Winter's Bullet

by William Osborne

  He carefully slipped the explosive from around his neck and, bracing his legs against the supports, used both his hands to press along the cross-support running between the two wooden pilings. They anchored the mechanism that lifted the middle section up. Satisfied, Tygo pushed the blasting cap into one end and wound the wires around the contacts. He carefully made his way back to the side of the canal, paying out the wire from its reel as he went.

  When he reached the end, he dropped down onto the canal embankment and handed the wire to Alisa. She spliced the ends on to the screw-down contacts of the detonator box.

  “We’re set,” she said. As she spoke, they both heard a deep rumble coming toward them.

  “Is it them?” said Tygo. The rumble was getting louder, fuller somehow.

  “No, no …” Alisa pointed to the dark night sky. “It’s up there. Listen.” They both lay on the snowy bank and looked up at the sky. Sure enough, the noise grew louder and louder until there was a great droning and buzzing sound filling the night. Allied bombers on their nightly journey to flatten what little remained standing in Germany.

  “There must be hundreds of them,” said Tygo.

  “Thousands,” said Alisa.

  “I wouldn’t want to be under that.”

  “Me neither.” She squeezed his hand softly. “Now go on, find Pieter, tell him we’re ready.”

  Krüger had also heard the bombers overhead, their steel bellies filled with blockbuster bombs and “cookies” to lay waste to another German town. It was now nearly ten; at the last radio check Müller had reported the convoy as being ahead of schedule. Hitler would be here soon.

  Which left him with the vexed question of Tygo’s whereabouts. Something must have happened. He had had his radio operators call Headquarters; Krüger’s vehicle had been reported as having passed a checkpoint around four o’clock, to the west of the city, and then nothing. The police at the checkpoint had also disappeared.

  The policeman in Krüger didn’t like the situation one bit. Something had gone wrong, and when the Führer arrived he would be empty-handed. He felt panic filtering in, but fought to keep it at bay. Without that stone his future was bleak. He realized he would have to desert there and then, make a run for it, for Müller would most surely carry out his threat and have him shot. Damn Tygo, damn him, his life was in that stupid boy’s hands now. There was nothing he could do but wait and hope he turned up. Perhaps he had gone off on some half-baked pursuit of his own, but if he really wanted to save himself and the girl, he was going about it the wrong way. For a terrible moment he entertained the possibility the little ferret was dead but then dismissed the thought; he was a survivor, that one. Like him.

  Krüger stopped outside the aircrew’s tent. Hans Bauer, the Führer’s personal pilot, was part of the convoy coming from the Adlerhorst, but the copilot and navigator had been flown in with the weapon the previous night. They were both KG 200 personnel, recommended by their Oberstleutnant Baumbach, and the navigator was also a fully trained pilot.

  Krüger wondered if it would be a good idea to have them bring the plane up to the edge of the airstrip, ready to go. Although the night was clear, who knew if a fog might roll in off the sea? On balance he decided it was the best thing to do. He pulled the tent flap back and stepped inside. The two men were seated around a small metal stove, warming their hands. A coffeepot sat on the round plate on the top. They stood and saluted.

  “Gentlemen, I think, given the time, it would be wise of us to bring the Arado up to the strip.”

  “But Commander Bauer is not here yet.”

  “I am aware of that, but it is my judgment that the plane should be ready for takeoff as soon as the passengers arrive.”

  “Of course, Oberst, a very sensible suggestion. We can warm the engines, run the flight checks, top out the tanks if necessary.”

  “Very good, I will pass the order down. How long do you think it will take?”

  “Half an hour, perhaps. The Kettenkrad will tow her into position.”

  Krüger saluted and left them to get on with it. The radio operators would make the hourly check with the convoy and, God willing, Tygo would appear with the diamond that the Führer had promised to present personally to Eva Duarte. Not that Krüger believed in God, but he had to keep telling himself that it was all going to work out somehow.

