Churchill's Band of Brothers

by Damien Lewis

  As the teleprint from Berlin had called for the ‘strictest secrecy’, they would need to restrict knowledge of the coming executions to the smallest possible circle. Knochen – no virulent Nazi, certainly; a man accused of being a part of the Operation Valkyrie conspiracy to assassinate Hitler – let Kieffer take full charge. For secrecy’s sake, Kieffer set about ensuring that ‘the preparations, particularly the change into civilian clothes, should be carried out by men of my section who were already acquainted with the case’.

  The execution party would consist of several of his stalwarts. In command, Kieffer placed his acolyte, Hauptsturmführer Schnur, the man who had done such a thorough job of interrogating the SAS captives. Schnur was ‘instructed to make out a verdict, to be communicated to the members of the SAS, that based upon the fact of their having parachuted in connection with a group of the Resistance Movement . . . they were to be shot . . . on order of the Führer and Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht’.

  Under Schnur, Kieffer selected von Kapri to translate the death sentence into English, for the order from Hitler had specified that ‘the sentence has to be . . . made known to’ those condemned to die. As for Haug, the Avenue Foch quartermaster, he would furnish the captives with their civilian clothes, chosen from amongst the captured SOE stores. Kieffer appointed SS Hauptsturmführer Julius Schmidt as the chief executioner. As well as being Gestapo, Schmidt was a Waffen SS officer, so had widespread military experience and should be quite capable of leading the shootings.

  Schnur was left to select others for the firing squad as he saw fit, but keeping it all as far as possible to those already in the know. They would need transport. Drivers. They would need an execution spot. Somewhere private, isolated, unseen. But all of that could be arranged.

  And then, the fate of the surviving SAS captives would be sealed.

  Chapter 16

  SAS Captain Garstin was a thoroughly decent and upstanding individual, who believed there could still be honour in war. To him it was inconceivable that the story SS Sturmbannführer Kieffer had told him of the prisoner exchange could be anything other than genuine. To have concocted such a tale out of thin air in an effort to mollify his captives and to render them more pliant and willing to cooperate was anathema. Kieffer was a major, Garstin a captain, and both served in the forces of foremost martial nations. In the SAS captain’s view, such deliberate subterfuge was simply unthinkable.

  Back at their home in Canterbury, Pat Garstin’s wife, Susan, was just about to celebrate their son, Patrick Beresford Sean Garstin’s, first birthday. But for Captain Garstin, without anything particular to distinguish one from another, all the days seemed to merge into one. Time seemed to crawl in the dark and claustrophobic cells at Place des États Unis. The muggy days of Paris in summer meant that often the captives felt they could hardly breathe.

  Over time, Jones and Vaculik settled into something of a routine. The narrow windows to their cell were kept permanently shuttered, but in one they had discovered a small hole. It was large enough to get an eye to, and taking turns they would gaze out onto an unsuspecting world. Nearby there was a bench, set in the shade of some trees. As regular as clockwork an elderly gentleman would arrive, open his newspaper to peruse it, then after a while check his watch and hurry away. Each evening at six o’clock a pair of lovers would take the seat. The young man was always dressed in the same dull brown suit, but the woman seemed to have an expansive wardrobe, and Jones and Vaculik would ‘make bets as to what colour dress . . . she would be wearing’.

  At one stage, Allied warplanes wheeled overhead, hitting targets somewhere in the city. It prompted Vaculik to ask Jones what he would do if a squadron of American tanks thundered into the square. A part of Jones resented the ‘Yanks’, for with their dollars they tended to ‘drink all the whisky and there’s not much left for us’. But upon reflection, he figured if American troops did roll into Place des États Unis, at the very least he would ‘offer ’em one of my dog-ends’. That was saying something, for right then a cigarette butt was about Jones’s most precious possession.

  The SS sergeant who oversaw security at Place des États Unis still appeared convinced of the omnipotence of Hitler’s Reich. He checked on Vaculik and Jones obsessively, just to ensure they weren’t somehow trying to tunnel their way out. He’d taken to berating them, throwing the words ‘terrorists’, ‘kaputt’ – finished –and a derogatory term for Jew in their faces. In the same breath, he’d trumpet the supposed wonders of the Nazi Reich and the invincibility of the Teutonic warrior. He claimed that the Wehrmacht had launched glorious counter-offensives both against Russia in the east, and to repel the Normandy landings, which would finish the Allies once and for all.

