Flight of Eagles, page 19
At Fermanville, air traffic control picked them up at the greater height and the controller scrambled the night patrol. Max, not on duty that night, was enjoying a three-day leave in St Malo when the three ME 109s rose into the night sky in search of his brother.
The dropping zone at Morlaix was clearly marked on the heath and Harry made a perfect landing, taxied to the far end and turned into the wind. Jacaud patted him on the shoulder, scrambled out to meet the people running towards him and slammed the door behind him. Harry gunned the engine, roared down the heath and started to rise and at 800 feet, disaster struck.
Two MEs, one after the other, came in low and shot up the heath where the landing lights were still visible, the sound of it filling the night and, as Harry lifted, a third ME chased him, cannon fire tearing his wings apart. His nose dipped and he went down. At the far end of the heath were trees and he pulled back on the column in an effort to rise, but his wheels clipped the top branches and he disappeared on the other side. A moment later, flames erupted into the night.
Jacaud, five of his men grouped around him, said, ‘God in heaven, come on,’ and started to run towards the fire.
They came to the wood and started through and then, outlined against the flames, they saw two armoured personnel carriers. One of the men, a local farmer named Jules, grabbed Jacaud’s arm.
‘SS. We had a Panzer unit move in only yesterday. They were supposed to be resting. Nothing we can do. They may be bastards, but they know what they’re doing.’
‘All right,’ Jacaud said. ‘But let’s see what happens.’
He crawled to the edge of the wood with the others and watched.
Harry had managed to get the door open, reached for Tarquin in the jump bag and scrambled to the ground, his flying jacket on fire. When he tried to stand, though, he fell down again, his left ankle refusing to support the weight. He started crawling, dragging the jump bag with him, but the pain in his ankle was so intense that he released his grip. And then one of the personnel carriers was beside him and several soldiers jumped out and tore the burning flying jacket off him.
All this Jacaud saw from the wood. The SS carried Harry to the personnel carrier, put him inside and a moment later they drove away. There was little of the Lysander left now, as it burned fiercely, then the flames subsided. The men in Jacaud’s group got up and moved close, examining the area.
Jacaud lit a cigarette and said to Jules, ‘What a bastard. He was a really top man, Legion of Honour, everything.’
One of the men came back with the jump bag. ‘I found this near the plane.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, that’s the crazy thing. It’s a bear in flying clothes.’
‘Really?’ Jacaud said. ‘Well, that’s okay, because after tonight I’ll believe anything. Bring it with you and let’s get to the mill. I need to radio my people in Cornwall.’
The loft in the old mill was comfortable enough, sacks of grain stacked everywhere, but a secret door in the wooden wall opened into a back room, the control centre for the Resistance in the Morlaix area for two years now. A young woman stirred coffee over a stove.
Jacaud said, ‘It’s Cold Harbour I need, Marie, you can leave that.’
‘I can’t contact them for another thirty minutes,’ she said. ‘We’re on a fixed time schedule. In the meantime, coffee and maybe a cognac will do you good.’
‘Right, as usual.’ He took the mug she handed him. ‘Where would they take Colonel Kelso?’
‘Château Morlaix, just outside the village. The count and his family fled to Britain and left a caretaker in charge. The SS have appropriated it as their headquarters.’
‘No way of getting to him?’
‘Only if you’re intent on committing suicide.’
He nodded, sat back and Jules came in, put the jump bag on the table, opened it and sat Tarquin on the table. ‘There’s a label inside. It says: Tarquin’s bag.’
Jacaud said, ‘It must have been some kind of mascot.’
‘Daft I call it,’ Jules said. ‘A bear with wings.’
‘Oh, no.’ Marie picked Tarquin up. ‘He’s special, you can tell.’ She turned to Jacaud. ‘Can I have him? My five-year-old daughter would fall instantly in love.’
‘Why not?’ Jacaud looked at his watch. ‘But get me Cold Harbour now.’
Munro left the radio room, went downstairs, got into a Jeep and drove himself down to the Hanged Man. When he went in, all the lifeboat crew were there, Jack having a beer with Zec Acland by the fire, Julie behind the bar.
