by C. T. Wells
Josef followed her into the main room and nodded at the group of men. He set the box containing the uniform on the dining table and looked at the farmer.
‘This is Anton,’ explained Giselle. ‘He is with us. This is his place. You can speak freely. What has happened?’
‘My staffelkapitan is suspicious. He saw the dental work they did in England.’
‘What dental work?’
Josef pointed to the crown on his broken tooth. ‘This. I hurt my mouth trying to get away from the English. But they arranged for me to get patched up so I could go straight back into active duty. They needed me here. To help you.’
‘And now your officer knows about this? This dental work?’
‘He used to be a doctor. Some sort of specialist. He notices such things.’ Josef shook his head. ‘And he is a cautious man. Even more than cautious.’
‘Meticulous?’ offered Giselle. He was faltering with his English. A sign of stress.
‘Yes. So he started asking questions. He got my Luftwaffe medical records sent from Berlin which show I had no dental history before I was deployed to France. I got to it first, but I am sure he suspects me.’
‘What will he do? Report you to the Gestapo?’ Giselle asked.
Josef shrugged. ‘Right now he is doped to the eyeballs with morphine. But if he wakes up … I don’t know. Maybe he will tell someone.’
Martin stepped closer. ‘Listen, Josef. You are helping us, so we will help you. You are not in immediate danger. You may not be in danger at all. So let’s get through this afternoon and then we can think about what happens next. We can probably help you to escape . To disappear from the Luftwaffe, if necessary. To start a new life.’
Josef looked him in the eye. ‘You don’t understand. I don’t want to leave my staffel. They are my brothers.’
Anton cut in, full of bluster. ‘If you want to fight for Germany we are sworn to oppose you!’
Josef glanced at the farmer, then at Giselle. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
Martin intervened, speaking French more quickly than Josef could follow. It calmed Anton and he agreed to go on sentry duty while the others worked in the barn. A moment later, Anton was sitting with his feet up on the window sill and an old rifle across his lap; on duty, distracted. Terese kept on with the washing and the others retreated to the privacy of the barn.
Martin unpacked the box containing the uniform. ‘Thank you, Josef. I know this is not easy for you.’
Josef shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’
Martin quickly removed his farm clothes. He was clean because he had not been out working in the heat. He had shaved, not an everyday event for him. As he pulled on the uniform, Giselle watched a strange transformation come over her brother.
He looked the part. The uniform was tailored for another man, but it fit him quite well. He pulled on the polished shoes and found them to be satisfactory. Then he placed the hat over the dark curls of his hair. It was an officers’ hat with the silver eagle insignia above the peak. Giselle looked over the two men. There was no denying that the two of them were smart figures in the tailored uniforms of Luftwaffe officers. For all their evil ways, the Nazis knew how to make a man look impressive.
Last, Martin fixed the belt around his waist with a holster attached to the right hip—identical to Josef’s. ‘No pistol?’
‘You only asked for a uniform.’
‘No matter.’ Martin picked up one of the Ballester–Molina pistols hidden in the barn and unscrewed the silencer. He jammed the bulky pistol into the holster made for a Walther and covered it with the leather flap. He considered the silencer for a moment. It wouldn’t fit in the holster so he tucked it into his pocket.
‘What does all this mean?’ Martin waved a hand at the badges and medals across his chest and shoulders.
‘Yellow shoulder flashes mean you’re Fliegerkorps. Aircrew. The gulls and wreath show your rank as Hauptmann. The star you’re wearing on the left breast means you’re a veteran of the Spanish war. The cross on the right is a Spanienkreuz in gold. It has intersecting swords because you’re a combatant. It was awarded for extraordinary service in the Legion Condor.’
‘No Iron Cross?’ Martin had a look of mock disappointment on his face.
Josef didn’t see the humour in it. ‘Not yet.’
‘Show me how to salute properly.’
Josef demonstrated. ‘If something goes wrong while you’re gone, I’m going to say you hijacked me at gunpoint, stole the car and uniform and imprisoned me here.’
Martin grinned. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
Josef shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you are intending to do and I don’t want to know.’
‘Well, you’ll soon find out.’
‘How?’
‘Have you got the car key?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. You’re driving.’
‘What?’
‘You’re coming with me.’
‘No I’m not. I’ve done everything I said I would.’
Martin shrugged. ‘Come on, Josef. You’re good for credibility. What’s a Hauptmann without a Feldwebel?’
Giselle watched as Josef shook his head. But what could he do?
Martin turned to kiss her farewell. He took the attaché case from Edouard and they shook hands.
Giselle turned to Josef. ‘I will radio the Cardinal about Melitta this afternoon. Trust me. We’ll get her to Switzerland.’
Glowering, Josef turned and followed Martin out to the Citroën.
***
On Martin’s directions Josef drove to the Route Nationale where the heat shimmered on the black tar. They turned south. Josef had the window down, but he felt the sweat rolling down the back of his neck. His face was fixed in a rigid stare. What was he getting into?
Martin seemed relaxed. Too relaxed. It was unnatural. He commented on how comfortable the Citroën was. ‘Wonderful French design, wouldn’t you say?’
