Operation Iraq

by Leo Kessler

  Von Dodenburg wished he had the strength to retort, I'm not one bit interested in your motives. But he hadn't. So he listened.

  "I hate you Germans, naturally. You are our traditional enemy. I hate the English too. They are an odious, treacherous people. At this moment, I am not too happy with my own people, the French. So, why should I bother? The answer is that if we French are ever going to have our national pride once more, we must fight against any enemy that we can imagine. You Germans are our enemy, though we have signed a peace treaty with you. Therefore we must fight you."

  Suddenly von Dodenburg found strength enough to argue, or perhaps it was just anger at this man, who was, it seemed to him, irrational. "But how can you fight? To whom would you give this information about us, if I knew it?"

  Herresbach didn't appear to listen. His gaze seemed fixed on some distant horizon, known only to him. "To the Americans," he answered, in a voice that came from far away.

  Despite the weakness of his battered body, von Dodenburg started. "But the Americans are not even in the war," he retorted.

  Herresbach didn't hear. "Yes," he repeated. "The Americans would welcome that kind of information with open arms – the location of the Führer's favourite SS regiment." His eyes glittered as he said the words, and it was then that von Dodenburg realised that Herresbach was mad, and that he would never come out of this place alive if he didn't do something about it – and do something soon.

  CHAPTER 18

  The day after Herresbach's strange outburst, they moved von Dodenburg to a larger cell, which even had a thin barred window. Kuno von Dodenburg could find no reason for this move to a cell which actually had several bunks in it, one or two of them with straw mattresses; not particularly clean ones, but a lot softer than the cement slab that he had been chained to down below in the first cell. But he was content to accept the space and comparative comfort of the larger cell without worrying about it.

  That morning, after he had eaten the usual thin soup and hunk of stale black bread the warder shoved through the trap at the base of the cell door, he washed the dirt and caked blood off his sore body the best he could, wiping himself dry with his shirt, the only cloth he possessed, and then took to the cleanest bunk to sleep; he knew that sleep would give him strength and he would need all the strength he could muster if he were to get out of the place alive.

  He didn't sleep long, however. Some time in the mid-morning, with the noises of the little frontier town outside penetrating the window of his cell, he heard the jingle of keys which signalled the warder's approach, the stamp of heavy boots and drunken curses in German. As weak and exhausted as he was, the fact that whoever was out there was cursing in his native language awoke him at once. He swung his legs off the bunk in the same instant that the door was thrust open by two warders, and a great red-bearded man in the bloodstained white fatigues of the Foreign Legion was flung into the place, crying drunkenly, "Bunch o' piss pansies. You wait till I get out of here again. I'll make frigging mincemeat o' the pair of you. I swear I will."

  "Merde, assez, sale Boche," the bigger of the two warders cursed, and gave the reluctant prisoner a great dig in the small of the back with his club, forcing him back against the wall, glaring at the Frenchmen like a tiger about to spring on its prey while they locked the cell door behind them hastily. Next moment the Legionnaire charged forward as if he were a human battering ram, only to slam head first into the stout oaken door and collapse in a heap on the floor.

  Von Dodenburg hobbled stiffly towards the fallen man, held out his hand, saying in German, "Los, Kamerad, halt fest."

  The red-bearded giant shook his head like a boxer attempting to avoid a knockout, recognized the uniform and said, "You're one of them SS fascists, ain't you?" He declined the hand and, with a groan, levered himself up and staggered to the nearest bunk, where he collapsed once more.

  Under any other circumstances, von Dodenburg would have been amused by the drunk's reaction. Not now, however. The Legionnaire might be of use to him. He had to cultivate the man, despite his reference to the 'SS fascists'.

  "How did you know I was one of the SS fascists?" he asked.

  "Yer uniform. I've seen it often enough in the old days," the drunk said sourly. "Besides, they put your lot in our barracks. Haven't got a drop of firewater, have you?" He licked his parched cracked lips. "I could certainly do with sinking a drop behind me collar stud."

