Ninety minutes later he was doing it for real. But baling out of a Bisley was no simple matter. Having squeezed past the pilot, he and Antoine then had to squash together on the cockpit floor, prise open an escape hatch, then somehow arrange themselves to jump through it.
‘Fack me, Tadzio, you do this many time?’
Theo examined the opening, which was small and square. Wriggling through it in a bulky parachute would be tight, and he wondered how people managed in real emergencies. He peered downward, the slipstream buffeting his head. A thousand feet below the desert rolled by, smooth and boundless in the morning sunlight like an ocean. ‘Never like this.’
‘’Ow we gonna do it?’
‘Coordinates coming up!’ the pilot shouted.
‘Head first, I suppose.’
‘Fack me.’
‘Stand by!’
‘I’ll go first.’ Theo squirmed forward until poised over the opening. The wind roared like thunder in his head now, and the desert looked dizzyingly near. Suddenly he glimpsed tents off to one side, tyre tracks in the sand and smoke from a signal fire. Then he heard a distant shout, felt a thump on his back and thrust himself two-handed through the hole. He fell clear, body tumbling, and waited for the familiar jerk and snap. But none came, just an accelerating warm hurricane and the spiralling ground. The ring! His hand flew to his chest, scrabbling furiously. Seconds passed, the fumbling went on, the wind roared, the desert rushed, then his fingers found metal, seized it and pulled frantically outward.
*
‘You left that pretty late, man.’
He blinked up at a pearl-grey sky. ‘I... What?’
‘Then I suppose you paratroop lads train for it, don’t you?’
He lifted his head from the sand. ‘Where’s Antoine? My, um, colleague.’
‘Over there. Taking a piss.’
Five minutes later they were sitting in a tent drinking tea. Around them lounged six New Zealanders, tanned, hairy and bearded as Yale had described, wearing desert fatigues and boots, and assorted headgear including bush hats, pith helmets and keffiyehs. Several more were busy loading trucks parked in the heat outside. The trucks were American, Chevrolets, yellow-painted and laden to the axles with weapons and equipment: jerry cans of fuel and water, sand mats, pierced steel planks, ropes and shovels – and bristling with weaponry including anti-tank rifles and twin machine guns. Painted on the nose of each truck was a bizarre talisman like a gargoyle. ‘Maori,’ explained one of the New Zealanders when Theo asked. ‘Hei Tiki, bringer of luck.’ Pleasantries were exchanged, footwear admired, sandwiches circulated and war news swapped. Despite their outlandish clothing, blunt manner and strange accent, the New Zealanders seemed friendly, if no-nonsense – and impatient.
‘So what’s the plan, boys?’ their leader asked. ‘We need to clear out of here pronto.’
‘Is dangerous?’ Antoine asked.
‘Too right. Dangerous to stay in the open anyhow. Whole area’s crawling. Forward units, recce and observation patrols and so on – Jerry could come blundering round the corner any time. Air activity too. Spotter planes everywhere. Sooner we pack up and move on the better.’
‘I mus’ go Gabès, speak with town elders for information. My frien’ Tadzio here is for interview Jerry prisoner.’
‘Good luck with that, mate!’ someone quipped. ‘He’s tighter than a Scotchman’s wallet.’
‘Um, where is he?’
He was in the tent next door. Theo lifted the flap to be confronted by an armed New Zealander in full Arab garb. Apologizing politely, he asked if he could see the prisoner alone.
‘No skin off my nose,’ the guard replied and ducked outside.
This tent was smaller than the first, more gloomily lit, hot, stuffy and humming with mosquitoes. The German was seated at a camping table, reading from a leather pocketbook. About thirty-five, handsome, dark-haired, wearing the uniform of a colonel, his bearing was superior and unconcerned. Glancing only momentarily at Theo’s uniform and insignia, he returned his attention to his book, where it remained throughout their preamble.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Theo began in German. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘A German speaker at last. No tea.’
‘Very well. Um, do you mind if I sit?’
‘Be my guest. Your accent is Austrian.’
