by Jack Higgins
Eisenhower read the file quickly. "Colonel Hugh Kelso." His face darkened. "But I know Kelso personally. He checked out two beaches in Normandy only weeks ago."
"Utah and Sword. On those occasions he had commandos nursing him and he also had an L pill with him, just in case he was caught. As the General knows, the cyanide in those things kills instantaneously."
Eisenhower pushed the file across. "He knows, Brigadier, both when we're going and where. The implications are past belief."
"We've men on the beaches around Slapton looking for him now, General. I've little reason to doubt that his body will turn up with the rest of them."
"Don't try to make me feel good," Eisenhower told him sharply. "Some of those bodies will never come in on the tide. I know that and so do you, and if Kelso is one of them, we can never be certain that he wasn't picked up by the enemy."
"That's true, General," Munro admitted because there wasn't really anything else he could say.
Eisenhower walked to the window. Rain dashed against the pane. "What a day," he said morosely. "One thing's for sure. I can only think of one man who'll have a smile on his face this morning."
At that very moment Adolf Hitler was reading a report on the Slapton Sands affair in the map room of his underground headquarters known as Wolf's Lair, near Rastenburg, deep in the forests of East Prussia.
Most of those important in the Nazi hierarchy were present. Hemrich Himmler, Reichführer of the SS and Chief of both State and Secret Police, Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Propaganda, Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Secretary to the Führer among other things, and Oberführer Rattenhuber, Himmler's Chief of Security and Commander of the SS guard at Rastenburg.
Hitler almost danced with delight and crumpled the thin paper of the message in one hand. "So, our Navy can still strike, and hard, right in the enemy's own backyard! Three ships sunk, and hundreds of casualties." His eyes sparked. "A bad morning for General Eisenhower, gentlemen."
There was general enthusiasm. "Good news indeed, my Führer," Goebbels said and delivered his usual high laugh.
Bormann, who had been the first to see the message, said quietly, "If we can do this to them off the coast of Devon, my Führer, all things are possible off the coast of France."
"They won't even get ashore," Himmler put in.
"Probably not," Hitler said, in high good humor. "But now, gentlemen, to the purpose of our meeting." They grouped around the circular table and he tapped the large-scale map of France. "The Westwall proceeds, I think." He turned to Bormann. "The report on Army Group B which I asked for? Has it arrived?"
Bormann turned inquiringly to Rattenhuber who said, "I've just had a report from the airfield. The courier, a Captain Koenig, landed five minutes ago. He's on his way."
"Good." Hitler seemed abstracted now, as if somehow alone as he stared down at the map. "So, gentlemen, where do we start?"
On December 26,1943, a remarkable and gifted young German officer, Colonel Klaus von Stauffenberg, reported for a meeting at Rastenburg with a time bomb in his briefcase. Unfortunately, the meeting did not lake place, as the Führer had already departed for Bavaria for the Christmas holiday. In spite of having lost his left eye and right hand in action, von Stauffenberg was Chief of Staff to General Olbricht of the General Army Office and the center of a conspiracy of army generals whose aim was to assassinate the Führer and save Germany from disaster.
His own abortive attempt at Christmas 1943 was only one of many that had failed. Yet there was no shortage of volunteers to the cause, as witness Captain Karl Koenig traveling in the rear of the military car from the airfield to Wolf's Lair on that gray April morning with the papers from Berlin that Hitler had requested. He was in a highly nervous state, which was hardly surprising when one considered the time bomb carefully placed in the false bottom of the briefcase. He had told the pilot at Rastenburg airfield to be ready for a quick turnaround and his fingers trembled as he lit a cigarette.
The SS driver and guard in front stared woodenly ahead, and as time passed, Koenig's nervousness increased. There were minefields on either side in the gloomy woods, electric fences, guards patrolling everywhere with savage dogs and three gates to pass through to reach the inner compound. Still, time to arm the bomb. Once done, it would give him exactly thirty minutes, they had told him.
