by Jana Petken
Romek finished his beer in four large gulps, then he banged the glass on the table. “I want to be sure you understand this, Max. You go near Duguay, and I’ll kill you.”
Redness spread from Max’s neck onto his face as guilt dissolved any retort he might have. “I hear you.”
Romek took a deep breath, then shifted uncomfortably on the hard, wooden stool. “Now, I will give you what you want … Paul asked me to relay two messages. He wants you to know that he redacted your brother Wilmot’s letter because of the sensitive material in it involving enemy combatants. Your younger brother went to Berlin and then to the Afrika Korps in North Africa in August last year, but he has not written since then. Oh, and someone broke into your house in Berlin – destroyed everything in it.”
Max digested the news that had come from Romek in a detached tone. It was worrying that Willie was in the Western Desert where the Germans were desperately clinging to hope and fighting like cornered rats against combined Allied forces. And who the hell would break into my parents’ house? Thinking aloud he said, “I thought Wilmot was in the East … Russia, Poland, maybe. The Afrika Korps are taking a beating…”
“Good.”
“Yes, good.”
“Do you want the second message?”
“Yes, please.”
“Paul wants you to get to know his daughter. Should anything happen to him, he asks that the family makes sure they have access to her after the war.”
Max’s eyes filled. “Damn it, I hate what this war has done to us. The way we casually talk about our mortality.” Then his teary eyes pleaded with Romek. “I hate not knowing what Paul’s got himself into. Can you tell me anything?”
“He’s saving Polish lives. He’s well, as much as any of us can be when we’re sleeping rough most of the time. He is a good doctor, well-liked, and a better man than you or I will ever be. That is all you need to know.”
“Are you treating him well?”
Romek’s eyes narrowed in anger, and Max was instantly sorry for asking the question. “I didn’t mean you, per se, I meant … it must be hard on him to be the only German fighting with Poles against his own countrymen … that’s what I wanted to ask.”
“I told you he’s well-liked, but he’s not the only German. We also have Kurt. You know him.”
Max stuttered, “Kurt … Kurt Sommer … our family driver?”
“Yes. Kurt is also in my unit.”
Romek then told a stunned Max the story of how Paul and his colleagues had smuggled Kurt out of the ghetto. Kurt had been in hiding for three months after being systematically tortured by the Gestapo, and when he was well enough, he volunteered to serve in the Armia Krajowa.
“Kurt is also popular with the Poles. He has proven his loyalty to us tenfold. In fact, he’s in charge of a special unit,” Romek said, adding the slight emphasis.
“Doing what?”
“What doesn’t matter.”
Max nodded. “I’m trying to take this in. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Thank you, Romek. Kurt is the most reliable man I know.”
Although shocked to learn Kurt was a Jew, Max was even more surprised to hear that he’d spent time as a ghetto inmate being tortured every day by the Gestapo. What had happened to make all that come about, and who sent him to Poland?
Max’s brow wrinkled with unwelcome thoughts; if Paul was with Kurt, wouldn’t he already know that their father was alive? If that were so, he’d also know that the family was lying to him when he received the letters Max had in his pocket. “My family has been worried sick about Paul and about Kurt. We were talking about him yesterday, wondering what had become of him. Again, thank you for taking him and Paul in, Romek. You have my eternal gratitude.”
Romek sniggered. Animosity flooded his face as he wagged his index finger in Max’s direction. “I didn’t do any of this for you. Believe me, Paul and Kurt’s relationship to you didn’t do them any favours. If anything, you made it harder for them to win my trust. In fact, had I not seen straight away that Paul’s character was entirely different than yours, I would have killed him.”
“For God’s sake! I’m sick of the jibes and the knives you’re sticking in me every five minutes,” Max finally snapped. “I know how you feel about me. You don’t stop reminding me what a disappointment I am to you, but Christ … I wish I hadn’t left my family to meet with you today.”
