THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel

  THE

  LAST

  GOOD

  WAR

  A Novel

  Paul Wonnacott

  Copyright © 2007 Paul Wonnacott

  KINDLE ISBN: 9781614341963

  ISBN-13: 9781601451194

  ISBN-10: 1601451199

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  With the exception of the historical figures mentioned in Chapter 25, the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover photo by author: Enigma machine at National Cryptologic Museum, Ft. Meade, Maryland

  Booklocker.com, Inc., 2007

  0902

  For

  Andrew

  Abby

  Eli

  Joey

  Charlie

  May they live in a world without war

  —good or bad

  In September 1945, as bejeweled dancers swirled at one of London's first postwar high society balls, a gentleman murmured contentedly,

  “This is what we fought the war for.”

  A droll lady, gesturing to the dancers, responded,

  “Oh, do you mean they are all Poles?”

  George F. Will

  1

  Enigma

  26 January, 1929. 17:47. Post Office Central, Warsaw.

  Maczek had never considered himself anything but a simple postal clerk. He had never met a senior military officer. Certainly never a senior German officer, and certainly never one so flustered and out of breath.

  “I'm the military attaché of the German Republic,” said Streicher, sucking in his stomach, standing on his toes and stretching to make himself look taller than his pudgy five foot, five inches. “I'm here for a package which came in today, addressed to the embassy. This wide.” He held out his hands, about two feet apart.

  Strange. Most diplomatic mail, Maczek knew, was carried by courier; it never got near a post office. What could possibly be so important? He looked impassively at the portly but authoritarian figure dressed in the impeccable uniform of—what was he, a major or colonel? This, he thought, is the time to play strictly by the book.

  “Sorry, sir, but deliveries must be made directly to the address on the label, or picked up by authorized personnel.”

  Col. Streicher slid his identification card through the wicket.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Maczek, checking his list. “Only two people are authorized to pick up mail from the embassy's postal box—Schultz and Nagel.”

  “But they're only clerks,” Streicher huffed. “I'm their boss.”

  “I'm certain you are, sir. But you can understand. We can't release mail without the signature of one of them.” Maczek continued deferentially; the German's temper was rising, and Maczek wanted to avoid an outburst. “We can't allow even a very senior person, such as you, sir, to pick up mail that may be intended for the ambassador.”

  “I insist on seeing your supervisor.... And I need to use a phone.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Maczek, pointing to a phone in the corner and disappearing into the back room. Maczek and his supervisor, Klimecki, soon found the package. With it were a few letters.

  The package was heavy, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with glue and twine. Klimecki shook it gingerly; it didn't rattle. Carrying it carefully, he retreated to his office. Through the open door, Maczek saw him cross the room to his phone and turn the crank.

  As Maczek trailed his boss back into the main lobby, Streicher was berating a young man. Maczek recognized him as one of the two clerks authorized to pick up the mail. Maczek knew enough German to understand the clerk's meek reply: he had already been on his way to the post office, for the regular, final pickup of the day, just before closing.

  As he spotted the two Poles, Streicher quickly faded into the background, nodding to his clerk, who approached the wicket. Maczek handed over the letters, asking the German to sign.

  When he saw only the thin letters, Streicher was suddenly back at the wicket, loudly insisting that the Poles produce the package.

  Klimecki took over from Maczek. “I'm sorry sir, but it's not here.”

  “It must be. It was on the train that arrived in Warsaw at 2:00 p.m.”

  “That's possible sir, but it still isn't here. Sometimes packages are handled separately from letters; they're sorted later.”

  “You mean it may be in your back room, among the unsorted mail?”

  “Perhaps, sir, or it could still be at the train station.”

  “Then I insist you look for it among your unsorted mail.”

  “Sorry sir, but we can't do that. It's already past closing time.”

  “But I insist.” The pink in Streicher's face was turning to red; he was clearly struggling, with only partial success, not to shout at the cool, unhelpful clerk. “You want a diplomatic incident? I'll give it to you. I'm a friend of the postmaster general.”

