Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 9

I. YOUR JOB IN GERMANY

Whether you fight your way in, or march in to occupy Germany under armistice terms, you will be doing a solder's job on the soil of the enemy.

The occupation of Germany will give you your chance to build up a personal guarantee that as soon as you turn your back to go home, the German will not pick up his shooting irons and start throwing lead and lies at an unsuspecting world once more …

_________

Rifling of orchards and fields and unauthorized appropriation of food stores are contemptible and punishable by court martial.

Remember that conquered and occupied nations will be critically short of food. Depriving the people further will create great hardship and in the end will cause conditions that will make your own job a harder one.

It is always a strain on our supply lines to feed people of occupied countries. Don't strain it further …

_________

There must be no fraternization. This is absolute! Unless otherwise permitted by higher authority you will not visit in German homes or associate with Germans on terms of friendly intimacy, either in public or in private.

They must never be taken into your confidence …

— Selections from Pocket Guide To Germany (War Department pamphlet, August 1944)

* * *

Saturday, November 3, 1945
2:45 p.m.
Berlin — enroute to RAF Gatow

 

The devastation was astonishing.

 

None of us uttered a word as our motor pool car cruised slowly down the street.

 

For city block after city block, every building we saw was simply shattered. Facades torn off the fronts; the apartments inside exposed like the rooms of a doll's house, some still filled with the mouldering remnants of the original furnishings. Or the remains of large, sturdy-looking, stone-faced buildings, multiple stories high, that had been beaten down to one or two stories at most, smashed as if by a giant, angry fist …

Then again, here and there, we saw buildings that looked almost-normal, almost-habitable, until one looked up through the top windows at the open sky, where the buildings' roofs should have been …

Strangely, curiously, the streets we cruised on were free of rubble, and almost pristinely clean. The work to clear them must have been backbreaking.

But rubble there was, in plenty, in the shattered remains of buildings, in the empty spaces where buildings had once stood — rubble was everywhere. Sometimes in neat piles and stacks, where someone had obviously made an effort to try to sort out reusable bricks from the rest … but much more often, simply in piles and heaps, brick and stone mixed with the remains of wood and iron beams and other wreckage less identifiable.

The whole scene was stomach-churning. Horrifying.

*

We had been scheduled to fly into RAF Gatow, the British air base in the western part of the city. But the threatened ground fog had arrived early, taking visibility below minimums; so we had been diverted to Tempelhof, the big, main airport of Berlin.

 

Tempelhof was run by the Air Force, the U.S. Army Air Force.

 

I'd been a little — well, apprehensive, maybe — as we landed, and taxied over to the stone-paved hard stand. As the engines shut down, one after another, I felt Mister Grey's fake papers in my pocket, once, and wondered if I had the nerve to use them …

In the end, I needn't have worried. The cargo doors were opened, the stair steps were rigged in place, and we climbed down, blinking, into the gray November light. As we stood there, GI's, U.S. enlisted men, swarmed into the Dakota and began wrestling the cargo out with the ease of long practice.

"Afternoon, Captain!" from one of them on the ground; and he actually saluted, which didn't happen that often at most of the bases I'd served in. I saluted back. Then the GI turned to Mister Grey and Mister Maclaughlin. "There's an RAF car from Gatow waiting for you right over there, sir. Sirs. Need any help with your bags — ?"

No reception committee. No forms to sign. No identity checks. American accents, American uniforms, American informality … this was the Air Force I was used to. I'd begun to relax.

"No; no thank you, Sergeant," from Mister Grey. He was looking happier by the moment, now that he was on solid ground. He'd smiled at the youngster. "We'll manage."

*

As we drove on in the dim afternoon, the nightmare scenery outside the car window became even more horrifying.

 

There were signs of life. There were signs of life, of human life, everywhere.

 

The smoke from the cooking fires was the first thing I noticed; rising straight up in the still, cold air. Once we passed three … figures; it was impossible to tell who they were, really, they wore overcoats and wool hats — huddled around a fire burning in an empty fuel drum, warming their bare hands in the classic way. Another time, we saw washing hanging on a clothes line stretched between two shattered walls, all that was left standing of what had once been the lobby of a large building …

 

And then we saw the children. Two of them, girls, maybe seven or eight years old, walking hand in hand along the sidewalk. Not running, or playing, or skipping. Just walking.

 

The contrast between the small, vulnerable children and the shattered obscenity of a landscape was almost unbearable.

 

Mister MacLaughlin cleared his throat.

"Do you know, I owe you gentlemen my thanks," he said, after a long moment. "One gets accustomed to the sights here, over time. The mind doesn't really see them. The mind certainly doesn't want to see them." He paused, for a few heartbeats. "It is … healthy … to be reminded of the true circumstances on the ground, here, on occasion."

