Dunkirk Crescendo, Page 2

  There was a German invasion coming; he could feel it. The rains had stopped, and the fields were drying rapidly. Soon there would be no barrier to the free movement of tanks and armored vehicles—no fear of their bogging down.

  Even worse, military and political figures alike were distracted. The High Command was not focused on France. They were bemoaning April’s debacle when the Wehrmacht had swept over Norway. After delaying a week, giving the Germans ample opportunity to land troops all along the Norwegian coast, the Allies had sent too little help. In ten days the campaign had been lost, and those who were not dead or captured returned home. Chalk up another victory for the undefeated Führer. How much longer would he hold back Blitzkrieg from France, which had declared a state of war against Germany on September 3? And what reason had the Western Allies shown to make him hesitate? None!

  The French generals blamed the French politicians for not committing to help Norway sooner. The politicians blamed the generals for their ill-prepared troops. Both groups blamed the British. After all, Norway involved maritime forces and the landing of troop ships. Wasn’t that the subject in which the Royal Navy claimed unmatched expertise?

  The upshot was that French politics was in one of its perpetual crises. Prime Minister Reynaud was rumored to be fed up with General Gamelin and his cohort Daladier, no longer France’s prime minister but now defense minister. But if Reynaud fired those two, it would certainly bring down the new government. Meanwhile, English Prime Minister Chamberlain was also on thin ice for the failure in Norway. It appeared that both administrations might collapse within the week. It could not have come at a worse time. Everyone was already bored with predictions of a German invasion that never really materialized. Now it was impossible to get anyone in authority to listen.

  Andre was more of an outcast than ever, since he was still convinced that the main Nazi threat would not come from where the aging leaders from the Great War claimed it would.

  He sat on the second-from-the-bottom tread of the stairs leading down to his basement and studied a back view of the brilliant but quirky Richard Lewinski. The carrottopped engineer was enmeshed in the bowels of his reconstruction of the Nazi code machine, Enigma, as if the giant machine were swallowing him. It was difficult to separate the wild explosion of wiry hair from the profusion of tangled wires that encircled the cabinet where he worked. If it were not for the thin, khaki-clad legs that protruded below the circuitry, Andre could not have disassociated Lewinski from the machine.

  It was a decision born of months of frustration that made Andre call out to Lewinski, “Richard, are you making any progress?”

  The Polish Jew’s form did not change position, so it was as if his backside were answering the question. “Of course. I now know the wiring of the first three wheels. If there were only three, we would be done.”

  “Can you do anything to . . . speed up the process?”

  Now Lewinski emerged, looking childishly peeved. His face puckered into a pout. “I am working as hard as I can, Andre . . . all alone and from memory. Can you think of a way for me to work harder?”

  Andre waved his hands to soothe his friend and head off a potential tantrum. Then he reached inside his coat pocket and removed a pair of twice-folded sheets of paper. “Richard,” he said at last, “I am not supposed to have this, let alone show it to you. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  Lewinski came over to sit beside Andre on the step. His bony knees stuck up so that he resembled a stork awkwardly perched on a wire. “This is a coded transmission. Where did it come from?”

  “Where is not important. In fact, the reason you did not—could not—know about this is that if you were . . . it is just better for you to not know any more than you need to.”

  “So, spy games and paranoia. What is this?” Lewinski asked.

  “These are intercepts of two Wehrmacht radio transmissions from last September—the first page of each. A team of cryptanalysts has been studying them for patterns to find clues to the settings of the dials.”

  “Is there a starting hint?”

  “Not really—just a guess. The British think that the Germans use rhymes or clichés as test messages. If they were so stupid as to use the same test phrase more than once, we might catch the repeat . . .”

  “And be able to unlock the settings of the dials,” Lewinski finished. “Andre, I should have seen these long ago. Now, what common German sayings are short enough?”

