Opening Moves

There was a school of thought that he earned that medal of medals more than once in those cold and bitter days, as his inspirational leadership, guts and determination carried  his unit through some terrible times in the face of everything that the enemy could throw at them.

His conduct in the drive into Germany proper had brought him a second DSC for taking the village of Nussdorf single-handedly, by the act of driving into it alone in a jeep and speaking with the garrison commander under a flag of truce. Legends were built around what he may or may not have said to that SS Major, but the fact that three hundred and forty heavily armed SS diehards gave themselves up without so much as a bun thrown was huge testament to the personality of the man.

The German surrender had found the unit in Southern Germany, on the Austrian border near Berchtesgarten. Most of the paratroopers who had survived heaved their collective sighs of relief and awaited their passage home, for they were certainly assured they would be amongst the first. Some, like Crisp, volunteered for the Japanese assault but were not afforded the opportunity to transfer into the newly forming airborne units and some, unlike Crisp, got their orders and were already on their way to death or glory in warmer climes.

The 501st was separated from the division and settled into France for retraining prior to being shipped to the Pacific in its own right after the assault.

Which brought him round to today, Monday 30th July 1945.

He stood in front of the ornate full-length mirror and adjusted his tie, before working his experienced eye over his uniform from head to foot. With a nod of approval to himself, he walked to the window and looked out over a stunning view, vineyards and villages spread out as far as the eye could see.

A check of the newly installed wall clock, which had ticked relentlessly through the still of the night, indicated that breakfast time was already upon him, his first meal since his late Sunday evening arrival.

One last look of appreciation for his baronial surroundings and he left the room in search of the mess hall.

At the bottom of the hexagonal stairs, he found no clues but luckily an orderly emerged from the kitchens.

“Excuse me. Could you please show me to the mess hall?”

“Of course Commandant, follow me if you please.” Crisp was conducted back upstairs and shown into the impressive stone columned dining room, wherein sat a number of allied officers eating large breakfasts and chattering incessantly.

His eyes took in the officers, none of whom noticed his arrival. Twelve French and four Brits, with solely one other in the uniform of the US Army.

And so it was that the last member of the third class sat down for breakfast in the grand dining room of the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg.

Chapter 27 – THE CHANCE

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

William Shakespeare

1659 hrs Monday, 30th July 1945, Bossong’s, Quai de Pêcheurs, Selestat, French Alsace.

Whilst the great men sat in the Kremlin and made decisions affecting the lives of everyone on the planet, and allied officers listened to the sage words of Germans in the symposiums, a conversation took place in a vintner’s in Selestat.

Bossong’s was an old shop, a symbol of a bygone age, but it still served its purpose well. Ancient wooden shelving created specifically for housing delicate vintages surrounded the open central area, where stood a tall table with all the paraphernalia associated with the tasting of fine wines.

The layer of dust and mulchy smell were all part of the image, as were the huge oil lamps that cast their flickering shadows around the room.

A gothic style wall clock loudly chimed five o’clock in the afternoon, completing the scene.

The owner had continued trade as well as he could over the German occupation and, with the coming of the allies, had recovered some of his considerable hidden stocks for sale to the allied liberators at a fine profit.

Loose tongues had immediately wagged and a requisition order from the French Army had arrived, born by a smartly turned out French Commando officer, reducing his best Alsatian stock to a bare minimum. Admittedly, he would be paid but not at the rate he was securing from the allied officers who presently frequented his establishment.

One such, a Polish liaison officer with the French First Army, had visited for his regular bottle of Trimbach, only to find the owner sympathetic but not forthcoming.

Despite the fact that the previous Friday there had been well over a hundred bottles available, today the owner had none for sale.

“But Monsieur, surely you can find a bottle for me? I have promised my girl some of your fine Trimbach.”

“Commandant, I regret I cannot, even for a good customer such as yourself. I have none available and neither do I have any Edelzwicker either, for both supplies have been requisitioned by the Army of France.”