For safety’s sake he confined their search to a seventy-five meter area along the canal’s shoreline. After five minutes Dieter and his charges were fortunate enough to come across a group of bullet-riddled collapsible canvas rafts. Each looked large enough to hold five average-sized persons. The rafts were still littered with their previous occupants; dead Russian soldiers. Evidently the remnants of an attempted canal crossing that went awry. After an additional five-minute search three were deemed serviceable.
Contending not only with the sounds of battle but also the whine of British Lancaster’s dropping their ordinance less then 200 meters away, Dieter tried his best to yell above it. “Bring the rafts over here and lash them together so we don’t get separated,” he screamed, using hand signals to try and aid the ones who could not hear him. “Let’s go people. Hurry up or be left behind.”
Dieter knew full well no one was going to be left behind, not while he was in charge.
After shoving off they found themselves facing the additional predicament of having to paddle through the start of what was becoming a very intense air raid.
“All right, everyone count off,” Dieter yelled into cupped hands, scanning the opposite canal bank for any sign of enemy movement.
Schmitz tapped Dieter on the arm providing him with a thumbs up.
Everyone was safely aboard.
They were now ready to escape Berlin.
AS THEY DRIFTED DOWN THE CANAL, the fires destructive forces ravaged apartment buildings on both sides of the river, casting an eerie glow on the river ahead. Blowing ash and embers from the buildings moved about them as if fireflies in summer.
After the day’s horrifying events, the boys drifted off into a restful slumber—the crackle of the buildings’ blazing timbers providing somber background music.
STREAKS OF LIGHT dashed across the morning sky as the sun began to announce itself over the countryside.
Dieter roused Schmitz with a slight nudge of his foot, which in turn started a chain reaction until all were awake. As they looked about them, pastures and curious farm animals stared back.
The body of water they now floated on was a lot wider, more a river than canal.
Dieter pointed to heavy outgrowth of scrubs and trees on the western bank. “Private Schmitz, lets put in by that bank of trees and let’s try and find out where we are.”
Reaching the shoreline the boys quickly jumped from the flimsy rafts to form a U-shaped defensive perimeter. Dieter used hand signals as they proceeded up the muddy embankment, not wanting to speak aloud until the area was indeed secure.
From atop the embankment Dieter scanned the immediate area with his binoculars, locating a whitewashed stone farmhouse no more than 100 meters directly ahead of them, curling white smoke billowing from its chimney. A long grassy track led up to the house. Freshly plowed earth occupied both sides of the track.
Dieter motioned to the solitary house. “That’s going to be our objective. The only problem being we don’t know who occupies it: Germans or Russians.”
Schmitz looked puzzled. “But why even take the house? Can’t we just go around it and be on our way?”
The boys to his right and left nodded in agreement.
“Private Schmitz,” Dieter relied in a Fatherly tone. “We have to find out where we are in reference to Berlin. If something went wrong during the night and we drifted down a side tributary to the eastern side of the lines, we will no doubt soon find out. Somebody or something in that house will tell us where we are.”
Schmitz responded by removing the safety from his weapon.
Motioning to the boys still down by the rafts, their weapons at the ready, Dieter said; “I want the rest of you to be prepared to shove off should our little operation go astray. That is an order. Don’t wait. If you hear any shooting get the hell out of here.”
The boys nodded nervously at Dieters order.
Turning back Dieter assumed the lead, the rest of the boys falling in behind him as they charged over mounds of freshly plowed soil, metal canteens banging loudly against their web belts—the element of surprise clearly lost.
“Handel, break for the front door. I’ll take the back.”
Handel dove for the door rather awkwardly losing his helmet in the process. He slid up against the heavy wooden doorframe. Catching his breath after the brief sprint he cautiously extended his arm to knock on the front door, hoping for some type of response—German would be best.
After several seconds a feeble, male, Germanic voice answered from inside the farmhouse. “What do you want?”
