by Alex Scarrow
‘You’ve been a good little Jew, your work has been excellent, and I’m very pleased with you. Now, I made you a promise, didn’t I, Joseph? What was it now? I’ve forgotten,’ he said, with an empty smile.
Schenkelmann nodded and smiled awkwardly back. ‘Yes, we agreed . . . didn’t we, my family and I -’
‘Oh yes . . . so we did. I’m sorry.’
Hauser shook his head with feigned sadness, pouting his bottom lip with cruel mock-sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, they’re dead, Joseph. I’m sure you’ll understand that we didn’t have time to mess around dragging them over here with us. It would’ve been a nuisance. They died this morning - what?’ He turned to the SS men in the truck. ‘Half an hour ago?’
Schenkelmann started hyperventilating and slumped to his knees. There he began to cry, his voice a weak, warbling high-pitched moan.
Hauser’s face curled in disgust at the broken man. He raised the gun and pointed it at his head. ‘Oh dear. Well, goodbye, you pathetic Je—’
A loud clatter of gunfire shattered the tableau and a stunned Hauser dropped the weapon as a fleck of stone stung his cheek.
A dozen or more US soldiers had emerged from an archway further down the back street. The American men had instinctively dropped to the ground and leaped for the cover of the doorways opposite them and now lay down a furious volley of gunfire up the street.
Two of Bösch’s men dropped, one of them dead instantly. Another four were wounded. One of them lay on the cobbles and shook uncontrollably as blood and air bubbled from a rip in his neck.
Hauser scrambled away from Schenkelmann, on all fours, back towards the truck as a storm of bullets zipped down the street at head height. He felt a bullet whistle past his ear with a low hum, and the rattle of a dozen more as they hit the cobbles on the ground around him.
The remaining men of the Wehrmacht platoon scrambled for cover on either side of the vehicle and began to return fire, while the SS men in the truck unslung their weapons and let off a volley from within.
A single bullet thudded into Schenkelmann’s back and pushed him over on to his face, where he curled into a foetal position as the gunfight progressed, bullets whizzing in both directions, inches above him.
Hauser managed to make his way back to the truck and opened the cabin door. He waited for a second’s lull to shriek an order to Bösch and his men. ‘You must hold this position at all costs, the truck must get away!’ Hauser’s thin, reedy voice reached Bösch, who reissued the order in a much louder parade-ground voice.
Hauser turned to the driver and screamed as he climbed in. ‘Drive, for God’s sake!’
Bösch heard the truck’s engine stutter to life and it immediately lurched forward as the tyres spun on the cobbles. From his precarious position behind a small sapling he watched the truck rumble down the street and turn a corner before calling out to his men.
‘Right, fuck that idiot’s order. We’ll hold for another minute, no more.’
His voice attracted a burst of gunfire and splinters of wood exploded from the sapling’s trunk. He cursed Hauser for dropping the gun he had handed him in the street like a startled old woman. The gunfire died off for a moment. He could hear one of the Americans shouting orders to his men. Bösch had enough street-fighting experience to know that they were trying for a flanking position. The American officer was sending some of his men into the furniture warehouse to find a way up to the windows that overlooked him and his men.
That’s what he’d do if the situation were reversed.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. He looked around and saw two of his men looking to him for instructions. Silently Bösch pointed at a window overlooking them and held up a fist, which he pulled down in a short tugging action and drew a finger across his mouth.
Grenades - through that window - on my command.
Both men nodded and each pulled out a stick grenade, they unscrewed the caps and made ready to tug on the fuse string. The gunfire had stopped. The Americans down the street were waiting for their colleagues to get into position before pressing home the attack.
