Opening Moves

Last but one are the papers and letters of General de Division Christophe Lavalle, soldier of France and officer of the Légion Étrangère, who escaped the conquest of his country and found ever-lasting glory at Bir Hakeim and beyond with his beloved legionnaires. It was his relatives who were able to smooth my way into the records of the Légion Étrangère, without which access much of this story could not have been properly told.

Lastly, came the documents of and recorded interviews with Brigadier-General Marion J. Crisp, US Paratroops, who carried his carbine from D-Day to the final battle and upon whom fell a terrible responsibility in those last bloody days.

The intertwining of their war is remarkable and will be revealed as the text progresses.

I was able to piece together the last mission of Flight Sergeant Andrew McKenzie VC from enemy accounts and squadron records only, but what he achieved is well known today and I have just added a little meat to the bones of what this bravest of men did one hazy summer’s day. I am proud that my research was able to ensure that his incredible bravery and self-sacrifice was finally rewarded.

During my research, I came across many tales of heroism and sacrifice but one will be included here because it was the wish of his enemy that he should be so acknowledged. Without that wish and the accompanying testimony of his enemies, as in the case of McKenzie, the actions of Starshiy Serzhant Ivan Alexeyevich Balyan would have been secret for eternity. Thanks to his enemies and their professional admiration for what he achieved, his story will be written here and, on reflection, his Motherland may wish to afford him the honour his sacrifice demands.

It was beyond me to be able to get access to the records of the former Deuxieme Bureau but I was able to interview some former employees off the record and I thank them for their invaluable assistance and admire your courage by risking much to ensure some worthy people get the recognition they deserve.

With the help of all these documents, the personal memories of the above, and others, I have been able to put together a story of the last two years of World War Two, years which cost many lives and which left such an indelible mark on those who fought on both sides.

I need not overly set the scene, for the events up to the German capitulation in May 1945 are well known and well documented. Europe was in ruins after the armies of many nations had rolled over it. The world waited for the end as the relentless steamroller of the United States of America’s industry continued to roll over weakened Japan.

In those heady summer days of July 1945, the Allied and Soviet armies in Europe licked their wounds after their trials against Nazi Germany whilst the politicians bickered and argued over the small print of victory. Niggles between allies started to become more serious and tolerances became fragile. Agreed boundaries became points of argument, ground taken at the loss of life of comrades is not easily given over to another, and in four instances, shots had been fired and deaths occurred. None the less life suddenly felt good for most, for they were unaware of the agendas of the powerful, and men who had been fighting, in some cases since 1939, could look up and feel the sun on their faces and not feel afraid that death would visit them that day.

It was the pause but they didn’t know it.

Chapter 1 – ‘THE DECISION’

Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the bitch that bore him is in heat again.

Berthold Brecht

0748 hrs Tuesday, 12th June 1945, The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

It was a simple piece of paper. What complicated the day greatly for the reader was the information typed upon it, words which had been days in transit from their source half a world away until now, when they were produced in front of the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the USSR’s Central Committee.

Clad as always in his simple brown tunic and trousers, he frowned deeply, re-read the information, and then looked up at the man standing the other side of the impressive Tsarist wooden desk.

“So Lavrentiy. Are we sure of this?”

The man, short and prematurely balding, removed his wire frame glasses and, withdrawing a white cotton handkerchief from his suit pocket, studiously polished them. Such was his habit when he was considering his answers very carefully; a practice that was very wise when dealing with the General Secretary, even for a man as powerful as Lavrentiy Beria, head of the NKVD.