“Damn it,” Neil breathed.
He grasped the soldier’s shoulders, rolling him flat. The young man’s face was still flushed from the heat of battle although his life had left him. A regular Army soldier, probably conscripted, he was hardly different than Peter Heinz. And he’d had the balls to speak up earlier, not understanding the complex set of morals at play on this night. Upon hasty reflection, Neil wasn’t sure he understood, either. And somewhere, this dead soldier probably had a mother and father, and maybe a girlfriend. They each had a picture of him, and since there was no war, yet, they each probably thought he was safe in his bunk on this evening. But he wasn’t in his bunk and he wasn’t safe at all. No, he was on the Yugoslavian border, killed while trying to earn 10,000 reichsmarks that he probably would have sent home.
Neil punched the earth.
War is hell.
Knowing more would die if he didn’t keep his wits about him, he forced himself to refocus. The SS appeared to be progressing on each side of the track, in and around the three-meter wide ditches. They were advancing into the ideal spot, or so they thought. From their new vantage point, they could fire on their objective, the train, and find a respite from the semi-automatic fire coming from their enemy in all directions.
They couldn’t have been more mistaken.
Neil grasped the friction detonator, subconsciously twisting the contact nuts to make sure the wires were tight. The train was five hundred meters away, accelerating slower than Neil would have liked. He watched as the last of the SS soldiers found their way into the ditches. Gunfire emanated from various positions in the ditch as the SS used the old trench warfare technique of repositioning after each few shots. Neil’s allies, the Heer soldiers, grew frustrated and were expending too many rounds for Neil’s taste, but the train was too close to make an effort at correction.
As the train’s powerful lamp began to add light to the tracks and the ditches, Neil was able to make out two SS soldiers carrying rocket launchers like the one the Heer soldier had used earlier. The two SS took up positions just under the cover of the ditch.
The train was two hundred meters away.
Neil could hear someone in the ditch shouting orders to the men with rocket launchers. He was demanding that they be patient.
“Good advice,” Neil breathed.
He waited. He waited.
It had been twenty years since he’d done something like this. Yes, he had killed, but the killings had all been surgical. Precise. But tonight he was at war, as he had been twenty years before. Twenty years full of pain, friendships, sorrow, marriage, love and death.
Twenty years.
This type of killing was much different. Each minute could be the exact opposite of the one before. Most plans go out the window once the lead starts flying. Heart rates go up. Sweat pours from one’s body. No one thinks about their bank account, or whether or not they watered their garden before they left for the day. Each second becomes a victory, and dealing out death merely adds more time to the clock.
He looked left. The train was very close.
He looked right. The kill zone was fully populated.
War is hell, indeed.
Neil twisted the friction detonator.
The explosion—just as they had always been back during the war—was far bigger than Neil thought it would be. Five balls of blue and orange flame exploded from the ditch, sending gravel, bodies, rail debris, and earth hurtling outward at hundreds of miles per hour. Neil ducked down, his body registering pain as the rocks tore into him. He lifted his head, fearful that the explosion might have damaged the track. Biting his hand in anticipation, Neil yelled a victory cry as the steam train thundered past. The tracks bent under the train’s weight, the rail bed having been eroded by the explosion. But the train’s path was true, clearing the smoke in a vortex of its speed and mass. Neil shouted to the figures on the caboose’s rear platform. He stood, holding his rifle above his head, shaking it as he saw Doctor Kraabe, Peter and, of course, Gabi.
Despite his elation, Neil quickly realized he’d dispensed with battlefield protocol—the type of thing that had gotten many a man killed. He dropped prone and reached into the dead soldier’s collar, snatching his Erkennungsmarke from his neck—Germany’s version of dog tags. With the tags in his pocket, Neil skittered away. There seemed to be no movement from the ditches. Neil crept forward. The senior NCO was on his feet, crouched as he passed thirty meters to Neil’s left. When Neil reached the ditch, the NCO was kicking at a hunk of meat that was once someone’s torso. “They’ve all had it,” he pronounced with finality.
