by C. T. Wells
Josef did his chores on the property, but the farm was only ever a place to mark time until he could get away to a new life. Boarding School was the first step. Germany the second. But ever since the glass incident he had sensed the potential within him for absolute fury. He had known it would end up with him being kicked half to death, but he had done it anyway.
And now, the rage in him was primed, and revenge coursed through him with every bitter stroke of his heart. The English would pay, no matter what it cost him.
***
Reile strode through the tiled corridors of the Hospital Pasteur. Boelcke was his shadow, moving with the same quick impatience. They stepped around hobbling patients, uniformed nurses and orderlies; a blur of people who were in the way of an investigation.
They pushed through the door into Langer’s ward. It was a mess. Medical equipment smashed on the wet floor, the bed askew and the patient limp.
Reile felt for a pulse, noting the discolouration around the throat. ‘He’s dead. But only just. Still warm.’
It took only seconds for Reile to reconstruct the events. Their main line of inquiry had just died. And Langer had not died of his wounds. There had obviously been a struggle only moments ago. Reile’s mind replayed their journey through the corridors. They’d encountered a dozen or so people heading towards the exit. The eliminations were easy. Uniformed female nurses; possible murderers, but unlikely. A patient in a wheelchair and an amputee—less likely. A heavy–set orderly with a sack of linen grasped in meaty hands. Dirty boots in a hospital ...
Reile’s mind played images of the orderly ducking furtively into the officer’s room. No weapon. Just those great hands gripping the officer’s neck; knuckles whitening as he strangled, bodyweight bearing down on the wounded man. The officer had probably struggled. Even an injured man would kick and thrash when his airway was being crushed. The orderly had fought harder, the bed had skittered across the tiles as the men struggled, the morphine stand crashing down, glass cracking, fluid spilling, the final convulsions of the dying officer, the wide, dead eyes, the orderly catching his breath, willing himself to walk away calmly—
Reile was already breaking into a run as he shouted to Boelcke. His words bounced off the brick walls and tiled floor, booming through the corridor. ‘The orderly! White coat. Carrying a sack.’
Boelcke was much slower to reach conclusions but, when he understood his objective, he was relentless. He charged after Reile. The two men scattered soldiers from their path as they pounded through the corridors.
Boelcke went off like a wounded bull and was several paces ahead of Reile when they reached the bustling central wing of the hospital complex. He skidded to a halt and drew his Mauser from inside his coat.
Reile, wheezing, scanned the crowd. ‘There!’
The heavy–shouldered form of their quarry was walking briskly towards the archway that led to the Rue du Val de Saire. He had ditched the coat and sack, and now looked like a grubby peasant.
‘Stop him!’
Boelcke broke into a sprint.
The fugitive looked over his shoulder and ran. A big man, not agile, but his limbs pumped furiously as he sped through the archway, a dark silhouette against the daylight beyond.
Reile tore after him, his chest heaving, but Boelcke was closing the gap faster.
When Reile reached the archway, he saw the fugitive sprinting along the Rue du Val de Saire, and Boelcke shouting ‘Halt!’
The fugitive pulled a revolver from his waistband and twisted his upper body as he ran.
Boelcke was twenty paces behind. The first shot from the fugitive went wide. It was nearly impossible for one running man to hit another with a handgun. The fugitive kept running, turning awkwardly as he tried to get a better aim at the Gestapo agent.
Boelcke had stopped running and levelled the Mauser. Much more certain.
There was another crack and the fugitive crumpled, dropping the revolver as he went to the ground. He’d been shot through the upper back. He tried once to push up off the ground, looking away, as though help could be found somewhere beyond, just out of reach. Then he collapsed to the ground and the street darkened with blood.
Reile cursed as he jogged towards the fallen fugitive. If Boelcke had killed him, it was a waste of a good source of information.
‘I only returned fire,’ Boelcke said with cow–eyed guilt.
Reile shook his head as he knelt beside the still body and, for the second time in a few minutes, checked for signs of life.
‘Who is he?’ asked Boelcke.
‘Well, there’s not much point asking him.’
***
Edouard Tierney had watched the killing of Anton Joubert from a distance of forty paces. He had been slouching on the mudguard of the Renault truck, smoking another cigarette and considering the right time to crank up the engine. Anton had been gone far longer than expected.
The commotion at the hospital entrance had caught his attention at once.
Anton had barrelled down the street, another man in pursuit.
It had taken only an instant for Edouard to decide he would not help. It was hopeless. He could not start the truck in time for them to get away. And he could not help Anton win a gunfight in the streets of Cherbourg. Instead he stepped back from the truck and moved into the recessed doorway of a shop.
He had heard two shots, and peeped out to see his comrade falling onto his face. Anton had risen slightly, dragging himself along the street looking at the truck. Looking for help. There would be none coming. And then, to Edouard’s great relief, Anton collapsed, apparently dead. So much better for him die immediately. An interrogation could be the end of them all.
Edouard joined a small and cautious throng of people who ventured into the street to see what had happened. He hung back in the crowd, but showed the same curiosity as the others. Another Gestapo man was examining Anton. Even from a distance, Edouard could tell Anton was dead.