  ‘We shall win this war in the end,’ he crowed. ‘And do you know why? Because we are braver and more disciplined.’

  In truth, the SAS captives found it hard to argue. For weeks on end they’d heard little of the Allies’ fortunes. For all they knew, the D-Day landings might well have been flung back into the sea. In spite of the promised prisoner exchange, their morale was at an all-time low, which was why Jones’s discovery with the broken watch-spring was so special and so timely. Since their escape attempts, Jones and Vaculik had had their handcuffs fastened especially tight. But one morning, Jones discovered that he was able to pick the locks. All he had to do was force the narrow thread of steel between the teeth and the cog that wound them tight, and he could work the mechanism free.

  For now, it meant they could loosen their hands at night, making it far easier to sleep. There was one small broken-backed bed in their cell, which they were forced to share. If they kept their newfound freedom secret, it had to boost their chances of making a getaway. Having made the discovery about their cuffs, Jones and Vaculik hatched a scheme of sorts. One night they would call the guard, feigning sickness. They’d overpower and kill him, take his weapon and release their fellow captives, whereupon they’d resort to barefaced bluff: they’d walk out of the prison ‘wearing German uniforms’.

  The captives were able to speak to each other a little more freely, especially when ‘the good Vassiliev’ was on duty, and the word on everyone’s lips was escape. But when they discussed their plans to break out, the problems appeared insurmountable. The chief issue was Captain Garstin. It was clear that he couldn’t manage ‘a hundred yards without dropping’, and even then far too slowly to make a getaway. All seven of the captives were adamant: if one was to go, all were to go. They would break out as one band of brothers, united, or not at all. In any case, the signs were that the prisoner exchange was happening, or so their guards kept saying.

  On the afternoon of 8 August – five weeks after they had set out for France aboard the Stirling – the blustering SS sergeant paid a visit to Vaculik and Jones’s cell, with some associates in tow. They carried with them soap, towels and razors, plus bundles of what looked like civilian clothes. The prisoner exchange had got the green light, the SS man explained, and it would be taking place in neutral Switzerland. They were to be swapped ‘for nine German agents held in London’. Vaculik and Jones would need to wash and shave for the journey, plus he had need of their uniforms, so they could be cleaned – hence the civilian clothes. To underscore his intent, he put his hand to his nose, to indicate how they and their uniforms reeked.

  As the SS man had been speaking to Vaculik in French, Jones hadn’t understood much, but he was instinctively suspicious. As for Vaculik, he didn’t believe a word. He asked when they might be starting their journey to Switzerland. The answer: they would depart at 1 a.m.. That cemented his fears, for it left nowhere near enough time to launder and dry their uniforms. Sensing what dark motives had to lie behind all this, both men refused to change their dress. By way of response, the SS men forcibly stripped the two captives at gunpoint.

  In short order, Jones and Vaculik were deprived of their British Army battle dress, complete with the 1 SAS Regiment shoulder flashes, shirt and tie, plus boots and gaiters, and
the thin veneer of protection it had all provided. They were stripped of every last vestige of their military identity: even their army-issue underwear and socks were taken. In their place, they were left a pair of dark, moth-eared suits, a shirt each, and great clodhoppers for shoes. Though fearful of what was coming, the two men set to with the hot water and shaving kit – for this was their first chance at any kind of a freshen-up since the day of their capture.

  ‘I enjoyed that wash,’ Jones remarked, simply.

  Oddly, when Vassiliev came to take their clothes later that evening – as he always did, to dissuade any escape attempt – he left their cell door slightly ajar. Vaculik took the opportunity to nip out, on the Russian’s heels. Did Vassiliev mind if he had a quick word with Captain Garstin, Vaculik asked, especially as this was their last night in the jail. As long as he was quick, the Russian guard cautioned.

  Vaculik dashed along to the SAS captain’s cell. In hushed tones he outlined the worst of his fears: there was no time to launder their uniforms, and he didn’t believe the prisoner exchange was for real. Forcing them to dress in civilian clothes was all part of a trap. Garstin looked feverish, and it seemed as if his condition was rapidly deteriorating. His teeth were chattering, as some kind of infection took hold. It was hardly surprising, considering the extent of his untreated injuries, and where he was being held.

