“Remind me again how I got dragged into this…?” He whispered softly with a nervous grin as the group walked on with the sort of arrogant gait one might expect of SS officers, hoping the others would attribute the waver in his voice to the cold alone.
“Well, it was your idea…” Eoin Kelly replied pointedly with a grin of his own, feeling just as nervous in his captain’s uniform “…and as it’s only me and you who can actually speak German, there really wasn’t much choice at all, was there?”
In his late forties and of a similar height and build, the IRA Volunteer normally sported a thick mop of unruly hair that much to his dismay had been shaved off entirely just an hour earlier. None of them had been in a hurry to answer the awkward questions that might’ve arisen regarding a hauptsturmführer of the Waffen-SS and supposed member of the ‘Master Race’ displaying a healthy head of beet-red hair.
Behind them, the third member of the group was by far the youngest at just nineteen years of age. Another IRA volunteer with a burgeoning interest in poetry and literature, Brendan was perhaps a little taller than the others and of a far more solid build. He wore the ill-fitting uniform of an SS corporal and carried a standard-issue G1 assault rifle, whereas the other two wore just pistols at their belts.
As they drew to within a few yards of the main entrance, an alarm bell sounded from somewhere inside that momentarily caused them to pause in fear despite their having been expecting exactly that. As they stood motionless by the side of the lane, a wide gate to the left of the entrance slid slowly open like a moving wall of iron sheeting topped with coils of barbed wire.
There was the sound of large engines turning over from within and moments later, two large trucks rumbled out past the still-moving gate, each loaded with a squad of armed SS troopers. A pair of sidecar-equipped Zundapp motorcycles powered out behind them, each loaded down with rider and machine gun-armed passenger as they roared away and ducked around their larger colleagues to take the lead.
“So far, so good…” Lowenstein muttered softly to no one in particular, unable to shake the nervous waver from his voice.
“So far…” Kelly agreed with a slow nod, his eyes not leaving the departing vehicles until they’d all disappeared around the first corner. His tone suggested there was little comfort to be taken from that small fact. “Let’s hope our boys have given ‘em enough to think about that no one bothers with us this mornin’!”
It was at that point that a canvas-covered Opel similar to the trucks that had just departed turned the corner at the end of the street and approached at moderate speed, drawing to a halt directly out front of the main entrance. The Wehrmacht-uniformed driver, another IRA volunteer by the name of Seán Michaels, caught Kelly’s eye at that moment and gave a faint nod of recognition that was silently returned. He shrugged in an exaggerated fashion, as if the symbolic act might settle the matter in his own mind.
“Oh well… no time like the present, I suppose…” Kelly continued with a grimace, steadying his nerves with a deep breath. “Shall we, gentlemen…?”
With a shared glance of equally-shared concern, the trio took a last glance around before turning and heading straight for the front doors.
The front foyer of the Germanische-SS HQ at Strabane – if one could indeed call it such – was really little more than a large, concrete-walled box with barred windows on either side of the main entrance and a barrier of metal benches and bullet-proof glass at the opposite end of the room. A steel door at one end of the armoured counter prevented access to the rest of the fortified main building, while a pair of submachine gun-armed guards lounged behind it, ready to deal with any trouble and able to spray the entire foyer area with fire through narrow firing ports in the glass, should the need arise.
Short of a heavy machine gun or anti-tank launcher, there were few hand-held weapons available that might have held any hope of penetrating such defences. All the fortifications in the world however were useless to a would-be defender once a potential enemy was allowed inside without a second thought.
“You’re earlier than we expected, Mein Herr,” Hauptsturmführer Zimmer observed with a genuine smile as he held the steel side door open for the trio, standing back as they passed through and locking it securely behind. “Obersturmbannführer Stahl led us to believe the prisoner wouldn’t be departing until at least midday.” A man of slight frame and rather bookish appearance, Zimmer had already established a local reputation for sadistic violence that was second-to-none.