A long pause, at that.

"Is the entire city like this — ?" from Mister Grey; in a subdued tone.

Beside me, I could feel MacLaughlin shrug.

"No. The destruction is somewhat random. Much of central Berlin is like this, or worse. The British Sector runs right up to the Brandenburg Gate, next to Hitler's Reichskanzlei, the Reich Chancellery, and the Wilhelmstrasse, and the destruction in that area is simply terrific. But our sector also runs out West to the Spandau district; much of that area is relatively untouched. RAF Gatow was not badly damaged."

Another long pause. Our motor pool car passed a group of three men, obviously sorting bricks. One of them, gray-haired and holding a pipe in his mouth, was passing whole-looking bricks to a second man, who passed it to the third, who was stacking them neatly. They were moving in a kind of leaden slow motion.

I felt MacLaughlin look at me, sideways, briefly.

"Most of this damage was caused by Soviet artillery, you know. The vast majority of it. The nighttime RAF area bombing campaign is responsible for much of the rest."

I felt he was somehow trying to reassure me.

"I expect so. I was only ever on two missions to Berlin; both times we bombed the rail yards. We didn't deliberately target civilians."

It was a faint denial, at best. Strategic daylight bombing is much less accurate than the public thinks. We knew we were hitting homes, hitting civilians, just about every time we dropped our payloads.

Another long silence. We passed a man pulling a small cart — a dog cart, perhaps — by hand. He did not look up at us.

This time, it was Mister Grey who cleared his throat.

"Before we arrive at the airfield, Captain, we have something to discuss."

"Yes?" I glanced across to him.

"Yes. You should be aware that I took the extreme liberty of listing you on the plane's manifest as Captain William D. Molloy; and that is also the name under which you will be admitted to Gatow Air Base, and Lancaster House." A corner of his mouth quirked up, slightly. "The choice of alias is a bit self-indulgent on my part; but it cannot possibly do any harm, and Rhys will be amused, when he learns of it."

I focused, blinking for a second, on his choice of the word 'when'. Then the impact of what he'd said hit home.

"I don't understand. Why should I use an alias — ? And what is Lancaster House?"

"Lancaster House is the British Headquarters in Berlin. It is where we will coordinate Rhys' retrieval, assuming we will need anyone else's assistance, as I hope we will not. As for the alias — ?" He glanced at me, briefly, and shrugged. "On one level, you can call it standard procedure. Or habit. One does not give away information to the opposition, however innocuous it may seem. One never quite knows."

The opposition. Meaning, the Soviets. I took that in, for a moment.

"Of course," Mister Grey went on, "there are practical matters to consider, too. You have leave to be in Paris. You do not have permission to be in Berlin. It would be better for you, and better all around, if your name did not appear in too many places, here. You know how the military, any military, just vacuums up information and keeps it, in duplicate, triplicate, and quadruplicate. It is a very annoying trait, believe me, for those of us in my profession."

He flashed me a quick, charming smile. Under the circumstances, I did not return it.

"Sir … I appreciate the advice, and I appreciate everything both of you have done, for Rhys and for me. But really." I paused, and groped for words. "I can't believe the Soviets would know anything about me, or care if they did. And, I don't have this person's ID. I don't even know how to spell the name. How could I possibly get past the guardhouse at Gatow without an ID — ?"

Another shrug, from Mister Grey.

"As for that — leave it to us, to MacLaughlin and myself. Everyone on the British side will be aware that 'Captain Molloy' is a nom de guerre. You will not be asked for identification, nor will you be pressed too closely as to your background. We have made these kinds of arrangements before, you see."

I blinked at him, once, then twice. Then his face grew a little more grave.

"And as for the Soviets — you may be correct; although it is always safest to assume that the opposition knows more than you expect. But in this case, I was not referring necessarily or exclusively to Our Gallant Soviet Allies. Rhys' command certainly knows who you are, and your relationship to one another; you have experienced proof of that, yourself."

He paused, for a moment; before going on, gently.

"We do not know their true involvement, in Rhys' arrest and detention; but given Rhys' expressed suspicions … it seemed highly desirable that they not know of your presence here, if that can be avoided." Another pause. "We are particularly anxious to avoid the risk of you being arrested or detained in your turn."

 

Oh, God.

 

I took a deep breath, as the vista of shattered buildings continued to roll by outside my window.

"You're right, of course," I said at last; still looking away, not at him. "I'm a little new, at all this."

"Of course." His voice was sympathetic.

Silence, then, for a minute, and then two.

"If I may ask, sir … under the circumstances, what is the point of the credentials you drew up for me — ?"

I had another quick thought, as I looked at our driver, who had greeted Mister MacLaughlin as 'Sir', and hadn't uttered a word since. He'd certainly just heard a very great deal. Almost everything.