Josef said nothing as they drove through the Normandy countryside. At a crossroads they had to stop at a German checkpoint while civilian lorries heading north towards Cherbourg were inspected. Rumours of people smuggling food into the cities and searches were common. The road was temporarily blocked as the search took place. At the side of the road a Panzer tank in mottled camouflage squatted on its massive tracks. The tank crew sat on top with their sleeves rolled up. They were smoking and trying to catch a little breeze, not the least bit concerned about another vehicle with German markings waiting to pass through.
Beyond the cluster of Germans was a field and in the middle–distance, a French peasant was coaxing a sway–backed horse to pull a plough. It looked like either the farmer or the horse could drop at any minute.
‘Look at this!’ Martin said. ‘This scene captures the whole problem perfectly. You see that farmer? How long will he take to plough that field in the heat? That animal looks like it should have gone to the knackery ten years ago. But here, here, and here, idle by the side of the road are men and machines who could plough that field in an hour …’
The Leutnant in charge of the checkpoint stepped out onto the road and waved them through. Josef negotiated past the other vehicles and accelerated along the Route Nationale. All the while, Martin kept talking. ‘What a waste! That tank was fitted with a gun. What if it was fitted with a plough? Or what if a tractor had been made instead? You could probably make five tractors for the cost of one tank. Maybe ten. This is the economics of tanks and tractors.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Well, a lot of people say that about socialism, but who’s really tried it? Russia is no example. But if we stopped trying to steal each other’s resources and got on with creating them for the good of all—’
‘Listen. Your ideas aren’t worth a thing in the real world right now.’
‘Some ideas are worth fighting for, Josef.’
‘Here’s an idea. Shut up.’
‘You need me to tell you where we’re going.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘In a few minutes, there’s a road off to the left at Mont à la Quesne. Take it.’ There was a brief moment of silence. ‘How’s the fuel? We don’t want to run out of fuel today.’
‘Fuel’s fine.’
‘Everything’s running well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I would expect so. It’s a French car, after all.’
Josef frowned. Was he trying to be funny? At Mont à la Quesne he made the turn and headed east along a lane lined by hedges. Every so often he glimpsed the roof of a substantial home set well back from the road. Martin directed him towards a gated driveway and Josef swung the Citroën in. Beyond the sprawling gardens and lawns was a château.
Built of brick and draped in ivy, it had a steeply pitched tile roof punctuated by chimneys and dormer windows. Two wings, each three storeys in height spread from a central tower. Each wing had casement windows overlooking the gardens. Josef had seen fine colonial buildings in South Africa, but this part of France was dotted with wealthy châteaux that surpassed anything he had ever seen. It was no surprise the Germans had commandeered the place.
Just inside the gate was another checkpoint. A sentry hut, sandbags and a cantilevered boom gate. It was manned by two soldiers with machine pistols ported across the front of their Luftwaffe uniforms. Josef recognised the uniforms as Fallschirm–Panzer Division 1. It was an élite, armoured division, created by Goering as a ground force to complement his air force. Being such a humble man, Hermann Goering had named the division after himself. These men were probably amongst those who had defeated the French tank squadrons in the fall of France. Amongst the occupation force, they were spoken of with respect. If they were deployed as perimeter guards at a German base, that only meant there was something important to protect. Josef stopped the car. He idled the motor but his heart was racing. Was Martin really expecting they would enter this place?
Martin opened the window as one of the soldiers approached the car. The soldier saluted smartly and both Martin and Josef followed suit from within the confines of the vehicle.
The guard leant in on Martin’s side. ‘Good day, sir. Would you mind stating your name and business?’
‘Hauptmann Erich Meier. Here to collect a reconnasissance film.’ His German was perfect.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. Acting on orders from the Intelligence Directorate.’
‘Very well, sir. One moment.’ The soldier returned to a tiny, demountable hut by the gate and used a field telephone to communicate with someone at the château. They were alone for a moment.
‘How do you know about the Intelligence Directorate?’ whispered Josef.
‘No offense, Josef, but it pays to know one’s enemy.’
Josef drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Citroën.
‘Relax, Josef. Do it right. Do it for your sister.’
The guard returned inside a minute and told Josef to park by the coach house at the rear. Josef nodded his thanks. Just as he drove through the checkpoint, another vehicle swung into the compound behind them—a large, black saloon that would have looked the part in a gangster flick. Josef recognised it as a Mercedes 260D. He swallowed hard. A civilian vehicle of that sort in a military location was bad news.
He drove on and pulled up alongside a small row of vehicles outside the coach house to the rear of the main building. There were a couple of other civilian vehicles, a courier’s motorcycle and a field grey kubelwagen. The Mercedes came to a halt nearby. It would not be surprising if the château served as a regional Gestapo headquarters as well as a Luftwaffe communications and intelligence centre.
‘Just wait here for a moment,’ Josef said. ‘We don’t want to run into them.’
Two men got out of the Mercedes. The first one was medium height, trim and refined. Handsome in a bland sort of way, like a shop mannequin. If the Gestapo ever thought of running their own department store, this one could have stood in the window, modelling dark hats and trenchcoats for all seasons.
