Death Train

by Levinson, Len

  She tried to keep her lips closed, but he forced his tongue inside and then she opened up all the way. He rolled onto her and felt her arms creep around his shoulders. Thank goodness she wasn’t putting up much resistance. He didn’t like to use pressure if he didn’t have to.

  After the kiss, he moved away and began unbuttoning her pants.

  “I don’t know why I’m letting you do this,” she said.

  “Because you’re crazy about me,” he said.

  “Me? Crazy about you? Don’t be silly. You’re nothing more than a gorilla. You have no manners and no sense of decency.”

  He drew her pants off and lay them beside her. She wore black silk underpants and he wondered where she got them. Placing his fingers in the waistband, he pulled them down. “I admit I’m not an officer and a gentleman,” Mahoney said, “but I’m good at some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know.”

  “Murder? Mayhem? Being nasty and insulting? Humiliating that poor Cranepool whenever you feel like it?”

  “Don’t worry about Cranepool,” he said, pulling off her underpants. “He’s doing all right for himself. Hold up your arms.”

  “What for?”

  “Do as I say and stop talking so much.”

  She raised her arms and he took off her sweater. Now she was naked and pink in the darkness. He unbuttoned his shirt.

  “I’m so weak with you,” she sighed.

  “I never thought of you as being weak, cherie.”

  “Oh but I am . . . with you.”

  Mahoney might have mentioned that she behaved no differently with the other men she liked, but decided this wasn’t the appropriate time or place for that kind of conversation. He pulled off his pants and lowered himself onto her. She felt marvelous.

  “You’re so hairy,” she whispered, running her palms over his back.

  He kissed her lips as she dug her fingernails into his back. She spread her legs and squirmed like a snake.

  “I love you,” she moaned.

  “I love you, too,” Mahoney replied, sticking his thing between her legs.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lieutenant General Hans Speidel, Rommel’s Chief of Staff, was sleeping soundly in Rommel’s opulent chateau in La Roche-Guyon, when the telephone on the night table began to ring. Speidel opened his eyes, grunted, and looked at his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning of June 6. He snatched the telephone off the receiver.

  “Speidel here,” he mumbled into the telephone.

  “This is General Pemsel,” said the Chief of Staff of the German Seventh Army, the force responsible for the defense of Normandy. His voice was stern and steady, but there was a note of anxiety in it. “Commanders in the 716th Division have reported widespread airborne landings, both by parachute and glider, in their sector, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My commanders are,” Pemsel said drily. “They report heavy fighting.”

  “How many airborne invaders are there?”

  “It’s hard to say. There’s been a lot of confusion, but the picture should become clearer in a little while. For safety’s sake, I think we ought to move up the Panzers.”

  “So soon?” Speidel asked. “Before we know the nature of the enemy’s intentions? No, I don’t think so, General Pemsel. This may be nothing more than a diversionary attack. The full weight of the enemy forces may be coming at another point. I think I’d better notify Paris of these developments and request further instructions.”

  “If only Rommel were here,” General Pemsel said. “He’d know how to handle the situation.”

  “But he’s not here. After I call Field Marshal von Rundstedt, I’ll go straight down to my office. I’ll be there if you need me.”

  Speidel rolled out of bed and planted his feet on the floor. He rubbed his eyes and wondered if the Allied invasion finally was taking place. He had mixed feelings about it. Although he was a loyal German officer, he hated Hitler and secretly wished for military setbacks that might force a coup against Hitler’s regime.

  He picked up his phone again and told the operator to put him through directly to the headquarters of Army Group West in Paris. When a staff officer answered the phone, Speidel told him about the airborne landings in Normandy.

  “We’re remaining very calm here,” Speidel said, “until we know more definitely what’s going on. It’s entirely possible, you know, that people are mistaking bailed-out air crews for paratroopers.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  At four o’clock in the morning, a German military convoy rumbled down the road towards the little town of Rouget. Major Kurt Richter sat in the back seat of a black Mercedes-Benz limousine smoking a cigarette. Driving the limousine was Corporal Grunwald, his driver; sitting next to him was Private Piecke, Major Richter’s aide. Mounted on each of the limousine’s front fenders were fluttering flags decorated with black swastikas.

