The Bridge

by Robert Radcliffe

  Some time later I have a pub lunch with Theo’s Special Ops handler, Dennis Grant. By now SOE has been disbanded by the new Attlee government, with some staff transferring into what will become MI6, but many simply cast adrift, or sidelined into jobs in insurance or banking. Dennis is one of these and clearly irked by this shoddy brush-off, so perhaps talks more freely than he should, aided by the beer, of his work, his relationship with Theo, and especially the whole Fall Grün affair.

  ‘Case Green never stood a chance,’ he recounts, puffing on a cigarette. ‘Too many chiefs were opposed to it.’

  ‘Military or political chiefs?’

  ‘Both. By then it was all about marching triumphantly into Berlin before the Russians got there, and certainly not doing grubby private deals with Nazi generals. Yet the irony is, if we’d gone along with Fall Grün we’d have been in Berlin months before Stalin, and wouldn’t be in the mess we are now.’

  The ‘mess’ he refers to is Russia currently occupying all of Nazi-held Eastern Europe and still creeping westwards, something he says we should have thought of before embracing our ‘glorious new ally’ in 1941. He continues in this vein, becoming louder and more agitated, until heads are turning, so I buy him another beer and steer the conversation back to Theo, who was regarded highly by Dennis, but cautiously by SOE top brass.

  ‘It was the Rommel connection. The fact that they had a relationship, a rapport even, it made the bosses suspicious. They thought he might be a double agent.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I never considered it for a moment. I trusted him completely. Still do.’

  Tentatively I ask if he has any up-to-date information, but he just shrugs.

  ‘I’m off the payroll, remember. The last time I saw him was on our return from Normandy, a few days after Rommel was injured, in July forty-four. At that point he ceased being my operative and resumed being a Para with 2nd Battalion. That was the end of it.’

  ‘Nothing since?’

  He sips beer, and I sense he’s choosing his words. ‘We lost many agents over the years, Doctor, brave men and women sent into the field never to return. You don’t get used to that, nor can I begin to describe how it feels. The guilt, I mean, and the burden of responsibility. Those captured inevitably suffer torture and execution. Many vanish without a trace; only a few survive to tell the tale.’

  ‘Like Theo.’

  ‘Yes, although he was a changed man. But the point is, a good many are still listed as missing, and in my book it falls to us, therefore, their handlers, to find out what happened. So a small group, I’m told, is at work trying to track them down.’

  ‘And you’re in contact with this group?’

  He smiles. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

  *

  Dennis gives me a contact number for Theo’s next of kin and I duly ring it. The man answering turns out to be his mother’s new husband, Nicholas Abercrombie. Carla is in the Hague, he says, leading a delegation promoting South Tyrolean autonomy. When I ask him about Theo he confirms they knew he was alive and a POW but that was all.

  ‘His mother has had to grow accustomed to hearing nothing from Theodor for long periods,’ he adds a little stiffly.

  ‘Do you mean they’re estranged?’

  ‘To a great extent, regrettably.’

  He promises to pass her my details and we hang up. Meanwhile, ‘The Rommel Papers’, as I’ve begun calling them, are taking shape, and growing rapidly in size and scope, and the question arises as to what on earth to do with them. The originals, it transpires, were secreted in various hiding places around Herrlingen in an effort to save them both from retreating Nazis and advancing Allies. Most survived, although some were lost or looted, and the Americans confiscated all Rommel’s letters before reluctantly returning them later. I learn this from Gertrud Stemmer, who keeps in touch, and also from Manfred, who writes a touchingly polite letter telling me how he survived the war and is now home with his mother. One of his first acts, he recounts, having surrendered himself to the Allies at Riedlingen, was to hand over the affidavit he and I composed together recounting his father’s death.