The second man was a blunt instrument: short, broad–shouldered and thick–necked. He had fleshy features on a closely–cropped head. He, too, was wearing a long coat despite the heat. For men who didn’t have to wear a uniform, they had arrived at remarkably similar choices of attire. They probably used up all their imagination on thinking up new torture techniques.
Policemen were generally held in contempt by Luftwaffe pilots. To be a 109 pilot you had to be the very best. But even flat–footed, dim–witted army rejects could join the Gestapo if they showed enough fanaticism for the party.
As the policemen walked by the Citroën, the mannequin–man gave a courteous nod towards Josef and Martin. Then they both strode away along a gravel path towards the château. The one who looked like a wrestler was pulling a cigarette case from his coat and didn’t even glance at them.
Josef and Martin sat quietly in the Citroën. After a moment Martin spoke. ‘Gestapo?’
‘Yes. They work in pairs. One is probably an Inspekteur, the other is his Kriminalrat. Their job is to find people like you.’
‘Seems I found them first.’ Martin smirked. ‘Let’s go.’
Josef studied Martin for a moment. Yes, he had the bearing of a Luftwaffe officer and his German was even better than Josef’s, given his faint South African accent. Martin could easily pass as a native of Cologne or Bonn. But some things were not quite right. His hair was too long, though the uniform cap covered most of it. There was something else that troubled Josef about Martin’s disguise. The Condor Legion insignia and the spanienkreusz medal sewn onto the breast were a problem. Langer had served in Spain, and, looking at Martin, he appeared to be very young to have flown in the civil war in the 1930s. Too young for his rank and experience. Langer was at least ten years older. An ignorant person might be impressed by the medal. It might help. But an astute observer may notice something was awry.
‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Martin.
Josef stared straight ahead. ‘I’m just thinking. I don’t want you to get caught.’
‘Awfully kind of you, Josef. Is something wrong?’
‘Everything’s wrong. Just don’t go saluting everyone around here. It might be the rules, but it’s unnatural. People will defer to you. You’re a decorated veteran. What exactly do you need to do?’
‘I need to find the reconnaissance film archives. Where do you think they’ll be?’
Josef rubbed his temples and sucked air through a dry mouth. He was committed now. Boots and all. He had no choice but to help Martin succeed. Do it for Melitta. Get it done, and get back to the staffel.
‘Where do you think the films are kept?’ repeated Martin.
Josef looked at the building, swallowed hard. ‘If I had to guess, I would say the films are in a cellar for a few reasons. One, it minimises exposure to light that would damage film. Two, it would better protect them from aerial bombing or artillery. And, thirdly, if I was working in this château, I’d want a room with a view of the garden. I wouldn’t waste it on storage.’
‘Very perceptive, Josef. What would be the chance of the British bombing this place to oblivion from the air?’
‘Next to nothing. That’s why they’ve chosen a place in the middle of the peninsula. It’s still in range of British bombers, but so is Berlin. But here, they’re pretty safe. By the time bombers crossed the coast and navigated here, our radar would have picked them up and our 109s would have intercepted them. I don’t think this place could be bombed. If they thought there was a serious risk, there would be an anti–aircraft battery.’
Martin nodded his thanks. ‘You have just confirmed it for me. Aerial bombing is no
t an option. We have to do this.’ He stepped out of the car carrying the attaché case. Josef got out and smoothed down his uniform. They walked along the path to the château’s entrance. The gravel crunched loudly underfoot. Every sound was magnified in his mind, announcing his treason to the world.
The stocky Gestapo man in the long coat was still outside, smoking. He paid no attention to the two men in Luftwaffe uniforms approaching the door.
Martin led the way and they walked straight past and up the steps into the central hall of the château. The place was relatively quiet. There was a woman in a crisp–looking Wehrmacht uniform at a reception desk. The other Gestapo man—the more refined one—was ascending the stairs to the upper floor. He turned at the landing and vanished from sight.
‘Hauptmann Meier?’ asked the woman. Their arrival had been telephoned from the gatehouse.
‘Yes,’ Martin said, leaning in, ‘but you can call me Erich.’
The woman blushed ever so slightly. She was on the brink of middle–age and the attention of a handsome young officer with a raffish grin seemed most welcome. ‘Thank you, sir. Ah, Erich. How can I help?’
‘Could you direct me to the photo–reconnaissance office?’
‘Photo–reconnaissance is in the west wing. Would you like me to take you there?’
‘Thank you, but I think we can probably make it around the corner.’
Her eyes flicked downwards. ‘Of course. If there’s anything I can do to help …’
‘I’ll be sure to ask.’
Josef followed as they crossed to the carpeted hallway and turned right. The west wing had two major rooms, one on each side of the central passage, and both quite open.
The first was at the rear of the château. It had once been a grand dining room but was now blacked out and equipped with a film projector and screen. A uniformed technician was tinkering with the projector; changing a globe or something. They kept walking.
The room at the front had been a lounge or drawing room, but now contained a large chart table and stacks of cardboard tubes that probably contained maps for the invasion of England. No-one was there.