by Scott Palter
The two men spent the evening over an excellent dinner with fine wines and brandies discussing the future. Gunter preferred to sleep alone. There would be other nights to see to those amusements. He needed a clear head to think how much was Berlin to be told.
……….
Morgan chose to spend the night at the hotel as well. He knew as soon as he was dropped off at his place of business, Jabar Isa Gaafar would come calling. He would need a clear head for that discussion. Also, hopefully his ‘cousin’ Greta in uniform.
0200 hours local, 3 November, 1940
1900 hours CET, 2 November, 1940
Chosin Reservoir, Japanese-occupied northern Korea
The ten-day hunt was at an end. By now permanent Second Lieutenant Takagi had been in action against various partisan and small airborne forces for almost two months. This particular operation was designed to chase down the arch-bandit threat Kim Il Sung. The final fight had been a forty-hour running gun battle, culminating in this final encounter on the northern heights above Toktung Pass. The dead body showed Soviet rank badges. The captured documents indicated the deceased was a senior officer. The problem was that this was the third Kim Il Sung whom Takagi had killed personally, and the fifth claimed so far in the campaign. Was Kim a cover name for whoever was senior in this bandit army? Takagi was too tired to care. He had the dead stripped of weapons, shoes, and anything else useful, and began the long trek back to the nearest Imperial garrison. Let older, wiser, and higher-ranking heads untangle the mess. The winter winds were blowing. All the lieutenant and his men wanted was shelter and sleep. This was hours away, even once they marched back to the trucks which were hopefully still waiting. Often those were summoned elsewhere when the chase ran this long. War could be Hell; and the rumors from the Manchurian front spoke only of valiant last stands.
2200 hours CET
2 November 1940
Schellenberg’s office, SS HQ, Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, Berlin, Germany
“And that was when you returned to headquarters, Oberst?”
“After some additional discussion and more explanations on how things work for this kind of logistics work, yes. Back at headquarters I found your orders and the clearance to use the daily courier flight to Berlin.”
Schellenberg looked up from the papers on his desk at Wöhler, seated in a comfortable chair. He asked: “What was your impression about the whole operation? Serious? Effective?”
“I got the impression they were very serious. Actually, the whole operation felt almost un-Italian – everyone was quiet and concentrated, no shouting, no running around. In fact, I noticed they had removed all telephones and similar things into smaller side offices, so that the main hall was kept quiet, perhaps even serene or contemplative. I have done my share of inspections during my career; and you get a bit of a feel for who is just going through the motions to look busy and who is really working, and these Italian officers were really working. Also, Generalmajor Ubaldo Diciotti gave me good explanations of his operations, everything very well thought out and logical.”
“So why are the Italians still refusing to fully follow our commands?” asked Schellenberg, clearly annoyed.
“I am sorry, sir, but I do not understand.”
“You did hear that some ships have been sent to Alexandria, before you flew from Rome?”
“Yes, Oberführer – I heard that at the airport. I gathered that those would be the ships that had enough coal or oil to return from Alexandria without refueling.”
“A second batch of ships was later ordered to Alexandria – while you were in the air – after the information the Italians had requested had arrived from Alexandria. But there is a third batch, a rather sizable one, of ships that still have not received any order to go to Alexandria.”
Oberst Wöhler nodded: “Yes. This was one of the things the Italian flag-officer explained to me. There are ships that need to go Libya or Tunisia. Let me give one example: both our Italian Allies and us have huge numbers of troops and heaps of material in these two countries – troops and material that need to go to Egypt. But in order to do that they will need trucks and fuel – so it makes sense to deliver these trucks and the fuel to Tunisia or Libya. The same is also true for critical spare parts, for example.”
Schellenberg took a sheet of paper from his desk and seemed to read through it, tapping his pencil on one line: “The Conte Rosso is a troop transport on her way to Tripoli and has not changed course – she surely is not carrying fuel or spare parts.”
“A troop transport? The Italians mentioned that some ships might have to take on additional water or food before they go on to Alexandria – perhaps this is one of those.”
Schellenberg looked up from his desk: “I see. It seems that the devil is – - as usual – in the details. Thank you very much, Herr Oberst. Take tomorrow on leave and surprise your wife – I will arrange for a leave pass and a return flight to Rome for the day after tomorrow.”
Oberst Wöhler understood this as dismissal, rose and saluted : “Thank you, Oberführer.” As he turned away, he stopped and lifted one finger: “Ah, I almost forgot, just one more thing. Generalmajor Diciotti said he is going to need more ships, and fuel for them, and asks if we could help him there.”
“More ships?”
“Yes, the ships will be at sea about two more days now. This means they can make fewer deliveries in a given period, so he will need more of them.”
