Opening Moves

Makarenko nodded silently in approval of the way his men were getting this all right, and his confidence soared, even though he had spotted that these enemy troops were not military police but combat soldiers. Whilst one part of his brain noted the battledress and tried to decipher the markings of French commandos, the other side argued that they did not appear to be good quality troops, so he pressed on with the plan as it was.

The General slid into the checkpoint sandbags and watched as his men silently advanced in the shadows.

A swift look at his watch told him it was 0512 hrs. Early but one should never refuse an opportunity such as the one presented to him.

He observed the jeep slowly round the next corner on its way to the final checkpoint. He sent a platoon up the ‘down’ road, hugging the escarpment as they slowly moved off into the darkness. Swiftly looking around his new location, he became aware of a wired board with a raised red button centrally mounted on it. Obviously, that was for raising the alarm. He then also saw the field telephone sat on the low bench in front of him. His confidence evaporated as it squawked into life and the artificial sound probably became the death knell of his stealthy attack.

At checkpoint #3, adjacent to the Château’s entrance, the Ensign in charge tried to raise the caporal-chef. Why the imbecile man could not follow simple orders was a mystery to him. Standing instructions were to telephone through with the numbers of vehicle occupants, their names, and purpose of their visit. It was simple enough and the man would get his ear bent whenever he picked up. None the less, the traffic list on his clipboard indicated only one expected arrival this morning, that being a US Major of paratroops and the approaching jeep was American. The phone rang unanswered and he determined to ravage the idiot guards at #2 at his first opportunity. The jeep was almost at his checkpoint now and still the imbecile had not answered. “Merde,” was all he could say but he promised himself that Capitaine de Frégate Dubois would be informed the moment he finished with the new American arrival. Controlling his anger, he put down the phone and turned to the now stopped vehicle.

He became aware of clacking sounds and flashes and that two of his men, positioned either side of the vehicle, were dropping to the ground like rag dolls. His other two men, weapons coming up from the relaxed positions of a second beforehand, suddenly blossomed into red flowers and collapsed jelly-like to the ground. He knew his death was coming but tried to make for the alarm button. Three more scarlet buds appeared and withered in a second, this time in his back as he turned, as the silenced rifles did their work and he collapsed, glancing off the side of the sandbagged position and onto two ammo boxes that served as their table.

The noise of the breaking glass might just as well have been artillery to Makarenko, only eighty metres away. Eyes swept left and right, up and down, scanning for threat and movement but there was none.

No alarm was raised, no shots rang out.

The attacking force froze until some, chivvied by seniors, rose to repeat the performance of secreting the dead and taking their positions. One of the troopers who grabbed the dead Ensigns body, sliced a finger on the broken water bottle but stifled his yelp of pain.

The stealthy attack was still viable.

Frequently Rettlinger simply could not sleep. His dreams simply would not permit rest, as they constantly threw up the faces of those family and friends he had lost and images of the things he had seen. Maybe it was he, not Treschow, with mental problems he mused. He often walked around the ramparts of the Château and had become known to the commando guards. None the less, standing orders had at first required someone to accompany him and, later on, someone walked with him out of habit. The security no longer looked inward as well as out and the Germans were accepted universally. Rettlinger also had another advantage for, as a native Alsatian, he could converse with all the guards in their native tongue.

On this night, he and Capitaine de Corvette Fournier were strolling on outer walls of the Château, taking in the air and exchanging words on important gastronomic matters. The German had foregone his suit jacket for comfort, whereas the dapper Frenchman was in his proper uniform and as impeccable as ever. Padding along behind them was a huge hound from the stock of guard dogs, complete with his handler.

The beast seem to enjoy the company as well as the exercise but Rettlinger knew it watched him constantly. He never touched the dogs without asking, for fear of losing something vital. They were fine once the word had been given by their master, in this case a wiry little Algerian of indeterminate age, seconded from the 3e Division D’Infanterie Algérienne, along with three others and their dogs.