London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious for. There was a vague memory of someone holding his head up and peering at him. He could remember a bright light. It shone into each of his eyes in turn, each exposure sending a blinding bolt of pain into his head. There was a muttered conversation before darkness took him again. When he finally came to, he was alone. The lower part of his body was wet. The smell of urine was everywhere. Had his bladder let go during the beating? He could just make out the floor. A pool of blood had settled under the table. He drifted back into dark, evil dreams.

  He awoke with a start. His head and shoulders were soaked. A bucket of water had been thrown over his head. He was vaguely aware of someone mopping the floor. He almost laughed to himself, in spite of the pain - typical Germanic order and thoroughness. Can’t have a mess, can we?

  A hand jerked back his head. A familiar face came into view. He recognized Ziemcke. He was smiling and began to talk in a conversational way as if they were meeting for lunch.

  ‘Well, Hans, fancy meeting you here. You know where you are, don’t you? There’s no escape from here, not now. None of your Abwehr friends can help you out, and we’ve got plenty of time. This is between me and you. I hope you’re feeling comfortable, because what you’ve just had is a taster, a mere aperitif before the main course. But I really hate to see a former colleague in such dire straits, despite your ingratitude.’ He pointed to the plaster on his nose.‘So if you would be so good enough to answer a few questions, we can dispense with what’s going to follow. And you know what that is, don’t you?’

  Again the sardonic smile. Ziemcke was really enjoying himself. Maybe he got a kick from a bit of sadism. He couldn’t see the others, but he could hear them. Cigarette smoke drifted into his eyes. The sound of a chair being dragged up grated his ears.

  Ziemcke began his questions. What had he reported to Canaris? What did the Admiral say? Was there anything else passed over to him at the meeting with Cruz? It went on and on until he lost track of time. Finally, Ziemcke must have lost patience. He leaned forward and cuffed him across the face.

  ‘The doctor advised us to leave your head alone after Koppel’s little tap. But not to worry- we’ve plenty of other areas we can work on. Let’s see if the next session loosens your tongue.’

  A grunt of approval came from behind him. There was the sound of something heavy swishing through the air, and then a tremendous blow landed across his back, making him gasp in pain. Another blow struck him from the other side, and the rhythmic beating continued, relentlessly. His body was wracked in a mounting agony, making him retch uncontrollably, but nothing came up apart from a streak of blood and yellow bile. This was even worse than the first session. He gritted his teeth so hard that he thought they would crack from the pressure. He felt his eyes bulging out, his head was on fire as the unbearable pressure built up inside his skull. A scream built up deep inside him, but he fought it as long as he could until it forced its way past his throat and echoed around the cell. Finally a blessed veil of unconsciousness overtook him.

  Neureppin Parachute Training School 1700 7/5/1944

  Simon tried to stifle a yawn. He was exhausted. It had been a long day, worrying to start off with, but in the end ultimately exhilarating. As a consequence, the play on his fears had taken its toll. Last night he slept poorly, a problem that rarely troubled him. It was perhaps not the best way to prepare for something about which he was more than a little apprehensive. Perhaps that was the reason why sleep eluded him. After all, nobody in their right mind would want to jump out of an airplane. It was not that he was scared of heights, but the thought of not being in direct control of his destiny was new to him. To think that he was defying the law of gravity by relying on just a silk parachute made him feel more than a little uneasy. However, his instructor inspired great confidence. In addition to that, the man was supremely cheerful, particularly with his jokes and bon mots, and especially when Simon screwed up. The instructor’s manner helped to distract him from his anxieties.