‘South Tyrolean.’
‘Then we are neighbours. I am from southern Bavaria, near Augsburg.’
‘I competed in the Hitlerjugend games near there in thirty-six.’
Flinty eyes flickered. Then the page was turning. ‘And you are a separatist therefore, to be wearing a British uniform.’
‘Yes, sir. I left two years later. For London. My father was, is, English. I went to school there.’
‘So much information. Then you’ll be familiar with this.’ He held up the book. A Tale of Two Cities, the title read, in English.
‘I have read some Dickens, yes. And you speak English. Obviously.’
‘Fluently. But not to these Kiwi scoundrels.’
‘So...’
‘Your uniform, Junge. This is not 8th Army.’
‘No.’ Theo took out a notebook. ‘Sir. My name is Theodor Trickey. I am an interpreter for 1st Army in Algiers, here to—’
‘You’re not from Montgomery?’
‘No. My base of operations is in Tunisia.’ He hesitated. ‘Like yours.’
The man looked up at last. ‘You have seen action there.’
‘Um, yes. In fact my unit met with elements of yours. Not far from Tunis.’
‘When?’
‘In November.’
‘Ah. Before my time. I only arrived last month.’
‘I see.’ Theo swallowed. This was not going well. He seemed to be telling the German far more than he was learning. But at least they were conversing.
‘One moment.’ Pocketing the Dickens, the German sat forward. ‘Your beret. Yes, you’re from that new British Fallschirmjäger brigade. You’re a paratrooper.’
‘Yes, sir. 2nd Battalion.’
‘I did hear of you. Our men said you fought bravely.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Although suffered grave losses.’
‘Yes. Now, I’m sorry, but I must ask—’
‘No notebook.’
‘What?’
‘Tell me, Theodor Trickey. When you left your homeland in Italy, and settled in another country, then found yourself at war with your homeland: how easy was it for you to decide which side to fight on?’
Theo felt his whole body twitch, as though electrified, and an icy chill prickling his neck. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Did you not hear me?’
‘I... Yes, of course. I just...’ You must decide, Rommel said, and kept saying, in Bavaria at the games, in France on the beach, and endlessly in his dreams. You must decide which side you are on. Now once again, through this man.
‘It’s complicated isn’t it, Theodor? Because we fight for a cause, not an ideology. We fight for our beliefs, not someone’s dogma. And we fight for a people, not one person. So when our beliefs match the ideology and the person and the dogma, then all is well. But when we find our beliefs betrayed by the person, then everything becomes much harder. Until, like you separatists, we are left with just one thing.’
‘Sir?’
‘Which is?’
‘Conscience?’
‘Precisely. War is a failure of reason, Theodor. But you can’t reason with fanaticism, and that’s the unfortunate paradox of war. So ultimately it is necessary to act solely according to conscience. Which is why I’m sitting here with you. I have a message. It is important, and I share it because I hope you might understand. You will pass it to your superiors, and they will not believe you – that is their concern. But you may not write it down. And I need your personal word on that.’
Bargain with him, Yale had said. Agree to nothing without obtaining something in return. So he asked, and obtained more than was i
maginable.
‘Tell me your name, sir, at least.’
‘My name is Claus von Stauffenberg.’
CHAPTER 6
These are the facts as now known. Early in 1943, British Intelligence, through Ultra decrypts, learns that Rommel has been ordered to stop 8th Army’s advance at the Mareth Line – or annihilate himself in the attempt. Rommel, exhausted, demoralized, pitifully short of men and arms, considers this plan insane and says so. Which goes down badly with the Führer. He does agree, however, to go to Gabès and inspect the Mareth Line for himself. This too is known to the British, including the dates, which is where David Stirling’s madcap plan to capture or kill him comes in. Acting alone, Stirling hitches a ride to Gabès with the LRDG, and hides out among the fortifications. But unfortunately a six-foot-four Englishman with fair skin pretending to be an Arab sticks out like a sore thumb, and he’s soon picked up.