He reached for the lock on the left-hand strap of the briefcase and depressed it. There was an immediate and very powerful explosion which killed Koenig and the two guards instantly and blew the car apart.
Hitler was beside himself with rage, pacing up and down in the map room. "Again and yet again they try." He turned on Rattenhuber. "And you, Oberführer? What about you? Sworn to protect my personal safety."
"My Führer," Rattenhuber stammered. "What can I say?"
"Nothing!" Hitler stormed and turned on the rest of them. "You say nothing of use to me—not any of you."
In the shocked silence, it was Himmler who spoke, his voice dry and precise. "That there has been negligence here is true, my Führer, but surely we see further proof, in the failure of this dastardly attempt, of the certainty of your own destiny. Further proof of Germany's inevitable victory under your inspired guidance."
Hitler's eyes blazed, his head went back. "As always, Reichsführer, you see. The only one who does." He turned on the others. "Get out, all of you. I wish to talk to the Reichsführer alone."
They went without a murmur, Goebbels the last one to leave. Hitler stood staring down at the map desk, hands clasped behind him. "In what way may I serve my Führer?" Himmler asked.
"There is a plot, am I not right?" Hitler said. "A general conspiracy to destroy me, and this Captain Koenig was simply an agent?"
"Not so much a general conspiracy as a conspiracy of generals, my Führer."
Hitler turned sharply. "Are you certain?"
"Oh, yes, but proof—that is something else."
Hitler nodded. "Koenig was an aide of General Olbricht. Is Olbricht one of those you suspect?" Himmler nodded. "And the others?"
"Generals Stieff, Wagner, von Hase, Lindemann. Several more, all being closely watched."
Hitler stayed remarkably cool. "Traitors each and every one. No firing squad. A noose each when the time comes. No one higher, though? It would seem our field marshals are loyal at least."
"I wish I could confirm that, my Führer, but there is one who is heavily suspect. I would be failing in my duty not to tell you."
"Then tell me."
"Rommel."
Hitler smiled a ghastly smile that was almost one of triumph, turned and walked away and turned again, still smiling. "I think I expected it. Yes, I'm sure I did. So, the Desert Fox wishes to play games."
"I'm almost certain of it."
"The people's hero," Hitler said. "We must handle him carefully, wouldn't you say?"
"Or outfox him, my Führer," Himmler said softly.
"Outfox him. Outfox the Desert Fox." Hitler smiled delightedly. "Yes, I like that, Reichsführer. I like that very much indeed."
Hugh Kelso slept until noon and when he awakened, he was sick. He turned over in the violently pitching life raft and pulled down the zip of the entrance flap. His heart sank. There was nothing but sea, the life raft twisting and turning on the angry waves. The sky was black, heavy with rain and the wind was gusting 5 or 6, he could tell that. Worst of all, there wasn't a hint of land anywhere. He was well out in the English Channel, so much was obvious. If he drifted straight across, wasn't picked up at all, he'd hit the coast of France, possibly the Cherbourg Peninsula. Below that, in the Gulf of St. Malo, were the Channel Islands. Alderney, Guernsey and Jersey. He didn't know much about them except that they were British and occupied by the enemy. He was not likely to be carried as far south as that, though.
He got the Verey light out, and fired an orange distress flare. There was seldom any German naval traffic in the Channel during daylight. They tended to keep to the inshore run behind their minefields. He fired another
flare and then water cascaded in through the flap and he hurriedly zipped it up. There were some field rations in the emergency kit. He tried to eat one of the dried fruit blocks and was violently sick and his leg was on fire again. Hurriedly, he got another morphine ampule and injected himself. After a while, he pillowed his head on his hands and slept again.
Outside, the sea lifted as the afternoon wore on. It started to get dark soon after five o'clock. By that time the wind was blowing sou'westerly, turning him away from the French coast and the Cherbourg Peninsula so that by six o'clock he was ten miles to the west of the Casquets Light off the island of Alderney. And then the wind veered again, pushing him down along the outer edge of the Gulf of St. Malo toward Guernsey.
