Others took longer in the breaking but Kornatzki had never dealt with anyone who would not tell him at least a partial truth following a few hours in his care. Even the toughest ones were realists, trying desperately to buy time with fabricated names and false accounts, so their comrades could make good an escape and continue their cowardly terrorist activities. This would present quite a challenge for Kornatzki; one in which both sides would become wholly preoccupied with the clock. There was an art to breaking a man in enough time to sweep up his comrades and if Kornatzki had not yet perfected that art, he felt he was damn near close.
Witnessing the questioning of Olivier, an interrogation that was wholly controlled by the Colonel, had been a different matter, however. Never before had Kornatzki seen such malevolence, such delight in a man’s pain as this. The Captain always felt he could retain a small semblance of honour in his grisly work for, if the truth be known, he seldom actually enjoyed it. On the whole, Kornatzki was content enough when the prisoners broke down and confessed their crimes, implicated fellow conspirators, betrayed the whereabouts of friends and eventually received the merciful blessing of execution.
The Colonel it seemed was made of different material; for he appeared to gain a deep, almost spiritual satisfaction from the process. No, not spiritual; more disturbing than that thought Kornatzki. Tauber was a sadist. Frankly the Colonel in full flight was a profoundly disturbing spectacle.
When Kornatzki had called the Colonel and given him the name ‘Harry Walsh’, the SS man came to the cells immediately to personally interrogate Olivier. There were protracted beatings, which continued long after the boy would have sold his entire family to end the pain, applied at such regular intervals they could serve no purpose except for their own sake. The hours thereafter seemed to constitute little more than a form of personal revenge on the part of the Colonel for the humiliation once bestowed upon him by an English officer.
Olivier was left with a bloody, discoloured and permanently damaged face that had barely an unbroken bone in it. The swollen flesh matched the broken, crushed hands he now held limply on the arm rests of his chair. The woman who bore him into this world would have been incapable of recognising Olivier by now. There was no further need to hurt the boy thought Kornatzki. Just give him a mirror and let him see his face, it would surely be enough to break him.
Tauber gave specific orders Olivier was not to clean himself, so the stench in the small cell grew.
‘Tell me about the Englishman,’ Colonel Tauber demanded and Olivier shrank back into his chair in terror. The physical torture was handled by a couple of the Colonel’s own men; Kornatzki’s were deemed insufficiently ruthless for the task, but Olivier had quickly worked out who was in control of his pain.
‘I’ve… told you… I keep telling you,’ he spluttered the words through newly broken teeth. He could barely bring himself to match the Colonel’s gaze.
Colonel Tauber was responsible for all matters of security for Rouen and the surrounding area. He was a tall, gaunt man who wore the sinister black uniform of the Schutzstaffel. As he bent over the boy, he looked like a malevolent crow. The Colonel never once removed his black jacket though it was suffocatingly warm. Kornatzki watched as he leaned in closer to his victim. ‘Tell me again,’ he hissed and Olivier was forced to relate the same story over and over. The colonel made him recount it endlessly and, after each telling, set his dogs loose upon the boy once more. They worked with enthusiasm, oblivious to Olivier’s screams.
‘When is he coming back, Olivier? When will I meet this Harry Walsh again? I’m so looking forward to it,’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ protested the boy.
‘Will he come for me next time, this English assassin?’
Olivier was beyond hearing the question. ‘Please let me go… take me back… I want to go home,’ he pleaded, ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’
Finally the Colonel sighed and said, ‘Yes, I think you probably have,’ and he thought for a moment. ‘Take him out back and shoot him. Don’t give the body back to the parents.’
Olivier realised all of his agonies had been for nothing. ‘No… no… you said you’d let me go if I told you… I helped you… I helped you.’
Colonel Tauber was already at the door but he turned back wearily, to indulge the boy. ‘I said I would help if you cooperated, Olivier. You have been most cooperative and now I am helping you. Soon your pain will be at an end,’ and with that he walked from the room.
Kornatzki quickly followed him, followed by the boy’s anguished screams as he was dragged to his feet for immediate execution.
‘Well, that was a waste of my valuable time,’ said the Colonel.
Then why did you prolong it, thought Kornatzki, though he was certainly not foolish enough to say that.
‘This Walsh will come again,’ continued the Colonel, ‘he’s been here before and keeps returning. He cannot stay away, can’t live without the danger. I know his sort. I almost caught him before and we would have had him this time if your scheme with the impostor had been handled correctly. Instead it was a dismal failure.’
‘Yes, Standartenfűhrer,’ replied Kornatzki, who correctly surmised blind agreement was his safest course.
Tauber stopped walking and turned to Kornatzki. ‘Do I have your full attention, Captain?’
‘Of course,’ and Kornatzki rather unnecessarily illustrated the point by coming sharply to attention in the corridor.
‘I want this Harry Walsh. I want him more than a promotion or the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, more than dinner with the Fűhrer himself. Is that understood? Because that Englishman embarrassed me. He made me appear ridiculous. Have you got that, Kornatzki, because if he escapes again your next posting will make Stalingrad seem like a quiet rural backwater in the south of France.’
