Operation Iraq

by Leo Kessler

  Herresbach woke with a start. Instinctively he knew something was going on. In the bed with him, the boy said something in his half-sleep, and his soft hand reached for the captain's genitals. Herresbach pushed the importuning fingers away. There seemed no time for that now. He shook his head and everything came into focus. At this remote border station, there was no 'dim-out'. But it seemed to him, as he glanced towards the window of his quarters, that there were more lights than usual. He flashed a glance at the green-glowing dial of his wristwatch. It was just past three in the morning. Who would be making so much light at this time of the day, he asked himself. Certainly not the local native merchants, who were the only ones who possessed electric light.

  He sat abruptly. Next to him, the boy turned, stretched his naked body, and fell into a deep, probably dreamless sleep immediately. For a moment, Herresbach was tempted to forget the mystery of the lights and snuggle up to him. Now the boy was nubile and sexually very attractive to him. A year or so more and his voice would break, he would grow hair and probably pimples too. Then he would be completely unattractive and then he, Herresbach, would have to find a replacement. It wasn't always easy to find the right kind of handsome boy, whom he could train to his peculiar ways and tastes.

  He pricked up his ears. Over at the barracks, just beyond the prison, someone was attempting to start the reluctant engine of one of the regiment's trucks. He could just make out the harsh whirr of the starter handle and throaty choking gasps of an engine stubbornly refusing to fire. "Himmel, Arsch and Wolkenbruch," he cursed, using German as he always did when he talked to himself. Something strange was going on. There was no early morning exercise planned for the regiment, and any messenger heading for headquarters in Damascus wouldn't use a truck; he'd use a motorcycle or a light vehicle – they were more economical.

  His mind made up, the naked officer swung himself out of the rumpled bed. In a matter of seconds he was dressed, complete with his white kepi. Then, as an afterthought, he strapped on his revolver and strode out purposefully, flashing a last look at the handsome boy sleeping peacefully on his pillow. Then he was gone into the cool darkness. He'd never see the boy again.

  Schulze laughed uproariously. The warder looked up at the giant who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, pistol trembling in his pudgy hand. "Que tu veux?" he asked in a weak voice, still fumbling with the pistol.

  Schulze didn't seem to notice the pistol. Instead he bellowed, "Hold it there, you asparagus Tarzan." The Frenchman didn't understand the German, but he did understand what happened next. Schulze's big foot lashed out. It caught the warder on his right shin. He yelped with pain. The pistol fell from his trembling hand and he bent over. Up came Schulze's knee. It caught him directly under his nostrils. The nose burst immediately under the impact of that tremendous blow. Blood and gore squirted everywhere as the bone snapped, the Frenchman reeling back to slam against the concrete wall.

  "Los!" Schulze cried. "The CO must be here somewhere."

  Together in a mad scramble, the mixture of Wotan troopers and Legionnaires rushed down the dim passage. A warder poked his head out of a side room, saw the human avalanche descending upon him and fled back inside again. Then Schulze heard that familiar voice.

  "Zu mir, Wotan!" the CO yelled with all his strength, his pale haughty face contorted with a mixture of pride and gratitude. "Hier!"

  One minute later, half a dozen hefty troopers were battering on his cell door as if their very lives depended upon it. Two minutes after that, they were freeing their beloved CO and hurrying down the corridor, heading for freedom and the trucks that should be waiting for them by now.

  CHAPTER 24

  Herresbach realised immediately what was happening. There had been some sort of mutiny in the Legion barracks, he guessed. The mutineers were now busy preparing the Panhard and Citroën trucks and half-tracks in the motor pool to flee. At the same time, he could tell from the blaze of lights over at the prison that something was going on over there, too.

  Naturally, it was all the fault of those damned Germans of the SS, who had been interned in the Legion barracks. They had probably suborned those Legionnaires who were of German origin. At all events, there was a small-scale mutiny taking place, and for a moment or two he was at a loss how to deal with it... Where were all the Legion's French officers? Had the mutineers killed them or confined them to their quarters? Herresbach knew that without their officers, the rest of the non-German Legionnaires wouldn't move into action against their fellow soldiers. Only their French officers could make them take up arms.

