by Scott Palter
Billy let the conversation wind down, and five minutes later he had his motorcycle lad ready with the message for Mr. James; and a priority pass, signed by the Major General, to get his lad through the road-blocks. The return courier would come back with packs of these a dozen at a time, that only needed Billy entering a name and date. Billy could get used to military service this way. Mr. James let him avoid almost all of the petty bullshit. Billy was much less than certain if everything Mr. James did was on the square, but as an NCO all he needed to shield himself was written orders.
Chapter 10
0700 hours Eastern Daylight Time; 1300 CET
31 October 1940
Clinton Correctional Facility, Dannemora, NY
Nominally this was the prison cell of a long-term felon. In fact, Mr. Charles Luciano ran the prison, and his cell could have passed for a luxury hotel suite. He normally didn’t take visitors this early in the day, but this was an emergency. Frank Costello, his front man managing his interests while he was in prison, had arrived with an intriguing but bizarre proposition.
“Frankie, you know I ain’t a snitch. So how can I get a pardon for snitching without snitching?” Luciano was not a man given to making loud threats like Hollywood movie gangsters. He didn’t have to. At his word, men died. Even men in police custody.
“Charlie, the only guy you are ratting is Tom Dewey. You get to explain under oath how he stitched you up, how there was no way you did what those bitches said you did. A man at your level simply doesn’t touch street money.” Costello was known as a clean-hands gangster. He never touched weapons or dealt in violence. He was the link between the rackets, legit business, and the political machines. “That’s all smoke anyway. Roosevelt is in trouble politically. Needs our help getting out the vote in the City, in Jersey, in a few other places. They gave me quotas by precinct. I can deliver. Gonna cost a bit but nothing we can’t handle. You get a New York State pardon for all criminal acts up to the day you testify. Federal one too for the tax beef. You pay a fine and they call the taxes Kosher. You don’t have to answer questions about anyone other than yourself. Those parts are lock. If Roosevelt wins, we get you a private citizenship bill. That’s gonna cost, but I can make the numbers work. With a war coming, we can make this all back in three or four months. A year tops. Oh, and we got to keep the docks clean for wartime. No wildcat strikes and other shit like happened with Bridges out West. They want we should take over those locals out West, keep the Reds in line. That’s the excuse for the citizenship. Patriotic support for national defense or some such malarkey.”
Charlie had a nickname of Lucky. Things just broke his way. Survived a murder attempt that left him for dead. Other things. “So I do this and by Christmas I’m back in Manhattan running things?”
“They want you should stay out of the papers same as I do, but yeah. You are Boss of Bosses. Everyone comes to your suite and kisses the ring. Big wartime boom in the port like the First War. We make money grabbing with both hands even without making the military boys upset. We can milk it nine ways from Sunday. City full of soldiers shipping out, and seamen in port spending, means you can sell them dames, gambling, fast times. Mayor LaGuardia will be the pain in the ass he always is. That, the Feds say we gotta live with.”
“And my mouthpiece says this is on the square?”
“Charlie, would I bring it to you otherwise? We’ll have to bang a few heads with dummies who hear snitch and draw the wrong conclusions. Brownsville Boys are history, but Albert’s lined up a new second squadron that is better at keeping their heads down. Do the work just fine, but no flashy hangout like the old Midnight Rose setup. Enough cutouts so your hands never get dirty. Boss, you are out of legal appeals without this. You’ll die in here. Say you’ll do it. I belong under you, not pretending to be top dog.”
It took a bit more discussion, but the political deal was made before day’s end. Costello used the warden’s phone to call Harry Hopkins in Washington to say yes.
2330 hours local; 2230 hours CET
31 October 1940
Headquarters meeting room, Brigade Strauss cantonment, rear of Italian XXI Corps lines
There was a continuous crash of artillery from the south. Had been going on all day, with the volume rising hour by hour. Some of this was undoubtedly more fire. The shiploads of shells were getting expended. More of the added noise was the artillery battle creeping north towards XXI Corps. Still not there yet, but definitely closer.
