by Scott Palter
Her uncle tried for eye contact. She was avoiding it. “Yes or no? Do you want to be his wife?”
“If I have a choice, sure. He sometimes teases me, about going back to Germany and finding some blonde Amazon from the BDM. It’s just teasing. He has taken the Romeo and Juliet propaganda to heart. He wants the fairytale ending. He knows it has to be Iraq. No way our fictional Aryan papers hold up in Germany.” She weighed having to admit later that she’d held more back, and decided that blurting it all out would save her grief in the long run. “Means I’ll have to convert. Mary the Cook found out somehow that he’s Catholic. He says his family never took it seriously, but the girls feel me belonging to his Church will be safer for the children. If they are baptized, if we go to church on a few big holidays, we seem Aryan enough.” She paused for breath. No one was saying anything. No one except Klaus and her girls ever took her this seriously. What on Earth was happening? “So do I get my dowry? Does Klaus get his job?”
Everyone started smiling, drinking, wishing her well. Greta was glad that they didn’t press her. She had been Klaus’s whore. Everyone knew. What decent man would have her now? It was Klaus or spinsterhood.
0400 hours local; 0300 hours CET
10 October 1940
Former Officer’s Club, Bagsuh Camp
The exercise had ended roughly two hours ago. Klaus had maneuvered his battalion against Jochen’s. The umpire had been Lieutenant Colonel Di Salo. Lothar Engels had brought a party of officers and senior NCO’s from his new unit to observe and learn. Now they were doing the after-action critique. Di Salo was mostly criticizing Jochen’s failures at night navigation. Klaus had tried tutoring him, but the SS officer seemed to have no intrinsic feel for it. Di Salo was now ready to discuss Klaus’s unit. “Your SA armored car company did quite well. Where did you learn that trick of using them as your base of fire to maneuver around?”
“Just things I picked up on the last round of fighting. Our friend Lothar here trained them well. They can keep up with my wagons and motorcycles. They have better armor and heavier weapons. It just made sense to me to use them as the firepower we maneuver around.” Klaus started stuttering here, fishing for a word. “Over something. Overwatch! If it goes wrong, they cover my lighter troops while we scoot back out of harm’s way. Our job is spotting where the enemy is. There are heavier units to run him over. Tanks. Field artillery. That was how Rommel handled his boys and our main force when he knocked back that Western Desert whatever.” Klaus was tired, and it showed.
One of Lothar’s junior officers asked Klaus where he’d done his officer training. Did the NL have a regular training establishment or … Klaus cut him off, wearily shaking his head. “Ours was the first NL unit committed to combat. Our core comes from the Ploiesti airfield garrison and a Militia that mobilized to fight with Rommel. We then went in as a glider unit during the Malta operation.” Klaus stopped. He was blinking, straining to remember something. “Oh and there was a skirmish in Hungary when we were in transit. I’ve learned by doing. Hauptsturmführer Peiper has been giving me lessons. So have several other experienced officers. But mostly I learned in battle. Maybe when the campaign ends someone will send me for training and I’ll discover why I’ve been doing it wrong the whole time.”
The after-action went on. Klaus kept expecting harangues from Lothar and his band. He presumed they were SA. Most of the Afrika Division combat cadres were. Instead they just kept staring at him. He was too young to comprehend that the looks were awe. In his own mind he remained Klaus, a rear rank HJ who at 17 was rated as having no leadership potential whatsoever.
1500 hours local; 1400 hours CET
10 October 1940
King David Hotel, Jerusalem, British Mandate of Palestine
There was an outdoor terrace bar that senior command had come to regard as their watering hole. General O’Connor, nominal G-O-C 9th Army, had hit on it as a place for senior staff conferences. His Army had three nominal corps. One was still working up in Australia with its first battalion in transit, nominally to Basra. The Iraqi Army was blocking Basra. So a new destination would have to be chosen, after which London and Canberra would squabble and the decision would be countermanded. It was a battalion of fairly raw recruits without much beyond WW1 rifles, so beyond symbolism it really didn’t matter. Most of the corps was even less well prepared.
