by Colin Smith
The marshal stood at the head of the table with a dapper Uhlan major of medium height called Franz von Papen, his aide de camp, on his right and Kress on his left. Behind them was a blackboard. Weidinger had thought at first that the blackboard was blank, but when he got closer he saw that a black cloth had been pinned to it.
As a junior member of the staff Weidinger stood at the end of the table opposite von Falkenhayn while the others had arranged themselves either side of the table, their propinquity to the marshal more or less decided by seniority. There were armed sentries outside the door to the Kriegspiel room, and the more junior officers such as Weidinger had been required to show some proof of identity before they were let in. Von Falkenhayn was not there merely to gossip about the Central Powers’ successes on another front, however welcome these might be.
‘Good logistics make good tactics,’ he continued. ‘And logistics need the kind of attention a lady gives her needlework. Which is, of course, why you gentlemen are so important. If the sort of success General Bruchmuller enjoyed against the Russians is to be repeated in this theatre of operations it will be because you people saw to it that the right men with the right equipment were in the right place at the right time.’
It was all terribly patronising stuff, the sort of thing a young officer might expect to hear during his first week at staff college, yet there was Kress apparently drinking in every golden word.
The marshal made a gesture to von Papen who began to unpin the black sheet covering the blackboard. The major did this with great dexterity, a magician’s assistant. When he removed a pin he first stored it in his mouth then stabbed it into a neat row on the top of the board.
Once he had finished most of the officers crowded forward to see what the sheet had concealed. Only a small knot of Turkish officers remained aloof, talking among themselves and smoking cigarettes in long holders. When Krag saw what was on the board their indifference seemed justified.
To his astonishment it was no more than a crude map of the greater part of the Ottoman Empire, including some bits that had been in British hands for several months. It stretched from Aleppo, which was practically on the Turkish border, to as far south as Gaza on the Mediterranean coast and eastwards to the Mesopotamian rivers. The cities of Mosul and Baghdad, and the southern port of Basrah, just up the Shatt-el-Arab from the Persian Gulf, were clearly marked.
Two broad arrows told the story. One, more or less crescent-shaped, started just south of Aleppo, swung up to Mosul and then came down the Tigris to Baghdad. The other started a little south of Damascus and swung through the three hundred-mile width of the desert known as the Badiet esh Sham before it bridged the Euphrates and also came to rest against Baghdad. In the bottom left-hand corner of the map, almost as an afterthought, was a broken line of shaded oblongs stretching from Gaza to Beersheba. This was the Eighth Army Corps’ front line. Each oblong had a small arrow attached, pointing south at the British lines.
‘Gentlemen, we are going to recapture Baghdad,’ announced von Falkenhayn in a matter-of-fact voice. He tapped the blackboard with a baton. Where had the baton come from, thought Krag. The magician’s assistant? There will be two thrusts. Seventh Army Corps under Mustafa Kemal in the north –’ here the baton traced the crescent that started at Aleppo – ‘and some elements of a reinforced Eighth Army Corps making a surprise attack across the desert in the south.’
Weidinger looked at Kress. He thought the Bavarian looked stunned.
‘I have no need to tell you, gentlemen, that the enemy is off balance,’ continued von Falkenhayn. ‘You did a magnificent job holding his last two attacks on Gaza. Since then he has reinforced, of course, but most of them are ill-trained, third-rate troops and it will be months before they’re fit for anything better than guarding a mule train. I understand they even have a regiment of Jews coming.’ He paused here for the kind of pitying smile that suggested transvestite Rumanian majors were probably better opposition. ‘Now is the time to hit them. When they least expect it.’
The Turkish officers were no longer looking so blasé. Von Falkenhayn looked directly at them. ‘Our code word for this operation is Yilderim,’ he announced.
The Turks nodded and smiled, flattered to be singled out. The marshal turned towards the Austro-Hungarians and his compatriots. ‘Of course, you’re all aware that Yilderim is Turkish for lightning,’ he said, pausing for one of his tight little smiles. ‘It’s what the Turks called Napoleon’s campaign in Egypt. Yilderim meaning a lightning stroke, a war of lightning speed. We might say blitzkrieg.’
