Kat and the Desert Eagle
Page 1
THE ADVENTURES OF
KAT’S COMMANDOS
The Declassified History of World War II
KAT and the Desert Eagle
BOOK 3
Copyright 2019 © Michael Beals
Cover Art
By Michael Beals
All pictures contained herein are public domain, courtesy of either the Imperial War Museum (UK) or the Bundesarchiv (Germany).
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously or are just the fevered products of the author’s twisted imagination.
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
Kat’s Commandos Book 4: KAT and die WOLFSSCHANZE
CHAPTER 1
Thirty miles west of Tunis, amid arid fields that once were olive groves, the French built a tiny airfield. It boasted a single dusty runway, a small control tower, and a hangar large enough for crop dusters… until the Luftwaffe arrived. Now with two runways, three large hangars and heavily guarded by the Waffen-SS. Two hours ago, Field Marshal Rommel arrived with a fleet of tanks and two high-ranking British prisoners. This too was the reason Kat Wolfram and her team were also there. The SOE were insistent, we don’t care what it takes. The Germans cannot be allowed to fly them to Berlin. If you can’t rescue them… kill them!
The stolen halftrack felt like an oven in the midday heat, made even worse because Kat and Trufflefoot wore the full, all black, Waffen-SS uniforms. The rest of the team wore desert fatigues. Sergeant Major Dore even had his sleeves rolled-up, no doubt to show off his bulging biceps and hairy arms. They were parked in the road outside the airfield’s main entrance, and every so often the German Guards glanced at them.
Kat glanced at Corporal Atkins. He looked nervous because he didn’t speak German. “You’ll be fine, Atkins. Stop worrying.”
“What if someone speaks to me?”
Captain Stewart, the New Zealand pilot, laughed. “Mate, once we’re in there, you won’t be speaking to anyone. Soon as those prisoners move, we’ll be marching across that airfield like regular Krauts.
“Is that a good idea?” Kat asked, glancing at Dore.
“Why? What d’you have in mind, Lass?”
“The only plane with its engines running is that Junkers 52.”
“So it’s the plane they’re using for the prisoners. And?”
“We should stay in the halftrack and drive. It’ll give us cover when things get sticky.”
“Good Lord,” Trufflefoot said, grimacing, “no one takes a halftrack on the apron.”
Dore straightened and racked his MP40. “Good idea, Lassie. And in the nick of time. They’re on the move. Move yer wee arse, Atkins!”
Starting the engine, Atkins hauled the halftrack up to the gates, staring straight ahead as Kat waved their papers at the Guard. “Wir sind in eile,” she said, sweetly.
The Guard took one look at Trufflefoot’s SS rank, barely glancing at the papers. Moments later they drove past rows of Dornier bombers, ground crews loading ordnance, and clambering on the wings. The prisoners and their escorts were now halfway across the apron, an SS Captain and six Guards, three either side, their boots crunching in perfect unison. Dore pulled out a Panzerschreck. This clearly would not be a gentle extraction.
Kat released the safety’s on her twin Lugers. “Slow down Atkins. We want them safely aboard.”
Hearing the halftrack coming, the SS Captain looked back and frowned.
“They’ve seen us,” Stewart said.
“Of course they’ve seen us,” Kat exclaimed. “We’re not invisible. Wait for Dore’s call.”
“Or you can wait for mine,” Trufflefoot interjected. “I am the Commanding Officer.”
Kat smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Of course you are, Truff. You want to call it?”
He screwed up his face and thought about it. “No, not really.”
The prisoners passed under the wing now, the ladder in place to board the plane as two SS officers peered out through the doorway.
“Slower,” Dore warned. “Keep to a crawl, Atkins.” They were 100 yards away now and closing quickly. “For the love of Christ, Atkins. Do you know what a crawl is?”
“It won’t go any slower Sarge. I’m already riding the bitching clutch.”
“Then put your foot on the brake,” Kat hissed, trying to maintain a smile. “We can’t get there too soon.”
At that moment, the Captain guarding the prisoners jerked around and stared at them. Waving the prisoners onto the plane, he squinted at the approaching halftrack and stepped forwards. “Herumgehen!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Herumgehen!”
Atkins had no intention of going around, and moments later, Dore shouted, “Now!”
He leapt from the truck, followed almost instantly by Kat, Stewart and Trufflefoot. The Guards stared at them in shock. They were being attacked by their own people.
“Drop your weapons and back away!” Trufflefoot shouted, in German. “We’re taking over!”
The German Captain narrowed his eyes. “You have documents?”
“No, we’ve got these nice shiny machine guns!” Trufflefoot shouted, racking his MP40. “Drop your weapons!”
The Captain’s eyes widened. “Englander! Englander!” he screamed, with a look of shock.
Dore didn’t wait. While firing his MP40, he hurled a smoke grenade over the halftrack. “Fire at will!” he yelled.
