Otto's Blitzkrieg

by Leo Kessler

  The tall stranger halted in front of the group lying in the sand, obviously trying to keep his gaze off Lola’s sunburnt rump which protruded from the dunes like a small hill, flushing crimson in the first rays of the rising sun. He touched his hand to what looked like an old sock he was wearing on his head and said in hesitant French, ‘Parlez-vous Francais, Monsieur?’

  ‘Ah oui, biensur,’ the Count replied, lowering his book. ‘Qu'est-ce que vous desirez, mon fils?’ he asked rapidly.

  Freddie licked his lips a little desperately. ‘Lentement,’ he said, waving his hand for the priest to slow down.

  Probably some sort of Breton, the Count told himself. Their French wasn’t too hot and, besides, the stranger did look a little bit like a Breton fisherman in his stocking cap, though for the life of him he couldn’t work out why a fisherman needed to black his face. Was it a kind of primitive Breton custom, or perhaps some form of suntan oil? He smiled up winningly at the man.

  Freddie smiled back, giving the Count the full impact of his horse teeth.

  ‘Bon,’ he said and then pulling out his whistle, blew three shrill blasts upon it.

  Otto woke up with a start. The girls sat up, blinking rapidly. The Count, in character, pulled his robe about his knees. Suddenly there were similar black-faced figures racing across the sand everywhere.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’ Otto spluttered, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Bimbos!’ Berlin Lola cried with delight. ‘Oh, how I love a real black bimbo!’

  ‘To business, girls,’ Trina announced, hastily beginning to remove her knickers. ‘And watch it, girls, they’re in a real hurry.’

  Automatically the others began to do the same, while Freddie, slightly puzzled, beamed down at them and told himself they had to be speaking Flemish. There was a Flemish enclave on this part of the French coast.

  The Laird came to a stop, his wet kilt flecked with sand, and gasped in his strong Scottish accent, ‘Ask the frogs whether there are any Huns around here, Freddie.’

  The Count couldn't understand. What was this other language? It was thick and guttural. Not French, not German, not Italian, not English. Aha, he thought, they must be Flemish. There's a Flemish enclave on this part of the French coast.

  Berlin Lola looked across at the Scot and whispered to Trina, ‘Some sort of pervert – he’s wearing a skirt.’

  Freddie tried to take his eyes off the knickerless girls and said, ‘Va-t-il les Allemands ice, m’sieu?’

  The Count frowned while he dissected this comically terrible pidgeon French. It seemed a particularly stupid question to him when they were all Germans here. Dutifully, however, he answered, wondering why this chap from the concert party insisted on speaking in French. ‘Nous sommes Allemands, m’sieu!’

  Freddie’s mouth dropped open stupidly.

  ‘I say, sir,’ he stuttered, ‘they’re Boche!’

  The Laird’s .38 revolver appeared like magic in his little fist.

  ‘Hands up!’ he barked.

  Together Otto, the Count and the girls raised their hands, the menace understood, if not the words. Otto’s mobile brothel had just become the first British captives in Europe since the debacle at Dunkirk.

  At sea the Aldis lamp blinked on and off urgently. Beyond the horizon flickered a faint pink as the Luftwaffe bombers attacked Dover yet once again.

  On the shore, the first boat pushed off, complete with wailing girls and their commando overseers. The Brits had taken all the girls save Berlin Lola. Back on the beach, she kept trying to flip up the Laird’s kilt with a twig she had found, saying, ‘I’ve got to know. I’ve just got to know whether they wear anything underneath.’

  The Laird tried desperately to keep it down, crying, ‘Fer Chrissake, missus, it’s bloody drafty!’

  ‘I expect,’ Lola said excitedly, still poking at the Laird’s kilt, ‘he’s knickerless just like me.’

  ‘I've worked it out! They’re Scottish,’ the Count said over his shoulder as Freddie prodded him forward to the second boat. ‘I have deduced this from his very aggressive-sounding speech. Scots are sort of savage tribe of the English. I think they paint themselves blue when they’re beyond the supervision of the English King. But I do know they eat the insides of sheep and make music by blowing into a pig’s bladder.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Berlin Lola said and stopped poking at the Laird’s kilt, ‘I don’t think I’d like anyone who's bin eating sheep-guts.’ She shuddered dramatically and all three hundred pounds of her trembled.