Kress spoke. ‘Sir, you mentioned a reinforced Eighth Army. Can you tell us what we’re getting?’
‘Yes, I can,’ said von Falkenhayn, letting his eyes wander around the room for a couple of seconds. ‘We are expecting at least another three Turkish divisions. In addition, we shall have more German troops. They will not only be support arms, artillery and aircraft and so on. There will also be some small contingents of infantry and cavalry.’
‘Incredible!’ said Weidinger out loud. German infantry, let alone cavalry, had never been committed to the Ottoman theatre before. All around him other officers were making similar kinds of noises.
Kress was not so easily impressed. He waited for the hubbub to die down. ‘These German troops, sir: they will be shared between the Seventh and Eighth armies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you tell me how many and what they will consist of?’
‘I believe it is about six thousand, but Major von Papen has the details.’
‘Shall I give them, sir?’ He already had the piece of paper in his hand. The clever Westphalian.
‘Please.’
‘There will be three battalions of infantry. There will be three machine-gun companies with six machine-guns each, and three trench mortar sections. There will also be three troops of cavalry. There will be four squadrons of aircraft. There will be some support troops – engineers, signallers and medical units. In all it should total about 6,500 men.’
Weidinger was thinking about the cavalry. Three troops was less than a hundred men. It was no more than a gesture.
Kress turned to von Falkenhayn. ‘Sir, according to our latest intelligence reports Allenby has a ration strength of 300,000 men and more are coming. This army corps has about 30,000 combatants and their state of readiness varies enormously. Some parts of the Gaza-Beersheba line are held by men in rags using trench mortars they have made themselves out of captured British cannon.
‘In the circumstances, their morale remains amazingly good. But I would not like to take the consequences if the troops along that line were reduced by a single company. If several thousand men were to go it could be disastrous. I could not guarantee that we could hold it. If the British did break through while you were making your thrust on Baghdad it would surely be disastrous. Your lines of communication would be cut. And if the whole of Palestine were lost you might find that you had recaptured Baghdad only to be besieged in it. Three Turkish divisions and 6,500 of our own. That’s somewhere in the region of 40,000 – providing the Turkish regiments are up to strength. With respect, it is not enough, sir. We must at least equal the British.’
The room went very quiet. As Weidinger told it afterwards, you could have heard a rank drop. For the first time he realised the strain Kress was under and how well he had done just holding things together. He felt a glow of pride in his commanding officer, the privilege of being one of his team. There were not many colonels who dared inform a field marshal that his grand concept was shit.
Von Falkenhayn managed to look hurt rather than angry. Von Papen merely looked worried. Krag, who also felt a certain reluctant admiration for Kress’s outburst, watched the major fold the paper with the details of the fresh German contingents on and put it in the top breast pocket of his tunic.
After what seemed like an eternity von Falkenhayn spoke. ‘Perhaps I did not make it clear to you, colonel, that only part of the Eighth Army Corps will be involve
d in Yilderim,’ he said. ‘The part will come out of the Turkish and German reinforcements. The northernmost prong of the attack will be made by the Seventh Army under the command of Mustafa Kemal.’
So our troops are to cross 300 miles of desert to make what appears to be a diversionary attack while the Seventh hogs the glory, thought Weidinger. No prizes for guessing which corps most of those fresh faces from the Fatherland will be with. And while we’re making it easy for them who’s going to be manning the Gaza-Beersheba line? Most of the other officers present were thinking along similar lines. Even Weidinger was no longer mesmerised by the thought of German cavalry.
Kress said no more. He knew he had already said too much. Despite appearances, he did know where to draw the line with field marshals and was conscious that he had already travelled some distance beyond it.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said von Falkenhayn. There was a certain amount of heel-clicking whilst the man who had once commanded half a million men made his departure. Von Papen held the door open for him. Before he went out Krag thought he caught the aide de camp throw Kress a glance and a raised eyebrow as if to say, ‘Do you think that was altogether wise, Colonel?’ Or could it have been, ‘I’ve got my doubts too.’