  Following the black limousine was the 53rd Waffen SS Infantry Battalion, numbering approximately five hundred men, being carried in thirty trucks. Behind the trucks was a Panzer company consisting of twelve Panther tanks.

  The convoy bore down on the unsuspecting village, sleeping peacefully in the summer night. The people therein had no idea that hell on earth was about to descend on them.

  Richter stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. His stomach was cramped with anxiety and his hands trembled in anticipation of what he would do when he reached Rouget. He’d level the town and dig it up if that’s what was necessary to find those terrorists who’d blown up the tunnel. And if he found that big brute who’d kicked him in the face, he’d literally skin him alive in an SS torture dungeon. That surely would be fitting and sweet revenge.

  Of course, the terrorists might not be in Rouget, but even that wouldn’t stop Richter from annihilating the town. An example had to be made to the French people, and Rouget would provide it. Then Richter would move on to the next town and destroy it also. And then the next one, and the next one.

  Nobody kicked Major Kurt Richter in the face and got away with it. There’d be hell to pay in this district of France. Blood would flow like water, and hereafter Frenchmen would think twice and maybe three times before joining the Resistance.

  The convoy passed noisily through the French countryside. The SS troopers dozed on their benches in the trucks, their rifles held between their knees. They’d been awakened and ordered out of their beds to go on this operation, and they weren’t happy about it.

  Waffen SS troopers were a special kind of soldier, because they comprised the front-line fighting arm of the SS, rather than the German Army. They considered themselves an elite within Germany’s armed forces, just as airborne divisions and Rangers considered themselves an elite in the American Army. The major difference was that the Waffen believed in the racial ideology of the Nazi Party, and in fact all of them were party members, in contradistinction to the soldiers of the German Army, most of whom were not party members.

  The Waffen SS had proven themselves to be superb and disciplined fighters in the front lines of the Russian campaign. They attacked hard and could defend the most difficult position. Even when overrun they maintained cohesion and fought like wild animals. When they ran out of ammunition they fought with bayonets, and if they lost their bayonets they fought with hands and teeth. But their brilliant combat record was blemished by their tendency to commit atrocious crimes against unarmed people whom they considered racially inferior. They excelled at rape and robbery, not to mention arson and wholesale slaughter.

  When the convoy reached Rouget at four o’clock in the morning, the rain had stopped. As they drove down the main street Richter ordered Grunwald to stop the limousine in front of the very first house. Richter got out, smoothing the front of his black jacket, licking his lips in anticipation of the vengeance he would soon wreak.

  The convoy stopped behind his limousine, and he motioned for the troopers in the first truck to dismount. The office
rs and men got down and strolled to him, adjusting their rifles and cartridge belts. Richter told a young captain, the highest ranking among them, to take as many men as he needed and break into the house, find the oldest responsible male inside, and drag him outside.

  The young captain gave the Hitler salute, then gathered four of his men and marched toward the door. They didn’t bother to knock—they merely shot the lock away and stormed inside. Lights went on upstairs and soon screaming could be heard. The SS men appeared, dragging out a man in his fifties by the collar of his pajamas. The man, bleeding from his nose and mouth, was in a state of shock. Women in nightgowns came out onto the porch, their hands clutching their cheeks in horror.

  An SS sergeant threw the man at the feet of Major Richter, who drew his polished black boot back and kicked him in the face. The man went sprawling onto his back, new blood pouring from his nose.

  Who’s the mayor of this filthy little town?” Richter demanded.

  The man got up on one elbow and wiped some blood away. “Jean Goupil,” he said in a quavering voice.

  “Where does he live?”

