Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

Haefali strode forward, giving himself some space from his commander.

  His voice lifted across the massed ranks.

  “Parade… parade… Général salute… present… arms!”

  In the way that martial sights can bring the full range of emotions, the sight and sound of five thousand men offering their tribute to Knocke left a lump in his throat.

  But not as big a lump as came next.

  “Parade… parade… attention!”

  The clash of hands and weapons was almost gunshot perfect.

  “Parade… parade… on my command… now!”

  Five thousand throats gave voice to thirteen words.

  “Mon Général! Legio patria nostra. Honneur et Fidélité! Nous sommes à vos ordres!”

  Knocke sprang onto the Krupp and stood on the back, and offered his own tribute to the men who had decided to follow him.

  Saluting in all directions, he tried as best he could to keep moisture from his eyes, but failed.

  ‘What men these are… what wonderful men…’

  “Parade… parade… left… turn!”

  The men turned as ordered and drumbeats rose from a previously unseen group of musicians.

  “Parade… parade… by the front… march!”

  The drum marked the slow steady beat of the Legion march.

  The first echelon started to move off the field but Haefali had not finished with them yet.

  “Parade… parade… Le Boudin!”

  The classic legion marching song sprang from five thousand lips, and Knocke’s joy was complete, his pride at the men under his command never greater than this moment.

  …Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin

  Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses et les Lorrains.

  Pour les Belges y en a plus.

  Pour les Belges y en a plus.

  Ce sont des tireurs au cul.

  Pour les Belges y en a plus.

  Pour les Belges y en a plus.

  Ce sont des tireurs au cul…

  Knocke shook Haefali’s hand

  “Thank you, Albrecht. That was well done… very well done indeed.”

  “Not my idea, mon General. A deputation came to me in the late hours. The men were very insistent. They worked it out themselves and just wanted you to understand that they’ll follow you to the gates of hell… and through if necessary.”

  They shook hands slowly and with meaning.

  “The trust and comradeship of men… it’s a wonderful thing, Albrecht… a privilege that men give to their commanders… but it’s also a huge burden… as you already know. At least Camerone is safe… let’s hope that the other units have been equally fortunate.”

  Unfortunately for the Legion Corps, the number of returnees in the other formations was far greater

  De Lattre’s subsequent meeting with the Corps hierarchy quickly established that a reorganisation was necessary, a reorganisation that meant that the Corps D’Assaut was greatly reduced.

  To add insult to injury, the reduction was accompanied by orders that requisitioned some of the French-built Panthers, reducing the Corps even further, although a subsequent delivery of brand-new Schwarzpanthers and Schwarzjagdpanthers was made direct from German factories as part of an agreement between the two nations.

  They were remarkable weapons of war, but simply not enough.

  In order to bolster the weakened Corps materiel, men on ‘leave’ were dispatched to all corners of Allied Europe in search of anything that could be used, should the battle be rejoined.

  Camerone was the only formation of any size but more resembled a reinforced brigade in reality, until Tannenberg was absorbed into its ranks.

  The other legion units were formed into small all-arms brigades that came under the control of the Alma Division.

  Both units came under the command of the Legion Corps D’Assaut, to which Lavalle was appointed as commander.

  The 1er Division D’Infanterie became part of the Corps by De Lattre’s direct intervention, thus bringing all Legion units in Europe under one unified command.

  There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies.

  Martin Luther King Jr.

  Chapter 179 - THE REUNION

  1148 hrs, Thursday, 7th November 1946. Headquarters of Camerone Division, Kuttenberg, Bohemia, Czechoslovakia.

  Ahron Mandl accepted Knocke’s outstretched hand.

  “Thank you, Herr Knocke, thank you.”

  “I wish you luck on your journey home, Herr Mandl.”

  Knocke turned and picked up the bottle provided by Hässelbach.

  “For you, courtesy of my supplies officer.”

  “Again, thank you, Herr Knocke. I wonder if I could ask a favour before I go?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you please take this letter for me? I’m sure the army system will be more effective than anything civilian authorities have developed. I’ve started another which I’ll send by different means… or maybe from home.”

  Knocke accepted the letter and made a cursory examination of the address.

  “Your father?”

  “Son… my father… well…he is gone… this is for my son.”

  “I understand. Biarritz though?”

  “He was a child when we placed him with friends… to avoid the inevitable… you understand.”

  “A wise precaution, Herr Mandl.”

  Knocke slipped into a more formal mode.

  “The transport officer has orders to take you to Prag. These are rail orders for you as far as Carlsbad. This is a safe passage order signed by myself. I regret, the journey from Carlsbad to your home is one I cannot guarantee.”

  “Pechöfen’s not so far. I’m used to walking… and am stronger now, thanks to your doctors… and you, of course.”

  “Best of luck to you, and I hope you find your son.”

  “Thank you, Herr Knocke.”

  [Carlsbad, Kuttenberg, Pechöfen, and Prag are modern-day Karlovy Vary, Kutná Hora, Smolné Pece, and Prague respectively.]

