by C. T. Wells
‘Each block? What are the other blocks for?’
‘The first block is to burn the film. Use other blocks to bring the building down on top of it. Crush it. Bury everything in rubble. It’s a failsafe. If one approach doesn’t work, the other one should.’
‘What’s the best way to bring down the building?’
‘It depends on the actual construction. You want look for the critical points. Lintels, beams, pillars, load bearing walls, keystones. Try to make sure any doors and windows are closed. If you can contain the blast, it will be more destructive.’
Martin nodded.
‘Are you sure you can get out in time?’ asked Edouard.
‘I’ll get out. But listen, if I don’t … if something goes wrong, you’ll take care of Giselle?’
Edouard couldn’t help smiling. He opened his mouth but his words were cut off. A noise like a pistol shot filled the glade as the detonator went off. Birds shrieked and beat their way from the trees.
Martin looked at his watch immediately. ‘Nine minutes, twenty–two seconds.’
‘Mmm. Supposed to be ten minutes. That’s quite a bit of variation. It all depends on the thickness of the wire, the concentration of the acid, and, most of all, the ambient temperature. It’s a warm day, which effectively means a shorter fuse.’
‘It doesn’t seem all that accurate.’
‘And the day is heating up. Here’s the moral of the story: don’t wait ten minutes until you get out of there.’
XX
The Cherbourg Harbour carried the reek of dead fish and the unmistakable presence of the German occupation. Wehrmacht soldiers in coal–scuttle helmets were patrolling on foot, armoured vehicles were positioned at key intersections.
Josef drove along the waterfront in a Citroën he had signed out from the motor pool. It was a fine car, the six cylinder Traction Avant with the raked grille and flowing mudguards. But after flying a 109, any other machine seemed mundane by comparison. He eased the car through a road block with a sand–bagged machine gun position manned by more German troops. The car was painted in Luftwaffe blue, and the soldiers could easily see his uniform, so he was not challenged.
Beyond the sea–wall, he could see a fleet of half a dozen fishing boats coming into the harbour with the night’s catch. There was always work when there was an army to feed.
There were two boxes on the rear seat. One contained the staffelkapitan’s mail and personal effects for the hospital visit. The other contained the staffelkapitan’s dress uniform, belt and shoes for the subsequent act of treason. He would visit Langer, then do what he needed to do for Melitta. If he could get her to Europe he could make her safe. It would make up for abandoning her when he left South Africa. He had some savings, and renting an apartment for her in Berlin was not out of the question. Or maybe even a little cottage somewhere provincial where the bombs would never fall.
Josef turned away from the harbour onto Rue du Val de Saire and parked the Citroën. The hospital had been commandeered and was now run by German personnel who tended German wounded. It was only a couple of months since the 7th Panzer Division had taken Cherbourg, but it seemed the Germans were well on their way to turning the sea–side retreat into a fortress town.
Already labourers were pouring barricades of hardened concrete that looked like tumours growing out of the historic building. On some of the fortifications in the street Josef saw anti–Nazi graffiti splashed across the fresh concrete. There was a crudely painted Croix de Lorraine; the two–barred cross that symbolised of the Free French movement. It had probably been painted by young French rebels in the night. They must have been stupid or ignorant of the severe repercussions for such a crime against the Reich.
With Langer’s box under his arm, Josef passed through the arch in the classical façade of the hospital and made his way to a nurses’ station. The box containing the uniform was still in the Citroën. He asked to see Hauptmann Langer and a young nurse stepped forward. ‘You’re from his squadron?’
‘I’m his wingman. Is he … available?’
‘He’s alive. I’ll take you there. I’m Hilde. I’m taking care of him. I’ve known Hauptmann Langer for some time. We’re both from Hanover.’ She ushered him towards the wing of the hospital where Langer was being treated.
Josef had never heard of Hilde. A family friend? A mistress? Langer didn’t seem the sort to have a mistress, but who could know? It made Josef realise how little he really knew about his staffelkapitan.
