London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  The car sped down the highway, overtaking lorries and other slower traffic as it sped eastward. Simon gazed out of the right side window, oblivious to the flat, cultivated fields and neat polygonal shaped woods that rushed past. He wanted to blot out any thoughts about his dead wife. It was time to concentrate on Schellenberg’s proposal. He cast his mind back to their meeting, only two days ago. At first he had been incredulous. Go back to England, in the middle of a war? Why? How? Dozens of questions had raced through his thoughts. Surely this must be some kind of hare-brained idiocy. But Schellenberg had succinctly outlined the reasons.

  ‘We need somebody to make contact with this man, and soon. The Allies will land imminently, so time is of the essence. It is vital for the future of the Reich that we find out exactly where the invasion will take place. Even if the Allies land before you go, or before you are able to report back, we still need to find out if it’s the main event, or a prelude to a much bigger landing elsewhere. I must know if this man is really giving us worthwhile intelligence, or whether it is all an MI6 plot to further confuse us. Why you, you may ask? A search of our files narrowed down a potential list of suitable candidates to just a few. You happen to have the best collection of attributes, and you are available. Why not one of my current agents? I suspect the British are well aware as to who they all are. And I can’t use any former Abwehr spies on this - Himmler will forbid it. I need someone who is unknown to either side’s intelligence agencies, and has no track record.And being an SS officer, naturally you are completely loyal, thoroughly imbued with National Socialist doctrine, and you will not refuse such an assignment.’ The last sentence was accompanied by an almost tongue-in-cheek smile.

  ‘You have an English mother. You were educated for the most part over there, and lived and worked in London up until the war began. That’s less than five years ago. Your English is fluent and without an accent. We’ll need to update you as to the changes you’ll expect in a country at war. You’ll also need a short course in basic espionage techniques, but you appear to have a quick mind, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty with this. There’s also some jump training, but a day or two at the Fallschirmjäger School at Neureppin should sort that out. You’ll be inserted by air, and extraction will be by U-boat. I still have a safe house in London, unknown to the British that I’ve kept hidden for such an emergency like this. All the pieces are in place, all except you. What do you say?’ Schellenberg’s eyes bored into him.

  Simon had not replied at first. It was just like when he was drafted into the Waffen SS last year: it was an invitation that really could not be refused. And as a serving officer, he could not legitimately refuse an order from a senior officer. The alternative was a court martial for refusing to obey, and from that there could only be one verdict. But which Germany was he now fighting for? Could he really stand behind Hitler’s banner anymore, when all it stood for was dishonour, disgrace and the unspeakable bestiality that was going on in Germany’s name?

  He had looked back at Schellenberg. ‘What will happen to me if I’m captured?’

  Schellenberg looked him in the eye. ‘I think you know the answer to that one. You’d have just the same chance of survival if the Russians captured you - probably zero’. Simon nodded. At least Schellenberg was being brutally honest. It was just a little test on his part. Simon was well aware that a spy caught in the act, even if he was a serving officer, would have little chance of survival. This game was far too deadly for any other outcome.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, levelly. ‘I’ll do it’.

  Schellenberg had smiled and stuck out his hand. ‘Excellent. I’m glad you’ve accepted, although we both know you really had little choice. Training will start first thing tomorrow. One of my men will meet you in the foyer at 0800. His name is Schubert. He’ll be responsible for your introduction into basic espionage techniques, radio work, codes, that sort of thing. When he’s satisfied with you, you’ll then get shipped off to Neureppin. I’ll be keeping an eye on your progress, other duties permitting. You’re also going to meet the Führer in three days time, where he’ll present you with the Oak Leaves. I’ll be coming with you. In the meantime my adjutant, Hauptsturmführer Moritz, will arrange accommodation and a new uniform. I need you rested and ready tomorrow. Some entertainment tonight can also be arranged, if you so wish. Speak to Moritz. Any problems, you know where to come to.’

  ‘How long do I have, sir?’

  ‘No more than a week. I want to get this operation moving as soon as possible. The weather forecast for the Channel coast of France and Belgium is satisfactory for the next few weeks, if you can believe that. After then, it’s not so good. But my instincts tell me we should move now.’