Munro stood just inside the bar, his face saying it all. As people glanced at him, they stopped talking one by one. It was Julie who said, ‘What is it, Brigadier?’
Later, sitting by the fire with Jack and Zec, he said, ‘At least Jacaud made it safely. Yes, I know that sounds callous, but it’s the name of the game. Jacaud is of primary importance. You agree, Jack?’
‘I suppose so, Brigadier, but to be frank, what seems of primary importance to me is who’s going to break this to Molly?’
Munro took a deep breath. ‘Well, Jack, you are very close to her …’
‘And you, Brigadier, are her uncle.’
‘All right, point taken. Leave it with me,’ and Munro got up, went out and left them.
In the doctors’ rest room at Guy’s Hospital, Molly was snatching a coffee and sandwich. A young surgeon captain named Holly who worked with Army patients sat in the corner reading a newspaper. There was a knock at the door. He got up and opened it to find Major General Tom Sobel standing there.
‘Would my daughter be here?’
Holly, who had met him once before, was suddenly all military. ‘Yes, here she is, General.’
Molly turned, smiling. ‘Why Dad, what brings you here?’ and then her smile disappeared totally.
‘I wonder if you’d give us a few minutes, Captain?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Holly went out. As the door closed Molly said, ‘Just tell me the worst, don’t dress it up.’
Sitting there minutes later, smoking a cigarette, her face haggard, she said, ‘So he could still be alive?’
‘From what this Resistance leader Jacaud says, yes. His flying jacket was on fire when the SS got to him, then they bundled him into a personnel carrier and took him away, but from all accounts it was a very bad crash.’
‘But he survived.’ She nodded and stubbed out her cigarette.
‘Molly, he must have sustained heavy injuries at least.’
‘Perhaps, but he’s alive.’
‘How on earth can you be certain?’
‘Because I’d know, Dad.’ She smiled a strange, cold smile. ‘If Harry Kelso was dead I’d know it, it’s as simple as that.’
The door opened and Holly looked in. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but that leg amputation you did on that young mine disposal chap? He’s had a relapse.’
‘I’ll come at once.’ She stood and kissed her father on the cheek. ‘Work to do, Dad, and thank God for it. Uncle Dougal knows where I am. He’ll keep me posted. I must go.’
Tom Sobel stood there for a moment then followed her with a heavy heart.
At Châteaux Morlaix Kelso was very much alive as he lay on a single bed in a room on the ground floor which the SS Panzer unit now occupying the château had turned into a surgery. He lay propped up against pillows smoking a cigarette. No burns, that was the incredible thing, though he had been knocked about a bit, his face bruised and the left ankle hurt like hell. The SS guard on the door wore a black Panzer uniform and carried a Schmeisser. He showed no emotion at all, didn’t even look at Harry, but stared in front of him.
The door opened and the young SS Hauptsturmführer called Schroeder who’d introduced himself as the unit doctor came in, holding an X-ray.
‘As I feared, Colonel, the ankle is badly broken, but the break is clean. I’ve spoken to my commanding officer, Major Müller. He was in Dinard for the evening. He’s on his way.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Harry said. ‘Very efficient of you.’
‘We pride ourselves on our medical facility, Colonel. A portable X-ray machine, operating facilities. Our men expect the best. We are, after all, SS.’
‘Your English is excellent.’
‘I spent a year at Southampton General Hospital just before the war.’
At that moment, the door opened and a Sturmbannführer in black uniform festooned with awards entered. Schroeder got his heels together.
‘Major Müller.’
‘What’s the story here?’ Müller asked in German.
‘This officer is a lieutenant-colonel of the US Air Force, a Colonel Kelso. He gave me his name, rank and number. His ankle is broken.’
‘Yes, but what was he up to?’
‘Flying one of those Lysander planes the English use to bring secret agents in. ME 109s from Fermanville shot him down.’
‘Landing or taking off?’
‘Our patrols saw him land. The MEs got him when he took off again.’
‘Which means he dropped somebody off. Didn’t they do anything about it?’
