Code of Combat

by Michael Asher

  Caine thought about it: it had been a confusing time. They’d got back to the 2nd SAS forward operating-base at Bari after forty-eight hours motoring across Italy: lying up in the woods by day, travelling at night. They’d avoided checkpoints, hadn’t been challenged: they’d crossed through their own lines without mishap. ‘My first priority was to get Emilia to a field hospital,’ Caine said. ‘The journey had been rough on her: she was still only half-conscious, but I thought she’d be all right. I didn’t see her again – the last I heard she’d been sent to a hospital here in Constantine. We handed Grolsch over to the MPs – he was also sent for medical treatment. Wallace and Trubman had to report in as escaped POWs: I should have done too, but I went to the DMI’s office instead, intending to tell them about Butterfield, the Codex, special handling, Savarin – the lot.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Butterfield had got there before me, that’s what. He must have realized I’d shop him despite his threats; he’d gone right in and given them a statement about me and the BFC. They didn’t even give me a chance to speak. Next thing I know, I’m sandwiched between two gigantic Redcaps, being marched to the guardhouse on a charge of treason. Butterfield was right, of course: they believed him rather than me – he’s an Int. Corps officer.’

  ‘He’s a disgrace to the badge,’ Celia said. ‘We’re not all like that.’

  ‘Granted.’

  ‘Major Butterfield is in town, and he’ll be in court – he’s the main witness for the prosecution. I haven’t spoken to him, but I did get my Field Security colleagues to do some checking. His main job as Assistant IO of 2nd SAS is collecting valuable Italian paintings and objets d’art, mostly from Itie churches.’

  ‘I know: he told me.’

  ‘Seems there’s already some dark cloud about missing art treasures hanging over him. Nothing proved, of course. He told the DMI that the operation to retrieve the Codex had failed, that he never got the manuscript out.’

  Caine remembered the excitement in Emilia’s face when they’d found the chest, when she’d opened the box, found the Codex inside. ‘There are witnesses,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but even by your own testimony, apart from you, only Emilia actually saw it: Ettore didn’t get the chance. Ettore will be in court, but I’m told Emilia’s not currently able to testify.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to Butterfield?’

  Blaney shook her head. ‘What I’d really like to do is have Field Security search that hut he keeps his official art-treasures in. Never know what might turn up.’

  Caine scratched his chin. ‘What about Harry Copeland and the others? Have you seen them?’

  ‘No, but I know they’re around. Lieutenant Copeland is at the 2nd SAS base. Wallace and Corporal Trubman are in a transit camp. Your squadron’s gone back to Blighty, anyway, but as escaped POWs they can’t be posted straight back to their unit – they have to go through some vetting first.’

  ‘Why? In case they joined the Hun secretly?’

  ‘It’s standard procedure, Tom.’

  ‘I know. Doesn’t seem right, though. It’s as if their loyalty’s being questioned.’

  Blaney shuftied her watch again. ‘I’d better be going. I’ve got a much better picture of what we’re up against now.’ She sat back, ran a hand through her flaming curls, surveyed him with soft, dove-coloured eyes. ‘The first thing to do, Tom, is to stop feeling guilty about everything. You didn’t start the war: none of us can help being here. If men have been killed under your command, it wasn’t your fault. It was the dangerous missions you were given that put their lives at risk: some were going to be killed whatever happened. Ditto Betty Nolan and the Countess Emilia. You did your best, and that was damn’ good: Hitler may be the devil incarnate, but you’re not, Tom. You’re a good man: the war can’t change that – not unless you let it.’

  Caine felt his cheeks flush. ‘I still put on that Nazi uniform, Celia. I still swore loyalty to Hitler. Nothing can change that, either.’

  Blaney leaned forward, laid both her hands on his. ‘Tell me something, Tom: I want you to be completely honest.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you remember at any time making a conscious decision to join the British Free Corps, or to swear allegiance to Hitler – even with an ulterior motive?’

  Caine considered it for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember. But I know I was wearing the uniform, so I must have done.’

  Blaney’s lips parted slightly. ‘It doesn’t necessarily follow. The fact is that you don’t recall having made a conscious decision to join the enemy, or even to pretend to join the enemy. That’s the point to hold on to: maybe you never did make a conscious decision.’