  The rest of the day had been spent sorting out accommodation, a new uniform, and sleeping off the effects of his disrupted travel itinerary. And despite Schellenberg’s suggestion, he had dined alone in the hotel’s restaurant where he was temporarily lodged. Berlin was famous for its racy nightlife, even during the wartime restrictions, but Simon was just not in the mood. He was not sure he could face bubbly female company, even if he longed for the gentle caress of a beautiful woman. The only one he wanted was no longer available. Some other time, maybe.

  But if it had been a day of surprises, there was more to come. He had changed and bathed before dinner. While checking the pockets of his combat uniform he came across a note, tucked inside his outer jacket pocket. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but neat and legible. ‘The Admiral wishes to see you. 112 Glienicke Strasse, Kladow. Anytime, but the sooner the better’. How the hell had that got there?Somebody must have slipped it into his pocket at some stage in the day. Who? The Admiral was most likely to be Canaris. Simon vaguely remembered that the Admiral had a summer house near Lake Havel, although he had never been there. Why hadn’t he put the invitation in the letter he’d received at the Field Hospital? Why the clandestine message? Was it because he no longer controlled the Abwehr? Did that mean that Schellenberg was untrustworthy, or that this mission was more than it appeared to be? And what was the Reichsführer’s specific interest in all this? In the end he had given up trying to find a solution to these unanswerable questions. Maybe Canaris could enlighten him.

  His thoughts drifted back to the present. The outskirts of Hannover loomed up ahead. He had no duties this evening - nothing was planned.

  ‘Hansen, do you need this car tonight?’

  ‘Not specifically, Hauptsturmführer, but it’s almost always reserved for the immediate use of the Brigadeführer. I could probably get you another one from the motor pool’.

  ‘No, don’t bother. On second thoughts, Potsdam’s not far out of our way, is it?’

  ‘No sir. A small detour. Got some family there?’

  ‘Sort of. An old friend.’ Schellenberg did not need to know exactly whom he would be seeing. ‘Drop me off in the centre of town. Tell Schubert I’ll still see him at 0800 tomorrow. If the boss asks, tell him I won’t miss the flight’. The trip to the Wolfsschanze was scheduled for midday tomorrow and could not be missed.

  ‘Yes sir.’ The rest of the journey passed in silence. Simon drifted off to sleep for the best part of an hour. It was the same old dream, the one on the beach. When he awoke he felt calmer, almost at ease with what had happened to him in the last few weeks. He was certain that he had felt her touch again, just before the dream ended. A feeling of reassurance washed over him. Maybe it was a sign that he was doing the right thing.

  Rechlin Flight Test Centre, Neustrelitz area, Germany 1630 3/5/1944

  ‘God, what a beauty!’ The twin jet-engined aircraft purred along, passing five thousand feet over the main north-south runway and Lake Müritz. He had never experienced such a powerful, smooth ride before. This machine handled like a dream - delightful in every way. No nasty hidden surprises for the unwary, even in the trickiest of aerobatic maneuvers. Visibility through the glazed nose area was superb, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky to interrupt the view. Neither were there
any enemy aircraft loitering about the test fly zone. The Americans were busy bombing Bremen and the Ruhr, both targets far away, and there were no reports of any enemy long- range fighters in the area. Not that it mattered too much-the Arado was far too quick to catch.

  He still couldn’t get over what a peach she was. Clean, uncluttered lines gave the aircraft a sleek appearance, the aerial equivalent of a racecar. Something akin to the Mercedes Grand Prix cars from before the war, the ones he had seen racing at the Avus circuit in Berlin. The Arado’s initial testing program at Rheine airfield had been unable to identify any particular weaknesses in its flight characteristics. The only problems were related to how to accommodate the landing gear, and once these issues were ironed out, the aircraft simply sailed through the rest of its flight and evaluation exercises. It could be used as a long range bomber, or on high-altitude un-catchable photo- reconnaissance missions. Without a bomb load to slow it down its top speed was nearly five hundred miles an hour, fast enough to escape any Allied fighter - as long as you saw them in time.