Max got up to leave, despite being desperate to hear more about what had precipitated Paul’s desertion from the German Army. He had had enough. He wouldn’t beg the petty-minded Pole or kiss his damn feet for information or spend any more of his precious time in his company. “I know you hate me, and you’ll never forgive me for being a deceitful swine, a rotten bastard, a backstabber … but you need to get over it. For Christ’s sake, let it go.”
After he’d unburdened himself, Max cursed his own stupidity. Whilst rebuking Romek, he’d forgotten about the letters he was carrying for Paul. He went into his coat pocket and brought out one envelope containing notes from his family, including one of his own.
“This mail is for Paul. If not for me, will you give it to him on my mother’s behalf?”
“After all you’ve done and said, you want me to do you a favour?” But then Romek gestured to the envelope. “Give it to me.”
“Thank you,” Max mumbled, as Romek slipped the envelope into his briefcase.
Romek stared up at Max, a flash of regret crossing his soulful eyes. “This meeting was a mistake. This isn’t the first time I’ve come back to London, and it won’t be the last, God willing, but we won’t meet again. I don’t forgive you. I never will, and I will not let it go, not today, not ever.” He gestured to the door. “Go … and take you tender conscience with you.”
Max swallowed painfully. “I understand. Goodbye, Romek, and good luck.”
After Max left Romek with the same coldness that was in their icy hello, he took a brisk walk across Regent’s Park to settle his nerves. Then he returned to MI6 headquarters for his final briefing with Heller and the other relevant intelligence sections that dealt with North Africa.
His final orders received and with only twenty minutes until he had to leave for the designated RAF aerodrome, Max sat in the staffroom and quickly scribbled a letter to his parents with news of Wilmot, Paul, and Kurt’s situations. He handed it to one of the secretaries to put in with the next Bletchley mail drop. Before leaving the offices, he placed a telephone call to Judith to tell her that he loved her and to further commit her sweet voice to his memory.
On the ride to the Royal Airforce aerodrome, he went through his meeting with Romek. He looked at his wedding band, which Romek had either not noticed or had not wanted to comment on. The Pole would find out eventually, for Paul would read about the marriage in the letters he and Judith had sent him and would tell Kurt and Romek the good news. Romek’s resentment would grow, no doubt, when he learnt that the man who had stolen his wife had married a new lover. To hell with Romek, Max thought. He was done feeling guilty.
“We’re here, sir,” the driver said, pulling up at the gates to the base.
Max got out of the car to a gust of wind that almost blew his cap off. He signed in at the guard house then walked to the Aerodrome’s main building. He was nervous. No Cairo awaited him this time – fiery sand and desert battles lay ahead.
Chapter Thirty
Max Vogel
Tunisia, North Africa
25 March 1943
Max arrived at the front immediately after the Allies’ failed assault on the German defensive lines at Mareth. The British Eighth Army had managed to establish a bridgehead west of Zarat, near Tebaga Gap in eastern Tunisia. It was close to a low mountain pass located in rocky, broken terrain that led to the northern and eastern coastal plains, much of which were uninhabited. It was not where they had expected to halt, however, and the mood was grim.
Since his return to North Africa, Max quickly learnt the differences between operations in the field and r
aw combat. The intelligence services were involved in a more subtle and cohesive conflict where one sought to outdo an enemy on a mental rather than physical level and defeat foes by using information as its primary weapon. The chaos and violence of open warfare had taken him to a place he had only experienced briefly once before; the long twenty-four hours he’d spent in Poland on the day the Germans invaded that country. Here in Tunisia, there were no made-up names or nationalities to hide behind, no hotel rooms in which to sleep peacefully, no games or trickery, and no retreat. This was not the civilised, although at times dangerous, war he was used to, and his fear was palpable in his dry, scratchy throat.
On his second day there, Max was summoned to Command Headquarters, which was located inside a subterranean cavern dug into the side of a rocky hill. He had seen many such dwellings in this area, for west of the Matmata Hills, harsh temperature changes and lack of moisture forced the indigenous people to live in rock-cut or quarry caves, as they had for thousands of years. Now, these former Tunisian homes were being sequestered for the Allies’ needs. Staff officers slept in them, men from the army signal and administration branches worked in them, and some were being used as temporary field hospitals until the army’s next major advance.
