Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ‘You’ve interfered enough in my life already, Zweig. You won’t do it again.’

  ‘Me? In your life? When?’

  ‘Late 1940. Berlin.’

  ‘What were you doing in Berlin in 1940?’

  ‘Having dinner with my sister’s family. You arrested her. We never saw her again.’

  ‘If you say so. You don’t expect me to remember every petty arrest, do you? Anyway, I only obey orders. If they say “Arrest Vogel’s sister”, I arrest her. And the same goes for whatever orders we find in our next envelope. When the Führer orders, I obey. And you will, too.’

  ‘I’ve always obeyed orders from the Kriegsmarine – the type that don’t need an SS presence to enforce them. This new type—’

  As Vogel hesitated, Zweig drew his revolver.

  ‘Be careful what you say, Commander. I know treason when I hear it … those arrests taught me all I need to know about that. And I know how to deal with treason.’

  Zweig cocked his pistol and stuck it under Vogel’s chin.

  ‘Put that thing away, you fool.’

  ‘Fool? It’s you who are the fool … just one touch of the trigger.’

  ‘Shoot if you must, Zweig. My men will have you for breakfast.’

  ‘Bold talk, Commander. Go below. You’ll see my men nicely spread out through the boat. They’re all armed. Armed ready for you and I to open the sealed order.’

  Zweig lowered his pistol, turned and went below.

  ‘Number 1,’ called Vogel down the voice pipe. ‘Could you take over on the bridge, please.’

  ****

  By now, Vogel was resigned to a bullet through the head. As he saw it, the Kriegsmarine had foreseen this takeover. He was an expendable commander – a mere puppet to navigate the boat to its destination. No one else could have got the boat past Gibraltar. The horror of this mission – whatever it was – was nothing to do with him. So be it. He had fought an honourable war in his own eyes. His life had been worthy of the son of a Lutheran pastor. His mind, fed in his youth on Goethe, Schiller and Kant, had remained pure and true to the greatness of Germany. If it was time to accept the defeat of his values, he would do so in a dignified manner.

  Below, in his quarters, he first prayed for the protection of his family: his wife back home; his son in North Africa; and his daughter nursing somewhere behind a battlefield.

  He had one last duty to perform: to testify. One day, perhaps, the law and justice might catch up with Zweig.

  He took out his pen: “Dearest Kristina,” he began. “If this letter reaches you, you will know that I am dead. I don’t know what you will be told by others – possibly some evil untruths about my last days. But the truth will be that I have died an honourable death because I refused to commit a dishonourable deed.”

  Vogel was determined to leave a record of Zweig’s heinous criminality. He told Kristina how he had discovered Zweig’s role in the events of 1940. Then he described in detail how Zweig had been sent to gain control of his boat. He was now virtually a prisoner.

  “I wish I could tell you exactly what we have been sent here to do but I don’t yet know. I fear it is something monstrous. When I am gone, I beg you to try to find out what the crime turned out to be. And if anyone suggests that I had any responsibility, tell them how I was deprived of all power to act …”

  And so the letter went on. When Vogel had finished recounting the horrors of the takeover of his boat, he closed with his hope that his family would outlive the Reich. “The time will come, darling Kristina, when you and those like you will have to rebuild Germany – a Germany free of hate and cruelty.”

  ****

  While Vogel was occupied with his letter, Zweig went back to the bridge. His target was Oberleutnant zur See Ingmann. Friend or foe?

  ‘How do you find cargo work?’ asked Zweig.

  ‘It’s okay. Of course, it doesn’t have the satisfaction of patrol work,’ replied Ingmann.

  ‘It’s all for the cause, though,’ said Zweig as he sought a way to tease out Ingmann’s loyalty.

  ‘Of course it is. This sort of work is fine for some. Look at the commander – couldn’t have a better man on the job – but I miss the chase and the kill.’

  ‘Taken off patrols, were you?’

