Before The Brightest Dawn (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 3)

by Jana Petken

  “Sir, you shouldn’t have asked me to stay behind. The men who have just left here will think I’m a collaborator. And you shouldn’t be asking me that question.”

  “You’ve taken a beating for something. I want to know why,” Grafton parried.

  Wilmot, trying to find an advantage for himself, responded with an exaggerated sigh. “Between you and me, I am in the anti-Hitler camp, as are many of the men in my hut. Problem is, if you move me out, you will leave these other men at the mercy of Staff Sergeant Weiner who seems to be devoted to Hitler. I need to stay to protect the most vulnerable … those who have been badly wounded in battle and can’t properly defend themselves mentally or physically. Why don’t you help me out and move Staff Sergeant Weiner instead of me? I think you’ll find that is a more sensible arrangement for both of us.”

  “Did Staff Sergeant Weiner beat the Schütze we took to the hospital?”

  “I didn’t say that, sir.”

  After translating the English written version of the colonel’s conclusions into German, Wilmot went to the hospital. He got an update on Günter’s condition but was denied access to see him. It was 0005, and the order for lights out was already in place as part of the collective punishment.

  As he reached the hut, he decided to wake the men an hour earlier than usual in the morning to share the bad news that they were not only cooking their own breakfasts, but they were also cleaning the kitchen after themselves. While they were complaining about that, he would tell them about all the other privileges they had lost because of a few zealots. He’d had enough tonight and didn’t want to get into another altercation. He wanted his bed.

  Wilmot waved away the men who were still awake, tread softly to Jürgen’s bed and gave him a rough shake. “Come with me,” he hissed when Jürgen opened his eyes.

  Jürgen sat up and stared groggily at Wilmot. “Why?”

  “Because you are not going to want the other men to hear what I have to say to you.”

  Jürgen got up, cursing under his breath but following Wilmot who was heading into the shower rooms.

  Wilmot looked at the floor. “At least you had the decency to wipe away Günter’s blood,” he said.

  “Fuck you, Vogel. What did the Americans say?”

  “A few things. I’ll inform you and the men in the morning.”

  “Why did you wake me up if you’re not going to tell me now? I should have gone to the administration office, not you.” Jürgen leant in until his face was only centimetres from Wilmot’s. “I have seniority here.”

  “You did have seniority here. You’re moving out of this hut tomorrow and going to 34.”

  For the first time, Jürgen looked apprehensive. “Who said that?”

  “Colonel Jacobs.”

  “I won’t go. Those are my men in the bunks out there.”

  “Not anymore. I tried to see Günter at the hospital on the way back to the hut but was told to return tomorrow. He’s in a serious condition thanks to you and your men, and he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. They’re afraid he might have fallen into a coma.”

  Jürgen swallowed uncomfortably and looked at the wooden floor. “Did you tell them it was me?”

  “No, and I won’t. But they will find out eventually, and when they do, I won’t lie for you. Do you even realise what a stupid bastard you’ve been?”

  “He cursed the Führer. No one in this hut does that to my face.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about the men in this hut anymore. You’ll be gone from here as soon as you get back from the farm tomorrow.”

  Wilmot paused, but Jürgen seemed to have run out of bravado and rocked backwards and forwards on heels to toes without saying a word.

  “Look, Jürgen, take some advice from me. I don’t care who you take your orders from, and I don’t give a shit about your love for Hitler, but from now on, keep your thoughts to yourself…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I will knock you and your teeth into next week if I see you as much as unnerve a man in this hut – nod if you understand.”

  Jürgen faced Wilmot, his eyes spitting hatred. “You’re an arrogant prick, Vogel. The men are with me.”

  Wilmot scoffed, “And the people who are running this place will be with me. How do you think that will work out for us?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  This time, Wilmot moved in closer to threaten Jürgen. “I have a weapon none of your men can match…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Language. I speak perfect English. It’s amazing what information a man can get across when he knows how to articulate his words. I will use my perfect English to bury you and your fellow Hitler lovers and protect the men you target. I will become great friends with the Americans.”

  Now, Jürgen sneered, “What goes on in this camp is much bigger than you and me, Vogel. Do you think our loyal officers are going to allow you to tell tales on the men under their command? You’re a fool. They will come for you next. You wait and see.”

  Wilmot pushed Jürgen out of his way, but then he turned at the door. The trick with Jürgen was never to give him the last word. “Wake up call will be at 0500. The men will be cooking and cleaning before heading out to work, and you’ll be packing. I suggest you get some sleep. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Max Vogel

  North of the Loire River,

  Maine-et-Loire, France

  July 1944

  Max rested his head against the aircraft’s fuselage wall and began to breathe deeply – in … out – to the count of ten. With one eye open, he stared at the men sitting on the floor opposite him. The Sussex Plan, devised a year earlier by British Intelligence Services and General de Gaulle’s Bureau Central de Renseignement et d’Action, was a go. Like him, his team of three officers, a radio operator, and an observer had gone through several months of hard training at Prae Wood House, located near St-Albans and some forty kilometres from London. And only a day earlier, they had completed their course at Ringway Parachute School near Manchester. Unlike Max, however, they were French volunteers, untested in combat or in jumping out of an aircraft whilst surrounded by flak from German anti-aircraft guns.