‘What condition is he in?’
She kept walking and fixed her eyes ahead. ‘I think he has flown his last mission. His legs are badly burnt. He may even lose them. And, of course, with burns, they are prone to infection. He might not make it through at all.’
Josef clenched his jaw as he walked. He didn’t know what to say.
She sighed. ‘With any luck, he might survive. He may even be able to practise again.’
‘Practice ... flying?’ Josef frowned in confusion. It seemed an odd thing to say about an experte.
She stopped. ‘Practice medicine. You know he’s a doctor?’
‘Hauptmann Langer?’
‘He was Doktor Langer before he was Hauptmann Langer.’
Josef had not really considered that Langer had ever been anything other than a fighter pilot. But, of course, he’d been called ‘The Doctor’ by some of the older hands. Josef had assumed it was a nickname—a reference to his cool and clinical flying style.
‘He practised in Hanover for nine years. Oral and craniofacial surgery.’
Josef frowned again. He had never heard this. ‘A dentist?’
‘A doctor. Cleft lips and palates. Mouth tumours, facial injuries. He was very successful.’
‘So how did he end up flying a 109?’
‘He was an amateur pilot back then. The Luftwaffe recruited through flying clubs. Doctor Langer liked flying. And when he had the chance to fly in Spain, he joined up. He said he never felt so alive as in a 109.’ She could not hide the faint sheen of pain in her eyes as she spoke.
‘I never knew that about him.’
She shrugged. ‘He keeps things close to his chest.’
Josef looked down at the box he was carrying. ‘I hope to cheer him up.’
‘I’m sorry, but I want to be honest with you. Please don’t give Claus any hope of flying again soon.’
‘Isn’t any hope … even a false hope, better than none?’
Hilde started walking again. She clearly didn’t want to get philosophical about it. Josef guessed that recent months had left her jaded. She had no time for the bravado of young pilots. She had probably seen too many broken ones. And maybe Langer’s injuries affected her more deeply than she was willing to reveal.
‘You know your officer. So talk about whatever you like. But if you say he’ll be back in the air next month, you’re telling lies.’ She indicated a door at the end of whitewashed corridor. ‘Hauptmann Langer is in there.’
She turned and strode away down the corridor, her shoes clacking loudly with each rapid stride on the tiled floor. Josef watched her go. He thought that the hardness in her was a war–wound of a different sort.
He had never felt so inadequate for the task at hand. He took a deep breath, trying to summon courage. Instead he took in a whiff of pungent ammonia from the sanitising fluids used on the wards.
Josef knocked on the door. There was no response, so he gently swung it open. Langer was semi–reclined on a bed and, thankfully, mostly covered with linen and bandages. Josef had no desire to see the wounds. Langer’s face was nearly as white as the linen, except for his dark and sunken eyes. In his pain he seemed pinched and older. An intravenous drip delivered him a steady flow of morphine.
‘Heil Hitler!’ snapped out Josef. It was all he could think of.
Langer barely lifted his right hand in response
.
There was a folding metal chair set up near the bed. Josef sat down and Langer took some time in rotating his head to face Josef. Strange to think that only a day ago, in the time it took for him to rearrange himself in bed, he could have barrel–rolled a 109.
‘I brought your things.’ Josef took the lid off the box. ‘And some mail. The boys chipped in for a little keepsake.’ He showed the officer a pewter hip–flask with the insignia of JG27 engraved on it. Langer’s name was inscribed below, along with twelve symbols, each representing an aerial victory. With thoughtful implication, they were arranged so there was room to add more in the bottom row. ‘Dietrich Hofacker was up most of the night engraving it. It’s full, of course. Some of that French brandy you got us onto …’
Langer nodded and accepted the flask with a limp hand.
Josef was once again feeling the right words were hard to come by. ‘Sir, when that Spitfire was there on my tail, you really saved me. I just wish I’d seen them coming before they bounced us.’