Bösch studied the windows intently and soon caught a glimpse of the top of a helmet bobbing inside the building. They were making their way along the first floor to the window that looked down on to his position behind the splintered tree trunk. He nodded to his men and both threw their grenades up. One dropped through the window effortlessly whilst the other clattered uselessly against the window frame and dropped back down onto the stones below. He counted to seven before the first grenade went off inside the warehouse, producing a shower of dust from out of the windows and knocking a frame down on to the street. The other grenade exploded on the cobbles, shattering the few windows left intact on the ground floor of the furniture warehouse.
Bösch waited for the cloud of dust to clear. The grenades seemed to have done the trick, it looked like they had stunned, wounded or killed the men up there. Otherwise he’d have expected a retaliatory volley raining down on them by now.
He looked for the Jewish scientist; he was lying in the road, but still moving. A pool of blood had grown around his torso and a small river trickled across the street, meandering through the cracks between the stones.
He’s lost too much blood to survive the wound.
If he’d had his gun on him he could have made sure of that with a shot or two to the head. Bösch knew enough that the Americans couldn’t be allowed to capture the Jew alive. Hauser had made that quite clear.
Smoke was coming up from the lab below and billowing out through the arched door, thicker than it had been a minute ago, the fire must have caught and already be spreading.
He looked up the street.
The truck must be far enough away by now.
He nodded, assuring himself that they had done enough.
He signalled to his two men across the street that the fight was over, that they should put down their guns. He looked around for the others. It was time to get a quick tally on what had happened to his twelve men. Now that the truck, and the hard cover it afforded them, was gone, they had hastily spread out, seeking safe positions along the street. There were three sheltering in one of the warehouse’s doorways further back and another two taking turns to fire short bursts from an archway closer to the Americans. He saw the bodies of five of his men lying in the cobbled street, those that had been caught off guard by the opening exchange. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. His men instinctively turned towards him.
‘That’s it, weapons down,’ he bellowed.
The German soldiers tentatively lowered their weapons but none of them moved from their covered positions. Bösch realised he’d have to go first. He loosened the strap of his helmet and then slid it off, he held it one hand by the rim and slowly, very slowly, he eased it out into the open.
Several shots splintered the slender tree trunk still further and it creaked alarmingly as if preparing to topple over. He heard an American call out a ceasefire and the gunfire stopped.
He eased himself out from behind what was left of the tree with both hands raised fully above his head. He called out the only English phrase he knew, one that he and most of his men had taken time to learn in recent months.
‘Geneva convention . . . Surrendering!’ he announced loudly and clearly. He walked cautiously into the middle of the cobbled street, beckoning with one raised hand for his men to do likewise. One by one the seven remaining men of his platoon emerged and joined him.
The American soldiers remained in their positions, guns aimed, ready at a moment’s notice to resume firing. One of them, Bösch recognised the stripes of a sergeant, pointed towards the Germans and shouted. ‘Levy! Round ’em up and shake ’em down!’
From one of the warehouse doorways a young man emerged, and he trotted at the double towards them, his kit rattling like so many pots and pans in a bag. As Levy passed the Jew’s body, the prone form moved and they heard a faint moaning.
‘Sir! We got a live one here!’
Amongst the Americans the call for a medic rippled down the street, and moments later a medic appeared through one of the arches and slid to a halt beside Schenkelmann. Levy continued towards the Germans with his rifle raised at them, while the medic began his work.
Bösch watched the medic; he was fumbling with a compress applied to the wound to slow down the blood loss.
The Jew mustn’t fall into enemy hands alive.
Hauser had muttered this a countless number of times to him over the last few days, every time he’d heard the sound of artillery, or been spooked by the crack of gunfire.
The young American soldier now stood only feet away from them. ‘Okay, you shitheads, get down on the road!’ he shouted at them, pointing to the ground.
Bösch and his men stared defiantly at the young man; their eyes drawn to the Star of David pinned prominently on his uniform. Levy jerked his rifle to the ground repeatedly and jabbed one of the prisoners in the ribs to make the point.
‘Yeah, that’s right, you Nazi shit-holes, I’m Jewish. Now get the fuck down!’ he yelled angrily.
