Bittrich, returned to something approaching rude health, had been spared, but every other man from the score or so members of Group Normandie’s headquarters were either dead or wounded.
Lavalle was not badly hurt, but the blood loss from numerous minor shrapnel wounds was a problem that required attention, so he was loaded on to an ambulance, together with five other casualties, one of whom expired as his litter was slid into place.
The French officer had come to visit the headquarters of Camerone, in order to assess for himself the disaster that had befallen the best unit in his command.
As the ambulance sped away, the phone rang shrilly.
The duty officer answered and recoiled at the harsh voice that assaulted his ears.
“Mon Général… Général Molyneux for Général Lavalle.”
The telephone changed hands and Knocke spoke calmly and clearly.
“General Molyneux. Knocke here. I’m afraid that General Lavalle has been wounded and is on his way to hospital.”
‘Which makes you in command, or is it that idiot Bittrich. I will send a decent replacement officer as soon as possible. Meanwhile, you will renew the attack at once. Follow the plan and attack again. I want Normandie over the Fulda and defending the crossing point at Hann Münden immediately. You’re already behind schedule!’
“I regret that’s not possible, General Molyneux. It will take some time to get Alma online, and Camerone has just taken a bad beating because of those damn mortars and anti-tank guns.”
‘You have mortars! You have guns! Use them, Général Knocke, or I’ll find someone who will. Now, get your troops moving and get me my bridgehead. The eyes of the world are upon us, man!’
Knocke surveyed the men around him, who had heard the ranting voice on the phone, and who all listened in disbelief.
“Herr General, Camerone has just taking a beating. The division’s lead elements sustained over thirty percent casualties in less time than we’ve been on the telephone. We walked into intense minefields we didn’t know about, were shot at by anti-tank guns that apparently don’t exist, and were cut down by shells from mortars the enemy supposedly don’t have any ammunition for.”
‘So, a handful of casualties turns you into a frightened sheep. Develop a fucking spine, man! Whoever gave you a French uniform needs their fucking head examined!’
“I think you need to calm yourself, General. There’s no need to panic. We will cross the Fulda, but it will require more planning and more time.”
‘Shut your mouth, Knocke… just shut your useless German mouth and listen to me.’
The officers of Normandie saw a change in the facial expression of their most illustrious officer, one that they had never seen before, and one that made them see Knocke in a new light.
“I… am… listening… Herr… General.”
The controlled fury did not transfer itself into the ears of the Frenchman so intent on carving his own mark on the proceedings.
‘I am ordering Group Normandie to renew the attack immediately. Brush aside this resistance and take the river bridge at Wilhelmshausen. Discharge these orders or face courts-martial, Général.’
The silence seemed to last for a thousand years.
“No.”
‘Repeat that?’
“I said no.”
The silence was marked by a buzzing in the Legion officer’s ear.
‘Say that again and I’ll have you arrested and shot. Now, repeat your orders immediately.’
“General Molyneux… I refuse your idiotic order. I will not attack again. It’s suicidal and the order of a man out of touch with the realities of the moment. We’re neither prepared nor organised for such an attack. Come here yourself, if you wish… but I’ll not lose another man to your madness.”
Molyneux turned white with fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the receiver tight.
He shouted so loud that every man in the tent could hear his vitriolic outburst quite clearly.
‘Merde! Who else is there to receive my orders? Who is there that can fucking soldier and act like an officer in the French Army! Lavalle, give me Lavalle! Give me a French officer immediately!’
The phone in the Legion headquarters changed hands, Molyneux’s voice carrying loud and clear to the handful of men assembled in the command centre.
“Mon Général, St. Clair here. Général Lavalle has been wounded and is not on the field. Général Bittri…”
‘I don’t want that useless German bastard either. Who is the highest ranking French officer there… right now?’
He had been going to say that Bittrich had disappeared and could not be located,
St. Clair looked around him and found he didn’t like the situation he found himself in.
“I am, mon Général.”
‘Right, St. Clair. You will take immediate control of Normandie, and have that SS imbecile Knocke arrested. I want the attack renewed immediately. The plan is sound… follow it to the letter! You will take and you will hold the bridge at Hann Münden, so that the rest of the Corps can move forward. Do you understand your orders, St. Clair?’
“I understand your orders, mon Général. I regret, but I’m unable to carry them out.”
Molyneux nearly passed out with rage, his brain so assailed with the thoughts of such incompetence and clear mutiny on the part of his officers that his reason, what little of it he had been able to call on, left completely.
‘Cochon putain! Arrest yourself! Arrest everyone! I’m coming immediately! I’ll have you all shot! Merde! Shot I say!’
The phone went dead.
At Corps headquarters, Molyneux raged at anyone and everyone, all efforts to calm him down failing badly.
Assembling a platoon of military policemen, Molyneux delivered a pep talk, emphasising the treachery of the ex-SS officers who they were about to arrest and shoot.
He climbed aboard his vehicle and the entourage swept out of the Legion Corps headquarters in the cloister of St-Maria-Himmelfahrt, Warburg, speeding up rapidly, intent on consuming the twenty-five kilometres to the frontline as quickly as possible.
In the Citroen staff car, Molyneux continued to work himself into a frenzy.
St. Clair handed the receiver back to the duty officer.
In a tent full of silent and incredulous men, there was a feeling of total shock… almost despair.
“We are to arrest ourselves. He’s coming forward to take personal command. He’s gone fucking crazy!”
No one who had heard anything of the heated exchange could argue against St. Clair’s view.
Knocke, with a face like thunder, moaned as the medical orderly continued to tease at the piece of shrapnel in his forearm.
“Then we must act immediately.”
He held out his hand imperiously for the telephone handset.
“Get me General De Lattre immediately.”
As Knocke waited for the call to be put through, a damaged Aardvark was towed past the tent, its mesh screening mangled and blackened.
Knocke doubted that the crew had come away unscathed.
Close behind the towing vehicle came a battered Wolf, which slithered to a halt and permitted a smoke-blackened figure to dismount.
The new arrival threw up a casual salute to his commander and made his report.
“Brigadefuhrer,” Uhlmann had not yet bothered to master the French ranks, “I’ll need two hours to sort my regiment out… ammunition and fuel… spare crews… we took a heavy hit. Here’s my initial report.”