Guido nodded. “That makes sense. Much easier to take him from there down to the harbor once 1 get Savary sorted out.”
“Do you really think it has a chance of working?” Sarah demanded.
“Fake papers as a French seaman. The General and I can fix that up between us,” Guido told her.
“We’ll bandage his face. Say he was in the water after the attack on the convoy and sustained burns,” Gallagher said. “We’ll move Kelso late tonight.” He smiled reassuringly and put an arm around Sarah. “It’s going to work. Believe me.”
Martineau joined on the end of the cavalcade of cars as it left the airport and took the road through St. Peter’s. Rommel fascinated him, so did the idea of being so close to one of the greatest soldiers the war had produced, the commander of the Westwall himself. The man dedicated to smashing the Allies on the beaches where they landed.
He was certainly energetic. They visited Meadowbank in the Parish of St. Lawrence where for two years military engineers and slave workers had labored on tunnels designed to be an artillery depot. Now it was in process of being converted into a military hospital.
Afterward they saw the Russians in Defense Sector North and the strongpoints at Greve de Lecq, Plemont and Les Landes. It all took time. The field marshal seemed to want to look in every foxhole personally, visit every gun post.
He asked to see the war cemetery at St. Brelade and inspected the church while he was there. The Soldaten-heim, the Soldiers’ Home, was just along the road in a requisitioned hotel overlooking the bay. He insisted on calling in there, much to the delight of the matron in charge, and discovered a proxy wedding taking place. It was a system devised by the Nazi government to take care of the fact that it was increasingly difficult for soldiers on active duty to get married in the normal way any longer, as they seldom got furloughs back home in Germany. The groom was a burly sergeant and a Red Cross nursing sister stood in for his bride, who was in Berlin.
It was very much a Nazi marriage, totally without any religious significance at all. The insistence on the lack of Jewish blood in either the bride or bridegroom was something Baum found especially ironic, but he toasted the sergeant’s good health with a glass of schnapps and moved on.
By the time they reached St. Aubin it was evening, and most of the party were beginning to flag. Baum, examining the map Necker had provided, noticed the artillery positions on Mont de la Rocque and asked to be taken up there.
Martineau followed, still on the tail of the line of cars climbing the steep hill of the Mont until they came to a narrow turning that led out on top where there were a number of flat-roofed houses.
“A gun platoon only now, Field Marshal,” Necker assured Baum as he got out.
The house at the very end with a courtyard behind a wall was called Septembertide. The one next to it had a French name, Hinguette. In its garden, a narrow entrance gave access to a series of underground bunkers and machine-gun posts which ran along the crest of the hill under the gardens. There were no civilians living in any of the houses, only troops, who were overwhelmed to have the Desert Fox in proximity to them, none more so than the commanding officer, a Captain Heider.
It transpired that his personal billet was Septembertide. When the field marshal expressed an interest in it, he eagerly led the way. They all trooped down into the garden. The views across the bay, St. Aubin on the right and St. Helier on the left, were breathtaking. The garden was edged with a low concrete wall, and the ground fell almost vertically down through trees and heavy undergrowth to the road far below.
Baum said, “You’d need the Alpine Corps to get up here, gentlemen.” He looked up at the house. There was a large terrace in front of the sitting room and another above running the full length at bedroom level. “Nice.” He turned to Heider. “I need somewhere to lay my head tonight. Will you lend it to me?”