  ‘My own fault. I had a row with my commander. Should have kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Stopping to help some survivors. I told him that was not the way the Reich does things. Called him rather a lot of insulting names.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He went back to sea and I didn’t.’

  Zweig sensed that he had found an ally. It was time to press Ingmann to reveal more. First he offered him the chance to pull back.

  ‘Do regret what you did?’

  ‘No. I regret the result. But there’s no room for weakness in the face of the enemy. There’s only one way to win this war and that is through unflinching obedience to the Führer’s will. Personal feelings don’t come into it.’

  ‘And if you had a commander who flinched?’

  ‘But I haven’t.’

  ‘No, to be sure. Even so, just suppose a young lieutenant asked you for advice. You know, he reckons his commander is not up to the job, letting the side down – that sort of thing. What would you say to him?’

  ‘I’d say “be careful”. His first duty is to preserve his own power to act. It’s no use making a protest and then being sent to the Eastern Front.’

  ‘You mean “bide your time”?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘And what if your commander was too squeamish to obey an order?’

  ‘That would never happen in the Kriegsmarine. Never!’

  ‘And if it did?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  Zweig increasingly felt that he had found an officer who could be turned against the commander if needed. He continued: ‘Some say the officers should push the commander aside in such cases. After all, failing to attack, failing to inflict the maximum possible damage on the enemy, is a sort of treachery. What do you think?’

  ‘Well … if it really were treachery, then … yes, the officers could take over. If,’ he repeated, ‘it really were treachery.’

  Zweig had heard enough. He was now sure that if the time came to ditch Vogel, Ingmann could be relied upon to support the move.

  38

  The main church, just one hundred yards from the Enfer sur Mer market place, was gloomy even on a bright sunny day. Its low, dark-timbered roof above the short close-spaced Norman pillars kept out the light from above. From the sides of the nave only a glimmer of low light penetrated the rich colours of the ancient stained glass. At the east end, the gold touches of the altarpiece triptych, with Mary and the baby Jesus in the centre panel, glistened in the deep shadow.

  Sitting at the back of the church, Marie absorbed its timeless calm. All France’s chaotic history of wars, revolutions and persecutions had swirled around this stone sanctuary. Now she called on its continued protection in the midst of the turmoil and anarchy of war. She had not come to appeal for God’s help. Long ago she had noticed how both parties in wars claimed him to be on their side. Rather, she was appealing to the enduring soul of the true France – the France that would rise up once again when the last Nazi was purged from her soil.

  Lucien was never far from her mind that morning. Nor was Raymond. Between them they had so nearly thwarted the cargo U-boat. But “nearly” had not been near enough. In fact, she despairingly thought, “nearly” was the same as outright failure. Through their slips and misfortunes, that boat was now sailing towards the destination of its nefarious mission.

  It was with these thoughts that Marie fell asleep. Some hours later, Father Lesage came across her. He eased his scrawny, rheumatic frame down onto the pew beside her and stretched out a bony, vein-strewn hand to wake her.

  ‘Father! Was I asleep?’

  ‘You were, my child. Are you not at the base today?’ />
  Marie explained about her accident.

  ‘Oh, I know all about that sort of thing. I’m called out in the depths of the night to give the last rites. I’ve come off my bike a few times. You must go home and rest, my child. Let Madame Rougier look after you.’

  How easy it would have been for Marie to follow that kind advice. And how wrong. The British had lost contact with the U-boat and the only place where its operational details might be known was on the base. She had to return.

  ****

  No doctor would have signed off Marie as fit for work when she arrived at the gate the next morning. And the last thing that she wanted was to attract attention to her injuries. A modest-sized plaster on her head was consistent enough with her story of the bike accident. The throbbing bullet wound in her arm was another matter. All she could do to conceal her injury was to use the arm as normally as possible.

