Luciano’s Luck

He held Koenig by the shoulders for a moment and then, as if in a sudden excess of emotion, embraced him.

Later, back in Walther’s office having a cognac before lunch, Kesselring said, ‘A very impressive young man.’

‘He’s certainly that,’ Walther agreed.

‘Decent, honourable, chivalrous. A superb soldier. What every member of the Waffen SS would like to imagine himself to be. Let’s have him in and get it over with.’

Walther pressed a buzzer on his desk and a moment later an aide looked in.

‘Major Koenig,’ Walther said.

The aide withdrew and Koenig entered. He paused at the desk, clicked his heels, and his hand went to the peak of his fieldcap in a military salute.

The Field Marshal said, ‘Pull up a chair, Major, and sit down.’

Koenig did as he was told. Kesselring turned to the large-scale military map of Sicily on the wall. ‘I see you’ve applied for a transfer already.’

‘Yes, Herr Field Marshal.’

‘Well, it’s denied.’

‘May I be permitted to ask why?’

‘I could say because that silver plate they had to put in your skull after your last exploit in Russia makes you unsuitable for jumping out of aeroplanes any more. But I don’t need to. Your task here in Sicily is of vital importance.’

General Walther said, ‘There is still too much partisan activity here in the central mountains, particularly in the region of the Cammarata. It would be fatal to our interests in the event of an invasion.’

‘I thought the Allies intend to try Sardinia first, General?’ queried Koenig.

Walther and Kesselring glanced at each other and Kesselring laughed. ‘Go on, tell him. I don’t see why not.’

Walther said, ‘Actually, you’re not far wrong, Major. The high command in Berlin, the Führer himself, feel that Sardinia will be the invasion point.’

‘A few weeks ago, the body of a British courier was washed up on a Spanish beach,’ Kesselring went on. ‘A Royal Marine Major. He was carrying letters to General Alexander in Tunisia. There was another from Lord Louis Mountbatten to Sir Andrew Cunningham, Commander-in-Chief of the British Mediterranean Fleet. The gist of these letters indicates firmly that the target for the Allied invasion will be Sardinia and Greece. Any attack on Sicily will be diversionary.’

There was a heavy silence. General Walther said, ‘We’d be interested in your opinion. Feel free to speak.’

‘What can I say, Herr General.’ Koenig shrugged. ‘Miracles do occur on occasions, even in this day and age. Presumably this British Major’s being so conveniently washed up on a Spanish beach where our agents could have a sight of the letters he was carrying, was one of them.’

‘But on the whole,’ Kesselring said, ‘you don’t believe in miracles.’

‘Not since I stopped reading the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, Herr Field Marshal.’

‘Good.’ Kesselring was all business now. ‘Give me your personal assessment of the situation here.’

Koenig stood up and moved round to the map. ‘As regards partisan activity, two important groups. The Separatists, who want an independent Sicily, and the Communists. We all know what they want.

‘They cut each other’s throats as cheerfully as they do ours.’

‘General Walther was explaining to me about this Mafia movement,’ Kesselring said. ‘Are they a force to be reckoned with?’

‘Yes, I think they have very real power under the surface of things and again, they are peculiarly Sicilian. Mainland Italy and Mussolini mean nothing to them.’

‘And if an invasion comes, they will fight?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ Koenig nodded. ‘All of them. Our main worry would be the Italian Army itself.’

‘You think so?’ Kesselring asked.

Koenig took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet. ‘Frankly, Herr Field Marshal, I think the fact must be faced that the Italian people as a whole, have lost any interest they ever had in the war and all enthusiasm for Mussolini.’

There was a slight pause and then Kesselring smiled. ‘An accurate enough assessment. I wouldn’t disagree with that. So, you think invasion will come to Sicily?’

Koenig ran a finger along the road south from Palermo to Agrigento. ‘Here is the most vital road in the whole of Sicily, passing through the Cammarata, one of the wildest and most primitive places in the island. There has been considerable partisan activity in that area recently. According to our informants, a number of American agents have been dropped by parachute during the past few weeks. So far, we haven’t succeeded in catching any of them.’

Kesselring picked up a folder from the desk. ‘And yet you almost had this man.’ He opened the file. ‘Major Harry Carter, in charge of the Italian desk at Special Operations Executive in Cairo. You had him, Koenig, and let him slip through your fingers.’

‘With respect, Herr Field Marshal,’ Koenig corrected him firmly, ‘my task was to provide back-up forces on the ground. The affair was in the hands of the Geheimefeldpolizei and Gestapo. And I would remind you, sir, that thanks to Russia, I have only thirty-five men remaining in what was once a battalion. Not a single officer is left on the strength except myself.’

‘The capture of Carter would have been an intelligence coup of the first order and Berlin, in the person of Reichsführer Himmler, is not pleased. To that end he has ordered the transfer of one of his most trusted intelligence officers from the Rome Office to work with you here.’

‘I see, Herr Field Marshal,’ Koenig said. ‘Gestapo?’

‘Oh, no,’ Kesselring told him gravely. ‘Rather more important than that.’ He turned to Walther. ‘Show Major Meyer in.’

The man who entered was broad and squat with a flat Slav face and cold blue eyes. Koenig recognized the type at once for the security service was full of them; ex-police officers, more used to the criminal underworld than anything else. He wore SS field uniform and his only decoration was the Order of Blood, a much coveted Nazi medal specially struck for those who had served prison sentences for political crimes in the old Weimar Republic. The most interesting fact about him was his cuff-title which carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the symbol of Himmler’s personal staff.

‘Major Franz Meyer, Major Koenig.’ Walther made the introductions while Kesselring stood looking out of the window, smoking a cigarette.

Meyer took in everything about Koenig with the policeman’s practised eye: the highly irregular SS uniform, the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords.

‘A pleasure, Major,’ he said.

Koenig turned to Kesselring. ‘There is a difficulty here, I think, Herr Field Marshal. Who is to be in charge? Meyer and I would appear to carry the same rank.’

‘No difficulty there, I hope?’ Kesselring said, smoothly. ‘I see you as performing separate functions; you being responsible for the purely military side of the operation and Major Meyer for the, how shall I put it? The more political aspects.’

‘There will be no problem from my point of view, I can assure the Herr Field Marshal of that,’ Meyer said.

‘Excellent.’ Kesselring managed a wintry smile. ‘And now, if you would leave us, Meyer. There are still matters I wish to discuss with Major Koenig.’

Meyer clicked his heels, delivered an impressive Heil Hitler and departed. When he’d gone, Kesselring said, ‘I know what you’re going to say, Koenig, and you’re quite right. It places you in a most difficult situation.’

‘Almost impossible, Herr Field Marshal. I will have no authority of rank, which means the wretched man can interfere as much as he likes.’

He was angry and it showed. Kesselring said, ‘Rank has little to do with the matter. As a member of the Reichsführer’s personal staff, he will always have considerable influence in certain situations, even were I myself concerned. However, I have done the best I can for you in the circumstances.’

He nodded to Walther who handed Koenig a buff envelope. Koenig started to open it and Kesselring said, ‘No, keep it for later.’ He held out his hand in another of those unexpected gestures. ‘I wish you luck. You’re going to need it.’