by Gee, Colin
On her return to Los Alamos, she carefully examined the dress and quickly discovered the Minox miniature camera and film within the decoration. The bonus of it was that she could be swifter in her habits, photographing rather than sketching or writing, reducing the risk of discovery. The challenge was to find a place to secrete it but she had previously discovered a small void behind a loose tile in the pedestal of her shower, which she hoped, would be perfect, and it was. A swift ‘grouting’ with toothpaste and the tile looked no different to those around it. Emilia immediately determined that it would never venture into the complex with her, but would be solely used for sessions such as this evening, in the comfort of her own bedroom.
The sex had been average at best but, as was her habit, she moaned and screamed her way through the brief session before collapsing on top of her spent lover as if he was her best ever.
It was not the first time she had slept with this one and he certainly was a looker, and had the equipment, but no expertise in using it. Well, there are other fish in the sea, thought Emilia, but not any with the knowledge that this one possessed and not that were sufficiently senior within the project and crossed all the boundaries not open to her. He also carried a secretary’s notebook in his back trouser pocket wherever he went, contrary to regulations, in which he jotted notes when a thought occurred, or swiftly recorded a fellow scientist’s idea to think through more carefully later.
Emilia had slept with a number of members of the Manhattan Project; actually quite a number. Always those she felt she could extract information from or those who, like Irving Zbrynevski, carried a notebook or diary in which they were often indiscreet about their work. Sex was a bonus if it was good.
The last time Irving had been permitted to sleep with Emilia, she had discovered drawings of geometric shaped explosive charges with extremely precise measurements annotated alongside so she was keen to see what new entries there were tonight.
His orgasm would probably have knocked him out for hours anyway but to be on the safe side Emilia had plied him with a bottle of Bourbon too. The empty lay on the carpeted floor, testament to his capacity. He slept on his back, arms and legs splayed like the Vitruvian Man. A gentle, almost feminine snoring marked him as out for the count.
A quick check of the clock reminded her that it was nearly two in the morning and if she wanted sleep, she best get moving quickly.
The camera retrieved and made ready, she extracted the notebook from Irving’s trousers and quietly pulled the door of the toilet shut behind her.
From memory, she turned to the page she had last read a week ago, turned the paper over and skimmed the first new entry for anything of note. Frustratingly, it was solely a list of things to do around his own living quarters. The next page was more fruitful with some complex electronic circuitry, most certainly in the hand of another, possibly trying to show Irving what he had been talking about. A swift click of the button and it was captured by the Minox. Another shot to make sure the image was captured, just as she had been taught.
After that, there were a few pages of notes on what looked like physics and a page of doodling followed by some amateurish pictures of female breasts. Pervert. No picture of that was necessary.
Another turn of the book and then the Holy Grail gazed up at her from the paper.
Emilia was looking at an impressive sketch of an atomic bomb, apparently called ‘Little Boy’, accurate dimensions boldly recorded and with precise annotations on critical masses.
The camera rolled four times on that and she felt the perspiration trickle down her cleavage, although the bathroom was cool enough.
On the next page was a list of ‘favourite women’. Emilia had no interest in that so failed to notice she had made number three.
She stopped dead when she turned the next page over.
There in a bold hand were the words ‘16th create a rainbow, 17th all go home.’
‘Create a rainbow’ was an expression she had heard a few times. It was an insider’s jokey comment about the expected visual effects of a full-scale explosive fission reaction.
She took no pictures. There was no point. She understood perfectly. Suddenly the sweat dripped off her as she stood naked, digesting the enormity of what she had just read.
Thinking quickly, she re-hid the camera and unlocked the bathroom door, slipping quietly back into the bedroom and returning the book to Irving’s trouser pocket. Ensuring everything was at it was before, she quietly ran the hot tap until warm water came out. A quarter glass was enough and she moved to the bed and lay down. Pulling back the sheet, she made a swift movement and the liquid was spilled on the mattress around Irving’s groin. Putting the glass on the floor by her side, she rolled back to Irving and started to violently shake him.
A sleepy Irving moaned “Wassup honey? You want more? Huh baby?”
The tone of the reply quickly made him aware that not all was rosy in the garden and that his services were not to be needed again that night.
“Get out you dirty bastard! You’ve peed in my bed! Go on Irving, get out!”
His hand shot down and was greeted with warm dampness.
“Shit! Ok honey… quiet… shit… I’m sorry… oh gee… sorry” Every lean to recover an item of clothing or bend to hook out a shoe was punctuated with an apology. Emilia would have found it comical, had her mind not been consumed with more pressing matters.
“Please don’t tell anyone Emmy. It musta been the Bourbon honey. Sorry”
He vacated the room, having dressed in record time, and hurried off before his embarrassment overcame him.
Emilia, still naked, threw back the sheet to allow the air to dry the bed, then she grabbed a robe and a chesterfield.
Sitting quietly in her private space, she analysed what she had just discovered. Less than four weeks ago she had found out that the project was more advanced than anyone thought. Now she held proof that, less than three weeks from today, the project would test an atomic device. She had heard the talk but it had always seemed months off, possibly years. Yet here was a simple comment in a notebook that she knew was confirmation that the Manhattan project was about to go live.
