Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (17 page)

The city of Selestat, which owned the Château, offered it to the German monarchy and so it was that the impressive reconstruction of the present Château was started at the turn of the century at the behest of the Kaiser Wilhelm II. That was probably one reason why the French nation did not take it to their hearts so readily, and which national reticence made it an ideal secret location for ‘Biarritz’?

Their hosts had provided a veritable mountain of American “Chesterfield”, “Camel” and “Lucky Strike” cigarettes, as well as ‘Gauloise’ and ‘Gitanes’, which were seized upon by everyone. A nice touch was the quality Colibri lighters, each man’s name perfectly engraved in the solid silver cartouche. A splendid evening meal of venison and light conversation followed by an early night was about all they could manage.

Fig#3 - Château first floor plan

Comfortable and content with his small medieval style bedroom, complete with four-poster bed and embroidered wall hangings, it took little time for Knocke to undress, clean his uniform and swiftly descend into his dreams. Woken gently from the best sleep he had experienced for months, if not years, Ernst-August washed and shaved at an old wooden wash stand that looked like it might have accompanied one of the previous occupants on the early crusades. Then, as the new French orderly had requested, he made his way to the dining room for breakfast.

Immediately losing his bearings he took a wrong turn from his bedroom, the former Empress’s Chamber, and found himself descending the spiral stairs before being rescued by a passing orderly, who directed him along the first level walkway to climb a different spiral staircase to the dining room. On arrival at the top of the stairs he greeted two of his comrades warmly, immediately noticing that their uniforms had been replaced by civilian suits of a superior cut in a fetching dark grey and pinstripe, which if not a perfect fit, were close enough. Yet again, he had been left with his uniform. Both men lacked enough meat on their bones to make the suits sit perfectly, but if the standard of hospitality continued then that would soon be remedied.

Fig#4 - Château second floor plan

0857 hrs, Saturday, 7th July 1945, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.

And so it was that the group came together on the morning of 7th
 
July, refreshed and more than ready to enquire as to the purpose of that which they had committed to. Unlike the previous evening, when the galleried dining room belonged solely to them, the flags and orderlies, they were now joined by a stranger in an impressively cut lounge suit. Seated at the head of the long wooden table was an imposingly large Frenchman. He was deep in discussion with Wolfgang Schmidt, Knocke’s former Chief of Staff, until recently an Obersturmbannfuhrer in 2nd SS Panzer Division. Another comrade from Das Reich walked in from the stairs, distanced respectfully behind Ernst, a position Dr Jurgen Von Arnesen had occupied on many occasions when he served as a Sturmbannfuhrer of Panzer-Grenadiere's in Rolf’s division.

The Frenchman, solidly built and looking about forty-five, rose and bore down upon Knocke, extending his hand and speaking in accented German.

“Herr Knocke, welcome. Georges De Walle at your service. I trust you slept well?”

“I slept very well thank you Monsieur De Walle”.

The hands shaken, certainly warmly for the Frenchman’s part at least, the ballet of first introductions took place.

“This is Von Arnesen, and this is Rettlinger,” Knocke first motioned to his right and then indicated the second officer who he had met at the top of the stairs. “I have little doubt you know that anyway, and are intimate with every personal detail of this assembly”.

More handshakes.

“Gentlemen, welcome. Forgive me Herr Knocke but you are, of course, quite right. No introductions are necessary, save my own and I will do so properly after we have eaten.”

“Please sit and enjoy breakfast” and Knocke was ushered to sit opposite Schmidt at De Walle’s left-hand.

On his way to the seat, Knocke acknowledged every member of the group.

An orderly appeared by Knocke’s right hand waiting for some indication of his requirements. “I can recommend the cooked breakfast here. The English may be awful at most things culinary but they do have the right idea when it comes to mornings, not that most of my countrymen would agree.”

A modest ripple spread through the ensemble, indicating that everyone was, if not totally at ease, sufficiently relaxed to recognise a weak attempt at humour.

