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.
De Walle slowly stubbed out his own Gitanes Mais, stretched and focussed on the next part of the day.
“Gentlemen,” sitting stiffly upright, and with a pause to permit the humour to fall away, “To business”.
“My name is Georges De Walle and you might by now have guessed that I am from Alsace. My rank is given as Colonel in the Army of France but you will all understand in a short time that I have not been on a battlefield as you know it for many a year and that my field of expertise resides in other, darker places.” As befitted his present calling, the lies slipped easily from his mouth.
“The name of my organisation is very complicated to remember, so most of us still think of ourselves as Deux’s. That is to say, the former Deuxieme Bureau.” He left that titbit to hang in the air for a while and it was Rettlinger, still wiping his moustache with his napkin, who took up the unspoken thoughts of those present.
“Military Intelligence?”
“Just so mein Herr.”
De Walle stood and moved to one of the huge square stone columns that lined the dining room, and paused, which silence was punctuated by a sudden soft straining sound from one of the huge chandeliers hanging in the vaulted ceiling.