by Gee, Colin
Intelligence had missed one vital matter.
She was also the sister of the dead Oberleutnant Maximillian Faber, late of the 1st Fallschirm-Panzer Division ‘Hermann Goering’.
Max Faber had been taken prisoner in Sicily, at the Biscari Airfield, on the 14th July 1943. He had been summarily executed by men of the 45th US Infantry Division, some of whom were tried for the offence.
Had they not been brought before the military court, then Sabine would never have learnt of the circumstances of her brother’s death, and would not have built up a hatred for the man responsible.
The man in the room, outside of which, she now prepared herself.
Picking up the tools of her trade, she knocked on the dark wood doors.
“Enter.”
Pushing open both doors, Sabine slid into the room, receiving a cordial welcome from the man she had come to kill.
“Good morning, Sabine. How are you today?”
“Much better thank you, Herr General.”
She had tried the day before, but the arrival of some Ranger officers had prevented her, and she had feigned a sudden sickness to excuse herself from the room, in case anyone noticed the contents of her bucket.
She moved quickly around the room, tidying and dusting, the map stands covered with their light linen covers to ensure prying eyes saw nothing of value.
She swept, moving around the room with barely concealed haste, Patton so engrossed in his writing that he failed to notice that she did not clean around the desk.
Moving the bucket to the window, Sabine pulled out the mop. Any casual glance at the implement would have betrayed its dry state. The bucket contained a Walther PPK, now in the hand of the vengeful Faber.
The sudden silence associated with lack of movement broke into Patton’s consciousness, the sole sound he recognised being the heavy breathing of Sabine Faber.
He turned.
‘What the...’
“Say nothing, you murdering swine. Say nothing at all. Keep your hands in front of you, and sit still. Just listen.”
The General nodded his understanding, and leant back in his chair, displaying a calmness he did not feel inside. He forced himself to focus on the woman, knowing that she had something she wanted him to hear, or he would already be dead.
“In Sicily, you ordered your men to kill prisoners. One of them was my brother. Your men killed him at the Biscari airfield.”
She snarled, her words almost hissing through her teeth in the increasing anger.
“He pleaded for his life, and they shot him in the head.”
She took half a step closer, and gestured with the small automatic.
“I want to hear you plead for your life, you bastard.”
Patton’s face became thoughtful, almost as if he were debating his response. But no words came. He just maintained eye contact.
“Plead for your life, General, or I will shoot you down now, like the dog you are.”
Sabine moved closer, the muzzle of the PPK now three feet from her target.
Raising her voice, she lashed out with her foot, catching Patton on the shin.
“Scream for your miserable life, get on your knees. GET ON YOUR KNEES!”
Her raised voice blotted out the sound of the opening door, as the cleaner who had actually been detailed to clean the room, entered to investigate.
The PPK erupted, the first bullet aimed at Patton.
Swivelling quickly, the next bullet took the new cleaner in the chest, and dropped her to the tiles, where her head smashed into the solid floor and knocked her out.
It took Sabine Faber less than three seconds to fire both shots and return the weapon to cover Patton.
It took General George Scott Patton just over two seconds to snatch up the paper opener and ram it through the assassin’s solar plexus.
The pain was so total and debilitating.
Faber tried to bring the pistol up again, but the strength was not there.
Suddenly, she was flung against the far wall, as a .45 slug smashed into her. She was dead before her corpse had finished its bloody slide down the Mediterranean mural.
“Sonofabitch!”
The Captain who had shot Sabine down could not better that. Others rushed into the room, keen to confirm that their General was alive.
Her shot had missed, passing through the gap between his epaulette and shoulder, and clipping away some of the woodwork beyond.
The area was quickly secured, the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of security acting swiftly, conscious of the fact that there had been a grave error, and that they had been very lucky that day.
Still unconscious, the wounded cleaner was stabilised and whisked away to the medical facility, where later Patton would visit her and thank her for saving his life.
The body of Sabine Faber was removed from the room, drawing a cursory look from Patton as he spread the word through other Allied commands.
Whilst the woman had spoken of her own reasons, it did not pay to take chances, and so the alert went out to all commands in Allied Europe.
1247hrs, Sunday, 7th October 1945, Legion Command Group ‘Normandie’ Headquarters, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden, Germany.
Knocke was pleased to see Anne-Marie Valois waiting on the steps.
It had previously been agreed that he would not be told when the OSS operation to rescue his family would take place.
That had been for sound operational and personal reasons.
But he sensed something was in the air, and the presence of the ‘Deux’ agent confirmed it in his mind.
He alighted from the jeep, smiling at the pretty agent.
His smile was not returned, and his heart twisted in agony.
“Mademoiselle Valois? Are you well?”
“Yes, perfectly, thank you, Général Knocke.”
Which she very obviously was not.
His body cold, Knocke did not know what to say or do.
“Shall we walk together, Général?”
Side by side, the two strode around the Hotel and into the garden, the area where it had been agreed that Anne Marie de Valois would break the news.