  Sergeant MacGregor was impressed at the sight, but shoved the Count into boat number two and got in after him. Regretfully he took a last look at the big whore.

  ‘Ach,’ he said, ‘yon wench has a nice pair of lungs on her. It’s a rare shame to leave her behind, Laird. Besides them Jerries do have some good points – they kill the Frogs, for instance.’ His eyes lit up hopefully for a second. ‘Do you think we could take her back to Blighty with us, sir – for interrogation or something? Me and the Jocks would be glad to double up for her in the sub.’

  ‘I know what you and the Jocks’d be glad to do,’ the little Laird said severely from the beach. ‘I don’t think we’d stay afloat long with you lot poking holes in everything. Anyway we wouldn’t be able to get her arse through the hatch in the top of the sub.’

  And then the third boat was there and Otto was being led towards it, half-scared, half-excited, knowing somehow that a new phase of his life had just begun. For better or worse, his newly-found boredom was over for good.

  ‘For you laddies,’ the little Laird said as the sobbing girls began to fade away into the darkness and their craft came ever closer to the long low silhouette of TIMS Redwater, ‘the war is over!’

  ‘Eh?’ Otto asked puzzled by the English. ‘Was sagten Sier?’

  The little Laird wasn’t disappointed that the prisoner had not understood his words. Instead he beamed at Freddie Rory-Brick and said happily. ‘You know, Fred, I’ve been sodding well waiting to say that since September 1939 after I heard some feller say it in a pitcher at the old Rialto. Now I’ve finally done it.’ Then his face changed colour and he said hurriedly in a thick voice, ‘Fer Chrissake, Freddie, give me the vomit bag. I’m gonna puke!’

  CHAPTER 4

  The little Luftwaffe corporal with the nickel-framed, thick glasses, ripped open his flies and urinated somewhat short-sightedly into the wash basin containing three pairs of his socks.

  ‘Like Persil,’ he said, concentrating on the job in hand. ‘Piss, I mean.’ He finished and buttoned up the flies of his English battledress, complete with the blue patches of a POW sewn all over it. ‘Gives your washing that final touch.’

  ‘I’ll give you the final touch, you dirty little bastard,’ Otto said from his position on the wooden bunk, ‘I’ve got to wash my face in that basin, you know!’

  ‘Nothing wrong with piss,’ the corporal said easily, obviously not bothered by his new cell mate’s threat. ‘Makes your eyes sparkle.’

  Otto sighed and gave up, slipping back into a thoughtful silence once more while across the Channel the great German coastal batteries thundered, giving Dover the benefit of the usual evening hatred.

  He had been in England three days now. They had landed at Portsmouth where the funny little Englishman in the skirt had patted him kindly on the arm and, with the aid of the Count as interpreter, had comforted him with, ‘Don’t take it to heart, son. Bit o’ bad luck, that’s all, especially having to leave those good-looking bints behind as well. But cheer up, you’re seeing the world now.’ And he had swaggered off at the head of his black-faced ruffians. Two years later he would sail from that same port to meet his violent death at Dieppe, in that famously disastrous raid. But Otto would never learn of that.

  Thereafter he and the Count had been taken in a heavily escorted convoy through the Southern English countryside, beautiful and green in the late September sunshine, with the Count giving an excited running commentary, until they had reached the grim case of
an embattled Dover, where they had been separated into their own isolation cells.

  There Otto had remained in solitary confinement for forty-eight hours, his only contact with the outside world an elderly soldier who thrust plates of cold food at him three times a day and a chipped mug of scalding hot tea, each time grunting only one word: ‘Grub!’

  It was to be the first word of English he would learn.

  Then suddenly this very morning, the elderly soldier, who he saw now wore battered carpet slippers, had beckoned him to another cell, in which he had found the little short-sighted corporal. The man’s habits weren’t exactly social, but at least he was someone to talk to. Maybe this chap had information he could piece together into some sort of incredibly daring and intelligent plan. That would be sure to impress the Count von der Weide. Hell, thought Otto, I bet he's loving every minute of his new-found career as Prisoner Of War.