Volleys of bullets pinged and whined as the Guards tried to defend themselves, but Atkins and Stewart mowed them down. One of the German officers loosed a burst of automatic fire from the Junker’s doorway. Dore grabbed him, threw him off the plane and leapt aboard. Suddenly, bullets pinged all over the halftrack. They were under heavy fire from one of the hangars. Stewart cursed and hurled another smoke grenade as Kat grabbed the Panzerschreck and fired it into the smoke.
“The planes!” Dore screamed, from the Junker’s doorway. “Aim at the planes!”
Swinging around, she loaded another rocket into the Panzerschreck and fired it at the nearest Dornier. At that moment, all hell broke loose. The Dornier exploded, bullets peppered the Junker, smoke and debris flew everywhere.
“On the plane!” Kat screamed, leaping aboard.
Trufflefoot picked up the Panzerschreck she’d abandoned. He loaded a rocket into it and blew up another Dornier.
Pushing past the startled prisoners,
Kat stormed to the front of the plane. “For god’s sake, Jock! Why are we still sitting here? Get this thing moving!”
“He’s refusing.”
“He’s what!” Stabbing her gun at the pilot’s head, she yanked him round to face her. “Are you stupid or what?” Kat snarled in German, ducking as more bullets raked the side of the plane. “If they don’t kill you, I will. Now get this goddamn plane in the air!”
Not needing a second warning, the pilot pushed the throttles all the way forward.
“Is everyone aboard?” Kat shouted, making her way to the open door again. She saw their attackers now. They stumbled through the smoke, screaming and setting up mortars. Two armored vehicles appeared, their gunners frantically trying to load their MG42 machine guns.
Dore picked up a Panzerschreck and fired a rocket hitting the first armored vehicle, exploding it into a million pieces. The second vehicle scurried a way trying to escape. Two Dorniers burned furiously as ground crews frantically moved the other planes.
“We’re clear!” Kat shouted. “We’re the least of their problems!”
Two minutes later, they were airborne. The pilot was furious and complaining. “Vere you vant me to fly? English are everywhere! Zey shoot us down!”
It was too much for Dore. Hauling the pilot out of his seat, he hurled the screaming man out of the plane.
“Sarge, are you crazy?” Atkins shrieked, as the plane went into a steep dive. “That was our flipping pilot!”
“Captain!” Dore yelled. “Got a wee job for you!”
Clambering into the pilot’s seat, Stewart pulled at the joystick. It felt like minutes before the Junker began to climb again.
Kat slumped into a seat. It’d been one hell of a day, and it wasn’t over. Somehow, they needed to find an English airfield without being blown out of the sky. She glanced at the prisoners. One was a rotund Colonel, and the other, taller man, was a Lieutenant General, who stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost.
“You’re not… thee... Katelyn Wolfram are you?”
She looked at him questionably, smiled and nodded.
The General said, “That’s incredible. We were just talking about you only last night. The SOE are looking for you. They want you back in London.”
“The SOE are looking for me? They asked us to rescue you. What d’you mean, they looking for me?”
The General smiled. “Haven’t the foggiest. Above my pay grade.”
The portly Colonel spoke up in appreciation, “Mighty decent of you to rescue us. We know of your orders. I must say, jolly good of you not to… as the American Gangsters say… knock us off. Sounds dreadful. Not cricket at all.”
“Don’t thank me yet Colonel. We’re in a German plane heading for unfriendly territory… If British Coastal Command is not in a listening mood, this could get a bit tricky.”
Kat settled back for the six-hour flight, thankful there would be no anti-aircraft batteries as they flew across France, although that wasn’t true of England. They would have twenty-two short miles to get in radio contact with British Coastal Command. She drifted into a fitful sleep, woken every so often by shuddering turbulence when the aircraft hit thermals. She’d expected someone to wake her when they crossed the English Channel, but the first time she realized they were almost home was when she heard explosions and a crackly voice on the radio.
“We can see you, mate. I’d ditch if I were you.”
“Fair dinkum?” Stewart replied. “You blokes shoot down cargo planes?”
“Anything with a cross on it. I’d ditch if I were you, mate.”
Kat sat bolt upright. Jumping out of her seat, she rushed forward and grabbed the microphone.
“Now listen to me dickwad, we’ve got Lieutenant General Hansard on board, and believe me, you want him in one piece. Call the SOE, because we can’t.”
“So what?”
“Special Operations Executive. And do it now! We’re low on fuel.” About to give the microphone back, another thought occurred to her. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, shit for brains, the Germans don’t bomb during the day.”
The anti-aircraft fire began to die out, and half an hour later, with a badly smoking port engine and Stewart complaining about Barrage Balloons, they landed the Junkers at RAF Northolt.
Unlike the Ministry of Defense, located in Whitehall, the SOE was housed in a large Victorian building on Baker Street, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Captain Stewart, who complained when asked to show his identity papers.
