by Leo Kessler
‘Courtesy of the Reichsheini, sir,’ Schulze explained easily, lowering his eyes modestly. ‘This is his personal Storch.’
‘What? Himmler?’ von Dodenburg stuttered, ‘His … his … plane?’
‘That’s right, sir,’ Matz answered, pushing beneath Schulze’s big arm, his wizened face one huge grin, a pile of parcels in his arms. ‘And we bring gifts to the Company – firewater and cancer sticks – for the brave boys of the Wotan. I quote the Reichsheini’s own words.’
‘But you’re supposed to be in hospital in Berlin.’
Schulze did not reply. Instead he dropped to the grass and reached out a plaster-clad hand to Matz. ‘All right, you little cripple, come on down.’ He helped the Corporal to the ground. ‘All right,’ he ordered grandly, poking his big head into the cockpit to the pilot. ‘You can take her away now, my man. And please convey my respects to the Reichsführer when you return to Berlin. Off you go!’
Von Dodenburg waited till the roar had died away. Then he said: ‘Well you two rogues, I can’t deny I’m glad to see your ugly mugs again. I can use good NCOs in due course. But what the devil am I to do with you for the time being – you’re hardly in a fit state for combat at the moment, are you?’
Schulze scowled. ‘Even with no hands, sir, I’m better than that lot of greenbeaks over there. Still got the eggshell behind their spoons by the look of them! Heaven, arse and twine, Matzi, what is the Armed SS coming to? Look at them. I bet that lot of milk-toasts couldn’t even get themselves a piece of nooky in a knocking-shop!’
Von Dodenburg laughed and shook his head, ‘I don’t know Schulze, you’re as incorrigible as ever. But what am I going to do with the pair of you?’
He stood the company down and they sprawled out happily on the turf, savouring the hot July sun while von Dodenburg pondered the problem, smoking one of the ‘cancer-sticks’ sent personally by the Reichsheini.
‘You said just a minute ago that they,’ he indicated the teenaged volunteers all around, ‘that they couldn’t even get themselves a piece of nooky in a knocking-shop. By that, I presume you mean they are too innocent to buy themselves a woman of no virtue in a house of ill-fame?’
Schulze looked at Matz. ‘Did you hear all those big words, Matzi? I think the CO is trying to pull our pissers – ever so gently but definitely. That’s what I think.’
Von Dodenburg laughed. ‘All right, Schulze. Now listen. This weekend we stand down for forty-eight hours on the CO’s orders. So what will those milk-toasts, as you call them, do? I’ll tell you, Schulze – they’ll head for the brothels of Rouen and Dieppe as quickly as their feet will take them, clutching their fifty francs in their hot sticky hands. They might be young, but they are still very healthy male animals and they’ve all heard about French women in bed.’
‘I didn’t think they liked girls much,’ Matz said, taking a quick sip from one of Himmler’s presentation flatmen.
The Major ignored him. ‘So Schulze and Matz, you’re the self-confessed experts on all things female.’
‘I’ve had me moments,’ Schulze admitted modestly.
‘Good. Then I’ve got a job for you. From now onwards you’re the Company’s official VD patrol. You’ll check every other ranks’ brothel in Dieppe out and put it out-of-bounds to Number One Company if you find a girl in it without her yellow card stamped right up to date by the local French police doctors. I’m not having any of my men going down with disease now.’ He poked a finger at them. ‘And I shall make you two personally responsible if we get one single case of VD this week.’
‘Holy straw sack!’ Schulze exclaimed. ‘What do you say to that Matzi? Look how low you’ve gone and dragged me now. A shitty pox-cop indeed!’
Five minutes later, however, he had recovered sufficiently from the shock of his new assignment to ask Major von Dodenburg a question that took the smile off his handsome young face and replaced it with a look of taut foreboding. ‘But sir, what in hell’s name is the Battalion doing in this God-forsaken Frog hole? That’s what I would like to know – why are we in Dieppe?’
‘Well, Schulze,’ von Dodenburg replied slowly. ‘I’d like to know the answer to that question myself.’
SIX
‘Meine Herren,’ announced General Hase, the Commander of the 15th Army, formally, ‘his Excellency, Field Marshal von Rundstedt!’