‘I suppose they concentrated on the crash, Major.’
‘You suppose?’ Müller shook his head. ‘God help me. Anyway, you’ll have to translate for me.’
It might have been the clever thing to stay quiet, but Harry’s ankle was hurting like hell now so he said in German, ‘That’s not necessary, Major, but what is necessary is that I get a shot of morphine right now and something done about this ankle.’
Both of the SS officers were astonished. Müller said, ‘I congratulate you on the excellence of your grasp of our language, Colonel.’
‘Thank you, but what about the ankle? I’ve complied with the Geneva Convention. Name, rank and serial number.’
Müller frowned, then walked across the room to where Harry’s tunic had been hung on a chair. He noted the medals, the RAF wings.
‘Good God, Colonel, you have had an interesting war.’ He took out a silver cigarette case, offered Harry one and gave him a light. ‘Captain Schroeder will see to you at once. We are all soldiers here, after all. I’ll speak with you later.’
He beckoned to Schroeder and went out. Schroeder said, ‘It’s a bad break, but I can fix it. A little minor surgery and then a plaster of Paris cast.’
‘Anything he needs,’ Müller said.
‘One thing, sir,’ Schroeder said. ‘We haven’t informed Luftwaffe headquarters at St Malo or the night fighter base at Fermanville that he survived.’
‘And we won’t,’ Müller was excited. ‘The colonel’s medals are extraordinary, and did you notice the RAF wings on his right breast? That means he was an American volunteer in the RAF before the US entered the war. This man is a big fish, Schroeder, very big.’
‘But Major,’ Schroeder stammered. ‘Regulations stipulate that we inform the Luftwaffe of his presence.’
‘Stuff the Luftwaffe,’ Müller said. ‘I’m sending a signal to SD Headquarters in Berlin right away. I’m going to the top.’ He slapped Schroeder on the back. ‘Your best work, that’s what I expect on this one,’ and he hurried away.
Like most people these days at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, Bubi Hartmann didn’t bother going home because of the regularity of RAF Lancaster raids. He had a cot made up in the corner of the office. He’d slept well until three in the morning, when the RAF had struck. Half an hour of hell and then they were gone. He got up, went to the toilet, splashed cold water on his face, then went to his desk, found the brandy and poured one. He started to go through some papers and a moment later, the door opened and Trudi came in. Like Bubi, she’d had a cot installed in the outer office. She was holding a signal flimsy in one hand.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this. It’s a report from a major commanding a Panzer unit at a place called Morlaix in Brittany. The signals unit received it twenty minutes ago.’
‘What’s so special about it?’
‘You put a red flag out on anything to do with Lieutenant-Colonel Harry Kelso the other week.’ She held out the flimsy. ‘Read it.’
Afterwards, as he sat there smoking a cigarette and thinking about it, she said, ‘Are you going to notify the Baron?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to, Trudi. This goes to the Reichsführer. Is he overnighting?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
He reached for a sheet of paper and a pen. ‘Get me an orderly.’
She turned at the door. ‘Kelso is a prisoner of war, isn’t he? I mean, that’s a fact.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Trudi, he’s no ordinary prisoner of war and you know it. Now fetch the orderly.’
She went out, he wrote a brief note to Himmler, put it in an envelope with the signal flimsy and sealed it.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when the Reichsführer summoned him. Himmler was in uniform, standing at the window looking out. He spoke without turning round.
‘Another night of terror bombing, Colonel, and that fat fool, Goering, swore that if a single bomb fell on Berlin you could call him Meyer.’
‘I believe so, Reichsführer.’
‘So much for the Luftwaffe helping us win the war. They can’t even protect Berlin.’ He turned. ‘So, it is left to the rest of us to help the Führer fulfil his glorious mission.’ He walked to the desk and picked up the signal flimsy. ‘And this, Colonel, presents us with our opportunity.’
Bubi was totally mystified. ‘Reichsführer?’
Himmler sat. ‘God sometimes looks down through the clouds, Colonel, and he has this morning. I’ve found your assassin for you.’
Bubi was bewildered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Reichsführer.’