  The man sitting directly opposite Max was in distress; sweating, panting, and showing the classic signs of panic. Hugo, the youngest member of the team, had been chosen at the last minute after an original member became ill with stomach flu. Max, now questioning his selection, got up, staggered against the turbulence to Hugo, crouched down next to him, and shouted, “Can you hear me, Hugo?”

  Hugo nodded, but his pupils remained dilated.

  “Listen to me. We’re the lucky ones. You know why?”

  Hugo shook his head.

  “Because we didn’t do this on the day of the Normandy landings when hundreds of planes were in the sky. This is a quiet night, and the odds of us getting shot down are slim to none. Do you hear me?”

  Hugo nodded again.

  It was almost impossible to hold a conversation because of the deafening noise of the aircraft’s engine and the turbulence that rattled everything on board. Probably just as well, Max thought. Hugo didn’t need to know that between 1 April and 6 June, the day of the Normandy invasion, the British and American strategic air forces had deployed more than eleven thousand Allied planes to fill the smoke-filled grey skies. Everything from P-51 Mustangs, P-47 Thunderbolts, Supermarine Spitfires to Hawker Hurricanes and AK47 Dakotas had pummelled the French ground with almost two hundred thousand tons of bombs. They had cut off German supplies and reinforcements, the French railway hubs and road networks, as well as German airfields, radar installations, military bases, and coastal artillery batteries. But the pilots and their aircraft had paid a hell of a price for their bravery with over two thousand aircraft lost in the preliminary attacks.

  “Hugo, if your fear puts this team’s lives in danger after we land, I will kill you myself. Do you understand what I
am saying, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Major. I am fine. No problem!” Hugo shouted, looking horrified at the idea of not making the jump.

  “Can I count on you?”

  “Yes, Major. I am good!” Hugo answered with two thumbs up.

  The aircraft fell a few hundred feet then shuddered, making Max’s insides tremble and his own fear rise to the surface. I shouldn’t be here, he thought. Because of his face-to-face meeting with Admiral Canaris in Paris the previous year, his Rolf Fischer and Mirror covers were burnt. At first, he’d been distraught; he’d questioned his identity and purpose: who am I without Fischer and Mirror? But then he had dared to hope that he would spend the remainder of the war at Bletchley Park or MI6 Headquarters in London, and the Canaris meeting had seemed like a blessing.

  The last seven months had been a gift, Max acknowledged. He’d grown used to his twice-monthly visits with Judith and spending time with his parents. He and Judith had even managed a belated three-day honeymoon to Scotland, where they had stayed with Hannah and Frank. For the first time since the wretched war had started, he had woken up in friendly territory day after day, week after week, month after month, and it had been glorious.

  He hadn’t initially been earmarked for this job. British Intelligence agents had trained the French volunteers for the Sussex Plan, and they had decided that only French nationals were to execute the operations. Heller, being Heller, however, had pushed for Max to be included because no one on this team spoke a word of German. “It’s time you got back into the field, Max. Get your hands dirty before they become too soft to hold a gun,” Heller had said when imparting the news.

  “Major. Five minutes,” the co-pilot informed Max.

  Max nodded, gave the man the thumbs up, and then shouted to the five men, “Listen up!”

  When he had the attention of the Frenchmen, he spread five fingers, indicating the minutes to go until the jump. Then he lurched to his feet and raised his hands like an orchestra conductor, to signal to his men that it was time to prepare. Under severe air turbulence and the vibrational impact of German ordinance exploding like bursts of white light on the aircraft’s path, the men clung with one hand to the overhead wire where they had hooked their parachute cords and stepped unsteadily in single file to the open hatch.

  At the hatch, Max turned to the men and pointed with his index finger to his parachute; this gesture indicating that each person should check the working order of the harness and pack of the person in front of them.

  The aircraft juddered and bounced again. Max, dangerously close to the open hatch, flinched when a plane in the distance caught fire and nosedived towards the ground.

  The air campaign had succeeded in breaking all the bridges across the Seine and Loire rivers, and by achieving that goal, the Allies had isolated the invasion zone from the rest of France. But every day since that momentous Normandy invasion, the Germans had been relentless in their determination to bring British and American planes down, and this July night was no different than any other. Pilots consistently met a hell-in-the-sky scenario not long after clearing the English coastline, but they continued to fly through it until they landed safely back in England unless their planes were brought down in flames or they parachuted out over the English Channel or France. He turned. Hugo was directly behind him, looking as calm as could be expected of any man about to jump into enemy territory.

  Max said his usual silent prayer. He, like the other parachutists, was scared out of his wits and desperate to get off the aircraft, but he was also afraid of what was going to meet him on the ground.

  He saw the signal to go, raised his hand to his men in a line behind him, and counted down from three to jump…

  ******

  After the team’s successful landings, the six men assembled at the rendezvous location; a grassy clearing at the edge of the woods that bordered the Loire River’s northern embankment.

