War Cry

by Wilbur Smith

  But Solomons was a Jew and Konrad von Meerbach was a fanatical Nazi, whose passion for Adolf Hitler and all his works far outweighed any considerations of loyalty, or decency. He relieved Solomons of his duties, without notice or compensation.

  Gerhard, however, was cut from a different cloth to his brother. Ashamed of the way that such a loyal retainer and friend had been treated, he had persuaded Konrad to give him five thousand Reichsmarks from the family trust by claiming that he wanted to buy a Mercedes sports car. Instead, he had given the money to Isidore Solomons, and, in so doing, enabled an entire family to escape to safety in Switzerland.

  Within a day of first meeting Gerhard, Saffron had traveled with him to Zurich to meet Solomons. She heard the story from the lawyer’s mouth, saw the respect that the local Jewish community had for Gerhard, and she discovered the price that Konrad, disgusted by his “Jew-lover” brother, had made him pay for the crime of possessing a conscience. Saffron understood then that here was someone who knew the difference between right and wrong, and who was willing to act on that knowledge, whatever the consequences. It made her certain in her heart and mind alike: she had chosen the right man to love.

  “I like Izzy,” she said. “It’s so good of him to do this for us.”

  “Believe me, he likes you too. He keeps telling me that it’s his moral duty to keep us together: ‘You will never find another woman to match her if I don’t.’”

  “Well, that’s true. You won’t.”

  “And will you ever find another man to match me?”

  “No . . . never. I swear. I’ll always be yours.”

  They made love again . . . and again for the rest of the Easter weekend. On Sunday evening, Saffron saw Gerhard off at the Gare de l’Est, where he boarded the overnight express to Berlin. She managed not to cry until the train had left the station. But then the floodgates opened as the awful truth became impossible to wish away any longer.

  Her love for Gerhard von Meerbach had only just begun. But she might never see him again. She might yearn for a time when they could be with one another and build a life together in peace. She might tell herself that their love would survive and their dreams would come true, and try with all her heart to believe it. But then another voice inside her asked: What chance is there of that?

  •••

  In less than five months, in the early hours of Friday, September 1, 1939, Hitler unleashed the forces of Nazi Germany against Poland.

  Two days later, Great Britain declared war on Germany. And slaughter, suffering and horror exploded across the world.

  Another April in another country, on an early spring evening in 1942. Saffron Courtney was wearing baggy black serge overalls that hid her figure. In the heel of one of her hard leather boots was concealed a small fighting knife and the button of the map pocket on her left leg was a disguised suicide pill. She leaned over the railway track and pressed the three-pound block of explosives into the hollow between the base and top rail. The block, comprised of six eight-ounce cartridges of Nobel 808, was as malleable as putty, so that Saffron could squeeze it snugly up against the metal. The night air was filled with the strong smell of almonds, the odor emanating from the nitroglycerine-based explosives. She pushed in a length of detonating cord, onto which a one-ounce guncotton primer had been inserted. Once she was satisfied with its placement, she took a roll of three-quarter-inch adhesive khaki tape from her knapsack, tore a strip off with her teeth and wound it over the plastic explosive and around the track. She then tore a second strip and repeated the procedure so that there were now two strips, roughly three fingers’ widths apart, holding the bomb she was making in position.

  She sat back on her haunches and looked up and down the track. Then she glanced at each side of the deep cutting. It was almost nine o’clock at night, but in the north fringe of a Nazi empire that extended from the depths of the Sahara Desert to beyond the Arctic Circle, there was still enough light to see without a torch. Saffron satisfied herself that she was not being observed. For a couple of seconds she took in the peaceful, limpid beauty of a northern evening sky, its soft blue streaked with clouds in oyster colors of gray, pearl and palest pink. She breathed in air laced with the soft scent of the gorse, whose brave yellow flowers were blooming through the last patches of winter snow, and the salt and seaweed tang of the sea.

  The next item out of her knapsack was a metal button that was a little under two inches in diameter. It was attached to a wire clip, shaped like an inverted “U.” This fitted over the rail so that the button stood proud on top of it. This device was known in the Special Operations Executive, in which Saffron served, as a “Fog-Signal Switch” because it resembled the small, explosive-filled detonator caps that were placed on tracks as a means of alerting drivers. The pressure of the train’s wheels on the device set off the explosive, which made a noise like a large firecracker. That alerted engine drivers to hazards up ahead, or, when conditions were foggy, let them know that they were nearing a station and should begin to slow down.

  No railway worker or train crewman would be surprised to see that button on the track, and it would take a close inspection before they noticed that Saffron had fixed a short length of detonating cord between the button and the block of plastic explosive. When the next train passed over the Fog-Signal Switch, the detonator would initiate the chain of detonating cord, guncotton primer and main 808 charge. And all hell would break loose.

  The train was carrying five hundred men of the Waffen SS and it was due in less than ten minutes. If the charge went off, it would derail the train and either kill or injure many of the men on board. More importantly, it would wreck the track and block the cutting. The close confines and precipitous granite walls that hemmed everything in would add to the time and effort required to clear and repair the track, and this would severely hamper German lines of communications.