Kelso was aware of none of these things. He awakened around seven o'clock with a high temperature, washed his face with a little water to cool it, was sick again and dropped into something approaching a coma.
In London, Dougal Munro was working at his desk, the slight scratching of his pen the only sound in the quiet of the room. There was a knock at the door and Jack Carter limped in with a folder in one hand. He put it down in front of Munro.
"Latest list from Slapton, sir."
"Anything on Kelso?"
"Not a thing, sir, but they've got every available ship out there in the bay looking for the missing bodies."
Dougal Munro got up and moved to the window. The wind moaned outside, hurling rain against the pane. He shook his head and said softly, "God help sailors at sea on a night like this."
THREE
AS COMMANDER OF Army Group B, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was responsible for the Atlantic Wall defenses, his sole task to defeat any Allied attempt to land in northern France. Since taking command in January of 1944 he had strengthened the coastal defenses to an incredible degree, tramping the beaches, visiting every strongpoint, impressing his own energetic presence on everyone from divisional commanders to the lowliest private.
His headquarters seemed permanently on the move so that no one could be sure where he was from one day to the next. He had an uncomfortable habit of turning up in his familiar black Mercedes accompanied only by his driver and his most trusted aide from Afrika Korps days, Major Konrad Hofer.
On the evening of that fateful day at about the time Hugh Kelso was somewhere in the general area of the Casquets Light, west of Alderney, the field marshal was sitting down to an early dinner with the officers of the 21st Parachute Regiment in a chateau at Campeaux some ten miles from St. Lo in Normandy.
His primary reason for being there was sound enough. The High Command, and the Führer himself, believed that the invasion, when it came, would take place in the area of the Pas de Calais. Rommel disagreed and had made it clear that if he were Eisenhower, he would strike for Normandy. None of this had done anything for his popularity among the people who counted at OKW, High Command of the Armed Forces, in Berlin. Rommel didn't give a damn about that anymore. The war was lost. The only thing that was uncertain was how long it would take.
Which brought him to the second reason for being in Normandy. He was involved in a dangerous game and it paid to keep on the move, for since taking command of Army Group B he had renewed old friendships with General von Stulpnagel, military governor of France, and General Alexander von Falkenhausen. Both were involved, with von Stauffenberg, in the conspiracy against Hitler. It had not taken them long to bring Rommel around to their point of view.
They had all been aware of the projected assassination attempt at Rastenburg that morning. Rommel had sent Konrad Hofer by air to Berlin the previous day to await events at General Olbricht's headquarters, but there had been no news at all. Not a hint of anything untoward on the radio.
Now, in the mess, Colonel Haider, commanding the regiment, stood to offer the loyal toast. "Gentlemen—to our Führer and total victory."
"So many young men," Rommel thought to himself, "and what for?" But he raised his glass and drank with them.
"And now, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox himself, who does our mess so much honor tonight."
They drained their glasses, then applauded him, cheering wildly, and Rommel was immensely touched. Colonel Haider said, "The men have arranged a little entertainment in your honor, Field Marshal. We were hoping you might be willing to attend."
"But of course." Rommel held out his glass for more champagne. "Delighted."
The door opened at the back of the mess and Konrad Hofer entered. He looked tired and badly needed a shave, his field gray greatcoat buttoned up to his neck.
"Ah, Konrad, there you are," Rommel called. "Come and have a glass of champagne. You look as if you could do with it."
"I've just flown in from Berlin, Field Marshal. Landed at St. Lo."
"Good flight?"
"Terrible, actually." Hofer swallowed the champagne gratefully.
"My dear boy, come and have a shower and we'll see if they can manage you a sandwich." Rommel turned to Colonel Haider. "See if you can delay this little show the men are putting on for half an hour."
"No problem, Field Marshal."
"Good—we'll see you later then." Rommel picked up a fresh bottle of champagne and two glasses and walked out followed by Hofer.
As soon as the bedroom door was closed, Hofer turned in agitation. "It was the worst kind of mess. All that fool Koenig managed to do was blow himself up outside the main gate."