The Kapitän zur See was commander of Naval Group Alexandria. This was a mixed set of explosives experts, port administrators, engineers, and logisticians whose job it would be to deal with the port once the ground forces had captured it. They would defuse the remaining explosive charges, prepare a plan for rebuilding, send to Europe for what had to be made there, and mobilize local resources of men and supplies for what could be done at once. His problem was with the plan to get his command to the port. He had spent three hours listening to the brigade battle plan and liking none of it. Every time he started to object, Brigadier Strauss had sat him down. Well, the ground forces idiots were finished. It was finally his turn. “This is all completely unsuitable. My mission has the highest priority in Berlin. Yet you are assigning two youngsters to break into a great city. Two Battalions for a city the size of Alexandria. Our actual escort is a green Company commanded by a young girl who was until recently a cook. I protest!”
Gunter Strauss gave the Kapitän a withering look. He had experience in battle in three wars by now. These naval clowns only knew about sailing their toys around in bathtubs. “Let me say this in words simple enough for you naval gentlemen. We have one unit that can make the breach. You will note I say can, not will. Success will mostly come down to luck. Now presume our trick works. This still leaves exploiting or widening the breach till we have an operational-level breakthrough. Again, without this, no one goes anywhere. These two measures will get my best subordinate commanders and most of our firepower. It will also leave these units disorganized. Ground war is different than naval that way. Your ships just stay in action. We have to pass through fresh units to maintain the momentum. I have allocated two Battalions with some of our faster vehicles. The commanders are young but experienced … ”
“Surely the Corps Commander can give you more units and more experienced field officers.”
“Yes. He could. However, what he will do is shut us down. Getting you to Alexandria is a priority for this Brigade. Corps has other priorities. If they are officially informed of this adventure, they will forbid it. You will then have no chance of reaching Alexandria before the British demolish everything. Now you think your pull with Berlin is so vast … Smitty, take down the Kapitän’s objections and send it priority to Berlin. Leutnant Schmidt is our communications liaison with Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. Maybe the Reichsführer or OKW will agree with you. Are you willing to risk your career finding out? I am. How’s your nerve?”
The Kapitän was sputtering with fury. “Yes. I will send the message, and I will include your criminal negligence in assigning a female cook to convoy us.”
“Smitty, be sure to include that he objected to adding a pair of combat-tested Leutnants, Schwabe and Saxon, over the command of a Company whose Hauptmann has no prior combat experience in this war. The ladies were both blooded at Luqa and Three Crosses. Tell me Kapitän, what land battles have you fought in? Were you and yours in one of the Naval Infantry Freikorps?”
“She was a COOK!”
“Yes, Leutnant Schwabe was a cook. She was also an armed officer in the lead wave at Luqa. Helped take the airport buildings. At Three Crosses her platoon was instrumental in the repulse of a professional British Battalion. In the army we do multiple things. Cook, fire weapons, command fighters. At the southwest strongpoint engagement, we had a short platoon of machine-gunners commanded by a female language teacher and a large Zug commanded by an automotive engineer. That’s why you have an escort. I’m sure you are all very brave and expert in your specia
lties. So are the lady Leutnants. Schwabe is the best we have left after the other slots are filled. Schwabe also had combat experience in Hungary. Saxon in Hungary and in Romania against the Soviets. We don’t tell you how to repair harbors or take ocean cruises. Allow us to see to ground actions, at least till we see if the Reichsführer and OKW agree with you.” Gunter paused to smirk. “Which I quite doubt. We are a special unit that the Reichsführer was instrumental in forming. I am willing to bet my career that he respects my professional judgment.”
When the teletype came back the next morning, Berlin backed up Gunter on every point. It was signed Reichsführer Heydrich, but as usual came from the desk of Oberführer Schellenberg. A very chastened Kapitän had learned his place in the universe.
0900 hours local time; 0100 hours CET
1 September, 1940
Theater headquarters in the bombed-out remains of Harbin, Manchuria
Memorandum from Field Marshal Yamashita to the Imperial War Ministry, Tokyo:
You have asked for my views on the progress of the campaign. I will endeavor to keep them brief in the hopes that these problems will be acted on, instead of endlessly debated.
Tell the idiots in the two Air Services to stop prattling about the air battle. They may fight that as they choose as long as we get army-support attacks as well. They keep saying ‘yes’ and failing to do this. The priority targets are the rail lines, bridges the rail lines run over, marshaling yards, artillery ammunition depots and equipment parks. Unless they actually do this, we will be driven out of Manchuria within six months.