  For a few minutes, revolver in hand, the captain stood there perplexed. Naturally the Germans could not be allowed to get away with this disgraceful mutiny, and for the moment he seemed unable to do anything here. Of course, he could call GHQ in Damascus. But the High Command, which was actively collaborating with France's enemy of a year before, would not permit any armed action against the Germans, especially as they had the German Control Commission looking over their shoulder in the Syrian capital.

  Suddenly he had it. Without any one of standing to lead them, the mutiny would collapse as soon as it had started.

  Most common soldiers were like dumb sheep, merely following the 'lead sheep'. And Herresbach knew that the 'lead sheep' in this remote frontier town was that arrogant swine Captain von Dodenburg. Deal with him nice and discreetly and the whole rotten mess would be cleared up in a flash.

  His face hardened. Indeed, it would give him the greatest of pleasure to deal with the German swine, arrogant pig that he was, personally. But how was he going to do it?

  The chatter of an old-fashioned machine gun, sounding like the noise of an irate woodpecker, cut into his reverie. He recognized the sound immediately. It was one of the handful of First World War machine guns with which the prison was equipped, and he knew this particular one was located between the inner and outer entrances to the prison. Obviously some of the warders were free and attempting to stop the break-out.

  Herresbach hesitated no longer. Crouching low so as to make the smallest possible target, he ran towards the main entrance of the prison. Now, as he got closer, he could hear the muffled shouts and cries from behind the thick walls, mixed with the slow chatter of the machine gun and the whine of the slugs howling off the concrete.

  A woman was crouched there. What she was doing there, he neither knew nor cared. He punched her hard. She slammed to the wall and fell to the ground, unconscious before she hit it. He grunted and sucked his bruised knuckles before hurrying on. A dead warder lay sprawled across the main entrance, stretched out in the extravagant posture of one done violently to death. He sprang over the body. Standing with his back to the door, he gave it a slight kick. It opened wider. He flashed a glance inside. Up in the inner darkness of the connecting corridor, there were the angry, violent flashes of a machine gun firing in the direction of the prison's interior. He hesitated no longer. He started to run down the corridor to where the gun crew were squatting. A corporal in charge heard the echoing footsteps. He swung round and recognized the captain. "Sheer hell, sir," he gasped, the blood trickling down the side of his face from a scalp wound. "But we're holding them – just. But all they've got to do is to wait for a stoppage, or while we change the belt, and they'll rush us."

  "I understand." Herresbach brushed aside the explanation sharply. "I want to get in... but not to face that mob in there."

  The corporal looked shocked, as if the big captain had suddenly gone mad, but he knew Herresbach's reputation, so he didn't argue. "Over to the right, sir." He indicated a little door in the side wall. "Up the stairs and you're on top of the inner wall, then – " But Herresbach was already gone, slipping through the small door and mounting the winding stair that led to the wall and the interior of the prison.

  Now the attackers had gone to ground in the face of the heavy machine-gun fire coming from the outer corridor. "Shit on the shingle!" Schulze cursed as he lay there with a stream of tracer cutting the air just a
bove his head. "Why the frig didn't I take that into account?" He meant the machine gun. "A single grenade and I'd have blown the Frog perverts to hell toot sweet."

  Under other circumstances, von Dodenburg would have been amused at Schulze's anger, but not now. So far everything had gone smoothly. Now this single machine gun was holding up the whole escape, and he guessed they didn't have much time left. The alarm would sound and then they'd probably face the full strength of the Vichy French Army in Syria. He had to do something and he had to do it damned fast. But what?

  It was Max, the big red-bearded ex-communist, who came up with the answer. "Sir." He addressed von Dodenburg as if he were already part of Wotan's First Company.

  "Yes?"

  "We used Schulze here as a human bridge to get inside this place, sir."