  By now various academic papers and articles are starting to appear in the press about military strategies of the war, and I read them with interest. One in particular catches my eye, a newspaper excerpt from a forthcoming book by the eminent historian B. H. Liddell Hart called The Other Side of the Hill. To research it, Liddell Hart was given exclusive access to several imprisoned German generals, including Guderian, von Manstein and even the ageing von Rundstedt, from who he gained a unique and top-level insight into Germany’s military thinking. The excerpt makes fascinating reading: … but one eternal regret, Liddell Hart writes intriguingly, is that I shall never have the opportunity to interview Erwin Rommel, arguably the most important general of them all.

  One telephone call to his publishers later and a meeting is fixed. I approach this with some trepidation, for like it or not I am custodian of an important archive, and the prospect of handing it over to this renowned if controversial historian is not without risk. However, Liddell Hart is charming, complimentary and extremely knowledgeable and I’m quickly won over. Similarly his publisher, Mr Bonham-Carter of Collins, reassures me that a serious job will be done if a book does go ahead. Lean and bespectacled, Liddell Hart talks expertly of Rommel’s achievements, failures and reputation, questions me enviously about my dealings with the family, and describes his ideas for said book, which he suggests might just consist of the papers, edited into date order and little else. ‘Let the man speak for himself!’ he enthuses, going on to suggest we make a joint trip to Germany together to interview Rommel’s relatives and colleagues.

  An attractive notion for more than one reason, but before anything can happen, approval must be sought from the family to hand over the archive. He entirely agrees, we part on good terms, and there’s then a pause of some weeks while letters are exchanged between me and Herrlingen.

  During which I receive a note from someone called Atkins.

  This is by now December 1945, the first peacetime Christmas for six years, and suitably festive despite ongoing rationing and unusually cold weather. However, I don’t feel particularly festive. I’m knee-deep in studies, temporarily housed in a threadbare student’s room at St Thomas’. Damp and cell-like, the room consists of bed, chair and desk, a lukewarm pipe for heating, and windows running with condensation. Unsurprisingly I go down with a bronchial infection, as does much of London, and apart from a few days wheezing at my parents’ house over Christmas, spend most of the holidays shivering in the room pretending to study. One day I return from the pub to find a note under the door.

  ‘A former colleague of Dennis Grant’s has information. Could you meet somewhere to discuss? Atkins.’ Plus a phone number in Bayswater.

  I call the number, a plummy-sounding woman answers and after some confusion I realize she is Atkins. We arrange to meet somewhere public next day – she suggests St James’s Church in Piccadilly – I arrive early, and hang about outside coughing into my handkerchief. Piccadilly is swirling with shoppers and sightseers, many of them still in the military, so when a dark-haired woman in the uniform of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force detaches herself from the crowd and heads my way I’m caught unawares.

  ‘Doctor Garland?’ She holds out a gloved hand. ‘Vera Atkins.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, sorry, I didn’t see you.’

  She offers a tight smile. ‘I suppose that is the idea.’

  We enter the church and take a pew near the back. The building was badly damaged in the Blitz but is now open again. A temporary roof has been erected, much of the remaining structure shows fire damage, but the church is busy with visitors, and someone’s playing carols on the organ. I sit there sniffing, watching the comings and goings, and waiting for Vera to open proceedings. Which she eventually does.

  ‘I gather you knew one of Dennis’s Italian agents. Codenamed Horatio,’ she says in cultured
English.

  ‘Who?’ Then I remember Case Green. ‘Oh, you mean Theo Trickey.’

  ‘No.’ Her tone hardens. ‘That is not correct.’

  She’s testing me, I realize, making sure she’s got the right person. ‘Oh, no, wait, it was André someone… Lad… er, Ladurner. That’s it, Andreas Ladurner.’

  ‘That is the name on file, yes.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I met him once, briefly, here in London in May of last year.’

  ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘I have had no dealings with him at all. I worked for the French section.’

  ‘Oh. Then, what’s…’

  ‘My job was to recruit and train agents to work in occupied France. Both men and women.’

  ‘So what’s the connection with Theo, I mean Andreas—’

  ‘I’m attempting to tell you!’