  He gave Richter the address and directions. When he was finished, Richter took out his pistol and aimed it at the man’s head. He screamed in terror. Then Richter pulled the trigger. As the man’s head blew apart, the women on the porch shrieked hysterically. Richter turned to the SS captain and told him to mount up. The SS men returned to their truck and Richter got into his limousine with an order to Grunwald to drive to the mayor’s house. Grunwald shifted into gear and the long grim procession rolled toward the center of town, passing the women in nightgowns weeping over the dead man.

  As the convoy rumbled more deeply into the town, the noise of the tanks and trucks awakened people. They turned on their lights and peered out their windows, crossing themselves fearfully when they saw the insignia of the SS on the vehicles. When it passed Doctor Lambert’s house, he saw the tanks and soldiers and he dressed quickly running out the back door of his house.

  The procession stopped in front of the two-story stone house that belonged to the mayor. Richter got out, motioning for the SS men in the first truck to join him. The same blond SS captain and the platoon jumped down.

  “Get me the mayor,” Richter commanded.

  This time, the SS captain selected six men and marched to the front door. Lights already were on inside; adults and children looked at the approaching SS men through windows. As the SS men broke down the door and entered, the people at the windows fled. Sounds of screaming and commotion issued from the house until minutes later when the SS captain reappeared, dragging a man in his forties by the hair. Behind them followed a group of women and children, quiet now under the guns of the SS.

  The captain threw the man at Richter’s feet. He looked up at Richter, his face bruised, fury in his eyes.

  “On your feet!” Richter screamed.

  The man stood up and held his head high.

  “Are you the mayor of this filthy little town?” Richter demanded.

  “I am the mayor of Rouget,” the man said.

  A muscle worked in Richter’s jaw. “Your name?”

  “Jean Goupil.”

  “I have received word that a group of terrorists came to this filthy town last night. Where are they?”

  Goupil blinked his eyes. “I know of no such terrorists.”

  “Maybe you’d better think about your answer a bit more carefully.”

  “There’s nothing to think about, Herr Major. There are no terrorists in this town as far as I know.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “We’ll see how sure you are.” Richter looked at the trembling women and pointed to the oldest one. “Is that your wife?”

  “Yes, Herr Major.”

  Richter looked at the SS captain. “Shoot her.”

  “No!” screamed Goupil.

  Richter whacked him in the face with his pistol. Goupil dropped to the ground, the women and children screaming and begging as the SS men separated Goupil’s wife from them. She, however, did not scream or beg. There are some people who can face terror with dignity, and she was one of them. She closed her eyes and crossed herself, biting her lower lip as the SS captain took aim at her with his pistol and pulled the trigger. A red dot appeared on her white nightgown and her legs buckled. She fell in a heap to the ground.

  Richter kicked the sobbing Goupil in the ribs. “If you insist on defending the terrorists, I'll kill them all before your filthy French eyes!”

  Goupil got on his knees before Richter. “But I know nothing about terrorists who arrived last night,” he pleaded above the wails and cries of his family. “Kill me if you wish, but please don’t kill my children.”

  Richter smiled. “I fully intend to kill you, don’t worry about it. But I’m also going to kill your family if you don’t tell me about the terrorists!”

  “No terrorists arrived last night to my knowledge!” Goupil yelled, his voice becoming hysterical.

  “Hmmm,” Richter said. “What about terrorists in this town in general? Surely you must have some here? Tell me where they are, because I’m sure the ones who arrived last night went straight to them.”

  Goupil closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his breast. He was faced with the moral dilemma of his life: he knew that Father Henri, Doctor Lambert, the two nuns, and about forty others in the town were in the Resistance. If he told the SS major who they were, his family would be saved but the Resistance fighters would be killed. On the other hand, if he refused to tell the major who they were, he and his children would be killed. His wife already was dead, bleeding only a few feet away from him. His mind was a chaos of conflicting emotions as he wondered who to save.

  Richter prodded Goupil’s chest with the toe of his boot. “I asked you to identify the terrorists in this town, scum.”