“I noted the departure of an armed convoy as we were walking up to the entrance, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” Lowenstein replied with all the imperiousness he could manage, fighting all the while to subdue a rising terror within his soul over being back within the belly of a Nazi ‘beast’ that had held him captive for the better part of a decade. “I’m therefore certain you’re aware of the attacks being carried out right across Nordirland even as we speak. Gruppenführer Barkmann thought it best we move the American now, rather than allow these Irish degenerates an opportunity to strike here also… would you be so kind as to have the swine chained and brought to us immediately: we have a truck and an armed squad waiting outside as escort.”
“We have another prisoner in our cells at the moment, Mein Herr,” Zimmer added, the thought just occurring to him. “He was picked up several weeks ago, attempting to cross the border. He’s young, but Sicherheitsdienst suspects he may have been a member of the British Special Operations Executive. He was to be transported to Belfast with this American – shall I have this prisoner brought out also?”
“I – I suppose you’d better,” Lowenstein stammered, momentarily lost for words but recovering quickly. As inconvenient as an unexpected addition might be, it was vital they maintain appearances and a refusal might seem odd. “Oh…” he added quickly, as if also just remembering something important that had been momentarily forgotten. “…and the American’s weapons are also being held here?”
“They are, Mein Herr… locked safely in the armoury at Herr Bauer’s request.”
“Excellent…! Have your men bring it all up to take with us… the gruppenführer is quite eager to see if the man’s rifle is indeed as ‘gigantic’ as reports have suggested.”
“Of course, Mein Herr…at once…!” Zimmer snapped without question, the use of Barkmann’s name producing exactly the galvanising effect Lowenstein had hoped for as the SS captain stepped quickly across to the polished steel of the main counter. Lifting the handset of the nearest phone to his ear, Zimmer dialled a single-digit extension and waited patiently for someone to pick up at the other end.
“Rutger… Zimmer here… They’re here to collect their prisoners… have them both secured and brought up to the front desk immediately.” There was a pause as an unintelligible reply crackled from the handset’s speaker. “Yes… yes, I know they’re early…” he continued with a faintly apologetic glance at Lowenstein, completely failing to note the shake in the man’s hand as it reached slowly inside his leather coat “…and if Gruppenführer Barkmann says they’re to come early, that’s really none of our business, is it…?” He allowed a faintly hardened edge to creep into his tone momentarily. “Just have the damned prisoners brought up here, and do it now…!”
“My apologies, gentlemen,” he continued, hanging up the phone and turning back to the small group of newcomers. “They’re fine men back there, but they sometimes need to be reminded to respect their betters.”
“That’s quite alright, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” Lowenstein conceded, and for the first time he allowed a nervous quaver to show in his tone. “Sooner or later, we all need to be shown our place…”
He withdrew his hand from the jacket, but there really wasn’t time for Zimmer’s brain to register that it was now holding a small pistol with a stubby silencer screwed to the muzzle. Lowenstein shot the officer twice in the face, ignoring the spray of blood and flesh as best he could as he immediately adjusted his aim and shot a pair of troopers sitting at th
e counter, also giving them two bullets each and sending their bodies crashing to the floor with their holstered pistols untouched.
At the same time, Eoin Kelly had quickly drawn a huge Colt automatic from beneath his own field jacket, the pistol and silencer affixed to its barrel longer and heavier than Sam’s by a good margin. Aiming directly past the men Lowenstein had killed, he expertly gunned down the armed guard seated at the far end of the counter, the man only barely beginning to realise that something was awry as .45-inch slugs smashed into his head and upper body. He too collapsed onto the cold concrete below, instantly dead as his weapon fell beside him with a clatter.
Behind them both, Brendan had turned quickly and sunk the 13-inch blade of an SS Ehrendolch dagger into the throat of the nearer guard, catching the wrist holding the man’s gun in a vice-like grip with his other hand as an initial struggle of terrified desperation faded quickly into lifelessness.