0300 hours local; 0200 hours CET
3 November 1940
20 kilometers east-southeast of the Alam el Halfa ridge, which was the eastern end of British 8th Army’s last position
This was not warfare as Klingenberg knew it. He was twenty kilometers beyond his assigned patrol line, because his forward units from his Schnell Regiment of SS reported extremely large vehicle convoys driving with lights on in the distance. The entire British Army seemed to be exiting in a massive flood. His Panzer II’s had been swarmed with British soldiers hopping off trucks to engage. He had more prisoners than he knew what to do with, had taken noticeable losses, and only wished he had access to corps- and army-level artillery. This was the target package of a lifetime. Instead he kept getting increasingly stern orders to disengage and let Messe’s XX Corps handle this. A Corps whose arrival time was left in the indefinite future. Klingenberg hoped this made sense to higher command, because it sure didn’t to him.
0715 hours local; 0515 CET
3 November 1940
Mitla Pass, Sinai, Egypt
The road through the pass was more a track than a highway. The van of Commander Ian Fleming’s brigade was just exiting the pass but the tail had yet to enter. With the sun up, they were helpless if attacked from the air. He’d made the decision to risk this, trusting that the retreating 8th Army would be a more interesting target. He’d left Cairo with a brigade of his own, and a temporary battalion based on the parliamentarian’s Gurkhas. Along for the ride had been maybe ten thousand Empire and other civilians in whatever vehicles they had, plus whatever space could be found on his military trucks for desperate people. By now he’d picked up at least twice that many more. Some were military or had been or were military dependents. Most were just people with cars, trucks, motorcyles, or in at least one case an agricultural tractor towing what could have been a trailer for hauling produce, in this case stuffed with people.
If everything worked just right this excuse for a gypsy caravan had just about enough gasoline to reach someplace civilized in Palestine. He loaded every vehicle and every container his men could find with gasoline. The civilians had had their household goods ruthlessly stripped off to make room for gasoline, water, and more people. Fleming was sure this order had not been perfectly applied. Some fool who had bribed a corporal to be allowed to keep hauling his refrigerator or heavy luggage would have his auto break down on march, then stand by the road sobbing when no one would rescue him even though he had three cute children and an even cuter puppy. He already had observed one retired Indi
an Army officer with an Egyptian girl young enough to be his granddaughter, and a pet baboon of all things. The officer at least had the brains to have the rest of his vehicle loaded with gasoline, water, and a conspicuous hunting rifle. He was towing a trailer with the young lady’s family and two good hunting dogs.
Fleming hadn’t a clue if the authorities in Palestine were ready to handle this. Not his problem. His troops, or as many as he could assemble by the time the road march ended somewhere near Jerusalem, were bound for Iraq. He had a representative from the War Cabinet with him whose authority was quite sweeping. What’s better, he had paperwork on Cairo Embassy stationery confirming all this. The flight from Egypt was going to be remembered in the manner of Napoleon’s from Moscow.
0800 hours local; 0700 hours CET
3 November 1940
Skies over Cairo, Egypt
Primo Tenente Enrico Cirillo had led his men out of the SM 81 Bat at fifteen hundred meters. The drop zone was the Gezira Golf Course, the most famous in all of Cairo. The skies were clear and blue with no appreciable cloud cover. There was neither flak nor enemy fighters to contest the action. Supposedly, Egyptian liaison personnel awaited them at the clubhouse.
The operational briefing was a trifle strange. The British had supposedly abandoned the city, but pockets of them might remain. The Egyptian military and police were asserted to be friendly, based on negotiations between the two crowns, but some units were alleged to be part of a national uprising led by nationalists and religious fanatics. Resistance could be answered by gunfire, but the airborne units were to be guided by the supposed Royalist liaison personnel on who was and was not ‘friendly’. The First Libyan Division was near, but its precise position was not exactly known owing to an engagement with a large Australian corps that was also near but supposedly retreating north of the city towards the Canal. Most peculiar in all points.
Peculiar, but also mostly the problem of senior officers. After Malta, Cirillo had told himself he would next visit Egypt as a conqueror, to recreate the New Roman Empire the Duce had foretold. Here he was with his fine airborne company, returning to land first taken for Rome by Julius Caesar. And it was glorious.
……….
Floating in the air over the equestrian facilities at Heliopolis, Tenente Vincenzo Pentangeli was enjoying the view of the city of Cairo to his west. He came slowly down to a gentle landing. As if this was all a training jump, his battalion formed up fairly quickly. The Egyptian liaison people materialized as if by magic from some djin out of the Tales of the Arabian Nights. These Egyptians were army officers with complexions and bearing showing their European ancestry. Egypt might be an Arab country, but it was ruled by people who looked and acted white, were civilized. This wasn’t another Ethiopia.
Pentangeli found his English useful to communicate with these people. Most spoke some English, although of course every one of the senior people on both sides spoke French. His Egyptian counterpart seemed curious about Vincenzo’s American accent. They chatted about New York City, which the Egyptian only knew from films but hoped some day to visit, as the unit marched into the city. Some people cheered. Most were indifferent. Pentangeli noticed a lot of damage from riot and what was probably street fighting. Now that this was an Italian land, hopefully everything could be repaired in short order. The briefing had stressed that the two crowns were now friends.
