Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  They waited until midnight. By then the Catanian plain was quiet but for the crackle of bushfires and the occasional popping of star shells. Recce units reported the Fallschirmjäger had indeed pulled back for the night, leaving only a reduced defence force on the bridge itself, and thus, for the second time in three days, Theo found himself leading a group of men across the Simeto to attack it. This force was much larger than his D Section had been, better armed too, and eager for revenge. And again, once safely across, they stole unobserved along the northern bank until concealed beneath the moonlit shadow of the bridge. A short while later Pearson’s team arrived, whereupon, on his signal, both teams scrambled up the bank on to the bridge.

  It was all swiftly over. Once again the Germans had left Italians in charge of the bridge for the night, and once again the Italians, suddenly over-run by furious, bayonet-brandishing Tommies, threw down their weapons in surrender. Barely a shot was fired; within twenty minutes the northern end was secure, and soon heavy machine guns, mortars and artillery were moving in to consolidate their defences. Reconnaissance units probed forward too, reporting back that the Fallschirmjäger had pulled right back, almost a mile, for reasons known only to themselves.

  ‘Is it all over, Theo?’ Vere Hodge asked. They were picking their way back over the rubble-strewn bridge. Beneath them the river slid by, silent and steely, while overhead, stars shone through a veil of drifting smoke. As they progressed, they met more reinforcements crossing over.

  ‘I doubt it. But with 8th Army units arriving every hour, they’ll find it hard to win back the bridge.’

  ‘But they’ll keep trying?’

  ‘Oh yes. Or trying to destroy it. I don’t envy those bomb-disposal men.’

  ‘No. And what about us?’

  ‘Us?’ They reached the southern end of the bridge. Off to one side a cluster of luminescent humps, tents glowing with lamplight from within, showed where 16th Field Ambulance worked on, cutting, sawing, stitching, repairing the ravaged victims as best they could. Beyond these the ground rose towards 2nd Battalion’s old positions, now pitted with craters and scorched black from fire. ‘Brigadier Lathbury says we’re being withdrawn.’

  ‘Really? Where to?’

  ‘Heaven knows.’

  ‘Oh. But, Theo, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What is a JAFO?’

  ‘Ah. Um, you probably don’t want to know that, Vere.’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘Well... It’s “just another fucking observer”. And that’s certainly not you!’

  CHAPTER 9

  Following his ignominious recall from Africa before the fall of Tunisia, Erwin Rommel returned home to Neustadt. ‘I have fallen into disgrace,’ he told Lucie within minutes of landing, ‘and can expect no important jobs at present.’ Relieved at this news, yet concerned by her husband’s poor health and morale, Lucie immediately packed him off to Austria to complete the rest cure prescribed by his doctors the previous October.

  A month later he was back and ready for the fray. Expectantly he cleared his desk and sat down to await the summons. But none came. Weeks passed and no telephone rang, no couriers arrived bearing briefing papers, and no instructions came from High Command. Most significantly of all, not one word came from the Führer’s office. Still evidently persona non grata, all he could do was follow the war via the newspapers – and glean occasional snippets from army friends. ‘You’re out in the cold, Erwin,’ they told him, ‘keep your head down and wait for the wind to change.’ Resigning himself to a long stay on the sidelines, he sat down to write a memoir of the Africa campaign, failure for which he blamed largely on the Italians. Then late one night in May, two full months after his return, the telephone finally rang.

  ‘It will soon all be over in Tunisia,’ Adolf Hitler said quietly. ‘It was poorly managed. I should have listened to you. Come back.’

  The next day he flew to Berlin. And for the following two months was rarely away from his leader’s side. One day they would fly to the ‘wolf’s lair’ in Prussia to check on the Russian campaign, the next they were entertaining dignitaries at his Bavarian mountain retreat, then it was back to headquarters in Berlin to harangue the generals. Rommel fulfilled an uneasy non-role – part strategic adviser, part sounding board, part punchbag. Regarded suspiciously by the Party elite, he held no official portfolio, commanded no forces, nor even had a job title. ‘At best I’m a field marshal in waiting,’ he wrote plaintively to Lucie. ‘But for how long?’