  Von Dodenburg shook his head, new energy surging through his battered body. So, Schulze and Matz and the rest of the Wotan troopers were close at hand. That was a good omen. He hadn't been abandoned altogether. And this drunken giant might be the means of contacting his old comrades in due course. Now he set about establishing a relationship with the man, who obviously was not very keen on his fellow Germans, especially if they were what he called 'fascists' – the Nazis.

  "Why don't you like fascists?" von Dodenburg persisted, for the drunk seemed calmer now.

  The man raised a fist like a small steam shovel. "Moscow," he said, as if that were explanation enough.

  Von Dodenburg understood. "You were a member of the old German Communist Party?"

  "Yes, Red Front, fought you bastards right to the very end in 1933. Then I did a bunk and ended up in the Legion like a lot of comrades." He laughed bitterly. "And look where it got us. We're working for a bunch of French fascists and their German pals."

  Von Dodenburg nodded. "And you don't like it, eh?"

  For the first time, the red-bearded man seemed to take note of his interrogator. He said, "The Frog fascists have been knocking the German fascist about a bit, ain't they." He chuckled. "Makes a nice change."

  Von Dodenburg chuckled too, and, imitating the man's thick Berlin accent, he retorted, "Can't have liked my big Berlin trap, I suppose."

  "Berliner, eh, just like me. No, we're blessed or cursed with a loose lip in Berlin, I'm afraid. If you've got the wrong party book and a big Berlin trap, you can bet yer life somebody's gonna belt you one." He slapped his big fist into the palm of his other hand to emphasize his point before drawing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, saying. "Fancy a lung torpedo, mate?" The ice had been broken.

  Twenty-four hours later, when it came time to release Max, as the Legionnaire was named, von Dodenburg knew he had an understanding with the ex-communist. The latter would find Schulze and the rest of his First Company and tell the big NCO what had happened to their commanding officer. Then von Dodenburg was certain that his old hares would find some way of getting him out of jail before the next bout of torture commenced, as Kuno was certain it would. Yet, at the same time, he was puzzled that Herresbach had had him transferred to the bigger cell, and had even allowed him to have a short-lived cell mate. Was that part of his plan, too? Well, if so, it hadn't worked.

  But even as Max prepared to be thrown out to make his own way back to the Legion camp, it appeared he was going to have another cell mate. Down the echoing prison corridor, with the door open for a moment, they could hear Herresbach talking to someone in that unmistakable Alsatian accent of his, though they couldn't identify the language in which the French captain spoke. But there was something about his tone which made von Dodenburg think that he was speaking to someone who was very close to him, though for the life of him, the young officer couldn't imagine anyone who would want to be close to that madman.

  Max chanced a peep round the cell door as the heavy stamp of the warders' boots came ever closer. He gave a little gasp and, withdrawing his head, hissed, "If he comes in here, Kumpel, watch yer step."

  "Who?" von Dodenburg asked, noting the urgency in the big ex-communist's voice, but before the latter had time to reply, the first warder was at the door, jingling his keys self-importantly and shouting, "Allez, vite... marche!"

  Max, as tough as ever, raised his big right haunch and ripped off a tremendous fart, saying in German, "Ride on that one, you frigging asparagus Tarzan."

  Next moment he dodged the blow the warder aimed at him, repeating
his warning, "Watch the little swine. He's frigging trouble on two pretty legs." And with that he was gone, hurried outside by the impatient warders.

  But if Max's exit was rough and brutal, the entrance of von Dodenburg's new cell mate was very gentle indeed, which wasn't surprising. For the newcomer was a mere child, a beautiful one at that.

  Von Dodenburg was caught completely by surprise as the boy entered, doffed the cap he was wearing and said in passable French, "Bonjour M'sieur Le Capitaine. Je m'appelle Ali." In a very adult manner, the dark-haired boy with the dark gleaming eyes held out his hand and took von Dodenburg's. His hand was soft and slightly moist, as if he were excited, though for the life of him, von Dodenburg could not see the reason why. All the same, there was something he found distasteful about the beautiful boy, and he withdrew his own hand hurriedly. The boy didn't seem to mind. He sat down without invitation, as the warders closed the cell door behind him gently, and, swinging his bare brown legs, stared at von Dodenburg in silent contemplation, in a manner that made Kuno feel uneasy. Why, he didn't really know. All he did know was that this kid had been placed in his cell by Herresbach, not by chance, but for a purpose. There was something going on and he had to find out what it was before Schulze started (he hoped) making plans to get him out of the hell hole.