  Caine felt confused. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.’

  She started gathering her things, put them away, stood up, picked up her chip-bag cap. Caine stood facing her, watched her smooth her red curls, pin her cap in place with elegant movements.

  ‘So what time do I stand before the beak?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Not today, Tom. I’m going straight up to the judge advocate’s office now, to ask for a one-day postponement.’

  Caine swallowed. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘On the grounds that we have no deposition from a key witness: Sturmbannführer Karl Grolsch.’

  ‘Grolsch? Even if you find him, how can you be sure he’ll talk?’

  ‘He’s responsible for the execution of prisoners of war: that’s a capital crime under British military law. He also murdered a priest with his own hands. He’s an ex-priest himself, you said: he might feel that, with the prospect of the big reckoning looming up, he wants to make amends.’

  Caine stepped clear of the table, put his arms around her, kissed her: despite all he’d revealed about himself, all he’d said about Emilia, Blaney’s lips were still tender and yielding: she closed her eyes, touched him lightly on the back of the neck with her fingertips. ‘Get some rest, Tom,’ she said finally. ‘If I’m not back today, I’ll see you at the hearing. Meanwhile, I want your agreement that we change your plea from guilty to not guilty.’

  Caine’s face dropped. ‘But Celia, how can I? I’ve spent the whole night explaining why I’m guilty.’

  Blaney gave him a melting smile.

  ‘Trust me,’ she said.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Constantine, Algeria

  13 November 1943

  ‘Do you solemnly swear by Almighty God that the testimony you will give to this field general court-martial will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?’

  ‘I do,’ Caine said.

  Blaney took back the Bible, laid it on the battered school desk she was using as her defence stand: it was littered with papers piled untidily around a package the size of a large cake-box, covered in brown paper. She wore a freshly pressed BD blouse and trousers: officially, she was improperly dressed for a court-martial, but her uniform seemed to provoke nothing but interest from the all-male company. Her burst of curly, flame-coloured hair reminded Caine of the fiery colours of the Italian woods, blazing like a bonfire in the drabness of the disused classroom: bare floorboards, broken easels in a corner, motionless fans drooping from the ceiling like soft propellers, glassless windows that let in far-off street sounds and sunlight in wide blocks.

  The president of the board, a full colonel called Benson, sat behind a rickety trestle-table opposite: he was a staff judge-advocate, but the rainbow of medal ribbons on his chest showed that he’d seen his fair share of combat. He had a long lantern jaw and a cap of wispy white hair: under half-moon spectacles, his eyes were watery blue, but sharp. He was flanked by a lean, sallow captain and a beef-faced major. To one side stood the court usher, a ramrod-straight MP sergeant with a red sash and mirror-like boots.

  ‘You may remove your headgear, Captain,’ Blaney said.

  Caine’s BD suit, complete with rank insignia, medal
ribbons and SAS wings, had been supplied by Regimental HQ: his boots were polished: he was wearing his sand-coloured beret for the first time in months. As he slipped it off, he realized how proud of it he still was. He remembered Paddy Mayne’s penchant for wearing his beret in combat: it was an amulet of a kind, imbued with symbolic power, earned, not given.

  When the provost guard had marched him in, he’d been surprised to find Mayne there, sitting at the back, huge, glowering, perched precariously on a flimsy school chair: around him, crowded together like a rugby-scrum, were Copeland, Wallace, Trubman, officers from the 1st SAS office, other ranks from 2nd SAS. Ettore sat a little distance away, dressed in a dark suit: he looked tired and withdrawn. Caine felt a twinge of disappointment that Emilia wasn’t with him: Blaney had told him she was still in hospital, but somehow he’d hoped to find her there.

  ‘Would you state your name, rank and current posting please, sir,’ Blaney said.

  ‘Captain Thomas Edward Caine, 1st Special Raiding Squadron, 1st SAS Regiment. My current status is returned prisoner of war.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. You may sit down.’

  Caine sat, glanced at the table to his right where Butterfield was seated next to the prosecuting officer. It was the first time Caine had seen the major since he’d run off from the chapel, and it looked as if he’d put on weight. His BD suit was tight and, until sworn in, he’d been wearing an emperor-sized SAS beret that sat like a pancake on his globe-shaped head. He studiously avoided looking at Caine.

