SAS Band of Brothers Page 16

  If anything, Garstin’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Wiehe, had suffered even greater ill fortune: the trajectory of his drop had deposited him on the very fringes of the cornfield, right beside the enemy’s guns. Once Wiehe had cut himself free from his chute, he’d noticed Paddy Barker just nearby. Together, the two men had crept towards the cover of the fringe of trees, but indistinct figures – ‘vague shapes’ – were moving in the shadows. They’d prowled closer, weapons at the ready, trying to make out if it was their people, or hostile forces.

  The answer came when a volley of fire blasted out of the trees. Both men were hit, Wiehe falling in agony, and instantly ‘losing the power of his legs’. Even as he’d gone down, he’d seen Paddy Barker – the always cheerful giant of an Irishman – likewise take a burst and get knocked to the ground. The rest of Wiehe’s stick had been dropped further into the woods and they were as yet undetected, but upon hearing the bursts of fire, they tried to rush to their commander’s aid.

  Sensing their approach, Wiehe cried out a challenge: ‘Who’s there?’

  On hearing the names of his men, he yelled at them to stay in the woods. He’d ‘caught a packet’, and was unable even to crawl. Wiehe’s men insisted they venture out to fetch him, but he was adamant. If they broke cover, they would be easy targets, for the ‘moonlight helped the enemy with his aim’. Instead, the SAS lieutenant gave orders that were as selfless as they were imbued with courage: his men were to head deeper into the woods to try to escape and evade, making for the Normandy beachheads if at all possible.

  Troopers Norman and Morrison – jumpers ten and eleven – did as they’d been ordered, pushing deeper into the trees. At one stage, a burst of fire chased after them, but it went high, and by dropping to all fours they managed to slip away. Heading north, they emerged from the trees near the tiny hamlet of La Ferté-Alais, where they detected enemy troops moving on the road. Lying low until ‘all was quiet again’, they pressed on. Once they’d skirted around a few isolated houses, they figured they were through the enemy cordon. Maybe, just maybe, they had managed to slip the trap.

  As for Trooper Castelow, number twelve in the stick, he had been deposited in the depths of the Bois de Bouray, where no enemy was ever likely to find him. Realising at once how badly things had gone, and sensing that none of his fellows were anywhere nearby, he decided to hunker down right where he was. ‘I cut off my parachute and hid as quickly as possible,’ Castelow noted. He would wait for the hue and the cry to die down, and then see what the first light of day might bring.

  By now, sunrise was not so very far away. By the faint glow in the sky, Wiehe tried to inspect his injuries. Unable to stand, he felt himself all over. When he sensed hot liquid seeping through his hands, and saw that it was his own blood, he realised how bad things had to be. The blood didn’t frighten him as much as the feeling of paralysis; of being trapped in a body that he could no longer control. As far as he could tell, he’d been shot three times – once in the shoulder, once in the thigh, and the very worst of all, in the base of his back, the source of a searing pain.

  ‘My God, I am hurt!’ he told himself. But at least he was alive. And where there was life, there was hope.

  In the centre of the cornfield, Vaculik had finished scrawling his note to SAS headquarters. It read: ‘Hard luck. Germans were waiting for us. God help us. Dupontel.’

  Dupontel – it was Vaculik’s French Canadian cover name: a name he’d been given in case of capture, in case of a moment like the one that had transpired, for he could see no easy way out of the trap that had been laid for them, with dawn fast approaching. He set the pigeons free, the messages fastened to their legs, wishing them Godspeed for England as they fluttered into the air.

  That done, he crawled onwards through the corn, trying to find some avenue of escape. Now and again bursts of fire tore through the air, and not all of it seemed to be the enemy’s. Vaculik just had to hope that some of his fellow raiders had survived and were putting up resistance. Of all the men in their number, he didn’t doubt that Ginger Jones would fight to the last grenade and the very last round.

  As the sky lightened, he detected the distinctive growl of a heavy engine. The Germans were bringing up some kind of mechanised weaponry. Soon he could hear a tracked vehicle quartering back and forth through the cornfield. It sounded like a machine-gun carrier – possibly a Vickers-Armstrong Bren carrier. Scores had been seized by the Germans during the Battle for France in 1940, and brought into the Wehrmacht via the Beutepanzer – their captured tank service.

