by Gee, Colin
Elsewhere in Europe, three other such groups were assembling in comparable secrecy, in and around Hamburg, Paderborn, and Frankfurt. All three comprising similaly tried and tested men who had also agreed to provide the unique services of the secret symposiums. The first two locations housed German officers of similar stature and rank to those assigned to ‘Biarritz’.
Frankfurt was different, graced with General grade officers of all nations, and concerning itself with higher matters.
However, all four were dedicated to the single purpose; that of educating the Western Armies in the fine art of fighting their erstwhile allies, the Red Army.
I would rather have a mind opened by wonder than one closed by belief.
Gerry Spence
Chapter 10 – THE KAMERADEN
0720 hrs Saturday, 7th July 1945, The Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.
The previous day the lorry had taken them straight to the Château where all seven were subjected to an intense medical examination, conducted sympathetically for a change. All were given vitamin supplements and, in one case, some penicillin tablets had been prescribed to address a throat infection. Each was then afforded the opportunity of a hot bath or shower, an opportunity which was universally accepted.
The rest of the day had seen the group casually escorted around their impressive new home and given the full guided tour by Patrice Dubois, a young officer of the French Naval commandos. During the tour, he also pointed out the strengths of the security arrangements put in place for the symposium. None of the group failed to notice the very obvious fact that a considerable amount of the security faced inwards and was for an entirely different but not unexpected reason. None of them had any doubt that was part of the purpose of this “impromptu” tour.
In the northeast corner of the lower courtyard, silent kennels caught everyone’s eye, for German soldiers loved their dogs and this group were no exception. The four large and obviously recently built pens held three German Shepherd Dogs of considerable size. One hound was obviously out being exercised or doing its duty. Resisting the urge to approach closer, the group moved on to the Little Bastion.
Fig#2- Main plan of the Château
The Château was impressive as a structure in any case, many different levels built into the solid rock on the site of the old fortress which had overseen the area in one form or another since the 12th Century. Standing on the eastern edge of the summit at a height of over seven hundred and fifty metres, it was the dominating feature for many miles around. The narrow approach twisted and turned, by both military design and constructional engineering requirements. Indeed the previous evening they were twice aware that their transport grated along rock or wood on sharp turns and narrow squeezes.
It sat on a stark promontory, open to the elements but that was a godsend on hot summer’s days like today, when breezes ventilated the Château and created a very pleasant environment. From positions around the battlements, and especially from the imposing high tower, there were all-round expansive views across the Alsace plain.
The Château was strategically positioned, so had seen its fair share of bloodshed, and had fallen to assault on more than one occasion. Not that any assault was a possibility any more with peace in Europe, but one hundred and twenty aggressive looking and well-armed French commandos would certainly call a halt to any belligerent incursion in any case. During the Thirty Years War, a Swedish army had laid siege to, taken and razed the castle to the ground, since when it had fallen into unoccupied decay for over two hundred years until efforts were made to rebuild it in 1882, which failed for lack of funds.
The city of Selestat, which owned the Château, offered it to the German monarchy and so it was that the impressive reconstruction of the present Château was started at the turn of the century at the behest of the Kaiser Wilhelm II. That was probably one reason why the French nation did not take it to their hearts so readily, and which national reticence made it an ideal secret location for ‘Biarritz’?
Their hosts had provided a veritable mountain of American “Chesterfield”, “Camel” and “Lucky Strike” cigarettes, as well as ‘Gauloise’ and ‘Gitanes’, which were seized upon by everyone. A nice touch was the quality Colibri lighters, each man’s name perfectly engraved in the solid silver cartouche. A splendid evening meal of venison and light conversation followed by an early night was about all they could manage.
Fig#3 - Château first floor plan
Comfortable and content with his small medieval style bedroom, complete with four-poster bed and embroidered wall hangings, it took little time for Knocke to undress, clean his uniform and swiftly descend into his dreams. Woken gently from the best sleep he had experienced for months, if not years, Ernst-August washed and shaved at an old wooden wash stand that looked like it might have accompanied one of the previous occupants on the early crusades. Then, as the new French orderly had requested, he made his way to the dining room for breakfast.
Immediately losing his bearings he took a wrong turn from his bedroom, the former Empress’s Chamber, and found himself descending the spiral stairs before being rescued by a passing orderly, who directed him along the first level walkway to climb a different spiral staircase to the dining room. On arrival at the top of the stairs he greeted two of his comrades warmly, immediately noticing that their uniforms had been replaced by civilian suits of a superior cut in a fetching dark grey and pinstripe, which if not a perfect fit, were close enough. Yet again, he had been left with his uniform. Both men lacked enough meat on their bones to make the suits sit perfectly, but if the standard of hospitality continued then that would soon be remedied.
Fig#4 - Château second floor plan
0857 hrs, Saturday, 7th July 1945, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.
