by Gee, Colin
“Vodka?”
“Scotch. Johnnie Walker. Only the best for our communist comrades.”
Rolf grunted, again becoming pre-occupied with, almost daunted by, the enormity of what lay ahead.
Pförzer mistook it for envy.
“In my pocket here,” He indicated the jacket he was wearing and fetched a flask from its depths, thumbing the spring-loaded cap open as he offered it up “Try some of that Kamerad.”
Rolf took the flask and took a slug.
As the choking started to subside, the grinning Pförzer took the flask back, taking his own tipple, flicking the lid shut and slipping it back into his jacket.
In a voice that sounded not unlike a man who had eaten a bowl of sand, Rolf enquired, “What the fuck is that?”
“That, Mein Herr, is our American enemy’s secret weapon! They call it Southern Comfort and I have acquired quite a taste for it.”
Pförzer’s grinning continued as Uhlmann coughed his way to a clear throat.
“I will remember that for the future!”
Uhlmann could feel the liquid warm his belly.
“Now then my friend,” Pförzer brought them both back to earth. “We have lost the war. Let us now concentrate on not losing the peace.”
1147 hrs Sunday, 5th August 1945, Ybbs an der Donau, Soviet Occupied Lower Austria.
As the barge approached the checkpoint, Rolf unconsciously moved his hand to the trouser pocket containing the papers Pförzer had obtained for him.
The action was noted.
“Easy Kamerad, easy. Just take things nice and easy. Speak if they speak to you obviously, but just leave it all to me, and only offer those up if you are approached.”
Pförzer paused momentarily.
Rolf nodded as his eyes took in the scene.
Freyenstein itself did not seem to amount to much at all, pushed up against the Donau by the surrounding hills. A number of small craft, obviously used by the Soviet military, cruised back and forth intercepting those plying their trade on the river.
His expert eye could see at least four fortified positions housing what appeared to be Zis-3 anti-tank guns on the southern bank. Rolf knew that from this point onwards the left bank was Soviet territory; the right bank belonged to the Western Allies.
Pförzer was conning the barge into the left bank, aiming at a flimsy looking wooden jetty, on which waited a party of Russian soldiers.
The engine was cut, relying on momentum to finish the journey.
He leaned towards Rolf, “When I give you the word, throw them that line near the barrel up there,” he indicated the bow of the barge.
Uhlmann moved forwards and took up the line in what he hoped was an appropriate way.
The barge slowed to a virtual halt as the current took away the forward momentum and it gently angled into the jetty.
“Now.”
The line landed over the shoulder of a waiting soldier, who grabbed it willingly and moved to wind it round a wooden pillar.
Pförzer emerged quickly from the wheelhouse, grabbed the stern line and threw it in one easy motion.
Previously briefed, Rolf picked up a pot of paint and a brush and went to work on the hatch cover.
Another cunning ploy by Pforzer to discourage exploration of the vessel.
Three of the Russians, all officers, stepped down off the jetty onto the deck and Rolf was amazed to see backslapping and hugging as they all disappeared into the living quarters of the barge, Pförzer being the last down the steps, green bag prominent in his hand.
Uhlmann had been in many battles and was no coward, but could not help the familiar stab of fear that started to gnaw at him the longer Pförzer was out of sight and he was alone on deck.
He fetched out a chesterfield and puffed rapidly on it, easing his inner tension.
That was until it was raised again by the sharp sound of boots hitting the deck, as another Russian jumped aboard.
Rolf looked up as a young Soviet Starshina advanced on him with a purpose, the yellow T on his shoulder boards distinct and new.
His stomach flipped.
The Russian stopped just far enough away to ensure that no flicks of paint could inadvertently come his way.
“Comrade Boatsman, a cigarette if you please.”
Uhlmann was impressed with the flawless German, even if it was a little clinical.
He offered up the pack and the Russian took it, quickly slipping a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it and pausing to examine the pack.
“American.”
Not a question, a statement.
“Please, feel free to keep the pack. I can get plenty more.”
The young Russian nodded graciously and pocketed them.
“Thank you, Comrade Boatsman.”
The Starshina walked casually around the deck, taking in everything as he enjoyed the cigarette, even taking care not to flick his ash where it could spoil Rolf’s painting.
A peal of laughter sounded out, and the below decks party started to emerge into the sunlight once more. Pförzer walked forward, acknowledging the Russian, tossing an empty green bag into the bow area.
Slapping the Starshina on the shoulder, Hub returned to the departing soldiers, seeing them off the barge with more hugs and slaps, carefully avoiding pockets now stuffed with cigarettes and scotch.
Quickly he disappeared below decks.
The young Russian threw his butt into the water, and looked skywards, relishing the sun upon his face.
“Comrade Boatsman, make sure you do good business this trip eh?” Rolf looked up and could almost see the pain and fear in the soldier’s eyes, “And bring me back something nice eh?”
Rolf nodded.
Pförzer, emerging from below decks, heard the last statement.
“That we will Senior Sergeant?”
He grinned as he thrust four packs of cigarettes into the young Russian’s hands.
“Thank you Comrade Boatsman.”