The assembled officers of the First SS Division under the command of the barrel-chested Divisional Commander, ex-tank sergeant and Munich Party bully boy Sepp Dietrich, snapped to attention. For even the officers of the SS’s premier division who had normally little respect for the field-greys of the Wehrmacht, admired the planning genius of Germany’s foremost soldier.
An incredibly old and wrinkled officer appeared through the door of the operations room, huddled, despite the July heat, in a thick greatcoat with a fur-trimmed collar.
Weakly von Rundstedt raised his baton to acknowledge their greeting. ‘You may be seated, gentlemen,’ he said slowly, in a voice made hoarse by the French cognac to which he was addicted.
The dignified old man who commanded Germany’s destiny in the West waited patiently till the assembled officers had taken their places, then he tottered slowly over to the great map which covered one wall of the ops room.
‘Gentlemen of the Bodyguard Division,’ he began, ‘we can expect the Tommies to attempt a major landing in the Dieppe area in the next week or so.’
There was an excited buzz of chatter and von Rundstedt smiled thinly, pleased with the effect of his words.
‘We have it on good authority from our V-men1 in Southern England that the Tommies are massing troops for the attempt. In the Führer’s opinion, Churchill is being forced into making the attempt by pressure from the Bolsheviks and the Americans.’ He coughed throatily. The bemedalled chief aide, who knew the signal well, hurried across the room with the unlabelled bottle. ‘Your cough medicine, your Excellency,’ he said and poured out a generous measure.
‘Thank you, Heinz. I must have caught a cold on the way here.’ He took a deep drink of the cognac, while von Dodenburg threw the Vulture a significant glance.
But the CO’s cold blue eyes were fixed on the ancient Field Marshal, tensed for his next words, obviously hoping that Wotan would be involved in whatever action would come so that he might achieve an even higher rank, his sole ambition in life.
German positions – Dieppe, July 1942
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ von Rundstedt continued, ignoring the knowing smirk on Sepp Dietrich’s broad face. He tapped the big map. ‘Dieppe, the Tommies’ target. Now I am sure that the gentlemen of the SS can guess what the Tommies will attempt to do when they land.’
The ancient Field Marshal paused, as if daring any one of the black-clad officers present to take the initiative. But Sepp Dietrich, loud-mouthed and as aggressive as he usually was, dared not do that in the presence of Germany’s foremost strategist.
‘No,’ Rundstedt queried softly, a cynical expression in his faded eyes. ‘Then I shall tell you. The Tommies are notoriously wooden and unoriginal in their strategy and tactics. It comes from their rigid class structure no doubt. They tell me that their Army, as amateur as it is, still drills as it did in the days of the Great Frederick.’2 He allowed himself a faint smile. ‘No matter. It makes them easier meat for us, I suppose. So, what will they do? As you know Dieppe lies in the two kilometre-wide gap at the mouth of River D’Arques. At both ends of that gap there are the formidable headlines – here and here – which dominate the whole area of Dieppe beach – the obvious landing site for our thick-headed Tommies. And of course the Tommies will land there because they will think the old squareheads, as they call us, will not be foolish enough to make a frontal attack on a beach which is so obviously defensible.’
Von Dodenburg stared, open-mouthed. The ancient Field Marshal made his statements with the certainty of a clairvoyant.
‘Now what dangers face our Tommy friends apart from the fortified promenade at Dieppe
? The twin batteries here and here. The Goebbels Battery at Berneval, named after our beloved Ministry of Propaganda Josef Goebbels and the Hess Battery, here, at Vesterival-sur-mer. Called after someone who shall remain nameless.’
Dietrich flushed, while the Field Marshal smiled innocently at him. The Battery was, of course, named after the traitor Rudolf Hess who had betrayed the Führer and the Party by flying to England months before. As usual the Field Marshal was trying to needle the Armed SS, a formation which he passionately hated. Sepp Dietrich swore he’d pay the old senile bastard back one day. Apparently oblivious to his embarrassment, von Rundstedt continued: ‘Now these two batteries have specific tasks, as you probably know, if the Tommies land. At the command Sperrfeuer Dieppe,3 the six 15cm guns of Hess will lay a barrage down in front of Dieppe at a range of eight thousand metres, firing an initial six rounds per gun. Goebbels in the meantime would concentrate on any naval forces further out to sea. So what will the Tommies try to do? They will attempt to knock out those two batteries before they attack in force. What do we conclude from that, gentlemen of the SS? We conclude, that an attack on the two batteries will be the signal for an all out enemy landing within – say – the next hour. Do you follow me?’