  “Very well, sir, we'll see if we can find it.” Klimecki tried to suppress a grin; the postmaster general had died eight months ago, and his replacement had not yet been chosen. As Streicher's anger rose, Klimecki became more certain that he had made the right decision, to hold the package and call Polish military intelligence. He and Maczek retreated to the back room, where they broke out a new deck of cards and Maczek dealt. Klimecki sat impassively, hiding his joy at the three aces in the corner of his hand. Perhaps this would indeed be his lucky day.

  The two began to speculate casually on what might be inside the wrapper. Secret war plans? Unlikely. New electronic equipment to intercept Polish radio communications? A new set of burglar tools, to break into government offices? Anything like that, and intelligence should know.

  After thirty minutes, Klimecki returned to inform the Germans: After a diligent search, they could assure the Colonel that they simply did not have the package. Undoubtedly it would arrive Monday. Would the Colonel like to have it sent by special messenger to his embassy?

  As Streicher stormed out the front door, intelligence officers were already coming in through the rear. The package was indeed important. In it was a coding machine, with ENIGMA stenciled on its cover. Working nonstop from Saturday evening until the early hours of Monday, they carefully disassembled it, taking numerous pictures of the three rotors at the top, and making detailed notes. Then they meticulously reassembled and resealed it, exactly the way it had come. A pristine package, ready for delivery on Monday.

  8 November, 1931. The Grand Hotel. Verviers, Belgium.

  Hans Thilo Schmidt sat on the side of his bed. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow, in spite of the chill in the room. He snuggled his briefcase close to his hip, occasionally reaching inside to reassure himself that the manuals were still there.

  He could still go back. But it would have to be within the next fifteen minutes. Then it would be too late. He would be in the clutches of the Deuxième Bureau for life. Or death.

  His panic gave way to anger. That stupid woman. He was hopelessly in love with her. But it wasn't just her; he simply loved women. Why couldn't she realize, even a married man must have his flirtations, his little games? He could understand her shock, the first time she stumbled across him with the maid. But why did she insist on such a quick succession of maids, each uglier than the last? He had patiently tried to explain. Her little scheme wouldn't work; the uglier the maids, the more eagerly they fell into his arms.

  Finally, her nagging had driven him to look elsewhere, t
o his cozy little nest in Berlin. But that was expensive. How was he supposed to afford it on his paltry salary at the Cipher Office? If only his father had been something more than that dull, pathetic professor of history. If only his father had restored the family fortune. If only....

  It came. Three knocks on his door; then four. He rose, shuffled into the bathroom, and splashed water on his face. He was dismayed by his bloodshot eyes. If only he hadn't had quite so much to drink last night. But they wouldn't get the better of him. He'd drive a hard bargain. What he was offering—pure gold.

  He quickly dried his face, slapping it three times—hard—and stepped purposefully from his room. He was quickly up the stairs to the third floor, cautiously opening the door and glancing into the hall. Nobody. Good. Two doors down to Room 34. He gently knocked three times. The door slowly opened.

  Gustave Bertrand was ecstatic. Rudolphe Lemoine of the Deuxième Bureau had a promising contact. A mid-level manager in the Cipher Office, no less. Perhaps he would enable them to listen in on communications between Berlin and the German armed forces.

  But, said Lemoine, they had to be careful. Schmidt could possibly be an agent provocateur, sent by Berlin to lead them into a trap. More likely, he was puffing up his importance; he might have very little to offer. But it was a risk worth taking.

  As Schmidt entered the room, he was obviously nervous. He stumbled over the edge of the carpet; he fidgeted with his collar; he kept clearing his throat. Bertrand tried hard not to stare. He had never seen a real, flesh-and-blood traitor before; his work with French intelligence had been confined to a detailed study of foreign codes. Lemoine, in contrast, was an old hand, and tried two small jokes to put Schmidt at ease. No success. Schmidt sat down, all business.