  One hour later, unknown to von Dodenburg, of course, Schulze and Matz were already in deep discussion with Max. Although the latter regarded SS officers such as von Dodenburg as fascists, Schulze and Matz were of his own kind, working men who, before Hitler had taken over, might well have voted communist or socialist, but who now, due to circumstances, were members of the National Socialist Party's fighting arm, the Waffen SS. Despite their political differences, Max, Matz and especially Schulze, a former 'red' himself, were all working men – "Frigging cannon-fodder" as the latter put it, "destined to be sacrificed by the bosses when they think it's necessary." Naturally Schulze didn't tell Max that he idolized his aristocratic boss, Kuno von Dodenburg.

  Now, as they lounged in the Legion's Spartan barracks, with the shades drawn to keep the hot afternoon sun out and prevent big ears listening to what they said, Schulze made his approach. "Comrade," he said thickly to the ex-communist, for they were already well into a litre bottle of fiery Raki which Max had 'organized' – he meant stolen – from somewhere in the great echoing barracks. "I know your point of view, but you're a German. You can't let one of your own be sacrificed like this by those Frogs. It ain't natural." He winked at Matz, who was stripped naked on account of the heat and lying on a bunk, occasionally flipping his flaccid member up and down, as if he were trying to cool himself with it.

  "Naturally," Max agreed. "But what can we do, comrade? There can't be more than thirty of your lot and, in this battalion, there might be fifty from the homeland who can be trusted. The rest are petty crooks, pimps and pederasts. They'd betray their own mother for a handful of greasy Frog francs." He spat deliberately on the floor.

  "It's enough. We're not going to start a revolution, Max. We just want to get the CO out and then do a bunk."

  "And us? The Frogs'll shoot us out of hand for mutiny if they nab us, Schulzi."

  Schulze laughed easily, as if the future of a bunch of mutinous German-born Legionnaires created no problem. "Eine Kleinigkeit, alter Freund. We'll see you fixed up afterwards, especially our CO. As I see it, comrade, you and your lot'll be seeing the rest of this war out lying on some beach, just passing the time of day with as much beer and beaver – " he grabbed the front of his trousers fiercely, as if to make his point quite clear – "as you can handle. For you, old house, it'll be roses – roses, all the frigging way."

  The red-bearded giant beamed at the thought. "Great God in Heaven," he sighed. "It'll be like that old communist Ernst Thalmann always promised us, comrade, a Soviet paradise on earth."

  Schulze hadn't the faintest idea what a Soviet paradise on earth was. But he'd agree to anything as long as it freed Kuno von Dodenburg. He slapped Max enthusiastically across the back, so that his false teeth almost popped out of his mouth, and exclaimed, "Exactly."

  Outside, a miserable Lieutenant Singh, who now found himself, surprisingly, in a Foreign Legion barracks together with a bunch of German communists, wondered what the excitement was within the barracks against which he leaned. Puzzled as he was, however, he was quite sure that Sergeant Schulze and the ugly mug of a red-bearded commie were up to no good. Shaking himself out of his heat-induced reverie, he decided that the matter was worth investigating. Who knew where such an investigation might lead?

  BOOK 5 – End Run At Habbaniyah

  CHAPTER 19

  A corporal cook in a white jacket was lugging a dixie of hot tea across the old parade ground, heading for the bunker which now was his HQ. Jeeves watched, sucking his empty pipe – there had been no tobacco ration for the Habbaniyah garrison for two days now – and the air commodore was suffering just as much as the most humble aircraftsman. Still, there was tea, and Jeeves, the veteran, knew just how much the average British serviceman lived for his 'char'.

  Things were bad, admittedly. He had already lost half his aircraft, and the men, rationed as they were and working round the clock to defend the base, were exhausted. Still, as long as they got their tea, he knew they'd keep on going; and so far the Iraqis had not mounted that all-out attack that the air commodore had expected ever since Raschid Ali had rebelled against the British.