  The ancient walls shuddered for one last time as the evening hate ended, the plaster drifting down from the roof like sad grey flakes of snow. Otto, his ears ringing in the sudden silence, asked, ‘Now that's over, how did you get here, mate?’

  The little corporal looked up from his socks. ‘Special invitation of King George.’ His accompanying wink was magnified in the thick lens. ‘Asked me over to Buckingham Palace to have a cup of tea and a cream cake with him and his missus. God shave the King!’ He stood to attention and raised his sock-clad hand to his forehead in mock salute.

  Otto grinned. This little corporal's a bit of a card, he thought. ‘Come off it! How did you really get here?’

  The corporal’s grin disappeared. ‘The usual Luftwaffe balls up,’ he said. ‘My squadron, the Eleventh Bomber stationed at Evreux, was scheduled for a raid on the East End of London. That’s where the docks are, I think. Anyway, I’m sitting in the wet canteen, enjoying a quiet beer with my pals, and the squadron sergeant-major comes charging in saying, “Where’s Schmidt?” – that’s me – “We need a relief radio operator. Heinz has gone and got himself the pox from some frog girl!”’

  The corporal’s face showed just what a shock that must have been for him. ‘I said, “What me, Sergeant-Major? But I’ve not been certified fit for flight duties. Besides I’ve got glasses as well.”’ The corporal paused for a dramatic sniff. ‘Didn’t worry the big bastard one bit. He said, cheeky as well, “I hereby, certify you fit for flight duties – and stick those glasses in yer pocket. I don’t want the pilot to see you wearing them.”

  ‘I sez, “But I’m blind as a bat without them.”

  ‘“Don’t worry,” he sez, “I’ll lead you over to the aircraft.”’

  In the prison cell, the corporal shook his head in mock wonder. ‘You wouldn’t think it possible, would you, eh? But that’s the way Fat Hermann –’ Otto knew that was Reich Marshall Goering, the head of the Luftwaffe ‘– is running the war. Somebody ought to tell the Führer about him.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘What do you think, mate?’ the corporal answered sourly. ‘Oberleutnant Schmitz, our arsehole of a pilot, couldn’t find London! Imagine that, couldn’t find London, a city with ten million inhabitants and covering hundreds of square kilometres, and it was bright as day – full moon!’

  Otto laughed out loud, but quickly managed to add a sympathetic edge to the sound. ‘And then?’

  ‘We must have cruised up and down the length of the Thames looking for the damn place for hours. Then the engines started to spark and splutter and Schmitz sings out, “We’re running out of juice. Better get prepared to bail out, fellers.” Bail out! I nearly shat in my hat!’

  The little corporal’s face grew pale in the light of the cell's electric lamp, bright now in the waning light. ‘Hell, I get dizzy standing on a step-ladder and I told him so over the intercom. But all the silly shit could say was, “Well it’s either that or a watery grave, Corporal, because we’ll be over the big drink in thirty seconds or so!” So what could I do?’

  ‘You jumped?’

  ‘Yeah, I jumped. And do you know what happened then?’

  The corporal looked expectantly at Otto through his glasses. After a moment, Otto became a little uncomfortable. ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘The bloody engines picked up and here I am sailing down towards England and the Dornier’s off at full throttle heading for the officers’ mess and free frog champus. The Bavarian barnshitter had just forgotten to switch over to the reserve gas tanks. “Wir fahren gegen England,” my arse! If all our brave fly-boys are like Oberleutnant Schmitz, we’ll be invading England in the year 2000,’ he said with a sneer.

  For a few moments Otto absorbed the indignant little corporal’s story, then he said, ‘What kind of place is this, anyway?’

  ‘Arsehole of the world, if you ask me. It’s an interrogation centre. Didn’t they tell you about these places in your unit?’ he looked at Otto curiously.

  ‘What unit?’

  ‘Come off it, mate, your battalion. Anyway, they try to pump you here, squeeze out some information, and they keep you here till you sing. Their trick is that Dover – we’re under some sort of fallen-down castle – is being bombarded by our own gunners off Calais. You see the irony of it, apart from the danger, your own people blow you to eternity.’

  ‘But what do they want to know?’ Otto asked. ‘How to run a travelling knocking shop?’

