Silence in the Desert, page 14
The MO looked up when she approached the open door. ‘Ah, Fräulein Krüger, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Theresa. ‘I have come to ask you to put me down for transfer to the front.’
Sidi Haneish, June 1942
This really is the middle of nowhere. That’s what first came to Theresa’s mind as the two trucks pulled alongside the tented field hospital close to the airfield. The plan was to stand by there until called on to transfer to the forward dressing stations. The impression was that Rommel was about to launch one of his lightning attacks, before 8th Army could re-build its strength. They’d just heard of his promotion to Field Marshal. All knew that after their retreat, the Allies were back at a prepared defensive line which was much shorter and therefore easier to defend than that between Gazala and Bir Hakeim.
‘Welcome to Egypt,’ said a parachute NCO, after they dropped from the back of the vehicles, dragging their kit with them. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you the air raid shelters, then the latrine tent, and finally your quarters which are in shared tents. That’s the order of priority,’ he added, which at least produced a laugh.
As they moved off, a transport aircraft landed, and taxied towards them in a cloud of dust. Theresa pulled the hood of her tunic up over her face, putting her head down. When she finally looked up, there was a short tough-looking paratrooper with some other passengers in uniform, walking towards them from the plane. He looked in their direction, but nothing was said. ‘I bet they weren’t expecting to find females here,’ said one of the nurses beside her. ‘Looks like we might have an interesting evening after all.’
They were to take their meals in the officers’ mess tent. A group of them went in after the call went around, and there was a distinct drop in the noise of conversation as they entered. Several Luftwaffe pilots got up and invited them to join their tables. One officer wore the smock of a Fallschirmjäger captain, the paratrooper she saw earlier. He caught her eye, and Theresa went over to the chair he was pulling out.
‘I think I saw you when our plane landed. I guess you’d just arrived,’ he said, giving her a warm smile.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘We had one hell of a ride by truck, from Benghazi.’
‘I can imagine. You might not believe it but I flew in from Italy.’
‘Some change of scene.’ She didn’t know why, but she added ‘Strange place here to take a holiday.’ Laughter all round.
‘I have to leave tomorrow for the front,’ he said. ‘Come and help yourself to food, and Munich beer if you like it.’
‘Do I just,’ Theresa replied. ‘That’s my home town.’ Immediately she realized she’d made her first mistake. Theresa Krüger was originally from Hamburg. She tried not to let her sudden anxiety show.
‘My name’s Leo Beckendorf,’ he said as they walked over to the makeshift cafeteria.
‘Oh, I’m Theresa, Theresa Krüger.’ At least I got that right, she said to herself.
It was going to be cold that night, out in the open desert even in June. They’d been warned. She piled on the blankets as she said goodnight to the nurse she was sharing the tent with. Attractive man, Leo Beckendorf. To have met a man like that, right out here, was unexpected. Not that strange though, given there were soldiers everywhere, officers too. And not all were Nazis. Was he interested in her? Difficult to look attractive at the end of a day in the desert. He said he was on the way to the front. That he hoped to see her at breakfast time, before he left.
17
Cairo, June 1942
The French population in Alexandria gave the survivors of Bir Hakeim a great welcome, but it was in Cairo that Henri realized the Free French had indeed turned the corner in the eyes of their allies. He and a couple of fellow officers walked into an officers only bar, smart in their Foreign Legion uniform but with 8th Army black beret rather than kepi. Silence came over the assembled company, followed by appreciative ‘Jolly well dones’ from the British and Australian officers, and drinks all round.
‘Lieutenant de Rochefort,’ said the concierge at Shepheard’s, when Henri collected his key. ‘There’s a message to call a Mr Robertson.’
James Robertson, thought Henri. They don’t wait long. He went to the phone booth and dialled the number passed to him on the message form. A female answered, asking him to go straight over to Robertson’s office at Grey Pillars, close by Garden City. They would send a car.