  Sure, maybe not quite as fast and agile as the Messerschmidt 262A-1, the jet fighter he’d had the privilege of flying earlier in the year. That aircraft was more of a short-range interceptor. Even so, both aircraft were fabulous examples of just how advanced German technology was. It was a crying shame that the Luftwaffe High Command had dithered and dallied in the field of jet engine production. The Arado could easily have been operational by the end of last year, and hundreds of them should have been in service by now. But rumours spoke of development and production delays for nearly fifteen months at the Junkers jet engine factory - almost certainly as a result of indecision and poor planning at the top. It was a similar story for the 262A. The Führer had wanted that particular aircraft to be a jet bomber, despite the pleas from experts in the field who knew better. They regarded it as far better suited as an interceptor/fighter, but Hitler wouldn’t listen. The inevitable consequence was that production had been delayed while the technical difficulties of a conversion to a bomber role were sorted out. And even now there were still problems outstanding, so much so that belated approval had only just been received to get a small number ready as interceptor/fighter versions. The Luftwaffe would be lucky to receive fifty of these jet fighters by the end of the summer.

  It did not need the intellect of a genius to see that the Arado could have been the perfect long-range reconnaissance jet and bomber, while the Messerschmidt would have been unbeatable as the shorter-range fighter. The Allies had nothing to match these two. The balance of power in the struggle for control of the skies would have tilted in Germany’s favour, perhaps permanently.

  Fucking typical- typical of the cock-ups still going on at the top. And that fat fool Goering remains in charge. He’s such a brown-nosed creep, sucking up to the Führer at every possible occasion. Why the hell doesn’t the boss realize that Goering is utterly incompetent?He should boot him back to Karinhall, his private estate in the forests north of Berlin, where the fat bastard can lie in bed all day long, and eat and drink in the decadent, luxurious manner he’s accustomed to. Promote Galland to run the Luftwaffe-now there’s a man ho knows what he‘s talking about. The former Luftwaffe ace would be a far better commander. He’s been there and done it all. There’s never a substitute for first-hand experience.

  Maior Eric Sommer throttled back the jet engines, and began a gradual right turn to begin the descent and line the aircraft up to land. He’d thoroughly enjoyed his test flight, but the fuel levels were well into the emergency reserve zone, and it was high time to get back on the ground and make his last evaluation assessment. This version of the Arado 234 was number V-7, virtually ready for full production. Today was the final evaluation flight, a last check before full production and mass assembly. A group of engineers and officials from the factory at Warnemünde were waiting in feverish anticipation of his verdict. As chief test pilot, and an experienced ace with over a hundred ‘kills’ to his credit, he would have a large say in its fitness for purpose.

  The Arado banked to the right, and he eased it into steady rate of descent, lining it up with the runway ahead. The landing gear thumped into position, and the plane gracefully descended to kiss the forward edge of runway two. As the aircraft slowed down he caught a glimpse of the watching crowd. A Luftwaffe Kubelwagen detached itself and raced over to where the designated parking apron was situated. Sommer taxied the Arado into its slot, turned off the engines and performed a final instrument check. The exit hatch was located in the roof of the cockpit, and he awkwardly clambered up and out of the plexiglass nose, descending to the concrete runway using a series of hand and foot grips on the fuselage.

  ‘Well, Eric, what do you think?’ Oberst Karl Luttwitz shouted above the noise as the jet engines wound down. He had parked the Kubelwagen next to the Arado and walked forward to meet him. He stood to one side, admiring the aircraft, drinking in its graceful lines.

  ‘Fabulous, absolutely bloody fabulous.’ Sommer grinned. ‘There’s no other way to describe it. I envy the boys who’ll be flying this beauty. Great performance, faithful and clean handling - this machine’s so predictable in the way she flies. Piece of cake!’

  Luttwitz smiled in return. ‘Excellent. You’re sure there’s nothing to criticize?’

  Sommer shrugged. ‘Only one thing- the escape hatch could be a bit of a bugger if you need to use it in an emergency, but that was obvious before I even got her off the ground. Otherwise there is nothing else worth mentioning.’