Handel enjoyed his newfound authority and was quick to reply. “The German army has come to requisition your property for a few hours old man. Now come out with your hands up.”
The door slowly creaked open to reveal a disheveled, graying man of sixty, unshaven, medium build with crude patches affixed to his clothing on both the knees and at the elbows.
“Identify yourself to me boy and put that damn gun down,” the man replied angrily. “If you don’t, I’ll put you over my knee and smack the be-Jesus out of you.” He reached for the boy’s rifle grabbing it in one swift motion.
Running from his position in the rear of the house, Dieter quickly cut off any further escalation. “I am sorry for the disturbance, sir. We just escaped from Berlin and were wondering where the hell we are.”
“Ah, Berlin,” the old man said as if secretly understanding their predicament. “Is that bastard Hitler still in power?”
Dieter immediately took a liking to the older gentleman. “No sir, he committed suicide yesterday.”
“Good, I never cared for that son of a bitch. Come inside and let’s have a little celebratory drink and toast his journey to hell.” He flung open his door. “Where are my manners? If my wife were still alive, I would have received an earful from her. How rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself,” bowing slightly at the waist he said, “Gentlemen, my name is Peter Goot and you are all welcome to what I have, which, due to the war and rationing, isn’t much.”
Dieter waved to the rest of the boys at the riverbank signaling everything was okay.
Having monitored the whole situation unfolding, they came running over the same field Dieter and the boys had just trod, holding their helmets on their head with one hand, dragging their knapsacks with the other.
Goot laughed heartily. “I see your little flock is growing,” he said. “Please come in boys and join the crowd. I haven’t had this many people in my home since the last Christmas before the war started.”
Goot’s three-room farmhouse appeared to be as disheveled as its owner. Books lay scattered about— dirty clothing lay on chairs—unwashed dishes were piled high in the sink—newspapers littering the long wooden table where they performed double duty as a tablecloth.
Goot searched frantically as he moved piles of clothing looking for something clearly of value. “I have a bottle of schnapps hidden around here somewhere,” he said, smiling as he held up his prize for Dieter to see before turning back to face the boys. “Please sit down and rest from your journey while I serve up some fresh-baked bread.”
Goot took immense pleasure in watching the boys as they first sniffed the warm luxury, then as they took small bites as if savoring their last meal. “Living on a farm has its benefits. Eat boys, or it will go to waste.”
“And for us Captain — schnapps.”
Dieter couldn’t believe their luck was still holding out, first in escaping from Berlin then in finding this amicable man.
“I could stand a good belt after our little trip,” he said. “I was also hoping for some information if I may.”
Goot poured two generous glasses of the popular Berliner Apple Schnapps, some of it overflowing onto the newspaper. “I will try to be of assistance, Captain.”
Dieter eyed the schnapps appreciatively treating it as if it were liquid gold, sniffing it first before sampling it. “Can you tell us exactly where we are in relation to Berlin?”
> Goot smiled at such a simple request. “That’s easy; you are about twenty kilometers southwest of Berlin as the crow flies.” He proudly pointed over to a makeshift radio, its antenna running out an open window for reception. “According to the latest BBC radio report, the American patrols were known to be only seventy-five kilometers away at a town called Torgau having met up with the Russian Army just a few days ago.”
Dieter realized their luck had held out as they had unknowingly floated off the main portion of the river into a tributary sometime during the night, winding up closer to the American lines than anticipated.
Goot went on to inform him that had they continued down the river they would be eating Russian borsch by now. Or worse….dead.
Goot refilled their glasses. “Are you still fighting the war, captain, or are you escaping to a safer environment?” He studied Dieter for his response, having met some ardent Nazis in his time, all expecting a fight to the death.
Dieter looked first to the boys then back to Goot, his expression one of melancholy.
“Hopefully I can get these boys to a safer place, a better life, anywhere but to be captured by the Russians.”