And so it was that the group came together on the morning of 7th July, refreshed and more than ready to enquire as to the purpose of that which they had committed to. Unlike the previous evening, when the galleried dining room belonged solely to them, the flags and orderlies, they were now joined by a stranger in an impressively cut lounge suit. Seated at the head of the long wooden table was an imposingly large Frenchman. He was deep in discussion with Wolfgang Schmidt, Knocke’s former Chief of Staff, until recently an Obersturmbannfuhrer in 2nd SS Panzer Division. Another comrade from Das Reich walked in from the stairs, distanced respectfully behind Ernst, a position Dr Jurgen Von Arnesen had occupied on many occasions when he served as a Sturmbannfuhrer of Panzer-Grenadiere's in Rolf’s division.
The Frenchman, solidly built and looking about forty-five, rose and bore down upon Knocke, extending his hand and speaking in accented German.
“Herr Knocke, welcome. Georges De Walle at your service. I trust you slept well?”
“I slept very well thank you Monsieur De Walle”.
The hands shaken, certainly warmly for the Frenchman’s part at least, the ballet of first introductions took place.
“This is Von Arnesen, and this is Rettlinger,” Knocke first motioned to his right and then indicated the second officer who he had met at the top of the stairs. “I have little doubt you know that anyway, and are intimate with every personal detail of this assembly”.
More handshakes.
“Gentlemen, welcome. Forgive me Herr Knocke but you are, of course, quite right. No introductions are necessary, save my own and I will do so properly after we have eaten.”
“Please sit and enjoy breakfast” and Knocke was ushered to sit opposite Schmidt at De Walle’s left-hand.
On his way to the seat, Knocke acknowledged every member of the group.
An orderly appeared by Knocke’s right hand waiting for some indication of his requirements. “I can recommend the cooked breakfast here. The English may be awful at most things culinary but they do have the right idea when it comes to mornings, not that most of my countrymen would agree.”
A modest ripple spread through the ensemble, indicating that everyone was, if not totally at ease,
sufficiently relaxed to recognise a weak attempt at humour.
A simple nod to the orderly and the preference was relayed to the cooks ensconced in the newly created facility crammed into the Spartan lower kitchens.
“My apologies Herr Knocke but for some reason your orderly could not bring himself to remove your uniform last night. He has been replaced and a comfortable suit is waiting in your bedroom at this moment.”
Knocke looked up at the Frenchman and considered his response.
“I would wish to retain my uniform for appropriate occasions obviously but am happy to wear a suit if we must all do so.”
“I did not mean to remove your uniform and not return it. I meant for its cleaning Herr Knocke. All uniforms will be returned to you, as I have no instructions to the contrary. Here there is no dress code of uniform or non-uniform,” and with a chuckle, “Although it intrigues me what would happen if the intended meetings of this symposium go ahead as planned and convene with all of you wearing the uniforms of our former enemy. I can see that adding a certain edge to proceedings. I will think on that some more”.
“In that you have most of us at a disadvantage… Monsieur?” The word hung there, like the enquiry it was.
“In good time Herr Knocke, all in good time. Please enjoy your food.”
As if by magic plates appeared before the ensemble containing everything they had ever heard fitted into an English breakfast, except four times as much. Clearly, this Château was not affected by rationing. Coiled sausage with the girth of a bazooka, sliced bacon just the right side of crispy stacked high and covered with two huge fried eggs, grilled tomato, deep fried baguette and huge mushrooms, cooked whole and laid on the plate with their caps upwards and filled with sliced fried potatoes. The smell was incredible and De Walle consumed his avidly, as did every officer at the table, with scarcely anything spoken apart from a word of pleasure here, a word of agreement there.
The plate clean save for a smear of grease and yolk, Knocke leant back and dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin, stifled a belch, a feat similarly attempted but abjectly failed by Amon Treschow immediately to his left. The loud bass note penetrated every recess of the grand Kaiser’s Hall.
“Typical Luftwaffe,” ventured Knocke with a grin, flipping his lighter and drawing heavily on a camel, which was followed by less delicate ribbing from the rest of the group. Treschow, ex-Hauptmann, was a popular man amongst his peers, mainly because he was slightly mad, or at least that was the considered opinion of his friends and the Luftwaffe doctors who had tried to ground him since early 1943. More accurately, the doctors had considered him totally mad! He somehow managed to dodge them and continued to fly combat missions in a ground-attack role specialty that claimed every other pilot in his squadron and all their replacements. What Treschow didn’t know about that witches art was not worth knowing, which was why Knocke had asked for him.
Next to him was Jakob Matthaus, the quiet anti-tank gunner. The former Major had huge experience against Soviet rolling tank assaults during his service in the German Army’s premiere division “Gro²deutschland”.
Seated opposite him was Bruno Rettlinger, former Sturmbannfuhrer of the 6th SS Gebirgsjager, who had intimate knowledge of cold weather combat, and in particular dealing with Soviet ski troops in harsh arctic conditions. He was the biggest character in the group and “DerBo” as he was universally known gave Treschow most ribbing for his “pig-like manners”. However, the deadpan delivery and precise timing of Matthaus’s line “maybe pigs can fly after all” hit the right note with everyone, especially DerBo.
To Rettlinger’s right was the youngest of the group, Walter Olbricht, a skilled army Hauptmann of engineers. An officer whose pre-war talents extended to the design and construction of public works and whose operational war experience covered the total destruction of public works and anything else he put his mind to. Alas, this included his left arm, lost in a premature explosion caused by sub-standard explosive in his failed attempt to destroy a bridge over the Gniloy Tikich River during the Tscherkassy pocket escape.