  ‘Your unit, the number of men in it, your weapons and the like. I’ve told them the lot, especially about that Bavarian banana-sucker Schmitz. Serves him right if they put a Tommy torpedo right up his elegant arse one of these days. Bail out!’ he sniffed again, indignantly. ‘That’s why I’m washing me socks. I’m off to a POW camp tomorrow morning.’

  Otto’s handsome face wrinkled into a frown and there was a worried look in his deep blue eyes. ‘Unit, number of men, weapons?’ he echoed unhappily. ‘The only weapons we ever had were between the legs of –’

  ‘What?’ the little corporal exclaimed in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ Otto said miserably. ‘They'll never believe my story. I'll be here for all eternity.’

  Corporal Rubinstein, still clad in his POW uniform, swung the seated officer a tremendous salute and nearly knocked himself over.

  ‘Permission to speak, sir?’ he barked, as if he were on the parade ground.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ the Intelligence Corps captain said, holding his right hand to his ear with a pained look on his face. ‘I asked you a question didn't I? But please don’t shout so much, Corporal. After all, we’re not at the Guards Depot at Pirbright, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, sir!’ the little corporal barked.

  ‘Oh come off it, Rubinstein, don’t play bloody Grenadier Guardsmen with me. Permission to speak indeed!’ Captain Wanke-Smythe smiled. The ‘Wanke’ had been passed down by his mother's father, much to the mirth of the fellows at Oxford. They'd called him Smith the Wanker. ‘Well, Rubinstein, what did you find out about him?’

  ‘Not much, sir,’ Rubinstein replied, his professional pride hurt.

  ‘Well, have you found out something, man?’

  ‘I did, sir. But I think it’s a come-on.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll hardly believe this, sir.’

  ‘Try me,’ Wanke-Smythe said cynically. ‘Since I joined the Intelligence Corps I have heard tellings that even a Jehovah Witness wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Well, sir, he maintains that he was running a mobile brothel for the troops when our commandos grabbed him.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A knocking shop on wheels, sir. A travelling tart house. A perambulating prostitute parlour. A naked –’

  ‘Dammit, man, I get the idea!’ Wanke-Smythe’s dark eyes lit up. ‘You know, Rubbie, old boy, I think we’re on to something here. Yes, I do believe we’ve hit the jolly old jackpot.’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’ Rubinstein said, infected by his officer’s sudden enthusiasm.

  ‘Last night I interrogated the
other one who dresses up as a priest, and do you know what I found out?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Rubinstein breathed leaning forward in eager anticipation.

  ‘He once worked for Admiral Canaris.’

  ‘What, the mastermind of the Abwehr?’

  Wanke-Smythe tapped the end of his long beaked nose significantly. ‘And my dear old Rubbie, he might well be working for Canaris still.’

  ‘But what he’s doing dressed as a priest and helping run a mobile brothel – if the other chap’s statement is true?’ Rubinstein protested. ‘Sounds more like he needs his marbles checking to me, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be too hasty in your judgements, Rubbie,’ the captain said calmly. ‘Cunning buggers these Boche, you should know. It’s probably all part of a plot, a very deep plot, believe you me.’ He sucked his yellow teeth and frowned hard so that the little corporal couldn’t help thinking he looked a little like Basil Rathbone doing his Sherlock Holmes act. ‘Try the blond Hun you’re inside with once again,’ he declared finally.

  ‘I told him I was being moved to a POW camp tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Well, have a go at him tonight, while I work on the Father.’

  Rubbie clasped his hands together, as if in prayer, and rolled his dark eyes piously towards the ceiling. ‘Let us pray, brethren,’ he intoned.

  Smith the Wanker laughed. ‘Be off with you, you irreverent Jewish rogue!’

  ‘I don’t know about your officers, pal,’ the little corporal said as they sat facing each other in their wooden bunks, eating the evening meal of corned-beef sandwiches and cocoa. ‘But you wouldn’t believe the things that happened at Evreux when the gentlemen officers started hitting the sauce in the mess. Like kids they were.’

  Otto sipped his sugarless cocoa morosely and said nothing. His cellmate had already packed his meagre kit in a brown paper parcel ready for his departure tomorrow; then he would be alone in the place again.