The Indian III Corps was supposed to be in Basra. Good luck with that. One division was trying to unload in Kuwait after being warned off Basra at gunpoint. The second division and the corps troops were still back at Bombay, waiting for someplace to be shipped to.
That left II New Zealand Corps, whose commander, Major General Freyberg, was here sipping a gin and tonic. Of course, the corps had one functional division, 2nd New Zealand, which Freyberg continued to command under a second hat. That left the fugitive Polish Carpathian Brigade and O’Connor’s own old 7th Armored Division.
“Gentlemen.” O’Connor focused on Freyberg. The Poles had sent a staff colonel. They were miffed … again. They had signed up to fight the Germans. Had qualms about fighting Italy as the Italians weren’t at war with Poland, a state that no longer existed beyond an exile government in London and refugee military units like this brigade. Raised in Syria from Polish refugees and overseas Poles. Armed by the French, then expelled by them when Vichy dropped out of the war. Now fit to be tied, because London had shipped a brigade of them off to fight the French in Africa – as if they were mercenaries or colonials. The Pole would take notes and do jack-all without coded consultations with his London ‘government’.
He gave a smile to his fellow designated scapegoat from the Western Desert, Major General Creagh. There was a little flag pin in London saying 7th Armored was here. It was. Or its division headquarters, its three brigade headquarters, and a few administrative elements, were. “Let us begin. The Iraqis have finally shown their hand. Warned us off at Basra. Ordered the RAF out of both bases. Besieged them so that any such retreat will be made disarmed, trusting to their good intentions. We can presume further moves will follow against British investments and persons. Delhi, Cairo, and London are dithering. I shall not. The issue, as ever, is whether I command any of you; or am I just your paymaster and rations clerk?” There, he had finally said it, finally put the poisoned fruit out for all to see.
The Jewish Agency representative, Moshe Sharett, was head of their pseudo-government’s Political Department. “That depends. Your original plan was to abandon us all to the good intentions of the Nazis. If only Germans were coming we’d all want to leave – and have no trouble doing our share of the fighting to open a line of retreat. The Italians?” The Jew was choosing his words carefully. “Let us say some of us trust no one on that side; and some who are fools will fight for you here, but not run away to India. So which of your generals do we fight under?”
“Your split merits a simple answer. Those who leave probably go with the Poles … ” O’Connor looked at the Polish officer, who glared at him but made no immediate reply. “Go send your coded messages. Either you are soldiers, or refugees.”
“Poland is not at war with Iraq.”
“Fine, you are refugees. General Freyberg, the first task of your division will be disarming the Poles.”
“We’ll fight.”
“So you threaten war with Britain, but not Italy or Iraq?”
“What are you offering?”
“Right now I am feeding and paying you. I’m feeding your dependents as well. For what? You want a war against Germany on the Rhine. Sorry, but that war’s lost. I’d gladly ship you off to Egypt and make you Wavell’s problem, but as of last week you refused to go. So you take the Jews that want to leave. Probably some Arabs and Christians as well. You’ll be renamed the Carpathian Division. Consider that a deception to mask the sudden increase in ration strength. When you get to India you can shed the extra people and go back to your fine principles. Now off with you. I’ve got real men to talk to about real things.”
> The Pole slammed down his glass and walked off to start the boring process of trying to get his London government to see reason. “The New Zealand Corps will march. Send a brigade at once, and the rest as you can. You’ll get the Trans-Jordan Legion to bulk things up. You relieve RAF Habbaiya and await further orders.” Freyberg started to speak, but O’Connor wanted to get it all out first. He motioned stop with his hand. “Yes, you can take all the local friends you want. You’ve got enough trucks. Yes, I know you have to clear it with home government. Ask them this: How do they propose to get you home, except through Iraq? Egypt will be gone in a few months.” O’Connor saw the shocked faces. Pity he no longer cared. Flushing his career and command was the least of his problems. “The pause in the fighting now, it is pure logistics. Once the buildup is done, that line will collapse in a few weeks. Thin red line of heroes is great for the newsreels. In the grownup world it’s artillery, tanks, and planes. The other side has them and we don’t. It’s just that simple.”
