Operation Iraq

by Leo Kessler

  Now they were within ten metres of the first group of towel-heads. Matz paused and raised his machine pistol. Hastily Schulze stopped him. "Fire over their heads and hit the swine on – " He stopped abruptly.

  Close to them, one of the second group had stirred. In the clear pre-dawn air, the two non-coms could see every detail registering on his dark, hawk-like face. He stared at the two white men crouching there stupidly, as if he couldn't yet work out why they were there. Suddenly his face showed shocked indignation. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, and at the same moment grabbed for his rifle on the ground beside him. He never reached it. "Try this on for size, arse-with-ears," Matz cried, and, rising to his knees, loosed off a burst in an instant.

  The man reeled back, what looked like a series of red buttonholes stitched the length of his skinny chest. Throwing caution to the wind now, the two NCOs charged, firing from the hip as they did so.

  The natives went down on all sides, caught by surprise. Like two Western gunslingers, the two comrades swung their machine pistols from side to side, firing murderously. A man ran at them. For some reason he was naked below the waist, boots, unlaced, flapping on his feet. Why he was wearing boots, Schulze neither knew nor cared (later he'd find out to his cost why). He hardly seemed to aim. The half-naked man hit the ground, punching holes in the sand with his clenched fist while the blood spurted from his ripped-open stomach, his shattered intestines sliding to the ground like a steaming grey-green serpent.

  Down below, von Dodenburg heard the sudden burst of small-arms fire and knew instinctively what his two rogues had done. They had taken it upon themselves to assault the enemy single-handed, not waiting for him. "The stupid swine," he muttered, half in anger, half in admiration. But there was no time to be wasted on recriminations. He had to support the two non-coms the best he could with his two machine pistols and the old hares who had filled their spare socks with sand and were going to use them as clubs. He drew the pistol which Schulze had given him. "Follow me," he cried boldly over the angry snap and crackle of small-arms fire coming from above. "Attack!"

  His Wotan troopers obeyed at once, although they knew the odds were against them. As von Dodenburg started to stumble up the hill at the pass, waving the little popgun, they spread out in attack formation, as if this was a well-armed Wotan infantry company instead of a collection of broken-down, half-starved men, most of them unarmed. "Alles für Deutschland!" they yelled, shouting the bold motto of the Black Guards. "Es lebe der Führer! Adolf Hitler!"

  The enemy up on top were taken by surprise. They had not anticipated an attack from front and rear. They wavered and started to pull back, firing wildly without taking aim, a sure sign of panic, von Dodenburg knew. A native came rushing at him. Surprisingly enough, he was armed with bayonet and rifle like a regular infantryman. Von Dodenburg had no time to ponder the mystery. The native lunged at him. Expertly von Dodenburg parried the thrust with his pistol. Next instant he fired. The impact was so great at that short distance that the native was thrown off his feet and propelled backwards, as if punched by some giant fist. As he ran forward, von Dodenburg kicked him in the side of his face. His head fell to the right with a dry click. He was dead.

  A few minutes later, it was over. The ambush, if that was what had been intended, had been a total failure. The top of the hill was a bloodstained shambles: a mixture of dead and dying men, scuffed sand, cartridge cases which gleamed like gold in the new sun, the only sound the pleas for mercy from the prisoners, who had gone down on their knees begging not to be shot by their captors.

  Ten metres away from where their prisoners were begging for their lives in a language that even Lieutenant Singh, who seemed to speak many languages, couldn't understand, von Dodenburg was caught completely by surprise at the sight of Schulze's prisoner. Just like the other prisoners, he was terrified of his captors, and tears were rolling unheeded down his fat dark face as Schulze prodded him forward, with Matz to the rear, enjoying the bottle of Raki, an aniseed-flavoured alcoholic drink that the two rogues had obviously just taken from their prisoner.

  "Caught him hiding over there, sir," Schulze said. "He was waiting for us to go before he did a bunk. And he had a bottle of fire water – Matzi, don't guzzle the shitting lot, willyer."