  Lewinski was already lost in thought. Like a child absorbed in a riddle, he pored over the pages, squinting at the meaningless words and counting letters. “Four, five, three . . . and over here four, five, three . . . no, that’s no good. The next word is six on one, three on the other.”

  Scanning the documents with the intensity of a hawk soaring over a field that contained a hidden rabbit, Lewinski suddenly pounced. “Ha! Here it is. It is the same sequence, only backward on one page.”

  Andre peered over his shoulder. “If it is backward, how do you know it is the same?”

  Giving his friend a withering stare, Lewinski asked, “Do you think the radio operators have time or intellect enough to make up new phrases every day? Of course not! Now, let’s see, what proverb is six, six, three, five, five . . . oh, how absurdly simple.”

  “What?” Andre said breathlessly, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “You know how the Deutschlanders like to hang posters and paint slogans? Well, I could hardly miss this one. It was printed in red and black letters over my workbench in Berlin. Look here.” Lewinski pointed a crooked forefinger at a line of type. “This can be nothing but ‘Morgen, morgen, nur nicht heute, sagen alle faulen Leute.’ ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, never today, say all lazy people.’”

  “That is it? Just like that?”

  Lewinski looked offended.

  “Not that I doubt your brilliance,” Andre hastily reassured his friend. “It is just that . . . the others have been working for months. How did they miss this?”

  “Were they Poles?”

  “Yes,” Andre cautiously agreed.

  “That explains it, then. When I worked in Germany, I forced myself to think in German. Besides, they have probably never studied gematria.”

  “Gematria?”

  “The Jewish practice of numerology. It helps one recognize patterns like nothing else.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I go to work seeing how the patterns changed from one paper to the next, and I will know how to set the wheels. Can I get more of these? Something current, so we can test the hypothesis?”

  “Anything you want.” Andre jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs. “You are a genius!”

  Hugging his knees, Lewinski rocked with a satisfied grin. “I know.”

  ***

  “You see,” Lewinski said later the same morning to Andre and Colonel Gustave Bertrand of French Military Intelligence, “once you find a pattern in the way the coding changes, you can deduce the method to predict future changes.”

  “And have you done that?” Bertrand insisted. “Can you decode all the messages? Tell us how it works!”

  Lewinski looked disappointed. Andre knew the engineer wanted to spin out this yarn in his own way, milking to the fullest the story and his role in the discovery. But Bertrand was no-nonsense.

  “Yes.” Lewinski sniffed. “I took as my premise that the change from one day to the next would have to follow a simple model. That way the superiors of the field operators of the Enigma machine would always know the correct settings for the wheels. Just think, if they had to follow an instruction book for each day’s changes, what would happen if that book was lost or stolen? It is much simpler for a communications officer at, say, the division level, to have the guide memorized and radio the new setting as the last message encoded on the old setting.”

  “Yes, yes!” broke in Bertrand impatiently. “Get on with it!”

  Andre laid his hand on Bertrand’s shoulder, silently urging him
to contain himself. Temperamental geniuses could not be rushed. He said soothingly to Lewinski, “You are explaining this so well, Richard! Please go on.”

  “It is simple, really. The shift of the dials depends on the date, the day of the week, and the cycles of the moon. I just consulted a simple almanac, which I got from the newsstand at Place St. Michelle, and there it was.”

  Bertrand appeared stunned. In a low tone he said, “Are you telling me that the Germans change the wheels based on an elementary calculation? that you can decode their messages?”

  “Not only can, I already have,” Lewinski said proudly. “My machine, though not as polished-looking as theirs, is every bit as functional. See for yourself: Here is something I fed in this morning.”

  Bertrand gave Andre a sharp look. Lewinski was not supposed to actually decipher communications. His role was only to reach a conclusion about the encoding pattern.

  “I felt there was no time to waste,” Andre said by way of explanation.

  “All right, what do these messages say?” Bertrand asked.