Sitting down in a small arbour, Valois invited Knocke to sit.
‘Mein Gott!’
“I shall stand, if that’s alright with you?”
“Please, Ernst, please sit.”
That did it, and as he sat down, his resolve started to disintegrate.
A hand found his, and he looked up into the moist eyes and knew that he had lost them all.
‘Nein! Nein! Nein!’
“Ernst...I...”
Instinctively, her other hand moved to comfort the grieving man.
The timing went astray, the minder misunderstood the signals from Valois, and he set the pair loose ahead of schedule.
Running for all they were worth, Greta and Magda Knocke sprinted from the hotel, and threw themselves upon their father.
Tears of joy spilled down his face as he swept them up, hugging them, and kissing them in his happiness.
As he held them close, his brain connected one vital piece of information.
He mouthed the words to the watching Valois.
“My wife?”
Anne-Marie did not need to reply, her face spoke for her.
More tears ran down his face, as he took solace in the presence of his girls.
Later, he listened to the events of that night on the Baltic; the rescue, the substitutions, and how his wife had died.
Or at least, the version that they chose to tell him.
0953hrs, Tuesday, 9th October 1945, 20th US Field Hospital, Soissons, France.
All the senior medical staff had protested, but it was to no avail.
The infantry Colonel was there under orders, and he was not prepared to take no for an answer.
Major Swift and Captain Montoya had secured the man’s agreement that they would be able to veto those who simply were too sick to go, so they accompanied the emotionless officer into
the prime recovery ward of the hospital, a room containing thirty-four cots.
“Attenshun!”
Those that could, in the main, did. Those that couldn’t, didn’t. And there were those that could, but chose not to.
“Men, I appreciate that you are here because you have already paid a price in action, but the situation is grave, and I have to ask more of you all.”
There was a general hubbub, and the keen ear could pick out some uncomplimentary words, and some that would have made a vicar blush.
“Uncle Sam needs volunteers, and we are going through the hospitals to find men who are nearly recovered, to sign up to lighter duties, releasing fit men into the fighting zone.”
No one could fail to hear the general reply of ‘bullshit’.
Colonel Stoltzfus let the sound die away, and went to start again.
A low rumble in the nearby bed preceded a vile smell that pervaded the entire unit, invading the respiratory passages of everyone present.
The wounded man had been on liquids only until the day before, when the bandages were taken off his facial wound, and his wind had been known to clear the building.
“Shorry, Colonel, but I was shoth in the assh.”
The obvious damage to his face made his voice slurred, although they all knew he was emphasising his speech problem for comic effect; all except the Colonel of course.
Corporal Rosenberg had been badly wounded, but his backside had actually escaped damage.
“That will be all the kosher crap you eat, you yiddisher bastard,” and a pillow sailed across the space in front of the Colonel, landing precisely on target.
“Oh Nursh, Nursh, the bad man attacked me again! Oi Vay, but can’t an honesth man get reshpite from the Genthiles!”
The only one there who was not privy to the relationship between the two men was Stoltzfus, and as a god-fearing son of an Amish Rabbi, he took exception to the NCO’s tone.
“Now you can cut that out, Master-Sergeant. We leave that sort of crap to the Germans!”
A look of innocence crossed the NCO’s face, the sort of innocence that a certain type of officer could see as a challenge.
Colonel Stoltzfus was such an officer.
“Attention! Name and rank?”
The NCO made an upward body movement that more paid lip service to the order, rather than obeyed it.
He fixed the officer with a neutral eye and spoke, using as much of the tone of his second language as was possible.
“Hässler, Friedrich, Master Sergeant, Sir.”
Rosenberg giggled uncontrollably.
So did Nurse Captain Montoya.
So did most of the men, who were being thoroughly entertained.
Hässler dropped back onto his bed, maintaining his deadpan face.
The Colonel wisely decided to cut his losses.
“We need men, combat veterans, to insert into units presently reforming. Men who can pass on their knowledge, and let the greenhorns know what to expect in battle with the Commies.”
The medical Major interrupted.
“That means, no combat, just instructor stuff for you men. Nowhere near the front lines.”
The reaction from the wounded men was universal.
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit!”
“Bullshith.”
The Major retreated behind Belinda Montoya.
Stoltzfus welcomed the medical man’s distraction, and spoke up again, playing his trump card.
“Your country needs you this one last time. Once it is over, it’s Stateside for every man of you.”
A man-mountain rose from the bed next to Hässler.
“I will go, Colonel, but not stateside. My duty is here.”
Hässler looked at Bluebear as if he was a rabid dog.
“Pardon the Chief, Colonel. He’s a little loopy after a shindig a’ways back. He don’t know what he’s saying.”
Rosenberg followed behind quickly, the two statements almost blending together.
“He’sh fucking mad ashtually, Colonel. No-one wantsh a mad Commanshee, do they now?”
Waiting for a sign from Montoya, Colonel Stoltfus welcomed the nod, and turned back to the huge Indian.