  “Now listen here, Courtney,” her commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel J. T. “Jimmy” Young had told her, a week earlier. “Your language skills aren’t quite up to long-term undercover operations. Not yet, at any rate. But this mission should be right up your street. It’s a simple in-out affair. Take a look at this.”

  He spread a map across the chart table that dominated one side of his spartan office. “You’ll be catching the Shetland Bus,” he began, referring to the fleet of converted fishing trawlers, bristling with hidden machine guns that took agents across the North Sea. “They’ll drop you at the entrance to this long inlet at 05:00, roughly half an hour before sunrise. Paddle due east, inland. You’ll have your compass and the first light of the sun to guide you, so paddle toward the light, aim for the mountains on the horizon and you can’t go wrong.”

  “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll find my way to shore.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, your landing point is this little bay here . . .” Young pointed at a spot on the map marked “A.” “It’s unoccupied and the nearest Jerry observation post is way back along the coast, so you should be able to get in unobserved.”

  He passed her a black-and-white aerial photograph. “This was taken last week by R.A.F. reconnaissance. It’ll give you an idea of the lay of the land.

  “The key thing you have to do at this point is dispose of the dinghy. Can’t have Jerry spotting it and getting wind of your presence. Two options: first, get out your knife, puncture the hull and sink it offshore. Then wade in. Of course, that’s all very well if it stays on the bottom, but we don’t want a semi-deflated dinghy floating ashore, looking sorry for itself, where anyone might see it.”

  “Absolutely not, sir.”

  There was a hint of amusement in Saffron’s voice and Young paused and fixed her with a tough, inquisitive look. He had spent his life commanding, as he put it, “hairy-arsed fighting men” and was having to adjust to the idea that a significant proportion of his new subordinates were soft-skinned, sweet-smelling young women, who might not look or sound like an average Army soldier but who were, when properly trained
, every bit as deadly. She had cut her hair shorter for easier disguise, and there was a flinty, lean composure about her, but she still retained a compelling femininity when her blue eyes blazed in a smile.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Saffron said. “But I couldn’t help thinking of that sad little boat with all the air gone out. You painted such a wonderful picture.”

  Young grunted skeptically, though Saffron knew that he was rather pleased by her compliment. She also knew that his gruff exterior concealed a decent, sensitive man, who cared deeply about his agents, even as he was sending them on missions from which some were unlikely to return.

  “My point, Courtney, is that you’ll need rocks of some sort to weigh the dinghy down. Impossible for us to know if there’ll be any lying around when you get there, d’you see?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Second option: you’ll see from the photograph your landing point has a narrow beach with thickets of some kind of brush or gorse growing on the landward side. Those bushes may make a better hiding place, once the boat has been deflated. It’s up to you to use your initiative and make a judgment on the spot.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good show. Now, once you’re ashore and the boat has been disposed of, make your way across country to Point B, here.”

  He jabbed the map with his index finger. Point B was southeast of Point A and a short way inland. “Distance is only four miles, but no need to rush it. Hilly terrain, virtually no tree cover, main thing is to avoid being spotted and avoid injury. No bloody use to anyone if you’re hopping along on one leg, or broken an arm, that sort of thing. Should still be plenty of time to rest, eat and familiarize yourself with the area before you get to work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Observe the line of the railway, here. Note how it follows the coast, with a few detours further inland, cutting through any hills that come down to the sea. This is the only line along the coast and there are no roads to speak of, certainly none that would allow the easy movement of lorries and artillery pieces, let alone tanks. If we can break that line, it will seriously hamper Jerry’s ability to respond to anything we do. He won’t be able to maneuver his forces or send in reinforcements.”

  Saffron knew better than to ask what “anything we do” might refer to. Instead she inquired, “Would you like me to blow the line, sir?”

  Now it was Jimmy Young’s turn to be amused. “You sound as if you’re asking me whether I would like another slice of cake. And the answer is yes, Miss Courtney, I would like you to blow that line. In fact, I am ordering you to do so.” He looked back at the map. “Right here, in this cutting, just as a trainload of Herr Himmler’s finest goons comes rolling by, at approximately 22:00 hours on the night of the fifteenth, precisely one week from today.”

  Young passed Saffron two more reconnaissance photos: one showed the cutting and the surrounding landscape, the other was an extreme close-up. He explained that the line was used by civilian as well as military traffic. “There’s a passenger train that passes by that spot at approximately 20:45. We do not want that to be blown to kingdom come. Can’t have the citizens of an occupied country thinking of us as the enemy. Wait for it to go by before you place the explosives on the line. When the troop train passes, stay long enough to be sure that the charge has exploded. If it has, do not wait one second more to examine the effects. The flyboys will do that in the morning and we’ll have the pictures long before you could possibly get back here. Wait for the bang, hear the bang, then run. Got that?”

  “What if the charge does not explode?”

  “It will explode, because these charges always explode if properly assembled and positioned, and you will do your job, won’t you, Courtney?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you must focus all your energies on making good your escape. Your pick-up point is approximately two miles from the cutting . . . here.” Young pointed at a spot marked “C” a few miles further down the coast from Saffron’s landing site. Together, Points A, B and C formed the three corners of a shallow triangle.