  1150 hrs, Sunday, 10th November 1946, office of the Commander [Special Projects], Moscow Military District Mechanised Units Directorate, Arbat District. Moscow, USSR.

  The secretary looked him up and down with something approaching disdain.

  “Your orders.”

  She held out an imperious hand that Kriks filled with his documentation.

  “Ah, Praporschik Kriks.”

  The woman almost melted and became a different and decidedly more receptive person before his eyes.

  From harridan to courtesan in an instant.

  “The General instructed that you were to be shown in straight away, Comrade Kriks.”

  She rose from behind the desk and moved to the ornately carved door, knocking and opening it all in one easy movement.

  “Comrade General, Praporschik Kriks is here.”

  She beckoned the bewildered NCO forward and into the General’s office.

  Kriks had been plucked from his position in the 1st Guards Rifle Division and summoned to whatever he had just been summoned to without a say in the matter, and he was mystified and angry in equal measure.

  Both feelings evaporated in an instant.

  “Thank you, Comrade Leytenant. That will be all… and please see that we are not disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She closed the door as the office suddenly exploded into laughter and the sounds of friends reunited.

  The telephone rang.

  “Mayor General Yarishlov’s office… I’m afraid the General cannot be disturbed at the moment, Comrade Polkovnik… he left precise instructions… certainly… most certainly… I’ll make sure of it, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  She replaced the receiver and settled back into her seat, prepared to defend the privacy of her commander against all comers.

  A patrol of Czech police were summoned to the forest on the southern ou
tskirts of Meziroli, where children playing had discovered a body.

  Those children that remained were quickly chivvied away by the younger officer, as the senior took in the scene and started making notes.

  It was quickly apparent that they were dealing with a murder, or more likely an execution, given the fact that the man had been hung from a tree and carried a placard stuck in the bindings that would have prevented him from struggling as he was trussed and hoisted up off the forest floor.

  His partner returned and wordlessly the sergeant indicated the line holding the corpse aloft.

  It was quickly cut and the senior took the weight and lowered the emaciated corpse to the leafy earth.

  “There’s nothing to him, Svoboda. No weight at all.”

  “Not surprising is it, sergeant?

  “No… I suppose not.”

  He pulled the placard out of bindings, although the single word had been easy enough to read, even when six foot or so above the ground.

  ‘Jüden.’

  Sergeant Kolar fished in the dead man’s pockets, pulling out documents, some of which had official military markings.

  He sat down on a nearby fallen bough and lit a cigarette to help him concentrate.

  “French Army travel documents.”

  “Shall I get the…”

  “Do nothing for the moment, Svoboda.”

  Annoyed at being interrupted, Kolar snapped at his partner, and quickly held up an apologetic hand.

  “Just sit for a moment, man.”

  He continued rummaging through the documents.

  “Letter here… Biarritz eh?”

  “That’s in France.”

  “Thank you so fucking much, encyclopaedia man. I’m not a total fucking peasant.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Safe conduct note… bollocks… definitely something to do with the military then… that Legion uni… ah, now I understand.”

  He chuckled knowingly.

  “Old habits die hard, Svoboda.”

  “How do you mean, Sergeant?”

  “That Legion bunch are all ex-SS hard nuts. A Jew’d be a red rag to them. But they’ve played it safe, giving him lovely paperwork so they could say ‘wasn’t us Mister American, we now love the Jews’.”

  “Really, Sergeant?”

  “Damned fucking right, and we’re having fuck all to do with it as far as those legion bastards are concerned. Go get the spade.”

  “Eh?”

  “Go get the spade, We’ll bury him.”

  “What?”

  “You need a bloody picture? We report this in and Lieutenant Marek’ll have the military all over us, including those SS bastards. Bring nothing but a fucking world of hurt down on our heads.”

  “OK… but…”

  “But nothing. We report back and say that we’re satisfied that there was a body but that family must have come and claimed it. Clear suicide from the children’s description and crime scene. That bastard Marek’s due to transfer in two weeks, at which time I’m back in charge. We’ll have another look at it then. Meantime, I’ll send the papers off to this address in Biarritz… which is… apparently… in fucking France… with a note stating the facts, or actually nothing like the fucking facts… and when the army and Marek have fucked off, I’ll send a note with the results of our proper investigation.”

  “Err… I don’t understand.”

  “That’s why I’m a fucking sergeant and you’ll be the one digging, Svoboda my son.”

  He flicked his cigarette off to one side and shivered involuntarily, the temperature drop suddenly finding its way into his consciousness.

  “Military authority is going to be removed, all good and well, and the area will again become civil police jurisdiction… my jurisdiction… I’ll then reconsider the investigation… and keep the bloody SS and the rest out of it. Quick paperwork exercise and the job’s done, just in case the kids get mouthy. Clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I understand.”

  “Excellent. Now… go and get the fucking spade and let’s get Mister Mandl in the ground.”

  [Meziroli is modern day Sittmesgrün.]

  1533 hrs, Thursday, 14th November 1946, Vnukovo Airfield, Moscow, USSR.