The Jewish Agency man had a question. “What are our people who wish to stay to do?”
“Liaison with Major General Creagh here. You have soldiers or at least would-be soldiers. He has a set of command staffs and no troops. Consider yourselves married. The bigger issue is when do you mobilize. We all need the civilian economy here to function as long as possible so let’s hold off on that. Sinai should protect us for a week or two. It’s big enough. There aren’t that many passes.” O’Connor was asserting calmly what he personally believed to be bunkum. Birkenhead Drill. He had tens of thousands of British and Empire nationals to get out, and no safe route.
2000 hours local; 1900 hours CET
10 October 1940
Schwabe tents, Brigade Strauss area
Gunter had let Klaus sleep in after his night exercise. He got him up for a light supper, going over what was to happen tonight. Klaus seemed eager, and appeared to be quite happy that Greta’s family had tentatively already given their approval. He repeatedly thanked Gunter for seeing to all this as, he admitted, he had not a clue as to how this all was done. His parents hadn’t thought to train him in such yet. That was for later in their minds. He would get his diploma, a first job, a term in the Army, and then start a career. Marriage was for late 20’s if successful, or early 30’s more normally.
The story should have been closely guarded. It wasn’t. Klaus got well-wishes from virtually everyone he met. Mary Collins had taken charge of getting the least filthy uniform for each man as clean as possible, pressed and presentable. Their best boots were shined to a gleam by her children.
His Greta seemed like a fairy princess to Klaus. Her Betar girls had washed her head to toe, provided her with clean civilian clothes borrowed from various girls’ packs, and elaborately done her hair. There was no lipstick or makeup. No one had thought to bring any. Then again, Klaus was clueless. Besides, the Party youth movement encouraged the clean country-girl look. He stood at the doorway, swaying back and forth in delighted shock. Gunter had to guide him in, nudge him to shake hands around.
Instead of the ‘upper class’ scotch, which Gunter thought tasted like a cross between hospital medicine and industrial waste, he’d brought a bottle of aged French brandy, also stolen from British stocks on Malta. Everyone had a cup to toast the couple. Klaus and Greta choked on theirs but they swallowed. Isaak did the talking for the bride’s family. “We have decided that the dowry will be the position of commercial director of our firm.” He paused, to see if Gunter regarded that as sufficient.
The senior member of the groom’s party gave a proper smile. Klaus started stuttering. “I’d hoped for a clerk’s job. I haven’t a clue as to what a commercial director does, much less how to do it.”
“And six months ago you didn’t know what a Leutnant did, much less a Major. We will make up a manual. We will buy a few books. Greta will tutor you. And yes, you’ll make a few mistakes at first. I have faith that you will learn. You will be a valuable member of the family.” Klaus blushed. Greta beamed. They were a Romeo and Juliet picture in a clean, wholesome way. The Reichsführer would have relished the propaganda photos had anyone been taking any. Didn’t matter. The scene could always be staged again on command. Isaak was now focusing his attention on Gunter. “I’ve provided our wedding gift. Now I will ask one of you.” Gunter looked perplexed and a bit put out. “Yes, it’s not traditional for the bride’s family to make demands, especially in such a ‘special’ situation. Nonetheless I will do so at the risk of your anger. We have discussed this, the four of us as both Greta’s male protectors and as the working higher staff of our firm. Gunter, we wish you to sponsor our Klaus for Party membership.”
Gunter was starting to understand. “The Aryan face of your firm would be more useful as a Party member. There’s no Kreis office to register him at. We’ll have to involve the Reichsführer’s staff.”
Isaak shrugged. “We are all his creatures. We live or die at his whim. I’ll be technical director. Our Klaus need not learn the details on what we do. We would go as a team to get contracts. He would handle the social side, the personal interactions. A decorated officer and Party member … ”
And thus it came to pass that apolitical Klaus became a National Socialist Party member.