Goot nodded.
Dieter continued. “I am to be a farmer when this war ends.” This was a semi-truth. With Dieter’s parents’ unfortunate death from an Allied bombing raid, the Dieter farm was now his to do with as he pleased.
Goot looked on in surprise. “A farmer you say? But you will need an experienced hand to assist you around the farm not just these boys.”
“I’m going to require all of the help I can get,” Dieter replied.
Goot walked over to the mantel above his fireplace, removing a silver picture frame that held a prewar picture of his wife and sons. He softly stroked the frame at the cherished memories it held before he turned to face Dieter. “Captain, would you consider taking on an old hand such as myself? Since my wife died of cancer last year and my two sons were killed fighting in Stalingrad, I no longer have any attachment to this house.”
Understanding Goot’s sentiment— having recently lost his own parents—Dieter nodded. “It would be an honor, Mr. Goot.”
Dieter directed his attention back to the boys—the bread now long gone. “All right, break time is over men. We have many kilometers to go and little time to achieve them but before we do, I want you to welcome a new man to our outfit, Mr. Peter Goot,” Dieter pointed over to Goot. “He is going to join us on our little journey.”
A chorus of cheers greeted Goot as he was welcomed into the fold.
CHAPTER SIX
Goot lay beside Dieter in waist-high wheat, positioned just above the main road into Weimar. The boys were several meters back, their uniforms dirty and ripped from their ten-day march through forest and backcountry hiking trails—sleeping where and when they could. All were bone tired and hungry—their rations having run out two days before.
“Are they German or American troops, Captain Dieter?” Goot said in a hushed tone, watching as two jeeps drove slowly past the group’s concealed position, four soldiers to a jeep, their 50 caliber machine guns pointed straight ahead. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air as the first jeep passed.
“Looks to be an American reconnaissance patrol,” Dieter replied.
“Captain,” Goot exclaimed, starting to rise. “Let’s surrender to them now and get this war over with.”
Dieter grabbed him roughly by his shirt collar and yanked him back down to the ground. “I need to see if a friend of mine is still located in town,” he said calmly, still eying the soldiers. “Then and only then can we surrender.”
Goot thought Dieter had gone utterly mad. “Is the information you seek worth possibly dying for?”
He turned slowly to face Goot, a smile clearly evident upon his face, nodding. “However bizarre it sounds, it most definitely is my friend—most definitely.”
IN HIS TEENAGED years Dieter would sneak into town from his parent’s farm for some innocent mischief. Now he retraced the same medieval cobbled stone alleyways where 10 years earlier he had avoided the local constable when he stole a case of wine from a delivery wagon. Times had certainly changed. The town was totally shuttered, seemingly devoid of troops, either German or American. Behind him, the motley army he had assembled followed as he weaved his way through town, creeping up to the back-ally exit of the Black Cat Club. Numerous cases of empty beer and wine bottles were stacked high.
Dieter cautiously entered the Black Cat Club, allowing his eyes to adjust to the partial darkness. Goot and the boys followed. They kept their weapons drawn, never sure who would be in residence, even at this early hour. Seeing the immediate area clear, Dieter breathed a sigh of relief. He was almost free.
As they moved forward toward the dimly lit bar area, they were unfortunate enough to encounter the club manager, Lisa Chevier, coming down the back stairwell.
Still a head turner, Lisa was a slightly overweight, fortyish, expatriate from Paris whose tight pink silk nightgown strained to conceal her ample breasts.
“We are closed for the day gentlemen. Come back in two or three hours,” Lisa said politely in her most seductive French accented voice, having had many years of practice.
Dieter removed his leather officer’s cap to afford her a better view. “Lisa, it’s me, Hans Dieter. Remember? I’m Inga’s friend—the officer that took up residence here during my leave many months ago. I’m the soldier with a farm just outside of town.”
The boys worked their way in behind Dieter to get a better look at the sexily clad Lisa, eyes bulging.
