London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  Simon leapt to his feet, saluted and left the room. Himmler glanced at Schellenberg. ‘Still think he’s the right man?’

  Schellenberg got up and strolled to the window. The sun had gone in, hidden by a bank of grey cloud. What he had heard was of no great consequence. He knew about the Jews, of course, and had some idea of the Reich’s secret program for racial purity. The Führer’s pathological dislike of Jewry was well known. As for the Jews in general, what were they to him? The ones he had known were long gone. It was regretful, but there was nothing he could do about their fate, without risking his life and everything he held dear. He was grateful that he was not more directly involved.

  ‘With respect, Reichsführer, I don’t think any of this matters. I knew about his father. There’s no risk there, as far as I can see. The incident at Auschwitz was clearly an unfortunate occurrence. Admittedly, officers brawling in public is a poor example. But he’s still the right man for this job. I’ve got no one else who’s anywhere near as suitable, and we haven’t got much time.’

  Himmler reflected a while longer, and then suddenly appeared to make up his mind. ‘Alright, send him on this mission of yours. But warn your assets in London about him. Better still, let me see your letter before it’s sent- I may wish to modify its contents. This Simon will need watching carefully. And if he fails in his mission he will answer to me, in one way or another, unless there are very good extenuating circumstances. When will he be ready?’

  ‘We’re waiting for a plane to be modified.’ Schellenberg briefly explained the purpose of the Arado, and why it was necessary to use it for insertion. ‘I estimate we have two or three more days, and then he’s off to England. In the meantime, he’s undergoing some basic espionage tuition, and a very abbreviated course on jump training. I expect to fly him on Tuesday or Wednesday night.’

  ‘I want to be informed at all times about his progress. This mission is of vital importance to the Reich’s future’.

  ‘As you wish, Reichsführer’. Schellenberg saluted and, judging that the interview was over, exited the room.

  Himmler gazed unseeingly at the closed door. Schellenberg was probably right. Simon appeared to be the best man available, but he was still uneasy. He would have preferred someone who was more thoroughly imbued with the National Socialist ideal, someone who would be more trustworthy at a distance, unsupported and under pressure.What could he do? The telephone rang, disturbing his thoughts. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Untersturmführer Ziemcke is here, reporting as ordered, Reichsführer. Shall I send him in?’

  ‘At once’. He put the ‘phone down. Presently there was a knock on the door, and the weasel-like features of Ziemcke appeared. He entered the room, saluted and stood rigidly at attention. Himmler looked at him carefully, noting the swathe of white sticking plaster across the bridge of his nose and the beginnings of a large purple bruise underneath his left eye. A sheen of perspiration was visible across the younger man’s brow. He looked uncomfortable. Bad news? Well, let’s leave him to sweat some more. He looked back at the paperwork in front of him on his desk and pretended to examine it carefully. The silence built up. He knew that Ziemcke would never dare disturb him until he was ready to begin.

  ‘So, Ziemcke,’ he began at last in a deceptively mild voice, ‘do you have any good news for me?’

  Ziemcke swallowed nervously. ‘Reichsführer, we apprehended Brandt late yesterday evening. He’s in the cells downstairs.’

  ‘Yes. I am aware of that. And…?’

  ‘Sir, I’m afraid he put up quite a struggle. One of my men was seriously wounded.’ Himmler was immediately dismissive. He didn’t need to be distracted by irrelevant details. ‘Get to the point, Ziemcke,’ he snapped. ‘Is he talking?’

  ‘I’m afraid that Brandt was injured during his capture, Reichsführer. He put up quite a struggle, and had to be subdued. Koppel hit him harder than was necessary.’

  Himmler was becoming impatient with the slow revelation of facts. More excuses. ‘Is he alive? Spit it out, man!’

  ‘Sir, the doctor has checked him over, several times. He’s deeply unconscious. The doctor can’t be sure when he’ll wake up.’

