Rendezvous in London

By Ian Okell

'Rendezvous in London'
The third of the World War 2 adventures of the cynical, good looking and utterly ruthless Nazi agent Heidi Fuchs.

May 1941 - the Deputy Fuhrer, Rudolf Hess, flies secretly to Britain - supposedly for peace talks, but carrying in his head full details of the forthcoming German invasion of Russia. Hitler, spitting fury at this betrayal orders his death, and a top agent is dispatched in pursuit.

Meanwhile in London, the happily retired Sir Freddy Villiers and his partner, female Gendarmerie officer Martine Dumont, have decided to reject any further suggestions of dangerous secret missions in occupied Europe. They have escaped unharmed from their last two excursions but think that any more would be tempting fate.

Unfortunately, on this occasion they don't need to cross the Channel to find trouble. Trouble, in the shapely form of Heidi Fuchs, has just parachuted in - supposedly to assassinate Rudolf Hess - but determined first to find them and settle some old scores.

But surely they can expect the full support and cooperation of the British security services - after all, whose side are MI6 supposed to be on?

"Utterly realistic with superb research - you live the action with the characters."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Okell
• Release date: Nov 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370875719

Ian Okell

Ian was for many years a ship’s chandler, part of the fourth generation in his family business, supplying merchant vessels around the United Kingdom and north west Europe. Deciding that too much of his time was spent in travelling, and looking for a job which allowed more time for a home life, he set up a local business of his own; a registered firearms dealership. However, although still fun, the gun shop has turned into a much busier operation than originally envisaged, and is now run by son Mike, with Ian relegated to the role of general dogsbody. He is also a commercially qualified pilot on medium sized twin engined aircraft. Ian and his wife Margaret, another pilot, live in Cheshire, they have three grown up children and, so far, two grandchildren. For many years writing has been his hobby, resulting in about one book a year, although never with any thought of being published. It was only after taking part in a British Arts Council literary criticism website that his books found their way into print.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Augsburg, southern Germany

Saturday 10th. May 1941

A mad person does not necessarily know more or less about the world than any other person; it is simply that there is something big in life, a voice, or a special insight, of which only they are aware. It is that knowledge which is the madness, and which influences all else they do. With Rudolf Hess that knowledge was that he understood the mind and intentions of Adolf Hitler better than Adolf Hitler did himself. It was a great comfort to possess such a valuable gift.

A casual observer, standing on the tarmac outside the Messerschmitt Company's Number 3 hangar at Augsburg airport that Sunday, would have noted that it was a fine spring evening; there had been some scattered clouds earlier but they had cleared away. It was too early in the season to be called hot, but as long as you were in the sunshine and out of the wind, it felt like the beginning of summer. However, Rudolf Hess, the Third Reich’s Deputy Fuhrer, had other things on his mind.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the weather, he cared deeply about one specific aspect of it, in fact he had just been on the phone to the Luftwaffe’s central meteorological office in Hamburg to discuss the matter. Their forecast for the next six hours had been detailed and precise, pre flight weather briefings usually were.

Hess had thought about this flight for the last year and been practising on the specific aircraft type he needed for the last three months. But throughout that time he had never been completely certain that he would or should carry it out, there had always been a recurring strain of doubt.

That doubt had never been about whether he had the nerve to do it; that was certain, the doubt had been about whether he had read the Fuhrer’s mind correctly. Even great men were constrained by their position, there were some things they simply couldn’t say, there were some things that those in their immediate circle had to work out for themselves.

That doubt had now gone, long and detailed consultations with his personal astrologer had confirmed not only that this was his destiny, but that May 10th. was the most auspicious date to make the flight. He was now committed, the details settled and the preparations complete. Once his aircraft wheels had left the ground this evening there would be no possible turning back, the letters he’d left behind made sure of that.

Augsburg airfield was the home of the Messerschmitt factory responsible for producing the latest versions of their twin engined fighter bomber, the Bf110E. Earlier models had performed well in the attacks on Poland and France, supporting the ground forces and out gunning what little aerial opposition they met. Now the Daimler-Benz engines had been up rated to 1200 horse power each and the plane could cruise quite happily at 300 mph for five hours or more, easily enough to reach his destination.

Even with his seniority and his background as an experienced combat pilot in the last war, the Deputy Fuhrer’s early attempts at gaining familiarity with modern aircraft had been unsuccessful. Despite making it clear that he regarded aviation as a necessary relaxation from the stresses of his exalted position, it became clear that none of the main aircraft factories were prepared to involve themselves in what seemed like a personal whim.

