‘No, Theodor, it is Thérèse.’
He struggled to rise. ‘I must get to her, get to the bridge!’
‘Be still.’ A hand forced him back. ‘And drink this. You have been ill.’
‘Ill…’ He tipped his head, the water cool and silky suddenly on his throat. Through a window he could see a summer dusk gathering outside. ‘Where is this?’
‘Ranville. They’ve set up a dressing station in the old convent. You’ve been here a week. But the new drug is working, the fever has broken and the doctor says you will recover soon.’
‘A week?’ He shook his head. ‘But Georges… He said you… About Clare!’
‘Clare is alive, Theodor. And secure.’
‘But how—’
‘No more for now.’ She rose to leave. ‘You must rest. I will return in the morning, when your head is clearer, and we will talk then.’
He passed the night in and out of a deep and dreamless sleep. Orderlies came and changed his dressing, helped him wash and fed him soup and bread. Through the convent windows drifted the sounds of distant gunfire, and artillery flashes flickered across the ceiling like far-away lightning. By dawn, however, all was quiet, and he lay listening to the twitter of birds mingling with the incongruous snores of patients.
Clare was in custody, Thérèse told him. She was being held in a special prison in Paris.
‘Avenue Foch, it’s in the sixteenth. It’s, well, it’s where they take captured agents.’
‘She was arrested as a British agent.’
‘I’m sorry, Theodor, but it appears so.’
‘Please tell me everything you know.’
She told him. Deposited by fishing boat on to a moonlit shore west of Marseille, Clare and Antoine joined a Resistance network codenamed Stationer. Their orders were to expand the network northwards into the Loire region, Antoine by recruiting more operatives, Clare acting as a courier keeping everyone in contact, and also maintaining the radio link with SOE headquarters in London. The job meant they travelled a lot, sometimes together as a couple, increasingly alone, and on these occasions they depended on outside help for food and shelter. Not all helpers were what they seemed, however, and some time during the spring something had gone wrong.
‘Nobody knows exactly.’ Thérèse shrugged. ‘Antoine vanished from sight. Clare was arrested boarding a train in Orléans.’
‘When?’
‘Late in March.’
While he was recovering on Rosa’s farm. ‘Then what happened?’
‘She was imprisoned there for a while, then taken to Avenue Foch. It’s the SS counter-intelligence headquarters.’
‘For interrogation.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she, will she be… tortured there?’
‘Theodor.’
‘Will she!’
‘Most probably.’ She touched his arm. ‘But the fact she’s still there, Theo, means she’s still alive. Possibly held as a special case, seeing as she’s a FANY officer.’
He shook his head. ‘How could this have happened? Was it Antoine?’
‘Who can say? He’s not been heard from. But you know as well as I do networks become compromised. Even the best ones.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’ She forced a wan smile. ‘It’s not your concern, Clare is. You must concentrate on her.’
‘I… Yes.’
‘And act, Theodor, if you can. Rumour is, as the Allies advance on Paris the SS will remove all prisoners to Germany. Or…’
‘Caen.’ He remembered then. The ferry crossing, the empty streets, the old man, the curious stares, and trying to reach the prison. ‘That day I went into Caen. What happened?’
Her eyes flickered. ‘They shot them.’
‘What?’
‘In the morning. When they heard the Allies had landed and were advancing on the town. They took the Resistance prisoners out one by one. And shot them.’
‘My God. But… Jeanette too?’
‘All of them.’
He stared at her, remembering. Warm soup on a cold bridge. Stolen kisses in the moonlight. Playing with a baby on the hearth. And a card. In Kingston, after Saint-Valery-en-Caux. ‘These are bad days, Theo,’ she’d written, ‘think on me.’
‘What…’
‘Victory, Theodor, that’s what. Crush the enemy and win. Only that can save Clare, only that can save us all. But the Allies must hurry. They must stop delaying, leave Normandy and free France. Quickly, before it’s too late.’