The new units you are sending are fine. In future please leave the officers home unless they are willing to obey orders. We do not care about Bushido Spirit, Samurai honor and similar childishness. We need men to bravely die in place, delaying the Soviet advance. Sergeants seem able to grasp this. Lieutenants and Captains do not.
Stop giving me encouraging messages about supplies that will not materialize. One cannot plan a battle this way. We need artillery, especially high-muzzle-velocity guns 76mm and above. We need automatic weapons. We need ammunition, mines and explosives. We mix these with liberal expenditures of blood to buy time.
Yes, we need horse-mounted units to guard the flanks of the railways and the rear areas. We do not need idiots with katanas and dreams of feudal glory. These are to be mounted rifle units with some light support weapons. Their opponents will be Chinese partisan units similarly equipped. Our Manchus, Chinese, Mongols and White Russians seem able to grasp this. Why are our Japanese reinforcements incapable of adapting to this?
Qiqihar will be encircled by year end. Harbin may be as well. I need a corps to garrison Qiqihar and a small army to garrison Harbin. Please send older reservists as they will all be lost as the Soviets eventually take both cities. Younger men are better for field service and should be preserved for defending positions along the two rail lines.
0800 hours local; 0700 hours CET
1 November 1940
Fleming’s position protecting the Barclay’s Military Bank Branch, Cairo
It had been another night of chaos and death. Blue Shirts from the Wafd Party, Green Shirts from Young Egypt organization, the masked al-Tanzim al-Khass of the Muslim Brotherhood, all had been out in force; but the mass of fighters and looters were ordinary Egyptians in an ecstatic frenzy of romantic nationalist zeal and Muslim religious frenzy. They were asserting control over their city, their nation. They were killing the hated foreigners. And, of course, there was the lure of loot. All of Lower Egypt was unsafe. Even almost-European-in-feeling Alexandria had seen flashes of the new order struggling to be born.
Ian Fleming had maintained his perimeter. His men had dynamited burning buildings to create a firebreak. He had personally led sorties to rescue British, Europeans, Christians, Jews, and Egyptians compromised by their service to the rapidly imploding British regime. There had been no help from that idiot Lampson. Just a barrage of inane directives, orders that contradicted each other, missives without any offer of reinforcements. The fool couldn’t even get the fire brigade to keep the spreading flames out of clearly native Egyptian quarters of the city. The Raj was over.
Now he could hear Bren-gun fire from the South. Probably meant British forces. He led out a sortie by a mixed force of his own commandos and the Indian Army men the Tory committee member had hoovered up. By now going on half of 8th Army was out of the lines on security duties. Long past time to get the rest in retreat towards the next battlefields in Sudan and Palestine. The new arrivals proved to be Prince of Wales Own 4th Ghurka Rifles, the lead battalion from 5th Indian Division. Fleming thought it so typical to be shoving a new division into the furnace instead of building a blocking position in Upper Egypt. He found the temporary brigade commander up with the battalion column. “Good to see you, Colonel Fletcher. Where’s the rest of your brigade?”
“Strung out over two days march south of here. There’s a solid traffic flood going south. RAF, Army, British civilians and god only knows what. How many retired military and colonial service are in this damned country, anyway?”
“No one kept proper lists. No accounting for Sikhs, Hindus, Hong Kong Chinese, or any of a hundred races who can claim protection of flag and crown. Anyway, new orders: You’ll take over for me here. Have your other two battalions hold in place, keeping the road south somewhat passable.”
The lieutenant colonel was a very temporary brigade commander. His general, Slim, had been pulled out for some silliness up in the Persian Gulf. The new Indian Army Commander Auchinleck was being slow in forwarding a replacement. Besides, Fletcher had orders from the British ambassador to get everyone to Cairo tout suite. “Commander Fleming, is it? I have a sheaf of orders telling me … ”
“Telling you a load of balderdash. Follow me. I’ve got a representative of the War Cabinet up ahead with written credentials giving him authority. Lampson’s for the sack before the next week is out. Be a pity to have you join him.”
