by Sewell, Ron
Brock operated the levers and opened the throttle. The train shuddered as it gathered momentum. Bullets struck the cab and ricocheted into the air. With its weight, those rocks scattered over the track fell to one side. Behind him, the big guns and machine guns blasted the slopes.
A few kilometres along the track, he turned to his fireman. “We might make it. What the...” He peered through the chipped armour-plated glass as the train entered a tunnel and the cab doors opened.
Two men wearing British army battle dress opened fire. One of the mercenaries clambered into the cab and opened the throttle wide before he leapt and joined his companion at the side of the track.
“They will have the ride of their lives,” said Georgios as the carriages trundled on.
“We must wait for the next,” said Savas.
“They will have heard the firing. It will not be so easy”
“How can we tell which train carries the artefacts?”
“On the next train, study the closed trucks. Prisoners have to relieve themselves and it shows. To be sure, we have a man posted in a hole under the track. He not only sees but is often covered.”
A dull explosion rattled along the tunnel.
“They found the bottom of the gorge.”
“Perfect place for the German bastards,” said Georgios. “Let’s get into position for the next train.”
The ground beneath their feet trembled and dust floated in the air.
“What the hell?” asked Savas.
“The train. The vibrations take their time to travel through the rock.”
***
Axel Koch listened to the boom of howitzers. “Driver. Stop the train.” He jumped to the ground and ran to the first troop carrier. “Lieutenant, send one of your men. I want every officer here in ten minutes. Sergeant, you and two others release the prisoners and make them run. A few shots into the air will make sure.”
“They’re Italian, sir, good runners.”
Koch shouted. “Get on with it.”
The sergeant chose his men and raced to the first wagon. With a heave, the metal securing bar swung free and the double door slid back.
The odour of stale urine and faeces fouled the air. Exhausted men shielded their eyes from the bright sunlight.
The two soldiers grabbed those tottering by the door and threw them to the ground. “Go, go, go.”
Confused, they went to help their comrades.
The sergeant fired his machine pistol into the air. “Go, go, go.”
Those on the ground stared at their captors before they crawled away.
“Leave them. They’ll soon get the message. Next wagon.”
As they opened the doors to the last wagon the Italian prisoners ran, staggered, or crawled away from the train. Many glanced back expecting a bullet.
Major Koch faced his lieutenants. “You heard the gunfire. What they faced and whether they overcame the resistance we don’t know. Their radio is not transmitting which means nothing. You will prepare your troops for an attack from either side. The signal to open fire and keep firing will be one long blast on the whistle. Whatever is there, the first train will have inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. This train is not stopping.”
“The prisoners, why release them?” asked a young officer.
“Weight. The lighter this train is the faster it runs. Dismissed.”
The shrill sound of a train whistle forced Koch to turn away from the train and gaze up the track. Zimmerman’s train slowed to a halt stopping metres from the last truck.
Koch met Zimmerman halfway and told him his plan.
“What choice do we have?”
“I’ll give two long blasts of the whistle when we are clear of danger.”
“It’s a sound I’ll be listening for but all the same, I’ll have my men ready.”
“Time we left.” The two men shook hands.
Back in the cab the driver said, “Major Koch, with the ballast truck in front it’s difficult to see the line. One, perhaps two men, checking the rails could make the difference.”
“If I put men up there in the open they’re as good as dead. Unhook the ballast car.”
The driver descended the metal steps and strolled as if he had all the time in the world to the front of the engine. Five minutes elapsed before he returned. “It could help, Major.”
Koch glanced along the train and turned to the driver. “Increase speed but whatever happens we do not stop.”
The driver pulled the main lever and adjusted a few valves and with squeals and groans, the train rolled forward.
Koch bit his fingernails and stared ahead. “Sound the whistle, driver, one long blast.” He glanced at the corpses of the colonel and the others at the side of the track. The chatter of small arms and the thunderclap of shells reverberated above the roar of the engine. Bullets ricocheted off the cab as adrenalin coursed through his veins. In minutes, the train rounded a curve and a sheer wall of rock replaced the slope on the left side. To the right, the gorge opened out to the distant foothills.
“Driver, two long blasts of the whistle.”
He pulled the wire and the shrill of the whistle vibrated off the valley walls. “We made it, Major.” His eyes caught a shift in direction of the ballast truck.
The engine chased the truck to the bottom of the gorge. The domino effect took over as one section tilted and followed the other.
Chapter Six
Major Lars Zimmerman’s right hand gripped the black steel handrail and above the rattle and thump of the train, he heard two long blasts of a whistle. The explosion bothered him. He grimaced at the driver. “As fast as you can.”
The driver adjusted the throttle lever and tweaked the controls. “It’s the best I can do on this stretch, Major.”
Zimmerman nodded and kept his eyes on the forested slopes. His mind mulled over the situation. If our radios worked, if something was wrong, I’d know.
Bullets struck the side of the cab in a continuous stream. Without thinking, Zimmerman, the driver and fireman, ducked.
“Reverse,” shouted Zimmerman.
Astounded, the driver complied with the order.