Standing on the steps, Lisa paused to gather her thoughts for a moment before slamming her hand down hard on the wooden railing, pointing at him with some recollection.
Running down the few remaining steps, Lisa embraced him before suddenly pushing him away. She now held him at arms’ length, the stench of ten days sleeping by the side of the road a bit overwhelming for her.
“Oh my goodness, why of course, Captain Dieter,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you in your unkempt uniform. We all thought you were dead or missing like so many unfortunate others. But what are you doing here? Weren’t you fighting the Russians on the Eastern Front?”
“I was on the Eastern Front until I was wounded several weeks ago and then stationed in Berlin with these young men until we deserted our posts in Berlin. I must apologize, but we don’t have much time for details. I must see Inga right away. Is she still working here?”
Lisa nodded in understanding, having personally consoled many a soldier whose last posting lay on the Eastern Front.
“Inga? Why yes, of course she still works here,” she replied, slightly offended. “Why wouldn’t she be here? I pay the most lucrative wages in town.”
Lisa turned to Goot and the boys, looking at their general appearance, shaking her head before speaking. “Is this what the mighty German army is comprised of these days, old men and boys? No wonder your Germany is losing the war.”
Goot took offense to her choice of words, more for the boys’ sake than his own. “Who do you think you are to make such a comment? The Queen of Sheba in a tight dress?”
Dieter patted him on the back in an attempt to calm him down.
Lisa was quick to respond. Never one to lose a customer, she could see she had evidently offended the gentleman. “Now, now, my dear,” she purred, grabbing his arm, snuggling close.
Goot pushed her away in horror.
“Break it up you two. I need to see Inga right away,” Dieter said, the urgency in his voice apparent to all. “The Americans are in town and we don’t have much time before they stumble upon this place.”
Lisa pressed her hands together as if in prayer. “The Americans are here? Now? This is the best news I have heard all month. And business has been off for far too long.”
Dieter laughed aloud at the savvy businesswomen. “You really change sides quickly don’t you Lisa?”
A look of seriousness crossed her face bef
ore she responded. “The only side I am on is the side of money, Captain Dieter. No one else pays my bills. Now, you can go see Inga in room twelve while I entertain this charming older man you brought with you.”
Lisa once again grabbed Goot by the arm.
Dieter glanced back in time to see Goot having his wallet expertly picked by Lisa as she escorted him to the bar area.
FINDING INGA WAS EASY enough, still singing the same old Bavarian tune she had sung to him four months before. With the door leading to her room slightly ajar, Dieter eased himself into the Victorian-appointed but cramped room. He quietly maneuvered along the foot of her brass bed as she sat brushing her brown waist-length hair in front of a dresser mirror. Admiring her beauty for several minutes, waiting until she had finished, he cleared his throat to attract her attention.
Immediately she turned, dropping her hairbrush on the floor in shock, her mouth agape.
“You bastard—where have you been?” she demanded angrily. “My letters to you for the past two months were returned with no forwarding address! I thought you were dead!”
Dieter took Inga in his arms embracing her slim figure. She allowed his hands to roam over areas he was all too familiar with. “Ha-hah, you really did miss me, didn’t you? And I thought you would have forgotten me by now.”
Inga grabbed his neck using it as support as she wrapped her long tan legs around the base of his back. “Forget my long lost love? Maybe I should have.”
He brushed aside her jasmine scented hair, their eyes meeting. “Oh come now, Inga, no games this time, okay?”
As their lips were about to touch, Lisa burst into the room. “Dieter,” she said breathlessly. “American soldiers are downstairs. You and your men must hide right away.”
“Can you believe this? I haven’t seen this beautiful woman in over four months and now this has to happen.” He continued to eye Inga appreciatively. “Damn it, just fifteen lousy minutes is all I would have asked for. It just goes to prove all good things must come to an end.”
Angels Fallen Page 3