The SS officers in their immaculate black uniforms squirmed in embarrassment in their seats; the venerable Field Marshal was treating them like a bunch of school kids, instead of combat-experienced leaders of the premier SS division. Awkwardly they mumbled that they had understood.
‘Good, good, gentlemen,’ von Rundstedt’s face cracked into a wintery smile. ‘The Tommies will attack Hess, which is one kilometre inland, by one of two possible beaches – here – near Quiberville and – here – directly in front of the Battery, where there are two gullies, a fault in the cliff.’ He shrugged. ‘It could be that they will use both beaches. The Tommy generals have little understanding of the principle of concentration in war. No matter. East of Dieppe at Berneval, which comes into the Bodyguard’s divisional area, the Tommies similarly have two small beaches available for their assault on Goebbels. Now,’ von Rundstedt raised his voice, ‘I am prepared to lose Hess. Indeed, I have ordered the commander of the Tenth Panzer Division not to make any great defence of the Battery.’
There was a little gasp of surprise from the SS officers. Von Rundstedt beamed; it was the reaction he had expected from the SS with its stupid policy of never giving up ground, even if by doing so they could achieve great tactical advantage. ‘Yes,’ he said, reaching out a claw of a hand flecked with a mass of liver spots. ‘Like a spider tempting a fly, I want to draw them into my web. I and the Führer want them to land. To land in force and be slaughtered in their thousands. It will be a tremendous boast for our prestige here in France and it might even force the Ivans to sue for peace when they see that the Western Allies cannot help them. But I cannot afford to lose Goebbels. The poison dwarf,’ he used the Army’s contemptuous name for the club-footed, bitter-tongued Minister of Propaganda, ‘must remain firmly in German hands. Naturally the Tommies will use their Navy to cover the landings, and those warships will be the only really effective artillery that the Tommies will be able to bring to bear on our positions. Indeed their fire could effectively seal off Dieppe and prevent our reinforcements from moving into the place once the Tommies have landed. So we can afford to lose Hess. We want them to land. But we cannot afford to lose Goebbels, because its guns will destroy any attempt by the Royal Navy to stop us slaughtering those troops once they have landed. Now this is where the Bodyguard comes in, gentlemen –’
‘Your Excellency.’ Sepp Dietrich sprang to his big feet, barrel-chest thrown out proudly, cleft-chin pushed forward aggressively and bellowed, ‘Beg to report, Field Marshal, that the Field Marshal can depend upon the Bodyguard to the death!’
Von Rundstedt did not speak while he studied the ex-Party bullyboy as if he were a particularly interesting form of beetle that had just crawled out of the woodwork. ‘What a pleasant thought,’ he breathed at last, as if the thought of the SS, the ‘black scum’, as he called them privately, lying dead on Dieppe cliffs gave him some pleasure. ‘To the death.’
Sepp Dietrich flushed and dropped back into his seat.
Von Rundstedt looked down at him. ‘General, at present your division is composed of what we used to call in the Imperial Army – Christmas Tree soldiers.’
There was an angry murmur from the SS officers.
Von Rundstedt swept on. ‘Due to your losses in Russia, your ranks have been filled out by too many raw recruits who have never been in action. I admit they will die bravely if called upon to do so. But if I may be so bold as to lecture the gentlemen of the SS – wars are won by live soldiers, not dead ones. Besides any large scale move by the Bodyguard might well alarm the Tommies on the day, might frighten them off before the trap has closed upon them.’ He licked his colourless lips, as if he were considering whether he should cough and alert the attentive Heinz with the cognac. ‘However, one of your battalions, General Dietrich, I have been informed, is up to full strength and relatively well trained. It is also located, tactically speaking, in an ideal spot at Braquemont between the Goebbels Battery and Dieppe. It’s your First Battalion – the Wotan.’
The Vulture started when he heard the name of his battalion, but unlike Dietrich he knew his Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt. Casually he rose to his feet, thrust his monocle in his right eye, and barked in his rasping Prussian voice, ‘Your Excellency, one cold fart from my kitchen bulls would suffice to blow the Tommies right back across the Channel.’