“Assuming they were all in the ditches,” Neil said, moving himself into the cover of the ditch.
The NCO tapped out a cigarette. “Was that Baratol?”
“Something similar,” Neil replied absently, his eyes narrowed as he searched the stretches of land surrounding the tracks. The NCO’s soldiers were standing from their positions, chattering the way soldiers do after a battle, clumped in groups and lighting cigarettes.
But something seemed wrong to Neil. The SS who had been shouting instructions to the two rocket launchers had not sounded like Aying. And, in Neil’s mind, had Aying been in the ditch, it would have been him who would have been giving orders.
As the NCO lit his cigarette with a match, a brief flurry of shooting could be heard near the parked railcars. Neil sprinted in that direction, hearing a series of confused yells. Shouting his presence as he neared, Neil watched as four soldiers converged and crouched around another.
Falkenberg.
Neil pushed into the group, noting that Falkenberg’s breathing was coming in wet gasps. Blood gushed through a soldier’s pressed hand as he tried to contain the bleeding. Neil knelt down and asked what happened.
“Aying,” Falkenberg’s driver said without hesitation. “Cowardly bastard never moved forward with his men. He must’ve been hiding in the weeds, and after the explosion and the train getting through, we stood to advance and he shot our colonel right in the back.”
Neil gripped Falkenberg’s hand and whispered thanks, doing so in English.
“See that my family receives the money,” Falkenberg rasped.
“Jawohl,” Neil agreed. He asked the soldiers to keep their rifles trained in case Aying was still around. But Neil remained in his kneeling position next to Falkenberg, the two men gripping hands until Falkenberg’s hand went slack and his breathing ceased. Neil placed the German colonel’s hand over his chest and pulled downward to close his eyes. After dipping his head for a moment, his own eyes closed, Neil turned to Falkenberg’s driver.
“You’re sure it was Standartenführer Aying? You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. By the time it happened, we turned and fired but he was sprinting that way,” the soldier said, pointing north. “His silhouette was unmistakable.”
“Did he appear to be injured?”
“If he was, he was still able to run. What a coward.”
~~~
Fifteen minutes later, as Neil summed up with the old senior NCO, another younger NCO approached. His face was haggard and from his mouth hung a blood-stained cigarette. Neil soon saw why—his hand was covered in blood.
The older NCO ripped open a bandage, handing it to him. “What happened to your hand?”
“Shrapnel from the explosion.”
“What’s the count?”
The younger NCO shook his head. “It’s hard to tell because of the damage, but we think we’ve got the remains of about fifteen SS bodies, and we know we lost four ourselves, including the colonel.”
“Nineteen dead,” the senior NCO whispered, looking at Neil in a way that was not at all accusatory. It was a look one professional soldier gives to another when discussing the horrors of their unfortunate fraternity.
“Go muster the men by the railcars,” the older NCO said. “Assemble the dead as best you can.”
“Our money?” the younger NCO asked unapologetically.
“Taking care of it right now,” Neil said.
The younger NCO walked away.
Neil hefted a bag from beside his feet, handing it to the wizened NCO. He explained how it should be split up and insisted that the dead soldiers’ first of kin, Falkenberg included, should receive their money as quickly as possible.
“What should I tell them?” the senior NCO asked.
“Tell them the truth.”
Neil lit his own cigarette and asked the first of two final questions. “What’s your name?”
“Feldwebel Ernst Gauss.”
The second question. “Are you a Nazi, Ernst?”
The NCO straightened. “I am not. I’m just a career soldier working to feed my family.”
“I’d go to war with you, any day, Ernst.” They shook hands. “For now, I’d suggest you haul ass.”
“What do you recommend I tell our command? Should I also tell them the truth?”
Neil tossed his barely smoked cigarette, blowing his final drag into the cool morning air. “Aying will be on the warpath, you can bet on that. I’d play dumb and just say you were doing as you were told by Falkenberg.”
The two men nodded their agreement one final time. The NCO headed north with his men, back into the Reich.
