Never Leave Me by Margaret Pemberton Page B

services. We’ll go out for the day, far from Valmy. We’ll have lunch and champagne and …’ his voice thickened and she trembled against him, ‘we’ll make love. There’ll be no going back. Not ever.’
    She had bent her head and kissed his hands, and he had stroked the satin-soft fall of her hair and had left her, not trusting himself to remain.
    A faint frown furrowed his brow as he ran lightly down the stairs and crossed the flagged hall towards the grand dining-room. His interview with Henri de Valmy would not be pleasant, and his interview with Field Marshal Rommel would take nearly as much courage as a straight run into cannon fire. German Army regulations forbade marriage between serving men and subject races. He shrugged dismissively. The German ambassador to France had married a Frenchwoman, and what was good enough for a pot-bellied ambassador was good enough for him.
    The sentry on duty clicked his heels and saluted smartly as he strode past him and into the tapestried dining-room. With a wry grin he seated himself at the twenty-foot table, wondering who would be most appalled at his news – the Comte or the Field Marshal.
    A report to Rommel lay on the table waiting for completion. It was his personal estimate of the Allies’intentions. When it had been evaluated by Rommel it would be sent with Army Group B’s weekly report to Oberfehlshaber West, Field Marshal von Runstedt’s headquarters, and from there, suitably embroidered, it would become part of the overall theatre report and would be forwarded to Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, Hitler’s headquarters. God alone knew what would happen to it then. There were times when he believed that everything sent to OKW was destroyed unseen. Certainly no notice was taken of Rommel’s repeated requests.
    His face was grim as he picked up his pen. Rommel needed panzer divisions. No matter how many mines and booby-traps were planted, the coastline could not be rendered safe without the back-up of panzers. But the panzer divisions were being held in reserve far from the coast and the Fuhrer insisted on retaining them there under his personal authority. Von Runstedt could not move them and Rommel, who had fought with such success with panzers in North Africa, could not move them.
    Dieter’s frown deepened. They needed at least five panzer divisions to counter-attack an invasion. In the first few hours of an assault their presence would be vital. He worked steadily for three hours, forgetting all about Lisette and his personal difficulties, concentrating on the problem of when and where the Allies would attack, and how they would best be repelled.
    Rommel had been tense and edgy when he had descended on Valmy. The gruelling hours that he worked and the nightmare suspense of constantly watching and waiting for moves from across the Channel were obvious.
    â€˜There’s still no sign of an attack,’ he had said, pacing the dining-room fretfully. ‘I’m beginning to think the Anglo-Americans have lost confidence in their cause, Meyer.’
    Dieter had not agreed with him. The Allies had not lost confidence. They were simply waiting. And when the moment was right, they would strike. But where? He clenched his hands into fists of frustration. Hitler had made it known that he thought it would be Normandy and for once Dieter was in agreement with his Fuhrer. Rommel and the other chiefs of staff still favoured the Pas de Calais.
    He leaned back in his chair, ringing for coffee, studying for the thousandth time the aerial reconnaissance photographs spread out before him. Wherever the Allies invaded, they would need air cover and the effective range of their Spitfires was 150 miles. That effectively ruled out anywhere west of Cherbourg. It would be impossible to unload an army beneath steep cliffs and that therefore ruled out further vast sections of the coast. And the sea crossing would, of necessity, have to be