  “I offer these samples to overcome your skepticism, to prove that I have access to information of the utmost importance,” he said, drawing three manuals from the briefcase. “As agreed, you will make an offer as to what they are worth.”

  Schmidt placed the manuals on the coffee table. Bertrand could scarcely believe his eyes. They gave the detailed operating procedures for the new Enigma machine. He struggled not to show his pleasure; he didn't want the price to go through the roof.

  “This, I should emphasize, is just a sample,” Schmidt continued. “I also have access to the current settings of the Enigma—our coding machine. And I will be able to obtain future settings. Provided, of course, that we can come to a satisfactory financial arrangement.”

  There was a hush, broken only by the faint sounds of Bertrand turning the pages. Schmidt seemed scarcely to be breathing. After ten minutes, Lemoine began to put on his show of sangfroid. He leaned over the coffee table, glancing through a magazine to find the newest fashions in bathing suits. He stared out the window at the tennis game below. Shortly thereafter, Bertrand looked up.

  “Yes, these may be of interest to us. Perhaps M. Lemoine and I could have a moment or two together.” He nodded toward the bathroom door.

  The two Frenchmen retreated to the bathroom, leaving the door open so they could block Schmidt's escape if he suddenly changed his mind and tried to bolt. They turned on the taps to hide the sound of their voices.

  “This is beyond my wildest dreams,” Bertrand began. “If he can provide the settings, we may have an open window on German plans.”

  “How much should we offer?”

  “Something big. Perhaps as much as 5,000 marks.”

  Bertrand was concerned that he might have trouble with such a large figure; it was coming out of Lemoine's budget. Lemoine surprised him, dropping his pretense that he had not a care in the world. “We've got this fish on the line. Let's reel him in. How about 10,000?” More than a year's salary.

  “Fine. Excellent.”

  “The question is, do we give it to him outright, or do we let him have the satisfaction of bargaining us up?”

  “That's your department.”

  They returned, smiling.

  Lemoine got right to the point. “We are willing to make a very generous offer for your material, say 5,000 marks... with more to come for future information.”

  Schmidt paused. Bertrand was uncertain whether he was dissatisfied with the 5,000 marks, or whether he was thinking how he might provide a continuing flow of information. Schmidt scowled. Bertrand could feel the tension rise; he blurted out:

  “We might do even better. We might get authorization for 10,000 marks.”

  “Might get authorization?” Schmidt retorted. “You were supposed to come with a serious, firm offer.” He leaned forward, pressing his hands down on the armrests; he was about to rise.

  “I can authorize that figure,” Lemoine said smoothly. “In fact, I can pay that amount now, in cash. With another 10,000 when you provide the current settings.”

  Schmidt smiled and held out his hand to Lemoine. They shook; they had a deal. Lemoine thereupon reached in his briefcase, pulled out a stack of bills, and began to count out 10,000 marks. Bertrand retired to the bedroom to photograph the manuals.

  He was glad that Lemoine had sealed the deal. If it had been him, he might have detoured to the bathroom to wash his hand. Lemoine was less squeamish; it was all in a day's work.

  A very good day's work. Now they had their hooks into Schmidt. They would play him like a puppet.

  Bertrand was overjoyed. Then came months of frustration.

  French cryptographers saw little value in the manuals, which explained how to encipher a message, not how to read one. British intelligence gave a similar negative response. Even with the manuals, the Enigma machine simply couldn't be broken.

  He came back for another round with his French superiors. Lemoine drew him aside with a word of caution. Schmidt was indeed a gold mine. But in more ways than one. The Deuxième Bureau wanted to exploit his other contacts; his brother was a general with access to German military plans. This source was too valuable to risk; codebreaking was a sideshow.

  In frustration, Bertrand turned to his last hope. He got permission to share Schmidt's information with Poland.

