by Gee, Colin
For once in his life, Knocke was at a loss.
“So, have any of you traitors got anything to say, before I have you all court-martialled and shot?”
De Walle pushed his way through the tight-lipped men, emerging directly in front of Molyneux. His appearance caused the caporal’s to stiffen, their fingers shifting to triggers, ready to defend the man who had promised them promotions and leave.
“Général Molyneux, permit me to introduce myself. I am Général de Brigade De Walle, of ‘La Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-espionage’”, extending his identity card, De Walle used the full formal title of his organisation, thinking that it added gravity to his status.
“You have arrived in excellent time. I have been monitoring these men and it is as you say, but, not how you believe, Sir.”
Molyneux quickly moved from relief that a senior officer of France’s security service was present, to confusion, as the man suddenly cast doubt on his information.
“How do I know that you are not in league with these traitors, De Walle, eh?”
The ‘Deux’ man’s sage nodding gave weight to Molyneux’s thought that he was on top of the situation.
“If I could speak to you in private, then that is a matter than can be easily resolved, Sir.”
“I am not an idiot, De Walle. That will not happen.”
As he was ten steps ahead of Molyneux, the next line slipped easily from De Walle’s tongue.
“Then might I suggest that your aide, Colonel Plummer, stays with us, and covers me with his pistol, Sir?”
The matter was quickly considered.
“Yes, I suppose I can do that. Colonel, your pistol please, and shoot him if he does anything at all.”
Plummer withdrew his Browning automatic and mumbled his compliance.
“Shall we go next door, whilst your men stand watch over these officers, mon Général?”
Molyneux followed De Walle, with Plummer bringing up the rear.
Once ensconced in the small ticket office, De Walle transformed himself.
“Molyneux, you are a total cretin.”
“What?”
“Those men are not traitors to anyone, let alone France. They are soldiers, planning to hurt the enemy in a way that he may not recover for some time, and part of that is an operation with which I am closely involved. You have already placed that operation in peril by your actions and, by rights, I could shoot you myself, here, now!”
“Colonel Plummer!”
Molyneux turned to his man, only to find that ‘his’ man was not ‘his’ man at all.
“I suggest that you listen to what Monsieur De Walle has to say, mon Général.”
Stunned into silence, Molyneux did just that.
“Some very important people have sanctioned this operation, and it cannot be risked, am I clear on that point, Molyneux?”
“But I command the Corps, and have a right to know what my soldiers are used for, what my officers are doing...”
The confused man tailed off, his eyes again seeking some sort of clarification from Plummer.
None was forthcoming.
“Understand me, Molyneux...”
The man rallied as best he could.
“Général Molyneux, if you please!”
De Walle extracted a piece of paper, and held it under the Corps commander’s nose.
“You are Général Molyneux, until I employ this piece of paper, signed by Général de Lattre himself. At that time, you become Private Molyneux. Understand?”
The mouth worked, but no sound came out, such was the impact of De Walle’s words.
The ‘Deux’ man nodded at the aide, who extracted a similar piece of paper.
“Colonel Plummer has his own letter, empowering him to remove you from your command. Do I need to say more, Molyneux?”
Stunned, the Corps Commander remained silent as his mind sought a way forward.
He suddenly brightened.
“De Gaulle will hear of this outrage, De Walle!”
Nodding in acceptance, De Walle made a study of folding the document, before replacing it inside his tunic.
“That is correct, Général Molyneux. I shall be briefing him this very afternoon.”
This time the mouth also failed to function, hanging open, as the General realised he had no saviours.
“Now, shall we return to the main room and announce that an error has been made, before you return to your own headquarters and leave the fighting to real soldiers?”
“Yes.”
Molyneux turned on his heel and moved back towards the briefing area, completely missing the grins of his two tormentors.
Within ten minutes, the entourage had departed, Molyneux sharing a car with someone for whom he had a newfound respect, hand in hand with a newfound deep hatred.
De Walle watched the convoy leave, musing as to whether Molyneux would contact De Gaulle about the situation, and how that conversation might go, especially as De Gaulle had no idea of ‘Deux’s’ activities in partnership with SOE in general, and the Knocke affair in particular.
A swift conversation with Plummer had focussed the Colonel’s mind on the requirements of the situation, and the lengths that he could go to in order to ensure that secrecy was maintained.
That problem now removed, it now fell to the troopers of the Legion Corps to carry out the plan.
To betray, you must be trusted, so who’s to blame? You, for doing what you needed to do, or them, for believing you in the first place?
Samuel Rossiter, Lieutenant General [Ret’d], USMC.
Chapter 94 - THE MEETINGS
3RD RED BANNER CENTRAL EUROPEAN FRONT - MARSHAL ROKOSSOVSKY
1112hrs, Sunday, 21st October 1945, Headquarters, Group ‘Normandie’, Unterlinden Museum Building, Colmar, Alsace.
The exhibits had long since disappeared, the building no longer a cultural focus.
In the thirteenth century, the building housed a Dominican convent, the nuns finally leaving during the French Revolution.