The driver dropped him outside a modern apartment building as the sun set over the Nile, and Henri made his way up the stairs until he reached the apartment number. He was shown straight away into an office where Robertson was waiting for him, in shirtsleeves and khaki drills.
‘Lieutenant de Rochefort, so pleased you could drop by. It’s getting late, but I’ve some Black Label here. What about it, and a little Perrier? Or a Pernod, of course. We respect the French culture here in Egypt.’
‘A Scotch Perrier please, sir,’ said Henri. ‘Something we missed badly in the desert.’
Robertson made up the drinks, and waved Henri over to a couple of sofa chairs around a small table in the corner. On one wall was George VI and on the other King Farouk.
‘Before we get down to business, Lieutenant, I must first say how impressed we all are with the way you dealt with Rommel at Bir Hakeim. Bloody good show. Without the delay you created in the Axis advance, we’d never have got back intact to the defensive line in Egypt.’
‘Thank you, sir. It may have looked impressive but there was some magnificent defensive work further up the line, at the Knightsbridge box for instance.’
‘I know. But we owe you Free French a lot.’
Robertson leant back in the chair, looking out of the window towards the west bank of the great river, before continuing. ‘We know the Abwehr is re-doubling its efforts here. There’s something going on in the Sinai.’
‘I’m surprised,’ said Henri. ‘I can’t believe anything happens down there.’
‘You’ll know something about signals intelligence by now, Lieutenant. We think the opposition might have a secret intercept station in the south of the Sinai peninsula. If that’s the case, they would be in range of shipping in the Indian Ocean, not to mention the Red Sea and Gulf of Suez. It occurred to me that you’ll have some leave due to you. We thought you might like to drive down and take a look.’
‘Drive? How would I do that. Surely it’s a desert wilderness.’
‘Yes. But there’s an ancient monastery there, at the biblical site of Mount Sinai. Every so often a car and trailer drive down with supplies for the monks. We can conduct aerial reconnaissance, but anything secret is not going to show itself that easily. We were wondering about the monastery itself.’
Henri thought for a moment. ‘Would I be able to take an army chaplain with me? He was with us at Bir Hakeim’
‘Oh, who’s that?’ asked Robertson.
‘His name’s Rooker. A Benedictine, was a monk at my school in England. Before that he was an officer in the Irish Guards.’
‘I don’t see why not. He might make your acceptance at the monastery more straightforward. Give you more chance to snoop around.’ Robertson paused. ‘We have to decide how to get you on the next supply trip. Why don’t you have a word with Rooker first. He might have a religious connection here in Cairo. If you can be introduced to the Abbot of St Catherine’s that way, it might raise less curiosity than if we arrange it.’
Henri was pleased. ‘Certainly, I’ll do that right away.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Robertson, ‘I’m going to fix for you to spend some time tomorrow with an expert we have here on signals intelligence and intercept equipment. He’ll help you with what to look out for.’
Back at the hotel, Henri contacted Rooky and brought him in for a drink. He explained the idea of a trip into Sinai.
‘What an odd coincidence,’ said Rooky. ‘I was invited to say Mass at the RC church in Heliopolis last Sunday by a Benedictine monk I ran into. Afterwards, he asked me if I’d thought of visiting the Orthodox Monastery of St Catherine, in the Sinai Desert? He said there was a car used by the Catholic and Orthodox communities in Cairo for pastoral work.’
‘That sounds just what we want,’ said Henri.
‘They have an allowance of fuel, and drive down every few days to the monastery as part of the lifeline between the monks and civilization. There’s a trip scheduled for two days’ time, and there should be space for us both since they tow a trailer behind for the supplies. The drive’s about five hours.’
18
Sinai Desert, June 1942
The battered Studebaker kicked up a small dust storm as it entered the Sinai, heading for St Catherine’s, a long and dusty drive. Henri used the time to think through his mission. It would make sense to take Rooky into his confidence. At roughly the half-way stage, the driver stopped in a wadi. Rooky beckoned to Henri, and together they walked a few hundred metres away into the dunes. The desert was totally still, silent. Sitting on boulders, neither said anything for a while, just surveying the expanse of sand and stone which lay before them. Rooky was the first to speak. ‘I always have a respect for the Desert Fathers.’