  “Bury the chutes in the undergrowth. We still don’t know if we’re behind or facing enemy lines. I don’t want to leave any sign of our arrival,” Max instructed when all members of the team were present.

  Inside the treeline, the men checked their luggage for damage. They had jumped heavily laden with clothes, documents, and other equipment strapped onto them. The radio operator alone carried one Mark 7 British transmitter and receiver, plus an emergency set, one emergency Willard battery, three sulphuric acid bottles, and one hand charger. Each man had a .32 calibre pistol, fifty bullets, one commando knife, one pen for throwing teargas, and two type 69 grenades. They were wearing French-made civilian clothing and had other socks, undershorts, shirts and trousers in their bags. They also had their falsified French identity documents in their jacket pockets, a first aid kit, and cyanide tablets.

  Max, going through the same checks as his men, reassured himself once again that his pistol was fully loaded and then transferred his spare bullets to his pockets. He took his documents from their clear polyethylene sleeve and went through them for the umpteenth time. As French citizens in German-occupied France, they had to have all identity papers up to date and at hand should they be stopped at a checkpoint. Thus, he not only carried the essentials – identity card, ration card, clothing coupons, demobilisation papers, census certificate, and employment attestation – he also had a driver’s licence and enough French francs to keep him going for a month.

  He looked up from what he was doing and asked Jules, the radio operator, “Any damage?”

  “No, all good here, Max,” Jules replied.

  Max checked the time on his Swiss wristwatch. They had been there for fifteen minutes, and the Resistance and Pathfinders had not arrived yet. He was concerned; they should have lit the landing beacons at the coordinates before he and his men had even jumped or, at the very least, been in position.

  According to the information received just before the team had left England, there were no significant numbers of Germans in this area; however, Max had also been informed that the situation in Normandy was fluid. Ten minutes before getting on the aircraft, the point was pushed home when he and his men were told to belay their previous orders and follow a modified plan that had been hastily put together using almost-real-time intelligence in the field.

  The German retreat following D-Day was much faster than anticipated, and MI6 were worried that agents being dropped into France would find themselves chasing an enemy on the run instead of being well behind German lines as intended. In the new orders, they were asked to land in a place well ahead of the enemy withdrawal which risked them being encircled by Axis forces but also gave them more real-time information.

  Max unfolded his map and drew his finger along the route they were planning to eventually take in a vehicle supplied by the Pathfinders. These French Resistance men and women were dedicated to the Sussex Plan. Their duties were numerous and included some of the most dangerous missions of the war to date. They prepared safe houses, located drop sites for the agents to be parachuted into, and received and dispatched the agents once on the ground. They also had the task of reporting on German activities as well as confirming arrests and executions of Sussex agents.

  Max called over Hugo, the team’s observer. The man showed no sign of his previous anxiety and was looking more like his old self; the soldier who had displayed tremendous mental and physical strength on the course for one so very young.

  “Hugo, the Castle of La Roche-Mailly should be about five hundred metres from our position on the far side of this coppice. Take Milo with you. Check for German activity in or around the castle and on the embankment.” Max folded the map and added sarcastically, “And while you’re at it, look out for the Resistance. I think they might have lost their way.”

  A few minutes later, three flashes from a battery torch came from within a thicket to Max’s left. Max flashed twice, signifying he had recognised the Resistance signal, then he waited for them to appear.

  ******

  Hugo and Milo returned with four Resistance f
ighters; three men and a woman.

  “We met them halfway to the castle,” Hugo reported. “They know what’s going on there, so I thought we should get back here to report.”

  The French Resistance leader shook Max’s hand. “I’m Cesar. Sorry we weren’t here to meet you,” he said in French. “We saw a lot of movement in this area earlier.” Then he took the time to introduce the woman and two other men with him before imparting the bad news. “The Germans arrived at the castle about an hour before you came down. We think they might be going up to join the German Seventh Army reserves.”

  “Or to Paris,” one of Cesar’s men suggested.

  “The Seventh is in Normandy … over three hundred kilometres from here. That’s a bit far from their forward positions, is it not?” Max queried.

  “It is, but the Seventh are being hit hard. They’re being pushed back through the Bocage – the hedge growth countryside is treacherous – and they are haemorrhaging men. Our spies in Normandy estimate they’ve lost at least a hundred thousand.”

  “How close were your men?” Max asked.

  “They captured two officers and extracted some decent information. Five of the Seventh’s generals were killed last month, and they lost their current commander a few days ago.”

  “General Dollmann is dead? That is news. Who took over?” Max asked.

  Cesar sat on a log. It was a balmy night without a breeze. It was also humid, and Max’s skin was moist with sweat. Milo and Hugo were excited about being back in their homeland and were asking the other Resistance men and woman questions about their hometowns. Max sat beside Cesar and gestured for his men to listen.

  “The Seventh is still under the overall command of Field Marshal Rommel’s Army Group B. Apparently, he asked for more mechanised divisions but was denied.”

  Milo, a French Captain and member of Max’s team, asked, “If they’re moving up to Normandy, what sort of numbers have the Germans left here?”