Not far from where Zimmer had fallen, a small box speaker sitting upon the main counter burst suddenly into life, the tinny crackle of a radio transmission breaking the tense silence that had followed the killings.
“This is Obersturmbannführer Stahl calling Strabane Headquarters… come in please, Strabane Headquarters…”
All three men stared at the speaker in abject horror, as if it might somehow come to life and attack them where they stood.
“This is Obersturmbannführer Stahl calling Strabane Headquarters… there’s been a bombing at the Lisahally Docks… are you there, Zimmer…?” That last query had come through with a distinct tone of fear and desperation, and it wasn’t difficult to pick out the concern in the speaker’s voice. “Come in please, Zimmer… are you reading me…?”
“Bring the boys in, Brendan,” Kelly directed without a moment’s pause, stepping forward and switching the speaker off. “Be quick about it…” He added, quickly removing the half-empty magazine from the Colt and replacing it with a full one. “They’ll not be long bringing the bugger out, and we might have a fight on our hands yet if there’s another radio out back.”
Throwing open the steel side door, Brendan moved quickly across the foyer to the main entrance and stepped through just long enough to signal the truck waiting outside. Three men wearing Wehrmacht infantry uniforms immediately clambered out from the rear cargo bed and jogged across the street to meet him. Had anyone with military experience bothered to take note of the trio they might’ve noted the irregularity of the arms they carried: fitted with low-powered optical sights, the short, stubby rifles looked more like a youth’s hunting weapon than anything of military-issue. None of the few others in the street at that moment, military or civilian, did notice however, and the group continued about their business unhindered and unquestioned.
“You guys are Goddamned crazy…!” Kransky pointed out in breathless excitement as he burst from the doors of the Strabane SS HQ with the rest of the group and jogged across the road toward the waiting truck.
With them came a young man of no more than nineteen years, thin of frame and almost as tall as Kransky, although his slight build somehow made him seem even taller when they weren’t standing beside each other.
“You think I’m going to argue with you about that?” Lowenstein shot back with a wry grin. “I just lost ten years off my life pulling that stunt, and that’s no mean feat under the circumstances!”
“You could o’ covered a whole field with the ‘fertiliser’ I left in me pants back there,” Brendan agreed with a grin of his own as they climbed into the rear of the vehicle’s covered cargo bed one by one.
“No bigger a load o’ shite than you usually come out with when you’ve had a few,” Kelly sniped with a laugh they all shared as he banged loudly on the rear of the driver’s cab. “We’re all in, Seán… get us outta here!”
The truck’s idling engine revved once before they powered quickly away, heading west toward Church Street as they all took seats along the benches running the length of each side of the cargo bed.
“What’s your name, buddy?” Kransky enquired as they pulled away, giving the newcomer an appraising ‘once over’.
“Turner… Lieutenant Michael Turner…” the young man replied after a moment’s pause, meeting the American’s gaze without hesitation. “Formerly of British Paras, but that was a while ago now…” He added softly with a rueful smile, his accent clearly declaring him to be a Londoner.
“You spend enough time with ‘em to know how to use any of these?” Kransky continued, pointing vaguely down to a collection of salvaged German weapons they’d brought with them during their escape.
“I’ll take that SSG4 if you’ve ammunition for it,” Turner replied instantly, pointing out a scoped marksman’s rifle similar to one Kransky himself had used for a short time, a few years before.
“Knock yourself out,” he replied with a grin, passing the weapon across along with two spare, 10-round magazines and a handful of 5-round ‘stripper clips’. Not wasting any more time, Kransky then picked up each of his own reclaimed weapons in turn, making a thorough check of their condition. Last of them was a huge .50-calibre rifle with which he was an absolutely lethal crack shot out to distance of half a mile or more. As he inspected the weapon, he noted the stains of mud and dirt still crusted on the receiver and telescopic sight, a leftover from it having been dropped to the wet ground during his surrender of a week before.