  "Yes, you frigging well did," Schulze agreed darkly. "And frigging well nearly ruined my sex life doing so."

  Max ignored the NCO. "Well, we could use the same dodge to get outside of it. At least, some of us could. If we can get behind them and catch them off guard..." He didn't finish his sentence; instead he clasped and twisted his huge hairy paws together, as if he were choking the life out of one of the warders.

  Von Dodenburg didn't hesitate. He knew he hadn't the time. "Let's use the dead ground over there – right, see it? I'll get up that wall on my own." he said urgently. Schulze opened his mouth to protest, but in the garish red light cast by the machine gun firing all out, he could see that it wouldn't be of any use. He let his shoulders sink in defeat.

  Von Dodenburg started to crawl towards the wall. Immediately the French gunner turned his weapon on the crawling man. Slugs slapped into the cobbles on both sides of von Dodenburg, chips of stone cut his face. He kept going. A few more feet and he'd be in dead ground. The French gunner must have known it, too. He loosed another volley at the crawling man. Even in the darkness, von Dodenburg could see the bullets coming ever closer, striking up little flashes of violent light as they struck the ground. In the very last moment, a desperate von Dodenburg gave a kind of roll forward and the bullets were cutting the air behind him harmlessly. He had done it!

  For a moment or two he rested there, trying to contain his heavy breathing. Then he was in charge of himself, his breathing under control, his hands steady. He touched the wall. It was made up of rough-hewn stones. There were plenty of handholds. Even in the darkness he'd manage it. He spat on his palms like some labourer about to start a hard day's work, and grabbed the first handhold. Moments later he was on his way upwards.

  Behind him Schulze cursed angrily once again and told himself he shouldn't have let the CO go it alone. But now it was too late. So he turned to the others lying on the cobbles behind him and cried above the chatter of the machine gun, "Once the CO nobbles the Frog popgun, move, and move frigging fast. Time's running out. Clear?"

  There was a murmur of agreement, though Matz was the only one who doubted whether von Dodenburg could 'nobble the Frog popgun' so easily. But he kept that thought to himself.

  Panting a little, von Dodenburg swung himself over the parapet and crouched there in the glowing darkness, listening to the attempts of the rest of Schulze's party trying to start the trucks over at the barracks. By now in the border city there was noise everywhere as the inhabitants became aware, too, that something strange was going on at the barracks and the prison. He guessed it wouldn't be long before the authorities realised that something was wrong and started to take action. It was imperative that he should silence that damned machine gun so that they could get out and be on their way before the real balloon went up.

  His breathing calmer now, he set off again, feeling his way along the wall, trying to find some way of getting down to the rear of the machine gun down below. Once he thought he'd found a door that opened to a passage leading to the ground. But it proved to be locked or bricked up and, cursing under his breath, he was forced to continue, groping his way along the wall in the darkness.

  It was when he was about ready to give up in despair that he felt the cooler air strike him in the face, air heavy with the stink of cat's piss and ancient prison misery. Immediately he realised that there was an opening somewhere close at hand. His heart leapt. This was it! He pushed forward and then stopped dead. Enclosed in a doorway, looking like a statue let into the wall of some medieval Gothic church, there was a silent figure staring at him. For a moment he felt the small hairs at the back of his head stand erect with the shock. Who was this ghostly figure waiting for him thus?

  Next moment he knew, as that well-remembered voice said in his thick Alsatian dialect, "Well, the man I want to meet. Hauptsturmführer von Dodenburg himself."

  "Herresbach!" Kuno retorted, shocked. "You?"

  "Exactly. Who had you expected? Father Christmas, perhaps."

  "Arschloch!" von Dodenburg cried, and started to move forward.

  He stopped the very next instant as Herresbach commanded, "Stay there, if you want to live a little longer."

