SAS Band of Brothers Read online

  Below Knochen, the entire second floor was dedicated to Funkspiel operations, making it Goetz’s domain. This morning it was abuzz with excitement. Out of the blue, today’s Funskpiel had netted nine British agents, or rather parachutists dressed in military uniform. Berlin had been informed. Already, there was talk of the Waffen SS commander of the operation, Obersturmführer Schubert, receiving a decoration, the Kriegsverdienstkreuz II. Klasse – the War Merit Cross, 2nd Class – for his brave actions. Now to begin the questioning, from which who knew what might follow.

  On the fifth floor the five SAS captives awaited the inevitable, with a heavy sense of dread. Exhausted, hungry, battle-worn and demoralised, they were locked together in one cell, Vaculik begging the others ‘not to betray the fact that I was French’. It wasn’t long before they were marched out again, and taken below, to Kieffer’s domain. There, they were led before the SS Sturmbannführer himself, who had with him SS Untersturmführer (Lieutenant) Alfred von Kapri, a former languages student who spoke faultless English, as well as being a die-hard Nazi.

  Kieffer’s key focus today was ‘to determine whether a radio-deception plan was possible’ as a result of the captures. Having checked through the captives’ personal effects, he’d already deduced that both officers on the patrol – Captain Garstin and Lieutenant Wiehe – had been hospitalised. From studying the captured radio cipher pads, he knew that the man he would need to turn, if a Funkspiel were to be possible, was Lieutenant Wiehe.

  The softly-softly Gestapo man was wont to offer his English captives tea and biscuits, to better reel them in. But in terms of a Funkspiel, the five men ranged before him now could offer little, he suspected. His questioning soon confirmed his suspicions. Due to their rank, none of the five ‘were able to give the necessary details for carrying out a radio deception’. Still, having had men of the SAS fall into his hands was a first, and Kieffer had high expectations of their subsequent interrogations.

  As one of the captives was already under suspicion of being a Frenchman – a treasonous swine, playing at being a bona fide member of the British armed forces – they would concentrate on breaking him first. Kieffer detailed one of his toughest and best, SS Hauptsturmführer (Captain) Richard Schnur, assisted by the very capable von Kapri, ‘to proceed with a detailed interrogation . . . and to submit a comprehensive report’.

  At the same time Kieffer dispatched two of his men to the Hôpital La Pitié-Salpêtrière, to check if either of the SAS officers was fit enough to face questions. Their news was dispiriting. Unfortunately, ‘there was little hope of keeping the men, and particularly the officer [Captain Garstin] alive’. For Garstin and Wiehe, those conclusions wouldn’t have come as any great surprise. But in his wisdom, Kieffer begged to differ: Kopkow had demanded daily reports on the case, and at the very least Wiehe, the radio man, must be made to talk.

  From the moment of their entry into the hospital, Garstin, Wiehe and Paddy Barker had faced a nightmarish scenario. Stripped of everything, they were taken to a ‘special room reserved for wounded terrorists and partisans’. It resembled little more than a prison cell. While Garstin was barely conscious, Wiehe remained surprisingly alert and lucid, considering the severity of his injuries. In his fluent French he was able to ask why they had been segregated from the other Allied soldiers held at the hospital. The answer was chilling: the SAS men were regarded as ‘spies’, in spite of their ‘wearing British uniform’.

  Worse was to follow. While their injuries were roughly bandaged, it was made clear that that was going to be the sum total of their treatment. It looked as if their wounds would be left to fester and rot, in which case it would take a miracle to save them. For Wiehe, the questioning began almost immediately. Despite his parlous state, he faced a grilling by a visiting Gestapo officer, the thrust of whose interest was all too clear: he was seeking to learn all he could about their means of communicating with headquarters.

  Despite hours of such questioning, Wiehe refused to talk, even when his interrogator resorted to hitting the badly wounded man around the face. Finally he was wheeled into the corridor. There the Gestapo man made a new and chilling threat. Of the three bullets, one was lodged in Wiehe’s femur, another at the base of his spine. If he refused to talk, the Gestapo man would order the medical staff to remove the bullets without any anaesthetic. Such treatment, Wiehe knew, might kill him. But he was at death’s door anyway, and no matter what, he was determined not to break.