  Feldwebel Kruger of the Fallschirmjäger Parachute Training School was an unfailingly typical example of the experienced, wisecracking and world-weary senior NCO known, feared and respected throughout every military institution in the world. He was never lost for an apt comment, no matter what the situation was. Simon’s day was due to start at 0800 sharp. Jansen deposited him at the parade square outside the main hangar at 0745. Kruger was already in action, drilling a squad of new trainees in a series of exhausting calisthenics that left many of them gasping for breath, and all of them dripping with sweat from their exertions. Simon soon noticed that Kruger led the drills by personal example, and even at the end of the session looked pristine, not even breathing heavily. Leaving the squad in the care of his fellow instructors he trotted over to where Simon stood, saluted and introduced himself. The man was immaculately turned out in a tailored combat jacket, fatigue trousers with knife-edge creases and high-gloss polished boots. They were so shiny that the reflection could be easily used to shave. Kruger radiated boundless enthusiasm. It soon dawned on Simon that Schellenberg’s influence had arranged for one of the best instructors in the Luftwaffe to be made available to him.

  ‘Sir, if I may suggest, we haven’t got much time, so we’ll skip the eight mile run and assault course and get straight on to theory and practice. I’m sure they wouldn’t have been a problem for a fit man such as yourself,’ ’ he added, very dryly.‘Any problems with your knees?’

  Simon assured him that there were not. He was mightily relieved about the cancellation of the physical training. His chest and arm felt much better, but he was unsure as to how they would stand up to a grueling PT session, and an eight mile run would have demonstrated just how unfit he was.

  What followed was in some ways worse. Simon was taken to a large indoor hangar, and was soon instructed in the mysteries of jump preparation. There was a series of brief lectures, followed by practical instruction on preparing, folding and packing a parachute, the harness, exiting a plane and pulling the ripcord, descent control and landing. This went on for most of the morning, followed by jumps using a simulator in the tall hangar. He jumped from an increasing series of heights above the matted floor and then dropped at the speed of a descending parachute to train him in what was perhaps the most important aspect of the jump- the landing. On several occasions he got it slightly wrong- the worst was when the speed of his descent took him by surprise. He ended up slamming backwards onto the matting, his steel helmet thumping into the ground as he toppled backwards.

  ‘Okay?’ Kruger had trotted up to inspect the temporarily dazed Simon. ‘You really don’t want to do that after a full jump, sir. That’s what we call a head-arse-heels-hospital landing.’ He explained the consequences of such a landing, grinning hugely. ‘I’d rather you did that in here than out there. Just as well you were wearing a helmet’. Simon groaned ruefully. A helping hand got him back on his feet. The parachute landing falls practice continued until he got it right.

  The next part definitely made him far more nervous. A large balloon was being inflated on the main runway. Kruger explained the drill. ‘Alright sir. This next exercise separates the men from the boys. See that large wicker basket over there? We’re going up in that, up to a thousand feet or so. There’s a static line suspended from it. All you have to do is walk out of the open door of the basket and drop down. Your parachute will deploy automatically, so you don’t need to worry about pulling the cord. I’ve checked your rigging, so the ‘chute will open without a hitch, and all you have to do is float down and enjoy the view. Steer the rig to make sure you avoid landing on the runway- the grass is much softer on your knees. Any questions?’

  Simon tried to smile. His throat was dry and his legs felt rubbery. ‘No’, he croaked.

  ‘Good. After that, a quick bite of lunch and then we’ll do the real thing-twice’.

  As the balloon rose in the air, Simon tried to avoid looking at the rapidly receding ground. The view of t
he horizon was much easier on the queasy feeling in his stomach. Kruger was full of chat, regaling him with what he considered hilarious stories about cock-ups he had experienced, both his own and other trainees. The other two instructors laughed merrily, obviously unaffected by the ever-increasing altitude. The balloon began to drift in the gentle breeze as they climbed higher. Simon could feel his heart racing. He didn’t want to look down at the ground- it was much too far away. He gripped onto his harness tighter than ever. He was glad none of his men could see how anxious he felt.