A simple nod to the orderly and the preference was relayed to the cooks ensconced in the newly created facility crammed into the Spartan lower kitchens.

“My apologies Herr Knocke but for some reason your orderly could not bring himself to remove your uniform last night. He has been replaced and a comfortable suit is waiting in your bedroom at this moment.”

Knocke looked up at the Frenchman and considered his response.

“I would wish to retain my uniform for appropriate occasions obviously but am happy to wear a suit if we must all do so.”

“I did not mean to remove your uniform and not return it. I meant for its cleaning Herr Knocke. All uniforms will be returned to you, as I have no instructions to the contrary. Here there is no dress code of uniform or non-uniform,” and with a chuckle, “Although it intrigues me what would happen if the intended meetings of this symposium go ahead as planned and convene with all of you wearing the uniforms of our former enemy. I can see that adding a certain edge to proceedings. I will think on that some more”.

“In that you have most of us at a disadvantage… Monsieur?” The word hung there, like the enquiry it was.

“In good time Herr Knocke, all in good time. Please enjoy your food.”

As if by magic plates appeared before the ensemble containing everything they had ever heard fitted into an English breakfast, except four times as much. Clearly, this Château was not affected by rationing. Coiled sausage with the girth of a bazooka, sliced bacon just the right side of crispy stacked high and covered with two huge fried eggs,  grilled tomato, deep fried baguette and huge mushrooms, cooked whole and laid on the plate with their caps upwards and filled with sliced fried potatoes. The smell was incredible and De Walle consumed his avidly, as did every officer at the table, with scarcely anything spoken apart from a word of pleasure here, a word of agreement there.

The plate clean save for a smear of grease and yolk, Knocke leant back and dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin, stifled a belch, a feat similarly attempted but abjectly failed by Amon Treschow immediately to his left. The loud bass note penetrated every recess of the grand Kaiser’s Hall.

“Typical Luftwaffe,” ventured Knocke with a grin, flipping his lighter and drawing heavily on a camel, which was followed by less delicate ribbing from the rest of the group. Treschow, ex-Hauptmann, was a popular man amongst his peers, mainly because he was slightly mad, or at least that was the considered opinion of his friends and the Luftwaffe doctors who had tried to ground him since early 1943. More accurately, the doctors had considered him totally mad! He somehow managed to dodge them and continued to fly combat missions in a ground-attack role specialty that claimed every other pilot in his squadron and all their replacements. What Treschow didn’t know about that witches art was not worth knowing, which was why Knocke had asked for him.

Next to him was Jakob Matthaus, the quiet anti-tank gunner. The former Major had huge experience against Soviet rolling tank assaults during his service in the German Army’s premiere division “Gro²deutschland”.

Seated opposite him was Bruno Rettlinger, former Sturmbannfuhrer of the 6th SS Gebirgsjager, who had intimate knowledge of cold weather combat, and in particular dealing with Soviet ski troops in harsh arctic conditions. He was the biggest character in the group and “DerBo” as he was universally known gave Treschow most ribbing for his “pig-like manners”. However, the deadpan delivery and precise timing of Matthaus’s line “maybe pigs can fly after all” hit the right note with everyone, especially DerBo.

To Rettlinger’s right was the youngest of the group, Walter Olbricht, a skilled army Hauptmann of engineers. An officer whose pre-war talents extended to the design and construction of public works and whose operational war experience covered the total destruction of public works and anything else he put his mind to. Alas, this included his left arm, lost in a premature explosion caused by sub-standard explosive in his failed attempt to destroy a bridge over the Gniloy Tikich River during the Tscherkassy pocket escape.

He was also Treschow’s deliverer from Rettlinger’s wit when he drew attention to the fact that DerBo’s moustache contained enough breakfast for a mid-morning snack. It didn’t but no one cared.

Von Arnesen, ex- SS-Sturmbannfuhrer of Das Reich Panzer-Grenadiere's and Doctor of History completed the group, the sole non-smoker, although he had, of course, grabbed his share of cigarettes through habit.