  Her dark eyes are afire suddenly. And something about the tightness of voice and stiffness of posture suggests suppressed emotions. So I shut up. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘As I said, our section ran agents to work in occupied France, and over the course of the war some hundreds were sent there to do essential but dangerous work. Unfortunately, inevitably you might say, some were betrayed or were caught. And I’m sure you, as a former POW, don’t need me to describe their subsequent treatment.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of those captured agents, fifty-one were unaccounted for at the war’s end, including fifteen women. They were my responsibility and it is therefore my duty to find out what happened to them, obtain justice for any ill treatment suffered, and seek proper recognition for the priceless work they undertook. And if necessary I will make this my life’s work.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘To this end I made a preliminary visit to Germany last month, and will be returning there again in the spring to continue my investigations.’

  She pauses, so I venture a question. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Of the fifteen, at least three have survived, and four remain unaccounted for.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘While eight are known to have been executed.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Indeed, Doctor, but he couldn’t help them. The methods of their murders were barbaric, and include lethal injections of air or phenol followed by cremation whilst still alive, guns fired into the back of the neck, and asphyxiation in gas chambers.’

  A long silence follows. She leans forward in the pew, elbows on knees, as though in prayer. Eventually she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t your concern.’

  ‘Isn’t it everyone’s?’

  ‘I intend to make it so.’ She turns, and manages a small smile. ‘In the meantime, Doctor, do the initials C, CT or AAB mean anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The names Clare Taylor, or Aurélie Anne Bujold?’

  ‘I don’t think…’ Something pricks at my subconscious. Theo’s letter, his one personal effect, was signed with a C. And on the night of Rommel’s exhumation, when we found the cyanide capsule in his throat, Gerhard Brandt spoke to me about a message from his wife, Inge. She’d been posted to some camp as punishment for supplying medicines to POWs. A camp like the one at Belsen she showed me. Tell him not to worry, her message said. Tell him Aurelia’s here.

  Atkins is waiting, and watching me closely. So I take a chance. ‘Oh, yes. Aurélie, now I remember.’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘That, er, she was in a camp.’

  ‘Which camp?’

  ‘Oh, um, what was it…’

  Afterwards. A week or so after the exhumation. Back at the Revier, I go upstairs to question Theo. The day before he vanishes. Who the hell’s Horatio, I demand. And while you’re at it, who’s Andreas Ladurner? And he stonewalls me, pursing his lips and frowning and saying he can’t remember. And then I lose my temper. ‘Then who’s Aurelia!’ I shout. And he cocks his head like a bird.

  Who?

  Aurelia, Theo. She’s at a prison camp. Outside of Munich.

  Which camp?

  ‘Which camp, Doctor?’ Atkins repeats.

  Dachau!

  And the next day he’s gone.

  *

  We part outside the church, where she hands me the envelope, and apologizes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. Force of habit. We never pass information without being absolutely sure it’s going to the right person.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I reply, somewhat giddily.

  ‘It’s a copy of course, and a translation, and only an extract, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘I understand. Good luck with your mission.’

  We shake hands. ‘And you with yours.’

  I don’t read it then, I walk through to St James’s Park, cross Westminster Bridge to the hospital, climb wearily to my freezing garret and slump on to the bed, fully dressed in overcoat, boots and scarf, and feeling like I’m the one that just endured interrogation. Which in a way I have. Leaning to the bedside locker, I extract bottle and glass from among the flu remedies, slop in Scotch and pour it down my throat. Only then, fumbling at my coat pocket, do I pull out the envelope and open it.

  In the autumn of 1944 I was transferred from my position as medical director at Bergen Hospital to a new position at the Dachau internment camp outside Munich. The circumstances of my transfer relate to regulations infringements on my part, and were a demotion. Dachau is a very large SS Konzentrationslager establishment spread over several sites and housing as many as 40,000 inmates and over 1,000 staff. It is not to be confused with camps further east used for mass killings; nevertheless, conditions were appalling for the inmates who were used as slave labour, and many died of maltreatment, disease and starvation. Torture, hangings and shootings were also commonplace. My position was on the medical directorate, teaching at a medical school for military doctors and also working in the staff infirmary.