  Minutes earlier, the major had sat down with a satisfied expression on his face: the court had heard him deliver his testimony in brief, eloquent sentences – how Caine had donned the uniform of the British Free Corps, a unit recruited from British deserters, how he’d admitted swearing an oath to Hitler, how he had worked for the enemy as a trustee, one of two such collaborators who’d escorted him on a transfer convoy.

  Blaney had cross-examined Butterfield, but it hadn’t begun well. ‘Isn’t it true that, while sharing a cell with Captain Caine at the Jesi prison camp, you asked him to help you escape?’ she’d demanded.

  Butterfield licked his thick lips. ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘And isn’t it also true that, when your convoy was ambushed by partisans, Captain Caine did try to help you escape? Didn’t he dispense with the Waffen-SS uniform at the first opportunity and take part in offensive operations against the Germans?’

  ‘Whether he helped me or not, I can’t remember: I was wounded in the head and lost consciousness. Yes, he later appeared without the SS uniform, in civilian clothes, and took part in operations against the enemy.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible, therefore, that Captain Caine pretended to join the so-called British Free Corps, in order to carry out your request?’

  ‘Objection, sir.’ It was the prosecuting officer, a swag-bellied captain named Ferguson with horn-rimmed glasses and a bullet head. He was on his feet, glaring at Blaney. ‘We can’t be sure what Caine’s motives were. For all we know, it might have been pure opportunism – a bid to obtain more favourable conditions for himself. The essential point is that he joined enemy forces as a collaborator and put on their uniform. That in itself is an act of treason, whatever the motive.’

  The president whipped off his glasses. ‘That’s quite correct, Captain Ferguson. This court-martial must distinguish between a legitimate ruse and a forbidden act of perfidy. A military operation, for instance, in which it might be expedient to deceive the enemy by wearing his uniform, would be a legitimate ruse. Swearing allegiance to the enemy and putting on the uniform of a collaborator, however, is a forbidden act of perfidy per se, even if the accused considered it a ruse at the time.’

  He replaced his glasses impatiently, peered at Caine. ‘Captain Caine, did you or did you not appear in public wearing the uniform of the Waffen-SS, or, more specifically, the uniform of a unit raised from deserters of His Majesty’s forces?’

  ‘Yes,’ Caine said, ‘but I don’t –’

  ‘Did you or did you not carry out orders given to you by an enemy, or by another collaborator, to guard a fellow officer and prevent his escape – an act inimical to His Majesty’s forces?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but –’

  ‘Did you or did you not swear an oath of allegiance to Adolf Hitler?’

  ‘I don’t know –’

  ‘You don’t know? Come now, Captain, you surely wouldn’t forget a thing like that? Did you or did you not swear loyalty to Hitler?’

  ‘All right, maybe I did.’

  ‘Then there’s little more to be said, is there? Why you did it need not concern the court. The fact is that you did do it: you’re guilty. I’m astonished that an officer of your calibre should be capable of such poor judgement, but I must remind you that treason is a very grave charge under British military law, and may be punishable by death.’

  There was absolute silence in the court: for a moment, even Blaney looked stunned.

  The president stared at her. ‘I know you’re an amateur here, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘But I fail to see the logic in the accused changing his plea from guilty to not guilty when he openly admits his guilt. I’m not wasting any more of this court-martial’s time. It’s regrettable to see a decorated officer fallen from grace, but in the circumstances I have no option but to call for the full penalty of –’

  ‘Just a moment, sir,’ Blaney’s voice was small but steady.

  Benson stopped in mid-sentence, glowered at her ferociously. He seemed about to plough on regardless when she interrupted him again. ‘Captain Caine has not admitted guilt in this case.’

  The president raised his eyebrows. ‘I may be old, Lieutenant, but I’m not deaf.’ He exchanged looks with the other members of the board. ‘I think we all heard the accused admit his guilt.’

  ‘Mr Caine has admitted putting on an enemy uniform and collaborating with the enemy, but those in themselves are not acts of treason.’