*
But the Allies didn’t seem capable. A week later, nearly a month after landing at the canal bridge, Theo was back at Gale’s HQ, only to find the situation much as he’d left it. In stalemate. It scarcely seemed possible, yet despite steadily growing strength and a balance of power shifting daily in their favour, the British, Canadian and American troops had repeatedly failed to break out from Normandy. Indeed, most were still within a few miles of the beaches they had landed on. Worse still, nobody seemed to know why, although dogged German resistance was clearly a factor. Talking to worried-looking aides hurrying along corridors, he sensed the whiff of failure in the air, and with it a culture of blame. Poor air cover, some said, or poor tanks or poor armour, or reluctant British infantry, or undisciplined American GIs. Some said it was the terrain that was killing them, Normandy’s infamous bocage of narrow lanes and tall hedgerows behind which enemy tanks and guns waited to annihilate the unsuspecting. Others cited a wariness among the troops, who, after five years of war and with the end in sight, saw no logic in rushing headlong to an unnecessary death. Even the generals were falling out, one aide confided, with Montgomery, Dempsey, Bradley and Patton all blaming each other for the lack of progress, and Eisenhower struggling to keep order. ‘Work together, drive inland,’ he repeatedly urged them. And they tried, launching operation after operation, but still the Germans repelled them. Meanwhile, casualties soared, Churchill fumed, the newspapers carped, the public looked on in bafflement, and the lines of advance on Gale’s map remained stubbornly unmoving.
And yet, albeit invisibly to the men doing the fighting, Theo could sense the tide was turning. Days went by; temporarily deskbound, he spent them processing the scores of reports and signals that passed through Division. From these he learned of the overwhelming build-up of Allied forces, with thousands of tons of men and equipment arriving every day, while German reinforcements appeared to be dwindling. He learned that Allied fighters had all but beaten the Luftwaffe, which was now rarely seen, so they could strafe and bomb with impunity. He learned that rather than waste time, the Americans to the west had given up trying to take Cherbourg, and cut it off instead, advancing right across the peninsula to the coast. Now they were consolidating their position, and amassing in strength in preparation for a decisive strike south. And he learned the key to this, and indeed the whole Normandy breakout, was taking Caen. But Caen, a primary British objective since John Howard and his men seized its bridges on Day One, stubbornly refused to fall. Perch, Epsom, Windsor, Dauntless: the operations came and went like summer squalls, yet still somehow the beleaguered Germans held the town.
‘How the hell do they do it?’ Gale mused, gazing at his map. The hour was late; yet another air raid was under way over Caen, prelude to a major new offensive to take the town, codenamed Charnwood. Signals traffic was busy; Gale had asked his staff to stay on hand. ‘I mean, we keep hitting them, strafing them, bombing and shelling them to buggery. We give them no rest and no quarter, we know they have no reserves, they know they’re beaten, and yet still they fight on.’ He turned to Theo. ‘It defies all reason.’
Reason. He thought of von Stauffenberg: War is a failure of reason.
‘Perhaps it’s to do with fanaticism.’
‘Hitler’s, you mean?’
Theo shrugged. ‘They’ve known nothing else for ten years.’
‘Well, it’s high time they did.’
A clerk appeared at the door. ‘Car waiting outside, sir. From 2nd Arm
y HQ.’
‘Now what!’ Gale picked up his cap. ‘Yet another change of plan, no doubt.’
‘It’s not for you, sir.’
‘What?’
‘The car.’ The clerk nodded at Theo. ‘It’s for him.’
CHAPTER 8
Theo Trickey’s exit following his day out with the Ulm work party is a shock to us all. It also serves to highlight the shifting balance of power between captor and captive – and sets the scene on what will become the final act of my war. Even if I don’t know it yet.
From the moment he walks out I sense something’s wrong. I can’t define it, but it’s to do with his smile before hobbling away on his stick. As though we both know he isn’t coming back. And the feeling of loss as I watch him go is profound, close to grief; we’ve been together so long that captivity without him seems unimaginable. And I keep remembering the Chinese proverb Arthur Marrable cautioned me about back at Apeldoorn: save a man’s life and you’re responsible for it for ever. And I do feel responsible, like a father for a son, and I worry that something I said or did prompted him to go. Consequently I spend the entire day fussing irritably about the place, inattentive with patients, updating the wrong records, misplacing stock and so on, with little care or attention to detail and one eye permanently on the clock. At lunchtime I’m grumpy with Erik, lose our postprandial chess game in five minutes, and to cap it all then cry off my shift at drop-in.