  He walked back toward his tent, where he had the girl under guard. She was sitting on a stool by the tent’s stove, warming her hands.

  “Your boyfriend is cutting it fine.”

  “Oh, he’ll be here,” Willa said firmly, but Krüger could detect fear under the bravado. In spite of that, he desperately hoped she was right.

  Tygo had just given the news to Pieter about the charges being ready when everything seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time. He was crouched down on the southern side of the road, just inside the tree line. The bridge was about thirty yards away.

  “Listen,” he said. “I have to go now … Willa …”

  “What?” Pieter was only half listening. “Engines! I hear engines!” he yelled out.

  “What?” said Tygo.

  Sure enough, the sound of heavy engines—lots of them—could suddenly be heard through the trees. They were approaching fast, too.

  “Get ready!” shouted Pieter.

  “No,” said Tygo. “No, I have to go, it’s not fair.”

  The lead armored car’s headlights suddenly cut through the darkness as it thundered around the corner. Behind it came the other vehicles, engines revving loudly.

  “Attack!” shouted Pieter. The lead armored car was fifty yards from their position. Somewhere behind in the convoy was the leader of the Third Reich himself.

  “Attack, attack, attack!”

  Back at the airstrip Krüger heard something distant coming through the trees. There was a metallic chatter, and then the clump of an explosion.

  He pulled the girl to her feet, gripping her arm.

  “Ow,” she squealed.

  “Silence!”

  People always said machine-gun fire sounded like this or that. But it didn’t. Machine-gun fire sounded like machine-gun fire, and that was what he could hear.

  “Come with me.” He pulled her out of the tent. “Lieutenant!” he bellowed.

  A junior Luftwaffe officer came pelting through the night toward him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get the fires lit for the airstrip, take up defense positions!”

  Ahead he could see the Arado gliding through the trees toward the runway. Krüger knew that the convoy must be under attack; it was too close to be anything else.

  “It’s Tygo! He’s coming to get you,” Willa yelled.

  And suddenly Krüger realized she was probably right.

  In fact, at that very moment Tygo was down on one knee firing a Sten gun toward the leading vehicle. The whole night had exploded with pyrotechnics. The other Resistance fighters had opened up with everything they had, the MG 42s sluicing rounds into the oncoming vehicles. Whether by luck or intention, they had managed to shoot out the tires on the front Puma, which skidded wildly off the side of the road and into the trees.

  That left the leading Mercedes exposed. Bullets slammed into it, and a sheet of flame leapt up from the hood. The car stopped in the road. The second armored car pulled out from the back, managing to drive forward and place itself in front of the Mercedes to protect it. Its turret swung around, its flak cannons pumping cannon shells into the trees. At the back of the column, soldiers were dropping out of the truck, several falling to the ground, already cut down. The first Puma was also firing.

  Pieter stood up and hurled a grenade toward it. “Get back to Alisa, tell her to blow the bridge—we can’t hold this many for long.”

  Tygo got to his feet. There was so much noise now. Someone had fired a parachute flare and it lit up the night as it floated down. At least it meant he could see where he was going, but it also made him a sitting target. He felt several bullets
zip past him. A cannon shell banged off the side of the bridge in a streak of sparks.

  He fought to keep his footing on the snowy ground. The flare had gone out and there was darkness again. Tygo knew they would have to try to cross the bridge. He looked back. The army truck had pulled alongside the second Mercedes, the third armored car on the other side of it, boxing it in, protecting it. Maybe Pieter would try to outflank it. A long line of tracer suddenly pulsed above his head.

  But then he had reached the bridge, was sliding down the embankment, gasping for air.

  Alisa was there, waiting in the dark.

  “Blow it, Pieter says to blow it now!” Tygo gasped.

  Alisa raised the plunger on the detonator box and rammed it down. Nothing.

  “Blow it!” yelled Tygo.

  Alisa repeated the action. Nothing.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh no …” moaned Alisa. “The contacts on the blasting cap—a wire must have come loose.”