Von Stauffenberg meanwhile also arrives in Gabès to meet with Rommel, albeit for very different reasons. A member of Germany’s aristocratic elite, he belongs to a secret sect dedicated to the overthrow of National Socialism and the restoration of a society governed by a benevolent nobility. He’s also a devout Catholic and finds much Nazi ideology abhorrent. Knowing his movement needs the support of senior officers to have any credibility, and hearing that the people’s hero Rommel is losing faith with Hitler and Nazism, he arranges a meeting.
What comes next is less straightforward. Gabès is swirling with irregulars, undercover agents, secret police and spies of all persuasions, and it’s little surprise von Stauffenberg and Stirling are captured. Within days, however, both have ‘escaped’ – or more probably been released, possibly in a prisoner exchange (both are colonels). Von Stauffenberg returns to his unit, where two months later he’s critically injured in a strafing incident near Mezzouna. This leaves him politically radicalized as well as physically disabled, and his thoughts shift from overthrow to assassination. Meantime Stirling, who seems accident-prone, heads back towards Tripoli but gets apprehended a second time, this time by the Italians who delight in embarrassing their German allies over his recapture. Duly humiliated, the Germans pack him off to the infamous Colditz POW camp where he spends the rest of the war. Rommel meanwhile visits the Mareth Line, and writes a scathing report on its unsuitability. A short time later he’s recalled to Germany from Africa on ‘sick leave’. And never returns.
‘He said so,’ Theo whispers from his hospital bed. Since arriving in Ulm he has showed small signs of recovery, and is even saying a few words, albeit randomly.
‘Who did?’
‘He did.’
‘Rommel?’
‘Yes. No. The other one.’
‘Von Stauffenberg.’
‘No. A major. Um, Brundt. In Salo.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Major Howard said... ’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’
A typical exchange of the day – which was two years after the event. And with much yet to happen in between, getting to the bottom of it all would be a lengthy business. Especially when I had matters of my own to contend with.
The picturesque little walled city of Ulm lies on the River Danube in southern Germany between Stuttgart and Munich. Surrounded by hills and forests, it is just sixty miles from the Alps, with decidedly Bavarian influences evident in its culture and architecture. Ulm rose to prominence during the Middle Ages as a trading centre, particularly in textiles. Later it became more industrialized, with mills and factories springing up beyond its walls and across the river. Although of no great strategic importance, during the 1940s several factories supplying military hardware were located there, plus a sizeable barracks. Much of the surrounding land is under the plough, intensively cultivated to support the war effort. The labour for this, and for the factories, is mostly supplied by POWs.
My base of operations is Ulm’s POW hospital, situated in a former town house a stone’s throw from the minster and its famous spire. More a villa, externally it’s something of a Gothic horror with steep roofs, exaggerated gables and pepper-pot towers, but it’s solidly built with thick walls, a stout cellar against air raids, balconies and tall shuttered windows. It’s also quite well equipped, and once inside rather reminiscent of an English cottage hospital. Downstairs the living rooms are divided into ‘wards’, each with tiered bunks for the patients. Another room is for examinations and sick parades, and there’s an orderly room for the Germans, with kitchens at the back. On the first floor is a bed-sitting room for us doctors; it has French windows opening on to a balcony and a serviceable bathroom next door. Across the landing is the surgery, a dispensary and a storeroom, while the top floor houses two more wards. Our staff comprise two doctors, myself and a genial Dutch army medic called Erik Henning. Although theoretically my subordinate, Erik has been here much longer, knows the ropes and speaks excellent German as well as English and Dutch, so I defer to his wisdom in most things. He’s also good company and a terrific doctor. We have two British orderlies, a Scot called Pugh, and Fenton who’s a Londoner. Our wardens are a moody German Gefreiter (corporal) called Prien, three privates, and an elderly Sanitäter (orderly).
In charge of the whole outfit, and indeed all of Ulm it often seems, is our collective bête noire, Oberstabsarzt Wilhelm Vorst, who lives in a billet away from the hospital, thankfully. A medical major, fifty, portly, bespectacled, Vorst is a vain and quarrelsome stickler, whose one aim is to make life unpleasant for everyone – including his own countrymen. Erik cautions me about him on day one, and the Gefreiter Prien too, repeatedly pleading with me to avoid confrontation. But as time goes on, this becomes progressively harder.