‘Who on earth are they?’ said Henri.
‘The first monks, you could say. They inhabited the Egyptian desert, around here. Remember, Alexandria was a centre of the early Christian Church. The Desert Fathers go back almost to the beginning, the second century. Probably came from Alexandria. Some lived in small groups, others were hermits out on their own. There’s no precise history of them, just fragments of their sayings.’
‘I vaguely remember you talking at school about the contemplative communities.’
‘Yes. Their practices and traditions are reflected in the Rule of St Benedict. They practised contemplation, set an example for us Benedictines.’ Rooky paused, thinking. ‘You remember that discussion in my study on your last evening at school, with Leo Beckendorf and Bill Lomberg. We talked about disregard of the moral law in wartime.’
‘Yes, I do remember,’ said Henri. ‘You were concerned about how the Vatican would perform in that regard.’
‘I know. I’m still worried. The Nazis are going to lose this war, but not until they’ve wiped out the Jews. People will ask what the Church did about it.’ Rooky shifted his position on the rock he was perched on. Somehow, he knew there was something else on his ex-pupil’s mind.
Then Henri spoke. ‘You know, Father, I still alternate between fear and anger. I’m a bundle of nerves half the time. Many of my fellow officers seem, outwardly anyway, to get tougher as the fighting goes on. I continue to be afraid. It still takes all I’ve got to overcome fear, to show the example expected of me.’
Rooky smiled encouragingly at him. ‘You shouldn’t be ashamed of that, Henri. Courage is a gift of the Holy Spirit. You may not be born with it, but by praying, you’ll be granted it. Contemplation helps you do that, and to return God’s love. But contemplation demands space and silence and you must look for that, like the first Desert Fathers did here. Try to be alone and quiet each day for a few minutes, when there isn’t a battle on. Meditate a little, feel the love of God flow into you, use the silence in the desert.’ He smiled, got up and stretched his arms in the air. ‘Better get back to the car.’
‘Hang on one moment, Rooky. I’ve got to tell you something else.’
‘Okay. Go ahead,’ Rooky said, looking at him curiously.
Henri told the padre how he’d become involved with British counterespionage in Cairo, that there was more to his interest in St Catherine’s than just the monastery.
‘Now you do surprise me,’ said Rooky. ‘You’re not just a soldier, but a spook also. Sounds gripping. I’ll help if I can. Incidentally, what firepower have we got?’
‘I brought a Thompson and some grenades, apart from my service revolver. Don’t tell the driver. How about you?’
‘Lieutenant, padres don’t handle weapons. Of course, I have a Luger in the bottom of my case. Been there since Ypres in 1917.’
They laughed together, as they set off for the car.
Henri saw it suddenly as they rounded a ridge of high rock. The edifice was there before them. The driver pointed excitedly, describing the monastery buildings, and then Mount Sinai as referred to in the Book of Exodus. Stopping at the massive outer walls, he took in the monastery buildings and bell tower rising within them.
The driver rapped hard on the heavy double doors. A smiling Orthodox monk, wearing the black cylindrical kalimavkion on his head, revealed himself as he swung them open. The monk bowed, saying that they were expected, and took them straight to their adjoining rooms for a wash. A few minutes later, he was there waiting in the passage outside. ‘Father Abbot suggested you might like a tour of the monastery to start with. He’d then like to welcome you personally. We have wireless connection with Cairo, and heard you were coming. Few visitors venture here now that the war’s on our doorstep.’
Rooky murmured in Henri’s ear, ‘Even down here, they know that Rommel is about to pounce on Cairo.’
But Henri was focusing on the words ‘wireless connection.’
Turning to the monk, Rooky said, ‘It’s good of you to go to all this trouble.’