Max squeezed his eyes shut and then slowly opened them to adjust to the dimness inside the cavern. The air was fresh with a strange light breeze that entered from some unseen orifice in the rock and circulated sufficiently to dry his sweaty face. He removed his hard helmet, tilted his head back to the aerated spot above him, breathed deeply, and enjoyed the heaven-sent respite. He had not been given a temperate cavern to work from; instead, the intelligence branch had tents that were unbearably hot during the day and freezing cold at night. On missions, he was usually the senior officer, but here, with every man and his dog present, he was a small toad in a large pond.
In the first cavern, a soldier sat on a stool banging furiously on the keys of a typewriter that sat on a rickety wooden table. Another British private leant against a granite wall watching the man work. His helmet, tucked under his arm, was white with stone and sand dust, and he held his rifle loosely in his hand, letting its strap trail on the ground. He raised his stooping figure to full height when Max appeared and said, “Major.”
“Where is the briefing being held?” Max asked.
The corporal at the typewriter started to rise.
“No, Corporal, carry on with what you’re doing,” Max said, thinking how bizarre it was to see a clerk inside a cave.
“The general’s ‘ere, Major, sir,” the private said with a cockney accent. “Briefing’s in a cave right down there, right at the end. Yer can’t miss it.”
Max nodded and made his way along the passage that had been pointed out to him. It was lit by paraffin Tilley lamps supplemented with additional candles in wall brackets.
General Montgomery and his staff officers were talking about the map that was pinned to a wooden easel. It was a small room, forcing the men to bunch together from the front to the exit. Max had arrived late for the briefing, having just been informed about it, but Montgomery, standing on a crate so he could see everyone in the room, spotted him and called him out for his tardiness.
“And who are you?” Montgomery’s booming voice asked.
Max cleared his sand-filled throat. “Major Vogel, General. I apologise, sir. I got the message –”
“Ah yes, Major Vogel. Colonel Jenkins has something for you. He’ll get to you when we’ve finished here. In the meantime, listen in to what the colonel has to say.”
Max had never spoken to or seen General Montgomery before today. He’d also never heard the men say a bad word about him. Monty, as he was affectionately known by his troops, was a living legend in their eyes. He was admired for his brilliance but also for his somewhat unorthodox and eccentric habits, such as the way he dressed; he looked as though he were on his way to play a spot of golf, with his short-sleeved khaki shirt and a green silk scarf hugging his neck, tucked in cravat-style above the top button.
Not involved in the following day’s attack, Max’s mind wandered to a conversation he’d had on his way to the Allied Front with a couple of Eighth Army drivers. Here in the desert, General Montgomery was surrounded by doting devotees.
‘E don’t get on that well at times wif’ ‘em other bigwigs. I ain’t never spoken to ‘im, but ‘e ain’t done no wrong by us. We’d follow ‘im anywhere. Ain’t that right, Alfie?’ one of the men asked his colleague.
‘That’s right, Jim.’
Then Alfie told Max, ‘Monty don’t like them Yanks that much eiver, but who the ‘ell does?’
Alfie then gave an even stronger opinion, probably because Max had no rank insignia on his combat uniform and had not told the men who he was. ‘Some of them British officers are right pansies compared to Monty. I ain’t talking ‘bout them wot gets their ‘ands dirty, but most don’t know their arses from their elbows ‘alf the time. We ‘ave faith in the general. ‘E’s a real man’s man wif’ us lot.’ Max didn’t volunteer that officials in London, including Heller, were often frustrated by Monty’s arrogance and disdain for military procedures.
Max, nudged accidentally by the lieutenant standing next to him, pushed his thoughts of Montgomery aside and gave the briefing his full attention.
“…tomorrow, the New Zealand Corps will start their assault into the Tebaga Gap on a two-brigade front; however, Operation Supercharge II will begin tonight with RAF heavy bombers attacking German transport and communications hubs. These attacks will be followed by fighter-bombers who will begin relays of low-altitude pattern bombing to disorganise the Axis forces and take out their airfields. And these will continue as we move forward.” Then he addressed General Montgomery. “Sir?”