  For hours the interrogation continued. When his inquisitor finally tired, Wiehe was wheeled into a new room. There were several beds inside, and none of them held any of his SAS comrades. Indeed, he would never get to see either Paddy Barker or Captain Garstin again. Instead he was to be incarcerated with members of the French Resistance. One, he learned, was called Georges Leroux. Fifty-two and grey-haired, Leroux hailed from the village of Breuilly, south of Paris, and he was a blacksmith by trade.

  As with Vaculik, it seemed that the Gestapo were convinced that Wiehe was French – another ‘traitor’ masquerading as a British soldier. And as he quickly learned, the French ‘patients’ were in line for particularly brutal treatment. An Unteroffizier (sergeant) of the Wehrmacht was in charge of security on the new ward – a bald-headed, bull-necked individual, who wore his Iron Cross on a ribbon around his neck and his Eastern Front medals with equal dash. At any time that Unteroffizier was wont to reign down flurries of kicks and blows upon his ‘patients’. Wiehe’s only defence was the truth – to argue, doggedly, that he was a British soldier and should not be there at all.

  The one possession the SAS lieutenant had managed to keep hold of was his tiny notebook. Despite his terrible injuries, he somehow managed to enter a first few words in spidery-looking, almost illegible pencil. On the page headed ‘Wed 5 July. Sun Rises, 3.50; Sets, 8.18 (GMT)’ he had managed to scribble: ‘Parachuted 2 a.m. near Étampes. Whole party with exception of 3 of my section POW. 4 wounded included Garstin and self.’

  Lieutenant Wiehe had last visited Paris when he was aged just six, on one of his few overseas trips before the war. He had never imagined returning here, like this. But equally, he had wrestled with the meaning of death early in life, when he had lost his father. Since then, he’d seen any number of his friends die on the field of battle. He’d weathered exploding mines, bullets and bombs, not to mention his own injuries from parachuting. He was prepared for his death, but strangely, he felt that now was not to be his time.

  Late on the day of their capture, the first of the five men held at 84 Avenue Foch was called for individual questioning – ‘Jean Dupontel’ was ordered to step from the cell. The guard marched Vaculik down a flight of stairs, to Kieffer’s floor, where he was led into a large, sunlit room that opened onto the Avenue Foch. By the window stood a youngish-looking man, in an immaculate SS uniform – von Kapri. Before Vaculik was seated an older figure, in a dark civilian suit, with ‘hard, clear-cut features and a rather aquiline nose’ – Kieffer’s chosen inquisitor, Hauptsturmführer Schnur.

  From the very outset, it was clear that the Gestapo man knew Vaculik was French. ‘You say that your name is Jean Dupontel and that you were born in Quebec,’ Schnur began, removing an envelope from his desk that contained Vaculik’s few documents. ‘If so, why do you have such a strong accent?’

  ‘That’s because I’m French-Canadian,’ Vaculik replied, running through his cover story in his head.

  ‘You are quite sure you are French-Canadian?’ Schnur queried.

  ‘Of course. I was born at number 33, the High Street, Montreal, where my father was a lawyer.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Schnur countered. ‘You’re lying. Name me three hotels near the main station in Montreal.’

  By way of answer, Vaculik asked for a piece of paper and pencil. With that he drew a sketch of downtown Montreal, pointing out the Tremaine, the Royal and the St George. Vaculik hoped he’d remembered the hotel names correctly from when he’d been briefed on his cover story, especially a
s Schnur pocketed the sketch, promising: ‘I am going to double check all this.’ Then he seemed to change tack completely. ‘How long have you been in the army and what is your rank?’

  ‘Two years, and I’m a corporal.’

  ‘Then why is your paybook so new?’ Schnur queried, indicating the (false) document lying on his desk.

  ‘I lost the other one, that’s all.’

  Schnur smiled, patronisingly. ‘You may as well admit that you’re French. It will go better for you.’ His tone had softened, sounding almost friendly, as if he was giving a piece of kindly advice. ‘We don’t treat the French so badly. We’re not at war with them. Now come on, be sensible. Admit it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Vaculik replied, sticking doggedly to his story. ‘I’m a British subject, although of course my ancestors were French.’