  ‘Really, Lieutenant? Now you are telling me my job.’

  ‘That’s not my intention, sir, but it is the case that to constitute treason such acts must be carried out with deliberate intention on the part of the accused.’

  ‘Intention is implied, Lieutenant. If he carried out those acts he must have had the intention to do so.’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir. People may be coerced into actions they had no intention of doing. If you will allow me to complete my cross-examination, I hope to show that there was no such intention.’

  ‘Sir,’ Ferguson cut in. ‘This woman is squandering the court’s time.’

  ‘This woman is an officer of the Intelligence Corps,’ Blaney responded acidly. ‘You may address me as Lieutenant or Miss Blaney. Thank you, sir.’

  The president suppressed a smile, glanced at his watch, sighed. ‘All right then, Lieutenant, but make it snappy. We haven’t got all day.’

  Blaney stood in front of Caine, feet apart, hands clasped behind her back like a stage-lawyer. ‘Captain Caine, could you explain to this court-martial why you changed your plea from guilty to not guilty?’

  Caine looked into the soft grey eyes. ‘Yes. Because I have no recollection of making a conscious decision to join the enemy, even as a ruse.’

  There was a scoff from the other table: Ferguson was on his feet again. ‘Objection, sir. It would be most convenient if we could all forget our compromising decisions. We have no way of knowing whether he’s telling the truth.’

  Blaney bit her lip. ‘Captain Caine, I remind you that you are under oath. Do you wish to change your testimony?’

  ‘No. I don’t remember making any such decision.’

  The president was about to speak when Blaney held up a sheaf of typewritten papers. ‘I have a deposition here from the only known witness of Captain Caine’s alleged acts of treason. I think it’s highly pertinent and I’d like the court to read it. It was dictated to me by SS-Sturmbannführer Karl Grolsch, Waffen-SS, a German officer captured behind enemy lines by the same SAS patrol that
brought back Captain Caine. SS-Sturmbannführer Grolsch was instrumental to, and a witness of, Captain Caine’s actions, which are the subject of deliberation of this court-martial. Do I have permission to submit this statement as evidence?’

  ‘Objection, sir.’ Ferguson was up yet again, scowling at Blaney. ‘We should have been shown this testimony earlier. In any case, is the deposition of an enemy officer admissible as evidence?’

  The president paused. ‘Why is it so late, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I only discovered where the prisoner was yesterday, sir. I had to persuade him to tell the truth. It seems he was troubled about some of his own actions, particularly the killing of a Roman Catholic priest. As an SS officer, he’d been obliged to carry out some duties he now considers wrong.’

  ‘How convenient,’ Ferguson commented. ‘Now he’s a prisoner of war.’

  ‘The point is that it gives him a reason for telling the truth,’ Blaney said fiercely. She held up the typed pages. ‘Read this and you’ll see what I mean.’

  The president peered at her over his half-moon lenses. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’m accepting the evidence. Let me see that.’

  Blaney handed copies of the typed document to the three board members, to the prosecution, to Butterfield: finally, she laid a copy down in front of Caine. ‘Read it,’ she whispered. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  Caine read:

  Statement by SS-Sturmbannführer Karl Grolsch, Waffen-SS, currently a prisoner of war of the Allied Forces, Algeria, formerly Field Kommandant, Gestapo Troops (Sipo-SD), Le Marche Region, Italy. Made this day, 12 November 1943, at HQ Allied Forces, Constantine, Algeria.

  I, Karl Grolsch, make this statement of my own free will, and under oath that it is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I make it, to the best of my ability, in the English language, as dictated to Lieutenant C. Blaney, No. 2 Field Security Section, Intelligence Corps.

  Capt. T. E. Caine, 1st SAS Regiment, was brought into the Jesi prison-camp on 4 October 1943, having been captured by our Airborne Division at the Senarca bridge, near Termoli. From the beginning, it was realized that, as a special service officer of field rank, Capt. Caine might be a valuable asset to our propaganda effort. It was proposed that he should be recruited to the British Free Corps, a unit under the aegis of the Waffen-SS, being raised from British prisoners of war by SS-Hauptsturmführer John Amray, a former officer of the New Zealand Army, now deceased.