‘Beautiful,’ Kesselring said, indicating the view. ‘Quite remarkable, and so is the coffee.’
‘Yemeni mocha.’ Walther poured him another cup. ‘We still manage some of the finer things in life here.’
‘We had some difficulty driving through the town. There seemed to be religious processions everywhere.’
‘Some sort of holy week. They hold them all the time. Everything grinds to a halt. They’re a very religious people.’
‘So it would appear,’ Kesselring said. ‘When one of the processions passed us I noticed a rather unusual feature. The Image of the Virgin they were carrying had a knife through its heart.’
‘Typically Sicilian,’ Walther replied. ‘The cult of death everywhere.’
Kesselring put down his cup. ‘All right, what have I got?’
‘There are eight this morning. All Iron Crosses. First Class, except for the two in whom the Field Marshal has a special interest.’
‘Let’s take a look.’
Walther opened the door and ushered him out onto a stone-flagged terrace, an ironwork grille between the pillars. Below in the courtyard eight men were drawn up.
‘Koenig on the far end,’ Herr Field Marshal Walther said. ‘The man next to him is Sturmscharführer Brandt.’
‘Who receives the Knight’s Cross?’
‘The third occasion that Koenig has put him forward.’
‘So,’ Kesselring nodded. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’
Major Max Koenig was twenty-six and looked ten years older. He had seen action in Poland, France and Holland and had transferred to the newly formed 21st SS Paratroop Battalion in time for the drop over Maleme airfield in Crete in 1941 where he was seriously wounded. Then came the Winter War in Russia. Two years of it and it showed: in the gold wound badge that said he’d been a casualty on five separate occasions; in the general air of weariness, the empty look in the dark eyes.
Except for the silver death’s head badge in his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all fallschirmjäger: flying blouse, jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots. On his left sleeve was the Kreta cuff title, proud badge of those who had spearheaded the invasion of Crete. The gold and silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification badge was pinned to his left breast beside the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves hung at his throat.
Standing at ease at the end of the line waiting to receive the Swords, he felt strangely indifferent and yet strove to find the right thing to say to Sergeant-Major Brandt for whom this was a moment of supreme importance.
‘So, Rudi,’ he whispered. ‘The great occasion at last.’
‘Thanks to you, Major,’ Brandt replied. He was an innkeeper’s son from the Austrian Tyrol, a small, wiry man who could climb all day with no need of rest. He and Koenig had been together for more than two years now.
There was a clatter of boots on the stone stairs as Kesselring and General Walther appeared and someone called the parade to attention.
It was a pleasant enough affair, for Kesselring was in good humour, full of his usual charm. He had a word for each man as he pinned on the ribbon. They responded well, as was only to be expected, for he was, after all, Commander-in-chief South and arguably one of the best half-dozen generals on either side during the Second World War.
They had reached Brandt now and Kesselring did a marvellous thing, throwing all distinctions of rank to one side, clapping Brandt on the shoulders and shaking him warmly by the hand before hanging the coveted cross around his neck.
‘My dear Brandt, a real pleasure, I assure you as one soldier to another, and long overdue.’
Brandt was overcome and Koenig was unable to keep a fleeting smile from his lips. A master stroke, but Kesselring knew how to handle men. Then the Field Marshal was standing in front of him, a slightly wry smile on his face as if he had noticed Koenig’s reaction and was asking him to bear with him.
‘What on earth can I say, Major? You are only the thirtieth recipient of the Swords since the award was created. Normally, our Führer himself would wish to decorate you personally, but these are extraordinary times. I can only say how delighted I am that the honour falls to me.’
He held Koenig by the shoulders for a moment and then, as if in a sudden excess of emotion, embraced him.
Later, back in Walther’s office having a cognac before lunch, Kesselring said, ‘A very impressive young man.’
‘He’s certainly that,’ Walther agreed.
‘Decent, honourable, chivalrous. A superb soldier. What every member of the Waffen SS would like to imagine himself to be. Let’s have him in and get it over with.’
Walther pressed a buzzer on his desk and a moment later an aide looked in.
‘Major Koenig,’ Walther said.
The aide withdrew and Koenig entered. He paused at the desk, clicked his heels, and his hand went to the peak of his fieldcap in a military salute.
The Field Marshal said, ‘Pull up a chair, Major, and sit down.’
Koenig did as he was told. Kesselring turned to the large-scale military map of Sicily on the wall. ‘I see you’ve applied for a transfer already.’
‘Yes, Herr Field Marshal.’
‘Well, it’s denied.’
‘May I be permitted to ask why?’
‘I could say because that silver plate they had to put in your skull after your last exploit in Russia makes you unsuitable for jumping out of aeroplanes any more. But I don’t need to. Your task here in Sicily is of vital importance.’
General Walther said, ‘There is still too much partisan activity here in the central mountains, particularly in the region of the Cammarata. It would be fatal to our interests in the event of an invasion.’
‘I thought the Allies intend to try Sardinia first, General?’ queried Koenig.
Walther and Kesselring glanced at each other and Kesselring laughed. ‘Go on, tell him. I don’t see why not.’
Walther said, ‘Actually, you’re not far wrong, Major. The high command in Berlin, the Führer himself, feel that Sardinia will be the invasion point.’
‘A few weeks ago, the body of a British courier was washed up on a Spanish beach,’ Kesselring went on. ‘A Royal Marine Major. He was carrying letters to General Alexander in Tunisia. There was another from Lord Louis Mountbatten to Sir Andrew Cunningham, Commander-in-Chief of the British Mediterranean Fleet. The gist of these letters indicates firmly that the target for the Allied invasion will be Sardinia and Greece. Any attack on Sicily will be diversionary.’
There was a heavy silence. General Walther said, ‘We’d be interested in your opinion. Feel free to speak.’
‘What can I say, Herr General.’ Koenig shrugged. ‘Miracles do occur on occasions, even in this day and age. Presumably this British Major’s being so conveniently washed up on a Spanish beach where our agents could have a sight of the letters he was carrying, was one of them.’
‘But on the whole,’ Kesselring said, ‘you don’t believe in miracles.’
‘Not since I stopped reading the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, Herr Field Marshal.’
‘Good.’ Kesselring was all business now. ‘Give me your personal assessment of the situation here.’
Koenig