The monk started off down the corridor, explaining the story of St Catherine’s as he went.
‘The monastery and its Church of the Transfiguration were originally built by order of the Roman Emperor Justinian, about five hundred years after Christ. The community has always been Eastern Orthodox. As we enter the church, you’ll see in the apse the Byzantine mosaic dating back to 540 AD.’
The short tour didn’t last long. The monk then turned to Rooky.
‘As I mentioned, Father Abbot has asked to see you. May I take you to his cell?’
‘Why, of course. Could we both come please since the Lieutenant here’s an old friend of mine, educated by the Benedictines where I’m from in England.’
The monk smiled and nodded, and they followed him down a passage which led to the monks’ private quarters. He knocked on the door of a cell, and took them into a small room containing bed, desk and some chairs. The Abbot got up from the chair behind his desk, an old thin but still powerful-looking man, bearded and with an expansive smile. He held out his hand towards Rooky, who kissed his ring. ‘It’s wonderful to have a Benedictine army chaplain here. Of course, our Order is Greek Orthodox, but as you know we’re both able to celebrate Mass in one another’s churches.’ Then, turning towards Henri, he said ‘I hope you have enjoyed your tour.’
‘Most certainly we have,’ responded Henri. ‘It’s remarkable. I never saw anything like it.’
The Abbot continued. ‘Our sect of Christianity may have stood still during the thousand years since we split from Rome, while your church has developed over time, but we still share the same essential beliefs. When we consecrate the Eucharist, it’s the Real Presence we celebrate. There’s been no fundamental change between what you and we believe in, no Reformation, no destruction of the essence of the Sacrament such as brought about by Martin Luther.’ He sat down heavily, lifting his habit as he did so, and clasping his hands tightly before him. He smiled at them. ‘But I mustn’t preach to the converted.’
‘Your monastery’s famous,’ said Rooky. ‘We’re honoured to be here.’
‘Strangely, there’s a Foundation of St Katharine in the East End of London which is linked to us,’ said the Abbot. ‘You see, the St Catherine we’re named after wasn’t Catherine of Sienna. Rather, she was the Catherine who was tied to a wheel and set on fire. Your famous firework, the Catherine wheel, is named after her.’
Henri looked at Rooky in surprise, then back to the Abbot. ‘I understand you have wireless connection with Cairo, Father Abbot.’
The Abbot hesitated, just for a second. ‘Yes, we do. It’s an unusual story, and we were very fortunate. I’ll explain later.’ He got up, and showed them out into the corridor. ‘Now I’m going to tell you something and make a very unusual request. Come with me to the monastery library, please.’ With that, he strode out of the cell and set off in the lead, down a series of corridors and galleries. At a large door, he grasped the handle and led them into a vaulted room where the walls were made up of bookshelves and ladders. At one end, there were three monks working on illuminated manuscripts in what was obviously the scriptorium. He asked them to leave. Father Abbot then turned to Rooky.
‘I’m sure your monastery has a library and that in there are treasures, perhaps very old treasures. Well, here “old” is relative. What I mean is that this monastery has stood on the same site for one thousand five hundred years, and some of its books date back to Rome and to the first millennium after Christ. There are some of the oldest manuscripts in the world here. This is where the “Codex Sinaiticus”, written in Greek and one of the four most ancient Christian bibles, was kept until the late nineteenth century. Thereafter, a large part of the Codex resided in St Petersburg, until 1933 when Bolshevik Russia sold it to the British Museum. Stalin wanted dollars to buy arms.’
‘Yes,’ said Rooky. ‘I learnt a little of that history in my studies for the priesthood.’
‘However, remarked the Abbot, ‘there are still some folios of that Codex remaining here, and we’re concerned as to what might happen to them if British forces have to withdraw behind the Suez Canal and across Sinai. Most of the remainder of the Codex is in Germany, and their troops may well be instructed to take what we have back to Germany. Our community regards the British as the more appropriate custodian.’