  So, tired as he was, he watched the corporal's progress in a kind of daydream, disregarding the thunder of the Iraqi afternoon barrage. He'd send a couple of his antiquated Gladiator planes against the Iraqi guns as soon as the latter ended their shoot, to try to catch the gunners off guard; it was about all he could do at the moment.

  The corporal cook was making heavy going of it as he lugged the big tea urn, and his face was brick-red with the effort. Jeeves knew why: he was worn out like the rest of the garrison. Still the man tried, carrying out his humble duties, as they all were, save the local native levies, who were already beginning to desert in their dozens. But then, that was to be expected. They had little stomach for the fight, especially as they knew that if Raschid Ali succeeded and the British had to abandon Iraq, they'd all be for the chop at the hands of the victors. The mob would rip them to pieces.

  Crack! It was like the sound of a dry twig being snapped underfoot on a hot summer's day. The corporal cook stumbled and then sat down abruptly. A red stain had appeared at the breast of his white mess jacket. For what seemed a long time, he simply sat there, still clutching the handle of his bucket. Abruptly he moaned. Next moment he keeled over. The dixie continued to steam next to the dead cook. "Damnation!" Jeeves cursed, as a heavy machine gun opened up and started spraying the heights from which the sniper had fired and killed the cook. "The buggers are getting bloody cheeky."

  Next to him the intelligence officer flown in from Baghdad blanched. Like most people in Intelligence, Jeeves thought, he was a 'nervous Nelly'. He'd panicked when he, Jeeves, had suggested that, "If I could get permission, Captain, I'd bomb Baghdad this very afternoon. Throw every plane I've got into it. Knock the shite out of their ministries. Not exactly Marquis of Queensbury rules – civvies'd get hurt of course – but it's what these Iraqi mutineers deserve. Treacherous bunch, the whole lot of 'em." He had puffed vigorously at his empty pipe, while the young Intelligence Corps captain had looked aghast.

  "See what I mean, Captain," Jeeves rubbed it in, pointing to the dead cook. "Can't trust the buggers." Then he got down to business once more, as the RAF police, all heavily armed, swarmed out across the field looking for more of these hidden enemy killers. "Fill me in. What do you hear of these Huns who are supposed to be supporting the Iraqi brigade over yonder? My man had no luck in intercepting them." He meant McLeod, who was out in the desert with his remaining armoured cars once more.

  "They reached Baghdad and have been equipped by the Raschid Ali people with civilian lorries and some heavy weapons. We in Intelligence expect them to be
leaving the capital for the Iraqi Brigade up in the mountains at any time now. When they arrive, sir, you can expect an immediate attack. From the German wireless intercepts we've picked up from Greece, it appears that the Jerry high command is hopping mad at the delay. They want action here – and they want it soon. And, naturally, this Raschid Ali wallah wants a victory for prestige reasons."

  "I'd give him a bloody victory," Jeeves grunted darkly, but even as he said the words, he knew that he was hanging on at Habbaniyah by the skin of his teeth. If the combined Iraqis and the trained Huns of the SS did attack together, he'd be surprised if he could hold out more than twenty-four hours. "All right, Captain, give it to me. When can I expect reinforcements – trained British infantry?"

  The young Intelligence captain swallowed hard. "Not as soon as you'd like, sir."

  "When?" Jeeves demanded.

  "Well, sir, there's a British infantry battalion from India landing from their troopship at Basra at this moment, sir. Estimating that it'll take them the rest of this day to get ashore with their supplies, then getting the convoy and convoy protection set up – "

  "When?" Jeeves flashed the young officer a threatening look.

  The latter flushed an embarrassed red. "Sir, my guess is you can't expect reinforcements for another three days, and that – "

  "Means – " Jeeves beat him to it – "the Huns will be here before the brown jobs."

  "Yessir," the captain answered, looking very crestfallen, as if the delay was his fault.

  Jeeves sucked at his pipe like a hungry babe at its mother's nipple. "Then, Captain, I suggest you go to the armoury and get yourself a Lee Enfield."

  "A Lee Enfield, sir?"

  "Yes, a damned rifle. I'm going to get one too. The way things look, we're going to need everyone who can hold a weapon in the firing line when the balloon goes up."