  What he gained, however, was a rare and intimate insight into his master’s moods and thoughts, something that with the passing weeks caused him increasing concern. Even at this precarious stage of the war, he wrote, with the Russian campaign failing and the Allies about to invade Europe, Hitler was frequently relaxed, charming, witty and irrepressibly optimistic. An hour later by contrast he would be consumed by dark doubts. ‘Nobody will ever make peace with me,’ he confided one night, and even once adding: ‘I’m well aware the war is lost.’ More worrying were his delusions, as though his grasp of reality was slipping, convincing himself the war was in fact far from lost, talking expansively of the ‘thousand-year Reich’ and of magical super-weapons that would snatch victory from defeat. He was dangerously capricious too, staunchly defending a favoured general one day, only to condemn him as a coward the next.

  Then there were the rages. One simple, innocent remark could send Hitler into an uncontrollable fury, screaming and frothing like a rabid dog, such that no one dare approach him. These tirades were usually sparked by a perceived weakness in others, or a failure in them to meet his expectations, be it a senior general in Russia, factory workers on the Ruhr, or ordinary civilians grumbling at shortages. At such times the darkest side of his personality would emerge. ‘The German people can rot in hell!’ he growled chillingly, adding: ‘A great race must die heroically, it is historical necessity.’ At this time too Rommel first heard mention of the mass killings of Jews and other minorities to the east in Poland. These were never discussed openly, but carried out in secret by the Waffen SS and its sinister leader Heinrich Himmler – a man Rommel greatly disliked. ‘Under no circumstances!’ he wrote bluntly, when Manfred asked if he could apply for a cadetship to the SS. ‘The soldiers have qualities, but they are under the command of a madman.’

  Spring turned to summer, the fighting season drew on, Rommel, increasingly restless, chafed for an operational role. Then in June the call finally came, and he was summoned to the chancellery to receive orders. Russia, he assumed straight away, was where he was destined. Hitler was planning a renewed offensive there, a massive pincer movement involving two whole army groups, a full forty-three divisions aimed at halting the Soviet advance once and for all. It was called Operation Citadel; Rommel was familiar with the details, and had already offered suggestions, typically urging his leader to strike hard and fast, and sooner rather than later. But as it turned out his suggestions were irrelevant, for it wasn’t Russia he was destined for. It was Greece.

  Having won in Africa, Hitler explained, the Allies were now planning their invasion of mainland Europe. This would not be via Sicily and Italy, as many expected, but through Greece. Rommel was incredulous, pointing out that landing an invasion force in Greece and then fighting all the way up through the Balkans would be a logistical nightmare for the Allies, whereas Italy provided the most direct and least complicated route. In his view the Allies would make a three-pronged attack, firstly on the toe of Italy via Sicily, then with simultaneous sea landings on both sides of the peninsula, as far up as they could manage – possibly around the Naples area or even Rome. All the available intelligence, the build-up of troops, the stockpiling of equipment, the radio chatter, everything pointed to this strategy. ‘Furthermore,’ he went on, ‘we should establish a defence line right across northern Italy, place our main forces there, seal off the Alpine routes through South Tyrol, and so be ideally placed to repel the enemy inde
finitely.’ But Hitler wasn’t having it. ‘Italy is a ruse,’ he insisted, ‘a feint aimed at deceiving us and diverting our attention from Greece.’ The troop movements in Tunisia were to mask the formation of a new Allied force, the 12th Army, which was secretly assembling in Libya. Greece was the objective, the evidence was indisputable, his agents were certain, and so was he. Rommel could only shake his head. ‘And one more thing…’ Hitler added. The dead body of a British Intelligence courier had recently washed up on a beach in Spain. Attached to its wrist was a briefcase full of plans – for the invasion of Greece.