Langer nodded again and breathed something indiscernible.
Josef swallowed hard. This was going to be an even more difficult conversation if only one of them could speak. ‘You’ve got twelve now.’
Langer breathed raggedly. His lungs must have been seared.
Josef looked down into the open box on his knees. ‘I brought your mail, sir. Would you like me to read it to you?’ Josef picked up the first of three pieces of mail he had been handed back at the airfield. He took Langer’s silence as consent. ‘This one’s from a book club, sir. Asking about another subscription, I gather. And here’s one from Hanover. Your wife? Would you like me to …?’ He glanced up at Langer.
The officer was alert now, almost glaring at him.
‘Of course, sir. I won’t open your personal mail.’ Josef was keen to move on. ‘The third one is a telex message from the Luftwaffe Personnel Office in Berlin …’ Josef glanced at Langer again, and the wounded officer seemed even more agitated, straining to sit up.
But something had caught Josef’s attention in the type–written telex transcript in his hand. His own name leapt out from the print. Instinctively, Josef scanned the brief document.
To: Hauptmann Claus Langer, Staffelkapitan, JG27.
From: Major Horst Von Greim, Luftwaffe Personnel Office, Berlin
WITH REFERENCE TO YOUR QUERY STOP FELDWEBEL JOSEF SCHAFER OF JG27 HAD NO DENTAL WORK RECORDED AS OF DEPLOYMENT STOP CONCLUDE YOUR OBSERVATIONS OF A CROWN CONFIRM MORE RECENT TREATMENT
Josef froze. He remembered Langer looking hard at his wounded mouth when he had returned from England. Everyone had seen the bruise and split lip. But Langer had seen the repaired tooth. Of course he had. He had been a doctor. A mouth expert. Such a person would see it all. It would be like a pilot doing a pre–flight check—a missing rivet would stand out. Langer must have the same eye for injuries, and perhaps he had grown suspicious. How could a pilot behind enemy lines receive dental treatment? Had Josef had a crown on his tooth prior to being shot down? Maybe Langer reasoned that South African farm boys rarely had dental treatment beyond the pulling of a troublesome tooth, so any previous dental work would be crude and obvious, not a modern crown. So his suspicions must have grown, and being thorough in the extreme, he had sent a query to Berlin where Josef’s records were on file …
In a sudden move that belied his condition, Langer reached for the telex message. Josef pulled back, out of reach. As they locked eyes, Josef knew Langer suspected him. Even half–burnt and suffering ferocious pain, Langer was lucid enough to see the guilt in Josef’s actions. He made another lunge at the telex. Josef moved back again and knocked over the metal chair. It clanged to the floor.
Langer’s movement disconnected the morphine tube from the canula in his arm and almost at once he grimaced. The fluid discharged onto the tiles. Langer writhed as pain ran through him like an out–of–control locomotive crashing through the signals of his nervous system.
Josef was frozen, still trying to grasp what was in the mind of the moaning officer on the bed. He was conscious of the wound on his mouth. Betrayed by it.
Hilde strode through the door to the private ward and surveyed the scene. Langer was in agony. ‘What have you done?’ she snapped.
‘I’m sorry. He moved. The morphine line came out.’
The nurse deftly reinserted the line and adjusted the flow rate. Langer’s body slumped into repose immediately and he drifted into unconsciousness.
Hilde glared. ‘Perhaps you had better go. He needs to sleep.’
Josef nodded. He picked up the chair and set the box of personal effects on it. But when he walked from the room, Josef still held the telex transcript in a closed fist.
Five minutes later, he was leaning on an iron railing at the Cherbourg waterfront, watching the gulls wheeling above the harbour. He tried compose himself. What did Langer suspect? Had he guessed Josef had received dental treatment in England? The story he had told about being on the run was entirely incompatible with having a tooth professionally repaired.