  Andre took over at this point. “Most are routine transmissions regarding resupply and logistics—except for this one. It reads: ‘Fall Gelb will commence 10 May. Sichelschnitt must reach Meuse by 12 May.’”

  Bertrand exhaled. “Plan Yellow and the Cut of the Sickle? It still does not tell us anything.”

  “Yes, it does!” Andre insisted. “I have studied the maps. The only operation of any kind that can reach the Meuse River in two days is an armored attack through the Ardennes!”

  “We must see Gamelin at once,” Bertrand replied, his face white.

  Lewinski brightened. “Do you suppose I will get a medal?”

  “Richard,” Bertrand said kindly, “you cannot go. It is more important than ever that you be protected. You can imagine how valuable this information would be to the Germans. They would change the whole system if they knew. Not only would all your work be for nothing, but you would personally be in great danger.”

  Lewinski deflated. If compared to a balloon, he had never resembled more than a very skinny one. Now he looked like the remains of one after it had been popped. “Find me a new project then,” he pleaded. “I am already bored.”

  ***

  “I am really sorry, Chardon, but the C-in-C cannot see you today after all. He is incredibly busy with really important matters.” Colonel Pucelle’s tone laid a thick stress on the word really.

  “When can the general see me? It is extremely important!” It was just after lunch, and Andre was ready to punch General Gamelin’s assistant in the mouth for his superior attitude and manner.

  “Why do you not just give the message to me, and I will deliver it to the general.”

  Andre exchanged a glance with Gustave Bertrand. The very last thing the two intelligence officers wanted to do was to put sensitive material in Pucelle’s hands. Lewinski’s breakthrough was too important to be filtered through a man whose most prominent ability was currying favor.

  Maybe there was still a way. “Look, Pucelle,” Andre tried, “you remember the earlier discussion about where the focus of the German attack would be? We have new evidence that the invasion of Holland will primarily be a diversion.”

  “Oh no!” Pucelle groaned with dismay. “Not again! Really, Chardon, this horse will not run. The general has studied all the possible invasion routes from the Sedan gap to an airborne offensive on Rotterdam. No more idle speculation, please!”

  “Pucelle,” Andre insisted, “just suppose there is something to this. Suppose the Germans are planning an attack through the Ardennes. If you suggested to General Gamelin that he reinforce Corap’s Ninth Army and Huntziger’s Second Army by shifting over part of Conde’s force, you would look like a genius.”

  Pucelle’s face twitched. It was a feline expression, like a cat narrowing his eyes when he spots a bird within reach. Andre knew Pucelle never wanted to disagree with anything on which Gamelin held convictions. But a chance to pull off a strategic coup and get all the credit would be too good for Pucelle to pass up. Even so, he was not about to stick out his neck too far.

  “Since you will not reveal your source,” Pucelle said haughtily, “I have nothing on which to base such a suggestion except your opinion. Get me some concrete evidence that you are correct, and I will consider broaching the subject with the general. Now I really must go, gentlemen. You will have to excuse me.”

  3

  An Unlikely Refuge

  Rocking the plane from side to side enabled American pilot David Meyer to see over his shoulder as the flight of Hurricanes proceeded up the valley of the Meuse River toward Belgium. The swaying motion used up more fuel, but it was necessary as a means to watch for enemy fighters that might be sneaking up behind.

  Only two days earlier Benny Turpin, a new boy with the Royal Air Force’s 73 Squadron, had not paid careful enough attention to the six o’clock position astern. Benny had ended a promising flying career in a ball of flame at the hands of an ME-109. It only marginally lightened David’s thoughts to recall that he had personally dispatched the Messerschmitt just moments later.

  David’s mood was also darker than usual because of the plane he was flying—or rather, because of the aircraft he was not flying. Annie, named for red-haired Annie Galway, the woman he had fallen in love with, had taken a bullet through the oil cooler in the engagement with the German who shot down Turpin. She was out of service for another day, so David was flying a spare ship. He felt no connection with this aircraft. It almost seemed that the controls were not as responsive to his touch, even though the mechanic assured him that it was all his imagination.

