by Gee, Colin
2e Compagnie was still off pursuing the Russians, without much success according to the reports filtering back via radio.
A senior French officer, a Brigadier-General no less, had arrived with the rest of the Goumier Tabor, gathered up the survivors and promised to keep the tribesmen employed in the pursuit of the enemy, as well as ensuring investigation and retribution in equal measure, horrified at the excesses his men visited on the Lower Courtyard.
Lavalle had ensured he understood that the matter would not be left dormant for long.
The commando barracks was now a makeshift field hospital, staffed by a group of doctors and nurses on their way back from a detachment to the Red Cross in Geneva. They made no distinction between their charges, each man or woman receiving appropriate treatment regardless of the uniform, although, unsurprisingly, Stefka Kolybareva received more personal attention than most, the women nurses drawn into her personal suffering by loyalty to their gender as well as their natural caring natures.
Lavalle took a close interest in the Russian officer who saved his life, slipping a note into the man’s ID book and briefing the medical team on the man’s actions.
Much as Ramsey had done a few hours beforehand, Lavalle reflected on the Château around him, fresh with signs of battle, and how a battle here would be fought or, at this particular moment, had been fought.
No less a bloodbath than it would have been in the days of boiling oil and broadswords was his sanguine conclusion.
Already the butcher’s bill was revealing itself in all its true horror. The 2e had lost nearly 20% of its men dead and wounded, the 3e twice as many, with more than two-thirds of them killed outright.
The Goumiers had lost forty men, including those who had not fallen in battle.
A groggy commando officer, sporting countless stitches in his head, was unable to confirm his unit strength, but the strangely familiar Général de Brigade seemed to think it was one hundred and twenty before the firing started, making the commandos roughly one hundred casualties, also mainly dead.
Lavalle was trying to make sense of everything when a figure clad in black walked in carefully, a figure he recognised and who also recognised him.
Without intent to drop into cliché, Lavalle extended his hand.
“Herr Knocke, we meet again.”
The slightly groggy German took the Legion officer’s hand warmly.
“Oberst Lavalle. It is good to see you. Excuse me.”
Wretching violently, Knocke spilled the contents of his stomach onto the floor of the Kaisers Hall.
Lavalle swept up some napkins from the table, passing one to Knocke, and covering the sick with the others.
“My apologies Herr Oberst. I took a blow in the stomach and I can’t stop doing it.”
Steering Knocke to a chair, Lavalle acknowledged a new arrival, a man he now recognised as the shadowy intelligence officer he had once seen at Army Headquarters.
“Thank you for your timely arrival Colonel Lavalle. I fear we would have all perished had you and your legionnaires not got here so quickly.”
Lavalle could do no more than shrug at De Walle, as it was undoubtedly true.
Given that the senior officers were now all within the Kaiser’s Hall, it became the focus of activity, the place where reports went and people came in search of information.
Von Arnesen was next in, stopping the regulation distance in front of Knocke before clicking his heels and reporting in the old Prussian style, before he remembered the circumstances and place, and his wounded thigh reminded him he needed to relax his posture.
“Sir, Mademoiselle Valois is now in the hospital. The medics say her wounds are painful but not threatening. She asked me to thank you.”
Knocke inclined his head, acknowledging De Walle obvious joy and encouraging his stalwart to go on with his report.
“DerBo will live, although he may yet lose his arm. The doctors are unclear.”
A nod acknowledged another comrade had been spared.
“Von Hardegen isn’t scratched but he does have concussion.”
A moment’s interruption as a Legionnaire walked in, saluted, and presented De Walle with a report.
“Menzel may not survive. He is next to be operated on; they could tell me no more Sir.”
Knocke made a mental tick in the other column as a white-faced De Walle passed the report to Lavalle.
“Confirmed dead are Matthaus, Olbricht and,” Von Arnesen paused and cleared his throat, “Schmidt.”
The mention of Schmidt’s name brought a look of true sorrow to Knocke’s face. A comrade of many years lost. One of many for sure but Schmidt had been there for what seemed like forever.
“We cannot find Treschow at this time, but it would seem likely that he has perished.”
Lavalle silently sought permission to pass the report onto Knocke, which De Walle granted with a simple nod of his head.
“Herr Knocke, perhaps you would like me to read this to you?”
Haefeli burst into the room, his timing impeccable.
“Have you heard?”
De Walle held out a hand to silence the excited officer, permitting Lavalle to proceed with due gravity.
“We were asking ourselves what this is all about. Now we know.”
Knocke rose to his feet, his need to be professional overcoming his present weakness.
“This is from SHAEF, the Allied headquarters, addressed to all units. What it roughly says is this. At 0530 hrs, units of the Soviet Army, Air Force and Navy launched mass attacks throughout Germany and Austria, and in the Baltic and North Sea’s. We are now at war with the Soviet Union.”
In a Château filled with the freshly slain dead of both sides the information seemed, at first, superfluous. Nevertheless, in the thoughtful silence that followed, all those present realised that here was just the start. Some of the minds present also worked the issue that someone on the other side knew of the colloques and felt them important enough to target in a first wave attack. Two minds present suddenly wrestled with fighting an old adversary once more. The same two minds then wondered how that would be politically accomplished.
