Page 8

The Franco-German

Armistice Commission

Rabat, Morocco

10 November 1942

Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was not in his office when Obersturmbannführer SS-SD Johann Müller went there looking for him. But Müller found him calmly packing his luggage in his apartment, a high-ceilinged well-furnished suite overlooking a palm-lined boulevard in the center of town.

Von Heurten-Mitnitz was a tall, sharp-featured Pomeranian aristocrat, the younger brother of the Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz. He was the sixth generation of his family to serve his country as a diplomat.

"Good afternoon, Obersturmbannführer,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said dryly as he placed a shirt in his suitcase. “You have doubtless come to tell me that our courageous French allies have driven the Americans into the sea?”

Obersturmbannführer Johann Müller snorted.

“In a pig’s ass they have,” he said.

"What is the situation?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.

Müller told him what had taken place just outside Ksar es Souk and of his meeting with Fulmar.

“Finally, face-to-face, eh?” Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “What’s he like?”

“I thought he was an Arab at first,” Müller said. Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked at him, waiting for him to go on. “And somehow I expected him to be older,” Müller said. “Good-looking kid. Well set up. Smart. Sure of himself. ”

Von Heurten-Mitnitz nodded thoughtfully. The description was more or less what he had expected.

“And what of the other Americans?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked dryly.

“I think the Americans will be here in Rabat in twenty-four hours,” Müller said.

“Something is slowing them down?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.

“There’s a reliable rumor going around that they had to waste two hours sinking the invincible French North African fleet,” Müller replied.

“Well, it appears that you and I are to be preserved from the Americans in order to assist in the future victory of the Fatherland. Passage has been arranged for you and me, and not more than one hundred kilos of official papers, et cetera, aboard a Junkers at half past eight,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “There is a fifty-kilo allowance for personal luggage.”

"Why so late?” Müller asked.

“The Americans also wasted several hours sweeping the invincible French Service de l’aire from the skies,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “It was a choice between a U-boat and the Junkers at night.”

Müller walked to a table and picked up a bottle of Steinhager.

“May I?” he asked, already pouring some of the liquor into a glass.

“Of course,” Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “And would you be good enough to pour one for me?”

When Müller handed von Heurten-Mitnitz the small, stemmed glass, he asked,“Did you know what the Americans had in mind?”

Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz met his eyes.

“Not in the way I think you mean,” he said. “I knew they were coming. It was the logical thing for them to do, and I knew they were capable of mounting a transatlantic invasion force. But they didn’t tell me about it. Murphy, in fact, went out of his way to lead me to believe the Americans intended to reinforce the British from Cairo.”

“Then they didn’t trust you,” Müller said simply. “So why trust them?”

Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz sipped at his Steinhager before replying.

“The simple answer to that, Johann,” he said,“is that I have—we have— no choice but to trust them. Do you understand? I didn’t expect them to tell me details of their invasion.”