Bittrich poured another coffee for Normandie’s commander and set it before him.
“We’ve been stabbed in the back.”
Such a comment needed more explanation, and both officers waited for the next line.
“That was Général De Lattre, calling from SHAEF in France.”
That they already knew.
‘Get on with it, Christophe!’
“The German Army has asked that all ex-German Army stocks in France are turned over to them, as a lot of their armour and half-tracks were lost in the Cologne offensive.”
Both Knocke and Bittrich understood the implications of that.
“He thinks that it will be after Christmas before the decision is made.”
Lavalle acknowledged Bittrich’s efforts by raising the cup in salute, before emptying half of the contents in one gulp.
“He suggets that we consider making the most of the interim period to stockpile what we can. Ammunition for our weapons should be fine, but I don’t think we’ll take the chance, eh?”
He got no argument.
“It is the armour, guns, and vehicles, where we’re definitely going to suffer. So we get what we can as quickly as possible.”
A plan was forming in his mind.
“I’ll get onto Sassy and make sure that they know to grab what they can and keep it inside the perimeter. I’ll also speak to Plummer.”
He started writing a list.
“Willi, organize a group to sweep through the area, find the locations of all the dumps and vehicle graveyards. Anything and everything that we might need, they grab it.”
Bittrich understood perfectly.
“Map.”
Lavalle was on a roll, and his clipped tones were not meant to be rude, just indicated that his mind was in gear.
The three moved to the map table, and Lavalle swept it with his eyes, seeking the perfect spot.
“Here!”
His triumphant tone was accompanied by a tap of his finger.
Both German officers leant forward.
“Le Forêt Domaniale. Perfect. oui?”
“Jawohl.”
He made a further note.
“We shall amass our own dump in the woods there, away from prying eyes from all sides. I’ll speak to Beveren, and see if he can provide the security for it.”
Knocke and Bittrich couldn’t get another word in, so fired up was Lavalle.
“Ernst, I need you to go through the runners and wrecks in our positions; German, French, Russian, I don’t care, just get your workshops units to recover them and make something of them.”
More furious scribbling.
“De Lattre wants me to inform the other group commanders. He said he will inform Molyneux when he rings him Christmas day, which gives us two days grace.”
Despite his improved performance, Molyneux was still deeply mistrusted throughout the Legion Corps D’Assault.
“Oh, Ernst, have a chat with Montgomerie, see what Deux can offer by way of assistance.”
Lavalle suddenly became aware of the two grinning faces opposite him and he immediately understood their mirth.
“Shut up you swine! I’m getting old, and if I don’t spit it all out, I’ll forget!”
The grins remained, as both Germans were at least a dozen years his senior.
“Alright, alright, so I got excited,” his face went serious for the moment, “But the decision, when it comes, will leave us without the tools to fight, and that is to be avoided.”
Both Knocke and Lavalle held their breath as Bittrich froze, his face screwed up prior to a monumental sneeze.
“Make sure you stay wrapped up warm, Willi. Now, no time to waste. Let’s make a start.”
Knocke brought them back to the subject they had been discussing before the phone call.
“And Uhlmann?”
Lavalle sighed, but held firm.
“We can do no more than we are doing, Ernst. The enquiry is lodged with the Red Cross. If he’s dead, we’ll do all we can do to get his body back. If he’s a prisoner, then we must hope they don’t realise who he is… and if he’s alive and still out there somewhere… well… he’s escaped from hell once before, hasn’t he?”
As is typical in war, supreme acts of bravery most often go unseen and unrecognised, the gallant man or woman doing what they did without subsequent recognition for their ultimate sacrifice.
Such was the case at Maaldrift.
The young Dutchman had been born to a family of communists. He served his time in the Resistance, killing Nazis, and attacking the infrastructure that maintained the German forces in his country.
His political affiliation had long since been forgotten, at least by those with whom he served, not by him.
When he saw the eleven silver-plate B-29’s being fuelled and bombed up, he knew his moment of destiny had arrived.
These new Allied bombers were special, and he believed that they would only be employed on missions of supreme importance.
His job as interpreter gave him access to the entire base and, so trusted was he, that he was permitted to carry the Sten gun that had been his companion through the years of occupation.
He had thought and thought over the weeks since the huge planes arrived, just how he could do the job of destroying them.
His mind kept coming back to just one way, and so it was that he found himself in the base transport office, taking the spare set of keys for fuel bowser six, the fully loaded spare set aside in case of problems.
Henk Hoosen slipped inside the vehicle and keyed the ignition.
Initially refusing to fire, the engine then burst into life with a sound like an artillery barrage, or at least that was how Hoosen heard it.
He beckoned one of his helpers forward, and the man slipped into the passenger seat.
Dropping into first gear, he eased the truck forward slowly, wishing to avoid inquisitive eyes.
He reasoned that switching the lights on was more likely to avoid such attention than moving blacked out, and the decision seemed to bear fruit as the working men spared him hardly a glance.
He drove out to the field and parked up by the control trailer. One of the ground crew was up on the top, sweeping the snow off the Perspex dome.
The Sten gun chugged three times, the silencer containing most of the sound of the cartridges propelling the projectile. The man fell into a pile of snow by the side of the trailer.
A USAAF officer stuck his head, wondering what the odd sound was. He died still wondering.
The other three airmen in the trailer grabbed for their pistols but, before they could even get their holsters open, Hoosen’s companion had made it to the door and shared his own magazine between them.
He reached inside the door to pick up the object that five men had just been killed for. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed some spare flares, just in case.
Within a minute, the fuel bowser was off on its final journey.
Hoosen stopped the articulated vehicle just short of the dispersal area, where the eleven fuelled and bombed-up aircraft stood ready, ground crews polishing the skin and completing the final preparations for the bomber’s mission.
He opened the fuel discharge valve and ran to the cab.
The vehicle moved off, leaving a stream of aviation spirit in its wake.
“What the fuck is that goddamned idio…”
The heavy vehicle crushed the USAAF officer into the concrete, the flat of his hand no defence against the solid metal.
The bowser swung around the first B-29 and Hoosen slowed deliberately, bashing the cab into the lower propeller blade on the port outer before going hard right and bending the inner engine’s propeller too.
Another airman disappeared under his wheels as he moved on to the next revetment.
Emboldened, Hoosen decided to swipe the nose of the Superfortress, and increased his speed accordingly.