Josef shook his head. Langer was the one person who seemed to make sense in all of Normandy. And yet he had been the one to secretly investigate him. Maybe Langer had kept Josef close to watch him—to guard the staffel from a threat within. It was hard to know how much danger he was in. What would happen when Langer came back to consciousness?
Josef breathed deeply. It seemed unfair that a split lip and a crown on a tooth could betray him. He tore the telex into little shreds and let them flutter away into the Atlantic. What would he have to do to stay safe?
XXI
As the day went on, the heat built up like an army amassing for an invasion. It was oppressive. Metal tools became hot to touch. The labouring had ceased and everyone at Joubert’s farm had retreated indoors. Giselle was repairing torn grain sacks with a needle and thread. Anton was sharpening a saw at the same table and Giselle could smell him; an unpleasant combination of sweat and stale cider. Terese was washing bed sheets in a tub on the back porch. She was scrubbing hard; soap was hard to come by these days so it took a bit more elbow grease.
As usual, Martin and Edouard had evaded any real chores. Together, they were poring over a map on the dining table. Giselle could have found somewhere else to repair the sacks, but she wanted to hear what Martin and Edouard were planning.
‘How long do you think it would take to drive from the château to this checkpoint?’ Martin pointed at the map.
Edouard considered it. He borrowed a piece of thread from Giselle, laid it on the map, then placed it on the scale. ‘It’s only a couple of hundred metres.’
‘So how long will it take to drive out of there?’
‘If you drive at twenty kilometres an hour it will take you … half a minute.’
‘Twenty kilometres an hour is not very fast.’
‘Yes, but you have to start the car, accelerate up to that speed, then stop for the checkpoint. You might do it faster but you should allow at least half a minute for driving. Then, it depends how long it takes to get through the checkpoint.
‘I watched them. They check people on the way in. They just open the gate and wave them through on the way out. If I set the detonators, I need to be out of the building and into the car within five minutes. Then in another minute or two I will pass the outer checkpoint and there should still be another minute at least before the bombs go off.’
Giselle and Anton both looked up at Martin. They hadn’t heard this part of the plan.
‘You will be killing Germans?’ Anton’s eyes lit up at the prospect.
‘Maybe, but that’s not the main game. We’re trying to destroy intelligence.’
Giselle rubbed her forehead. She had been just as anxious when Martin had announced his plan to assassinate Goering in Caen. Why did he have to be so extreme? Couldn’t he settle for blowing up a railway track? Martin was i
ntent on stepping into the very lair of the enemy. Even so, she knew his actions were what Cardinal had ordered.
Giselle had questions but at that moment they heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. Anton went to the window and drew back the curtain to look at the farm lane. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he bellowed. ‘Germans. Arm yourselves!’
Giselle stood up. A Citroën in Luftwaffe blue was approaching the farmhouse.
Martin dismissed Anton’s concern. ‘Relax. He’s a friend.’
They watched Josef pull up outside the farmhouse and get out of the car. He was wearing a dress uniform, not the flying clothes they had previously seen him in. Josef reached into the rear seat to pick up a bulky box.
‘This German is a friend?’ Anton’s lip curled.
‘An accomplice.’
‘I’m telling you, the only good German is a dead German.’
There was a knock and Giselle got up from her chair. She found herself patting down her unruly hair as she approached the door. Taking a deep breath, she swung it open.
Josef was a silhouette against an oblong of summer daylight, but he cut a fine figure in dress uniform.
‘Come in.’
Josef stepped into the house like an automaton. Giselle watched him move. He was tense. He was functioning, that was all. Maybe this scheme was pushing him too far. Despite the impressive uniform, she could see a lost boy who had been given the wrong directions to get home. But now wasn’t the time to set him straight.
‘You’re early.’
‘Things didn’t go well at the hospital. I may have been … what do you call it? Found out.’
‘Compromised?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come and sit down. Tell us what happened.’