Once the Germans cleared the scene and traffic started moving again, Edouard cranked the Renault and climbed into the driver’s seat. He pulled away into the traffic.
Anton had bungled it. There was nothing that could be done. But had he been successful in killing the German officer?
A few minutes later, Edouard parked the truck outside a hotel on the edge of town and went in to use the public telephone. He put a call through to the Hospital Pasteur and spoke in German. He requested to speak with Hauptmann Claus Langer. The receptionist asked him to hold for a moment. Edouard watched the receiver jiggle in his trembling hand. He could still vividly see Anton pitching forward with a bullet through his back. He was curious about his own response. In the moment, he had been calm. He had easily made the decision to let Anton die, but now his blasted hands were possessed by some shivering devil.
The receptionist returned to the telephone and, with regret, informed Edouard that Hauptmann Langer had passed away that afternoon. She did not provide any further details.
Edouard hung up, and breathed deeply. Good. The squadron leader was dead. Anton was dead. There were fewer and fewer living links to the Hyperion Cell.
His hands were settling down. He could probably light a smoke without sticking the match in his face. He got another cigarette out and put it to his lips. The pilot, Josef, was now their biggest threat. He knew The Cardinal would order the execution of this spent asset. Giselle would not do it, though. She was too soft–hearted. Too taken with the arrogant little prig in his fancy flyboy uniform. Edouard thought he might have to deal with it himself. He walked out to truck and turned the crank.
XXVI
Josef returned the Citroën to the motor pool. Stalking towards the manor that was the home of JG27, he did not acknowledge any of the mechanics on the field. He went straight to the map room. It was empty. He wasted no time in finding a topographic chart of south–west England and spread it
out on the broad table. He traced his finger over the terrain, the western edge of Dartmoor and into Devon. He had looked over this map previously and had already established the approximate location of the Lucas’ estate. Now he needed the exact coordinates.
He remembered the salient features of the view from the roof. Low hills with a distinctive saw–tooth profile. He found the corresponding contour lines then used a compass to take a back–bearing from the highest peak and found where it intersected the creek flowing through the estate. He took precise readings of latitude and longitude and wrote them down.
Josef heard footsteps and glanced up. Dietrich Hofacker appeared at the door. He was wearing his flight uniform. ‘Shaka! You’re back. Did you hear? We’re on standby until twenty–two hundred.’
Josef nodded. ‘I’ll get ready.’ He was annoyed. A scramble in the next few minutes would interfere with his plans.
Hofacker frowned with concern. ‘How was Langer?’
‘Not good.’
‘We’ll make them pay.’
‘Yes. They’ll pay.’
‘You sound ... serious. Are you alright?’
‘Never better.’
‘Good. I need to do a pre–flight.’ Hofacker went away to check his aircraft.
Josef packed away the chart and returned to his quarters. He changed into his flight uniform and pulled on his flying boots. They still had flecks of English mud on them. He tucked his gloves in his pockets and carried the leather flying helmet with him. It was new and stiff. He was ready to go at a moment’s notice, but he had something to do first.
Most of the pilots were gathered in the main drawing room. Overhead, an electric fan batted at the warm air, turning like a slow propeller. Their flying gear was close at hand, but they took the approach that, if you had to kill time on standby, you might as well do it on a leather lounge.
Jurgen Brandt was sprawled on a recliner reading an American comic book, Flash Gordon. He actually looked like Flash Gordon with his muscle–packed singlet and slicked blonde hair. A staffelkapitan who read comic books didn’t inspire confidence in Josef. Brandt was spending more time on the planet Mongo than he was in reality these days.
The rest of the staffel were equally relaxed. Some napped, some chatted or played cards, but they were ready to run for their aircraft if the alarm sounded.
Josef avoided them all. He prowled through the converted château until he found a telephone in an empty room. He shut the door and made a call. He had the Luftwaffe operator connect him to Sturzkampfgeschwader 77; the Stuka dive bomber group based in Caen. He spoke with the Major, identifying himself as Hauptmann Claus Langer of JG27, and speaking with the clipped authority of a squadron leader. He had spent enough time with Langer to do a passable version of a Hanoverian accent.
They probably had not heard of Langer’s crash–landing down in Caen. As far as they knew, he was still commanding the staffel, still liaising with them, still authorised to order a raid. In a few succinct sentences Josef lodged a request for a set–piece Stuka attack. He explained that communications were down in Luftwaffe Command in Mont la Epinge, so he was communicating directly with the dive bomber group. The Major on the other end of the line did not question it. The two units frequently worked in concert and he was more than willing to have a new target with no anti–aircraft defences.
Josef gave a brief description of the estate’s appearance from the air and read out the coordinates for the target.
The Major repeated them back accurately. He would schedule the attack during the next suitable window. He paused, consulting a chart perhaps, then returned to the phone. Weather permitting, the raid would be carried out at dawn two days hence. Two hundred and fifty kilo bombs. The estate in Devon would be ash and rubble.
Josef thanked him and hung up. He had hoped for a more immediate revenge, but the Stukas had their schedule, and he could only hope Lucas would be in the estate at dawn, two days hence.