“Bet you don’t ask Sherlock Holmes for his papers.”
“That joke’s so old,” the Guard retorted. “You must be a Kiwi.”
The atmosphere darkened when they were ushered into a debriefing room and Kat suddenly noticed that Trufflefoot was no longer with them.
“Where’ve they taken the Colonel?” she asked the bright-eyed Lieutenant, as they took their seats at the conference table.
“Blimey. Didn’t they tell you? He’s being transferred to Counter Intelligence in London.”
“Transferred? Damnit, they took Capson three months ago and now the Colonel!” she cried. “They can’t do that. Truff’s our Commanding Officer. And he didn’t say goodbye. Do you have any idea what we’ve just been through?”
“Miss. Wolfram…”
“We’re only alive because of Truff. Well, that would have been true,” she added, “if I hadn’t intervened…”
“Miss. Wolfram…”
“I mean, don’t we get a say in any of this? It’s all very well for you lot, sitting here in London, but we’ve been out in the wilds of…”
“Miss. Wolfram!” the Lieutenant said, sharply. “We get the picture, we’re in the middle of a war, and don’t get to decide who goes where.”
“We did in Africa,” she said, coyly.
The Lieutenant raised his eyes to heaven. “She always like this,” he asked Sergeant Major Dore, who was leaning back with his arms folded.
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“I’m surprised you got back in one piece.” Leaning forward, he pressed a button on the intercom. “Please tell Major Capetti we’re ready for him.”
Moments later, a strikingly handsome man in a flying jacket entered the room.
Kat blinked and stared at the man. “Capetti?” she echoed. “As in Alessandro, the mad helicopter pilot?”
Capetti smiled and cocked his head, and the Lieutenant looked annoyed. “You know each other?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Kat clarified, glaring at Capetti. “Your mother bought you a helicopter. You do flying stunts.”
“Is not-a true,” Capetti said, indignantly, “I-a fly Macchi Saetta fighter planes.”
“Your mother bought you a Macchi Saetta?”
Capetti grimaced, no doubt biting his tongue. “I work British Intelligence. What your typing speed?”
“Oh, I’m useless,” she replied, with a saccharine smile. “Can’t type at all.” She raised her eyebrows. “Although I can speak Italian… German, French, and Spanish.”
“She can stick NAZIs with her knife too… Oh yeah, I almost forgot… She can blow shit up as well.” Dore remarked.
“Wolfram?” Capetti said, squinting at her. “The crazy red-haired woman who blew my cover at Arco Philaeni?”
“That was one hell of a brutal day.” Atkins remarked, from the far end of the table.
“You not just blow my cover,” Capetti fumed, “You destroy my unit.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Kat protested, no longer smiling. “We thought you were Germans.”
“We
were supposed to look like Germans!”
“Gentlemen, please,” The Lieutenant interceded. “We have other things to discuss.”
“Lei non é un gentiluomo,” Capetti muttered under his breath. “Lei é un maniac completo.”
“I heard that,” Kat said, sharply.
The Lieutenant laughed. “And now she’s your maniac, because she’s a member of your new team.”
“What?” Kat shrieked. “He’s our new Commanding Officer? We’re all going to die.”
A polite cough came from the doorway, Kat turned to see a tall, Senior Naval Officer. “Miss. Wolfram, can I have a word? Privately, if you don’t mind.”
She pulled a face and looked at Capetti. “Apparently he’s our new boss.” Capetti swept a hand in the doorway’s direction. “Please. Take her.”
Outside the room, the Officer led Kat down endless, wood-paneled corridors, and finally into an office overlooking Baker Street. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, one wall lined with books, few military.
“It’s good to meet you, Miss. Wolfram. Please take a seat, we have a lot to discuss. My name is Commander Fleming. Officially, I’m Naval Intelligence, but the SOE roped me in because I know Italy.”
“We’re going to Italy? Isn’t it occupied by the Germans?”
“Which is why you’re eminently suitable. You speak German and Italian, and I believe you’re a spy,” he laughed, an odd, humorless laugh. “According to your file, you have been issued by the SOE, a license to kill. I wasn’t aware such a thing existed. I would have thought in wartime, it was a given.”
“I won’t be killing many Germans with Capetti in charge.”
Fitting a cigarette into a long, almost feminine cigarette holder, Fleming lit it and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Sorry. Filthy habit. Don’t be too down on Capetti. He’s a pretty sharp chap. And he speaks German.”
“Great. However, how is he at throwing a grenade?”
“He does a wonderful impersonation of Mussolini,” he remarked, “and he can fly a plane.”
Fleming continued, “we’re very concerned about intelligence we’ve received of a new jet super-fighter being developed by the Krauts. They’ve already got a formidable air force. A new super-fighter could be catastrophic. We’re developing the Meteor, however, there are design problems.”