  ‘Right. Off you go!’ Kruger’s voice bellowed into his ear. The door on the side of the basket had opened. He walked forward, hesitated for a second, and then involuntarily closed his eyes as he stepped over the edge. A wild panic gripped him as he rapidly descended. There was a sudden jerk throughout his body as the ‘chute opened, making him feel as if his crutch was being compressed in a vice, and he redoubled his grip on the straps of his harness. His rate of descent rapidly eased off, and he opened his eyes, releasing his pent up breath. It was eerily quiet. The wind whistled in his ears, but he didn’t hear the noise, so intent was he on his descent to earth. The ground was coming up fast, the green field near the runway rapidly becoming more defined. He braced himself for landing, flexing his knees and ankles into the approved position. With a thump and a roll, he landed forward in a heap, gasping with relief and joy.

  His heart was still hammering away, but he’d survived. He stood up, and started to reel in the parachute that was billowing away in the breeze. A Kubelwagen raced up, and another NCO jumped out to give him a hand. He could see the balloon descending to earth out of the corner of his eye. Soon Kruger trotted up, a grin on his face.

  ‘There you go, sir. Not so bad after all, was it?’

  Simon smiled shakily. ‘No, Feldwebel. I can’t say I enjoyed it. I was well and truly bricking it up there, but at least that’s over and done with’.

  Kruger laughed. ‘I admire your honesty, Sir. You’ll find jumping out of a Ju-52 much easier. We’ll do two drops after lunch, and then you’ll have earned your wings. Not bad for a novice.’

  Lunch was served in a combined mess.Simon learned that Kruger had been on all the important Fallschirmjäger missions during the early part of the war- Narvik, Eben-Emael, Crete, Barbarossa, Sicily.He’d spent the last few months instructing at Neureppin. ‘There’s not much use for us at the moment’, he confided in a rare moment of gravitas. ‘I spent some time with the Second Para Division just outside Kirovograd earlier this year. Ever heard of that place?’

  Simon nodded. It had regularly featured in Eighth Army’s communiqués before the rescue at Korsun. Kirovograd was the scene of some very heavy fighting. The Soviets had managed to encircle two German divisions inside the town, and Second Para had suffered significant losses trying to hold open the shoulders of the breakout and relief attempt. ‘We got to meet quite a few T-34s there. I hear you know a bit about them,’ he said, looking pointedly at the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves around Simon’s neck.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon smiled wryly. ‘I’m familiar with one or two. We weren’t too far away from where you were. Glad to be out of it?’

  ‘You bet. It’s not much fun trying to tackle those monsters with hand grenades and satchel charges’.

  After lunch, there was a final period of revision, followed by a short wait as an old Ju-52 transport flew in from another airfield. This time Simon was jumping with a batch of newly qualified Fallschirmjäger troops, part of a stick of men who would drop at two thousand feet. Kruger had donned a ‘chute and joined them. He would accompany the flight and make sure Simon jumped out without a hitch. The plane took off and soon reached the correct altitude. Everybody stood up when the red light came on, clumsily forming a line facing the rear of the aircraft. Kruger spoke in his ear, above the noise of the engines.

  ‘You think you’re weighed down with the main and reserve ‘chute now. It’s worse on a combat drop- imagine another sixty pounds weight of equipment plus your own weapon to lug about as well. Everybody waddles about like pregnant ducks!’

  Simon knew that Kruger was trying to distract him from his anxieties, but this time he wasn’t nearly as nervous as before. There were no side windows to look out of, and he didn’t feel quite as anxious as when he jumped out of the basket. The green light came on. The jumpmaster NCO slapped the first paratrooper on the back, and he jumped out of the exit hatch, followed sequentially in turn by the rest. The queue to jump rapidly began to shorten. Suddenly, there was a series of bangs along the side of the fuselage, which quickly ceased. Kruger shouted out ‘rivet inspection!’ There was a general laugh from those still left to exit the Ju-52. A paratrooper had got his exit wrong, and the staccato banging noise had been caused by his helmet bashing against the fuselage in the near one hundred and forty mile an hour slipstream. Shortly after, it was Simon’s turn. He moved to the hatch, grasped the fuselage, and then jumped out, each arm raised forward into a dive pattern. He had a sensation of spinning rapidly in the slipstream, and then he quickly reached out to pull the ripcord. With a jerk the parachute deployed successfully and as soon as his descent slowed he checked the trim and began to enjoy the experience. Below him, ten parachutes were slowly sinking to the ground like huge floating white parasols. The view was fabulous. For a few seconds he forgot that he was over a thousand feet up. It was the nearest thing that man could get to experiencing a fraction of what it would be like to float like a bird, swooping and soaring in the ebb of hidden currents. His pulse slowed and he began to relax, enjoying the exhilaration.