  Another cannon shell went past over their heads and banged off the metal latticework. Tygo could hear engines revving above the gunfire. Perhaps they were going to force their way across with the Mercedes in the middle like a Roman legion formation.

  Unless someone fixed the charges, the opportunity would be lost and Hitler would escape, along with the wonder weapon. And Tygo knew that, however dangerous it was, there was only one person who could do that job.

  “I’ll go,” he shouted, and scrambled back up the embankment. It would take too long climbing underneath as he had done before. He would have to run the gauntlet of the bridge itself and go over the side.

  He reached the top. Pieter and the others were still keeping the convoy pinned down, but the lead armored car was slowly rolling forward. Scores of muzzle flashes danced in the darkness like fireflies.

  “Someone cover me!” he yelled at the top of his voice. The bullets were fizzing past.

  “I’ll do it!”

  It was a girl’s voice. Ursula. She crawled across to him, a German MP 34 cradled in her arms. Tygo stared at her.

  “Well, go on, before I change my mind!”

  Tygo ducked low and ran as fast as he could down the bridge. Tufts of splintered wood appeared all around as he ran on, the whine of ricochets in the air. He glanced back; Ursula was hunched against the side of the bridge, firing at the convoy, edging closer.

  Then the explosion. Tygo felt it before he heard it. It threw him forward, and he landed on his hands and knees. He glanced back; the fuel truck had exploded and an orange fireball had enveloped the vehicle. That should slow them down.

  Ursula had turned at the head of the bridge to look for him, see if he was okay. He staggered up and waved back to her. Unfortunately, the light from the fire had picked him out, and as he ran to the middle stanchion a hail of bullets peppered the bridge. He heard Ursula returning fire. His heart was beating so hard in his chest, but there was nothing and nobody who would stop him. He reached the middle and looked back.

  “No!” Ursula was down. Was she dead? Deep down, he knew she had to be. But there was nothing he could do. He’d be dead too if he didn’t move fast.

  He climbed over the side and, using his hands, let himself down until his legs caught ahold of the woodpile in front of him. Then he let go, sliding down the pile before wrapping his arms around it, breaking his descent. He swung around and braced himself; the explosive was still there, but the blasting cap had been pulled out. He must have tugged it out when he was paying the wire out earlier. He jammed the cap back deep into the C-3.

  The firing was more sporadic now. He leaned out to see if he could see his sister.

  “Alisa!” he yelled. He couldn’t see anything. “I’ve done it! It’s set!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  He started climbing back to her, but then stopped. He had done everything he could to help the attack, and now it was time to think about saving Willa. He owed her that, and he had given his word. For the first time in a long time he was going to do something besides save his own skin.

  Tygo turned around and started making his way to the other side of the bridge. He was over halfway there, and there was a good chance he could get to the other side before his sister blew the bridge. Once it was gone he’d never make it.

  The armored car had stopped firing; perhaps it was out of ammunition. He hurried on, trying to pick his way through the timber maze in the dark and freezing cold. Another explosion rocked the night, more gunfire—sustained—engines revving. He couldn’t see anything, could only listen to the sounds of battle. He was almost there now.

  Tygo reached out for the next beam and found only air. It had been cut away for some reason. He plunged forward, losing his footing; there was nothing to grab, nothing to save him. He fell through the air, maybe four or five yards. He hit the ice feetfirst.

  There was a terrific cracking noise, and then he was straight through the ice. It wasn’t as thick as it looked. In an instant he was plunged into a pitch-black world of icy water. He thought his heart had stopped.

  He had instinctively kicked up with his legs as soon as he was through the ice, knowing every second counted if he was to have any chance of living. He’d only been in the water for a few seconds, but he had to get his overcoat off before it dragged him to the bottom. The water was beyond cold; it felt like his chest was held in a vise. He shook the coat off one arm, then his head struck the ice. The current had already taken him past the hole he’d made.

