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Page 5
A Scramble In Time
Chapter 5: Drang Nach West
By Feldmarshall Edwin Rommel
Slowly dripping thawing ice on the ornate carpet, Rommel tries to see trough the smoke haze of the Operational Planning Room of the Reichstag. He is still recovering after a breakneck rush in the side-car of a BMW motorbike from the Harz mountains at the urgent summons from Uberkommand. Hess has just told him that there has been a marked change in the atmosphere of the Reichstag. Apparently the old maps from Operation Seelowe (The invasion of Britain) have been rushed from the archives at great speed and now covers the diorama table where the models of the new city centre for Berlin used to be. Ornate models lie trampled underfoot.
Above the table a myriad of markers resembling thousands of men, tanks, and planes are converging on the French coast near Calais. Streams of commands and countermands are hastily taken down on flimsies and rushed to the Radio room. In far away outposts in Poland and on the frozen highlands of Norway men breathe a sigh of relief and furiously start drawing straws from clenched fists. Every third man has to be rushed to France immediately. Furious fights erupt as desperate men all over fight to be third. Unusual chivalry at the opening to bunkers of underground command posts soon follow as officers insist that they can wait for the other two officers to enter first. Tanks previously scheduled for immediate and desperate maintenance suddenly have "enough left in zhat old motor" to travel to France und back, at the insistence of their suddenly less war-weary commanders.
Derelict airframe wrecks suddenly sprout new air-screws and missing fuselage panels re-appear as if by magic---at least ten volunteer ferry pilots are available for each previously written-off airframe, the "absolute danger of flying in that wreck" suddenly no longer applicable. Weary maintenance crews all of a sudden work with new vigor in the hope that they will be selected---little realising that the station commander had already left on a special "maintenance" flight to France. Units are "invented" by astute commanders to give higher strength counts. In these units the "every third man" becomes every "second" man and in some cases even "all men" get to go to France. On all fronts Allied forces trip over their own feet as ferocious resistance to their counter attacks suddenly gives way. In a confused state they do what has always worked before: they brew a cuppa and give the situation a good think.
Meanwhile in Berlin, Rommel has just finished presenting the "evidence" from his frozen dispatch case. The files and recordings have been read and listened to, and nobody could fault any findings. The Uberkommander of the Wehrmacht have just awarded a medal to the Uberkomander of the Luftwaffe for the excellent work they have just done. A special award has just been designed by them jointly and awarded to the Uberkommander of the Kriegsmarine for his stalwart role in cracking the difficult case.
Amidst the elated confusion, Rommel quietly gathers his things together and leaves through the back door. On his way out he liberates a nice thick greatcoat from a hook by the door, quite assured that it would not be missed soon.
Ten minutes later the BMW pokes a weak beam of light through the security boom outside the Reichstag. In half an hour, the dark outlines of the last houses on the outskirts of Berlin fade in the dim red reflection of the rear light. With a quiet snick the cap of the second bottle of liberated French Brandy surrenders its contents to the surrounding air after 25 years of captivity. Rommel is not cold anymore.
In Berlin someone notices a record left lying forgotten on the briefing room table. He picks it up, but cannot quite read the hand-written label. He puts it on the player and winds the handle a couple of times. Strangely beautiful rhythmic sounds suddenly fill the room. The multiple conversation and planning of moves and countermoves around the huge plotting table slowly quiets down, sporadically, as one after the other, officers turn to face the source of the haunting sounds.
Here and there hands starts moving and bodies gyrating. The high roof beams of the Reichstag reverberate with a new sound. The words have a foreign almost Spanish sound to them, but Oh boy! That rhythm! Smiling guards clad in black uniforms struggle up the steep stairs leading up from the cellars dragging another case of Krug Champagne behind them. The very champagne that was to be stored for the final victory celebrations. The roof beams echoe back "HEY MACARENA!"
One man in the Reichstag is sober on this night of joyous celebration. He has just emerged from an office dressed in flying gear and with a parachute slung over his shoulder. Minutes later a black Horch purrs out through the security gates---a small flag flapping on the bonnet attesting to the presence of the deputy Reichs Feuhrer.
An hour later a lone Me110 is droning west in the night sky on course for the North Sea and Scotland. In the feint red reflected light under the canopy the lone occupant of the plane is studying a map of Scotland. The pilot, none other than Rudolph Hess, is studying a region of the map with a large X and the words "Duke of Hamilton: Residence" written next to it. He is on his way to Britain to talk peace and to offer the full support of the Wehrmacht for policing activities to strengthen the crumbling British Empire.
As the lone Messershmitt drones onward across the North Sea, Hess starts a rhythmic tapping on the edge of the dimly lit instrument panel with one hand---the other hand soon joins in to provide a counter beat. Soon after, and with a slightly less than harmonious voice, Hess starts humming (huffing and puffing actually) in time with the hypnotic beat---
"Ba babba ba babba ba babba buh-ba. Ba babba ba babba ba babba buh-buh. . ."
The beating and humming faintly resembles that famous Spanish song Rommel and his staff discovered. In a couple of hours "Operation Schpice Girls: The invasion of America" is going to gain help from a very unexpected source.
Meanwhile Rommel has been dragged from the side-car and deposited into his bunk in the Speg compound. He opens one eye and grabs the benefactor's sleeve-
"Kuglebleitz . . .Ja? . . .Issccchhhh good to be home . . .zhey are mad in Berlin- "
Rommel passes out again. As he lay oblivious, the slightly small brownish greatcoat that he liberated from the Reichstag flaps open to reveal a laundry label with the initials A.H. on it
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