Above the roar of the howitzer firing, metal screeched on metal as the brakes slowed the train and the engine wheels searched for grip to reverse. On rounding a long curve the torrent of small arms fire ceased.
“Stop the train,” ordered Zimmerman. “I must check my men.”
He jumped from the cab, lit a cigarette and strolled indifferently towards the first armed wagon. “Lieutenant.”
A young second lieutenant scrambled from the wagon and saluted. “Steiner, sir.”
“Send one of your men to gather my officers together. If these goat herders want a fight, I’ll give them one.”
“Yes, sir.”
In minutes eleven officers stood protected by the engine and listened to the major’s plan.
Zimmerman permitted himself a smile. “The SS do not cringe as cowards, we attack and destroy. Those,” he pointed to the hillsides, “amateurs want us to run the gauntlet. From what I heard, I assume the second train exploded further along the track or in the gorge. We will change their plan. Our train will proceed at walking pace while our heavy weapons will pound both hillsides. Behind this bombardment, you as my officers will lead our troops and wipe out those who remain. The forest will give you cover. The last carriage is your marker. If the train stops, you stop. Any questions?”
“A brilliant strategy, Major.”
“And you are?”
“Lieutenant Wagner, sir.”
“Very well, Wagner, you will lead an arrowhead formation.”
“An honour, sir.”
“Make sure your men carry as much ammunition and grenades as they can. Lieutenant Steiner, your platoon will be the shaft of the arrow – follow Wagner, ten minutes behind. The wounded resistance fighters must be eliminated before they realise they have nothing to lose. A cornered rat will attack with unbelievable ferocity.
You have ten minutes. Dismissed.”
Eight minutes later eleven officers along with their platoons formed the arrowhead and vanished into the forest.
Zimmerman ordered each gun captain. “You will commence firing and not stop unless ordered by me.” He pointed. “One blast of the train whistle and you begin. Remain under cover of your armour; I doubt they have any artillery.”
Back in the cab, he gave the order, “Walking pace, and keep the doors and windows closed. A stray bullet will kill us bouncing around this cab.”
The whistle blasted its shrill cry and the train shuffled ahead. The deluge of small arms fire began the second they rounded the bend. Moments later the howitzers and anti-aircraft guns commenced firing.
Pleased to be on the move, Zimmerman viewed the forest through his binoculars. The surprise thrust of his force overwhelmed the enemy. Grenades exploded across the hillside. He chuckled and turned to the driver. “They didn’t expect an attack.”
Lieutenant Wagner spaced his men three metres apart and led from the front similar to a scythe cutting corn.
The resistance, trained by the British, nestled deep in their trenches. Others further across the slope, behind their rock and earth fortifications, fired on the train but remained unprepared for an attack from their flank.
A grenade exploded in a dugout. Two of its occupants died from the initial blast. The blood from three others drained into the dry earth.
Through the smoke and debris of human flesh, Wagner fired from the hip, the noise of his machine pistol reassuring. His men left a trail of bodies lying in bizarre postures like broken dolls. Trees felled by the heavy guns toppled into a pot-marked hillside. The men in the rear of the arrowhead put the wounded resistance fighters out of their misery each with a single shot to the head, no quarter neither asked nor given. Fierce hand-to-hand clashes flared and died under the heavy barrage.
A soldier alongside Wagner collapsed, his face a bloody mask of flesh, blood, and bone. From below, smoke rose up the slope. Wagner signalled his men to stop as three more fell. In unison, they dropped to the ground. Progress continued with losses on both sides.
Zimmerman noticed the fall off in the barrage but remained unconcerned until it stopped. Angry, he jumped out of the cab and roared at the gun captains. “I ordered you to keep firing.”
“Major, we are out of ammunition.”
“Why didn’t you load more?”
“We loaded what was available for our defence not offence.”
Machine gun fire from the hillside rippled across the wagon. Thrown forward, Zimmerman spun. A confused look spread across his face as bullets distorted his chest to a mass of blood-torn flesh. With eyes wide, he tumbled to the ground, dead.
Leto, since the destruction of her village had become a resistance fighter. She dressed as a man and acted like one. With the stealth of a lioness, she crawled to a high point as her group rose up and charged headlong at the enemy. Leto nodded approval, but frustrated by the stubbornness of the enemy the attack failed. She spat on the ground, returned to her leader, and made a report.
Costas Petredes scorned the Germans as he stubbed out his cigarette. “They want a fight. These are my mountains. Many of our people will die today but I promise, not one enemy soldier will live to see the sunrise.”
Leto scurried across the hillside and warned those in this section to prepare for uninvited guests.
Wagner crawled and the arrowhead progressed. A grenade detonated behind him. Men’s screams were obliterated by the constant chatter of small arms fire. He glanced up as a man in a tree dropped a grenade inches from his face.
The resistance waited until the SS, weakened by their losses and blinded by smoke, arrived at the killing ground.
Murderous bursts of machine gun fire rattled across the cleared area cutting men apart. Bullets tore into the SS platoons as they scrambled for cover. The fire-fight ended with the detonation of explosive charges. Costas urged his men, now they had regained the upper hand, to press on and finish the job.