Knocke broke the silence. As was his habit, he pulled his tunic into perfect place and moved his hand to pull out his side cap, suddenly remembering that it had been lost.
“I must see to my men. If you will excuse me General De Walle?”
Saluting, Knocke left the room with a firmness of step that he ordered himself to find, suppressing the feelings of nausea that arose when he started to move.
“I meant to ask him what happened to Anne-Marie. Damn it.”
Von Arnesen spoke with the authority and knowledge of a man who was there.
“He saved her life, Herr General. Threw himself on top of her to protect her from a grenade.”
“Go on Monsieur.”
“She got some shrapnel in her shoulder and arm, nothing bad, just superficial I think but I’m no expert Sir.”
“And Herr Knocke? He seems unwounded.”
“These things happen in war as you will know. By rights, he should be dead, but not one fragment struck him, except for a lump taken out of the heel of his boot that is. What you see now is the blast effect. It will pass Herr General.”
Major Marion Crisp strolled in, his uniform in good order, very little outward sign of the recent combat, until he opened his mouth.
His hearing damaged, he spoke as he felt in reasonable volume, whereas he shouted loudly.
The comedy of it was not wasted on the French officers and they took in it good heart. As the only American combat soldier present, Crisp had little by way of official duties, so had taken it upon himself to pick the remaining commandos up and get them back on the horse. His volume and pidgin French had both helped ease tensions with the French troopers, and they were lifted when it became clear that Dubois had survived the attack with nothing more than a messy but relatively minor wound.
Crisp concluded his report and the hall e
choed with his words for a few seconds.
De Walle shouted his thanks back and indicated the jugs of water that the surviving orderly had placed there to quench thirsts and drive away the dust of battle.
Exchanging nods with Von Arnesen, the American Major drank his fill.
The next man in had not been spared the signs of battle, despite a valiant attempt to pass the day off as any other.
Major Ramsey had two black eyes, and there was nothing he could do to overcome that. His efforts to make his uniform presentable had failed and his spare uniform was elsewhere in the Château, somewhat charred. Noble efforts to remove the bloodstains from the tunic he wore had proven to be fruitless.
All in all, the normally smart Black Watch officer looked a total wreck, something that caused him more angst than it did those around him.
Forgetting himself, Crisp laughed.
“I take it the other fellah doesn’t look so good either John?”
“A fair statement Major Crisp,” using his reply to remind the American that they were no longer in relaxed company, a subtlety that Crisp missed completely.
“How’s Cam?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Prentiss is in the hospital. He will be fine but I warrant he won’t be comfortable sitting down for some weeks to come.”
Ramsey gently tapped his own buttock and this time Crisp got the message, nodding and holding out a beaker of water to Ramsey.
“On the house, Major Ramsey.”
“Thank you, Major Crisp.”
Ernst-August Knocke had lost close comrades that day, men with whom he had endured the indescribable horrors of battle. The awfulness of Olbricht’s death. Schmidt’s corpse burnt almost beyond recognition, but not quite. But as he went to the commando barracks to visit his men, in truth, all the men, it was the sight of the slaughtered Russians that moved him the most.
Disbelief.
Fury.
This was not war.
Something washed over the German, calming him, anger abating as quickly as it had arisen.
Compassion.
Ernst-August Knocke, Waffen-SS soldier par excellence, enemy feared by every nation that fought him, moved silently amongst the dead men. As he moved he recited something his cousin and best friend David had taught him long ago in beautiful Königsburg, during times when such non-aryan relationships were not frowned on and boys could simply be boys, and when the learning of such a text earned him a treat from Great Uncle Herr Doktor Jakob Steyn.
As he closed eyes and rearranged limbs, bringing peace to those who perished so violently, he spoke in his native German language, words that would never have passed his lips in the previous years.
“May his great name be exalted,” a pistol still gripped in the hand of the dead boy, cocked and loaded, was retrieved and made safe, “And sanctified in the world which he created,” and two young paratroopers, entwined in death, were separated and laid more easily.
“According to his will. May he establish his kingdom,” a weathered and pock-marked face twisted in horror and pain was gently covered with a napkin from Knocke’s pocket, “And may his Salvation blossom and His anointed be near,” the next man’s staring eyes were gently closed and his gaping mouth brought to a more comfortable position, restoring some dignity to the violated corpse.
Haefeli emerged from the ramp behind Knocke and halted, aware that a number of his men had stopped their work to watch a truly indescribable moment.
“During your lifetime,” a blade reverently slid out from a chest and the splayed arms brought to a position of repose, “And during your days, and during the lifetimes of all the House of Israel,” this time three Soviet soldiers had rolled themselves tightly together, and needed a more physical act of separation. Knocke looked up at the owner of the hands that helped, seeing Haefeli working with great tenderness.
He started Kaddish again.
“Speedily and very soon,” the three were separated and laid out side by side, another legionnaire arriving and gently easing the last body into order.
“And say Amen,” Knocke concluded.