The general view had been that any accident he might have could see them being blamed for his death; most saw this, quite sensibly, as an excellent reason to make excuses. But then his old friend Willy Messerschmitt had stepped in, and suggested using one of the Bf110s straight off the production line at Augsburg, only an hour’s drive from Hess’s home in Munich.

It was a complex aircraft and normally flew with a crew of two, but by some rearrangement of the controls it could be safely flown single handed. Although designated a fighter bomber it was primarily used for ground attack and disrupting enemy bomber formations, where its heavy armament lived up to its name of Zerstorer, or Destroyer. But in a dog fight against a well handled modern fighter, such as the Spitfire, the Messerschmitt's poor turning circle and slow rate of climb made it a death trap.

None of which made the slightest difference on this trip, in fact the aircraft wasn’t even carrying ammunition for any of its many guns. Reich’s Minister Hess had no plans to get caught up in a shooting match and his route had been specifically planned to minimise all chances of contact, until he chose to reveal himself, like a rabbit from a hat, at his destination.

The aircraft had been prepared before Hess and his staff arrived, the huge 900 litre drop tanks under each wing were full to the brim, as was the Dachshund Belly oil tank under the main fuselage. In this configuration if there was an in flight emergency immediately after take off, the aircraft would be overweight for landing and would have to jettison the drop tanks. But getting rid of them would be the least of the Deputy Fuhrer’s worries in such an eventuality.

Recognising the Fuhrer’s largely unspoken desire for a negotiated peace with the British Commonwealth, and then doing something to achieve that aim, was only half the issue. Success would make him a hero of the Third Reich and enable Germany to rip the heart out of Stalin’s Russia, without worrying about an enemy behind them; statues would be erected and schools named after him. However, being caught in the act, before reaching a successful conclusion, would be a very different story.

It was just the same when that English king, one of the early Henrys, had wanted the Archbishop of Canterbury killed, he hadn’t been able to say so directly, his knights had been expected to work it out for themselves. Then when the Pope had kicked up a fuss the King had been able to say that he knew nothing about it, that’s the way it goes with high politics.

In the event of this mission failing, then even if only for the sake of party discipline, the Fuhrer would have no option but to disown him. The letters he had left, for his wife, his personal adjutant and for Hitler himself, made it quite clear that he understood this point. Insanity does not in any way prevent you from being a very careful and meticulous planner, in fact it sometimes helps.

The scaling down of German bombing raids on British cities, what the Tommies had called The Blitz, and the now open admission that a cross Channel invasion was no longer being seriously considered, was a clear signal of a German change of emphasis. Hess assumed that even a war-monger like Churchill would have got the message by now, that the Fuhrer no longer regarded the British as his biggest enemy. A change which should allow them to modify their strident talk of: We shall fight them on the beaches and we shall fight them on the landing grounds, and modify it sufficiently to accept the now established fait accompli of German control of the Continent.

The Fuhrer had already said, several times, that they could keep their Empire and their navy, he had no interest in them. It was a simple question of persuading them to see sense, it would be in everyone's best interest.

At 17.45 hours on that fine spring evening, the Deputy Fuhrer lifted his aircraft from the west bound runway of Augsburg’s Hauenstetten airfield and set course for the first leg of his long, arduous, and completely secret flight to Scotland. Once there he planned to meet the Duke of Hamilton, a man he had heard was sympathetic to Germany’s place in the world and, as a Duke, surely sufficiently well connected, to set these momentous events in train.

On his left, the low evening sun lit up the cockpit like a searchlight; but the Deputy Fuhrer was oblivious to the wonders of nature. When he wasn’t dealing with the boring but necessary details of flight; oil cooler flaps, prop synchronisation, fuel tank transfers and the constant demands of navigation, his thoughts returned to the glory that would shortly be his, and the modest and self deprecating way in which he would handle the acclaim.

His hands resting lightly on the perfectly trimmed and balanced controls, he smiled quietly to himself, as the powerful aircraft thrust steadily northwards, and into the dusk.

The Berghof, Berchtesgaden

Sunday 11th. May 1940

The narrow road curved upwards, around the side of a steep, fir tree covered hillside, all the way to a wooden gatehouse. It was built like a Swiss mountain chalet, with its pitched roof extending across the the road, but the wooden barrier was very businesslike, as were the four black uniformed guards and their type 40 machine pistols. It had been a long drive from Augsburg, but for the moment, this was where it ended.

