“I thought you were going to Reims to see the girls today?”
She shook her head.
“Last minute change of plan. We go early tomorrow, back on Saturday evening.”
“C’est la Guerre, eh?”
De Walle’s smile faded instantly, as he saw his top female officer was agitated by the matter.
“No, it’s the cursed Legion taking priority as always.”
It was a touchy subject for Anne-Marie, for reasons known only to very, very few people.
“Anyway Mon Général, this message just came in from our British Allies. It’s marked for your attention. It’s been decoded already.”
She passed the sealed message envelope.
De Walle read the contents three times before he passed it to her.
“Read it… aloud if you please, Anne-Marie.”
His hands supported his chin as she recited the simple message.
“Troy has not fallen. Ulysees is dead.”
The silence continued for some time, as both reflected on the now dead Soviet Paratrooper General Makarenko, who had been so incensed at the conduct of his own leadership and the results amongst his precious soldiers, that he had willingly agreed to try and assassinate Stalin.
The unsanctioned plan had been concocted by De Walle, who enlisted the help of British Intelligence.
No one else knew, and now, no-one else would ever know.
“He was a fine man, Mon Général.”
“Indeed he was. Now, Anne-Marie, enjoy your days away, and give both of them a hug from Uncle Georges.”
As De Valois closed the door, the message was already burning in the fireplace, and a line drawn under the whole episode.
Surrendering to the cot bed, sleep came eventually to the Deux officer, an uneasy sleep filled with memories of a brave man and his part in his death.
Since August the previous year, battlefield promotions had become the norm, so that competent NCOs could fill the gaps left by the increasing number of dead and wounded amongst the junior grade officers in the frontline units.
Before winter brought a slowing down in the tempo of combat, life expectancy for a fresh 2nd Lieutenant was, with black humour, measured in cigarette packets. A pack a day was the standard, and the soldiers started to name their young officers ‘five packs’ or similar, according to their expected survivability.
Promoting competent Sergeants brought about a reduction in losses, and the onset of winter gave each unit time to bed in its new soldiers and replacement NCOs.
The last eight months had been particularly hard on the 84th US Infantry Division.
The unit sustained one of the first major losses amongst the US formations, when the 335th RCT, built around the infantry regiment of the same number, succumbed to heavy Soviet attacks around Uelzen. In three days of heavy fighting, the whole RCT was destroyed, leaving the 84th woefully undermanned.
As autumn had turned to winter, the division found respite after being relieved, and used the opportunity to reinforce, taking on new personnel, some released prisoners of war, as well as absorbing remnants from other units since disbanded due to casualties.
Restored to full strength, the 84th found itself back in the line, the most southerly of Simpson’s 9th US Army troops, their right flank anchored at Ascheberg, against the northern flank of the 266th Infanterie Division, one of the newly established units of the German Republic.
Their 3rd Batallion, 899th Grenadiere Regiment neatly butted up to 1st Battalion, 335th US Infantry Regiment, the three hundred metre gap between the forces being heavily mined and under constant surveillance.
Charlie Company, 355th, was preparing a raid on the Soviet positions opposite.
A group of ten men had assembled, faces blackened, camouflaged in white, and kit stripped back to basics and tied down tight.
The Staff Sergeant in charge of the raiding party double-checked each man’s gear personally, pulling at webbing, ensuring no rattles from loose kit.
2nd Lieutenant Hässler took another slug of his coffee, draining the mug. Grabbing the pot, he topped up again and offered a refill to the German officer who had been assigned to his unit as liaison with the 899th.
Oberleutnant Baron Werner Von Scharf-Falkenberg was the stereotypical German officer.
Smart, almost elegant, and precisely two metres tall, his genuine good looks were enhanced, rather than despoiled, by the scarred forehead, courtesy of being caught up in the Battle of Saint-Marcel on 18th June 1944.
The other legacy of that bloody day was less obvious, only manifesting itself slightly when he ran, this left leg now being slightly shorter than his right, courtesy of a shrapnel injury.
Accepting the coffee, he produced his cigarette holder, lit up, and continued his close examination of the raiding party.
“Ready to go, Lootenant.”
Staff Sergeant Rosenberg, his battered face sufficiently recovered to permit him proper speech, grinned at his old running mate.
“OK Rosie. Just get out there, do the job, get back, no dramas.”
“Calm yourself; don’t have a plotz in front of our guest, Lootenant.”
No matter what, the Baron couldn’t get used to these informal exchanges between the two men, what with one being an officer and the other an NCO.
“OK, boys. Stay safe and bring the bacon back home.”
Rosenberg grimaced, as he always did when Hässler played the bacon card.
“Same old shtick, and you used to be such a mentsh too!”
Everyone, save the Baron, shared an easy laugh.
Hässler slapped his old friend on the shoulder and moved to conduct him out of the bunker.
“Oberleutnant Scharf?”
Pausing to flick up his hood, Scharf slipped the MP-40 from his shoulder and followed.
An explosion, not close, broke the silence, and the whispered chatter of the raiding party stopped instantly.
Another explosion followed, then two almost simultaneously, punctuated by a burst of machine gun fire.
Flares rose skywards, their magnesium light revealing nothing in front of the US positions.
“Minefield. With me.”
Hässler led off at the double, following the trench line, occasionally having to avoid a sleepy soldier moving to his duty station.
A firefight was developing at the southernmost point of his position. A quick look allowed him to immediately understand what was happening.
The Red Army had had a similar idea, and their own raiding party had entered the minefield, with a view to circumventing the defence and coming up behind Hässler’s position.
Until one of their lead men stepped on a mine and sent himself into the afterlife.
The larger party, Hässler could see at least forty men moving his way, was under fire from both his and the German positions opposite. The potential problem was immediately apparent.
“Oberleutnant, two green flares now. Danke.”
Within seconds, the two flares added their own colour to the surreal montage, the German defensive fire dropping away instantly, in line with the pre-arranged signal.
A .30cal machine gun was spitting fury at the Soviets, who were caught between dropping into cover and moving back to the relative safety of their own positions.
A DP chattered in the snow and the American gunner was thrown back from his weapon, screaming in pain, clutching desperately at the destroyed bloody mess that had once been his left shoulder.
The loader moved across and the .30 roared into life again.
“Medic! Medic!”
Almost immediately, the loader was struck, this time fatally, as bullets chewed his face to pieces.
A group of Russians had decided on a third option, and were almost on top of the position.
Bringing his Garand up, Hässler pulled the trigger, without response.