Night of the Fox

Hugh Kelso slept until noon and when he awakened, he was sick. He turned over in the violently pitching life raft and pulled down the zip of the entrance flap. His heart sank. There was nothing but sea, the life raft twisting and turning on the angry waves. The sky was black, heavy with rain and the wind was gusting 5 or 6, he could tell that. Worst of all, there wasn’t a hint of land anywhere. He was well out in the English Channel, so much was obvious. If he drifted straight across, wasn’t picked up at all, he’d hit the coast of France, possibly the Cherbourg Peninsula. Below that, in the Gulf of St Malo, were the Channel Islands. Alderney, Guernsey and Jersey. He didn’t know much about them except that they were British and occupied by the enemy. He was not likely to be carried as far south as that, though.

He got the Very light out, and fired an orange distress flare. There was seldom any German naval traffic in the Channel during daylight. They tended to keep to the inshore run behind their minefields. He fired another flare and then water cascaded in through the flap and he hurriedly zipped it up. There were some field rations in the emergency kit. He tried to eat one of the dried fruit blocks and was violently sick and his leg was on fire again. Hurriedly, he got another morphine ampule and injected himself. After a while, he pillowed his head on his hands and slept again.

Outside, the sea lifted as the afternoon wore on. It started to get dark soon after five o’clock. By that time the wind was blowing sou’westerly, turning him away from the French coast and the Cherbourg Peninsula so that by six o’clock he was ten miles to the west of the Casquets Light off the island of Alderney. And then the wind veered again, pushing him down along the outer edge of the Gulf of St Malo toward Guernsey.

Kelso was aware of none of these things. He awakened around seven o’clock with a high temperature, washed his face with a little water to cool it, was sick again and dropped into something approaching a coma.

In London, Dougal Munro was working at his desk, the slight scratching of his pen the only sound in the quiet of the room. There was a knock at the door and Jack Carter limped in with a folder in one hand. He put it down in front of Munro.

‘Latest list from Slapton, sir.’

‘Anything on Kelso?’

‘Not a thing, sir, but they’ve got every available ship out there in the bay looking for the missing bodies.’

Dougal Munro got up and moved to the window. The wind moaned outside, hurling rain against the pane. He shook his head and said softly, ‘God help sailors at sea on a night like this.’

3 (#ulink_3a15d21d-37e6-5d4f-8881-6bef895b0ecf)

As commander of Army Group B, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was responsible for the Atlantic Wall defenses, his sole task to defeat any Allied attempt to land in northern France. Since taking command in January of 1944 he had strengthened the coastal defenses to an incredible degree, tramping the beaches, visiting every strongpoint, impressing his own energetic presence on everyone from divisional commanders to the lowliest private.

His headquarters seemed permanently on the move so that no one could be sure where he was from one day to the next. He had an uncomfortable habit of turning up in his familiar black Mercedes accompanied only by his driver and his most trusted aide from Afrika Korps days, Major Konrad Hofer.

On the evening of that fateful day at about the time Hugh Kelso was somewhere in the general area of the Casquets Light, west of Alderney, the field marshal was sitting down to an early dinner with the officers of the 21st Parachute Regiment in a chateau at Campeaux some ten miles from St Lo in Normandy.

His primary reason for being there was sound enough. The High Command, and the Führer himself, believed that the invasion, when it came, would take place in the area of the Pas de Calais. Rommel disagreed and had made it clear that if he were Eisenhower, he would strike for Normandy. None of this had done anything for his popularity among the people who counted at OKW, High Command of the Armed Forces, in Berlin. Rommel didn’t give a damn about that anymore. The war was lost. The only thing that was uncertain was how long it would take.

Which brought him to the second reason for being in Normandy. He was involved in a dangerous game and it paid to keep on the move, for since taking command of Army Group B he had renewed old friendships with General von Stulpnagel, military governor of France, and General Alexander von Falkenhausen. Both were involved, with von Stauffenberg, in the conspiracy against Hitler. It had not taken them long to bring Rommel around to their point of view.

They had all been aware of the projected assassination attempt at Rastenburg that morning. Rommel had sent Konrad Hofer by air to Berlin the previous day to await events at General Olbricht’s headquarters, but there had been no news at all. Not a hint of anything untoward on the radio.

Now, in the mess, Colonel Halder, commanding the regiment, stood to offer the loyal toast. ‘Gentlemen – to our Führer and total victory.’

‘So many young men,’ Rommel thought to himself, ‘and what for?’ But he raised his glass and drank with them.

‘And now, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox himself, who does our mess so much honor tonight.’

They drained their glasses, then applauded him, cheering wildly, and Rommel was immensely touched. Colonel Halder said, ‘The men have arranged a little entertainment in your honor, Field Marshal. We were hoping you might be willing to attend.’

‘But of course.’ Rommel held out his glass for more champagne. ‘Delighted.’