  Himmler cursed silently to himself. I am surrounded by fools and incompetents! He glared back. ‘You had better pray that he wakes up, Ziemcke. For your sake, and Koppel’s.’ He felt like thumping the desk hard with his fist, but such a lack of self control must not be displayed in front of a subordinate. ‘I need to know Brandt’s innermost thoughts. Get on the ‘phone immediately. I want the top neurologist in Berlin to examine him. I want Brandt awake. Then he must be squeezed dry of everything he knows. And I want the watch on Canaris’ house doubled’. It was only by chance that Brandt had been spotted leaving there.

  The Wolfsschanze, Lotzen, East Prussia 1515 4/5/1944

  They waited in a large, spartanly decorated anteroom. Several framed prints hung on the walls, scenes denoting great Prussian military triumphs in the past. Simon recognized a few of them- one depicted the charge of the Prussian Guards at Gravelotte- Saint Privat during the Franco-Prussian War; another showed Frederick the Great, on horseback inspecting his grenadiers before the battle of Zorndorf. An official photographer loitered at the far end, checking his equipment repeatedly, and making sure there that everything was working correctly. The Führer was a busy man. It would not do to keep him waiting when there was a war to run and armies to command.

  Schellenberg and Simon had arrived just over half an hour ago. It was Simon’s first trip to East Prussia. The Focke Wulf FW 200C transport had flown over a picturesque landscape of gently rolling hills, small forests and lakes. It was a rich agricultural area, given up almost completely to farming. It remained virtually untouched by war. But this part of old Prussia was almost completely isolated from the main part of the Reich. It jutted out, like a protruding balcony, on top of Poland, facing towards the East. It could easily be the first part of German soil to be captured by the advancing Soviets when they resumed their next offensive.

  Schellenberg had barely spoken during the flight. He had accepted Simon’s apology for not mentioning the Auschwitz incident without demur. But he was still preoccupied, not his normal urbane self. The silence gave Simon more time to digest the events of yesterday. He was still adjusting to the news that Canaris had given him, and the reconciliation with his father. It was only in the car from the airfield that Schellenberg seemed to come out of himself.

  ‘There’ll be an official photographer there, representing Signal Magazine. He will take photos for an article that will probably never be published- at least, not until you’ve managed to return from your mission. The British also read Signal and although it’s extremely unlikely that MI6 will have any information on you I’m not prepared to take the risk that someone might recognize you from a photo with the Führer. It’s just as well you’ve been camera-shy up until now.

  ‘As for the Führer, keep it short and simple. Salute, shake hands and smile, and don’t mention anything that could be construed as being negative about how the war is progressing. The last thing any of us want is for him to fly off the handle and go into a rage. Believe me, he’s very capable of doing this at a moment’s notice. So we may have a bit of a wait- it all depends on how long it takes for him to wake up. He tends to work until three or four-o’clock in the morning and then sleep late. His daily situation conferences usually don’t start until late in the afternoon, with another often well after dinner. I’m told he regularly takes sleeping tablets.’

  The car had approached the series of checkpoints and perimeter gates, and then plunged into the oppressive, dark green forest under which the Wolfsschanze lay hidden. Twenty minutes later they emerged to walk down the path that led to the bunker complex that housed the headquarters and living accommodation, the centre of command for the far-flung armies that protected the Reich’s shrinking borders.

  While they waited Simon had taken the opportunity to excuse himself and attend to a call of natur
e. A black uniformed guard had escorted him along a series of corridors to the nearest washroom and convenience, but there was no sign of him when Simon emerged from his ablutions. On the way back, he lost his way and took a wrong turn.Suddenly he found himself in an unfamiliar part of the building. Before him a corridor, with several doors on either side, led off to some unknown end. One of the doors was slightly ajar. He could hear the sound of a gramophone playing, not the sort of thing one would expect in a headquarters of a country at war. Simon recognized the tune immediately. It was from an aria by Franz Lehár.

  A hand tugged his sleeve. ‘Excuse me, sir, you should not be here. This area is restricted.’ A voice hissed in his ear. It was the same guard. He didn’t look at all pleased, but there was something else in his look - a degree of almost panic. ‘Quick, before my officer comes, or there’ll be all hell to pay. Follow me’. He turned and retreated back up along the corridor, as quickly and quietly as he could. Simon followed, careful to keep the noise of his footsteps down to a minimum. Soon they were back outside the anteroom. Simon felt a duty to apologize.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t wait, but you were nowhere in sight.’