After the pair had left, everybody started talking at once. Krag thought the Turkish officers appeared to be having a particularly heated discussion. He wondered what Mustafa Kemal would make of Yilderim. He had already put it about that he had only agreed to accept command of the Seventh Army Corps because he thought there was too much German interference in Turkish affairs and wished to be in a position to put a stop to it.
Von Kressenstein left, still visibly disturbed at what he had just learned.
Krag asked Weidinger what he thought of Yilderim?
‘Not enough cavalry.’
‘The Turks have cavalry.’
‘Their lancers aren’t bad,’ Weidinger conceded. ‘But they’re not exactly an Uhlan regiment.’
‘True,’ said Krag, noting – not for the first time – how the younger man’s blue eyes seemed to light up his whole face when he became enthused. He glanced at the neatly pinned sleeve. Where did it end? Above the elbow? Below the elbow? How could he remain the bone-headed Teutonic knight after what he had suffered? ‘Yours was an Uhlan regiment wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Major von Papen’s too.’
‘So I noticed. What do you think they will do with three troops of Uhlans?’
‘Reconnaissance, I suppose.’ For a second Weidinger saw himself at the head of a glorious charge against a bell-tented Tommy camp, the Beau Sabreur, slashing down sentries and carrying away prisoners.
Krag made to leave.
‘Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you learned anything more about the Swede yet?’ Weidinger knew it was not really his place to ask, but it was almost two months since he had first brought the matter to Krag’s attention.
‘Nothing yet,’ said the intelligence officer.
‘No more visits to the old Jew?’
‘No,’ said Krag, shaking his head. He walked out of the room, leaving Weidinger trying to console himself with the thought that at least he must have put the Swede under some sort of surveillance in order to be so emphatic. He couldn’t see why Krag simply didn’t bring them both in for questioning. Beat the living daylights out of them if necessary. He was damn certain the Turks had hanged people for less. He supposed Krag knew his business, but he was longing to see Maeltzer’s face when he learned Magnus was a spy. Then again, perhaps he wasn’t a spy. Perhaps he was no more than the lunatic he appeared to be. The Syrian he had hired to follow him about could have invented things to keep the money coming; thrown an old Jew into his concoction to spice the intrigue.
Weidinger wandered over to the Kriegspiel table and studied the map. He imagined making a hole somewhere in the British line and pouring through a couple of divisions of Prussian cavalry that would roll the British up from the rear. The trick would be to do it somewhere unexpected. Gaza was out of the question. The front lines there were as close as the Western Front and there had already been heavy fighting. Somewhere around Beersheba would be more like it. Of course, the terrain would be more difficult there – real desert most of it – and there would be water problems. But if they could get over these – perhaps the Bedouin knew some secret springs? – they could really give Allenby a surprise.
Weidinger picked up a pair of war gamers’ Average Dice and rolled them. He got a two and a five. The odds against that happening were quite high.
2
Jerusalem: August 1917
***
Unauthorised civilians were forbidden to walk along the walls of the Old City under a regulation the Turks had introduced shortly after the start of hostilities. Although Maeltzer lacked the proper authorisation he often took a stroll along them for the regulation was, in the main, slackly enforced. If one of the more efficient sentries questioned his presence he produced the ornate laissez-passer that had cost him his ivory-handled Colt; if the man persisted, cigarettes or occasionally a cigar would be produced.
In the summer months the journalist liked to tour the walls towards dusk when the heat was out of the day and the colour of things softer. He would walk for a while and then pause at some parapet to gaze at the scene below, to linger, perhaps, near the Jaffa Gate, where the obstinately immobile sails of Sir Moses Montefiore’s windmill dominated the view, and stubborn Syrian peasants continued to graze their flocks between the buildings of the Zionists’ new Jewish quarter without the walls.