  He was off to Warsaw, to offer his wares to young mathematicians at the Cipher Bureau—Marian Rejewski and Henryk Zygalski. They were delighted.

  The trouble was, they were missing a critical piece of the puzzle. They had the manuals, telling how Enigma was used to encode a message. Schmidt also had provided the rotor settings for several months. They had their own extensive library of intercepted, undeciphered German messages. They knew the general design of the Enigma, from the package opened at the Warsaw Post Office. Indeed, they had a complete early version of the machine, which they had had the foresight to buy when it was still available on the commercial market. But in the German military version, the internal wiring of the rotors was different.

  Rejewski had been working on a mathematical model of the Enigma. He retired to his office with the undeciphered messages, the wheel settings, and the manuals. Within a brief span of three months, he figured out the internal wiring of the Enigma's three wheels.

  With the settings provided by Schmidt, they could now read some German communications. Most were deadly dull—instructions on troop movements, quartermaster complaints, bookkeeping details, and seemingly endless propaganda screeds for the motivation of the troops. But they nevertheless provided a picture of the stirring, rising giant of the German military under the aggressive and determined new Führer.

  They were fascinated by one intercept—a very short one:

  FROM: HIMMLER, SS HEADQUARTERS

  TO: ALL AIRPORTS

  30 JUNE, 1934

  SECRET

  ERNST RÖHM ABLIEFERN TOT ODER LEBEND.

  (ERNST RÖHM TO BE DELIVERED DEAD OR ALIVE.)

  The brief message gave only a faint hint of the bloody act to follow—the “Night of the Long Knives.” The leader of the Brownshirts—street brawlers who had terrorized Hitler's opponents during his rise to power—was about to be eliminated. Röhm wanted a second revolution, aimed at putting “socialis
m” into National Socialism and crushing the power of right-wing industrialists and generals. He wanted his Brownshirts to become a “People's Army,” replacing the regular army. But, for his coming wars, Hitler needed a hardened, disciplined army, not a rabble. Röhm—the only associate close enough for Hitler to call by the familiar du—was dragged from his bed and shot, together with dozens of his comrades.

  As the Deuxième Bureau milked Schmidt for other, unrelated secrets, information on Enigma dried up. Decryptions of messages became sporadic. But then, in 1936, Hitler's troops marched into the Rhineland, showing just how eager the Führer was to upset the order established by the Treaty of Versailles. The Polish codebreaking operation moved into high gear; they would need more people.

  2

  Already Surrounded

  May you live

  in interesting times.

  Chinese Curse

  1 September, 1939. 05:20. With the Seventh Cavalry, west of Poznan, Poland.

  It began on a Friday morning, as the warmth of summer was giving way to the first frost of fall.

  Lieutenant Kazimierz Jankowski touched his spur to the flank of Tiber, enough to make the stallion break into a gallop toward the mist hanging over the lowest, lushest patch of meadow. The mist was unusual, now that the sharp chill of autumn was in the air. As the glow in the east became brighter, Tiber's head shaded from black to charcoal to chestnut. Jankowski loved to ride at dawn. He loved this time of year; the cold, crisp air urged him and his horse onward. He tried not to think of the harsh Polish winter to come. He tried even harder not to think of the grim events of the past week, with Poland feverishly mobilizing in the face of German threats. Better to think of the pleasant things in life. Anna. The soft touch of his new bride.

  Tiber was now in his favorite spot, and Kaz began to lead his horse through the new steps being prepared for President Moscicki's visit. First a few prancing steps to the left, then to the right. Another touch of the spur, and Tiber reared up. He held that awkward position for four long seconds, and then, responding to quick jabs of the spur, hopped twice on his hind legs before coming down with four hooves on the turf. Not bad, but it still needed work. The Colonel had observed this unusual maneuver in his recent visit to the Spanish Riding School in Vienna and was eager to show it off to the President. It would have to be done just right. Kaz began the sidestep again. Good. His stallion was getting just the right spring in his step.