  Vaculik wondered how many other ‘poor wretches’ like himself were being hunted through the corn. Either way, he was finished if he remained in the open. Resolving to make the cover of the woods come what may, he took the last of his grenades, and one after the other he hurled them into the line of trees. As the explosions died away, he was on his feet dashing the 30 yards to the nearest cover. He made it, diving behind the gnarled trunk of an ancient-looking oak, even as the first of the enemy fire slammed into the far side.

  In the silence that followed, Vaculik was surprised to hear a voice ring out in French: ‘There he is. Behind the cover of that big oak, sir!’

  It was Vaculik’s first ever collaborator. He felt his blood start to boil. So this was the ‘swine’ who had betrayed them. Stealing a glance around the tree, he spied two figures lying prone in the undergrowth: the French traitor and the German soldier he had addressed as ‘sir’. Acting on instinct Vaculik lifted his weapon and fired, seeing the bullets strike home, as each figure twitched with the impact and cried out in agony. Yet in a sense his action had been rash, for he’d well and truly given away his position now.

  Rounds tore into the vegetation all around Vaculik, as he spied German soldiers in their distinctive Stahlhelme – coal-scuttle-shaped steel helmets – darting from cover to cover, closing resolutely for the kill. Firing burst after burst, he tried to fend them off, but eventually – inevitably – he heard a ‘dry little click’. He was all out of ammunition. As he went to draw his Colt, figures seemed to rush in from all sides. Vaculik fired blindly with his pistol, but it was too late – a flurry of rifle butts pounded down onto him, there was a ‘great spurt of fire’ before his eyes, and all went dark.

  Some time later, Vaculik came back to consciousness. He felt groggy and confused and his head was pounding. Even so, it didn’t take him long to appreciate the full extent of his predicament. Altogether, it seemed seven of the SABU-70 raiders had been taken captive: Wiehe, Paddy Barker and Sergeant Varey, all of whom were injured, plus himself, and Troopers Young and Walker, who were more or less okay. And then there was Howard Lutton, who was absolutely at death’s door.

  The captives had been corralled together, hands bound tight with parachute cord, with a truck drawn up into which the injured had been loaded. From its open rear Vaculik could hear an agonised groaning. Glancing over, he spied Lieutenant Wiehe, his legs drawn up before him and his faced racked with pain.

  ‘Got it badly?’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ve just about had it,’ Wiehe replied. ‘Just as I was landing, took a burst in the back. I’d give anything for a shot of morphine.’

  Vaculik turned to the nearest German soldier, and asked if the wounded might be given something for the pain. He was told they’d have to wait until they got to hospital, whenever that might be. At that moment, more figures emerged from the trees. Most were German troops, but with them were a handful of figures dressed in dark civilian overcoats, with trilby-style hats. Those men in black carried lugers, and they propelled before them an unmistakable figure – Ginger Jones. His hands were tied behind his back, but ‘his great shoulders were squared’, Vaculik noted, his features set in resolute defiance. No surprises that Jones had fought it out to the last.

  Those who could were ordered to stand, their faces to the truck, their backs to their captors. There was a series of ominous clicks, as weapons were made ready. ‘This is it,’ Vaculik told himself grimly. ‘Th
ey’re going to shoot us out of hand.’ The seconds ticked by in silence, as all braced themselves for what they felt certain was coming. But their civilian captors – Gestapo, surely – began a systematic search, removing from the captives their maps, codebooks, compasses and money, which was quickly tucked away.

  ‘How many of you were there in all?’ one of the Gestapo men demanded. The question was barked at Vaculik, as he’d made it clear that he spoke French.

  ‘Just a hundred,’ he replied, straight-faced and serious.

  ‘You’re making fun of me,’ the Gestapo man snapped, raising a fist as if to strike.

  ‘Not at all,’ Vaculik protested. ‘There were several planes.’

  ‘I see,’ the Gestapo man replied. He seemed more interested now.

  ‘Don’t talk, Dupontel,’ a voice pleaded from the truck. It was Wiehe, clearly worried that Vaculik was cooperating.

  ‘Don’t worry, old man,’ Vaculik shot back, in English. ‘Talk’s a weapon, as well as silence. I want to see if I can get you a shot. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Pretty lousy. I think a bullet would be the best thing for me.’

