Ernst-August Knocke had lost close comrades that day, men with whom he had endured the indescribable horrors of battle. The awfulness of Olbricht’s death. Schmidt’s corpse burnt almost beyond recognition, but not quite. But as he went to the commando barracks to visit his men, in truth, all the men, it was the sight of the slaughtered Russians that moved him the most.
Disbelief.
Fury.
This was not war.
Something washed over the German, calming him, anger abating as quickly as it had arisen.
Compassion.
Ernst-August Knocke, Waffen-SS soldier par excellence, enemy feared by every nation that fought him, moved silently amongst the dead men. As he moved he recited something his cousin and best friend David had taught him long ago in beautiful Königsburg, during times when such non-aryan relationships were not frowned on and boys could simply be boys, and when the learning of such a text earned him a treat from Great Uncle Herr Doktor Jakob Steyn.
As he closed eyes and rearranged limbs, bringing peace to those who perished so violently, he spoke in his native German language, words that would never have passed his lips in the previous years.
“May his great name be exalted,” a pistol still gripped in the hand of the dead boy, cocked and loaded, was retrieved and made safe, “And sanctified in the world which he created,” and two young paratroopers, entwined in death, were separated and laid more easily.
“According to his will. May he establish his kingdom,” a weathered and pock-marked face twisted in horror and pain was gently covered with a napkin from Knocke’s pocket, “And may his Salvation blossom and His anointed be near,” the next man’s staring eyes were gently closed and his gaping mouth brought to a more comfortable position, restoring some dignity to the violated corpse.
Haefeli emerged from the ramp behind Knocke and halted, aware that a number of his men had stopped their work to watch a truly indescribable moment.
“During your lifetime,” a blade reverently slid out from a chest and the splayed arms brought to a position of repose, “And during your days, and during the lifetimes of all the House of Israel,” this time three Soviet soldiers had rolled themselves tightly together, and needed a more physical act of separation. Knocke looked up at the owner of the hands that helped, seeing Haefeli working with great tenderness.
He started Kaddish again.
“Speedily and very soon,” the three were separated and laid out side by side, another legionnaire arriving and gently easing the last body into order.
“And say Amen,” Knocke concluded.
“Amen” both Legionnaires spoke aloud before continuing.
“May his great name be blessed forever,” Knocke looked confused at the two soldiers who joined him in his prayer, voices firm but soft.
“And to all eternity. Blessed and praised,” they stood back as their work was being taken up by other legionnaires.
“Glorified and exalted, extolled and honoured, adored and lauded,” the three men exchanged firm looks as they spoke in unison, the black German panzer uniform flanked by the olive green American kit of the Légion Étrangère.
“Be the name of the Holy one, blessed be he above and beyond all the blessings,” Anne-Marie de Valois stopped instantly as she entered the courtyard, sensing the atmosphere, the crisp white sling on her arm catching the attention of her saviour.
Knocke nodded to the formidable agent, which nod was returned, accompanied unbidden by the genuine smile of a woman who knew she was witnessing something special from someone special.
“Hymns, praises and consolations that are uttered in the world,” the three men’s heads bowed as one.
“And say amen.”
Every man, every throat in the courtyard or looking on from the battlements gave voice to end the Kaddish prayer.
“Amen.”
The silence was perfect, and heavy with symbolism.
Haefeli broke it.
“One day Colonel Knocke. One day I hope to sit down with you and listen to the story of what just happened here, if you will permit me to share it.”
Knocke smiled disarmingly.
“One day Maior Haefeli.” Knocke turned to acknowledge the other man, an old legion caporal whose eyes were moist, the moment still working within him.
“Sir,” the NCO cleared his throat to try to speak without emotion. He failed. “My name is Yitzhak Rubenstein and I am German, and you, Sir, are a mentsch.”
Ernst could do no more than pat the man on the shoulder and nod. No further words were necessary.
Bringing himself back to the moment and the purpose of his excursion into the lower Château, Knocke went to salute and curtailed his action, again conscious of his lack of headwear.
Removing his kepi, Haefeli extended it to Knocke.
“If you would so honour me Colonel.”
Hesitating for a moment, Knocke understood what a precious accolade the Swiss Officer was giving him.
“It will be my honour Maior Haefeli. Thank you.”
A dark blue officer’s kepi of the 2e Regiment D’Infanterie, Légion Étrangère sat on the head of a man wearing the black panzer uniform and medals of the defeated German Reich. Those who examined the combination closely found it very much to their liking.
The Swiss grinned from ear to ear.
“It suits you Colonel.”
“I believe it does Herr Maior!”
The smile was returned, along with a formal salute and, with a last glance at the Russian corpses, Knocke moved off to the field hospital to check up on the wounded.
Suddenly weary, Haefeli closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky, feeling the warmth upon his face but could not enjoy it, for he knew that the sun, bright and strong in the early morning, was casting its rays on a very different world.
Chapter 39 – THE BALTIC
Of all the branches of men in the forces there is none which shows more devotion and faces grimmer perils than the submariners.
Traditional Naval Monday toast – “To Our Ships at Sea.”
Some time previously, a Soviet built Shchuka-class submarine sweeping well ahead of a Soviet convoy transporting invasion troops to Denmark, had picked up indications of vessels gliding gently through the cold Baltic waters. The detection apparatus indicated that the sounds were fast screw warships and when Captain Third Rank Mikhail Kalinin took a swift look through his attack periscope, he was delighted to discover that there had been sufficient moonlight for him to identify the silhouettes. Ceding the periscope to his First Officer, they agreed that the larger ships were the two British Cruisers they were informed of, one of the heavy County class and a light cruiser, probably Dido class.
Around them fussed four destroyers, and they were preceded by what were probably a pair of minesweepers.
Kalinin was a successful Captain already sporting the Red Star, and he quietly and calmly manoeuvred his submarine into firing position, taking occasional snatched looks through his periscope, conscious of the need for restraint until the allotted time but also very aware of the damage these cruisers could cause if they got in amongst his charges in such confined waters.
As the chronometer crept slowly towards 0530 hrs, Kalinin maintained his firing solution, constantly updating with new headings and readings as the warships drove forward. Inside he was increasingly concerned, especially when the enemy group all increased speed. Perhaps, he agonised, the British radar operators had recognised the approaching invasion group for what it was, not the friendly naval flotilla with who they had been invited to conduct exercises for the day, prior to putting into Rostock for the night to enjoy some comradely fraternisation. However, despite his own inner tensions, his outer calmness spread through his crew and settled all nerves.