  Von Dodenburg wasn't listening, for the fat prisoner wore a shabby uniform with the stripes of an NCO on his arm. He was wearing some sort of army boots, too, as von Dodenburg now realised most of their prisoners were. "But he's a soldier," von Dodenburg managed to stutter. "Not one of the nomads, as I expected they were."

  "That's right, sir," Schulze said easily, grabbing the bottle of Raki from Matz's unwilling hand. "He had a regulation kepi, a white one, as well. But I took it from him. I thought he might have some lung torpedoes – " Schulze meant cigarettes – "hidden in the crown."

  "A kepi!" von Dodenburg began, but Singh, who had just made his appearance, beat him to it.

  "And that means he's a member of the French Army... perhaps from Syria."

  "But we can't have reached the Iraq-Syrian border yet," von Dodenburg objected.

  "I don't think the French take that too seriously," Singh said. "It's outlaw country up here. No one pays much attention to the border here, I should think." He turned to the sobbing NCO and snapped in French, "Ne pleurez pas, hein. Nous sommes des amis."

  The prisoner stopped crying immediately and gave them a gold-toothed smile. "Merci, monsieur."

  Before anyone could stop him, he darted forward and, seizing a bewildered von Dodenburg's hand, kissed it fervently, as if he would never let go of it again.

  Matz shook his head in mock wonder. "Frogs!" he exclaimed. "They make love with their tongues and kiss other men's hands like a bunch of frigging warm brothers. What a country!"

  The knowledge that they had fought with a patrol of French levies, who were Germany's new allies and had killed far too many of them, placed von Dodenburg in a quandary. "The French are a people that I do not like greatly," he explained to Singh, as if the latter would know little of the history of Franco-German relations. "We've fought each other too often. I had a grandfather killed at Sedan in '70, and my father was badly wounded at Verdun in '16 – and, of course, I fought them myself last year on the Somme. Still, they are our allies, and I don't want to cause trouble. So, what am I going to do? If we cross into Syria, how do I explain this?" With a sweep of his hand he encompassed the prisoners, who he had ordered released, but not allowed to leave their hilltop camp. "There'd be one hell of a stink if it came out what I'd done with their comrades."

  Singh gave a little laugh. "Kill them," he suggested. "Then the matter will remain secret."

  Von Dodenburg looked at the Indian sharply. Was he joking? He never quite knew with Singh. At times he was ferocious, making such cruel suggestions as he had done with the story of the rat forced up a man's anus. Yet, at the same time, he didn't seem a bloodthirsty person. At least, he had not shown any inclination of that kind so far.

  But von Dodenburg had no time to consider the puzzle presented by the handsome young Indian officer any further. For, standing watch on the hilltop, Matz was now shouting, "Problems, sir... Problems. Looks as if the whole of the Frog army's on its way to have a little chat with us..."

  CHAPTER 17

  Von Dodenburg groaned. Slowly he opened his puffed-up eyes. Everything shimmered before his gaze. He closed his eyes again, more swiftly, and felt the electric wave of pain shoot through his battered body.

  He counted to three and tried to maintain some sort of discipline over himself by ordering himself, "Open your eyes, Kuno." He did so and this time the cell came into view without shaking and trembling, what there was of it, and that wasn't very much. A chair which had been screwed to the concrete floor, a jug of water near the hole which served as a latrine, and the concrete slab on which he now lay, naked as a worm with his bloodstained feet chained to its base. He stifled the groan which came to his swollen lips when he realised just how bad his conditi
on and situation was. It would do no good to bemoan his fate. He had to concentrate on bringing this miserable ordeal to an end. First he must drink something.

  Slowly, laboriously, he reached out as far as he could to grab the jug of water next to the latrine hole. His every movement took an effort of naked will power, pain starting up everywhere on his battered, bruised, naked frame. He gritted his teeth and kept going. He had to have a drink. After what seemed an age, he reached the jug. Carefully, very carefully, he started to pull it towards him across the floor, a rat scuttling away in the shadows, frightened by the strange noise. The jug seemed to weigh a ton. He persisted. Finally he had it within drinking range. He bent his head over the edge of the concrete sleeping slab, felt the cool rim of the jug and readied his shaking hand for the final movement. Next instant he let the precious jug of water go with an angry curse. It was empty!