  Vaculik spun his lies with the Gestapo, inflating the drop into something far more extensive and thrilling than it had been. He could see the man’s eyes glittering as he contemplated how quickly one of his captives seemed willing to talk. Finally, as a gesture of thanks, he untied Vaculik’s hands and allowed him to fetch the first aid kit from the heap of captured equipment. With that, Vaculik, who’d had some basic medical training, was able to give Wiehe a shot of morphine, to take away the worst of the pain.

  He’d just finished doing so when another group of soldiers emerged from the trees. They were dragging something – some individual – with them. It took a good few moments for anyone to realise who it was. Captain Garstin’s uniform was soaked in blood, and he seemed barely conscious. For a moment his men tried to dash forward to help him, but they were dragged back violently by their guards.

  Sensing where they were taking Garstin, Vaculik grabbed some of the sleeping bags from their pile of kit and threw them into the rear of the truck, laying them down. That way, at least when his captors lifted the SAS captain up and threw him aboard there would be something to cushion his landing. The sudden, jarring impact seemed to bring Garstin to his senses, and he began to beg for water. There was none, but Vaculik had some whisky in a flask, and he managed to get a little through Garstin’s cracked lips.

  He followed that with a shot of morphine, after which the wounded SAS captain began to talk, his words coming in short, breathless gasps. Having given a brief account of how he had been captured, he encouraged those of his men who were still conscious not to lose heart: ‘Do your best to let London know what’s happened,’ he urged. And tell—’ But his last words trailed away to nothing as he drifted back into oblivion . . . leaving his men wondering just what they were supposed to let London know.

  To one side of the truck a group of the German soldiers began to dig a pit. Bodies were dragged out of the woods and flung into it unceremoniously. These were none of the SAS party, which begged the question, exactly who were the dead? Had the Resistance provided some form of reception party after all, only to meet with a bloody end when the German troops had attacked? It was impossible to tell. All they did know was that the truck loaded with the nine of them was about to get underway.

  Vaculik heard orders issued with ‘Paris’ in the sentence, before two of the Gestapo men clambered onto the rear of the vehicle. There, with their weapons at the ready, they remained, as the engine coughed into life and the lorry ground its way along a rutted track, crawling out of the woodland, a vehicle-load of German troops bringing up the rear.

  Wiehe lay in the truck, each jolt causing a bolt of agony to shoot through him, in spite of the morphine. He glanced to left and right, where the other injured lay, one man – Garstin – ‘stained with blood’, the other, Lutton, ‘already unconscious, maybe dead’, plus Paddy Barker bleeding profusely from a thigh wound. A part of Wiehe realised then how close so many of them had come to death that morning, in the Bois de Bouray.

  As the truck turned north on that 5 July morning, pulling onto the tarmac for the short drive to Paris, Hauptscharführer Haug reflected upon what had transpired over the past few hours. He had fought in the First World War, been taken captive and held by the British for eighteen months as a POW. Now, utterly unexpectedly, he had nine British prisoners in the rear of his truck. How the wheel of fortune turned.

  The vehicle had closed sides, but an open rear. From that, Vaculik – who knew Paris well – was able to keep track of their progress. On the outskirts of the city the convoy came to a halt at a modern-looking military barracks, the Paris HQ of the Waffen SS – the ‘Armed SS’, the military wing of the SS and Nazi Party. This had to be the unit that had set the ambush at the Bois de Bouray.

  A German officer wearing the Waffen SS’s distinctive death’s head and runes proceeded to inspect the captives, or at least those who were able to stand. He seemed apoplectic at their treatment, and demanded of the Gestapo that the prisoners’ hands be untied. As that was being done, Vaculik managed to raise the issue of their wounded, who were in need of urgent medical attention if they were to stand any chance of survival.

  By way of response, the Waffen SS officer clambered into the rear of the truck to see for himself. He emerged with his face set in stone, ordering his men to offload their equipment as fast as possible and to unload their weapons. Just as soon as that was done, the convoy was sent on its way again, heading due north towards the heart of the city and presumably hastened on its way to a hospital.