Our days are long. Apart from the sixty or so in-patients at the hospital, or Revier as it is properly known, there are several smaller clinics to visit in the environs. So we rise early, usually five thirty, washing and dressing in bleary silence – and swiftly too because the weather’s freezing and the Revier poorly heated. Breakfast is ersatz coffee, black bread, marge and hoarded Red Cross jam. Erik and I then complete a ward round, treating and dispensing as necessary, updating records, and trying to vacate beds for the day’s inevitable admissions. Then at eight we hold the first sick parade. We’re awake and alert now, and need to be, because sick parade is unlike any medical procedure ever. ‘Like walking a tightrope with someone shaking the wire,’ as Erik puts it.
Waiting outside in the snow are queues of POWs from nearby Lager. British, French, American, Dutch: these are the labourers who pass their days in the city’s streets, sweeping up debris, clearing roads, mending sewers, filling in craters and so on. Repairing the damage, in other words, caused by our bombing raids. This is hard manual work in harsh conditions, so unsurprisingly sickness and injury are common. As is malingering, which brings us to the tightrope.
As a doctor I hate malingerers; they waste time and resources, and offend my professionalism by trying to trick me. Also there’s something odious about bunking off work by pretending to be ill, especially as someone else – a colleague presumably – will have to do it for you. On the other hand, the POW workforce in Ulm is being used to aid our enemy. And that goes against the grain, because we should be doing everything to make their lives miserable, including shirking off work, so as to show defiance, lower their morale, tie up their own labour force, and thus end the war sooner.
A typical sick parade consists of a hundred or so patients. Erik and I tackle them in two lines, aided by Fenton and Pugh. We do it standing because it’s quicker, and speed is everything, for Gefreiter Prien is sitting behind us timing our consultations and noting our findings. At first I find this intolerable.
‘Zwei minuten?’ I protest early on. ‘Two minutes per patient?’
‘You haven’t heard the half of it,’ Erik quips cheerfully.
The half of it he’s referring to is the ‘quota’, for it turns out that no matter the numbers of sick and injured, or their seriousne
ss, or any other medical consideration, the ‘nicht arbeitsfähig’ or ‘off work’ list may comprise only 10 per cent of the parade. Maximum. Vorst’s orders. If we go over that figure, he simply cancels sick parade and orders everyone to work – then sets about punishing us all including the POWs. Indeed my predecessor Collinson is now MO of a notoriously harsh camp in Poland, just for exceeding the quota. So what we have to do, clandestinely and at ridiculous speed, is sort out the malingerers from the genuinely sick, deal with the latter as best we can, all the while juggling the numbers so we keep up to, but not over, the 10 per cent. After much initial chaos, and several severe tellings-off, I gradually evolve a system.
‘Hello, chum, what’s up?’
‘Terrible backache, Doc.’
‘Really?’
‘Well...’
‘Sorry, quota’s full, try again tomorrow. Next!’
Conversely: ‘Hello, chum, what’s up?’
‘Terrible backache, Doc.’
‘Sounds nasty, take two days off. Next!’
And so on. To further speed things up, I send Pugh along the line to sift the genuines from the malingerers, and also undress whatever part of their anatomy is ailing them, thus ensuring best use of the allotted two minutes. The result is a queue of half-naked Tommies shuffling round the room like a conga gone wrong. But at least the system works. Usually. For at some point in the proceedings Vorst appears. A frisson of tension always heralds his arrival, because everyone fears the man, and the power he holds over us. Power to send a sick prisoner to shovel snow all day, power to send a sloppy guard to the Russian Front, and power to contradict and humiliate a doctor.
‘What is wrong with this man?’ he demands angrily in German. Vorst will only converse in his own tongue, which I am having to study fast.
‘Gastroenteritis, Herr Oberstabsarzt,’ I stammer back.
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