'All visitors must produce a letter of appointment.' The guard by the car window held out his hand.

'I already explained to the first check point that I am here at the express command of the Deputy Fuhrer, there is no letter of appointment, because there is no appointment.'

'That would be the Deputy Fuhrer Rudolf Hess?'

'Yes of course, there is only one, and as you can see from my documents I am his personal adjutant. Now please fetch an officer.'

'Why do you wish to see the Fuhrer?'

'That is none of your business, just fetch an officer - now.'

It took another twenty minutes and a full search of the car before he was allowed to approach the Berghof itself. Access to the Fuhrer, in his personal alpine residence, was every bit as tightly controlled as he had expected, as indeed it ought to be. The brief benefit being that the petty arguments involved took his mind off what was to come.

He was met at the side entrance of what was too big to be called a house, and looked more like a luxury resort hotel. Having relieved him of his service pistol, an SS guard, wearing a hand tailored uniform and with an attitude to match, had escorted him into the Great Hall.

The guard stood beside him as they waited, his demeanour making it clear that polite conversation formed no part of his duties. It was obvious that their wait would be however long it would be, this was not a place to tap one's watch, as though impatient.

He had seen pictures of this room before, most people had, it was one of the most famous rooms in the world. This was where the Fuhrer had entertained every significant foreign visitor of recent years, including Mussolini, Chamberlain and even the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. The view from the huge panoramic window was said to be stunning, the Untersberg mountains and distant views of Austria, but today there was a low overcast and the view was as gloomy as his own future.

His attention had wandered for a moment, when he heard a door open on the far side of the room, the Fuhrer walked slowly in, talking to a civilian. The two men paused and then, their conversation apparently concluded, the civilian brought himself to attention and gave the formal Fuhrer salute, turned and left. Whoever he was, he clearly didn't need to be accompanied by his own guard.

Hitler was wearing glasses, a thing he never did in public, and frowned slightly as he walked towards the two waiting men. Sturmbannfuhrer Karlheinz Pintsch stiffened, not knowing if the frown was displeasure or myopia. The letter held carefully in his left hand, to allow for the forthcoming salute, was already damp from sweat.

Hitler stopped two metres away. 'Well?'

Pintsch snapped out the salute. 'Herr Fuhrer, last night I was commanded by the Deputy Fuhrer that if he had not returned from a flight within four hours, I was to bring this letter to you. He did not return and so I drove straight here.' He held out the letter and took a pace forwards.

Hitler ignored the proffered letter. 'Are you trying to tell me that Hess is dead, is that what you're saying?'

'I don't know that sir; only that he said to bring this to you personally if he did not return from the flight.'

'Well where is he now? Where was this flight going?'

Karlheinz Pintsch had never been told explicitly where his boss was going, but a multitude of subtle hints and navigational calculations screwed up and dropped into his office waste bin had left little doubt.

'I don't know sir, the Deputy Fuhrer did not say, all I know is that the aircraft was fully fuelled for maximum range.' He could feel a tremor beginning in his outstretched arm, but couldn't look down to see if the shaking was bad enough to be visible yet.

Finally, Hitler held his hand out and Pintsch took another half pace forward to give him the letter. It was ripped open and the envelope dropped to the floor. Hitler looked at the letter in silence for several moments, his mouth slightly open, and then in tones of astonished disbelief read the opening passage aloud. 'My Fuhrer, when you receive this letter I shall be in England, where I intend to hold negotiations with the relevant authorities . . .'

He stopped reading and looked up at Pintsch, and simply stared at him. Despite being an experienced and competent 32 year old Major in the SS, and a long time party member, Pintsch felt his bowels turn to water.

'Did - You - Know - About - This?' The voice was at a higher pitch now and each separate word seemed to have been chiselled from granite.

Pintsch swallowed, he would rather have gone into captivity and ignominy in England with Hess, than face the wrath he knew was coming. 'I had thought this was just another of his routine flights my Fuhrer.' He stopped, there was nothing he could say that would change anything.

Hitler turned back towards the still open doorway through which he had entered. 'Get me Bormann. Get me Bormann now.'

The Fuhrer's voice was that of a wounded animal, an extremely large and dangerous wounded animal.