1100 hours local; 0900 hours CET
3 November 1940
Elhovo, Bulgaria
His staff officers were still well to the rear, getting the horses and men of his oversize SS Cavalry Brigade off the trains. Standartenführer Fritz Freitag had gone ahead with a small party to survey his new posting. The town was a nothing Balkan market town in the shadow of Mount Sakar, itself in the midst of supposedly decent wine country. Freitag had better things to worry about than the local vintages. He took his new Waffen SS career seriously, more so than his predecessor the late fool Fegelein had taken his own SS duties. That idiot had been executed for not following simple orders, for usurping command prerogative. Freitag would follow Berlin’s policy to the letter. Berlin wanted him to make a combat force, not complain about the rustic scenery.
The Reichsführer had renamed his 2nd SS Cavalry Regiment as 1st SS Cavalry Brigade. Freitag was to locally recruit to flesh out this formation, after which he was to keep recruiting up to division strength. The Main SS Office had ruled that any Bulgar whose family had served beside a German or Austrian unit in the Kaiserwar was Class 5 Volksdeutsche. So were the Bulgarian Thracian refugees from the Balkan Wars and after. These were now alleged to have Gothic blood from the great Goth victory at Adrianople, which was just over the Turkish border.
The excuses were for the racial theorists. His division-to-be, the Maria Theresa, was in Thrace in case of a Soviet attempt at the Turkish Straits. His job was to assert German interests if and when. Until then, he would teach his nominal Volksdeutsche enough German to answer commands. The Kaiser’s officers had done this with African savages. It should prove possible with half-civilized Balkan bandits.
1200 hours British double summer time and CET
3 November 1940
A posh flat in London’s West End
Kim Philby’s new control officer was an aristocratic Belgian lady a few years his senior. She was the third wife of a much older and quite wealthy British duke. When she agreed in her early twenties to marry a man already in his eighties, certain freedoms were allowed her. He would supply her with this flat and a modest allowance to ‘have a private life’. In return she was to be discreet. No scandals in the tabloids, no wild behavior in nightclubs, nothing that would reflect poorly on the duke’s social prestige. The duke’s needs were seen to, physically and socially. She was beautiful, spoke half a dozen languages fluently, and could make polite conversation on virtually any topic. She had a proper title, suitable at a stretch to marry a duke, but neither family money nor lands. She would have as readily consented to be the old man’s mistress as his wife. He preferred ‘wife’ so as to scandalize his still-living siblings.
Taking Philby as a lover would fit her agreed freedoms. Only Moscow Centre was aware that the lady had been a dedicated COMINTERN agent back to her late teens. If Leninism can be thought of as a secular religion, she was a most zealous convert.
Kim’s schedule respected neither clock nor calendar. The War Cabinet often worked days that ran over 24 hours, and the breaks came on random days, not weekends per se. This was not Tory 1938 when everyone of importance took weekends in the country, summered on the continent, and generally worked at a languid pace out of Regency times. He had rung up her social secretary when cabinet had quit working an hour before dawn. The secretary had arranged this timing. Everything was kept very loose and casual, as if this truly were an affair.
They were half naked in case interrupted. She was ready to physically play the part of sexual partner. Kim could not see why it was worth the bother to take the pretense that far. Half-naked covered the security services breaking in. If the flat were bugged, there was no way to hide what was happening – beyond the Duke using his influence to claim harmless gossiping instead of espionage. It wasn’t that Philby didn’t find her attractive. The problem was always too much to pass along, and too little time to do it. Sex would waste at least ten minutes.
“The latest excuse to not make peace is that the public wouldn’t understand.”
“Moscow wants the war to continue. Do you advocate for this?”
“My orders were to give honest advice from a Red Tory point of view. That advice is to quit before we lose more. Doesn’t matter what I say. This gang of clowns couldn’t make a decision on what to order for dinner. Winston was decisive. Whatever his other faults, he could reach a decision and ram it through.”
“Yet you supported his overthrow.”
“Because almost all his decisions were wrong. All he saw was the big picture, the broad panorama. The Nazis were Evil. Yes, they are. Britain’s historic poli
cy is to oppose one ruler uniting the continent. Yes, it was; and in a perfect world still would be. However, after twenty years of avoiding arming like a major power, we simply don’t have the strength to face Germany one on one, much less fight this new-forming European Community. The priority was always the gold standard. However painful, those are the facts. The sad facts that prompted the 1922 Committee to turn on him.”
“So what changed with these rebels?”
“The Germans queered the deal. No more air war over Britain. No more Battle of the Atlantic threatening us with starvation and ruin. To most of the public, it doesn’t feel as if the Home Country is at war. All that’s left is a squalid little set of campaigns for empire. England is no longer at risk. We have lost most of an army and half of Egypt these past few days. But we took two ports from the French in West Africa. Montgomery is promising some grand victory in the interior sometime soon if he gets reinforcements. Wavell and Gort say that given a few months they may be able to restore our position in Nigeria. The Americans are dangling credits sometime towards year-end, some absurd contrivance they are calling Lend-Lease, whatever that turns out to be after their Congress gets done rewriting it. So it’s easy to drift, waiting to see what turns up.” Philby gave a morbid chuckle. “What will turn up is, we lose tens of thousands of more men plus Palestine and the rest of Egypt. Oh, and a bit more ground to the Red Army in Afghanistan.”