1900 hours local; 1800 hours CET
1 November 1940
Brigade Strauss Headquarters, rear of Italian XXI Corps lines
Hauptmann Ernst von Kleist-Konitz was having coffee at his makeshift desk when the agitated Korvettenkapitän found him. The man was an obscure relation by marriage to his mother’s clan, some of whom had done navy service instead of staying in the Heer or the civil service as proper Junkers had for centuries. When the naval contingent had arrived, Ernst had seen the name, asked the obvious genealogical questions, and, on being proven correct as to the distant but real relationship, had expended half a bottle of decent brandy welcoming in this distant sort of cousin. Now the man was back, obviously looking to presume on acquaintance. For what? Ernst was too well bred to say that, so he just looked up. Let the other man state his business.
The navy officer was desperate. His commander’s complaints to Berlin had been rudely brushed aside by Heydrich’s office, OKW, and the Naval General Staff. The Kapitän zur See had remembered the family connection, and detailed the underling to beg. “Is there nothing you can do to get this silly cook-girl replaced?”
“Nothing I could do; and what’s more, I won’t. I’m going along and think she is an excellent choice.”
The navy officer was speechless. In a trembling voice he asked, “Please explain.”
“Steiner is the obvious choice. Boy is a natural at combat leadership. Therefore, Leutnant Schwabe is necessary for you.” Did these people truly know nothing of how this unit worked?
“What does Schwabe have to do with Steiner?”
“She sleeps in his bedroll. They are betrothed.” Seeing the shock on the naval officer’s face, Ernst put down his coffee cup. “Steiner is the best this Brigade has at mobile warfare. But he has this little problem. He was promoted out of the ranks. No officer training beyond reading a few manuals in his quite limited spare time. He thus has this natural tendency towards tunnel vision. You tell him exactly what you want to happen, what you want the result to be,
not how to do it. He will then execute the mission. So he’s been told his mission is to reach the port of Alexandria. If you cannot keep up, he’ll just leave you behind. After all, your Kapitän is a superior officer and surely knows how to follow him.”
“In a ship, certainly. On land in a battle … ?”
“Yes. This is obvious to you, to me, and to Brigadier Strauss. Steiner is Strauss’s protégé. He knows the lad’s faults. One of which is believing all people with higher ranks are demigods. So Strauss gives you the one person on this planet Steiner will never misplace or abandon. She won’t have a clue as to what to say or when to say it. That’s Saxon, who was trained as a paramilitary officer, trained quite well. Saxon is the brain, Schwabe is the voice. Together they keep you chained to our spearhead.” Ernst had to work hard not to laugh. The looks on the face of the relative were priceless in a comic opera sort of way. “Oh, and never call her the cook.”
“He gets insulted?”
“No! It may motivate her to try to cook for us. No one is sure if she can boil water without burning it. Why do you think that Saxon hired an experienced cook on Malta? Schwabe’s purpose in life is to be there for Steiner. She’s been assigned as his mistress since Romania.”
“Assigned?”
“Ask me when we are in Alexandria and I’ll regale you with the whole silly story. But you are buying dinner and drinks. I have a list of suitable restaurants sent by my mother from when some relative of ours worked in the German commercial consulate a few years back. Oh, and please dissuade your Kapitän from bothering General von Manstein at DAK. His staff has strict orders not to put you through.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know your family tree that well. We are all related. I’m his liaison here, as well as Assistant Ia of the Brigade. Corps General von Manstein knows enough to know that he officially has no wish to know about an operation he would have to disallow that probably happens tonight.” The naval officer needed a minute to puzzle through the implications of this. “Yes, yes. If it fails badly his hands are clean. If somehow Steiner pulls another magic show like he did at Luqa and again on the Barrel Road, I’m along as von Manstein’s official representative to see that enough credit in Berlin stays with the family. I’m not in the chain of command. But I’ll be in the same vehicle with the two Fräuleins. Saxon has already discussed with me whether I will consent to provide helpful suggestions. So reassure your superior, there will be a well-trained Wehrmacht officer overseeing this little dash. Neither Strauss nor I think there is really much chance of this actually reaching Alexandria, much less the docks. But there’s Steiner’s luck. When Napoleon considered promoting a man he’d ask around if the man was lucky. Luck was shorthand for the people who somehow excel in the chaos of battle. Steiner is such a man. In Napoleon’s day, he’d have been a Marshal of France before he had to shave every day.”