Von Rundstedt smiled carefully. He recognised the coarseness of the Regular Army cavalryman and knew instinctively he was speaking to his own kind. ‘You are very confident, Colonel.’
The Vulture did not rise to the compliment. Instead, he snapped: ‘Your orders for my Battalion, Your Excellency?’
Again von Rundstedt smiled, showing his large, too white false teeth. He liked the bandy-legged little SS Colonel with his baggy breeches and monstrous beak of a nose. ‘It is not customary for a Field Marshal of the German Army to direct the activities of a single battalion, Colonel, although in these days of change who knows to what depths a German Field Marshal might have to sink.’
The Vulture shared the Field Marshal’s smile, while two seats away Sepp Dietrich glowered with suppressed anger. ‘In this case, however, it is vital to the success of the whole operation that the Goebbels Battery should be held. You, my dear Colonel, will remain at Braquemont until the Tommies actually start landing at the beaches next to the Goebbels.’
‘Then, Your Excellency?’
‘Then you will march your battalion down the road to the Battery as if the devil himself were after you!’
‘March?’ the Vulture queried.
‘Yes, march. I am not going to risk your vehicles attracting the unwelcome attention of the RAF which undoubtedly will be over the battlefield at the time, and being knocked out before you ever reach the Battery. You fellows who have been fighting in Russia over this last year simply do not realise the might of the RAF. Fat Hermann4 is powerless against them. Hence, my dear Colonel, your men will leave their armour behind at Braquemont and march to battle when the time comes. From this day onwards you will practise marching those five kilometres to the Battery as if your very life depends upon it.’ He raised his hand and stared down at the Vulture, his eyes icy.
Von Dodenburg looked at the wrinkled old man and shivered involuntarily. The words were not a warning; they were a naked threat.
Notes
1 Vertrauensmann, man-of-trust, ie agent. (Transl.)
2 ie Frederick the Great of Prussia, who ruled in the latter half of the 18th century. (Transl.)
3 A difficult phrase to translate. Literally ‘interdiction fire-Dieppe’. (Transl.)
4 ie the gross Marshal of the German Air Force, Hermann Goering. (Transl.)
SEVEN
‘May I address you, Sergeant?’ the young SS soldier, with the anxious eyes and frin
ge of white-blond hair which kept falling over his forehead, shouted at Schulze above the blare of the bal musette music which rocked Dieppe’s Cafe de la belle Alliance.
‘Why not?’ Schulze said generously, eyeing the floor crowded with giggling drunken whores, happy, sweating soldiers and men of the Kriegsmarine.
‘Are you familiar with this place?’ the boy shouted.
‘I am,’ Schulze answered, not taking his eyes off the floor, watching intently for any man from the First Company, ‘it’s Rosi-Rosi’s knocking shop.’
‘Good. That’s why I’m here.’
Both Matz and Schulze swung round as one and stared at him. ‘Are you in the First Company?’ Matz demanded, fully conscious of von Dodenburg’s threat to have them sent back to la Charité and Sister Klara if one single man of his Hitler Youth volunteers caught a dose.
The boy shook his blond head. ‘No, the Third.’
They breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Then that’s all right. Go on, soldier, what do you want?’
‘A woman,’ the boy answered baldly.
‘You’ve come to the right place, lad,’ Matz said, ‘Rosi-Rosi is right on target if you want to get rid of your dirty water.’
The boy flushed with embarrassment. ‘I know, Corporal. But you see I want a special woman.’
Schulze looked at him curiously. ‘What do you fancy – one with two of ‘em? Or with it tucked in neatly under her armpit?’ He grinned suddenly at the thought. ‘Matzi, imagine what it would be like if they had ’em there? Yer wouldn’t even have to take yer dice-beakers off to get a bit.’ He made an obscene gesture with his elbow to illustrate what he meant.
‘I can’t get mine off as it is,’ the boy said, ‘after today’s five kilometres in fifteen minutes. My feet are like raw meat.’
‘Tough tittie,’ Matz said unfeelingly. ‘But get on with it, lad, what kind of special piece do you want?’
‘Well, it’s hard to explain – but she’s got to be nice as well as screwable. I mean I’d like to be able to talk to her –’