Kornatzki recalled those words now as he took another large sip from the glass. The memory of the undoubted pleasure Olivier’s torture afforded the colonel still disturbed Kornatzki but not nearly as much as the prospect of a posting less enviable than Stalingrad. That would tax the colonel’s imagination right enough but it was far from beyond him. Kornatzki knew he would have to get very drunk indeed that night in order to sleep. Far more so even than usual. He refilled his empty glass and took a large bitter swallow.
They dined at Gubbins’ club, where the waiter handed each of them an ostentatious, yet clearly ageing leather-bound menu, assembled in a more optimistic era before the outbreak of war. The main courses were handwritten in a fussy, calligraphic lettering.
‘Recommend the Beef Wellington,’ said Gubbins absent-mindedly as he perused.
They ate well enough considering the shortages. Walsh knew poor Mary would stand in line an hour or more for a couple of sausages and think herself blessed if they were still there when she reached the front of the queue. Little evidence of rationing here, though.
‘I hear they gave you a gong for that bayonet charge at Dunkirk,’ said Gubbins.
‘The DSO,’ Walsh confirmed.
‘Dick Shot Off, eh?’ It was a well-worn joke.
‘Mercifully not, sir.’
‘Indeed, wouldn’t want to be a chap without a chap,’ and Gubbins chuckled to himself, before deciding to come to the business in hand. ‘You are wondering why I wanted to see you.’ Gubbins leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I may have a job for you, laddie,’ his eyes narrowed, ‘if I think you are up to it that is.’
8
‘No occupying power can break the spirit and blunt
the retaliatory power of a patriotic and proud people.’
Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, Head of F Section, SOE
Gubbins continued his probing throughout the meal. The questions were matter of fact but Walsh knew he was being tested.
‘Worked with the Yanks before, have you?’
‘On occasion
,’
‘Successfully?’
‘When our interests coincided, yes.’
‘And when they didn’t?’
‘I barely got out of Yugoslavia alive.’
‘Mmm,’ Gubbins reacted, as if Walsh had just commented on the changeability of the weather, ‘harbour any resentment? One might.’
Walsh shrugged, ‘They weren’t too keen on sponsoring Tito and his communist pals. I wasn’t convinced about their man Mihailovic. You could say I got caught in the middle.’
‘But you made it out. Any qualms about working with them again?’
‘I’d work with the Abwehr if I thought it would bring the Germans down any quicker.’
‘A realist, good. I want you to go to a meeting with Colonel Buckmaster and the OSS.’ Maurice Buckmaster was head of ‘F’ Section. Gubbins was clearly leaving nothing to chance, delegating only as far down as a section head. That’ll please Price, thought Walsh.
‘The Yanks have all the resources but were a little late coming to the party,’ Gubbins continued, ‘so we have experience they can benefit from.’
‘You want me to tell the Americans how they should be fighting a covert war? That’ll please them.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘No?’
‘Cooperate with our American cousins, give them the benefit of your wisdom but do it tactfully. You can be tactful can’t you, Walsh? Without their seemingly endless supply of equipment we’d have nothing to fight this war with, even if it rather pains us to admit it.’ Gubbins paused then and he looked Walsh straight in the eye, ‘I need somebody to go into France in a couple of weeks. Been there lately?’
‘Not recently, sir, but I’ll go if it’s needed.’
‘It is. This is important, Walsh. The second front will come eventually, as we all well know and, when it does, the invasion has to work or there’ll be no second chance. I believe our humble organisation can play a big part. Our boys and girls can train and mobilise the Maquis and the new German labour laws are a very effective recruitment drive for our cause.’ French males between twenty and twenty-three were now required by law to go and work in Germany. Unsurprisingly, thousands opted to head up into the mountains instead. Gubbins was right, there was a ready-made army in France, right under the noses of the enemy. It just needed equipment and training.
‘I think they can cause the Germans all sorts of trouble. Our friends in Six disagree.’
‘MI6 are involved in this operation?’ asked Walsh.
‘No, in fact they would really rather it didn’t happen at all. SIS consider us a band of bungling amateurs.’
Walsh bridled, ‘It wasn’t us that lost a cipher machine.’
‘Good point. I shall have to remember that next time Menzies collars me over a pink gin.’ Gubbins pronounced the SIS chief’s name correctly as ‘Mingiz’. ‘But suffice to say our very existence is an inconvenience for “C” and all who sail with him. Every time we blow something up, dispose of a collaborator or bump off a high-ranking Nazi there are reprisals and house-to-house searches. Inevitably the Germans sweep some of their men up, often by accident. I can understand their irritation, I really can, but our work is too important for it to cease. At the moment Churchill and the Americans agree, which is why they want to drop teams in behind the lines when the invasion comes. Each must consist of an Englishman, a Frenchman and an American.’ Gubbins frowned, ‘I know, it sounds like some awful joke one might hear down the pub.’
Walsh wondered if the patrician Gubbins was familiar with the inside of an English pub but he concurred with the sentiment. ‘It sounds like a passport to disaster.’