Neil walked south, into freedom.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
The city of Jesenice, YUGOSLAVIA buzzed on Tuesday morning, the citizenry blissfully unaware of the battle that had taken place a short distance to the north mere hours before. Neil walked the entire ten-kilometer distance from the border, enjoying the peace of being in the free country. No one bothered him, and few seemed to take note of his scruffy appearance. As he walked, he thought about his journey—his aliyah, as Doctor Kraabe had termed it. Today was the fifty-sixth day since Meghan Herman had walked back into his life. Since that day he’d stopped drinking; he traveled a third of the way around the world; been gravely wounded by a German defector’s pistol; piloted an airplane; crashed an airplane; was operated on by a man who specialized in farm animals; fallen in love; come within feet of Adolf Hitler; and helped a group of persecuted children escape from Nazi-occupied Austria.
It had been a busy, and wonderful, two months.
Neil stopped at a crosswalk, doing a full revolution as he tried to locate the city’s center. The city was dominated by smokestacks from the steel industry. Surrounded by mountains, and not too dissimilar from the topography of Innsbruck, Jesenice had a decidedly different feel to it. All business, certainly—but with the anticipation of a coming war, the people still walked with the bounce of freedom in their step. It seemed an eternity since Neil had felt such true optimism in the air. He finally found a local who spoke English. The man pointed Neil past a large fountain to the central train station, situated near the Jesenice city seat.
As Neil approached the station, a burgundy car skidded to a stop in front of him, making Neil’s hand shoot to his back, gripping the Walther resting underneath his thick sweater. Neil backed away as a man emerged from the other side, smiling broadly.
It was Gregor Faust, his contact from the Queen Mary.
Faust wore desert khakis. In his hand was his omnipresent cigar. He leaned his meaty arms on top of the car as he stood on the running board. “The others were beginning to worry that you didn’t make it, Mister Reuter, but I knew you would.”
Neil removed his hand from his pistol. He simply stood there staring, too exhausted to muster a reaction.
“Are you okay?” Faust asked, his merriment evaporating.
Neil nodded.
“Hop in. We’ll be there in minutes.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Of course they are, thanks to you.”
The vehicle was driven by a young man Neil had never seen before. After rolling down his own window, Neil didn’t hear a word Faust said, his massive girth twisted as he jawed at Neil, his mouth going a mile a minute. Neil took deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to remain calm. He wanted to see Gabi, and check on her wounds. Peter crossed his mind, as did Faust’s granddaughter Fern. Then Emilee, then his unborn son. Neil closed his eyes, lowering his chin to his chest as he suppressed a shudder.
So many heavy thoughts…
The car skidded to a stop just outside of town. They were below the train station, parked in front of a new-looking depot situated off of a single spur. There were several other cars and trucks parked in front. Faust came around the car, holding the door open for Neil. After exiting and steadying himself, Neil dug into his pocket.
“We need to get inside,” Faust said, glancing around.
“Before we do.” Neil pressed the young German soldier’s dog tags into Faust’s hand. “Use your influence, please. See that this young man’s family is taken care of.”
“I’m Jewish. I have no influence in Germany.”
“Please,” Neil said. “You’re a smart man. I know you’ll think of something. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Faust said after a pause, clearly nonplussed. “Are you ready to see the fruits of your labor?”
“Ready.” Neil followed Faust and the tall driver inside. He knew this would be a powerful moment.
They entered the frigid building, walking through two sets of rooms before coming to a large warehouse. The door they entered put them on a platform ten feet above the room. The far wall was dominated by roll-up doors over loading docks. The warehouse was chock full of people, most of them children.
Neil studied the faces.
From his vantage point he first saw Petra Faust, the tall and regal wife of Gregor. She was smiling, something he never witnessed during their time together on the ship. Standing next to Petra was the Russian woman who’d boarded Neil’s plane in Chicago. She waved.
They weren’t the only ones there.