“Baby…” he muttered almost lovingly as he wiped at the muck with part of his shirt, “…I have missed you so…!”
Thiepval Barracks,
Lisburn, County Down
Reich-Protektorat Nordirland
Built as a British base during 1940, Thiepval Barracks had barely been completed in time for the surrender of that same year and had subsequently been taken over by the Wehrmacht for use as a local garrison for detached elements of the 8th Panzer Division. Northwest of the City of Lisburn, it was situated in an area of rural housing and open fields that had rarely seen any great level of excitement prior to the barracks having been built upon the site of the old Magheralave House Estate.
Tomás Glynn staggered along Magheralave Road, perhaps eighty yards or so north of the Duncans Road intersection and the northern gates leading into Thiepval Barracks. His face and hands were scorched, his eyebrows and hair burnt, and the unadorned khaki tank suit he wore was blackened with smoke. Behind him, flames rose from somewhere near the barracks’ ruined gates and several explosions erupted from somewhere within, the ground shaking from the blasts.
Beside him stumbled two other volunteers as stunned and broken as he, their soot-stained cheeks streaked with tears that weren’t merely the result of excessive heat and smoke. They were all that remained of a force of a dozen men who’d fought their way into the barracks just ten minutes earlier with the intent of causing as much havoc as possible before slipping quietly away in the ensuing confusion.
The plan had gone awry right from the start. Unknown to the IRA, the two troops of light tanks stationed at the barracks had been scheduled for exercises in the surrounding countryside that weekend and at the time of the attack had already been fuelled, armed and ready to move out from the main vehicle park. An alert message had also been received just moments prior following the initial attack at Aldergrove, a few miles to the north-west. Unaware that his cheap wristwatch was running slow, Glynn had commenced the attack late, and those few precious lost minutes had cost them dearly for comparatively little return.
The survivors were now in full retreat along Magheralave Road, having bought a few precious moments of escape in the abandonment of their stolen flat-bed Opel truck, the same vehicle that had subsequently exploded right in the middle of the barracks’ Entrance, subjected to a torrent of cannon fire from a Puma armoured car. As German troops trapped on the other side of the blaze waited for a tank to be brought up to push aside the flaming wreckage, the three men had taken the opportunity to withdraw in the hope of reaching Derriaghy Road, perhaps a thousand yards north. All three kn
ew that it was a vain hope at best.
There was a crash from behind them as a P-3E panzer ran straight over the shattered Opel’s burning hulk, crushing it like tinfoil as it roared over the flames and out onto the intersection beyond. It was just seconds before the gunner picked out the running men in the near distance, turned the turret in their direction and opened fire with its coaxial machine gun.
There was a scream from Glynn’s right as one of them fell, cut almost in half by a stream of 7.92mm slugs and sizzling tracer. The others dived instinctively, throwing themselves to the ground and rolling off into the low grass and hedges at the side of the road. Unable to see them clearly, the tank continued to spray heavy fire in their general direction, ensuring any attempt to escape would be suicidal. Behind it, a second P-3 rumbled out into the fields to the right and accelerated past, allowing the first panzer to provide suppressing fire as it advanced.
“We’ve gotta get outta here, Tomás!” The man beside him snarled, desperation showing as machine gun fire continued to shriek past overhead. “We’re sitting ducks stuck here in this bloody field…!”
“We’ll be fookin’ dead ducks if we stick our heads up into that shite!” Glynn shot back, just as tense and unable to come up with any viable solution that could possibly result in their survival. “We’re fooked, Allan… we’ll be lucky if they let us surrender!”
The howl of a heavy cannon shell overhead silenced them both in that moment, and it was only as the nearer of the two P-3s exploded in a bright flash and cloud of smoke that either man realised it had come from the opposite direction. Fire over their position halted immediately, and as Glynn risked a glance over the cover of the surrounding high grass he could see a pillar of smoke and fire rising from the wrecked tank as debris fell in the field all around.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 8