“Fucking hell!”
This needed to go out straight away and so she sat to her desk, brought out her text book, and wrote a lovely girly letter to her cousin. She even referred to the unfortunate nocturnal urination of her drunken lover, just in case anyone still read them, which of course they did. The film would go out next time she took a trip over to Santa Fe but this had to go out tomorrow. She also included one other word.
‘Wellington’.
The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions.
Confucius
Chapter 5 – THE LEGIONNAIRE
0712 hrs, Sunday, 1st July 1945, Bad Kreuznach, Occupied Germany.
In a world of the toughest men, he was an enigma. Slight of figure, balding and of modest height, he could have easily been ignored if he crossed someone’s path in civilian clothes, although the tell-tale signs of bearing and fluidity of movement would be there for those that knew of such things. In his uniform of Colonel in France’s famous Foreign Legion, he presented a figure of awe and reverence to his troops, and of total professionalism to all others.
Unlike many of his countrymen, Christophe Lavalle had fought long and hard, never surrendered, and had preserved his nations once-proud military tradition at a time when it lay in the dust and was trampled by jackbooted feet.
Initially serving with 1st Regiment Étrangère Infanterie in the hot and unfriendly surroundings of a frontier fort in Algeria, he distinguished himself sufficiently in the desert skirmishing to be promoted to Lieutenant. On the declaration of war, he was transferred to the mainland to provide experienced officer leadership for the brand-new 11th Regiment Étrangère Infanterie.
His military career nearly ended when, as a Capitaine in the 11th REI, Stuka dive-bombers attacked his convoy on its way forward in 1940. Unlike many
of his men, Lavalle escaped to join his Regiment, just in time for it to be savaged and retreat once more as German columns raced around any pocket of resistance.
During one brief rearguard action, Lavalle had been felled by an explosion and was left for dead by his comrades. Coming to, dazed, disorientated and behind enemy lines, he gathered his wits and what supplies he could find on the battlefield and moved towards the nearest positions in which he believed friendly forces were positioned.
With immense determination, and not a little luck, he reached British lines and had his wounds tended. His arrival preceded yet another Stuka attack and in the subsequent German infantry assault, he was pressed into action alongside the men of a famous Scottish infantry regiment as he could still hold a rifle.
On one occasion, he personally rallied a group of six men and counter-attacked, retaking a machine-gun that was brought back into play with great effect. Two hours of sustained fighting saw him wounded once more, so he was packed off with some retreating medic’s and successfully evacuated across the channel to fight another day with De Gaulle’s Free French. The British officer commanding the jocks found time to record Lavalle’s actions on that day and so he found himself invested with the Military Cross by his allies. Not to be outdone, his own superiors honoured him with the Croix de Guerre.
It was at this time that he was given a transfer into the newly formed 13th Demi-Brigade, Légion Étrangère and, despite a negative start, he never looked back, leading his troops through many bloody campaigns.
Still recovering from his wounds, he developed a severe chest infection and so was considered unfit for full duty, missing the excursion of 13th D.B.L.E. into the Arctic waters around Norway. On the Legion’s return, he heard tell of the fighting qualities of the German paratroopers and mountain troops before the collapse of resistance elsewhere in Norway had forced the Legion to escape back to England.
In December 1940, 13th DBLE arrived in the French Cameroons, and then moved onto East Africa to assist the British at the battles of Keren and especially Massawa.
It was perhaps one of the war’s most tragic episodes that the Legion brigade to which Lavalle belonged was pitted against the Vichy 6th REI in the Syrian hills at Damas. Here, legionnaire killed legionnaire in extremely fierce fighting, despite many men knowing each other as former comrades and friends. 13th DBLE triumphed and at the end of the campaign many former 6th REI members volunteered to form a third battalion in Lavalle’s unit.
For his valour in this awful action, Lavalle received the Croix de Guerre’s Silver Star citation
In May 1942, Capitaine Lavalle led his legionnaires in defence of Bir Hakeim in the western desert, resisting the advances of the Italian Armoured Division “Ariete” and winning the Medaille Militaire for his leadership and personal tally of four Italian M13/40 tanks. All four vehicles were stopped just in front of his command bunker with a Boyes anti-tank rifle taken from a dead legionnaire.
Supporting RAF bombers mistakenly attacked the wrecked Italian vehicles on May 29th, thinking they were in fact live, and Lavalle was wounded in the head by a bomb fragment. He was unable to be evacuated because of the siege nature of the battle and, despite medical protestations, he continued to lead his unit in fierce fighting, particularly against the 90th Leichte Afrika Division. Lavalle finally withdrew his unit in good order on the 11th June, along with the rest of the Brigade. It was generally accepted that the defence of Bir Hakeim enabled the later successes, starting at El Alamein.