0800 hours local; 0700 hours CET
11 October 1940
Headquarters ‘Special Night Squadron’ Raiding Battalion, to the rear of what had once been 7th Division lines, north end of the Alamein position
Moshe Dayan had learned patience in British captivity. He had also learned how the British colonial world actually worked. Papers meant nothing. It was all name-dropping and personal connections. He had no military uniform, no official identification, no travel passes, nothing. He also hadn’t tried to evade the responsible authorities. At the first roadblock on the way to the front, he’d hopped off the truck he had bummed a ride on, and strode confidently up to the NCO in charge. Had asked that Lieutenant Colonel Wingate be notified of his arrival. Had dropped the names of several field officers he’d been acquainted with.
He'd been under loose guard, provided with tea, biscuits, and a bench to doze on, until a lieutenant colonel had been sent to fetch him. No papers. The officer didn’t even sign for him. The attitude of the troops was that if a field officer knew him, he fit into the khaki machine somewhere. Germans made war bureaucratically. British treated it all as amateur make-believe from their public school days.
On the drive, after the obligatory social reminiscing, the officer let on that he had a problem that needed Moshe’s help. When they arrived at the headquarters, the two met the ‘problem’. A Palestinian Jewish man, or so he claimed. Had one tattoo saying BETAR, and another one with a stylized palm tree. Man had been several days in the brig and had a story, one he told better in Yiddish, which the British officer didn’t speak much of. “Dayan. You Haganah?” Moshe nodded. He wasn’t exactly, but this wasn’t the time or place. “I’ve been trying to tell these British. I was in 2nd Palestine Brigade. Captured on patrol. Three guys in German uniform come around to the prisoner compound, asking after Revisionists. Well it was hot, we were all thirsty, so I join the group.”
Dayan gave a raised eyebrow. The problem kept talking. “I’m not one of them. Not really. If I’m anything I’m Labor, but who needs politics? Got an uncle and a cousin who swallow their line. I’ve argued with them enough so I know the talking points, know a few names to drop. Besides, the commissar in charge is from Poland. Doesn’t recognize half the names from Palestine that guys were saying would vouch for them.” The not-BETAR guy is desperately looking back and forth, hoping someone believes him this time. “They were recruiting. Some story that Palestine gets partitioned. Nazis get the north. Haifa and the oil pipeline. Galilee. Fascists get the rest.”
Moshe is translating, and the British officer butts in. “How the bloody hell does some low-level officer know these sort of state secrets?”
“Dipped in shit if I know. This Nazi unit has a couple of
thousand Betar. From all sorts of places in Europe. Even some camp complex in Poland.”
The British officer was finding this level of knowledge incredible. “And I suppose you know where this camp is?”
“Somewhere around Cracow. Got approaching a million people. Some SS guy named Eichmann runs the show. Big factories making all sorts of stuff.” He could see he was not being believed. This terrified him. “Look, I’m not smart enough to make this all up. They’ve got maps lying around with the zones marked out. Italians even have a piece set aside for the Pope. To join, they tattoo this stuff on you. If you run out on them and they catch you with this, they hang you. I’ve seen it. Hanging some men and shooting others out of hand. Had a chance to run when the work party I was with got scattered by some British tanks on a raid. It was our guys. I could hear them talking Yiddish. I signed up to fight Nazis, not fellow Jews. Just get me out of here back to Palestine. The big attack comes at the end of the month and I don’t want to be here for it.” The Palestinian was on the verge of hysteria. He wasn’t going to be believed, and the thought of death unmanned him.
The British lieutenant colonel led Dayan out. “Crazy story. But he doesn’t appear to be insane ... and there are the tatoos.”
“Who is asking? The British Army or my old friends from the night patrols?”
The Britisher got VERY interested. “One friend to another … ”
“Do I get papers letting me take him back? I have people above me who will want to ask him pointed, detailed questions. He saw more than he thinks he did … ”