Chapter 2

Abwehr Section II, Kiel

Saturday 24th. May 1941

'Its correct name is Mytchett Place, near Farnborough to the south west of London. The British refer to it as Camp Z, but as far as we know our man is the only occupant. There are no photographs available, but it is described as being a large isolated country house. Our information is that when he was moved down from Scotland he was originally held in the Tower of London, before being . . .'

'As long as you're not expecting us to break in there;' said Frick, 'because if we did we might just take the crown jewels, and say balls to Hess.' He was the group's natural leader, a heavily built thug of a man, there was some weak laughter from the others.

Major Karl Strauss, deputy head of Section II of German Military Intelligence, known as the Abwehr, looked at the speaker. Under his gaze the man stopped grinning at his own humour. Strauss's personal opinion was that a bunch of low grade jailbirds like Frick and his friends shouldn't be let anywhere near an important operation like this, but he knew better than to voice such a view. This team had been shoehorned into the operation by some contact of Hitler's private secretary, Martin Bormann, and that meant that they would just have to do the best they could with them. A degree of tact was called for, rather than a more useful slap around the face.

'Thank you Frick, your razor sharp wit is, as always, a delight. However, returning to the Deputy Fuhrer's location. As far as we know, it has been hastily converted specifically to hold and interrogate Hess. The British will want him held somewhere out of the way where they can put their psychologists to work on him. It is believed that he has a weak and narcissistic personality that will respond well to flattery and personal attention.'

'But sir,' it was one of the other members of the assault team, a man named Karl Richter, the only one of them with even a glimmer of intelligence, 'if that's true, how could he have been such a senior a member of the Party hierarchy?'

Strauss had been ready for this question, he was just surprised it had taken them so long to think of it. 'The Deputy Fuhrer's role was largely symbolic, without any real authority. It was primarily designed to show all the other veterans of the last war that their service for the Fatherland was still remembered and respected by our present government.' Amazingly, despite being the brightest of the bunch, the man nodded, as if that answered anything, and then changed the subject.

'What will happen when we land, if we can't make contact with the agent who's supposed to meet us?'

'That my friend will be when you four earn your money.'

'And our free pardons.'

'Yes, and your free pardons. But remember they only apply if you complete the task. Hess dead is a success, Hess alive, even badly injured counts for nothing.'

'But wouldn't it be easier if we were dropped closer to the target, this place Luton, it must be two hours drive from where Hess is being held?'

'That's just basic security. There will be four of you parachuting down, and even though it will be under the cover of a nearby bombing raid, there is always the possibility that one or more of you could get separated and be picked up. Parachute drops are a fast way in, but we can never guarantee the complete accuracy of the landing site. This way, even if you are spotted coming down, the location will give them no clue about your real target. Then when you meet your contact he will drive you there.'

'Yes, but what if we can't find him?'

'Then I expect you to steal a car, you've all done it before. You'll have maps showing the way, just make sure you remember to drive on the left or they'll spot you straight away.'

Strauss looked at the four men; he wouldn't have trusted them to rob a sweet shop, but what did you expect when Hitler decided to involve his personal staff in matters they were clearly unqualified for? Martin Bormann was a pushy upstart who used his position to control access to the Fuhrer, even, apparently, vetting the correspondence he was shown.

The really annoying thing was that if this bunch failed, as they almost certainly would, then all the blame would rest on the Abwehr in general and he, Klauss, in particular - and absolutely none of it would reach Bormann. Perhaps he should just shoot them now and save everyone the trouble of flying them over there.

He took a deep breath and pointed to a large scale map, pinned to the wall. 'Right then, gather round. This is the area in question, showing the exact location of the house. You will see that I've marked some of the most likely positions for them to have sited check points.'

Turning back to the men, Strauss saw that Frick was not even looking in his direction, but staring idly through the window, his thoughts elsewhere. The Major sighed inwardly and tried to remember what the British were currently doing with spies: hanging them, or shooting them.

Station X, Bletchley Park

Tuesday 27th. May 1941

There were a great many radio listening stations spread around the British Isles, they were known collectively as the Y Service. Their job was to listen in to, and transcribe, radio transmissions from all branches of the German state and armed forces. These stations were run by a wide variety of organisations, from the three armed forces through to the Foreign Office, the Metropolitan Police and the Post Office.

It was generally assumed, throughout the Y Service, that their collected results were still being used for the pre war system of Traffic Analysis, or Log Reading as it was sometimes known. This relied on a simple analysis of the amount of radio traffic emanating from any particular source giving an indication of possible activity in that area. This was an assumption that the authorities were happy to leave unchallenged.