  There was enough authority – and menace – in Herresbach's voice to make him stop. He guessed the French officer would be armed, and all he'd got was the crude home-made knife. What was he to do? He knew he could expect no mercy from Herresbach. Still, he had to do something. If he didn't, Schulze, Matz and all the rest who had rescued him would suffer, perhaps even with their lives. He took another pace forward. "I said – stay there," Herresbach's harsh voice commanded once more. He saw Herresbach's hand draw a menacing little shape from his belt. Next moment he heard a little click.

  Kuno couldn't see him exactly in the darkness, but he knew what that sharp metallic click signified. Herresbach was armed, and sooner or later he was going to use his weapon. The Alsatian would show no mercy. It was clear what he had to do – it was a matter of kill or be killed.

  "Step forward – slowly," he heard Herresbach say, as if he were speaking from a long way off. "Raise your hands."

  Von Dodenburg hesitated for a moment. He made a swift movement with his right hand. He raised both hands then and moved forward, body held rigid, waiting for the first hard impact of Herresbach's bullet. He didn't trust the Alsatian. The latter had no concept of honour between officers or the rules of war.

  Now he could make out Herresbach more clearly. He had stepped out of the dark framework of the door. In his right hand he held his revolver, levelled straight at him. And Herresbach was grinning, showing his big yellow tomb-like teeth in triumph. He thought he had all the aces in his hand, von Dodenburg could tell that. He was going to enjoy this moment of victory, savour every last second of it.

  Herresbach said, "You thought you were damned clever, von Dodenburg, didn't you? You Germans always do. Making traitors of our troops, just as you have done with that dirty pack of collaborators back in France." He laughed. "This time you picked the wrong man to play your supposed clever tricks on."

  "At least I'm not a goddam pervert like you, Herresbach," von Dodenburg needled him suddenly. He reasoned that if he taunted the other man, he might lose control of himself. "I am an honest soldier. I have no truck with perverted little boys, like you do."

  "Sale cochon!" Herresbach cursed. He pulled the trigger in the same instant that von Dodenburg launched himself forward. Kuno yelled with pain. What felt like a red-hot poker plunged deep into his right leg. Next moment he slammed into Herresbach with all his weight. The other man was caught off balance. He staggered against the wall, just above the steps leading down below to where the machine-gun team was. Desperately he attempted to regain his balance, lashing out at von Dodenburg's pain-contorted face with the muzzle of his pistol.

  Kuno felt himself blacking out with the agony of his leg. But he wouldn't let himself go under. Vaguely he heard the corporal below cry, "Le Capitaine – il est blessé!" The chatter of the machine gun ceased. Kuno didn't wait for it to start again. He ripped the makeshift knife from left to right across Herresbach's hard stomach, trying to find a spot where he could plunge the knife in deep. There it was, just bel
ow the other man's belly button. He waited no longer. "Try that on for size, you perverted swine!" he cried, and with the last of his strength plunged the knife in deep.

  Herresbach grunted like a stuck pig. His back arched like a taut bowstring. He hit Kuno across the face with his pistol muzzle once more, his eyes bulging with hatred. This time the blow was weaker; Kuno hardly felt it. But he was blacking out fast. "Die... you bastard – die!" he hissed, and slipped the knife in once more. He felt the hot blood flood his right hand. He ripped the knife upwards with the last of his failing strength, the black veil descending before his eyes. The blade snapped. Herresbach whispered something and then the two of them, locked together like passionate lovers in one final embrace, tumbled down the stairs and, from below, Schulze was yelling at the top of his voice, "Up the wall, you dogs. Come on, crack your nuts... up the frigging wall and help the CO."

  That was the last Kuno von Dodenburg heard as Herresbach died slowly.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Führer laughed. As always, he felt at ease with his paladins of the SS, especially those from his own bodyguard regiment, die Leibstandarte. They were all there, the senior members, the juniors, even a few favoured NCOs who had won decorations in the regiment's last two years of campaigning in Europe. There was Sepp Dietrich, Keitel, his chief of staff, of course, then the younger ones, Peiper, Bremer, Frey, who would all be generals if the war lasted long enough – and they survived in one piece.