  ‘Good. I was hoping you would say that. Hop in. I’ll give you a lift back’. Luttwitz limped back to the Kubelwagen and levered himself into the driving seat. He was still recovering from a cannon bullet in his right thigh, courtesy of a dog-fight with an American P47-D25 fighter somewhere over France last year. The wound was taking a long time to heal, far too long, and Luttwitz had yet to pass the flight surgeon’s physical evaluation, much to his disgust. A command post job was the best he could hope for at present, but Luttwitz hid his envy and frustration well. Sommer got in beside him.

  ‘There’s a crowd of Reich Air Ministry people here, and the usual engineers from the Arado factory. They’ll want your opinion shortly, but that will have to wait.’ Suddenly, Luttwitz looked serious. ‘Listen Eric, I’ve got a much more important guest who just happened to drop in today. A Brigadeführer Schellenberg from RSHA. Ever heard of him?’

  ‘No.’ Sommer was mystified. ‘The name’s unfamiliar. SS? What the hell do they want? The Luftwaffe’s not in their area of jurisdiction, is it?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, yes it is. The SS can stick their noses in anywhere, if it’s a question of national security. And he wants to see you.’

  Sommer laughed scornfully. ‘Me? What for? Have I missed paying my Party membership fees this year, or is it something to do with me taking the piss out of fat Hermann again?’ Sommer was well-known for his irreverent attitude to higher authority. Only his excellence as a pilot kept him out of trouble.

  Luttwitz continued driving. ‘Neither, I’m glad to say. And don’t try and kid me that you’re a Party member. You could never be mistaken for a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi.’ Luttwitz looked at him in earnest. ‘But it’s also high time you watch what you say. Not everybody here shares your views about our glorious leader. One of these days that big mouth of yours could land you in serious trouble. If that happens, then even I won’t be able to protect you.’

  ‘So what does he want with me?’ Sommer affected to be unimpressed by the warning.

  ‘He wouldn’t say. But I get the impression he’s been making some enquiries. He must have some idea of Luftwaffe operational capabilities. He told me he’d just come over from Reconnaissance HQ at Oranienburg. They must have put him onto us, and you in particular.’

  ‘So it’s an operational matter, is it?’ Despite the casual banter and bluster, inwardly Sommer was more than a little relieved. It was not too healthy a sign if a senior officer of the SS began to take too close an inter
est in you.

  ‘Most likely. I forgot to mention he’s head of Intelligence at RSHA’.

  ‘Intelligence?’ Sommer laughed again. ‘Isn’t that a contradiction in terms, when applied to the SS? I thought that all you needed to join that lot was a brown face and an ability to mouth off Party dogma. A bit of pig-farming experience would doubtless be helpful, too!’ The reference to one of Himmler’s former occupations was obvious.

  Luttwitz shook his head in despair. ‘Eric, for God’s sake – don’t fuck this up. This general’s not stupid. I very much get the impression he’s as sharp as they come. And he’s not the sort of man to take liberties with. Don’t piss him about, I beg you. He’s in my office right now, along with the top engineer from Arado. That’s where we’re heading right now, so please keep your mouth shut and watch what you say.’

  The rest of the short journey continued in silence. The Kubelwagen soon drew up outside the airfield’s administration block. Sommer and Luttwitz walked in and made their way to the commandant’s office on the first floor. Schellenberg got up as they entered, and returned their salutes with a casual ‘Heil Hitler’. A small man in a grey suit with a heavy moustache was sitting on the other side of the room, looking more than a little worried. Luttwitz quickly performed the introductions and everybody sat down. Schellenberg studied the Luftwaffe ace curiously for a few moments, then gracefully began the conversation.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I won’t keep you long. I need some answers from you for a specific operational mission I have in mind. Naturally, I have a letter of authorization here from General der flieger Galland that grants me full cooperation with all Luftwaffe and associated civilian personnel, no matter what their rank.’ He smiled, waving a piece of paper in the general direction of all three. Not that he needed such permission, but it was perhaps best not to emphasize the fact - a softly-softly approach would ensure better cooperation. ‘Of course, what we discuss here today will never be repeated outside these walls. This is a top secret matter.’ The smile disappeared. It was time to do business. He turned to the Arado engineer.