  All too soon the ground rushed up to meet him, and he braced forwards for the landing. After this, the rest of the day was relatively routine. The second drop went without a hitch, and shortly afterwards they all reassembled in the main hangar. A small presentation ceremony was organized, and soon he was the relieved but proud owner of a pair of jump wings.

  ‘Well done, sir’. Kruger presented him his wings, shaking him warmly by the hand. ‘A bit different to driving a tank, but you did OK, especially considering the fact that the standard jump training course lasts two weeks.’

  And now he was sitting in the officer’s mess waiting for Jansen to pick him. Simon relaxed back in a deep leather arm-chair, nursing a well-deserved cold beer. He cast his mind back to the events of four nights ago. Before Simon left to return to Berlin, Canaris had discussed with him and his father the details of his forthcoming mission to England. The old admiral’s view was that the report from Madrid was genuine.

  ‘After all, I should know.’ His eyes twinkled in yet another sly smile. ‘We’ve been feeding disinformation to OKH about the strength of Allied forces in the West for some time. OKH has actually increased this level of inflation in addition to ours, because they know that Himmler and his lot will tend to scale down such numbers to make it more palatable for the Führer. So even when the numbers are of divisions are suitably reduced by RSHA, we still have an estimate of nearly twice what the Allies have in reality. This increases the likelihood of multiple invasion sites in different areas.

  ‘If my calculations are correct, then this report seems to indicate to us just what the Allies really have, in terms of numbers of divisions ready to invade and their transportation requirements for invasion. This in turn suggests that the Allies will only invade in one, or at the very most two, areas. I cannot see them being able to do more than that.’ Canaris looked directly at Simon. ‘And I have a very good idea of where the main area is going to be. But its best that you shouldn’t know, for obvious reasons.’ Simon nodded. It was the old principle of only being trusted with what one needed to know- the less one knew, the less that same person could be forced to divulge under interrogation.

  ‘So we need to need to discredit this report, imply that it’s an MI6 plot out to disinform us. That’s what you must report back to Schellenberg. In addition, as this British officer appears to be genuine, he cannot be allowed to pinpoint unequivocally the location of the inv
asion. There must be no more leaks to the Spanish or anyone else.’

  Simon nodded. Canaris did not need to spell it out. He knew what he must do. Far too much was riding on this.

  8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse 1830 8/5/1944

  Everything was ready to go. The plane and pilot were in place, Simon had successfully qualified from his parachute training course, and the false document papers and other necessary forgeries to create a new identity in an enemy country were completed. Simon’s primary cover would be that of a convalescing captain from the Royal Tank Regiment, given a few weeks leave to fully recover from injuries received while serving in Italy. There was also another set hidden in his clothing, a second identity just in case the first was compromised. Schubert spent the final day with Simon going over his new persona, the operational details of the plan, followed by a final exercise to test his recently acquired skills on how to spot and shake a ‘tail’ and other techniques, around the streets of central Berlin. He managed to get Schubert’s grudging approval at the end of his basic course in espionage, although his trainer had grumbled incessantly about there not being ‘enough time to make a decent fist of it’. But it was all they had. Simon was also given the address of the safe house in London to memorize. He would use this location to rest up and plan his surveillance of the park. There was also a radio there to transmit news of his arrival. A special code had been worked out. Using this, he could inform Berlin if the British officer was genuine, and if so, in which area the invasion was going to occur.