Lavalle excelled in combat, both personally and in a command role, and was considered a natural leader; a man who would be followed anywhere by the professionals he led. This was recognised by his superiors and a further step up the Croix de Guerre ladder came with the award of the Bronze Palm and he was promoted to the rank of Commandant. His promotion was welcomed by every man who served under him, for fighting soldiers like to be led by competent men.
Combat continued into Italy as part of the US 5th Army, with a sobering stint in the attacks east of Monte Cassino in support of 3rd Algerian Division. A bloody but necessary attack on an MG42 position nearly proved his end when his uniform became riddled with bullets, all but two of them missing him completely. The sole strikes hit his left hand, carrying away two fingers and, once again, his head, knocking a lump out just above his desert wound and plunging him into instant unconsciousness.
He was stretchered off the battlefield and began four months of recuperation, receiving the silver-gilt palms to his Croix de Guerre from his own General and the Silver Star from the US Army Commander whilst still immobilised in his hospital bed. This battle, more than any other, scarred Lavalle, for far too many of his old comrades would remain forever in the soil of Italy and most of them died on those fateful days in late January 1944, when the mountain troops of the Wehrmacht demonstrated just how tough they could be, and that they were no respecters of reputations, not even the Legion’s. Lavalle had fought many enemies but none was as tough as the 5th Gebirgsjager Division those few bloody days in Italy.
As part of the 1st Free French Division, he took his Battalion ashore, landing in Southern France with Operation Anvil in August 1944. Lavalle managed to duck his next promotion for as long as possible but the new rank caught up with him when he was wounded again after the campaign moved into the assault on Germany proper, where his battalion was one of the few to see serious action.
During the Battle of Colmar he was shot during a ferocious fire fight with the Waffen-SS, this time a rifle bullet in the thigh, and the powers that be swiftly took the opportunity offered. He was permanently transferred from his beloved legion regiment and, after recuperation, received his Colonelcy and was required to serve as a staff officer in the headquarters of the First French Army. On his first day of full duty, he was paraded before an immaculate honour guard of his former legion battalion to receive his Knight’s rank Legion D’Honneur. Truly, he had become one of France’s most decorated combat soldiers.
As with all things he undertook, Lavalle did his best in the staff job but it was not what he had joined soldiering for, and so he had additional reason to be pleased when the German surrender came. At the cessation of hostilities, he was stationed in the Stuttgart area and immediately the soldier’s talk was of Indo-China and use of the Legion there. So, expectantly, he applied for command of a unit destined to be sent there but was refused.
He was instead swiftly transferred to a special and decidedly clandestine French intelligence group based in Ettlingen and given a briefing by no lesser person than the Army Commander himself. The new group’s task was to trawl through the German POW’s, rooting out those whose excesses made them too hot to handle, but offering more soldiering to those felt acceptable and suitable. Any appropriate German who considered a French Foreign Legion uniform and a communist guerrilla bullet were preferable to languishing in the hellholes set aside for them would be invited to join the Légion Étrangère and be spirited away to North Africa for training. The others would continue to languish in the Rheinweisenlager or similar hellholes, until the Allies decided what to do with the hundreds of thousands of German prisoners in their hands.
Far from being boring and routine, Lavalle found it enthralling work and put his all into ensuring France could rely on his selection of legionnaires for Indo-China.
The interrogation of one former Hauptmann of the Gebirgsjager had proved enlightening, as he had been part of the bloodbath in Italy that had left such a mark on Christophe. There was no animosity, just professional courtesy and mutual respect, and once the German realised that he was facing one of the legionnaires who had spent their blood so profusely in that struggle, he opened up much more. The handshake at the end was firm and sincere, and Hauptmann Renke went off to do his bit for the Republic.
Today would be different for Lavalle. He was venturing into almost exclusively SS territory, for they were the main occupants of the camp outside of Winzenheim. Of course, he had already met some of this particular breed,
and found them to be at both ends of the scale. Rabid fanatics who still expected the Fuhrer to rise up and smite down the enemy, to those who were good soldiers who had given their all militarily and just wanted to go home.
What set them aside from the run of the mill Germans was their spirit and intense comradeship, still strong and intact after all the desperate combat and loss they had sustained, followed by the privations of captivity. The German was a strong beast in any case, but the Waffen-SS particularly had a comradeship as deep as his own legion if not more so. No light admission coming from a legionnaire and one that troubled him often.
The previous afternoon, a very senior officer of French Military Intelligence, an Alsatian like himself, had visited the office with clear instructions for Lavalle. His task today was to recruit soldiers into the Legion as usual, but firstly to meet a hugely respected enemy and make a very different suggestion, contained within an envelope in his tunic, the contents of which were no less incredible to him than when he had read them the day before. Translating them into German, he had laboured hard to try to understand the full implications of the document, but by his own admission, had probably failed.
Having spent a restless night in the Hotel Michel Mort in sleepy Bad Kreuznach, he was not looking forward to the short trip in his Citroen staff car. Not the fault of the hotel, as his thigh wound was often quite aggravating. None the less, he would perform his duty, for his work was important to the interests of his humiliated country.
In that thought, Lavalle was absolutely correct, although he could never even dream that today he would be involved in a matter with such far-reaching consequences.