‘Why, for God’s sake?’ he asks.
‘So I can be here when he comes back.’
‘What makes you think he won’t?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just worried.’
Rightly so as it turns out, for as the hours pass and the afternoon wanes there’s no sign of him. Work parties pack up with the setting of the sun; strict rules then require everyone to be back in their billet by dusk, and in due course those still living at the Revier start trickling in. I watch their arrivals closely, but by curfew there’s still no Theo.
Erik gets back from drop-in and finally shows concern. ‘What if he’s had a seizure or something?’
‘Or got lost. He barely knows what day it is.’
‘Perhaps we should send out a search party.’
Evening roll call is usually a perfunctory affair. Corporal Prien wanders through the building ticking off names on a clipboard and that’s about it. Tonight, though, we watch in trepidation as he goes by once, appears a second time looking perplexed, then goes round a third time before approaching us with a confused furrow on his brow.
‘The patient Trickey…’ He taps his clipboard.
‘Jawohl, Gefreiter?’
‘Is he not here?’
‘He was sent out on a working party. Against medical advice.’
‘I know this. Where is he now?’
‘Is he not here?’
‘I just said this.’
‘Are you sure?’ Erik and I exchange glances. ‘The washroom perhaps.’
‘Nein.’
‘Or the latrine?’
‘Nor there. Where is he, please?’
‘Perhaps he’s already in bed.’
‘Not in bed, I checked. Where is he?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ I say indignantly. ‘But if you have lost one of our patients, Corporal, it will be on your head not ours.’
Pandemonium ensues. Prien, panicking, calls out the two guards and they go through the place at rifle-point, stamping and shouting angrily as they ransack rooms, overturning beds, emptying cupboards and the rest of it. We can only look on and wait. By now we’ve quizzed other work-party prisoners, none of whom recall seeing Theo, yet part of me still hopes he might yet reappear, wandering blithely through the door having lost his bearings, or simply gone for a stroll. But as the minutes tick by with nothing found – including his meagre belongings, which have also vanished – the truth finally dawns on everyone.
He’s really gone.
Worse follows. Vorst is summoned, arriving from his girlfriend’s pad an hour later in furious form. Stamping into his office the door slams and we hear him ranting at Prien for several minutes. Then the door opens again, and the ashen-faced corporal clumps upstairs to summon us.
‘Please be tactful, Dan,’ Erik pleads as we descend. Prudent advice as always, but I’m beyond prudence by now and ‘tactful’ no longer fits the bill. Theodor Victor Trickey, bless him, sick, lame, confused Theo, my friend, patient, albatross and fellow Para, has done what every POW is supposed to. And what I’ve been trying to do in my inept, dithering way ever since my capture back in September. He’s escaped. Raised himself from his sick bed and walked off. And that changes everything. Waho bloody Mohammed.
The Vorst interview consequently is short.
‘What is the meaning of this absence?’ he demands.
Erik steps forward. ‘Well, Herr Oberstabsarzt, we’re sorry but—’
‘You sent him out on work detail!’ I interrupt.
‘Be silent.’
‘This despite knowing full well that he was not fit to work!’
‘I said silence!’
‘I will not be silent. You are guilty of gross medical misconduct. The Geneva—’
‘SILENCE!’
And out comes the bloody Luger again, and suddenly he’s on his feet pointing it at my head. But not drunk this time: he’s sober and calculating and knows exactly what he’s doing. ‘Guard!’ he shouts, with more than a hint of triumph, and Prien duly enters followed by the two privates. ‘Hauptmann Garland is under arrest for threatening an officer of the Reich. You will escort him to the city police station on Hirschstrasse for imprisonment prior to processing. Go now. I will telephone to alert them of your arrival.’