Bösch looked anxiously towards Schenkelmann. The medic treating him seemed satisfied that the compress was working and was now applying a bandage to hold it in place. Bösch nodded to his men, and they began to kneel obediently, albeit slowly. Another futile gesture of angry defiance.
The Jew can’t fall into their hands alive.
He gritted his teeth and gave one of his men a hard push to the side. The man fell awkwardly to the ground. The young American swung his rifle towards the prone man and Bösch reached for it, yanking hard at the barrel and freeing the gun easily from his hands. He grabbed the waist of the rifle with his other hand and shoved the weapon backwards, the butt smashing into the young man’s face with a sickening thud.
Levy dropped to the ground unconscious as Bösch spun the rifle round, aiming it squarely at Schenkelmann.
He had only a fleeting half-second, as he racked the weapon, to register the look of surprise and alarm on the faces of his own men and realise his rash action had doomed them all.
The gunfire from the entire platoon of Americans lasted a little more than fifteen seconds, and many of the young men who emptied their weapons that morning would vividly recall in years to come the bloody mess that was left of the eight German soldiers.
As the smoke cleared, the medic raised himself up off Schenkelmann, whom he’d almost crushed with his own body weight.
‘You okay, fella?’ he asked.
Schenkelmann nodded in response. His mouth opened and he tried to speak.
‘Don’t . . . just relax. We’ll have you out of here shortly, buddy.’
Schenkelmann tried to speak again, but suddenly he felt light-headed and passed out.
Chapter 29
Via Nantes
4 p.m., 28 April 1945, an airfield south of Stuttgart
The map was spread out on the floor of the hangar and around it sat the fighter pilots, Max and his men and Major Rall. Rall had a length of wood that served adequately as a pointer and was currently indicating the planned route for the bomber and its escort.
‘. . . across Lyon, towards the north-west coast of France.’
‘Unless my maths is hopelessly inadequate, that’s a long way beyond the range of our Me-109s,’ announced Schröder, backed up by murmurs of agreement from his squadron.
‘It is just over one thousand, one hundred and fifty miles, gentlemen. The drop tanks that are being fitted to your planes right now will give you enough fuel to get there.’
As if to confirm his assurance, one of the mechanics fired up a welding torch and a stream of white-hot sparks emerged from among the tightly parked fighter planes.
Schröder nodded. ‘So that gets us to the Atlantic, Major. But from the coast out to sea for the first three hundred miles, Max and his men will be on their own. I’m sure the Americans and British must have planes stationed in France now . . . it will only take one unlucky encounter and they will be in trouble.’
Rall’s smile caused the burn tissue on the side of his face to wrinkle like parchment. ‘Ahh, but you see, you boys will still be with the bomber.’
Schröder looked confused. ‘I don’t understand how. By the time we hit the coast, that’s us done. We’ll be empty. Perhaps if we’re lucky and fly at a low altitude we can push a few extra miles out to sea, but not the distance we’ll need to exceed their fighter range. Not unless we find somewhere to refuel.’
It was clear to Max now why the Major had specifically instructed him to put together a route across France to Nantes on the north-west coastline, instead of taking some other way.
‘That’s why we’re flying across northern France, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘What?’ said Schröder.
Rall smiled. ‘That’s correct. We could have picked a more remote route. An alternative might have been across Norway, and a refill on Bear Island, and then over the North Pole to Greenland, and then down their east coastline. But that would have taken us up through northern Germany, and right now that’s not a wise place to be. We’re going this way. It’s the long way round, but it’s safer, and more importantly, we have a place on the north-west coast of France where you and your men can refill your tanks.’
Schröder looked astounded. ‘We’re landing on a French airfield?’
‘A small airfield outside Nantes, it’s two miles outside the city and less than one mile from the coast. Our intelligence suggests this airfield has only a custodial presence of Americans. These are mostly support personnel, mechanics, ground crew.’