Open as a museum for nearly one hundred years, the Unterlinden boasted some of the finest works of European art.
Until the shadows of approaching conflict spread across the continent.
Some artefacts were removed by the authorities, prior to the sound of approaching jackboots in 1940, others afterwards, now somewhere in Germany, having been released from the Nazi’s ‘safekeeping’.
The empty rooms made for an excellent headquarters, and ‘Normandie’ had made its home there, ready for the upcoming operation.
Knocke had received another visit from Soviet agent Kowalski, and the timetable of Soviet expectations had been set, the Legion plan changed accordingly, actually withdrawing slower in some places than had been originally planned.
Lavalle and Knocke had taken a last quiet stroll through the thirteenth century cloisters, enjoying the sights and sounds of the old convent in silence.
Soviet aircraft had hit ‘Alma’ hard at last light the previous evening, seventy-six troopers killed, and half as many again wounded, and out of the coming fight.
The adjustments had been made and the gaps closed.
Now all that was needed was one small piece of information.
H-hour?
0817hrs, Monday, 22nd October 1945, USAAF temporary airfield, Bischoffsheim, Alsace.
Kowalski was equally elated and scared; the effects of both emotions making his body feel more alive with every breath.
His meeting with the airbase commander had been brief, the man more interested in his own problems, than the arrival and swift departure of one aircraft.
Some hours beforehand, his visit with Knocke had been even more satisfying; the defeat he could sense in the man had started the boost that his body was still thriving on.
Whilst Kowalski would have preferred to be alone, the drivers that he and the other liaison officers had now been assigned, took the strain of the journey, and the Soviet agent had made the most of the extra time to examine t
he SS bastard’s plan.
It was simple, and should be effective, provided that the German stuck to it.
His sense of the man today was that he just wanted to get it all over with, and Kowalski annotated his summary report with his solid belief that Knocke would stick to his side of the bargain.
‘After all, when he had showed the man the latest picture of his wife in prime health, had he not shed a tear of joy’
He leant against the jeep, parked in the middle of the airfield adjacent to the ground controller’s cabin, enjoying the bracing air, and watching the morning mist slowly clear. The American aircraft had left just under an hour beforehand, off to do mischief somewhere unknown to him.
His senses lit off, the indistinct hum on the edge of his consciousness developing into the sound of a single engine, bringing a small observation aircraft in to land.
The Westland Lysander kissed the grass runway, a perfect landing that even Kowalski appreciated.
The RAF aircraft, sporting Polish identity markings, rolled across the field, closing on his jeep.
“Feel free to take the jeep, and find some way to amuse yourself, Corporal.”
He checked his watch, calculating for the umpteenth time, confirming the flight time there and back, plus his time with the General.
“1900 hrs. Back here on the minute, Corporal.”
Salutes were exchanged, and Kowalski walked towards the waiting aircraft.
The female NCO jumped back into the little 4x4 and started the engine.
As the Lysander took to the air, she drove to the small house that constituted the USAAF headquarters building, parked, and entered.
Finding the appropriate door, her knocks brought an invitation.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Colonel. Our man will be back at 1900hrs precisely. If you can repeat the charade, we can get him away without any further inconvenience to yourself.”
Her precise English belied her German ancestry. Whilst not, by any standards, a beauty, Gisela Jourdan had classical features, the likes of which had graced art and literature since man developed the ability to draw a likeness.
“May I use your phone please, Colonel?”
Knowing that she wasn’t the dumb ass corporal her uniform suggested, and not knowing what to call an agent bearing impeccable credentials from the OSS, the man fell back on his lifelong method of address to a woman.
“Certainly, ma’am,” and he offered up the receiver.
She slid her thigh onto the desk, and worked her way through the operators until she got to the required phone.
“Hello Max? This is Rita.”
Jourdan slipped into the coded exchange easily.
“Yes please. Can you tell Captain Logan that I won’t be able to honour our date tonight?”
She smiled disarmingly at the USAAF officer, who was starting to appreciate her other, more physical charms.
“Yes, I’m really sorry, but I’m stuck here until nineteen hundred hours, and then I have to drive back.”
Seeing the Colonel greedily eyeing the obvious outline of a suspender through the tightness of her skirt, she provocatively stroked her own leg through the material.
“That’s alright, Max,” she looked directly into the USAAF officers eyes, “I will find something nice to do while I wait. You know me.”
As Gisela had heard that retort before, the call came to a premature end, and within fifteen minutes, so did the Colonel.
For the first time, at least.
0847hrs, Monday, 22nd October 1945, Böblingen Airfield, Böblingen, Germany.
The Lysander came in low, as it had flown from Bischoffsheim, over the lines, and into Soviet territory.
Again, the pilot executed a perfect landing, and the monoplane taxied towards the waiting vehicles.
Switching off the engine, the airman stayed in his seat, knowing that his passenger had priority.
Stretching himself into some sort of shape, Kowalski dismounted, coming to the attention as the figure of GRU Colonel General Pekunin approached him.