  Rommel’s orders were to assume command of ‘Army Group E’, which did not yet exist, magically assemble a corps of staff, fly to ‘fortress Greece’, and start planning for the annihilation of the Allied invasion force. Dumbfounded, he dutifully began his preparations. Meanwhile Operation Citadel finally got under way. Originally planned for April, Hitler had repeatedly pushed back the date, citing equipment shortages, wrongly positioned troops, or the weather. Finally in early July he issued the order and the advance began. At first all went well: movement was swift and the pincers began to close. But it soon became clear the Russians had used the delay to advantage, heavily fortifying their positions, extending their defences, digging tank traps and sowing mines by the tens of thousands, and within a week the German advance was faltering. Rommel attended the situation conference on 9 July and, although Hitler and his cronies insisted all was well, he instinctively sensed disaster. The very next day he was woken with the news that the Allies had invaded Europe – not in Greece, but in Sicily, exactly as he’d predicted.

  Finally he was allowed to prepare plans based on his ‘northern Italy defence line’ idea. With a provisional headquarters at Salo on Lake Garda, he was even permitted to visit South Tyrol, including Theo’s home town of Bolzano, to reconnoitre the geography. But Hitler, hedging as usual, decided also to place a second force in southern Italy to confront the invaders when they came. And he put Rommel’s old rival Albert Kesselring in charge of it, deliberately not specifying which man – Rommel or Kesselring – was in overall command. Nor was he finished with his Hellenic obsession.

  Rommel, to his fury, was ordered to Greece to assess the situation there. What he found did not impress him. Though defences had been increased, and the Italian navy was theoretically guarding the Adriatic: ‘... a very great deal is required before Greece can be regarded a fortress!’ Wearily he began compiling a report which he knew would be poorly received. But that same night he was woken by an urgent recall to Berlin. Something had occurred to completely eclipse all matters Greek. Hitler’s closest foreign friend and ally, Benito Mussolini, had been overthrown and arrested.

  *

  I am still keeping a notebook. A minor act of insurrection in an environment where such things are forbidden, it helps offset feelings of impotence – and passes the time. Not strictly a diary per se, it’s more a haphazard compilation of notes and recollections, starting with Arnhem and Stalag XIB as Pip Smith suggested, and continuing to the present here in Ulm. Some Rommel insights too. Notepaper is increasingly hard to come by, so I’m currently recycling a child’s drawing book left at the drop-in centre. It’s full of sketches of castles and princesses and strange animals, which have to be rubbed out before use. Sometimes I leave an illustration in and write round it, adding a natty visual dimension to the narrative. Beside a picture of a particularly vile monster I scrawl: ‘Vorst the Vindictive!’ A drawing of a huge iced cake gains the caption: ‘God, yes!’ While a more considered entry beneath a winged fairy describes my second visit to Lucie Rommel.

  Which follows a similar pattern to the first: a car, an army officer, a wordless drive, a servant’s greeting at the door, then up the stairs to the anteroom. No Manfred this time, but the officer seats himself by the door like a bodyguard, and there’s also a young servant woman standing in a corner. Lucie is at the window, sitting at the table with the photographs of her family. Boxes tied with ribbons lie at her feet like presents, the room is bright, the curtains open, a hint of March sunshine lights her profile, she is dressed, composed, and generally looking better.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ I begin in my politest German. ‘And how do we find you this fine day?’

  No response. I pull up a chair. ‘Madam?’

  ‘Frau Rommel is endeavouring to comply with the British doctor’s instructions.’

  ‘I... Pardon?’

  ‘And wishes to thank him for attending to her.’

  This comes from the girl in the corner. Lucie says nothing, while the bodyguard folds his arms. Confused, I plough on, trying to draw her into a response, but after more second-hand pleasantries with the maid, it’s clear Lucie either doesn’t understand my German, or is still not speaking. A little plate of food sits beside her – tiny squares of black bread and cheese – presumably to show the British doctor that she is eating as instructed. Frankly the British doctor, who missed lunch because the car came early and is perpetually dizzy with hunger anyway, would gladly have wolfed these, but that would be poor form, so I try to ignore them, and, opening my bag, begin a physical examination instead. This finds her anaemic and underweight, but alert, responsive to stimuli and seemingly well enough. Feeling for her pulse, I try a different tack.