  With Richter’s boot against his chest, Goupil made up his mind. There could be no bargaining with animals like this. There could only be opposition and struggle no matter where it led.

  Goupil hung his head. “I know of no terrorists in this town.”

  Richter laughed. “Come now, mayor. A town of this size would have to hold a few of the dogs, and since you’re the big man here, you’d have to know who they are. I think you’d better tell me, because your children are rather charming—in fact I’ve grown quite attached to them just in the short time I’ve known them. I will kill them and you without hesitation if you continue to be stubborn. And then I shall raze this town to the ground.”

  Goupil closed his eyes. “I know nothing,” he whispered.

  “I’m giving you one last chance, because I am by nature a generous man. Tell me who the terrorists are, or else.”

  A shudder passed over Goupil. “I know nothing.”

  Richter’s face hardened as he turned to the SS captain. “Shoot them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The children, who had been shrieking uncontrollably ever since their mother died, were now beyond reason. When the SS men stepped back and aimed their weapons, the children paid no attention as they huddled together like little birds, wailing hysterically.

  “Fire!” said the captain.

  The SS men opened fire. The impact of the bullets sent the children flying in all directions to land on the ground like broken dolls, blood staining their nightclothes.

  Goupil closed his eyes tightly and shivered on his knees before Richter. The monstrosity of the crime was almost too much for him to bear. He tried to push all thoughts out of his mind, and crossed himself, whispering: “Have mercy on our souls, oh Lord.”

  “Did you say something?” Richter asked, aiming his Luger at Goupil’s head.

  Goupil didn’t reply; he kept his eyes closed and prayed with all his strength.

  “Oh, I thought you said something,” Richter said with a toothless grin, pulling the trigger on his pistol.

  The bullet crashed through Goupil’s head, splattering blood
and brains everywhere in all directions. Goupil's misery ended, Richter turned and faced his limousine.

  “Piecke—get out here!” he bellowed. “And bring your field radio with you!”

  Piecke, in the limousine, was pale as a sheet. He’d watched the slaughter and now was paralyzed by an overwhelming sense of horror. He had young nieces and nephews in Germany and imagined them being shot like that. It was beyond human comprehension that such things could happen to innocent children.

  “Piecke—I said get out here!”

  “You’d better get moving,” Grunwald said under his breath.

  “I can’t,” Piecke mumbled.

  “He’ll kill you too. You know what he’s like. And if he kills you it won’t prove anything or help anything, so you’d better go out there while you still have the chance.”

  Piecke turned and looked into Grunwald’s eyes. “I’m frightened,” he whimpered.

  “You think I’m not?”

  “Piecke!” screamed Richter. “Come out of there at once!”

  Piecke’s trembling hand grabbed the field radio. He opened the door as though in a dream and stepped outside. Then he squared his shoulders and walked unsteadily toward Richter, who stood with his legs spread apart and his fists on his hips. Piecke’s lips trembled and it occurred to him that Richter was not merely an expression of evil in the world, but the devil incarnate!

  “What’s wrong with you, Piecke?” Richter demanded.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “What took you so long to get out here?”

  Piecke struggled to make his tongue and mouth work properly. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Richter frowned. “You’d better wake up, Piecke. Or else. Give me that field radio.”

  “Yes, sir.” Piecke handed it over.

  Richter held it to his ear, pressed the button and said: “Attention all units—destroy the town and leave no one alive!”

  The message was received by each of the infantry commanders and the captain who led the tank section. Any other army in the world would have balked at such hideous orders, but not the Waffen SS. The officers passed the word along, and the men and tanks moved into action. The men dropped to their knees and began firing submachine guns and rifles into the houses and at the crowds who’d gathered on their lawns. The people screamed and scattered, panic-stricken, in all directions. Inside the tanks, the crews battened down their hatches and swung their cannons into position. The lead tank fired first, its artillery shell landing directly on the mayor’s stone house, which exploded in a deafening roar and collapsed in a shambles to the ground.