  As Vaculik wouldn’t talk, things were about to get nasty. While Kieffer claimed not to sanction violence, in truth he oversaw a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy at 84 Avenue Foch. He expected his interrogators to get results. What means they employed to secure them were their own affair, and Avenue Foch boasted all the accoutrements of the dark art of torture. ‘I was beaten up and slapped during my interrogation,’ Vaculik would later report. But first would come the mind-games.

  Without warning Schnur sprang to his feet and slammed his fist onto the desk. ‘That’s enough!’ he yelled. ‘You’re a dirty Frenchman, making common cause with the English.’ He knew very well the captives were SAS, Schnur warned, especially as he had ‘other SAS prisoners’ in his custody already. Vaculik didn’t doubt that the Gestapo knew what unit they were from, but having other SAS prisoners – surely he had to be bluffing.

  Schnur reached for a Luger he had lain in a desk drawer. ‘Now, you will tell me exactly what you came here to do, or I’ll shoot you out of hand.’

  Staring down the barrel of the 9mm pistol, Vaculik felt his innards turn to ice. He just had to hope the Gestapo man was acting out a part, although it didn’t exactly look that way. There was spittle at the corners of his mouth, like a rabid dog. Schnur thrust the Luger forward until it was pressed into Vaculik’s ribs. Still Vaculik refused to admit anything, and moments later the interrogator’s whole demeanour changed again.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a packet of Gauloises. He offered one to Vaculik. Accepting a cigarette wouldn’t hurt and at least it might help settle his jangling nerves. But taking it proved nigh-on impossible, for Vaculik had been handcuffed along with the others, just as soon as they were inside the building. As Schnur offered Vaculik a light, the Frenchman asked if his cuffs might be removed. To his surprise, his interrogator agreed.

  For a few seconds the two men – inquisitor and captive – puffed away in silence. Schnur exhaled a long cloud of smoke at the ceiling. His expression had apparently softened. ‘I don’t like being unpleasant towards you,’ he began again. ‘You’re being silly. Pig-headed. All you have to do is tell me why you were sent and the code you use to keep in touch with London . . . and you’ll be treated decently.’ He eyed Vaculik for a long moment. ‘Otherwise . . . you’ll be treated as a terrorist. And I dare say you can guess we’ve a short way with terrorists.’

  Vaculik gestured at how he was dressed. ‘I am a soldier in uniform, and I ought to be treated as a prisoner of war.’ As he’d been briefed in England, this was one of his only defences, if captured.

  ‘We don’t regard parachutists as soldiers, and we don’t treat them as ordinary prisoners of war,’ Schnur countered. ‘For us they are bandits who creep up from behind and slit our throats.’

  ‘I am a soldier in uniform,’ Vaculik repeated, showing Schnur his red beret and cap badge, as proof. ‘And I demand to be treated as—’

  ‘Swine!’ Schnur suddenly exploded, a fist full of heavy rings smashing into Vaculik’s face. Schnur hit him three times in quick succession, knocking the half-smoked cigarette from Vaculik’s mouth. He let the blows unseat him, as if he’d been knocked to the floor. By the time he clambered to his feet again, he’d managed to grab the remains of the Gauloises and palm it, hoping he could keep it hidden for later.

  Von Kapri stepped across the room and clouted Vaculik for good measure, before forcing him roughly back into the chair. Schnur brought his face very close to Vaculik’s, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘You are one of those dirty terrorists, saboteurs and murderers who spring on our men from behind . . . You’d better make up your mind to talk, or it will go very hard for you.’

  ‘I can’t say any more than I’ve already said,’ Vaculik countered.

  Schnur turned to von Kapri. ‘Take him away.’

  The younger man reached forward and dragged Vaculik out of the room, propelling him back to the cell, whereupon he was handcuffed once more and thrown inside.

  ‘Walker!’ von Kapri cried. ‘You’re next!’