A very slight shrug, from Mister Grey, then.

"They are primarily for use with your own people, and only at very great need. As I said, they're not much. If we had had a week, we could and would have prepared a perfectly acceptable U.S. Air Force ID booklet for you under your Captain Molloy alias, and then your credential letters would have been produced under that name as well. That would have been much better." A ghost of a small smile, from him. "However. To mangle a metaphor, necessity is sometimes the mother of improvisation."

"I see, sir." I wasn't much reassured.

MacLaughlin had seen my quick look at the driver.

"Incidentally, Captain. This is Davies, formerly Sergeant Davies of the Royal Marines, and he is a member of our organization. And he is a very close associate of mine. Davies, may I present Captain Molloy, of the United States Army Air Forces — ?" His tone was dry.

"How do you do, Captain Molloy — ?"

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Davies," from me. Blinking, again.

Wondering at this world of spies, and aliases, and unclear loyalties. Again. Wondering at Rhys' world. Again.

* * *

In due course, we arrived at RAF Gatow.

As advertised, the guards at the gatehouse did not ask to see my ID. In fact, all it took was for Mister MacLaughlin to show his identification — or I assume it was his identification; for all I knew it could have been some sort of secret badge, or a decoder ring, or something — and we were all waved through, after the sergeant in command wrote down our names on a clipboard.

The place had been a Luftwaffe training school, a Luftkriegsschule, before and during the war. It was a solidly-built, low-slung place, with several barracks buildings, all in white; Mister Grey and I were shown to our separate quarters, ones reserved for visiting officers. Mister MacLaughlin was stationed in Berlin, of course; he had quarters near Lancaster House, apparently.

Evidence of the former owners of the place showed. Signs like 'Ausgang', and 'Verboten', and 'Achtung!', and many more besides, all in spiky, heavy Gothic lettering, with painted English-language versions added on underneath.

I did not like it one bit.

At least they'd gotten rid of all of the swastikas.

Mister MacLaughlin, Mister Grey and I met in Mister Grey's quarters after our bags were delivered. Mister Grey had brought a bottle of brandy with him. After MacLaughlin informed us, solemnly, that he would be contacting his Soviet counterpart that evening and formally requesting Rhys' exchange, Mister Grey opened it, and we had a toast to Rhys' swift and safe return.

And then we settled in to wait.

* * *

But no word came, the next day.

 

Nor was there any word, the day after that.

 

And again no word, the day after that.

 

Mister MacLaughlin came over to the airbase and dined with us, each night. He and Mister Grey speculated about the possible reasons for the silence, with one another; all very calmly, and dispassionately. I listened. I did not much trust myself to speak.

As day passed into day, I tried to stay focused, and not let my imagination run away with me. 'Hurry up and wait', I tried to tell myself; it's the same everywhere. And, 'They know what they're doing'.

 

I hoped to God that they — Mister MacLaughlin and Mister Grey — knew what they were doing.

 

I tried distracting myself. I borrowed a flight manual for the Douglas C-47, and read it cover to cover without absorbing a single word. Then I got angry with myself, and forced myself to read it all over again, in great detail; and then I did it again. I tried memorizing great chunks of it; I sketched out the fuel tanks and lines and cross-feed valves by hand, from memory, and then I memorized the start-up and takeoff procedures, and wrote them out too. Then I continued with the hydraulic system. It was what I'd had my students do, when I was an Instructor Pilot.

Well, I told myself, wryly, if we get out of this, I'll have a head start on maybe buying a surplus C-47 back home, and starting some kind of air charter service; it was something that had been on the back of my mind since I'd joined the Air Corps.

Then I wondered about the way I'd thought, 'if we get out of this'.

 

By dinner on the third day, I'd had enough.

 

"May I ask you something, sir?" I was looking at MacLaughlin, across the table.

"Of course." He blinked at me.

"How sure are we that Rhys is still being held at the same place? In the same hotel, I mean — ?" I set down my fork, and looked at him very closely. "I assume you've got the place under observation, or whatever you call it. But it seems to me it would be easy to smuggle him out in, I don't know, a bag, or a box, or something."

Or a coffin, I didn't say. I tried very hard not to think of it; but it was in my mind, it'd been in my mind for the last two days, and I couldn't shake free of the idea.

Mister Grey looked down at his plate, quickly. MacLaughlin looked at me silently for a moment, and then made a sympathetic face.

"Believe me, I do understand your concerns, Captain." He set down his own knife and fork, and looked back at me. "In fact, we are completely sure. Captain Williamson is alive and well, and he is being held at the Hotel Metropole, near the Alexanderplatz. We even know his room number."

I just looked at him. It wasn't really an answer.