“Uncle Sam will gladly take you, son. What’s your name and rank?”
“Sergeant Charley Bluebear, Sir.”
“Oh shit!”
“Oh shith!”
Hässler and Rosenberg made their decision, confirming it to each other with a swift nod.
“Well, if the chief’s going, best I go too. Someone’s gotta look after him.”
Hässler stretched and swung his feet out of the bed, the aching in his body apparent on his face.
Montoya shook her head.
“I think not, Master Sergeant,” the Colonel understanding that the man was not yet healed.
“Well, I think so, Sir. We here’ve bin through a lot together, and reckon we’ll be sticking together. Eh boys?”
A chorus of agreement went up from thirty-two of the men.
“You speak for yourshelf, you German shith.”
Hässler grinned widely.
“You’re coming, and that’s an order. Any crap, and I’ll finish the job on your pecker.”
“Ben Zonah! If I didn’t like you, I’d kick your assh, Shergeant!”
“I’d have to put a block there for you to stand on, you Alter Kocker!”
The Colonel interrupted, and earned himself disdainful looks from the two friends.
“Thank you all for your service. I will have an officer report here at 1200hrs to take you on to the correct camp. Good luck to you all, and give the Commies hell.”
Turning on his heel, he swept past the shocked Montoya and out of the hospital, intent on visiting the next base on his list, and escaping the two idiots who had baited him.
Belinda Montoya managed to speak.
“Are you totally mad, Sergeant Hässler?”
“Yesh, he fucking ish!”
She shot a look at Rosenberg.
“Shorry Captain, pardon my frensh.”
The Master Sergeant looked up, his face, for once, clear of humour, with seriousness prevailing.
“Captain, I’m here because my own buddies put me here. Hell, I ain’t even seen a commie yet! I did my bit in the last war, so I guess I’ll do my bit in this war, and then go home with my head held high.”
She nodded her understanding.
A pillow flew back across the room striking Hässler on the head.
“Oi vay! What bollocksh! Whatsh a hero, whatsh a mensh, whatsh a Chochem, I’m sho privileged!”
Hässler disappeared under an avalanche of pillows from all corners of the room, the sound of the soft strikes mingling with genuine laughter.
Captain Montoya left the room, unsure of her emotions.
‘I will never understand these boys, but God bless them.’
0802hrs, Wednesday, 10th October 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
Bedell-Smith waited for his cue to commence the morning briefing. Both he and Eisenhower had been summoned from their beds earlier than they had intended, the increased pressure on the Allied front requiring their immediate attention.
As more and more information came through, the jigsaw came together.
“Proceed, Walter.”
“Sir, we have reports of general attacks up and down the line, from the Baltic to the border with Switzerland.”
‘And not the Alps or Italy’ went unsaid, but was fully understood.
“Most of these attacks seem mainly intent on pinning our forces in place, and we are seeing the largest concentrations of Soviet artillery since the second wave of assaults on August 13th.”
Colonel Hood started to cough uncontrollably, causing the briefing to come to an abrupt halt, the fresh blood apparent on the handkerchief he had pressed to his mouth.
Eisenhower felt great sympathy for the man.
“Aww, Thomas. Get yourself down to
the medics now. Your deputy can take over.”
Hood did not protest.
His ulcers had flared up, and the pain was excruciating.
As Hood was helped away Eisenhower reflected on the workload and strain upon his staff, and for the first time he really noticed the haggard and drawn faces of those whose day consisted of work and work, punctuated by a few hours sleep, if they were lucky.
‘Didn’t Thomas warn me about that? Must do something about it.’
Bedell-Smith interrupted his thoughts.
“Sir?”
“Continue, Walt.”
“At this time, four main thrusts have been highlighted.”
Using the pointer, the CoS started from the top.
“Here, in the area of their First Baltic Front, we have extreme pressure on the British. The attack is already into the outskirts of Bremen. Information just in from intelligence indicates that the Soviets have greatly reinforced here specifically, and 1st Baltic in general.”
The pointer described a line that extended beyond the Allied front line.
“Our expectation is that the general attacks will stop soon, and that their resources will be channelled into these four assaults. Firstly this one, through Bremen, heading south-west, and into the Netherlands, via the North German plain.”
Reports from McCreery already indicated that his front was buckling.
“Secondly, the First Red Banner Front seems to be threatening a drive into the Ruhr, from the direction of Osnabruck.”
A quick sip of water and Bedell-Smith continued, moving the pointer expansively over a key area.
“Their Second Red Banner Front seems also to have been heavily reinforced, and they are shaping to attack to the south of the Ruhr.”
The pointer did a rapid circular movement, describing a military situation that was a nightmare for all Commanders.
“It is possibly an attempt at an encirclement manoeuvre, combined with the First Red Banner, aimed at creating another Ruhr pocket.”
Bedell-Smith referred to the Allies’ own encirclement of the German Army earlier in the year, which resulted in vast numbers of men being made prisoner, and huge stocks of equipment being captured.