By breakfast-time the following morning Gregory had planned the last stage of his journey to Traben-Trabach. The twin townships lay opposite to each other about thirty-five miles away up the Moselle as the crow flies, but considerably more by road or rail.
The road followed the twisting valley of the river, which included many huge loops in its erratic course, while although the main line of the railway ran directly across country to Bullay, the latter half of the journey to Traben was by a branch line which, like the road, followed the bends of the river.
Rail would have been quicker, but once again he feared to arouse comment at the station owing to his lack of a military travelling voucher; if he travelled by car, however, he would evade the possibility of any such contretemps. Unfortunately it was impossible for him to hire a car, but he saw no reason why he should not commandeer one and he decided to do so.
With this idea in mind he walked from the restaurant to the entrance of the hotel, where he was able to keep a careful watch on arrivals and departures while screening his interest behind an open newspaper. The scene was one of considerable activity, for the hotel was crammed with officers and as they came and went they all seemed intent on urgent business.
To Gregory’s annoyance every car that drove up was already being used either by Army officers or by uniformed Nazis. He did not want to risk coming into conflict with either, but at last a medium-sized touring-car pulled up at the entrance, driven by a girl who wore an A.R.P. brassard on her arm. As soon as it halted a wiry, ferret-faced little civilian jumped out from beside her. Bustling importantly past Gregory, he thrust his way through the crush in the lounge and entered one of the lifts. No sooner was he inside it than Gregory folded his paper, strode across the pavement and saluted the driver.
For a moment the girl looked quite startled, but he gave her his most charming smile and said: ‘I regret to trouble you, Fräulein, but I have a most urgent duty to perform and my car has not arrived. I can wait no longer, so I fear that I must commandeer yours for military purposes.’
The girl was a fair-haired, plump-faced female and his request made her look both scared and unhappy, but Gregory did not give her time to argue. Opening the door he got in beside her and said: ‘You will drive me, please, to Traben.’
‘But—Herr Schnabel—’ she began, but Gregory cut her short. ‘I regret, Fräulein, but we must not delay. I am already late and the matter is urgent.’
To his immense relief she made no further effort to protest but slipped in the clutch and took the road that led towards the Moselle. Leaving behind the huge equestrian statue which stands at the confluence of the two rivers, they were soon speeding south-westwards down the wide Autobahn.
As the girl was obviously terrified of opening her mouth in the presence of anyone as important as a General, Gregory sought to put her at her ease by asking how long she had been in the Coblenz A.R.P.
He learned that her name was Greta Schultz and that she had been acting as driver to Herr Schnabel, the ferrety civilian who had bustled so importantly into the hotel, only for the past fortnight. Apparently no one in Coblenz had thought that there was the least likelihood of Germany’s being plunged into another Great War. Any danger of air-raids had therefore seemed immeasurably remote, and in consequence the A.R.P. organisation of the district was hopelessly inadequate and they were now working night and day to make themselves reasonably secure. Herr Schnabel, a local Nazi of importance, had been made Chief Warden. He was a short-tempered man at the best of times and a fire at his home the previous night which had damaged both his uniforms had put him in a particularly evil mood that morning. Now that in addition he was harassed by his responsibility for the safety of the city’s civilian population and had more appointments than he could possibly manage to keep, it was quite certain that he would be absolutely furious at having his car commandeered.
Gregory declared sententiously that military matters must come before civilian defence, and led the girl on to talk about the war. It soon transpired that she had no opinions of her own and that her views had been entirely formed for her by Dr. Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda. She retailed incredible stories of the tortures to which the Poles had subject Germans living in Poland, praised Hitler as the liberator of the German people and spoke with unbelievable bitterness of Britain, the arch-enemy, who by her policy of encirclement was unquestionably responsible for the war.
About the Russo-German pact she was obviously completely puzzled and had no views to offer except that whatever the Führer did was right, but it was clear that the declaration of war by the Democracies had come as an appalling shock to herself and her friends, and that the bulletin issued the previous day, admitting that French troops were fighting on German soil had filled them with dismay.