One of the largest and busiest of the Y Stations was that run by the army at Fort Bridgewood near Chatham. The staff there knew that the unreadable four letter groups they were picking up were the product of Enigma code machines and also knew that they were the Luftwaffe's Enigma Red series. They even knew that the teleprinter line they transmitted their results through led to Station X at Bletchley Park, but had no idea of what happened to them thereafter.

In fact on their arrival at Bletchley all Enigma Red messages went to Hut 6, where they had been routinely breaking Red since May the previous year. The speed of their decoding was now so rapid that in many cases the British had read the messages before they reached the desk of their supposed German recipient.

Once decrypted, with the help of the finest minds in the country and some of the most advanced technology on the planet, including the first ever electronic computer, batches of the hand written messages were gathered together in bundles, in a distinctly unsophisticated cardboard box. This was then pushed through a cobbled together wooden tunnel into the adjacent Hut 3 - by use of a brush handle. It was a typical wartime mix of the old and the new - whatever it took to get the job done.

On May 27th. a message arrived in Hut 3 from an Abwehr - Luftwaffe liaison unit at Kiel confirming a previous arrangement for an unknown number of people, simply referred to as the Assault Party, to be parachuted into England, in the area of Luton, on the following day. The plan apparently was for there to be a small diversionary bombing raid in the area, during which this group would make their jumps.

The message rang immediate alarm bells, German agents were routinely intercepted, both from U Boat landings and parachute drops, but they usually arrived in ones and twos. Yet from the use of the term Assault Party it sounded as though there were going to be more of them on this occasion. By mid morning the report was being read by someone with sufficient seniority in the Secret Intelligence Service to take a good guess as to what the Assault Party's target might be: Deputy Reichsfuhrer Rudolf Hess.

It was believed that the security round Hess was sufficient to cope with the threat, but this wasn't a subject that anyone wanted to take chances with. Quite apart from his knowledge of the forthcoming invasion of Russia, there could be a whole variety of subjects which long term interrogation of Hess could provide information on. Accordingly, additional anti aircraft units were deployed in the Luton area and a full scale Home Guard alert was organised.

Confirming the accuracy of the decrypt, the raid arrived as scheduled. Unfortunately the 40 mm. anti aircraft units deployed lacked the altitude to reach the aircraft and the attack came and went, with no damage either to the aircraft or anything on the ground. The Home Guard were more successful, and by 03.30 on the Wednesday morning three men had been arrested. By breakfast time they had arrived at Latchmere House, the SIS Interrogation centre at Ham Common in Surrey.

The centre was run by the monocle wearing eccentric, Colonel 'Tin-Eye' Stephens, who was widely believed capable of breaking anyone left in his care. However, owing to the low quality and poor training of the agents, none of Stephens' subtlety or psychology was required in this case and all three talked non stop. Regrettably, from their point of view, it was decided that their willingness to sing and their obvious general incompetence made them unsuitable recruits for the British XX System of turning enemy agents as doubles, to feed back false reports. This meant that within 24 hours of landing on British soil their interrogators had already noted on their files that they were to be tried for espionage, followed inevitably by a length of rope and a long drop at Wandsworth jail.

Major Karl Strauss's estimate of their abilities had been fully justified, but word of their arrival, arrest and pre ordained disposal did reach another interested party.

Chapter 3

Sir Freddy Villiers

London, Thursday 29th. May 1941

Last year's excitement is no more than a memory now, and that suits me very well thank you. Gallivanting around occupied France and Fascist Spain with Martine, whilst a variety of malcontents tried repeatedly to kill us was briefly exhilarating, but scarcely a long term plan for my retirement.

My original complaint had been about being excluded from the war effort because of my age. I'm now 67, the same age as Winston, and all the organisations I had approached had a firm retirement date of 65. Perhaps I should have stood for parliament, they seem to go on forever; or even more to the point, if Mary had still been alive she'd have told me to stop being so stupid.

My eventual success in overcoming this discrimination must stand as an object lesson in being careful what you wish for - just in case you get it.

As a result of a good deal of lobbying and self promotion, this time last year I had found myself employed by one of the Military Intelligence services on what should have been an uneventful trip to France. As it happens the trip turned into a disaster but did at least introduce me to my new companion, Martine Dumont, a fugitive Capitaine from the French Gendarmerie.