“Comrade Kovelskin, welcome, welcome.”
The agent found himself grabbed in an unceremonious hug, his cheeks kissed passionately by the senior man.
“Your flight was satisfactory, I hope? A stroke of good fortune presented us with this fine machine,” he indicated the Lysander, on which Kowalski now noted the presence of tell-tale patches, where battle damage had been hastily repaired.
“It was good, thank you, Comrade Polkovnik General. The pilot is highly skilled.”
Steering the younger man towards the waiting Mercedes, Pekunin could wait no longer.
“So, I hope that what you have is worth the risk we take here, Sergey Andreeyevich?”
“That is not for me to judge, Comrade Polkovnik General, but I believe you will not be disappointed.”
Pekunin wasn’t, and neither was the man waiting in the Mercedes, for Konstantin Ksawerovicz Rokossovsky, the commander of the 3rd Red Banner Central European Front, was handed the means by which to split the Allied lines and enter France.
1907hrs, Monday, 22nd October 1945, USAAF temporary airfield, Bischoffsheim, Alsace.
The aircraft didn’t stop moving, Kowalski alighting after a brief exchange with the pilot.
It was already airborne before the jeep drew up.
“Good evening, Corporal.”
“Sir.”
“I hope you were not too bored waiting?”
Inadvertently looking at the headquarters building, Jourdan kept a straight face, despite the waving from one figure, with whom she had spent a less than boring day.
“No, Sir. I found something to occupy myself with.”
The 4x4 accelerated away into the gathering gloom of the autumn evening.
1001hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Headquarters, 3rd Red Banner Central European Front, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden, Germany.
Rokossovsky and his closest advisors had listened to the briefing from the 19th Army Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Liapin.
The operation had already been in place, but the latest information, provided by the GRU agent, had meant that some changes were desirable.
Overall, Rokossovsky was satisfied with the plan conceived by Liapin, and the 19th’s commander, Lieutenant General Romanowsky.
However, he wasn’t a Marshal of the Soviet Union for nothing, so ventured his own orders, couched as suggestions that could not be ignored.
“I think you might increase the artillery strikes on these points, Comrade Liapin.”
The Marshal indicated the valley entrances that threatened the right flank of the advance.
“Our pet German may well assure us that they contain purely defensive forces, but we will have no surprises from them, Comrades.”
Acknowledging the 19th’s planning effort, Rokossovsky continued.
“You are quite right to assign good forces to blocking these routes, but I suggest more air regiments set aside, just in case, Comrades.”
He tapped two points on the Rhine that had been circled in pencil, and annotated with markings that clearly represented bridges.
“This I like. An excellent move, just in case, Comrades.”
He moved on quickly.
“Overall, the plan is approved, but it must be done quicker and push deeper.”
Drawing both Generals in closer, Rokossovsky dragged his finger down below Colmar, through Mulhouse, and obliquely left to Belfort.
“I cannot risk the Front with its flank exposed to the Vosges for very long.”
That was understandable, and one of the reasons why the valleys leading from it had come in for special attention.
“This whole area is like a funnel. It attracts our advance because of what it offers, but it holds dangers, Comrades, dangers we cannot negate, so we must minimise them.”
They both nodded their agreement.
“Speed will protect us here, keeping them on the move, so they have no time to organise. Our pet German sho
uld keep his units rolling back, but keep close to them, just in case someone develops balls and stands without orders. Keep pushing hard, sealing up the valleys as you go, and I will feed you units, from Front reserve, to keep the momentum up.”
Standing back from the table, Rokossovsky produced a handkerchief, and cleared his nose noisily.
“I see no reason to limit your advance through this ‘funnel’, Comrades. Beyond it lies the open heartland of France, from where we can turn north and into Belgium, behind the bulk of the Allied forces.”
This they knew, of course, but Rokossovsky was on a mission.
“Turn to the south, and our units can open up the route into Italy.”
The 3rd Red Banner’s commander revealed himself in his next exhortation.
“Or, we can open them up totally, and we can drive on, on to the Atlantic, or the Channel, and cut the Allies in half. Stavka would give us the assets we needed to do the job, and the war would be over.”
The room fell silent, each man seeing an end to the fighting, but only after more death and destruction.
“So, when do we attack, Comrades?”
Neither General spoke, understanding that their opinion was not being sought.
“How long to organise the changes, Comrade Liapin?”
“Six hours maximum, probably less, Comrade Marshal.”
Adding a little as a safety margin to cover the unexpected, Rokossovsky announced his decision, exchanging nods with Lieutenant Generals Trubnikov and Bogolyubov, his Deputy Commander and Chief of Staff respectively.
“We go at 2100hrs, Comrades.”
The five exchanged salutes and four filed out. Rokossovsky found himself alone with the map that carried out Operation Berkut.
Unconsciously checking off some of its content, Rokossovsky picked up the telephone. He spoke a few clipped words and waited, running his fingers over the markings, before getting through to his chosen recipient.
“Ah, Comrade Malinin. I hope all is well with the higher echelons of command?”