‘It’s simple enough. We have in our hands one rather damaged Lieutenant-Colonel Kelso of the US Air Force. According to your reports, he does special operations flights and frequently flies Eisenhower.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So we allow him to escape and fly back to England, where, at the first opportunity, he disposes of Eisenhower.’
For a moment, Bubi was convinced that he was going mad. ‘But, Reichsführer, why should he? And in any case, he has a broken ankle.’
‘But his brother doesn’t.’ Himmler smiled at Bubi’s astonished expression. ‘They can’t be told apart, or so I’m informed. A simple change of uniform is all that’s needed. We arrange for him to conveniently escape from Château Morlaix, then steal a Storch or some such plane from the feeder station outside the town. There is one, I’ve checked. Anyway, he flies back to Cold Harbour and Brigadier Munro. Even if he doesn’t get to fly Eisenhower, the good general is certain to want to see him.’
Bubi Hartmann struggled to come to terms with all this. ‘But, Reichsführer, for Baron von Halder to impersonate his brother, he would need to know everything about him, which presupposes that Colonel Kelso would be willing to go along with the plan. It also presupposes that the Baron would also agree.’
‘Oh, but he will, they both will, especially after you’ve arrested their mother, which you will this morning. Very discreetly, of course. I’ve already spoken personally to Major Müller at Château Morlaix, informing him that he is now under my direct command. The Château will be sealed up tight and perfect for our purposes.’
‘But Reichsführer, how will this persuade the Baron and his brother to co-operate?’
Himmler told him in graphic detail. When he was finished, Bubi felt sick.
‘You seem upset,’ Himmler said. ‘I would have thought you would have welcomed this chance to serve the Reich, Colonel, for it has served you well, in fact given you unequal opportunities for one with Jewish antecedents.’ Bubi was numb with horror and Himmler smiled gently. ‘How could you imagine that I wouldn’t know? And the taint affects your whole family. Your father is still alive, I believe, and his sister? Your wife, as I recall, was killed in a car crash at twenty-two, so there’s no children, but there is, of course, the question of your secretary. Frau Braun, an intimate relationship.’
Bubi took a deep breath. ‘What does the Reichsführer require of me?’
‘Good. I’ve always admired your pragmatism. I’ve been on the telephone to Nunes da Silva, the minister I told you about in the Portuguese Foreign Office. This man at their embassy here, Joel Rodrigues, will be transferred to Lisbon today. You will see him this morning, write a report for his brother and the Dixon woman in London outlining the operation and telling them to expect the Baron in a matter of days.’
‘But Joel Rodrigues in London, Reichsführer? I don’t understand?’
‘It’s simple. Nunes da Silva will transfer Joel Rodrigues to courier duties. You will have him flown to Lisbon today. Tomorrow, he’ll fly to London with the usual embassy bag. That’s what couriers do, Colonel. So, we have the Baron in London, the back-up of the Dixon woman and the Rodrigues brothers. I don’t see how we can fail, do you?’
Bubi’s mouth was so dry that he couldn’t swallow. He coughed. ‘I agree, Reichsführer.’
‘Excellent, Colonel. Now that I would appear to have done all your work for you, please oblige me by getting on with it.’
The first thing Hartmann did was to tell Trudi to get hold of Joel Rodrigues and order him to report at once. Then he told her to come with her shorthand book. He poured brandy again.
‘Should you be doing that?’ she asked.
‘It’s all that’s holding me together. You’ll understand when I’ve finished dictating.’
What he gave her was a letter of instruction for Fernando Rodrigues and Sarah Dixon, the project in complete detail as Himmler had outlined it.
When he finished, Trudi said, ‘He’s crazy. He must be. Why would Kelso and the Baron agree to this thing?’
Bubi told her. She sat there, her face white, then ran into his washroom. He heard her vomiting in the basin, then the water running. After a while, she returned, her face still pale.
‘What a swine. And you’ll go through with it?’
‘I have no choice. There’s Jewish blood in my family, Trudi. I didn’t think anyone knew, but he did. My father’s under threat, my old aunt. Even you as my secretary.’