  Another black-and-white print was passed across the chart table. It showed a cove with two rocky promontories on either side and a small patch of beach at its head with flatter, grassy ground behind it. On one side there was a path through the rocks that led to steps down to a jetty that stuck out into the cove.

  “A member of the local Resistance, with a fast motorboat, will moor beside that jetty at 23:30. He will wait until midnight. You have a half-hour window in which to make good your escape. If you get to him in time, he will take you out to sea to rendezvous with another trawler that will bring you home.

  “If for some reason the rendezvous is impossible, and you have no other means of survival, you can contact the local Resistance as follows: go to the bar of the Hotel Armor—it’s in the town down the line from the cutting—speak to the chap behind the bar, say, ‘Is Mrs. Andersen in? I have a message from her niece.’

  “The barman will reply, ‘Do you mean Julie?’ To which you reply, ‘No, her other niece, Karin.’ He will take it from there. But Courtney, let me be frank, you must only make contact if you have absolutely no alternative. Don’t want to risk you leading Jerry to our people.”

  Saffron nodded. She had understood from the moment she signed on for this work that her life was expendable. The security of an entire Resistance network was more important than her individual survival.

  But she could at least make the enemy pay a price for her death. And now the time had come. Saffron gave the bomb and its switch one final check. Satisfied that all was well, she stepped away from the track and walked as calmly as possible (for nothing would catch a passing German eye, or provoke suspicion more surely than someone running along the railway line) to the end of the cutting. Then she doubled back on herself, but this time walking along a path that ran up the side of the hill through which the railway had been cut, until she reached a spot a short way down the line from where she had positioned her bomb. It was close enough to get a good view without being within range of the blast, or any flying debris.

  The spot offered two other attractions. It was on the seaward side of the line, making her getaway easier. And it was one of the few places where there were trees growing, right up to the edge of the man-made precipice. Tucked away between the trunks of two pines, wearing a black woolen skull-cap and her face covered in black war-paint, she could observe proceedings with minimal risk of being spotted by anyone down on the track.

  Then she heard German voices, and footsteps pounding: at least a dozen men, by the sound of it. A sickly chill gripped her stomach as she realized that they were coming along the path that ran past her position, a few yards from where she now was.

  They were heading straight toward her. And they were running. Running hard.

  •••

  Saffron thanked her lucky stars for the pines that screened her position from the path and for the training she had received in concealment. But no matter how well she hid, there was still a sunless gray light in the sky and anyone who looked hard would surely spot her. Even worse, the more distance she put between her and the path, the closer she was to the edge of the cutting, and the more vulnerable to any prying eyes below.

  As she pressed herself against the base of one of the tree trunks, the fear of discovery tore at her while a flurry of questions nagged, like yapping, biting hounds: Do they know I’m here? Has someone betrayed me? But who?

  The Germans were getting closer. Their voices were more distinct and she could make out what they were saying.

  Suddenly it dawned on her. These men were not a patrol, out looking for her. They were on a training run and the voices were those of their leader, shouting, “Come on, lads! No slacking! Keep up at the back!” to the accompaniment of a low rumble of complaints and one cheeky, or simply desperate, soldier calling out, “Give us a break, sarge! We’re dying back here!”

  Saffron knew that feeling. In the past twelve month
s she had been on countless runs at every hour of the day and night, and each one had taken her to the brink of collapse and then beyond. And always the message was the same: “You’re stronger than you think. You can keep going longer, run faster than you believe possible, reach the point where you know you will die if you take another step . . . and keep running nonetheless.”

  She almost felt sorry for the runners. But then she remembered that they were the enemy and would hunt her down mercilessly at the slightest inkling of her presence.

  She became aware of the deafening pounding of her heart and the rasping of her breath, and she forced herself to calm her pulse and clear her mind.

  They were almost on her, no more than twenty yards away . . . then ten.

  A rabbit, frightened by the men’s approach, burst out of the undergrowth on the far side of the path. It raced across the bare earth, right in front of the onrushing, boot-clad feet, and hurtled into the shelter of the trees toward Saffron.

  The men must have seen it. Their eyes would have followed the rabbit into the pines. They would be looking straight at Saffron’s hiding place.

  But then the rabbit stopped, catching the smell of another human and dashed away again, back out onto the path, and Saffron heard the men’s laughter as they followed the animal’s frantic attempts to escape.

  They passed right by Saffron and she heard one man say, “I wouldn’t mind some rabbit stew for dinner,” and another answer, “Mmm . . . The way my mum used to make, with beans soaked overnight and spices and . . .”

  The rest of the recipe was lost as they disappeared down the path. The evening calm was restored and Saffron returned her attention to the railway track. The last traces of light had vanished from the sky and she was less nervous than she had expected to be. The fact that the runners had not spotted her felt like a good omen, a sign from above that all would be well. Her only worry was the bomb itself, but she knew that there was no rational basis for that. She had assembled and positioned the device correctly. The Fog-Signal Switch was absolutely reliable. The detonator cord and the Nobel 808 were both in perfect condition.