Captain Engel goes to far greater lengths to implement Ludendorff’s brief than is dictated by tactical measures. His unscrupulousness has led some to christen him Todesengel; certainly he seems to revel in the malevolence that accompanies any war. For him Operation Alberich is not simply a duty, a terrible and necessary measure to resist the enemy. On the contrary, he enjoys spreading death and destruction.
I am not talking of the enjoyment my men take from demolishing enemy houses. The common serviceman may find pleasure in destruction, in the razing of buildings and detonation of bridges, but contaminating wells is an order he fulfills only out of soldierly duty. Not so Captain Engel. For him it is not sufficient to leave behind a wasteland. Rather, the enemy should discover an inhospitable lunar landscape, where death lurks in every cellar, behind every stone. The order to pollute the drinking water is thought to have come from him, likewise the booby traps lining the roads, concealed in our abandoned trenches and dugouts.
‘Operation Alberich takes priority, Sir. Of course,’ I reply. ‘But… with respect we can’t just blow up the gold along with the house.’
‘Of course not. We’ll take it with us, tonight, but not to Cambrai. Find a secure hiding place, Lieutenant, one that the enemy won’t discover when they move in, or when the fighting has ceased.’ He looks around him, as if making the men swear an oath. ‘Gold doesn’t rust,’ he says. ‘We’ll come for it when the war is over.’
Engel doesn’t say who he is referring to, but everyone in the room understands. No matter the outcome of the war, the gold belongs to us. Not to the French, and not to the Kaiser either.
‘Make your preparations,’ he continues. ‘I’ll wait for your report in the orderly room.’ I salute. ‘And… don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Can I rely on you? All of you?’ Engel’s gaze alights on Wegener, an ex-grammar school pupil with a reputation as a loose cannon.
‘Yes, Sir,’ he says. ‘Not a word, to anyone.’
There is no need for the other men to respond; their acquiescence is palpable.
Engel gives a satisfied nod. ‘When do you intend to detonate the house, Lieutenant?’ he asks, as if the issue of the gold has been dealt with once and for all.
‘On the day of our withdrawal. As soon as we’ve evacuated.’
‘I have a better idea. Detonate the explosive charge once the enemy has moved in and taken up quarters. Where is your demolition expert?’
Grimberg steps forward. ‘Chief Artificer Grimberg at your service, Sir.’
‘Can you set a time fuse to detonate in a week or two from now?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Grimberg says, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect. Blowing up buildings is not the same as luring people into a deadly trap.
‘Good. Then see that it’s done. You are hereby excused from transporting the gold.’ With a satisfied smile the captain climbs the steps once more.
Todesengel, they call him. Now we know why.
Needing a break from Roddeck’s stuffy prose, Rath laid down the manuscript and lit a cigarette. Charly had been asleep when he got home, much later than expected, to a bottle of wine with two glasses, one of which was unused. He had poured the rest of the wine, and begun leafing through the novel. Thankfully, Hildebrandt’s markings had spared him the first one hundred and thirty pages.
Perhaps it was just that this particular type of literature, the ubiquitous, mass-produced military novels, even a book like Ernst Jünger’s Stahlgewittern which his father had gifted him for Christmas years before, left him cold. He went to the cupboard, fetched the bottle of cognac and poured himself a large glass before continuing.
When our work here is done, the village will be unrecognisable, a wasteland devoid of life. We must take this and all the various imponderables of war into account as we search for a suitable hiding place. We need a fixed point in the landscape, a landmark that cannot be destroyed. But what, in this conflict, resists destruction?
In the forest by the road to Cambrai is an erratic boulder, a huge rock that not even the most powerful grenade can touch, even as it lays waste to the surrounding terrain. We agree to stow the gold here, burying it so deep in the rock’s cloak that it will survive the turmoil of war.
Oh, I am aware these are anything but honourable intentions – but what is a German soldier to do when his commanding officer not only condones such an action, but orders that it be carried out?
Today it is clear to me that a man like Engel should never have been allowed to embark on an officer’s career. A German soldier must be able to trust that his superiors are men of honour. In those days I lacked perspective, wasting little time on political matters, and so it was that things took their fateful turn. I am not seeking here to excuse my actions as a twenty-three year-old man. As a lieutenant in the glorious Prussian Army, I ought to have listened to my conscience, rather than a captain who did not merit his rank. To this day I feel ashamed, even if it is a relief to come clean finally, after so many years.
I had organised a truck, which Wibeau parked outside the bank manager’s villa. The estate was at the far end of Neuville, some distance from the other houses, and infinitely removed from the nearest inhabited building, the village school, where the majority of our men had taken up quarters.
We waited until midnight to start.
Captain Engel oversaw every aspect of the operation personally, even counting the gold bars on three separate occasions to ensure that each one landed in the truck. We transported the gold in buckets; when the trucks were fully loaded and Engel had counted the bars for a fourth time, we covered them with a few dirty tarpaulins, which we secured with our assault rifles.
Wibeau knew the way. Turning off the road he dimmed the lights and drove slowly. None of our comrades could learn of our night-time operation. Captain, lieutenant or private, we were all in the same boat, and would face court-martial if it emerged that we had misappropriated such a large sum (perhaps several million gold marks!)
A bumpy woodland path led us to the clearing with the boulder. Our vehicle was fairly shaken about, but it was nothing new for these men; at least tonight they wouldn’t be heading to the Front.
Reaching our destination, we jumped down and fetched the spades from the truck. We spoke quietly and only when necessary. We had already dug the pit and started filling it with gold when events took a dramatic turn.
The surprise came from the forest.
They came from the south, meaning they couldn’t see the truck, still less our group, hidden as it was behind the giant boulder. Even so, by the time they spied the truck and its soldiers working in feverish haste to fill a pit with gold bars, it was too late. They stood there, holding hands like Hansel and Gretel, the shock having turned them to pillars of salt. Wosniak caught sight of them first. ‘We have visitors, Sir,’ he said.
I saw them on the edge of the clearing, still standing wide-eyed, a gaunt-looking youth, perhaps sixteen, and a girl, somewhat younger. Not so much Hansel and Gretel as Romeo and Juliet. Or perhaps just two French children searching for firewood under the cover of darkness. We never found out exactly what they were doing, but it was clear they hadn’t reckoned on encountering German soldiers in the middle of the night.
Meifert and Wibeau instinctively reached for their carbines and took aim.
The lovers stood even more motionless than before.