  Hewitt’s voice barked over the radio. “Cluster of black dots at my two o’clock high.”

  “Roger that,” Simpson agreed. “Could be Heinkels. Let’s go.”

  The three RAF pilots took their planes into a steep climb to position themselves above the intended targets. The number of enemy bombers seemed to be increasing as the Hurricanes got closer.

  “I count twenty,” Simpson reported. A moment later he amended the number to thirty and then again to forty.

  Black dots appeared to materialize out of thin air. The range closed rapidly as Simpson prepared to initiate the dive that would lead the three fighters swooping down on the intended victims, when suddenly he announced, “What a duff play this is.”

  From his position guarding the rear of the formation, David had not yet figured out what Simpson meant.

  “Flaming onions,” Hewitt growled. “Take a closer look at our targets. Those are ack-ack bursts.”

  And so it proved. The magically increasing numbers of enemy bombers turned out to be the black puffs that marked the explosions of antiaircraft shells.

  “Let’s get out of here before someone throws one of those our way,” Simpson ordered.

  “They must be shooting at something,” David observed, scanning the sky as the Hurricanes turned back to their original course. His view from twenty-five-thousand feet covered a lot of territory. “And there it is,” he continued. “Dead ahead. A flight of Dorniers at angels twelve. Two pairs of ME-110s flying cover. All heading northeast, back to the Reich.”

  “Full bore now,” Simpson said.

  “Even into Belgium?”

  “Didn’t stop the Nazis, did it? We’ll chase them into Germany if we have to. Hewitt, you and I will take the two on the right. Meyer, you have a go at the other pair. If we can scatter them, we’ll come back after the bombers. Let’s go.”

  The RAF plunge took the German fighters completely by surprise. Although they were not as maneuverable as the ME-109s that Germany also used, these twin-engine ME-110 German fighter escorts were nevertheless tough to knock down. When they were in service with General Franco during the Spanish civil war, they were known as “destroyers,” and with good reason.

  David’s attack slashed toward the inside of the two German planes from an angle on its stern. A short burst from David’s machine guns was fo
llowed by another, longer stream, as the 110 broke to the outside. The line of David’s fire sawed through the rudder of the craft, tearing part of it completely free. A portion of the tail surface was severed as well. The German pilot banked sharply, trying to control his now erratically plunging machine. David followed in a tight spiral, hoping that a final salvo into the nearside engine would finish the battle.

  That was the instant when David chanced to look groundward. The aerial combat had carried him very near the German border. And what a view of Western Germany it was. On the roads leading back from the border were countless parallel rows of German tanks, armored cars, and half-tracks hauling artillery pieces. They were nose to tail, like elephants heading for a watering hole.

  For a second David thought about the significance of this sight. Then there was an enormous explosion, and his plane began to shudder and lose altitude rapidly. Over his shoulder, David could see the pursuing form of another Messerschmitt. It was the partner of the one David had just downed. David’s fighter had taken a blast of 20 mm cannon fire at close range.

  He went into a steep dive, twisting the damaged Hurricane around and heading it back toward France and home. The maneuver successfully evaded the Messerschmitt, but the right wing was making a whining complaint. Worse, the craft felt sluggish and heavy, as if lifting more than its accustomed weight. When the engine burst into flames that hungrily licked at the cowling, David knew it was time to kiss the airplane good-bye. This was the first time he was glad he wasn’t flying Annie.

  David eased the ship out of its dive and hoped that any other nearby German pilots had better things to do than chase parachutes. He opened the canopy just as the engine conked out. Once clear of the radio cable and the oxygen tube, the pilot dove over the side into space.

  When the chute popped, the sudden uplift yanked him away from the fighter. It dipped its nose and raised its tail, almost as if waving good-bye.