  ‘Your son is still here in Herrlingen?’

  The pulse skips and she looks away. At the same moment the bodyguard stirs.

  ‘Cadet Rommel has been transferred.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To the Reichsarbeitdienst.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Front-line defence work.’

  ‘But he’s just a boy!’

  ‘These are desperate times! Your RAF bombers—’

  ‘That’s enough, Hauptmann.’ This from the maid, whom I’m now thinking is not a maid at all. ‘We do not wish to upset the patient, do we?’

  No, we don’t. Nor get into an argument, something Erik warned me about at the beginning. Never discuss politics or the war with the Germans, he said. Such conversations get nowhere and quickly descend into unpleasantness.

  The captain clears his throat. ‘My apologies, Herr Doktor.’

  ‘Mine also.’

  Silence descends. And with my examination complete and the patient not speaking, I’m soon running out of things to do. So I begin packing up. ‘Well, the lady is progressing, and I suggest she continue—’

  ‘Wait!’ The girl steps forward, while Lucie looks panicked. ‘Please wait, there is another matter.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ She clasps her hands. Early thirties, conservatively dressed in a tweed-like skirt, something of her expression, the lift of the chin perhaps, looks familiar.

  ‘My name is Gertrud Stemmer. I am Frau Rommel’s secretary and companion. She asked me to invite you here today for two reasons. No, three. Foremostly to thank you for visiting, especially when she knows how busy you are with other duties.’

  ‘She does? Well, there’s no need—’

  ‘Also to offer you assistance. By way of gratitude.’

  ‘Assistance.’

  ‘With your clinic, for the destitute.’

  Suddenly it’s so quiet I can hear the clock ticking in her bedroom. Nobody knows about the drop-in, nobody. We are pilfering Vorst’s military hospital supplies and Red Cross medicines meant for POWs, to treat German civilians. Repercussions if discovered don’t bear thinking about.

  ‘I’m sorry, there must be a mistake...’

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Doctor, we do not intend exposing you. Do we, Captain?’

  A grunt from the Hauptmann, then she goes on: ‘Frau Rommel greatly appreciates the humanitarian work you are doing and only wishes to assist. Unfortunately cash is short, also she has no medical supplies to donate, but asks if there is some other way to help.’

  ‘Er...’

  ‘Such as providing furniture perhaps, tables and chairs, cabinets and so on. Or blankets, a little coal for heating, or toys for the childr
en.’

  All of the above, in fact, would be very welcome, as we’re currently functioning in an abandoned chapel by the railway tracks. But I’m not about to admit anything, not in front of a uniformed Jerry and the widow of one of Hitler’s best pals. I close up my bag and make to rise. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m late for my next appointment.’

  ‘There is the third matter, Herr Doktor.’

  Now what. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Frau Rommel enquires, how is the patient Trickey progressing?’

  *

  And as soon as I get back to the Revier I storm upstairs to the patient Trickey – who’s progressing reasonably, thank you – to demand some answers.

  ‘Trickey? Where the hell are you?’

  He’s in his chair facing the window. Beyond it the meagre March sun is setting. He turns and smiles his guileless smile. ‘Hello, sir, it’s been a better day, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t give me that! Rommel!’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You said he was your mentor.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘It was the first bloody thing you said.’

  ‘I don’t remember...’

  ‘Yes you do. And you’re going to tell me. She’s got his letters!’

  ‘I... Who?’

  ‘His widow. Boxes and boxes, one letter for every day he was away apparently. She showed me one – you’re in it! Something about an opera in Rome. Back in forty-one.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. That’s four bloody years ago! And she said there are many other references. And she said her family owed you a debt. And she wants to know how you’re feeling, for God’s sake. So what’s it all about?’

  ‘I... It’s complicated, and rather confused...’

  ‘Are you a German spy, Trickey?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Were you his errand boy, and had secret meetings or something?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what, damn it! Tell me. And while you’re at it, you can tell me why we’re here!’