He knew how it would be done. The Stukas would streak in over the English coast under the radar, gain altitude then swoop down on the estate and destroy the home and everyone in it. Assuming Lucas was in residence, his fate now depended on the weather. With any luck, JG27 would be given escort duties and Josef would be there to see it happen.
Josef knew he couldn’t go and sit with the staffel. They would see that something had lit a terrible rage. He was radiating hate like a solar flare. Nothing could eclipse it. They would ask questions but he could not talk with them. He could not even be part of them anymore. After what had happened today, he could not belong to the brotherhood. Against his will, he had been made into a traitor. It was like being a limb amputated from the body, still twitching and convulsing in the moments before the nerves died out.
Josef paced back and forth, his anger refusing to dissipate. The bloody English! He hoped Lucas would survive the first bomb, so he could live a few more seconds in terror of the second. He decided he had better get outside and walk off the rage.
Josef went out across the airfield and checked over White Five. It was in perfect condition. Fuelled. Armed. Ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
He walked among the huts and tents and fuel drums of the base. Eventually he sat down on an ammunition box in one of the service tents and fed 7.9mm rounds into a machine gun belt, making sure that every sixth round was tracer. There was something satisfying about handling ammunition while his whole being pulsed with revenge. Outside on the runway he could see the fire–scarred patch where Langer had burned. Off in the distance was a dark pile of twisted metal: the original White Leader. He cursed the British again and thumbed another round into the belt.
When he finished with loading ammunition he paced alongside the runway. He found a half crushed cigarette in his jacket pocket and lit it in spite of the prohibition on smoking near the fuel stores. His shadow stretched long across the ground, as dark as his mood. The sun was getting lower in the west. Ambush time.
He no sooner thought it than klaxons sounded across the airfield; a shrill alarm that had pilots running from the lounge, tugging on gloves and helmets. Ground crew rushed out to pull the chocks away and help get the fighters in the air.
Josef flicked away the cigarette and joined the throng, glad to be moving. He had never been more ready for a fight. He leaped up onto White Five, slid into the cockpit and snapped the canopy shut. Nearby, he saw Brandt doing the same, only pausing long enough to throw a Pervitin tablet down his neck. The Daimler Benz coughed into life and Josef waved away the ground crew and throttled up.
A moment later, the staffel flew north towards the channel, receiving their orders in the air. A big wing formation of RAF aircraft was coming in towards Normandy. Their task was to intercept and break up the formation before it got to France.
Josef took up his position behind Brandt’s 109 which now carried the chevrons of White Leader. He flew north, hungry for a kill.
Over the channel a low, thick cloud bank hung between a thousand and fifteen hundred metres. It was like a giant shelf in the sky, probably caused by a temperature inversion. The English would use the cloud layer to screen their approach.
Brandt gave his orders. ‘Climb to five thousand and circle ten kilometres off the coast from Cherbourg. Wait for further instructions. White Five, follow me. We’re scouting out further into the channel to try to spot them early.’
‘Viktor, White Leader.’
The 109s punched through the cloud layer and found a lighter world above. The evening sun was off their port wings, illuminating a pristine expanse of purple–tinged cloud. The staffel climbed away to their ambush station while Josef and Brandt skimmed the cloud–shelf, heading further out into the channel.
The cloud bank was almost flat—like another ocean layered up above the ocean below. They could half bury their aircraft in the moisture, so only the cockpits and tailplanes protruded, cutting the sky like the
dorsal fin of a shark. They wanted to see the British formation before they were seen. For all his bravado, Brandt had a good tactical mind.
It didn’t take long. A line of dots formed out to the north–west. The British were probably aiming to hit Cherbourg on sunset; maybe the port facilities, or maybe the airfield. But now, German eyes had seen them coming.
The closing speed was several hundred kilometres per hour. The dots soon took sufficient form for the pilots to identify four British bombers not far above the cloud, and then a dozen or more fighters guarding them in a big wing up on the top deck.
‘We’ll split. Don’t guard my tail. Bombers first,’ Brandt said. It was a gamble. More dangerous, but more impact if they could each hit a target in the first pass. That was how Brandt flew. Maximum impact.
‘Viktor, White Leader.’ It suited Josef fine. He could get his sights on the enemy without having to hold a wingman’s position.
Brandt radioed the rest of the staffel, confirming they were on station at five thousand metres.
‘Right, Shaka, we’re going to start this show.’
Josef didn’t need any encouragement. It would take another minute or so before they had reinforcement from the rest of the staffel, but the opportunity couldn’t be wasted. The bombers were ripe for the picking. If they could break up the formation of escorts it would weaken the attack. The enemy aircraft were almost close enough to identify. Twin engine bombers—maybe Bristol Blenheims. The fighters were still too far away to know if they were Spitfires or Hurricanes, but they were rapidly converging with the concealed 109s.
On Brandt’s command, the two Messerschmitts surged up out of the cloud layer and came in from below the bombers. Josef flipped the safety off the control stick and settled the sights on the flank of the British bomber. He opened fire before it took evasive action. The 20mm cannon shells ripped through the belly of the British plane. It crumpled and dropped from the sky, breaking apart as it fell. One down.