He relented.

"You are assuming that the surveillance of the hotel is exclusively, or even primarily, external," he went on, quietly. "It is not."

He paused to let that sink in. I understood, in a flash. He — they — had someone on the inside.

"I am informed that he is in comfortable conditions. He is not being mistreated, or even interrogated. We're told he has reading materials, at hand. And that he is eating reasonably well, at least, if rather lightly."

I felt a quick rush of relief, at that. Rhys' stomach has always been trouble, for him, about as much as mine is now to me. And he can't afford to lose weight. From the flash of his eyes, I could tell MacLaughlin understood perfectly, this man who had served with Rhys in France, under the most intimate circumstances, for weeks and weeks.

Silence, then, for a few moments. I knew I'd just been told something of grave importance.

"Thank you for that, sir." I paused, again, as my mind raced ahead. Then — "Uhhh … under the circumstances, is there any chance, any chance at all, of getting a message to Rhys — ?"

I figured I knew the answer to that, already. But the idea of Rhys under house arrest in a hotel room for days, now, without any idea that someone was trying to get him back, wondering about the delay, not knowing what was going to happen to him … I hated the idea with all my heart. It was so hard to bear. It was so, so hard to bear.

Mister MacLaughlin actually looked surprised, at the question. Then he shook his head. Mister Grey looked up.

"I am afraid not, Captain," from Mister MacLaughlin. "Not under any circumstances." He looked at me, seriously. "The Red Army's directorate for counter-intelligence is known as SMERSH. They have a very simple motto: 'Death to Spies'. They mean it, quite literally. Our … person … at the Metropole would be liquidated, if caught. But not so soon as to avoid interrogation. Unfortunately."

I had imagined as much; but my heart lurched, anyway.

I tried my last idea.

"I understand. Of course. Sir, you mentioned that you even know Rhys' room number — ? Well. I'd like to at least walk by it, on the correct street I mean, a few times. Rhys and I can recognize each other in a crowd, almost anywhere; even from very far away. If he just caught a glimpse of me from his window, he'd know we were here, and it would mean everything to him … "

I trailed off. It made perfect sense to me; but I wasn't in their business.

MacLaughlin gave me another long look, before shaking his head, regretfully.

"We are not the only ones who are keeping an eye on the exterior of the hotel, Captain. Your presence, as an American military officer, would be noted, immediately; and the correct conclusions would likely be drawn. I am afraid the same objections, apply. And in any case," he went on, gently, "Captain Williamson's room overlooks the central courtyard. As a prisoner, even under genteel house arrest, it could hardly be otherwise."

A long silence, then.

"You know," contributed Mister Grey, quietly, "Rhys understands how the game is played, Captain. I think I can assure you, that he is fully aware that we're working to gain his release. I expect he is quite aware that you are here, as well. I hope he finds that a comfort."

Meaning, I suppose, that Rhys would not want me blundering around, doing something stupid and getting myself killed. Well, that made sense. He might even be more worried for me, than for himself; that would be utterly like him.

I took a breath.

"I understand that too, sir. But the question seems to me — what exactly are we doing, to get him released, or exchanged, or whatever — ? How long do we keep on, just waiting like this — ?"

Another long silence. Then Mister Maclaughlin looked at Mister Grey, and shrugged.

"He does have a point. The delay in any response is already longer than in any case I've experienced, and that is very troublesome." He paused, and looked back at me. "I propose we give it two more days. If we hear nothing by then, we'll escalate the matter to the Allied Control Council, at the staff level. With your permission of course, Captain."

I felt a wave of relief, mixed with my fear.

"Done," I said.

* * *

But in the end, it didn't take two more days.

 

The very next day, the fourth since we'd landed in Berlin, Mister MacLaughlin came over to RAF Gatow, and called a council of war. As we all sat down together in Mister Grey's quarters, his expression was grave.

"We have had a response, at last, from the Soviet side." He shrugged. "At least it is an acknowledgement that they are, indeed, holding Captain Williamson. That is the good news. It is actually very good news."

I did not say anything. I waited for the rest of it.

"And … ?" from Mister Grey, simply.

MacLaughlin looked at him, and then at me.

"The reply accepts our proposal for a prisoner exchange," he said. "To take place on Saturday, the 10th, at three p.m. But the reply does not come from my counterpart on their side."

Silence, for a moment.

"Go on," from Mister Grey.

"The reply specifies that the exchange take place in the Pariser Platz, just on the Soviet side of the Brandenburg Gate," he said. "And it comes from a Lieutenant Colonel in the Red Army. I have never encountered anything like it." He looked at Mister Grey. "I'm afraid we are going to need help from the British Occupation authorities, and the military."

"Yes," from Mister Grey; looking away, and not at me.

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