  With that, Trooper Walker, the former farm labourer from County Down, was led away. Ever since joining the British Army, the high-spirited twenty-one-year-old had spent considerable time in various military prisons, due to his unruliness and high spirits. No one doubted that Walker would give a very good account of himself, and Schnur was unlikely to get anything out of the tough Irishman.

  With Walker gone, Jones eyed Vaculik’s swollen face. ‘They’re a nice bunch, I must say.’

  ‘Never mind about that, look what I’ve got,’ Vaculik announced, revealing the crumpled remains of the Gauloises.

  Jones practically broke into a jig at the sight of it. Having straightened it out as best he could, he grabbed a match from his pocket, lit up and drew in a huge lungful of smoke, holding it in as long as he could, before letting out a regretful gasp. Just then, their guard slid an eye up to the peephole in the door. There was a flurry of bolts being flung back, before he stamped in furiously.

  ‘My god! Who’s smoking?’ he exclaimed. ‘It is forbidden! You’ll be punished! Who’s smoking?’

  ‘No one’s smoking,’ Jones replied, all innocence. He’d palmed the cigarette butt, just as soon as he’d heard the key in the door.

  ‘Maybe it’s smoke from the chimney,’ Vaculik added, facetiously.

  The guard swore. He knew when he was being made fun of. He slammed the door, making sure to lock it firmly behind him.

  Beneath the bravado, Vaculik ached from head to toe. Over the past twenty-four hours he’d been shot at, clubbed with rifle butts and beaten up, but the very worst was seeing men he respected and revered being gunned down. With neither Captain Garstin nor Lieutenant Wiehe on hand, both the patrol’s officers were gone. And while the SAS stressed the importance of self-reliance and inner strength amongst its men, regardless of rank, it would have been an enormous relief to have had at least one of the officers still in their company.

  Jones helped Vaculik onto one of the thin beds. His body trembled and he felt as if he were falling ill. They’d had precious little food or water since taking off from England, and in truth Vaculik was both physically and emotionally shattered. Jones urged his friend to try to get some rest, but as he laid down sleep just wouldn’t come. Instead, he was back in that cornfield, with bullets and grenades bursting all around, and everywhere the death rattle of machine guns.

  Soon it was Jones’s turn in the interrogation room. If anything, the ornate, seemingly civilised surroundings of 84 Avenue Foch lent the questioning and the associated violence an even more twisted and sinister feel. It was almost as if this kind of treatment could not be happening in this kind of setting. Of course, Jones – the SAS original, former miner and trained boxer – carried his attitude on his sleeve. This was a man who was very much bloodied but unbowed.

  From the very moment they’d been thrown into the cell, Jones had taken to berating their guards in his thick Wigan accent, employing the most colourful curses imaginable. As the jailers couldn’t understand, there was little they could do about it. But when he was taken down for questioning, his inquisitors took the extra precaution of tying him to the cha
ir, in spite of his handcuffs. That done, von Kapri – tall, clean-shaven and well built – took up a position hovering on Jones’s shoulder.

  It was done with maximum intimidation in mind. ‘If I failed to answer, [he] would walk round and hit me in the face with the back of his hand,’ Jones recalled, of von Kapri’s behaviour. Every time he refused to cooperate – which Jones did in his own, inimitable style – the SS Untersturmführer would punch him. For a man like Jones – a trained boxer – it must have been utterly infuriating to have to sit there and take it.

  Jones was faced with ‘all kinds of threats’, in an effort to extract the information Schnur sought. He was asked about the nature and objectives of their mission. He was asked about the ‘doodlebugs,’ the V1 flying bombs that had been raining down upon London and other British cities, as Hitler’s riposte to the Allied landings. Nazi propaganda was trumpeting the V1, the first of the so-called Vergeltungswaffen (vengeance weapons), and further such ground-breaking weaponry – chiefly the V2 – as the means to reverse the tides of the war.

  Finally, the SS Hauptsturmführer seemed to grow as angry and frustrated with Jones as he had been with Vaculik. The SAS corporal was dismissed, with dark threats ringing in his ears: ‘We cannot waste any more time on you.’ But instead of being returned to the cell, Jones was led directly to Hans Kieffer’s office, whereupon the contrast with Schnur’s approach couldn’t have been starker.