63. Paris Ist Gefallt
Headquarters, 3. Panzerkorps
Dury, Occupied France
6 September 1941
For his field headquarters, Rommel had appropriated a chateau four kilometers south of Amiens, on the south side of the Somme. Prior to his corps joining in the attack on Paris, there was one task set for him: clear out the pesky remnants of the French armored offensive on Hausser's right flank. That task had finally been completed late on the evening of the fifth, and today, Rommel had invited commanders down to battalion level to a quick celebratory dinner before they joined in the Paris offensive.
Among those present was the newly promoted Oberst von Manteuffel, commanding 6. Schutzenregiment after the collapse of a bridge under Oberst von Unger's halftrack. Manteuffel was widely known to be a shoe-in for the Pour le Merite for his near-miraculous assault across the Afsluitdijk, and he raised his glass silently toward Johann Volkmann and General Bayerlein in the staff section. Volkmann smiled and nodded in response; Bayerlein grinned ear-to-ear for his own reasons. He had pulled Johann aside the day before to tell him the news. "Well, Hans, I'm leaving as soon as this campaign's over. Probably have a place for you if you want to follow." It transpired that Bayerlein had already been notified by Brauchitsch and Rommel successively that he had been tapped for divisional command, probably to take command of one of the new mechanized formations being raised back in Germany proper. Johann had congratulated him as far as service etiquette allowed - not far, for a subordinate to a superior - and said he would consider the offer.
Only one man at this gathering looked put out. That was the tall, pencil-moustached guest of honor, a French armored general whom Rommel freely admitted had been one of the primary sources he had researched prior to the Polish war. The Frenchman had preened upon hearing this, until remembering he was in German captivity and retreating once more into sullen silence. General de Gaulle, Johann had already decided, combined arrogance and brilliance in a rather limited way. He would have made a fine Junker, he thought as he drained some departed French aristocrat's finest brandy.
Rommel stood, rapping the table once with his knuckles. "Gentlemen!" he began, raising his glass. "The Kaiser - may God guide the All-Highest to victory in this war!" The assembled officers stood and raised their glasses in toast, even de Gaulle after a long pause, eyes dark and mutinous, manners or possibly self-preservation finally winning out. "God save the Kaiser!" came the response. It was Bayerlein's turn; he toasted the Kaiserin. The toasts went down the table - the Army, the Marshal, victory, and, incongruously, the French ("A gallant foe - may they fight well, but not too well!"). Finally, after they had all consumed more than any sane man would under the circumstances, Rommel leaned forward against the table for support and began speaking once more.
"Now, I'm sure all of you know what is coming next. We are to join General von Brauchitsch and break Paris." He glanced at de Gaulle, who sat stiff and unmoving through this news. "Once Paris falls, we are to continue south. I have been given no definite orders in that regard, but I expect to spend Christmas somewhere warm - Marseilles, perhaps," he added with a grin and a finger alongside his nose. Laughter and cheers greeted the news, and he frowned, waving for silence. "Still - one of the consequences of victory is that we lose good men. Some to the foe," he nodded at de Gaulle, "and some to a more dangerous enemy - headquarters." Another round of laughter followed.
"Well. As some of you know, after Paris, we are losing our chief of staff. General Bayerlein here has been asked to return to Berlin and receive his marching orders. The only question is, Fritz, you riding in a tank or a halftrack?" Rommel grinned at his chief of staff, who smiled back. The two got along well, which was a small miracle given Rommel's disdain for staff work. De Gaulle looked vaguely bewildered at the exchange, and Rommel went on. "So, congratulations, General Bayerlein. Now the other source of losses - the foe. General de Gaulle, I would like to congratulate you on a gallant defense, and, if I may say, on the only counterattack which your army has launched which actually
worked. I regret meeting under the circumstances, and I must say, I'm surprised at you. Gentlemen, did you know we captured not a single color, not even down to battalion level, from the good general's division? No? It's true, not a single standard!" Rommel gestured at de Gaulle in frank admiration, and the Frenchman unbent so far as to incline his head a fraction. "Tell us, General, now that it's over, how did you manage?"
De Gaulle shrugged, shoulders rising and falling eloquently. "A gentleman does not tell," he replied.
---
Chateau de Lassan
Outside Rouen, Occupied France
9 September 1941
A knock sounded at the door to the great old chateau, predating the Revolution, and Annelise de Lassan glanced up from where she was nursing. The boy cried out angrily and she quickly repositioned herself. Her father-in-law, old Colonel de Lassan, or the Vicomte, as she occasionally thought of him, started, opening his eyes and sitting up. The war had taken a terrible toll on him; in six weeks, she had seen him go from vigorous and active to despairing and chairbound. He stood and tottered toward the door, where Annelise heard him exclaim in apparent joy and shock.