The day after von Falkenhayn’s revelations Maeltzer was on the section of the wall immediately above the Damascus Gate when he heard voices. This was something of a puzzle since there was nobody in sight in either direction, not even a sentry. Then he realised that the voices were coming from below him, from beneath the vaulted ceiling of the portal itself.
At first he could not understand why he could hear them so clearly. Then he spotted a narrow slit in the paving-stones of the parapet. He immediately recognised what it was: it had been put there by the seventeenth-century Turkish fortress architects when they heightened the old Crusader walls, and was designed to facilitate the pouring of boiling oil or other obnoxious substances onto the heads of unwelcome callers.
The words rising from below were German – or at least most of them were. One of the speakers was using a foreign word the journalist was unfamiliar with. ‘Yilderim,’ he was saying. ‘Yilderim. I can assure you, major, that during my two years here I have never known the Turks do anything like lightning, and I can’t see them changing now. Besides, not only do we lack the men, but we don’t have enough rations to feed those we do have.’
‘But you must concede, sir, that we are getting reinforcements – some of the best. And besides superior troops we’re also going to have the advantage of a certain amount of surprise.’
The first voice, the one raised in what was almost anger, sounded familiar to Maeltzer. He went down on one knee above the machicolation and peered through. At first he could see nothing but two pairs of black cavalry boots, the one immobile and the other circling round like the active partner in a minuet. Then he saw the colonel’s rank badges on the epaulettes of a white tunic. Of course, it was Kress.
‘Surprise? You talk about surprise!’ Kress went on. ‘Don’t you realise the British are flying more sorties over our lines than ever before? They have sent dozens of their new Bristol Fighters to this front. They know more and more about our movements. And the whole territory is riddled with spies. Every second Syrian here is longing for the British to come and rescue them from the Turkish yoke. And the same can be said for the Jews and the Armenians. Especially the Armenians.
‘I can’t believe that the High Command really intends to go ahead with this. Nor that somebody of your general’s experience cannot see the danger. If the Gaza-Beersheba line was weakened for Yilderim to the point where we could not hold the next British push it wou
ld be disastrous. If the British were allowed to advance up that Mediterranean coast to Haifa or even beyond his lines of communication, his logistics would be horribly vulnerable. It could be worse than Verdun.’
‘No it wouldn’t, Colonel,’ said Stationary Boots. ‘Nothing could be as bad as that.’
This other voice was quietly spoken so that Maeltzer had to bend his large head closer to the gap in order to catch the words. As he did so his reading spectacles fell out of his top pocket; for a moment they lingered briefly on the edge of the machicolation and then evaded the journalist’s desperate fingers to drop neatly through the hole and shatter inches from the gleaming toecaps some fifteen feet below. After a moment’s hesitation Maeltzer fled.
Major von Papen picked up the spectacles. As he did so their remaining glass tinkled onto the floor.
Both men looked up at the vaulted roof of the gateway where for the first time they noticed its small slice of sky. ‘Extraordinary’, said von Kressenstein.
‘One of your spies?’ said von Papen.
‘The only people who are supposed to be up there are the sentries.’
‘Eyes have ears,’ said the aide de camp, waving the shattered spectacles.
‘Quite,’ said Kress, more than a little irritated. ‘Better raise the guard.’
This proved easier said than done, but they eventually found a young private near the Jaffa Gate who had just come on duty. Kress questioned him in his functional Turkish and he stood rigidly to attention and told the Bavarian that he and the other effendi were the first people he had seen since coming on duty.
In the end Kress, with von Papen trailing a couple of paces behind, discovered what they took to be an orderly officer playing backgammon in the Turkish mess in the Citadel. The man, a captain with a livid purple scar down one cheek, was obviously of the same persuasion as Mustafa Kemal when it came to German officers, and in no mood to disguise his feelings. He rose to his feet with obvious reluctance and suggested that the owner of the spectacles was some curious Jew – ‘The race are almost always half blind.’