‘Even so, Major, we can’t just land there and refill if it’s not in our hands. Or am I missing something obvious here?’ asked Schröder.
‘Probably,’ grumbled Pieter quietly.
‘For a short time, the airfield will be in German hands.’
Rall paused for effect. He observed the look of confusion on the faces of the men around him.
‘A U-boat is presently five miles off shore from Nantes. Tomorrow, before dawn, a platoon of our boys will be dropped ashore. Their instructions are to take up discreet positions just outside the airfield, and while you are less than ten minutes away from your final approach, they will secure it and ready the air fuel for you. Obviously, this is only a narrow window of time. It won’t take long before any troops encamped nearby are alerted and attempt to retake the field, but this should buy you enough time to put down and fill up.’
Max exchanged a glance with Pieter; they both subtly shook their heads. This was new to them. Max had wondered about being instructed to pick a course across France, and had wondered how far their fighter escort could stay with them. Now here it was . . . and it sounded foolish.
Rall sensed the mood of the men; this was the part of the plan he knew he’d have difficulty selling to them. Flying over France, possibly fighting their way across some of it was going to be hard enough, but putting down on a strip that could well be in the middle of a hotly contested fire fight was something else entirely.
‘Aren’t we simply giving away our position, Major?’ asked Max. ‘Let’s assume the B-17 provides us the cover we wanted. We might fly comfortably across France unchallenged, only to find we’re attracting unwanted attention by taking this airfield.’
‘Flying under cover may get you some of the way. The skies over Germany are filled daily with B-17s. But France? . . . rarely these days. Some way across you surely will attract their attention and then you will be thankful you have Schröder and his men with you. Of course, if that happens, discretion will amount to nothing, and you will need fighter cover for at least a further three hundred miles after you leave France. Refuelling here will give them those extra three hundred miles. Beyond that, no one can touch you.’
The fighter pilots continued to look unhappy with the idea of the landing.
‘These soldiers taking the airfield. What are they, Falschirmjäger?’ queried Schröder.
‘No, not paratroops
, Gebirgesjäger,’ answered Rall.
Max massaged his temples. Alpine troops. This only gets better.
Schröder’s eyes widened. ‘Snow soldiers? Good God, what do they know about this kind of operation?’
‘Leutnant Schröder . . . these are elite soldiers. They are every bit as good as our paratroops. These men have fought in the Metaxas line in Greece, the eastern front near Murmansk. Trust me, those men are the best we have. They’ll be dealing with a garrison of engineers and clerks who’ll be thinking of nothing more than going back home to America. It will be a quick and easy fight for them.’
Schröder looked at his fellow fighter pilots, seeking their impressions, and then at Max. ‘What do you think, Max?’
‘I don’t know. Flying west across France perhaps is our only option. We can’t fly north towards Norway and then over, that’s too dangerous. We can only head so far south before we’ll need to pull west. I think crossing France is our only choice. But I would think our fighters landing at this airfield . . . we could lose them all there, if the airfield is overrun.’
Schröder nodded in agreement and turned to address the Major.
‘These men and I are the best of what’s left of the Luftwaffe. We are all decorated men; we’ve flown with courage and honour. It’s not cowardice, believe me . . .’ Schröder looked like he was choosing his words carefully. ‘I am not prepared, in these last days of the war, to die for a mission that is ill conceived. The stop at this airfield feels like, excuse me, Major . . . a bloody stupid idea. You expect us to refuel our planes on an enemy airstrip, probably amidst a gale of bullets. If we aren’t shot to pieces as we come in to land, we certainly will be while we’re running around looking for fuel.’
Max studied the Major. It seemed he was going to have to work particularly hard to turn Schröder and his men around. Rall met Schröder’s challenging gaze in silence; he took the opportunity to pull out a cigarette and light it up. Max suspected the Major was buying himself time to think up a few well-chosen words that he hoped would win round the fighter pilot.