‘Quite, but I’m afraid it’s the only way. The Americans insist on being involved and they are paying the piper, so it really is their tune. The French? Well you know de Gaulle; ‘France for the French’ and all that, so they must be in on this too. Despite the unnecessary complication of the nationalities we still think it can work. Besides, it really is this or nothing.’
‘So where do I come in exactly?’
‘You are the difference between us saying it can work and proving that it will. The idea is to drop one of these “Jedburgh” teams in early for a specific and very important mission. I need someone who can hurt the Germans straight away, not spend weeks bedding in like a lot of agents do. It must be an individual unafraid to act and prepared to be ruthless. Somebody who can handle the Maquis, cope with the Yanks and the Free French and live with the distinct possibility that MI6 would sell you to the enemy, just to get you out of their hair. Oh yes, and there is the small matter of the Germans, mustn’t forget them! In short I need someone who’s… how can I put it?’
‘A bit of a bastard, sir?’
‘Precisely, Walsh, glad you catch on.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s the matter? Don’t fancy it, lad?’
‘It’s not that; there are security issues.’
‘Security issues? How so?’
‘Our building for a start, a lot of people coming and going all of the time; how many are already secretly working for Six? A few, I’d bet.’
‘I don’t doubt it for an instant,’ conceded Gubbins.
‘Then I’d need a free hand to create my own cover stories, false identities and papers. It’ll be expensive but it’s the only way.’
‘I take your point, Walsh, and I’ll see what I can do; anything else?’
‘Yes, equipment; I just spent twenty minutes with Price being told exactly how much I can and cannot have for ops in occupied France and it’s nowhere near enough for a mission like this. If I’m going to link up with the Maquis I’ll need a lot of kit; a little to start with and regular air drops to follow, depending on how many men we are talking of supplying.’
‘With the Americans on board I don’t think equipment is going to be a problem.’
‘Not with the conventional stuff but I need access to everything the Thatched Barn has created, including the latest devices they are working on. Elder Wills is something of a genius in my book and I don’t want to be told I can only take half a kit bag full of goodies out there because Major Price views me as wasteful.’
‘Do I detect a faint atmosphere of friction between you and your Deputy Section Head, Walsh?’
Walsh had long ago realised the folly of giving an honest answer to any one above the rank of captain. ‘I am certain Major Price acts with the best of intentions but this mission sounds like it might require some specialist equipment.’
‘If you take on this assignment for me I’ll keep Price off your back, for now at least.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But you have got to get me results, you hear?’
‘I will.’
‘Good,’ Gubbins had been won over by Walsh. The Captain might just be suitable after all. He would have to be in fact. None but Harry, only Harry will do.
‘I want you to go out there and create something for me, Walsh.’
‘And what would that be, sir?’
Gubbins smiled. ‘Havoc.’
9
'The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.'
Henry David Thoreau
Price was seething. He marched angrily down the street, grinding his teeth as he went, stabbing his umbrella at the damp pavement with each step, as if the cause of his indignation was the very ground he walked on. But no, the reason for his foul mood was far more prosaic; none other than Harry Bloody Walsh.
Initially Price had been delighted to see Gubbins once more, as the CD entered his office for the second time that day. Back from his lunch with Walsh and wants to bring me into his confidence with a briefing, thought Price. Well, I’ll tell him what I think with nothing spared. But the conversation went very differently from the way Price had hoped. When Gubbins informed him that Harry Walsh had been selected for
an important mission in France the Major decided it was right to speak up.
‘Are you sure that’s wise, sir, I mean after all…’
‘Yes, quite sure, Price,’ interrupted Gubbins tetchily, ‘I have had the man checked out.’
You didn’t check him out with me, thought Price but he did not voice this sentiment aloud. Instead he chose the diplomatic route, the course of least resistance, the one he had always followed. ‘Of course, sir, I am sure he will be up to the job, it’s just…’
‘Spit it out, man. If you have reservations let’s hear them.’
Price was rattled by his superior’s harsh tone. He felt his train of thought diverted by such plain speaking. ‘Well, you see it’s… I mean…’ Price found himself beginning to waver under the stern gaze, ‘well there is that little matter of the diamonds. I really do think…’
‘Nonsense, Price, we looked into that business ages ago and there wasn’t a shred of evidence against the man. Walsh has proved he can be trusted time and again. This foolish innuendo has been hanging over his head for too long. Now, is there anything else?’
‘Well… er…’ Price felt that a mission of such obvious magnitude surely warranted a man with a more solid background at the helm. Someone who had not lost the stabilising influence of a father so early in life and been raised largely by an aunt, somebody who received better than a barely decent education at a very minor school – and that only due to the advantageous passing of a scholarship. Not, in other words, a man like Harry Walsh, an officer who was always going to be some way short of a gentleman, fortuitously promoted thanks to the fluctuating fortunes of war, a man with secrets. Price wanted to say a man who is not like us, sir, but immediately thought better of it. He knew Gubbins had no qualms about who he used to win this war; even women, damn them. In his mind, Walsh was probably faintly respectable compared to some of the ne’er-do-wells and reprobates SOE employed to carry out its dirty tricks. Gubbins cared nothing that one of his own officers had a father who, when it came down to it, was little better than a travelling salesman.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 5