  As one of the few female doctors on site, I also had access to the women prisoners’ block, which was adjacent to the main camp. Part of this block included a special wing for female political prisoners, saboteurs and agents. Shortly after arriving at Dachau I became aware of four British women being held in this block and arranged to visit them. They were in very poor condition, having been arrested months previously and moved from one place to another on a regular basis. All had suffered torture and all were sick and severely malnourished. Their morale was high, nevertheless, and they spoke to me of the Allies winning the war and eventually being freed. About a week after I visited them, however, a rumour went round that they were to be executed. I tried to visit them again but this was denied, and the following night they were taken outside, made to kneel down and shot in the head. A guard later told me they held hands during this ordeal but made no sounds. Two of their names I since learned were Yolande Beekman and Elaine or Éliane Plewman, but I have been unable to learn the other two names so far. I will continue to investigate the matter, and hope this is of some help in your researches.

  Some weeks later another female British prisoner was brought in and housed in the secure block, and as soon as possible I visited her. She told me her name was Aurelia Bujold, although later confided this was not her real name. She told me nothing of the reasons for her arrest and captivity but it was clear she was being treated as an agent or saboteur like the four earlier women. This meant her fate was likely to be the same, so I began to make efforts to save her. This was by now early in 1945 and it was clear the war would soon be lost for Germany. Many staff at the camp knew this and had begun to make arrangements accordingly, and through contacts I was able to transfer Aurelia to my staff as a prisoner orderly and also get word out that she was alive. This would not save her if orders came through for her execution, but I was able to ensure she suffered no further maltreatment, received proper medical attention and better food.

  Early in April 1945 rumours were strong of imminent German defeat and fears arose as to what the SS would do with the prisoners.
One rumour was they would attempt to murder them all to erase evidence of the abuses. Then in the third week of April word went round that ‘fitter’ prisoners were to be marched south to the Tyrol as hostages of the SS, who were planning a last stand there. Few at the camp believed in such a stand; nevertheless, the arrangements were made and on the 23rd or possibly 24th of April the march began. I arranged to go as part of a medical contingent and Aurelia came too as one of my orderlies. Two days after our departure, I later learned, the order arrived at Dachau for her execution.

  The march was long and hard and the prisoners suffered cruelly. In all an estimated 10,000 began the march, most of them suffering from diseases such as typhus and diphtheria as well as malnourishment and starvation. The pace was slow and the terrain increasingly difficult as we headed generally south towards Bad Tölz. SS guards followed the column, shooting prisoners that fell behind, there was no shelter at night, and no food except what could be scavenged at the roadside. The weather was unseasonably cold too, with temperatures below freezing at night and several days of snow. By the third day about a quarter of the prisoners had died or been left to die; the few medics in the column could do nothing to help them and in any case were in little better condition. On the fourth day I too began to suffer a fever and had to be helped, and it was during this time that Aurelia, who was ill with pneumonia, told me of her real identity, speaking at length of her family, her travels in the Maghreb and Europe and of a man she’d met in Algeria and hoped to marry. Her real name she told me was Clare Margaret Taylor. She wrote this down and asked in the event of her death that this be passed on to you to notify her family.

  On the sixth or seventh day the column had been reduced by over half and was moving only extremely slowly. By now we had passed Bad Tölz and were travelling southeast towards the Tegernsee. It was also noted that many of the guards had deserted and those remaining were unsure how to proceed. During the afternoon we passed the town of Reichersbeuern where we learned that Adolf Hitler had committed suicide in Berlin. Many more guards fled then, in effect abandoning the remains of the column. We proceeded further, the suggestion being that we attempt to seek help and shelter at the next town, which was Waakirchen. I and a few others led an advance party towards the town; Clare Taylor came too, as we were supporting each other. Halfway along this road we came to a bridge crossing a river, and on the bridge, walking slowly towards us with a stick, was a man wrapped in coats and wearing distinctive sand-coloured boots. This man was Clare Taylor’s friend Theodor Trickey whom I had treated in hospital in Bergen and who had walked more than seventy miles from Ulm to find her.