  A short drive took them to the 13th arrondissement, to the southeast of central Paris. Sure enough, the second stop for the convoy turned out to be the vast edifice of the Hôpital La Pitié-Salpêtrière. Originally a gunpower factory– saltpetre being a constituent of explosives – it had, ironically, been transformed into a hospital in 1789, becoming the largest in all of France. The convoy ground to a halt at its ancient portals, where four men – Captain Garstin, Lieutenant Wiehe, Lance Corporal Lutton and Trooper Paddy Barker – were offloaded.

  Sadly, Lutton was pronounced dead upon arrival, and the other three were in little better shape. Few expected Garstin or Wiehe to make it, especially with what they would face now. Although the French nurses tried to demonstrate a little ‘cautious’ sympathy for the wounded men, none of those left aboard the truck felt any great hopes.

  ‘We said good-bye sadly to our wounded comrades,’ Vaculik noted, and as the truck got underway again, ‘no one said a word’.

  Chapter 13

  The convoy turned west, following the course of the Seine, the main artery of Paris. It rumbled across one of the main bridges spanning the river, before pulling onto the grand expanse of the Avenue Foch, the widest in all Paris, running from the famous Arc de Triomphe to the Porte Dauphine metro station. Prior to the war, the Avenue Foch had hosted some of the grandest residences in France, boasting palaces and mansions owned by some of the world’s foremost dynasties. But much had been taken over by the machinery of the Nazi state, and since January 1943 number 84 Avenue Foch had served as headquarters of the Paris Gestapo.

  Indeed, numbers 82–86 had been taken over by the organs of the Nazi security apparatus, with other buildings housing the Sicherheitsdienst (SD), the Nazi Party and SS’s bespoke intelligence service. It was at number 84 that the trucks ground to a final halt. In the shadow of the chestnut trees that lined the grand boulevard, the five remaining captives – Vaculik, Jones, Walker, Varey and Young – were made to dismount. Before them towered a grand stone edifice several stories high, each floor boasting fancy balconies with ornate wrought-iron railings, set before floor-to-ceiling windows.

  There was little to mark the building out as the sinister abode that it had become, but as their Gestapo captors actually announced to the SAS captives where they had arrived, all knew the grim reality. They had bee
n brought to Gestapo central, and few doubted what would follow, just as soon as they stepped inside. The Gestapo had methods to make practically any man – or woman – talk. Indeed, no one was expected to hold out forever. As with the SOE, SAS captives were asked to remain schtum for a minimum of forty-eight hours, to give their comrades time to cover their tracks. As the five captives stepped through those grim portals, they just had to hope they could hold out . . .

  Naturally, Sturmbannführer Hans Kieffer – the son of the barrel-maker from Offenburg – greeted the news of that morning’s captures with undisguised glee. Today’s Funkspiel – Operation Marbois – had well and truly come up trumps. Never had he seized such a large group of British captives in one fell swoop. This was unprecedented: a quite extraordinary outcome. With the prisoners safely in custody at Avenue Foch, Kieffer sent an exultant message up the chain of command to Horst Kopkow in Berlin.

  The reply came back more or less immediately: they were to await ‘further decisions and orders on this matter. On the express orders of Berlin, Paris could not give any instructions concerning the Commando [sic] men. They were in fact in the power of RSHA.’ Berlin – Kopkow – had seized control of the SAS captives, and nothing could happen without his say-so.

  Each floor of 84 Avenue Foch performed a distinct function. The basement was Hauptscharführer Haug’s domain, and right now he had a new batch of captured SOE equipment to process into stores. The top – fifth – floor housed the guard-room and the all-important cells, in which those being interrogated were held. The fourth floor housed the quarters of Sturmbannführer Kieffer, the master and commander of much that went on in that building.

  Below that, on the third floor, an equally powerful individual, SS Standartenführer (Colonel) Helmut Knochen had his offices, from where he oversaw security matters across a swathe of western Europe, stretching from France to Belgium. Nominally, Knochen was of a senior rank to Kieffer, but with the latter’s thrusting ambition and his ruthlessness, he was seen by many as the man in charge. Much of Knochen’s duties involved the rounding up and deportation of Jews to the concentration camps, but he also had the blood of hundreds of French patriots on his hands, those in the Resistance who had stood firm against the Nazi occupation and paid the ultimate price.