In staggered Henri, bedraggled, covered in mud, with his uniform buttons half torn away and his hair matted to his head. He looked nothing like the gallant young tanker who had gone off to war six weeks ago, nor the man she had married in the Saumur garrison church. The only point of similarity was the ancient, heavy-bladed British cavalry sword he clutched as if life depended on it. Instead, he seemed to hug himself, cringing inward. At first, she thought it might be injuries, but instead, he straightened, looking his father in the eye. "Mon Pere," he began, voice cracking, "the war is lost." He collapsed on his father's shoulder, sobbing, until he recollected himself and straightened up again to attention, reaching into his uniform blouse and tugging. A blue-white-red flag, its white central field emblazoned with a half-dozen strings of gold text, ranging from "JEMMAPES 1792" to "LA MARNE 1918," emerged bit-by-bit, and he lost some of that crouched-in look. He still looked years older, but not quite so folded in on himself.
"M'sieur," he said formally, "I have the honor to present you with the colors of the 1.re Regiment de Cuirassiers." With that, he found a chair, collapsing into it, exhausted and beaten.
The full story came out in outline form. De Gaulle's 1. Division Blindee had used the SOMUA exactly as it should have been used, massed in division numbers, and had pushed back at Amiens just as the mass of German armor had committed at Compiegne. The German reaction had just been to relax back along the Somme toward the sea, and the sheer volume of German armor spreading out from the concentration at Compiegne had first separated de Gaulle from Paris, then overrun him. As a final recourse, he had ordered the division's youngest officers to grab their colors and disperse. He had no idea where the others were, but he at least had made it home without being captured. At this point, the Germans were not even bothering to round up prisoners, Henri said; it was too much trouble to account for every man who had been thrust in uniform in the last six weeks, and besides, the paperwork was probably hopelessly fouled in the Invalides. Even so, he had avoided every German patrol that he possibly could, and given the rest his best beaten-man impression. It wasn't hard, Annelise thought, somewhat unkindly. He really was a beaten man. The old man was a different story. His jaw firmed and he visibly sloughed off the last six weeks as he held the First Cuirassier colors in his hands. "France endures," he said, casting his final judgement on the matter. "Kings and emperors come and go, but France endures."
---
L'Hotel National des Invalides
Paris, Occupied France
19 September 1941
On the same day that Gamelin ordered the retreat from Reims, Paris was declared an open city. General von Brauchitsch had decided to allow Paul Hausser, whose troops had invested the city for three weeks, the first triumphal entry, his own troops entering behind Hausser's 2. Panzerkorps and ahead of Manstein's 1. Garde-Panzerkorps. They paraded down the Champs-Elysees in broad daylight, the rumble of tread against concrete replacing the feared rumble of artillery.
The German headquarters had been established in the Invalides complex among the monuments to French military grandeur; Brauchitsch's own office was only steps away from Bonaparte's tomb. For the moment, his own position was almost overwhelming: Chief of the General Staff, commander, Army Group North, and now Military Governor of France. Even Hindenburg had never held so much theoretical power, and Brauchitsch himself was still recovering from the heart attack he had suffered earlier in the summer. The result was that the campaign in France devolved upon corps commanders, especially the spearhead leaders like Guderian, Hausser, and Rommel. However, for a bright, shining moment on the nineteenth of September, they celebrated the Kaiser's arrival in Paris.
The front had by now moved far south, with Leeb and Rundstedt forming a line between Dijon and Vichy. Model's corps was speeding southeast from Orleans, so he was not among the attendees at the Invalides. Kaiser Wilhelm looked tired, drawn, not at all the celebrant he should have been at the second German occupation of Paris in a century. Still, he mounted the rostrum to deliver his news.
It was not terribly surprising news in its particulars: batons for Brauchitsch, Leeb, and Rundstedt, the almost-unheard-of honor of the Grand Cross of the Pour Le Merite for Bock, and a more liberal bestowal of that award than at any point in history. Both junior and senior officers were so honored: Rommel with the rare oak leaves for his breakthrough at the Afsluitsdijk, Manteuffel as the man who had actually spearheaded that attack, and a young, haunted-eyed parachutist captain named Volkmann for his actions at Reims... a mere sampling of the honors bestowed at the Invalides ceremony. The Kaiser visibly started at Wilhelm Volkmann, for a moment much more his old self, and the reporters heard him once again joke. "Well, Volkmann, I said don't let the name down, but this is quite another thing!" Royal joke or not, the parachutist had merely stared dead ahead, through the Kaiser, through the wall.