  ‘That’s OK, sir’. The guard still looked worried. ‘Please don’t mention this episode to anyone, or I could be in serious trouble. I’m supposed to escort the Führer’s guests, but I was called away for a moment. When I returned you’d disappeared.’

  ‘Not a word, I promise’.

  He looked more relieved. ‘Thank you, sir. Only, you were in the Führer’s private area. He doesn’t like too many guards too close to him in his private quarters - that’s probably why you weren’t stopped.’ They could hear footsteps approaching. ‘Time to get back inside’.

  Simon nodded and rejoined Schellenberg in the anteroom. No sooner had he resumed his seat than the door opened, and a tall, immaculately groomed officer strode in and saluted.

  ‘Gentlemen’, he announced, ‘the Führer.’

  Everybody stood up. Another officer walked in, followed by two guards, and then a middle aged man in a mid-grey double breasted jacket, black trousers, white shirt and black tie appeared. He wore the Iron Cross, pinned to the left breast area. A small Nazi party badge was attached to one of his lapels. The Führer halted in the middle of the room, and looked piercingly at Simon. Both he and Schellenberg were standing at attention, each having delivered a parade-ground salute. Hitler acknowledged the compliment, strode forward and offered his hand to Schellenberg.

  ‘Brigadeführer, it’s good to see you again. I trust you have news for me?’

  ‘Yes , my Führer.’

  ‘Good. We’ll discuss that in a moment.’ He turned and appraised Simon again. ‘This is the officer I’ve heard so much about?’

  ‘Yes. Führer, allow me to introduce Hauptsturmführer Max Simon of the Leibstandarte. I have the citation for the award of Oak Leaves to the Knights Cross, approved and signed by General Feldmarschall Model.’ Schellenberg produced a document and handed it over. Hitler took a moment to read the wording, looked up at Simon and smiled.

  ‘Hauptsturmführer, it seems that your continued valour on the battlefield has been recognized by yet another decoration. Please accept my congratulations.’ Simon grasped the outstretched hand. Hitler turned to his aide, who had already produced a small box. The Führer opened it, and took out a small silver clasp, fashioned to resemble a pair of miniature oak leaves.

  ‘In recognition of outstanding bravery on the field of battle, and in accordance with the finest traditions of the armed forces, it is my pleasure to award you the Oak Leaves to the Knights Cross. Well done. Germany needs men like you to stand forth and lead by example.’ He pinned the silver leaves to the clasp, just above the Knights Cross. Several flashes went off, the photographer catching Germany’s leader in the act of pinning the medal around Simon’s neck. Schellenberg and the other officers smiled and applauded.

  Almost immediately a drinks cabinet was wheeled in. A mess orderly busied himself opening a bottle of champagne. Soon, glasses full of the bubbly, effervescent pale gold liquid were passed around. Schellenberg proposed a toast to the Führer, and to Germany’s fortunes. Hitler drank sparingly.

  ‘Ah, I can’t drink too much of this too early in the day. It goes to my head, and then I can’t make any decisions.’ Hitler ventured a smile. Everybody immediately beamed in reply. ‘Hauptsturmführer, please excuse me. I need to talk to the Brigadeführer urgently before the afternoon conference. Enjoy yourself, and continue to serve the Reich as you have so well in the past. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you, my Führer’. Simon braced to attention again, despite the half-empty glass in his hand. Without a backward glance, Hitler swept out of the room, followed by Schellenberg and the two guards. Shortly after the other two officers and the photographer made their excuses, leaving him in the company of the mess orderly who was standing rigidly to attention. The bottle was almost empty. As soon as he had poured the remainder into his glass the orderly saluted and wheeled the trolley out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was all over in a flash, an anticlimax if ever there was one. There was little evidence of the great leader in action, the charismatic personality, the driving force behind the national effort…Just a tired looking older man who had put on some weight and had the pasty appearance of someone who never ventured outside a building. Nervous, undoubtedly under stress…no wonder he had trouble sleeping. Did he ever think about the countless numbers of those who had died in his name, or were they mere numbers – divisions on the map, or totals on meticulously recorded balance sheets?