  To emphasise her fitness for work and to deter too many unwanted questions about her absence, Marie made sure that she was the first in the office that day. She took the dust cover off her typewriter and glanced at her in-tray. It was nearly full. Her colleagues had not made much effort to cover for her in her absence, she noted. They soon ambled in, chatting and laughing. Marie, head down, was already typing. No one noticed how much slower her typing was that day as the pain in her stiff arm ran all the way down to her fingers. Each key stroke was agony.

  ****

  Oberleutnant Erhard was still on the base, awaiting a lorry to take him later that day to a collection centre for the Eastern Front. He had packed all but the essentials for another possible night on the base. With the base not being equipped for leisure activities he found himself in the canteen much of the time. He was spinning out an ersatz coffee that tasted even more ersatz than usual when he overheard an excited conversation at a nearby table.

  ‘It’s a very odd order’ … ‘All ships?’ … ‘Yes, all.’ … ‘As far as possible? That’s unheard of.’

  Although he only caught bits of the conversation and never once heard a coherent end-to-end account, he was able to piece together the extraordinary news. A signal had gone out to all Axis vessels to remove themselves as far as possible from a point just off the Malaga coast. His immediate interpretation of this was that the enemy had perfected some secret weapon – he had heard talk of bombs of an unbelievable power. He had always dismissed Hitler’s claims of the imminent arrival of a “super weapon”. Perhaps the enemy now had one. If so, the war was surely lost. It might even be over before he reached the Eastern Front.

  Pondering this happy thought Erhard left the canteen and ambled round the base. With the cargo U-boat now gone, things had returned to the daily routine of boat servicing, machine maintenance and the housing and feeding of the seamen. He stared at the empty pen from which the cargo boat had departed. Something was nagging in his brain: a thought “A” that ought to link with a thought “B” but just refused to make the connection. Then he recalled the phrase that was eluding him: “devastating for the enemy in the Mediterranean”.

  ‘That’s why our ships have to leave!’ he muttered to himself. The secret weapon was in the U-boat … He glanced at his watch. He had six hours, eight at most, left on the base. That was all the time that remained for him to warn the Allies of the devastation that awaited them.

  Erhard’s only means of leaking information was through Madame Charrier. There was no way that he could leave the base for a discreet visit into the town. When he did leave, later in the day, it would be for the last time. Nor dare he put a telephone call through the switchboard – that would risk exposing Madame Charrier to an unwelcome visit from Beck. On the other hand, he knew from Beck’s loose talk that there were suspected Resistance operators in the base. How could he make contact with them? How would he recognise them?

  Erhard walked out of the canteen, glad to be away from its stale, smoke-filled air. Outside, the day was bright, cold and breezy. Those workers who were moving around the base walked with a brisk step. With his collar turned up against the icy wind he sat on a bench alongside the office building and fell into a torpor. His tangled thoughts brought flashes of the past mingled with visions of his now too-near future. How had it come to this? Life before the Nazis had been so grounded in his father’s church, his school and his violin lessons with an old Austrian. His teacher claimed to have played at the Vienna Hofoper under Mahler’s baton in the first years of the century. Erhard’s career as a schoolteacher had barely begun when he was conscripted. From that day on the vile Nazification of Germany had destroyed all that he and his family lived for: humanity, religion, decency …

  Behind him, a door caught by the wind slammed shut as a young woman walked out of the office block. With one hand she was struggling to stop the wind from whipping up her skirt. With the other, she was clutching some papers, which fluttered as the wind tried to tear them from her hand. What Reich secrets would that betray, Erhard wondered. Could it be true, he asked himself, as Beck had said, that this reserved young lady had Resistance contacts? It seemed improbable. She would have passed for yet another strait-laced young German office worker – all primness and fervent dedication to duty. The type that would be glued to her typewriter until a tall Aryan young man came along and she gave birth to another generation of fanatical German youth to feed the country’s demand for conquest. Yet …

  By the time that Marie was returning from her errand – now empty-handed – Erhard was once more ruminating on the fate that awaited him. Marie’s brisk, short-stepped walk in her tight skirt, with her arms swinging from side to side across her body, reinforced his vision of her as yet another French woman who had bent to the Nazi will. How could Beck have marked her down as an enemy of the Reich?