The door opened at the back of the mess and Konrad Hofer entered. He looked tired and badly needed a shave, his field gray greatcoat buttoned up to his neck.

‘Ah, Konrad, there you are,’ Rommel called. ‘Come and have a glass of champagne. You look as if you could do with it.’

‘I’ve just flown in from Berlin, Field Marshal. Landed at St Lo.’

‘Good flight?’

‘Terrible, actually.’ Hofer swallowed the champagne gratefully.

‘My dear boy, come and have a shower and we’ll see if they can manage you a sandwich.’ Rommel turned to Colonel Halder. ‘See if you can delay this little show the men are putting on for half an hour.’

‘No problem, Field Marshal.’

‘Good – we’ll see you later then.’ Rommel picked up a fresh bottle of champagne and two glasses and walked out followed by Hofer.

As soon as the bedroom door was closed, Hofer turned in agitation. ‘It was the worst kind of mess. All that fool Koenig managed to do was blow himself up outside the main gate.’

‘That seems rather careless of him,’ Rommel said dryly. ‘Now calm yourself, Konrad. Have another glass of champagne and get under the shower and just take it slowly.’

Hofer went into the bathroom and Rommel straightened his uniform, examining himself in the mirror. He was fifty-three at that time, of medium height, stocky and thick-set with strong features, and there was a power to the man, a force, that was almost electric. His uniform was simple enough, his only decorations the Pour le Mérite, the famous Blue Max, won as a young infantry officer in the First World War, and the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, both of which hung around his neck. On the other hand, one hardly needed anything else if one had those.

Hofer emerged in a bathrobe toweling his hair. ‘Olbricht and a few more up there are in a blue funk and I don’t blame them. I mean the Gestapo or the SD could be on to this at any time.’

‘Yes,’ Rommel conceded. ‘Himmler may have started life as a chicken farmer, but whatever else you may say about him he’s no fool. How was von Stauffenberg?’

‘As determined as ever. He suggests you meet with Generals von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen within the next few days.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Hofer was back in the bathroom pulling on his uniform again. ‘I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. If Himmler does have his suspicions about you, you could be under close surveillance already.’

‘Oh, I’ll think of something,’ Rommel said. ‘Now hurry up. The men are laying on a little show for me and I don’t want to disappoint them.’

The show was presented in the main hall of the chateau. A small stage had been rigged at one end with some makeshift curtains. Rommel, Hofer and the regimental officers sat down in chairs provided at the front; the men stood in the hall behind them or sat on the grand staircase.

A young corporal came on, bowed and sat down at the grand piano and played a selection of light music. There was polite applause. Then he moved into the song of the Fallschirmjäger, the paratroopers’ own song, sung everywhere from Stalingrad to North Africa. The curtains parted to reveal the regimental choir singing lustily. There was a cheer from the back of the hall and everyone started to join in, including the officers. Without pause, the choir moved straight into several choruses of We March Against England, an unfortunate choice, Rommel told himself. It was interesting to note that no one tried singing the Horst Wessel. The curtain came down to a storm of cheering and several instrumentalists came on, grouped themselves around the pianist and played two or three jazz numbers. When they were finished, the lights went down and there was a pause.

‘What’s happening?’ Rommel demanded.

‘Wait and see, Herr Field Marshal. Something special, I assure you.’

The pianist started to play the song that was most popular of all with the German forces, Lili Marlene. The curtains parted to reveal only a pool of light on a stool in the center of the stage from a crude spotlight. Suddenly, Marlene Dietrich stepped into the light straight out of Blue Angel, or so it seemed. Top hat, black stockings and suspenders. She sat on the stool to a chorus of wolf whistles from the men and then she started to sing Lili Marlene, and that haunting, bittersweet melody reduced the audience to total silence.

A man, of course, Rommel could see that, but a brilliant impersonation and he joined in the applause enthusiastically. ‘Who on earth is that?’ he asked Colonel Halder.

‘Our orderly room corporal, Berger. Apparently he used to be some sort of cabaret performer.’

‘Brilliant,’ Rommel said. ‘Is there more?’

‘Oh, yes, Herr Field Marshal. Something very special.’

The instrumentalists returned and the choir joined them in a few more numbers. There was another pause when they departed and then a steady, muted drum roll. The curtain rose to reveal subdued lighting. As the choir started to sing the song of the Afrika Korps from the side of the stage, Rommel walked on. And it was quite unmistakably he. The cap with the desert goggles, the white scarf carelessly knotted at the neck, the old leather greatcoat, the field marshal’s baton in one gloved hand, the other arrogantly on the hip. The voice, when he spoke, was perfect as he delivered a few lines of his famous battlefield speech before El Alamein.

‘I know I haven’t offered you much. Sand, heat and scorpions, but we’ve shared them together. One more push and it’s Cairo, and if we fail … well, we tried – together.’

There was total silence from the body of the hall as Colonel Halder glanced anxiously at Rommel. ‘Field Marshal, I hope you’re not offended.’