  He got his other arm out of the coat, feeling himself being carried away. How long had he been under—ten seconds? The top of his head was banging against the ice. Then his black world suddenly became light as an orange glow bathed the water around him.

  He looked up and saw the light, bright for an instant through the ice, and realized in some separate compartment in his brain that Alisa must have blown the bridge. He gasped involuntarily and sucked in a lungful of freezing water. It felt like his lungs had burst into flames; he retched and sucked in more. I’m drowning, he thought, I’m drowning …

  Twenty seconds.

  A bridge timber support crashed through the ice in front of Tygo’s face. Six inches closer and it would have been like a sledgehammer hitting a melon. Instead it saved his life, blasting a gigantic hole in the ice. His head broke the surface, and he was coughing and kicking through the water, the explosion and debris pulverizing the ice. The current had taken him almost to the other bank.

  A few more kicks and he felt the side of the canal, pulled himself up and onto the snow. He retched a couple more times; already his teeth were chattering. The gunfire kept up on the other side. He stared across—the bridge was gone. Totally gone.

  He whooped as loud as he could. He yelled and danced and didn’t care if it made him a target. Then he wove his way up the bank like a Friday-night drunk, collapsing on his knees at the top. He knew he should feel freezing, but he didn’t feel cold at all—he felt great. He was alive, he was in one piece, he was in shock. He felt desperately sick; nevertheless, the adrenaline poured through his body and he staggered to his feet.

  Tygo took one last look across the canal. The gunfire hadn’t stopped; the armored car’s engine was revving loudly and the convoy appeared to be reversing away from the bridge. He wondered briefly if the Führer was dead. Please, God. He wondered about Alisa too; she had to make it through.

  He checked his pockets. Thank God—the stone was there, still twisted tightly up. He had to get to Willa. He turned and ran toward the trees. He found the Opel and threw himself behind the driver’s seat. His teeth were still chattering and he was shaking all over. He twisted the key in the ignition; the engine turned over but didn’t start. Damn it. It must be the cold.

  He looked along the dashboard, his hands dancing around like a concert pianist’s. He found the choke and eased it halfway out, very carefully; if he flooded the engine, he’d be done for. He turned the key again and the engine bit for a moment, then died.

  Tygo push
ed the choke back in and pumped the accelerator twice. Last chance, he thought: The battery was sounding very weak. He turned the key. The starter motor gave a pathetic little whir, but then the engine caught and fired. He gave the accelerator a thump, and the engine roared.

  Tygo whooped with glee. Turning the heater up to full, he found first gear and let out the clutch. The car lurched forward through the trees. He changed into second and the big car hit the side of the lane. Hauling the wheel around, Tygo pointed it down the lane, getting the car into third. The speedo showed thirty-five miles per hour. He’d keep it in third and make it to the base in ten minutes.

  Krüger had divided his time between listening to the fighting and making sure the plane was ready for an emergency takeoff. This was an unparalleled disaster: The Führer’s convoy was under attack from Resistance fighters. They had traveled so far, only to meet this outrageous assault so close to safety.

  He tried to figure out where the fighting was. It seemed quite close; perhaps where the road became a single track before crossing the canal. That was a danger point. There had been an almighty explosion, and he thought the bridge must have been blown. His men in the radio truck could get nothing back from the convoy—not surprisingly, perhaps, during such intense fighting.

  The Arado was now standing on the edge of the makeshift runway, its takeoff lights on. Other lights flickered from inside the cone-shaped cockpit as the copilot and navigator ran through their preflight checks. Everyone was on edge, the guards training their guns on the approach road.

  Krüger glanced down the runway; men were lighting the buckets filled with oil-soaked rags, and an outline of the strip was appearing. More ground crew were lighting flares down the center line. Then through the woods he heard the sound of a vehicle, its engine straining as it raced along in a low gear.

  “Hold your fire,” he yelled to the itchy-trigger-fingered soldiers.