  He looked at his watch again. There were now only two to three hours left for him to act on the intelligence that he had overheard. He got up, walked briskly to place himself between Marie and the door. At first Marie thought that Erhard was hurrying to cross her path ahead of her. Then he stopped and turned towards her.

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting you, Mademoiselle …’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I wonder if by any chance you know Madame Charrier?’

  This unusual request put Marie on her guard. This was not the sort of conversation that German officers had with the base workers.

  ‘I’ve heard of her. She lives in the town, I think,’ said Marie. ‘In Rue des Pres. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I need to send her an urgent message. I’d go tonight but … well, something’s come up. It may be a while before I will next be around.’

  ‘I could let her know that you can’t come.’

  ‘I need to explain a bit. A note’s better. Could you take one?’

  ‘Well …’

  Marie saw the pleading look on Erhard’s face. All the signs of a proud and bold soldier were gone. Instead she saw the look of a frightened man. His hands were trembling and his voice was weak and breaking.

  ‘Yes, I’ll take it.’

  An hour later Erhard contrived to pass Marie near a storehouse. He slipped her the slim envelope. She walked on to the toilets, went into a cubicle, and stuffed the envelope into her knickers.

  ****

  Just after 6.00pm Marie was walking towards the gateway when Beck stepped out of the shadows. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him. A shockwave of fear and anticipatory disgust overwhelmed her. She almost fainted in his arms.

  ‘Not that. Not tonight,’ said Beck as Marie caught a whiff of his sweaty, greasy body. ‘Just a warning.’

  ‘Leave me alone! I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  ‘Perhaps not. But talking to young officers is not wise.’

  ‘Not wise? It’s my job to type, take messages … talk to officers about my work—’

  ‘Cut that nonsense and listen to what I am saying. I won’t say “Keep away from Erhard” since he’s gone now. You’ll never see him again.’

  ‘Why?’


  ‘Never you mind. It’s not your job to ask “Why?” Just do as you’re told.’

  ‘That man … what was his name?’

  ‘Erhard.’

  ‘Erhard, then. What’s he done?’

  ‘There you go again, asking questions. Now shut up and clear off!’

  Beck shoved Marie violently in the direction of the gates. She stumbled for a few paces as she fought to regain her balance. Once upright she pulled herself up to her full 5ft 4ins and walked through the gate with as much dignity as she could rally.

  As Marie passed out of the base her mood changed to one of elation. Beck had inadvertently told her something immensely significant: the letter in her knickers was of the greatest importance to the Allies. Defiance was back in business – ironically aided by the Gestapo.

  Trying to forget her hunger for Madame Rougier’s supper and her weariness from her day’s work at the base, Marie first called at Madame Charrier’s. As usual she used the back streets to check that she was not being followed, before entering by the discrete rear door.

  ‘How nice to see you so early in the evening. It’s so dull here before the “gentlemen” arrive. Come! Sit down and have a chat.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame. I can’t stop. I’ve brought you this.’

  Madame Charrier’s eyebrows visibly rose and an enigmatic smile crossed her face as she watched Marie retrieve the letter. Madame fingered the letter and inspected it with an air of intrigue and suspicion while Marie straightened her clothes.

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘A man called Erhard. I don’t know him. There’s something odd about him. He was trembling when he spoke to me. And now he’s been taken off the base.’

  ‘How mysterious,’ said Madame. ‘Well, let’s see what his billet-doux has to say.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a love letter, Madame. At least not judging from what I saw today.’

  Madame Charrier unfolded the small sheet of paper and immediately saw that it was not the sort of note she was used to receiving from her clients.