  He could have burst into tears at the utter base treachery. Before he had fainted, he remembered clearly one of his torturers saying, "Bon, sale Boche, there is water in the jug. That's all you're getting..." Now they hadn't even left him a cup of the precious liquid. How cruel the French were.

  The meeting between the Wotan survivors and the men of the French convoy just after the battle of the pass had been frosty from the very start and it was going to become even more frosty. The Citroën half-tracks had stopped some half a kilometre away, and the watching Wotan men could see the flash of sunlight on glass as the French in the leading half-track had focused their binoculars on the top of the hill. Just behind von Dodenburg and Singh, Schulze whispered to his running mate Matz, "Watch out, wooden eye, there's trouble brewing."

  "That you can say again," Matz agreed, as the first half-track started up again, approaching the waiting Germans at a snail's pace. The captured French sergeant tried to say something at the sight. Schulze didn't give him a chance. "One word from you, old friend," he threatened, "and I'll have yer eggs off with a broken bottle." The prisoner might not have understood the German words, but he'd understood the sweeping gesture Schulze had made at the base of his stomach, as if he were cutting off something very precious to him. He fell silent immediately.

  Slowly the half-track came closer and closer. It came to a stop. Nothing moved. But von Dodenburg was well aware that they were being carefully scrutinized by the armed men inside the cab. Finally the steel door swung open and a tall lean French officer, with cropped hair, his shirt starched and pressed immaculately, heavy with three long rows of medal ribbons, stepped out. Carefully and deliberately, the French officer allowed himself to be handed his riding crop and kepi, which he placed on his square head at a jaunty angle in the Gallic fashion.

  He came towards von Dodenburg, his pace measured and deliberate. Von Dodenburg thought he knew the type. The French called them 'burnt heads', professional soldiers, hard-bitten and tough, who had spent their military lives in the colonies, where, in the tribal fighting, no mercy was expected or given.

  He stopped in front of the young German officer, eyed him coldly and then swung his right hand up in a long-drawn salute, announcing as he did so, "Herresbach, Capitaine de l'Infanterie."

  Von Dodenburg returned the salute in best Wotan fashion, giving his name and saying in French, "Enchanté, Monsieur le Capitaine."

  Herresbach cut him short with "Angenehm, Hauptsturmführer, wir können Deutsch reden."

  Von Dodenburg, a north German, didn't recognize the accent. He said, "You speak German?"

  "Yes, I was born German, too. Neuf Brisach in Alsace, when the region was in the hands of the Germans." His hard face looked contemptuous. "But I am most certainly a Frenchman."

  Instantly von Dodenburg realised the hardbitten French colonial officer didn't like Germans, and at this moment he, von Dodenburg, was going to be the prime object of his dislike.

  "I see there has been some trouble," Herresbach said, pointing his leather riding crop at the dead bodies still littering the hilltop.

  For a moment von Dodenburg was at a loss as to what to say. Finally he managed, "Yes, there was a firefight."

  "Between your people and mine, von Dodenburg?"

  "Yes," he admitted reluctantly.

  Herresbach looked very serious. "You realise what this means?" he snapped.

  Von Dodenburg felt his temper begin to rise. What right had this officer of a beaten army which had thrown its weapons away the previous year and run for its life before a victorious Wehrmacht to talk to him like this? At least the English had continued to fight on after they had fled at Dunkirk. "No, what does it mean?" he snapped back.

  Von Dodenburg's reaction didn't seem to worry the French officer. He said coldly, "I shall have to take you into custody, that is what it means, Hauptsturmführer."

  Just behind his CO, Schulze growled threateningly and fingered his machine pistol. Von Dodenburg hissed out of the side of his mouth, "Stand fast, Sergeant!" Then, to Herresbach, "How can you arrest me? We are not even on French territory. This is not yet French Syria."