“Amen” both Legionnaires spoke aloud before continuing.
“May his great name be blessed forever,” Knocke looked confused at the two soldiers who joined him in his prayer, voices firm but soft.
“And to all eternity. Blessed and praised,” they stood back as their work was being taken up by other legionnaires.
“Glorified and exalted, extolled and honoured, adored and lauded,” the three men exchanged firm looks as they spoke in unison, the black German panzer uniform flanked by the olive green American kit of the Légion Étrangère.
“Be the name of the Holy one, blessed be he above and beyond all the blessings,” Anne-Marie de Valois stopped instantly as she entered the courtyard, sensing the atmosphere, the crisp white sling on her arm catching the attention of her saviour.
Knocke nodded to the formidable agent, which nod was returned, accompanied unbidden by the genuine smile of a woman who knew she was witnessing something special from someone special.
“Hymns, praises and consolations that are uttered in the world,” the three men’s heads bowed as one.
“And say amen.”
Every man, every throat in the courtyard or looking on from the battlements gave voice to end the Kaddish prayer.
“Amen.”
The silence was perfect, and heavy with symbolism.
Haefeli broke it.
“One day Colonel Knocke. One day I hope to sit down with you and listen to the story of what just happened here, if you will permit me to share it.”
Knocke smiled disarmingly.
“One day Maior Haefeli.” Knocke turned to acknowledge the other man, an old legion caporal whose eyes were moist, the moment still working within him.
“Sir,” the NCO cleared his throat to try to speak without emotion. He failed. “My name is Yitzhak Rubenstein and I am German, and you, Sir, are a mentsch.”
Ernst could do no more than pat the man on the shoulder and nod. No further words were necessary.
Bringing himself back to the moment and the purpose of his excursion into the lower Château, Knocke went to salute and curtailed his action, again conscious of his lack of headwear.
Removing his kepi, Haefeli extended it to Knocke.
“If you would so honour me Colonel.”
Hesitating for a moment, Knocke understood what a precious accolade the Swiss Officer was giving him.
“It will be my honour Maior Haefeli. Thank you.”
A dark blue officer’s kepi of the 2e Regiment D’Infanterie, Légion Étrangère sat on the head of a man wearing the black panzer uniform and medals of the defeated German Reich. Those who examined the combination closely found it very much to their liking.
The Swiss grinned from ear to ear.
“It suits you Colonel.”
“I believe it does Herr Maior!”
The smile was returned, along with a formal salute and, with a last glance at the Russian corpses, Knocke moved off to the field hospital to check up on the wounded.
Suddenly weary, Haefeli closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky, feeling the warmth upon his face but could not enjoy it, for he knew that the sun, bright and strong in the early morning, was casting its rays on a very different world.
“Of all the branches of men in the forces there is none which shows more devotion and faces grimmer perils than the submariners."
Sir Winston Spencer Churchill
Chapter 39 – THE BALTIC
Traditional Naval Monday toast - “'To Our Ships at Sea”
0521 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Aboard ShCh-307, Baltic Sea, 20kms East-South-East of Gedser Point, Lolland, Denmark.
Some time previously, a Soviet built Shchuka-class submarine sweeping well ahead of a Soviet convoy transporting invasion troops to Denmark, had picked up indications of vessels gliding gently through the cold Baltic waters. The detection apparatus indicated that the sounds were
fast screw warships and when Captain Third Rank Mikhail Kalinin took a swift look through his attack periscope, he was delighted to discover that there had been sufficient moonlight for him to identify the silhouettes. Ceding the periscope to his First Officer, they agreed that the larger ships were the two British Cruisers they were informed of, one of the heavy County class and a light cruiser, probably Dido class.
Around them fussed four destroyers, and they were preceded by what were probably a pair of minesweepers.
Kalinin was a successful Captain already sporting the Red Star, and he quietly and calmly manoeuvred his submarine into firing position, taking occasional snatched looks through his periscope, conscious of the need for restraint until the allotted time but also very aware of the damage these cruisers could cause if they got in amongst his charges in such confined waters.
As the chronometer crept slowly towards 0530 hrs, Kalinin maintained his firing solution, constantly updating with new headings and readings as the warships drove forward. Inside he was increasingly concerned, especially when the enemy group all increased speed. Perhaps, he agonised, the British radar operators had recognised the approaching invasion group for what it was, not the friendly naval flotilla with who they had been invited to conduct exercises for the day, prior to putting into Rostock for the night to enjoy some comradely fraternisation. However, despite his own inner tensions, his outer calmness spread through his crew and settled all nerves.
All torpedo tube doors were already open, awaiting the order to fire.
A final solution adjustment, a snatched look through his periscope and he made a last check of the hour. Judging that running time would take any strike past the appointed hour he ordered all four bow tubes fired. The First officer discharged his duty and ShCh-307 shuddered as each tube was emptied in turn.
Kalinin then ordered a dive to the bottom, some thirty metres down, to try to evade any prosecution by the escorts and to reload. Unfortunately for him and his craft, there was no good depth available to hide in here, like much of the Baltic.