The Starshina moved towards the jetty and went to follow the others, who were noisily disappearing back to their quarters to stash the products of their meeting with Pförzer.
“Starshina Koshevoy, leave it for Starshina Koshevoy.”
The young man again stopped and took in the sun’s rays with eyes closed.
“We will all have need of something nice in the days ahead.”
And with that he was up and gone.
Nothing was said by either man until they were safely back underway and out in mainstream again, pushing upriver at good speed. Even Rolf’s near-failure to jump back on board once he had untied the mooring line raised no comment from either man.
“Soon. It will happen soon.”
Rolf could only nod.
They approached the American checkpoint and prepared to go through the same charade.
1313 hrs Sunday, 5th August 1945, Ybbs an der Donau, Soviet Occupied Lower Austria.
After passing through the American checks, Rolf returned to the hold as Braun, then Shandruk took their turns in the sunlight, the shabby hat changing hands almost as a deck pass.
St Nikola, Grein, and Ardogger all slipped past as the barge drove on.
What was very apparent was that the southern bank of the river, the Soviet side, contained a lot of military positions and hardware but an absence of activity, or at least the attendant daily activity that would be expected to go with maintaining the positions and equipment.
Uhlmann changed places with Braun as directed by Pförzer, emerging back on deck after a satisfactory nap in the hold.
In the wheelhouse, Rolf saw that Hub had been busy, for the green bag was again obviously full.
“I will be pulling into shore shortly Rolf. I have an important contact in a place called Mitterkirchen. If I think it is right, I will speak to him of our problem.”
Within minutes, the barge was tied up on the north bank and Pförzer and his green bag disappeared once more.
In next to no time, he was back.
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br /> Rolf did not press him until the barge was safely moving away from the bank.
He slipped into the wheelhouse but was forestalled by an apparently vexed Pförzer.
“He wasn’t there.”
“Schiesse.”
“Indeed Mein Herr, however I have discovered something of importance.” Rolf looked at Pförzer but waited, as he knew there was more to come.
“I haven’t yet decided if it is a good thing or a bad thing.”
The inevitable cigarettes were lit and drawn on, one in thought, one in anticipation.
Rolf waited.
“We decided that we wanted a combat soldier, someone with enough clout to get men out of bed on a Sunday. We may well have hit the jackpot.”
Intrigued, Rolf waited.
“The visitor to Mauthausen. He will do, if we can get to him that is.”
Anticipating more, Rolf drew deeply on his cigarette.
“He is the Allied Commander in Austria, General Mark Clark in person.”
Rolf’s head snapped up, and he immediately choked noisily on the smoke forced from his lungs by his exclamation of surprise.
Grinning from ear to ear, Hub leant against the wheel and slapped Rolf’s back hard a number of times.
“More to the point, he is staying the night in Enns, and there is only one place in Enns suitable for such royalty.”
With watery eyes and continuing choking sounds, Rolf listened.
“The Hotel Lauriacum on Wiener Stra²e. That is where our man will be tonight, and that is where you will tell your story Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.
Proverbs 27-1
Chapter 35 – THE PEACE
2125 hrs Sunday, 5th August 1945, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.
Even in the dusky light of a late and stormy European evening, the Château de Haut-Kœnigsbourg was an impressive site.
Having passed through a checkpoint staffed with some relaxed looking commandos, Ramsey took greater notice of his home for the week.
As the Austin staff car moved gingerly up the road, the Black Watch Major could not help himself but appreciate the building from a professional point of view. Even with modern technology, the assault would be difficult and any meaningful defence would put an attacker to the sword, at least from this side of the fortifications.
The east entrance area was obscured by parked vehicles belonging to some French unit, a solid barbed-wire compound further inhibiting pedestrians. The Austin passed through a second checkpoint at the east end of the Château and down a small parallel road that then made a final turn up to the impressive large single wooden door that barred the way into the Château.
A third checkpoint marked the end of the journey.
As his transport rattled to a halt Ramsey could not help but think of older times, when unwelcome visitors would be received with hails of arrows and streams of boiling oil, until they scaled the battlements, when the hacking off of limbs could commence in earnest.
“We have come such a long way.”
“Sorrah Sir?” said his driver, his tongue tip sticking out as he concentrated on the manoeuvre to hand.
“Nothing McEwan, just thinking out loud son.”
The young driver looked at his commander and made the wrong assumption.
“Dinnae fret yersel major. The week will be gan afore ye know it. Onyways, it isnae that far back tae base.”
Deciding not to overly tax his young driver, Ramsey contented himself with an affirmative grunt. The Austin had stopped at the third checkpoint, where Ramsey was invited to disembark. Documentation was thoroughly checked and some casual questions asked, which Ramsey certainly felt were checked off against some list already in the possession of the Officer of the Guard.
“I’ll be back for ye next Friday at 1600 hrs Sir. Enjoy yersel and look after yer shudder.”
Internally Ramsey smiled, for try as he might, he could not imbue McEwan with the virtues of military niceties. That the man was the finest shot the Major had ever seen and possessed the courage of a lion went a long way with a soldier like Ramsey.