  Oranienburg airfield 1930 6/5/1944

  The return flight from Warnemünde was routine enough. Sommer’s shakedown list included a series of final checks on the handling on the way over, but there had been no unexpected changes. It was still a glorious machine to fly, and to be honest he had not expected any. Sure, it felt a little strange to be sitting even further forward than normal, but at least the bulky Lofte 7K tachymetric bombsights were out of the way, and the engineers had done a good job adjusting the flight-stick and pedals to their new position.

  In a way, he pitied the poor passenger. The space behind the seat was going to be very tight- even for a dwarf. The man would be crammed in, even more so with a bulky parachute and reserve. But it was the only way to fit an extra body inside the cockpit. Sommer had not been given any details on whom his passenger would be. Probably some sort of Führer-loving die hard arse-hole with a death wish. And this Brigadeführer, this character from the SS was deadly serious, for all his mild manner, casual charm and politeness. Schellenberg obviously believed in playing his cards close to his chest. Luttwitz was right- he came across as somebody who was very bright and most probably extremely dangerous. Not the sort of man to mess around with at all.

  He sipped his cold beer and relaxed in the deep leather chair. At least the officer’s mess still received regular supplies coming in from breweries in the Ruhr, in spite of all the bombing. But this would be his only one tonight. It wouldn’t do to have a skinful, particular if this SS general turned up unannounced, demanding an immediate take-off for destinations unknown. His thoughts turned to the nature of the mission, and not for the first time he wondered about their destination. America was too far away, so it must be England. The Soviet Union was unlikely, and he could think of no other worthwhile target. If so, then the knowledge made him feel a little uneasy.

  The air defenses over Great Britain had become very formidable over the last six months. An old friend in the Operations section at the Main Headquarters here had quietly told him that virtually all reconnaissance flights over southern England in the last few months had been aborted, as a result of unprecedented operational losses. The RAF fighter force was formidable, backed up by a very efficient radar net and increasing swarms of powerful USAAF fighters. Reconnaissance over the channel ports was a mission from which few returned alive, and
those that did spoke of aggressive enemy interception and dense anti-aircraft fire. Even night-time flights were tricky. But such an operation was the only way he could think of, the only realistic chance of penetrating the tight aerial cordon. There was no other way to para-drop an agent in.

  The mission would be in three phases. First, a high altitude high-speed approach, followed secondly by a rapid descent to a lower height and at a much slower speed for the jump, and then finally back up again and streak for home. He would need maximum velocity to blast his way out and reach the sanctuary of Luftwaffe controlled airspace. The routes chosen would also have to avoid known enemy air defenses. At least the Arado was very fast- speed would be her best protection. Those on-board machine guns would be reserved for desperate need, only as a last resort.

  So, a quick flight in, and an even quicker flight out, hopefully without arousing too much interest from the opposition. He wondered for the umpteenth time what would make the head of the Reich’s intelligence service become so closely involved with the nuts and bolts of a mission into enemy territory. No doubt it must be something of great importance.

  8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse, Berlin 2300 6/5/1944

  His naked body lay stretched out on top of a narrow trestle table face down, his head hanging over the edge. Some of the rough wooden splinters from the surface had penetrated his stomach and chest. The left side of his face and head thumped and throbbed as if he’d been hit by a heavy truck. Something sticky blurred the vision in his left eye. But that was a minor distraction compared to the pain coming from his feet. He remembered waking up on the cool, hard floor of a cell. The room was bare, apart from a table and chair. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. Suddenly the door had burst open and two men hurried in. Terror had gripped him like the grasp of a vicious, strangling snake around his throat. He was too weak and groggy to struggle. Before he knew it, he was stripped and spread-eagled on the table. The wooden surface was coarse and abrasive. He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, and then another two thickset thugs entered the room and went about their task, sleeves rolled up and ties removed. Someone had yanked his legs apart and strapped them to the bottom of the table.A merciless beating on the soles of his feet began, first one side, then the other, then back again giving him little chance to recover. The pain had increased in a series of wave upon wave, finally peaking into a crescendo of unbearable agony. He’d screamed repeatedly, before eventually passing out.