The road ran flat and smooth along the river-bank, winding its way south-westward in the direction of Trier and the southern corner of Luxembourg, less than seventy miles away where fighting was in progress. The first part of the journey was not particularly interesting, but by the time that the tall tower of Cochem Castle had come in sight the river had become as beautiful as the upper reaches of the Thames. On one side, its steep slopes were covered with countless irregular terraces, built up from below or cut out from the hillside to catch every ray of sunshine which might help to sweeten the grapes of the carefully-cultivated rows of vines which were grown upon them. On the other, the deeper green of pine and larch woods rose unbroken from the river-bank to the crest of the hills that fringed the valley, while here and there sheltered meadows in which cattle were peacefully grazing lay along the banks of the river.
There was far more Army activity in this part of the country than there had been round Cologne and most of the traffic was of a military nature, but as soon as they had passed Boulay, where the main road and the main-line railway branch away from the river, the road became practically deserted. The villages of Zell and Enkirch lay sleeping in the September sunshine; quiet, friendly places which, apart from a Nazi flag or two, had remained unchanged by the coming of Hitler or the war; their inhabitants preoccupied with the tending of their vineyards and the vintaging of their wines as they had been through so many centuries.
Just before eleven they came in sight of the twin townlets of Traben-Trabach. The road lay along the south bank of the river, so they entered Trabach first. Passing below the ruined Schloss perched upon the wooded hillside above the town they pulled up at the bridge to inquire for Julius Rheinhardt’s offices, and a policeman directed them over the river to Traben.
The river-bank there was lined with old houses, each with its vine-covered terrace overlooking the road below; from the big, arched doorways under several of these terraces casks and cases of wine were being man-handled across the road to be loaded on to river barges. The policeman pointed out one of these as Herr Rheinhardt’s, in which his offices were also situated. Crossing the river they drove round to the back of the house and entered a courtyard, where Gregory got out, ascended a few steps at the side of the yard, and entered a door marked Bureau.
The appearance of a General created quite a stir among the women and boys who were working there, and an elderly hunchback shuffled forward to ask the Herr General’s pleasure.
It appeared that Herr Julius was making an inspection of some of his local vineyards that morning, as the vintaging was now very near and was, in fact, expected to start the following week. Introducing himself as Klein, the hunchback immediately offered his services as guide upon Gregory’s saying that he wished to see Herr Rheinhardt as soon as possible, and they went out to the car together.
Beyond Traben the slope of the hill rose gently, being almost surrounded by a bend of the river, and the whole of it was covered with tall vines, differing from the low, French variety in that each was trained up a five-foot stake.
The car bucketed up a bumpy track until the hunchback called a halt and, getting out, clambered on to a low, stone wall from where he could get a view over the surrounding vineyards. Gregory followed, and climbed up beside him.
‘Ha! There is Herr Julius,’ exclaimed the little man, pointing. ‘You can just see the top of his hat.’ He was about to shout, but Gregory stopped him.
‘One moment. It is no distance; I will walk through the vineyards to him. You are to remain here. Go back and sit in the car.’
Herr Klein obeyed without a murmur, and Gregory slipped down from the wall into the vineyard and went forward between two rows of tall vines.
It was intensely hot in the vineyard; much hotter than up on the open road, owing to the slate which was scattered all over the ground to catch the sun’s heat and reflect it up on to the bunches of grapes below the leaves so that they should ripen properly. After he had covered a hundred yards Gregory took off his cap to mop his bald, perspiring head and began to peer about among the vines for Herr Rheinhardt. As he moved the state clinked beneath his heavy boots, so he began to tread cautiously, making as little noise as possible. Advancing a little further he caught the sound of Herr Rheinhardt’s tread and a moment later saw a heavy, elderly man approaching down an adjacent lane between the vines, stopping here and there to examine a bunch of grapes with a professional eye.
Gregory drew back a little putting another vine between himself and the winegrower. He had no introduction or credentials and it was absolutely essential that Herr Rheinhardt should be made to talk. He knew that in disclosing himself he ran a grave risk that Herr Rheinhardt might believe that he was being led into a trap, and would therefore promptly hand his unusual visitor over to the police in order to protect himself.
It was for this reason that Gregory had decided to tackle him while he was out here alone rather than wait until they had got back to the town, since should Rheinhardt react unfavourably the fact that he was out in the country would at least assure him of a flying start. Everything, he felt, hung upon Herr Rheinhardt’s first reactions, so he had made up his mind to startle him out of his wits and take the consequences.
When the portly German had approached to within a couple of yards of him he said distinctly in English: ‘You may vintage this crop, Herr Rheinhardt, but do you think you will live to drink the wine you make from it?’
He waited, holding his breath, to see what the reply would be.