  The SAS captain made a visible effort to gather his wits. Taking a grip on himself, he explained how he’d been given solemn assurances that the prisoner exchange was genuine. ‘Make a dash for it if you like,’ he added, trying to force a smile, ‘but I’d far rather you stayed and took your chance with us.’

  Vaculik recognised these were the words of ‘an honest and upright man . . . a chivalrous soldier’, one who ‘just couldn’t imagine that anyone could be so vile. He didn’t know much about . . . the SS and the Gestapo.’ But upon reflection, maybe the SAS captain was right, he reasoned. Maybe they should stay together. Maybe it was all or nothing.

  Once back in his cell, he explained everything to Jones. ‘But perhaps he’s right in a way,’ Jones reasoned, of Garstin’s all-or-none stand. There was little chance of making a break for it in the few remaining hours, especially as the place was crawling with SS, making ready for their early-morning departure.

  ‘Let’s see if we can get some sleep,’ Vaculik suggested. ‘Sleep brings counsel, they say.’

  Jones snorted. ‘We’ve been sleeping in this ruddy place for weeks now, and it hasn’t done much good.’

  A few hours later an engine coughed into life. A mile across the sleeping city, SS Obersturmführer Otto Ilgenfritz pulled onto the midnight streets of the blacked-out city. Even the sleek Opel staff-car’s headlamps were hooded, so as to shield it from any marauding Allied warplanes. It was a short drive to number 22 Avenue Foch, where the Gestapo and Waffen SS officer he was scheduled to collect had his luxurious apartment. Upon arrival, Hauptsturmführer Julius Schmidt slid quietly into the passenger seat, before instructing Ilgenfritz to drive to the nearby Place des États Unis.

  Ilgenfritz’s orders for today had come from out of the blue: a phone call from Schmidt, late the previous afternoon, instructing him to prepare a car plus a convoy of trucks for ‘an action against terrorists’, the details of which were most secret. From June 1941 Ilgenfritz had served as the chief of motor transport for the Avenue Foch Gestapo and SD, with several hundred vehicles in his charge. It was a rare occasion when he got to leave his Paris depot to undertake any kind of mission, and he presumed that the present undertaking had to be against the French Resistance.

  Unbeknown to Ilgenfritz, it was Kieffer himself who’d suggested him as the driver for the death squad, for a man of his rank and stature should appreciate and respect the need for secrecy. On reaching 3 Place des États Unis, in the sweep of his muted headlamps Ilgenfritz could see that the truck he’d ordered was ready and waiting. Most of the vehicles required for today’s mission would be packed full of troops, but one had been reserved for a party to be collected here.

  Ilgenfritz had allotted SS Oberscharführer Fritz Hildemann as the driver of that truck, a good, solid, reliable individual. When Hildemann had asked him about the nature of the mission, Ilgenfritz had promised ‘it would be interesting’, while repeating the warning that it was top secret and not be discussed. It was Ilgenfritz’s first visit to the Place des États Unis. Schmidt led him inside, and on the ground floor introduced him to Hauptsturmführer Schnur – the Avenue Foch interrogator –plus a figure who was busy making up parcels of sandwiches, presumably for the coming journey.

  Ilgenfritz noticed a group of men dressed in a motley collection of civilian clothes being led to the waiting truck. It confirmed what he’d suspected: they were bringing some French prisoners with them, which was not so unusual. Doubtless they were collaborators of one sort or another, and would be used as translators and to flush out the Resistance. Seeing parcels of sandwiches loaded aboard the truck, it reinforced in Ilgenfritz’s mind just who the passengers were.

  The car and truck formed up in a small convoy and headed through the deserted streets to Avenue Foch. En route, Ilgenfritz asked Schmidt what exactly the nature of today’s mission was. Seven ‘captured terrorists’ were to be shot, Schmidt explained, and both he and Ilgenfritz were to be part of the firing squad. Somewhat taken aback, Ilgenfritz asked for fuller details, but was warned that the undertaking was geheime Reichssache –top-secret Reich business – and that he wasn’t permitted to know more. A two-to-three-hour journey lay ahead of them, Schmidt added, and urging Ilgenfritz to stick close behind the truck in front, he lapsed into silence.