Having successfully evaded Gestapo agents in Paris and made our way out of France just hours ahead of the oncoming Blitzkrieg, would have been enough to convince most people that retirement in Putney was no bad thing. But there's no fool like an old fool, and in that respect Martine is no better than me; within weeks of that escapade we had become embroiled in another distinctly dangerous caper. [see 'Rendezvous in Paris' and 'Rendezvous in Madrid' by Ian Okell]

This had involved us travelling to Madrid and having to dodge not only Franco's fascist police and the local German agents, but also the machinations of a hostile British embassy. Even so we had still managed to divert a large amount of money from the Nazi's French puppet government into the hands of General de Gaulle's Free French movement in London; cash that was desperately needed to allow his fledgling resistance organisation to get a decent start in life.

We had even been awarded medals for that little escapade, the General himself kissing us on both cheeks, which they do at the slightest opportunity, and pinning the Order of Liberation in place. It's a bronze plaque bearing the Cross of Lorraine on a rather attractive green silk ribbon, not bad looking as these things go, it should go well with one of my darker town suits.

My chum Carrington was at the embassy in Bangkok for a while, they gave him the Order of the Elephant, second class, and he's for ever producing the damn thing. That's the trouble with these foreign decorations, one is grateful for the honour and all that, but they can seem to be somewhat showy, if you know what I mean.

But going back to our activities as secret agents or whatever. That last business in Madrid was a little too tight for comfort; it reminded me of Wellington's supposed remark after Waterloo - that it had been a damned close run thing. Never mind the millions of Francs we appropriated, well alright, stole, I was just surprised and relieved that the pair of us escaped with our lives.

For the last nine months I have stayed safely inside my own country, say what you like about London, even during the Blitz, but one rarely bumps into gun wielding Gestapo on the streets. I have, at long long last, managed to find some useful war related work, where my age was not considered a problem. I was appointed to a committee inspecting Home Guard anti invasion preparations, and feel that I might have been some use. Meanwhile Martine has continued working for de Gaulle at his Free French headquarters, albeit in a less hazardous fashion than previously.

The Blitz has certainly been a bind, with Jerry coming over most nights and keeping one awake with the constant bomb explosions and anti aircraft fire. But frankly, Putney is hardly the Luftwaffe's main target, we're too far to the west. They're more interested in the East End docks and the city centre, all we get are the bad navigators who are probably flying with their maps upside down.

Most nights when the air raid sirens start to wail, we just pull the bedclothes a little higher and stay where we are, our chances of being hit by a bomb are roughly the same as being hit by a number eleven bus.

So there you have it, Martine and Freddy, the odd couple. She is twenty two years younger than me and, on the surface, a typical French fonctionnaire, the sort of person who likes to see everything in its proper place and for life to be be organised just so. But if you scratch that Gallic surface you will find someone who is as sharp as a new pin and brave with it, and possessed by a degree of ruthlessness that has saved both our lives, more than once.

Apart from the fact that we usually laugh at the same jokes, or even at each other, it is less than obvious what such an attractive and younger woman could ever see in an old relic of the British class system like me. But there has to be something going on because we have now become a settled couple, and even my daughter approves.

I'm well aware that 'Loose Talk Costs Lives', as the posters say, but nonetheless one does hear things at the club. The current consensus seems to be that Adolf has given up on his cross channel invasion plans and is now concentrating all his resources on a planned invasion of Russia.

If so that will probably put me out of a job once more, there's not much future in anti invasion planning on the British south coast if the Krauts are planning to spend their summer in Moscow. And if Napoleon's experiences are anything to go by, then it might not be just the one summer.

A man with a longer track record of battlefield success than Hitler, thought he could roll up the Russians in one decisive hammer blow campaign. He lost ninety five percent of his troops and never fully recovered the initiative; invading Russia became the beginning of his end. Prediction is a fools' game, but I think that history might just repeat itself here.

Martine and I were talking about this last night, and she reminded me that I had warned of just this possibility to the senior Nazi that we had encountered on our two excursions to Europe last year. A thoroughly poisonous young woman called Fuchs, who wouldn't recognise morality if it bit her on the shapely and stylishly clad arsch, as they say in Baden Baden.

I would like to think that we escaped this fanatical Nazi's clutches by superior intelligence or brilliant planning, regrettably the fact of the matter is that we were just plain lucky, twice. Well good luck doesn't come in threes and even without any other reasons, she