  The band waited expectantly as the unfamiliar aircraft rolled slowly into its allotted position, the waiting dignitaries shuffling uncomfortably in the driving rain.

  As the engines were switched off and their throaty roar stopped rivalling the noise of the impressive wind and rain, the C-54 Skymaster’s door opened.

  A version of the Stars and Stripes greeted the ears of the first man down the stairs who was, unfortunately for the Soviet protocol officer, British.

  Lieutenant General Brian Gwynne Horrocks KCB, KBE, DSO, MC led the delegation that had come to Moscow to establish military protocols for the new frontline to be.

  The Swedish camp was a diplomatic mission primarily and both sides had agreed a different venue should be selected for the purely military exchanges, and the Soviets had suggested the first visit be to Moscow, much to the surprise of the Allies.

  Future exchanges would take place in NATOFE Headquarters in Frankfurt, or back in the Soviet capital, close to where the senior military men controlled the nascent peace.

  Malinin stepped forward and saluted the senior British man, thankful that the band had at least recognised the protocol error enough to stop playing.

  They shook hands and Malinin was shocked as Horrocks spoke in excellent Russian.

  “Marshall Malinin, thank you for the welcome, and congratulations on your recent promotion. Perhaps we should wait for the formal introductions until we are somewhere dry?”

  “Agreed, Comrade General Horrocks. My car.”

  Malinin indicated a large black staff car and ushered his visitor towards it.

  The rest of the Allied deputation paired up with their Soviet counterparts and were directed towards a large coach with comradely gestures and declarations of friendship, all save for the two German officers, for whom there was at best reserve, and at worst a blank face that hid both memories and feelings.

  The final Allied officer to board, a British colonel, had some difficulty in getting his leg up to the high step, but refused the offered hands, preferring to overcome by himself.

  His counterpart, a procurement Colonel from the Ministry of Armaments, spoke reasonable English.

  “So, Comrade Colonel. You are stiff from big flight, eh?”

  “Something like that, Colonel.”

  “Oleg Panteleimonevich Laranin, once being of 2nd Guards Rifle Division, since I got this.”

  He indicated the scar adjacent to his left eye, a wound that had clearly claimed his sight.

  Laranin stuck out his hand and it was accepted.

  “John Ramsey, once of His Majesty’s Black Watch, until I lost these.”

  He rapped a quick pattern on his two wooden legs.

  “Ah, I understanding. So, we both are on the heap now, eh?”

  “Seems so, Colonel.”

  ‘You speak for yourself, Colonel. I’m not on the ‘heap’ by a long bloody way!’

  Ramsey looked around him and suddenly realised why the light was strange.

  The coach windows were all painted grey, obscuring the view.

  He pretended to drop off, whilst debating with himself whether the obscuration was to stop the Allied officers seeing out, or the Soviet population seeing in.

  0900 hrs, Monday, 18th November 1946, the Georgievsky Hall, Grand Kremlin Palace, Moscow.

  Horrocks and his party had been invited to a presentation ceremony at the Kremlin and had accepted, but not without some serious thought.

  After all, those being honoured were men and women who had fought against the Allied forces.

  Two senior members of the delegation requested to be excused, but the rest attended to witness the ceremony in the magnificent vaulted hall, its ornate stone and gold leaf a throwback to an older, less austere age.

  The Al
lied party had a very prominent position at the front of the right aisle, which would enable them to see the General Secretary up close… close but yet so far.

  Since the events surrounding the attempted assassination, something the Allies had generally been unaware of until a Soviet aide let the details slip the day before, security had been tightened up, and more armed personnel added to the force inside the hall, something that inadvertently lent more power to the whole occasion.

  The entire room rose as the members of the GKO assembled, followed by Stalin, who took the central position in front of the carefully selected audience.

  The Kremlin band struck up the national anthem, and the assembly set about singing it with great vigour, save for the members of the Allied party who remained tight lipped but respectfully silent.

  As always, the incredible harmonics of the great hall massively added to the patriotic fervour of the anthem.

  An immaculately dressed and bemedalled NKVD colonel stepped forward to a small lectern, prepared to read each of those to be presented in turn, complete with a small resume of their career and reasons behind their award.

  The recipients would be individually marched up in parade fashion, their steps echoing off the walls, despite the carpet on which they marched to protect the ornate floor.

  As ever, the presentation was carefully stage managed, but this time there was a difference, in that the last man to receive an award was unable to properly march, something that had prevented him from being the first to receive his medal, the normal protocol for one of his rank, given the high honour he was to receive.

  The flow of brave soldiers ended, each presentation having been marked by the hanging of a medal and kisses from Stalin.

  The last man had been granted a seat at the back of the hall and he rose from it on cue and marched forward as best he could.

  What was unusual about this presentation was the growing soft but audible gasps from those assembled as they caught sight of the horrendously wounded man.

  The gasps rumbled throughout the hall, causing those at the front to turn and witness the apparition of a horrendously burned man painfully trying to bring as much military bearing as possible to his procession.