  Forming the guard on the rear of the prisoner truck were von Kapri and Hauptscharführer Haug, the Avenue Foch quartermaster. Of all those tasked with today’s mission, Haug was the only one who had been present from the very beginning – when the 5 July Funkspiel had brought down twelve human parcels to the Bois de Bouray drop-zone, and not just containers as they’d expected.

  Haug, a First World War veteran who’d been held as a prisoner of the British, didn’t feel entirely comfortable right now. He’d been ordered by Kieffer to deploy on an anti-Resistance operation, so why were these British prisoners there, and why were they dressed as civilians? He’d recognised them immediately, having spoken to some of them directly after their capture. Back then, they’d all been dressed in distinctive ‘English khaki uniform’. So why the transformation? He resolved to ask von Kapri, for the more senior SS and Gestapo man was sure to know.

  As the vehicles rolled east through the sleeping city, Haug broached the subject. What were the SAS prisoners doing there? Von Kapri seemed almost surprised at the question. They ‘were being taken away to be shot’, he explained. Still, the penny had yet to drop with Haug. He presumed they were transporting the captives to ‘some camp or prison’ to face ‘a firing squad especially chosen for the purpose’. As far as he knew, such executions were always held in ‘the yard of a fortress or a prison’.

  An hour or so earlier, the seven SAS captives had been woken and ordered to dress. There was no sign of their uniforms, but equally it was clear that ‘resistance would have been useless’, surrounded as they were by heavily armed SS. As they pulled on the worn civilian clothing, Vaculik and Jones made sure to keep their lengths of steel spring hidden. At the last moment one of their captors spied another prize – Jones’s watch, the one that he’d been loaned by Lieutenant Wiehe – and forced the prisoner to hand it over. Jones absolutely hated losing it, for it wasn’t even his to give away.

  Once the precious watch had been confiscated, the seven prisoners were hustled into a room in the cellar – the first time all had been together since their capture. Despite their wash and shave, in their shabby clothes they made a sorry sight, especially after spending so many weeks as guests of the Gestapo. Even so, Paddy Barker, Walker and Young – the Irishmen – tried to crack the odd joke, in an effort to lift spirits.

  Garstin was silent, his state o
f physical decline clear for all to see, as Jones helped him dress, pulling on the blue tweed jacket with which he had been issued. After suffering multiple injuries, and given the lack of medical treatment, it was a miracle that the SAS captain was still alive. The last thing the former miner from Wigan did was lace up Garstin’s footwear. Somehow he’d managed to retain his rubber-soled Commando boots. Maybe the Gestapo had run out of civilian shoes.

  With Garstin dressed, the seven captives were marched up stairwells and along corridors lined by SS men, weapons in hand. On the first floor Schnur – the interrogator and torturer-in-chief –was waiting. Brusquely he read out the captives’ names, ticking off each in turn, before their handcuffs were checked and they were taken outside. Everywhere grey-uniformed figures rushed to and fro. Just as soon as Jones spied the number of guards assigned to their party, he ‘knew what was in store’. As for Vaculik, he felt like they were ‘cattle being . . . moved into the slaughter-house’.

  The prisoners were chivvied into the waiting truck, whereupon two figures, weapons across their knees, climbed into the rear: one, Haug, was not a bad man when all was said and done; the other, von Kapri, was a nasty piece of work and a die-hard Nazi. Bundles of sandwiches were thrust in the captives’ direction. What was this – a last supper? It certainly felt that way.

  ‘But none of us was interested in eating,’ Vaculik remarked. ‘The lorry started up and the sound of its engine was very loud in the silent night.’

  They pulled up at Avenue Foch, where several cans of petrol were loaded aboard. The captives felt their hearts skip a beat. Surely that was a positive sign? Surely it had to signal a long journey lay ahead of them? Maybe Captain Garstin was right. Maybe they were bound for Switzerland after all. Maybe, just maybe, freedom – sweet freedom – beckoned. Hope flares eternal in the living man’s heart.

  The truck got underway again. Via the open rear the captives saw it join a larger convoy – perhaps a score of military vehicles. What did that mean? Did it take this many troops to escort one truckload of captives to Switzerland for a prisoner exchange? At first the column thundered through the ghostly streets, moving in entirely the right direction – south and east, towards Switzerland, some 300 miles away. But after a twenty-minute drive they pulled up at a familiar stop – the Hôpital La Pitié-Salpêtrière.