Doctor Kraabe clapped before giving Neil two thumbs up. Peter Heinz stood on his seat and cheered—and had to put down his bottle of Coca-Cola to do so. Neil had to remind himself to breathe as he turned to the next person, the small, goateed forger from Salzburg. He’d removed his yarmulke and waved it about as he yelled. Neil shook his head, stunned and overwhelmed.
But it was the children who melted Neil’s heart. They’d been cleaned up and were cheering and clapping in frenetic joy. Most of them were holding food, many of them with their precious little mouths full as they yelled. Such innocence—how could anyone harm a child?
The adults joined in the cheers, hooting and hollering. There were thirty others Neil didn’t recognize, but they celebrated his arrival like he was some long lost hero.
And making her way from the crowd, climbing the grid metal stairs, was Gabi, with Schatze by her side. Other than the bandage on her chest, Gabi looked healthy and radiant as she bear-hugged him until the cheering died down. Schatze licked Neil’s hand.
“I didn’t think you’d made it,” Gabi whispered to him.
“I always do, Gabi,” he whispered back, his voice cracking. “I always do.”
Gabi held him for a full minute. Neil didn’t move. He accepted her hug, eyes closed, enjoying the sublimity of the moment.
Twenty minutes later, after introductions and congratulations were complete, after Neil’s facial wounds had been cleaned, the adults sat at a long row of picnic tables pushed together. The children ate in groups on blankets. Peter sat in their midst, laughing with them. They ate a breakfast of bread, cheese, salted fish and fresh fruits. Somewhere, somehow, they had managed to obtain fresh orange juice, and Neil swilled a full liter on his own. After eating, Gabi gripped his hand underneath the table, frowning at him as he smoked a cigarette.
Gregor Faust, who upon closer examination was dressed like a desert bushman from the Kalahari, stood at the head of the table and tapped a spoon against his orange juice. The room fell silent. He made eye contact with everyone before finally looking to Neil.
“Mister Reuter, please accept my bountiful thanks for essentially giving up everything you owned to come
and assist us. You gave up your business, your home, your life. And it means more to me, personally, than I could ever muster words to explain.”
Afraid to speak, Neil nodded.
“We all thank you from the bottom of our collective hearts.”
Neil nodded his thanks as applause broke out again.
Faust continued, “I also want you to know that the full sum of money you spent on this journey will be reimbursed to you.”
Neil spoke. “That’s not necessary.”
“But it is. You see, this was never about money.”
“I agree,” Neil said. He breathed deeply before he replied. “And to me, this was never political. It began with my friend, Jakey, and soon transformed into a mission of mercy for these children.” Neil reached into his breast pocket and produced the picture of Fern. “She kept me going.”
Gregor Faust’s eyes sparkled when Neil turned the picture around. After a few steadying breaths, Faust said, “Would you like to meet her?”
Neil’s expression provided the answer.
Faust crossed the room, retrieving a thin young girl who’d been laughing with her friends. She came with him, displaying timidity when she approached Neil. Faust encouraged her to shake Neil’s hand, which she did.
Neil Reuter was overcome.
Overcome with so many emotions. After a moment, Fern hugged him.
Neil Reuter’s life was complete.
~~~
Gabi awoke to light rain pattering the sill of the open window in their hotel room. Something about awakening to rain struck her with melancholy for her mother. Each night since learning of her mother’s death, Gabi had dreamed about her. But the dreams hadn’t been nightmares—they’d been beautiful, with her mother seeming radiant and happy. Seeing her that way, if only in a dream, helped Gabi cope.
Despite getting decent sleep, she was still exhausted and quite sore, especially around the tender burns on her chest. Ignoring the pain, Gabi swirled in the sheets, stretching as an involuntary grin occupied her face while she reminisced about the spirited love she and Neil had made the evening before. As tired as he must have been, he loved her again and again, saying and doing the most beautiful things. Though the memory was quite warm, in the dull light and cool damp of the rainy morning, the encounter seemed only another dream. She glanced around the room, wondering where Neil was. The clock read ten o’clock; he had probably gotten dressed and gone downstairs for coffee.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 63