Montgomery stood again on the crate, puffed out his chest, and began with a rebuke. “Although it was not a fiasco, I don’t want a repeat of last week’s failure to break out. Penetrating the German lines and establishing a bridgehead west of Zarat was all well and good, gentlemen, but it was not good enough. We must be able to take ground and keep it. We cannot allow another German counterattack by the 15th Panzer Division to destroy our pocket.”
Montgomery’s small round eyes swept the room and the men in it. He had a compelling gaze. “If we are going to take the German defences at the Mareth Line, we need to get across the Wadi Zigzaou with a strong enough force to remain on the other side of it. We will not retreat to this side again like a flock of damn ducks going forwards and backwards from shore to shore.” He walloped his fist into his open palm. “The Mareth Line is the Desert Fox’s last stand. It will be his final battle – it will be our final major battle in North Africa – we know it, and he knows it. We are going to chase him all the way to the Mediterranean Sea…”
Max knew Montgomery was talking about Field Marshal Rommel, often known as the Desert Fox. It was rumoured in Westminster that the general refused to say Rommel’s name and had ordered his men not to speak it in front of him. Monty, it appeared, was jealous of Rommel’s godlike reputation.
“…we know the bulk of the Axis forces are holed up in reinforced French fortifications that are protected by the two steep-sided ravines, the Wadi Zeuss and the Wadi Zigzaou which we failed to take and hold last week,” Montgomery, again emphasising the word failure, stared accusingly at his officers. “We also know that the gap between the two Wadis is filled with minefields and that the Axis main defences are on the north side of the Wadi Zigzaou, which means we have to go through highly explosive ground – yet we will not stumble, gentlemen … not this time …no, I will not allow it. We will break out of here and take this line, or by God, we may live to rue the day we let Rommel slip through our fingers.”
Colonel Jenkins, who had done most of the talking, remained behind after Montgomery left, followed by a flurry of nervous aides-de-camp and other officers. Max, waiting for Jenkins to call him over, was disappointed he hadn’t got the chance to speak to the general after all and wonder
ed what his orders were.
The colonel lit a cigarette, plopped into a wooden chair, and then finally called Max over. “Major Vogel, what I’m going to ask is not in your job description, but we are in full battle preparations, and we need every man in the Eighth to be ready to move with their units.” The colonel drew on his cigarette and then dropped his superior rank façade. “I’ll be honest, Major … we don’t have the right men to pull off this job. Don’t get me wrong, we do have soldiers who might qualify, but they don’t have enough experience. You, on the other hand, are old hat at this, and you’ve recently arrived … you’re fresh, yes?”
Max nodded, wishing the man would get to the point.
“Of course, your intelligence subordinates are available, but the general believes this is too damn important to send in an untested man. You understand, don’t you, Major? I mean, you’d think we’d find German speakers who could handle this, but bottom line, when the general and I spoke yesterday, you came to mind … well, you are German by birth, after all … you’ll fit right in. I was saying last week…”
“What is the job, Colonel?” Max interrupted before the rambling fool digressed to a conversation that had nothing to do with whatever his bloody orders were.
“You’re going out tonight,” Jenkins said, as if the outing were to the nearest pub for a pint.
“Yes, sir,” Max responded, going straight into his pocket for his cigarette packet.
“The general needs … I need you to get across the Wadi Zigzaou and into the Mareth Line dressed as a German officer.”
Max inadvertently gulped. “I see.”
“You must collect as much information as you can on Axis troop numbers, how many panzers they have within range, and what air strength they have available to them.”
Max was genuinely confused and struggling with the questions on the tip of his tongue for fear of sounding impertinent or cowardly. By his speech and haughty bearing, Colonel Jenkins had evidently been an old school, plum-in-the-mouth, Army Officer Cadet who probably still had his valet with him and thought he was a member of the aristocracy. He’d most likely never been behind enemy lines. He was the sort of condescending prig whose power far exceeded his brains and experience.