The SS, confused by the intensity of the counter attack, withdrew to discover they were under fire from another direction. Soldiers formed an impression of order as they dropped into vacated dugouts and held their positions. A squad of eight led by an officer scurried into foxholes, and hurled grenade after grenade until their supply exhausted. The line of fire did not falter.
From above, the resistance fired, advanced, stopped, and fired again.
The SS stood their ground but one by one they were injured or died.
Costas ordered his men and women to fall back. Three men positioned at strategic points prepared their equipment and waited for the signal.
Costas fired a red flare into the air and three American flame-throwers erupted into a wall of intense heat.
The SS continued firing into the flaming balls until the last man breathed the scorching fumes.
In a sweeping motion the three men advanced cremating all in their path. The stench of burnt corpses floated on the air; this fight was over.
Costas strolled towards the train and a barrage of fire struck the ground around him.
Sergeant Keifer plus a few stragglers, most of whom were wounded, and the gun crews made a stand. They moved forward in a tight well-disciplined unit.
Costas and his group hit the ground. It took him a second to gauge the situation. He turned his head to Nikolas, his second in command. “These are lunatics and know what they’re doing. They’ll throw their lives away and we’ll pay the price. Get back and attack them from the tree line. I will hold them.”
Nikolas crawled away, when far enough, he stood and ran. The sound of automatic weapons made him turn. From his vantage point, he saw the SS advancing, firing until their magazines emptied.
Costas and his team opened fire but were cautious when they raised their heads to aim.
The SS continued their advance and fought with knives and bayonets.
Dead or wounded surrounded Costas. Reinforcements arrived in time to save those still standing. He wiped blood from his face. “Where are our train drivers?”
Georgios and Savas swaggered along the edge of the track and stopped.
“What about the driver and fireman?” asked Savas.
“Promise them what you like, once clear of the train I’ll shoot them.” The threat in Costas’ voice was genuine.
“I hear what you say.” Georgios approached the engine and threw a rock at the cab. He held his hands high to show he was unarmed when a man peered through the glass. The cab door opened and the fireman, followed by the driver, dropped to the ground.
Georgios walked towards them, his hand held out ready to shake theirs.
Bemused, both men shook his hand and were surprised when he offered a cigarette. They took one and waited. Georgios gave them a light.
“Come,” he said in a soft tone. “As engineers, we eat and enjoy the day.”
They followed, smoking as they walked towards Costas.
Georgios stepped to the side as two shots rang out. With a hole in their heads, the fireman and driver tumbled to the ground.
“They died happy,” said Costas. “Get the train into the tunnel and start unloading. We have a fortune to store for when this war is over.”
Savas clambered into the cab and opened the throttle. Exhaust steam belched from the chimney as the engine shuffled into the dark of the tunnel and stopped. Behind, a gang of men removed the points, rails, and sleepers and tossed them into the gorge.
Inside the tunnel, men formed lines and carried dozens of boxes into a cavern lit by oil lamps.
Costas sat on a large wooden crate, stroked his black moustache and chain-smoked. Every so often, his section leaders reported casualties and the situation with the spreading fire on the hillside. He remained calm and told those not part of the unloading team to rest.
A long roaring tremor told Costas this was an earthquake. He grimaced as tracks buckled, steel wheels rattled, and everyone stopped. In the
dimness of the tunnel people glanced at each other. A few crawled under the wagons, prayed and waited.
The ground shivered and the rough-cut walls shook. Fragments of rock dropped and shattered. Silence followed before someone shouted it was okay.
Blood flowed from a cut on Costas’ head. He laughed and paraded the length of the train, his voice reassuring, “Hurry, we can eat, drink ouzo, make love and then sleep. Tomorrow we may have to fight another battle.”
The rumble began deep in the mountains. It gathered momentum through the gorge. Rocks, boulders, and debris cascaded across steep slopes followed by a fog of dirt and dust. Those in the tunnel staggered and reached out for something to hold. Others tumbled to the ground and protected their heads. Oil lamps crashed to the floor, their flames casting macabre shadows on trembling walls.
Chapter Seven
Talos Vasco, a middle-aged man with his arm in a sling sat on the side of the mountain watched and waited. A stone struck the back of his head. He turned and saw the tree-covered slope buckle and twist. Terrified, he charged across the slope as the ground trembled. His eyes strayed for a moment at the wall of debris rising and falling. Adrenalin charged his pace as he took a diagonal path. He gasped for breath when he gained the shelter of an overhanging rock face. With one hand he clung to the rock and prayed. The dark enclosed him as the shifting mass slipped to the rail track and overflowed into the gorge. Fear gripped Talos; with his eyes caked in dust he slumped to the ground. From his pocket he pulled a clean rag, wiped his mouth, spat on it and cleaned his eyes.
With watery eyes, images came into focus. As his vision cleared he glanced left and right. The rail lines lay hidden under a broad expanse of trees and boulders the size of houses. With caution, he stepped onto the slope and made his way to the rail tracks. He searched for the tunnel exit but could find no trace. Believing the entrance might have survived he trudged along the track until the path became blocked with tons of rubble. Stunned, Talos understood nothing made sense after a quake. He made the decision to return to their camp high in the mountains.