to explode as he saw three soldiers come out of the darkness. He was soon on the ground with three guns chillingly close to his body.

  ‘Where’s the transmitter?’ asked the officer.

  Terror-struck as he was, this was a question that Lucien had prepared for. He was an experienced radio amateur and knew all about locating a transmitter by triangulation. The German EP2a receivers were capable of pinning down a transmitter to within a few miles. Any more precise location required on-the-ground searching. If he did not speak, there was no way that the Germans would find his radio. Even if they walked within a few metres of it, they would never see it. His cave – known to him and Marie alone – could only be reached by descending an overhanging rock. Its entrance was invisible from below.

  ‘What radio?’

  ‘Yours. A transmission was sent from this area an hour or so ago. No one else has passed this way this evening. We know it was you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ protested Lucien.

  ‘Throw him in the truck,’ snarled the officer.

  Two soldiers picked Lucien up by the feet and shoulders and flung him into the truck as if he were an animal carcass. They jumped in after him, kicked him towards the front of the truck and trained their weapons on him. The truck roared off, bumping along the rough, pot-holed country road. For the next twenty minutes the driver indulged in abrupt breaking and race-track accelerations, each of which sent Lucien’s body crashing from wall to wall of the truck. His guards laughed mockingly at each collision, while Lucien fought his urge to scream with pain. The final smash came as the driver slammed on the brakes outside one of the base buildings. The stop hurled him face first into the steel partition between the front and back of the truck. The tailgate was opened by guards on the base. His two guards dragged him to the rear of the truck and kicked him off. He fell into a helpless heap on the rough concrete forecourt. He was manhandled into a cell. The light went out. Lucien was alone in the dark, bleeding, bruised and in pain.

  An hour later Beck opened the door.

  ‘Ah, the little bird that sings to London. Will he sing for us?’ said Beck.

  The interrogation was long and painful. Lucien passed out a few times. At first he needed the courage that he never thought he had to resist the endless questions: ‘Where is the transmitter?’ ‘What was the message?’ ‘Who are you working with?’ Later he was so badly injured that he could no longer even think of the questions, let alone the answers.

  After six hours of brutal treatment, Beck ordered the soldiers to release Lucien. ‘Dump him outside the gates. That’ll teach the Commies a few lessons.’

  ****

  Marie was not present when the first workers arrived at the base in the half darkness of the early morning to find Lucien lying in the roadway. He was curled up, moaning quietly. His face was bleeding, puffy and bruised. His hands looked as if they had been attacked by a rasp, and two finger nails were missing.

  ‘Isn’t that the young man who works on the electrics?’ said one woman.

  ‘Looks like him, though it’s hard to be sure,’ said another.

  ‘What’s his name?’ said the first woman.

  ‘No idea. I’ve only seen him up a ladder fixing some lights,’ replied the second woman.

  ‘Well, he ain’t going up no ladder for a good while now,’ concluded the first woman.

  The women discussed what they ought to do. It was obvious how Lucien had received his injuries – taking him into the base for first aid would be pointless.

  ‘Best leave him,’ said the second woman. ‘We don’t want no trouble.’

  ‘How can we? He’s one of us – on the base, I mean.’

  ‘Really? Then how come he got into that kind of trouble? I’m off.’

  With that, the second woman disappeared into the base. She took care not to mention to anyone what she had seen that morning. Back at the gate, the first woman walked to the nearest bar, asked for a jetton, picked up the pay phone and called for an ambulance. Terrified as she was, she had risked nothing. As far as Beck was concerned, Lucien’s battered body had done its job: struck fear into the workers. He had no further interest in Lucien.

  Although Marie had not seen Lucien’s tortured body, she knew that something had gone wrong when she went to the cemetery before work. If he had successfully transmitted the message, he would have left a small coin in a crevice at the back of the headstone
on his grandfather’s grave. There was no coin that morning.

  That day was agony for Marie. She dared not ask anyone on the base if they had seen Lucien – not after the lecture she had given him on keeping their distance. She did, though, hear the rumour that a drunk had been found beaten up outside the gates that morning. ‘Stupid sot!’ she said, not for a moment suspecting that it was Lucien.

  It was mid-morning when an idea came to her. She was momentarily alone in the office when her two colleagues had gone off to the filing room. Marie reached into her purse, took out a small coin, removed the bulb from a desk lamp, put the coin in and replaced the bulb. Five minutes later her colleagues returned.

  ‘It’s a bit dark this morning,’ remarked Marie as she switched on the light.

  There was a loud phut and all the lights went out.

  ‘What was that?’ asked one of her colleagues.

  ‘Looks serious,’ said Marie. ‘I’ll go and tell electrics.’

  A few minutes later she was in the electricians’ workshop. She quickly explained the problem and coincidentally received the intelligence she sought.

  ‘We’ll come and take a look. It’ll be a while. The Boche got one of our men last night. Knocked him up something terrible.’

  As Marie walked back to her office she was filled with foreboding. Did Lucien get the message through? Had the Germans found the transmitter? And worse: if the Germans were on to Lucien, was Helberg part of their scheme? Perhaps he had given Madame false information for Lucien to transmit before he was arrested. Suddenly everything was a muddle. She could trust no one and had no guarantee that any of the information that she had was true. ‘What a fool I’ve been. Just when I thought I had a really important operation, it’s all falling apart.’

  ****

  By this time, Lucien was safely hidden in the local priory. When the ambulance had arrived at the base gate to collect him, he had refused to get in. The two ambulance men made little attempt to dissuade him. They had learnt to recognise “complications” in the cauldron of relationships between the German soldiers, the SS, the compliant French and the Resistance.