Johann Volkmann had tracked down his brother after the ceremony, before the airborne corps was released to garrison Normandy temporarily. He had just received his own marching orders, and was still stiff in the black-and-silver uniform of 3. Leib-Panzerdivision. He frankly thought the Totenkopf shako was ridiculous, and had surreptitiously carried a "Rommel beret" the entire time. The beret was so much more practical when wearing a headset, after all. Still, he had to admit, it was cheaper than the ridiculous silver cuirass the Garde du Corps wore, and at least Mackensen's old division didn't require a "Graf" to enter! For all of the changes he saw in himself, he was shocked at the changes in Wilhelm.
Wilhelm, always grayhound-lean, was now gaunt. He ate, though without relish, and he whirled at the sound of approaching horses, though it was just a supply wagon. He did not even bother looking apologetic at this point. The two German officers attracted surly glances as they walked the cobbled streets, and Wilhelm frowned at the surrounding Frenchmen. "I wish they'd all die," he muttered. Johann blinked. "Willi?"
"The French. I wish they'd all die." He looked around again. "You know what they did at Reims?" It was rhetorical, they both knew about the bloodletting there. "Well, yes," Hans admitted, "but surely it was worse for them!" Wilhelm spat, eyes flashing. "Besides, it doesn't matter. They've already told me I'm going home." He was bitter, hands flexing into fists. "Soon as I get a company, it gets killed out from under me, given to that fuck Skorzeny, and they want me to go home soon as the corps is settled in in Normandy."
Johann coughed, not expecting this sudden outpouring of anger. "Why?" he asked, somewhat shocked. Wilhelm stopped, turning to face him. "Apparently Generalmajor Ramcke is setting up some new staff. Some kind of combined group. And he wants me to go with him." Wilhelm's face was a mask of raw anguish. "I don't want to leave my men, Hans! Not least to Skorzeny." It took Johann a minute to think of who this Skorzeny might be, but he finally dredged up a mental image from this month's
Signal, showing a cheerful, scar-faced paratrooper squatting back against a French machine-gun, cigarette clamped in his teeth and his helmet on his knee. "What's so bad about this Skorzeny?" he finally worked up to asking, half-dreading whatever explosion he might produce.
"He thinks war's a fucking game, Hans! All that 'follow me to glory' nonsense. He salutes like he's on stage, you can practically
hear him smirking when he marches, and he swills beer like a goddamned Gefreiter -
with his goddamned Gefreiter!" Wilhelm deflated, hands visibly shaking as he refrained from jamming them in his pockets. "Well. Anyway. I'm supposed to make sure my company's barracked in Normandy, then I'm supposed to go with Ramcke back to Wilhelmshaven. Wilhelmshaven, Hans. Not Stendal, Wilhelmshaven." He looked miserable for a moment, then for the first time since Hans had seen him today, he softened, smiled, turned back into the boy he remembered. "Oh, and my mail finally caught up with me." He did not look at Hans, gazing down the street instead. "It's a girl. Marguerite Marie Volkmann. Rita somehow talked the Johanniters into letting a photographer in. Look." He finally produced a tiny photograph from his pocket, showing a tired but happy Rita Volkmann holding a tiny bundle with an outrageously small face, eyes looking into the camera with no sign of fear, in a hospital bed.
"She's beautiful, Willi," Johann Volkmann said with feeling, his own mind turning to Ilse, back in Berlin. They had traded letters for months, but had only occasionally seen each other. Ilse's own letters had slowed since Becker had released her from her secretarial duties. Whatever she was doing now, she was happy - apparently her doctoral committee was headed by Doctor Meitner, an idol of hers, but she was not allowed to discuss it in any great detail. Her last letter had said, more or less, that the war was a silly dispute, and the sooner he got home from it, the better. He did not know how to explain to her that, silly or not, it was not just what he did, but what he
was.
"Yeah, thanks," Wilhelm said, tucking the picture back away. "And hey, congratulations on the Guards. Someone out there likes you. Wish I could say the same."
---
Führer der Unterseeboote
Kiel, German Empire
20 September 1941
U-47 had had strict orders on this cruise: not to return to port until torpedo stores were expended or Commander Prien was down to a quarter of his fuel reserve. Strangely, in the waters around Scapa Flow it had been the first that finally occurred, bringing the Type IX boat back in with a broom tied to her masthead. Prien grinned ear-to-ear as they approached the dock, his submarine having accounted for a pair of destroyers and the light cruiser
Belfast. It was not a bad haul, albeit utterly lacking in the big ships Prien craved. Reputations like Weddingen's weren't made by light cruisers, he had explained to Peter Volkmann. Still, for a first cruise, it was quite satisfactory.