“Indeed Corporal, thank you. 1600 hrs on the dot McEwan or no weekend pass for you,” he said with forced sharpness.
The Captain looked up at Ramsey and then McEwan, swiftly reading from the two grinning faces that this was a well-rehearsed act between two comrades. He moved off to the post phone to report Ramsey’s arrival. When he was out of earshot, Ramsey spoke again.
“Safe drive home Mac, and do take it careful round those bends. They will be lethal in the dark, son.”
McEwan prepared to move backwards to the hairpin where he would turn his vehicle.
“Ach dinnae worrae aboot me Sir, il be fine. See ye Friday".
With a swift salute, cut short by the necessity of changing out of forward gear, the staff car was quickly reversed and exited the ramp on its way back to its base.
Ramsey felt a hand on his case and turned to find a smart orderly trying to take it from him. He relinquished his grip but retained his briefcase and walking stick, his sole eccentricity.
A British officer serving in a senior position within a jock battalion simply had to have something to emphasise his Englishness, and the black and silver cane was it.
He had purchased it new from a Gentleman’s outfitters in Glasgow, but a legend had grown, and as far as his veterans were concerned it was the very cane carried by Sir Robert Munro at the Battle of Fontenoy in 1745, as presented to their slightly mad Major by clan chieftains. Ramsey did nothing to shatter that illusion. It served a purpose and did no harm. In fact, on two occasions, he had thrown the cane forward, much to his men’s horror, encouraging his highlanders to advance when under fire to retrieve the ‘prize’.
“Commandant, please follow me.”
The orderly moved off and up a rising stone path before turning left and entering the building, past another small guard station where both went unchallenged. Ramsey followed the man at distance, taking in as much of his surroundings as possible, climbing the worn stone stairs carefully. Halfway down those steps was an American paratrooper Major, looking extremely dejected.
Ramsey put his cane in his left hand with his case and saluted. The Major, having an eye for certain details, beat him to it, despite his frustration.
“Good evening Major, and I hope that your face is not telling me how bad this place is?”
“Far from it Major. I just heard your car and prayed it was my own vehicle. I’ve been waiting here since Friday and transport is supposed to be bringing another officer for tomorrow. I was just hoping he had chosen to arrive Sunday rather than Monday. It seems I will be staying another night.”
A hand shot out.
“Crisp, Marion J. 101st US Airborne.”
Hands were shaken warmly as Ramsey gave his own introduction.
Crisp ushered Ramsey along after the disappearing Frenchman who was already up the stairs and moving across a small drawbridge and through the Lions gate.
Both officers increased their pace and made up ground, although more was lost as Ramsey automatically checked the chasm under the drawbridge.
Entering the Well Towe, more steps confronted them, echoing softly with the sound of a disappearing orderly.
“There is no shortage of steps here Ramsey. It’s a bit of a warren to be honest, but by Thursday you will be fine.”
Grinning back, Ramsey automatically looked down the old well before moving off again in search of his guide.
Reaching the side gallery of a small courtyard, Crisp spoke quickly.
“When the orderly has you settled down, wander on down to the mess room.” He indicated its location with a simple gesture. “Their chow here is superb Ramsey, and the cellar is very well-stocked.”
“That is a date my dear chap. See you then.”
Ramsey took two steps at a time behind the orderly who had not stopped moving forward.
Out through the arches, across the small courtyard and up the hexagonal main stairs to the next floor, where Ramsey was introduced to his bedchamber for the week.
He was no less impressed than the previous occupants, especially as a hot bath was filled and waiting his pleasure.
The orderly, once of the Ritz in London, placed the suitcase on an ornate ottoman at the base of the four-poster bed.
“If there is nothing else Commandant, I will leave you to your toilette. I shall inform the kitchen of your arrival. May we anticipate you for dinner by 10pm sir?” The orderly’s eyes flicked to the mantle clock as he spoke.
Checking his own watch Ramsey, noted 2135 hrs, did the maths in his head and confirmed his attendance.
“Thank you, but no dinner for me. A modest sandwich will be quite fine.”
“It shall be as you say Commandant. If you need anything, just press the button by your bed sir.”
The door closed behind him and Ramsey swiftly undressed and immersed himself in the first bath he had experienced for some months. For him, showers were a necessary evil when the real thing wasn’t available.
2158 hrs Sunday, 5th August 1945, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.
Having been shown the way by an imposing but accommodating commando Corporal, Ramsey arrived at the cellar where the pupils and teachers normally gathered to exchange more stories over wine, beer and spirits. On Sundays, the teachers were never there, in order to preserve the impact of the well-practised introduction.
He handed his cane and cap to an orderly and made his way to the low table where Crisp sat deep in conversation with a British Lieutenant Colonel of Cavalry, nodding in acknowledgement to other allied officers who looked up as he moved by.
Both rose courteously as Ramsey approached, the eyes of the Cavalry Colonel flicking to the simple maroon ribbon.
No cap, no salute.
Crisp shifted his cigarette into his left hand and extended his right.
“Settled in then Ramsey?”
Hands shaken and Ramsey shifted his eye to the man behind Crisp.