He was also Treschow’s deliverer from Rettlinger’s wit when he drew attention to the fact that DerBo’s moustache contained enough breakfast for a mid-morning snack. It didn’t but no one cared.
Von Arnesen, ex- SS-Sturmbannfuhrer of Das Reich Panzer-Grenadiere's and Doctor of History completed the group, the sole non-smoker, although he had, of course, grabbed his share of cigarettes through habit.
De Walle slowly stubbed out his own Gitanes Mais, stretched and focussed on the next part of the day.
“Gentlemen,” sitting stiffly upright, and with a pause to permit the humour to fall away, “To business”.
“My name is Georges De Walle and you might by now have guessed that I am from Alsace. My rank is given as Colonel in the Army of France but you will all understand in a short time that I have not been on a battlefield as you know it for many a year and that my field of expertise resides in other, darker places.” As befitted his present calling, the lies slipped easily from his mouth.
“The name of my organisation is very complicated to remember, so most of us still think of ourselves as Deux’s. That is to say, the former Deuxieme Bureau.” He left that titbit to hang in the air for a while and it was Rettlinger, still wiping his moustache with his napkin, who took up the unspoken thoughts of those present.
“Military Intelligence?”
“Just so mein Herr.”
De Walle stood and moved to one of the huge square stone columns that lined the dining room, and paused, which silence was punctuated by a sudden soft straining sound from one of the huge chandeliers hanging in the vaulted ceiling.
“I know you have been given certain assurances by Colonel Lavalle, Herr Knocke. These assurances I confirm here and now, and on the basis of this previous agreement, you have come here, and brought your comrades with you. Colonel Frisson informs me that you have not confided in these gentlemen any part of this. He also informs me that you resisted his attempts to find out what exactly was behind the removal of German officers from his camp.”
De Walle could not bring himself to criticise a French officer in front of Germans but he considered Frisson a fool and an ex-Vichy fool at that. That the Colonel was always watched went without saying.
“From what I have heard this morning, these men are keen to discover what exactly it is that they have followed you so blindly into.” Knocke made to comment but De Walle continued quickly, moving back to his place, but not sitting.
“Please Herr Knocke; understand that these men have followed you here on trust and respect for you as an officer and man. That is to be admired and I salute all of you.” A simple nod of the head to the group gave sufficient pause for De Walle to sip his coffee before continuing.
“There will be no written contract between us and officially this group will never exist. The commandos stationed here are to provide complete security for this site as well as to ensure that all of you remain here to fulfil the terms of this agreement. Once the symposium is complete, each of you will be returned to any part of Germany or Austria, or actually anywhere you choose within reason, and given every assistance to start a new life away from any stigma or investigation. That is our promise to you, and your presence here is taken as agreement to all that will now come to pass. Your faith in Herr Knocke’s judgement is not faulty I can assure you gentlemen. I must stress that we continue on the strict understanding that this symposium is never spoken of outside this facility and remains a state secret.”
Looks were exchanged by all except Knocke, who remained firmly focussed mentally on De Walle’s words, understanding precisely what lay behind them.
“Your purpose is to employ the expertise you have acquired in battle against the Red Army, and devolve that to allied officers who will visit here. Once the other two gentlemen that have been asked for arrive here, this symposium will consist of nine former German officers,” to Knocke, the ‘former’ stung badly, “Who have exp
ertise in every field of combat, most of it hard won on the Eastern Front.
A click of his fingers and an orderly appeared with nine blue-card folders, each named for one of the men present. Knocke looked at the two folders that lay unallocated in front of De Walle’s seat. The names of Kuno Von Hardegen, until recently Oberstleutnant of the Panzertruppen and Christian Menzel, former artillery regiment Oberst and cousin to Knocke’s wife were plain to see. Schmidt processed the names immediately and nodded lightly in acknowledgement to Knocke, even though his precise mind had already seen the names on two Colibri lighters waiting for the new arrivals.
“Please read the outline carefully. You will obviously wish to decide whether you intend to become part of this enterprise in the first instance. If you wish to return to your former surroundings, we will do that immediately. If you wish to remain then please look at how you feel this group can address the stated requirements and, on my return, we can discuss how best to undertake this exercise. I will leave you alone for now as I have business elsewhere. I hope that your two absent comrades will be here by the time I get back. Unless there are any immediate questions gentlemen?”
A silent chorus of shaken heads was sufficient to excuse De Walle from the room, as each man immersed himself in the document that outlined the remit of Colloque Biarritz. Again, lighters summoned forth flame and the dining room became a fug of blue smoke.
Even though he was aware of its content previously, Ernst was still the last to finish reading and he looked up a number of expectant faces, with the exception of Von Arnesen whose doctorate in history drove him to examine the Hohenzollern and Hapsburg standards hanging on each stone column. The fact that the Château had once been known as ‘Staufenberg’ he felt he would keep to himself for the moment. It did not seem appropriate given what was about to be proposed.