"That seems rather careless of him," Rommel said dryly. "Now calm yourself, Konrad. Have another glass of champagne and get under the shower and just take it slowly."
Hofer went into the bathroom and Rommel straightened his uniform, examining himself in the mirror. He was fifty-three at that time, of medium height, stocky and thick-set with strong features, and there was a power to the man, a force, that was almost electric. His uniform was simple enough, his only decorations the Pour le Merite, the famous Blue Max, won as a young infantry officer in the First World War, and the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, both of which hung around his neck. On the other hand, one hardly needed anything else if one had those.
Hofer emerged in a bathrobe toweling his hair. "Olbricht and a few more up there are in a blue funk and I don't blame them. I mean the Gestapo or the SD could be on to this at any time."
"Yes," Rommel conceded. "Himmler may have started life as a chicken farmer, but whatever else you may say about him he's no fool. How was von Stauffenberg?"
"As determined as ever. He suggests you meet with Generals von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen within the next few days."
"I'll see what I can do."
Hofer was back in the bathroom pulling on his uniform again. "I'm not so sure it's a good idea. If Himmler does have his suspicions about you, you could be under close surveillance already."
"Oh, I'll think of something," Rommel said. "Now hurry up. The men are laying on a little show for me and I don't want to disappoint them."
The show was presented in the main hall of the chateau. A small stage had been rigged at one end with some makeshift curtains. Rommel, Hofer and the regimental officers sat down in chairs provided at the front; the men stood in the hall behind them or sat on the grand staircase.
A young corporal came on, bowed and sat down at the grand piano and played a selection of light music. There was polite applause. Then he moved into the song of the Fallschirmjager, the paratroopers' own song, sung everywhere from Stalingrad to North Africa. The curtains parted to reveal the regimental choir singing lustily. There was a cheer from the back of the hall and everyone started to join in, including the officers. Without pause, the choir moved straight into several choruses of We March Against England, an unfortunate choice, Rommel told himself. It was interesting to note that no one tried singing the Horst Wessel. The curtain came down to a storm of cheering and several instrumentalists came on, grouped themselves around the pianist and played two or three jazz numbers. When they were finished, the lights went down and there was a pause.
"What's happe
ning?" Rommel demanded.
"Wait and see, Herr Field Marshal. Something special, I assure you."
The pianist started to play the song that was most popular of all with the German forces, Lili Marlene. The curtains parted to reveal only a pool of light on a stool in the center of the stage from a crude spotlight. Suddenly, Marlene Dietrich stepped into the light straight out of Blue Angel, or so it seemed. Top hat, black stockings and suspenders. She sat on the stool to a chorus of wolf whistles from the men and then she started to sing Lili Marlene, and that haunting, bittersweet melody reduced the audience to total silence.
A man, of course, Rommel could see that, but a brilliant impersonation and he joined in the applause enthusiastically. "Who on earth is that?" he asked Colonel Haider.
"Our orderly room corporal, Berger. Apparently he used to be some sort of cabaret performer."
"Brilliant," Rommel said. "Is there more?"
"Oh, yes, Herr Field Marshal. Something very special."
The instrumentalists returned and the choir joined them in a few more numbers. There was another pause when they departed and then a steady, muted drum roll. The curtain rose to reveal subdued lighting. As the choir started to sing the song of the Afrika Korps from the side of the stage, Rommel walked on. And it was quite unmistakably he. The cap with the desert goggles, the white scarf carelessly knotted at the neck, the old leather greatcoat, the field marshal's baton in one gloved hand, the other arrogantly on the hip. The voice, when he spoke, was perfect as he delivered a few lines of his famous battlefield speech before El Alamein.
"I know I haven't offered you much. Sand, heat and scorpions, but we've shared them together. One more push and it's Cairo, and if we fail… well, we tried—together."
There was total silence from the body of the hall as Colonel Haider glanced anxiously at Rommel. "Field Marshal, I hope you're not offended."