And there it is. Checkmate, the moment he’s been waiting for since the day I arrived. Handed to him on a plate. Before I know it I’m standing in the lobby with my armed escort wondering what just happened. Prien looks sheepish but businesslike, while Revier residents look on in bemusement. ‘Good luck, Doc,’ one offers helpfully.
Erik appears, hurrying downstairs with my greatcoat and beret. ‘We’ll try and get the rest to you tomorrow.’
‘My notes…’
‘Yes.’ His eyes hold mine. ‘And I’ll do whatever else I can.’
‘Thank you.’ We clasp hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Erik, for, you know…’
‘It’s all right. Keep strong. This isn’t over.’
Then, because I can’t think what else to do, I draw myself up and salute him. Vorst’s door, meanwhile, squeaks open and the man himself appears, looking suitably satisfied. Nor can he resist one final dig.
‘Auf Wiedersehen, Gar-lant.’ He smirks. ‘This is what you get for sympathizing with traitors.’
*
On the very eve of D-Day, just as Theo, John Howard et al were busy seizing the Caen bridges, the traitor in question, Erwin Rommel, was not stoically manning the barricades against the invading Allies, but some five hundred miles away down the road here in Herrlingen celebrating his wife’s fiftieth birthday. For one normally so dedicated and astute, this seems an appalling lapse on his part – akin to Nero fiddling while Rome burned – but the documentation provides an astonishing explanation.
By the end of May 1944 the Germans were as ready for invasion as they’d ever be – largely thanks to Rommel. The Atlantic Wall defences had been greatly upgraded, divisions of extra troops brought in and deployed, formidable anti-ship, anti-tank and anti-aircraft measures installed, and plans drawn up to cover every possible contingency. As usual he was tireless in his labours: constantly on the go, inspecting, improving, training, exhorting, week-in week-out, and having toiled non-stop since his appointment in February was long overdue a break. Everyone knew invasion was imminent, but consulting his weather experts on 2 June he was assured nothing could possibly happen for at least two weeks, as firstly a series of stormy depressions were whipping through the Channel, and secondly the moon and tides were all wrong for landings. Rommel reported this to his superior in
Paris, General von Rundstedt, who thanked him for his work and approved a few days off, whereupon he bought Lucie a pair of expensive silk slippers and headed off to Ulm.
His homecoming, however, was not just about birthdays, or catching up on rest. For according to his diary and the ‘Case Green’ file, he had another vital reason for being in southern Germany.
Lobbying Hitler.
Following weeks of phone calls and behind-the-scenes machinating, Rommel had managed to secure a private audience with the Führer, then ensconced in his Bavarian retreat at Berchtesgaden. Obtaining such a meeting was no small feat; Hitler disliked one-to-one discourse and anyway his working days were planned to the minute. But Rommel was an old protégé and currently in favour following his defence efforts, so approval was eventually granted and an invitation issued.
‘Stay there and await my phone call,’ Hitler’s secretary told him when he got to Herrlingen. ‘Probably around the fifth or sixth of June. Can you tell me what this concerns?’
‘A matter of great importance.’
And indeed it was. For Case Green was his master plan for making peace with the Allies.
‘Germany’s survival hinges on just one strategy,’ he wrote in preparation. ‘The European war as originally conceived is lost, and the war against Russia can never be won. So our efforts must be on saving the Fatherland.’ This, he proposed, meant reaching an agreement with the western Allies before their invasion could take hold. Costly efforts to repel their advance up Italy should be abandoned therefore, he said, and should instead focus on stopping them at the Alpine passes of South Tyrol, which was a far easier prospect. This would release the extra divisions needed to repel the invasion of France. Once repelled and with Germany’s southern and western flanks secure, attention could then turn eastwards, where a concerted effort would halt the Russian advance, at least temporarily. At that point diplomatic overtures would be made to the British and Americans, and an honourable ceasefire procured, followed by a peaceful transition to a post-war scenario, all the while keeping the Bolshevik horde at bay. Rommel spent days formulating the plan, and also discussing it with trusted aides and colleagues. All agreed it made perfect sense, but knew obtaining any form of approval depended on Hitler’s frame of mind – and on Rommel putting it to him alone. Timing, everyone acknowledged, was crucial.
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