  Herresbach reacted immediately. "I decide what is French territory," he said, and shrilled a blast on his whistle. As if they had already rehearsed the manoeuvre, the column of half-tracks started up immediately. They split up and came in on either flank of the Wotan men and their prisoners. Von Dodenburg's face fell. He could see that each half-track was packed with infantry, some of them wearing the white kepi of the Foreign Legion; and these were not the pale-faced, bespectacled French conscripts that von Dodenburg had seen throw away their weapons and run for their lives the previous summer. These were hard-faced, bronzed professional soldiers.

  "Well?" Herresbach demanded, as his men in their half-tracks came ever closer.

  "Well, what?"

  "Are you going to surrender?"

  "And if I don't?"

  "I shall order my men to open fire on you." He said the words almost carelessly, as if it didn't matter to him one way or the other; as if he was used to killing men without a second thought.

  "But you'll kill your own men, our prisoners," von Dodenburg objected.

  Herresbach shrugged. "Native levies. Riff-raff of no importance."

  Von Dodenburg had known then it was no use. Human life meant little to this hard-faced colonial officer, used to the cruelties of France's colonial wars, and who had probably imbibed his hatred of the Boche with his mother's milk back in Alsace-Lorraine. Slowly he had begun to raise his hands. What use would his handful of unarmed soldiers be against Herresbach's troops in their armoured vehicles? It would have been a massacre. Moments later, a bunch of hard-faced legionnaires, all of whom spoke German, were pushing them into the leading half-track, with their corporal saying out of the side of his mouth, "Arsehole! I hope you frigging well fry in hell, you fascist bastard."

  Over the next few days, stripped naked and existing on water, stale bread and the occasional handful of olives, von Dodenburg had sometimes wished that he was 'frying in hell'. That would, he thought, have been easier than having to undergo the treatment handed out by Herresbach's sadists.

  It was clear that Herresbach was playing a double game. While most of the officers of the French Army in Syria were collaborating with their German conquerors, Herresbach, perhaps out of hatred and resentment of the Germans who once ruled his native province, was secretly working against them; perhaps even working for the British, who most Frenchmen thought had betrayed their country by fleeing through Dunkirk in 1940 and leaving her ally in the lurch and at the mercy of the Boche.

  At all events, Herresbach soon made it clear he wanted information from his prisoner, and that he was prepared to go to any lengths to obtain it. As soon as von Dodenburg had been thrown into the military prison on the charge of having attacked and killed French troops, he had come to see him and made his purpose quite clear. "Give me what I need to know, German," he had said, whacking his riding crop against the solitary chair, "and I shall drop the charge."

  "What do you want to know?" von Dodenburg had asked through swollen lips
(for the warders had already given him a good going over with their fists and boots).

  "Where is Obersturmbannführer Geier and the rest of Battalion Wotan?"

  Von Dodenburg was so amazed at the question that he couldn't answer, even if he had known the answer. Surely Herresbach, with what he already knew, should have realised that he and his First Company had been shot down and got separated from the Vulture?

  Herresbach had taken his silence for stubbornness. He had signalled the warders and commanded, "Allez, vite..."

  Von Dodenburg hadn't heard the rest of his order. For, with a grunted "sale con", the bigger of the two warders had punched him in the guts and, before he had time to double up, the second man had kicked him in the testicles. The air had whooshed out of his lungs and he had fallen to the floor, vomit pouring from his gaping mouth.

  They hadn't left him there semi-conscious for long. Someone had thrown a pail of cold urine over his face and he had come to, gasping and panting, to be faced by yet another savage beating, which had left him out to the world again.

  A day later, Herresbach had come to see him. His face showed no pity when he saw the state von Dodenburg was in – face black-and-blue, lips swollen, eyes virtually hidden in the swellings, his uniform soiled where he had urinated in his pants. Still, if he showed no pity, the tough colonial officer did seem to want to explain himself.

  Towering over von Dodenburg, slapping his high polished boot with the swagger stick he always carried as a sign of authority, he said, "Perhaps you wonder why I need this information from you. What use can it be to a defeated France, whose army wouldn't fight – will not fight. I shall tell you."