Peter spied a man waiting at the dock that he had not expected, an impatient-looking Admiral Canaris. He ducked below to dart into the officers' bunks, grabbing his leather jacket. It had shrunk considerably once he had peeled it off on his rescue, but he had spent the intervening three weeks stretching it once more until it fit, albeit snugly. Prien, freshly shaven for his return to port, laughed at the pretense. "Silly pilots, think you need a costume or someone'll mistake you for a U-mann?"
Peter grinned back, elbowing Prien. "Not a chance, I at least bathe occasionally. Otherwise, I wouldn't be aboard, now, would I?" Prien guffawed one last time, saluting the shore as the mooring lines were cast. "Guess not. Now get off my boat before I break out the pikes." Despite the harrassment, Peter was, as rank dictated, second-to-last off the boat, Prien being the last aboard. Canaris had been all but stamping in impatience. Peter noted a blue glint at his throat. "Sir, congratulations," he said, awkwardly saluting, the jacket resisting his arm movement. Canaris grunted and quickly walked down the docks; he had seen Dönitz approaching, and did not want to get into another turf war. "Come on," he snapped over his shoulder. Peter obediently followed. As they reached the security checkpoint at the end of the dock, Peter's eyes widened - there was Hanna, a furious expression melting off her face as she saw him and her belly slightly but, on her slight figure, unmistakably rounded. He bolted past Canaris and picked her up, spinning around as she battered at his head, her voice an incoherent mixture of angry and overjoyed babbling.
"Frau Volkmann, if I may," Canaris said, lips pressed together, reaching into his coat. "You are Peter Volkmann, of His Imperial Majesty's Kaiserliche Marine?" Peter blinked. "Sir, you know..." He realized what must be coming and came to attention. "Sir. Yes, sir."
"Then, Herr Fregattenkapitän, in accordance with the wishes of the War Minister, the Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet, the Chancellor, and the Kaiser in council, you are awarded the Order of the Red Eagle, Third Class, With Bow, Crown, and Swords." The award case contained a more ornate version of the award Peter already wore, and Canaris glanced at Hanna, who nodded and lifted the ribbon to slip it around his neck. "Read the citation on your own time, Peter. Frau Volkmann, you may kiss the fool." Hanna grinned and leapt at him again, and this time, there was no trace of her apparent anger earlier, nor, after a long moment, air in Peter's lungs. In self-defense, he pulled away.
"Now, Frau Volkmann, I apologize, but I must steal your husband." Canaris turned oddly courtly in his manner, bowing slightly with his apology, and she sighed. "Fine, Admiral, but I do want to see him tonight." It was an unexpectedly subdued reaction from the usually outspoken Hanna, and she kissed his cheek once more before walking away, eyes over her shoulder the whole time.
"Scapa Flow." It was a strange beginning, but that was Canaris. "You've been on a U-boat, so you probably don't know everything. Must hand it to him, Dönitz has done a decent job of keeping them bottled there. First things first, Peter. You did it. You got the
Hood, congratulations. Broke clean in half. Second, we got at least two more battleships, and a carrier. That Mountbatten character was her captain, according to the BBC. Got a VC for saving his crew. You're probably wondering about this," he added, fingering his own Pour le Merite. "Well, the Kaiser... he gave Ludi and Siggi the Black Eagle as soon as we got back to port, could hardly ignore their commander. Or the man who planned the raid," he amended with a meaningful glance at Peter. "So you're probably wondering what's next."
"Yes, sir."
"This is actually our third return to port, then we rejoin the Scapa Flow blockade squadron. The Luftwaffe's taken responsibility for the Channel squadron, we're just supposed to keep the battleships under fire until further notice. We don't really
need you on the
Zeppelin, so you're getting kicked upstairs. Rising tide lifts all boats and all that. Congratulations... Kapitän zur See Volkmann. Konteradmiral Langsdorff's taking over Carrier Division One, you're the
Hindenburg's new captain as soon as we get a change of command arranged." Canaris stopped to face Peter. "I've jumped you over two dozen captains with seniority dating back to the Great War, but they think the Walrus is just a garbage scow with all these new carriers coming off the slips. Anyway, we're at Wilhelmshaven for the next seventy-two hours, I expect a change of command with twenty-four hours for you to get to know your ship. Other than that, you're on pass, dismissed."