by Soren Petrek
“Major, one terrorist dead, one surrounded,” a platoon sergeant reported saluting.
“Toss in grenades and blow the bastard to hell! Stop fooling around.”
“The men think it’s the woman, sir.”
“The woman? Can’t the fearsome Das Reich overpower one woman!”
“Well, every time we get close she hits somebody. Two are dead and three wounded. She’s one hell of a shot sir.”
“A good shot? Intriguing, she must be highly trained. We might have ourselves a big fish here, Sergeant. Tell the boys to back off a little. We’ll make her use up her ammo and take her then.”
“Sir!” The sergeant saluted and ran back to the fight.
A prize indeed, Kampfe thought. He whispered to himself, “the Angel of Death? It can’t be.” Kampfe was SS and there wasn’t an SS officer in France that hadn’t heard about the shadowy assassin. Nobody could give much detail about her appearance. Must be military trained, he decided. I am going to catch this woman, and we shall soon find out who she is.
SOE agent Violet Szabo crouched behind a door in the ramshackle building, squeezing off kill shots and mentally counting how much ammunition she had left. She pushed a strand of blond hair away from her face and sighted her pale blue eyes on the next target. She squeezed the trigger, seeing the shot hit in her mind’s eye before it left her weapon. The bullet struck a soldier directly between the eyes. He immediately slumped. The war was over for him. He had foolishly raised his head and exposed himself to fire. She cursed her lack of ammunition, confident in her marksmanship. She had been parachuted back into France in anticipation of the invasion. How stupid it had been to run into this patrol. She and her fellow agent were armed to the teeth. If the vehicle had been searched they would have been shot.
Violet heard the sounds of men encircling her. It seemed that they had wisely decided to wait her out. She smiled grimly, willing her enemies forward. She was the best shot in the SOE and she knew it. It had driven her fellow male agents mad. Finally she earned their respect, and her skill was openly celebrated.
She glanced down at the wound in her leg and could feel her energy and consciousness fading as the blood freely flowed out. The bullet had passed through and missed a major artery, but it bled profusely. She couldn’t afford to apply a tourniquet; she was out of time. I’m going to die anyway, she thought. Maybe they’ll recognize me for something other than a local Maquis and not kill me straight away. She didn’t have the option of escape. Her wound saw to that. Her head swam and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her last thoughts were of the beautiful little daughter she had left behind in her native England. With her father already killed fighting the Germans, and now her mother, the girl would be orphaned. How sad it was that she would be left to fend for herself in a world that might allow the madness of war to rise again. The gun slipped from her hands as her head swam and she slumped to the ground. As her eyes closed she saw the soldiers moving carefully forward.
Kampfe stood over Szabo and directed his men to search her and place her in the back of his car. If she was going to survive she would need immediate medical care. A medic applied a tourniquet as Kampfe considered his prisoner. She was certainly beautiful enough, he mused, and there was plenty of fight in her. It was a pity that she would be turned over for questioning and probable internment in a concentration camp. He admired her courage. He personally had nothing against the British people. In his mind they were of pure race, and their historical ties to Germany and her royalty went back through countless generations.
“We’ll take her for interrogation. We’ll know her secrets soon enough,” Kampfe said as he stepped quickly towards his vehicle dismissing Szabo’s fate from his mind.
As Kampfe and his small detachment tore off in a cloud of dust a young boy, no more than twelve years old, watched from the branches of a distant tree. When the hated soldiers were gone he carefully climbed down. If he fell, how would word get to his father? A person important to the Resistance had been taken. His father must be warned. He silently dropped the last few feet to the ground and disappeared into the brush, ghosting his way towards home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Do you know who I am?” Kampfe screamed as he looked down the barrels of several Maquis guns, in part angry with himself for falling into the hands of the Resistance.
“Yes. You are a Nazi war criminal and you will be treated as such,” a burly, middle-aged man curtly responded.
Kampfe was about to let fly with another tirade when he felt a gag thrust over his head and into his mouth. His arms were roughly tied behind his back. He glanced over and saw Lieutenant Gerlach, his junior officer, receiving the same treatment. The remainder of Kampfe’s detail lay dead on the ground. The Maquis ambush had been successful and well executed. It had taken place along an area of road that should have been safe for travel.
Kampfe and Gerlach were pushed into the back of a small, nondescript sedan. The German staff car was pushed off the road and hastily covered with brush. The dead soldiers were dragged off the road and their bodies hidden. Kampfe’s captors realized that it wouldn’t be long before the officer was missed. Their plan was to hold the two officers in the event that they were needed as hostages. Things were happening so quickly now that decisions were made hastily and their consequences or advantages dealt with later. Right now, the SS was rampaging against the Maquis throughout the region. A ranking officer like Kampfe might just give them some leverage.
As a final precaution, Kampfe and Gerlach were blindfolded. There was little discussion as the car drove on. Initially, the prisoners were thrust down in the back seat.
During the car ride, Gerlach managed to right himself for a brief moment, trying to orient himself as best he could. Just as the vehicle turned, a rough hand from the front seat pushed him back down and out of sight. The man’s hand brushed Gerlach’s blindfold and pushed it down allowing him a quick glimpse. He saw a road sign! Ouradour sur Glane. The car continued past the intersection with the road leading to Ouradour sur Glane. There was no comment among the Resistance members as they passed. The town was of no interest to anyone. There was no local Maquis organization in town for the men to deliver their prisoners to. They were headed towards Tulle. Many of the inhabitants of Tulle had some involvement with the Resistance. They were organized and well suited to hold the German officers until their utility as hostages had been determined. In the event they were of no use, they would be shot. Years of Nazi murder and cruelty had sealed their fate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Richard and his “boy scouts,” as he called them crouched in the thick brambles at the side of the road and surveyed the territory. It was an important route and the fastest way towards the fighting from the South. Richard trusted in the predictability of German behavior. That meant that, being efficient and precise, they would take the most direct route. Richard’s information was reliable. It had come directly from a British agent operating clandestinely in the area for many months. The agent told Richard that an SS Division would be coming by road as their rail options had been personally compromised by the agent. Richard knew better than to ask for specifics but the agent volunteered that the convoy was huge. It was an entire division of men, tanks, and equipment. Richard wanted to do as much damage as possible and slow the convoy down and allow time to make preparations further north. He wanted to harass these bastards all the way to Normandy like hornets incessantly stinging a bear. The Germans would arrive at the battle anything but rested and fresh. He glanced at the young boys.
“Do not attack any Germans that you see on the road. The convoy we’re after won’t be coming all at once. We cannot attract attention to this area. I’m not after a couple of cars and men, I want to take out tanks. Familiarize yourselves with the road. The purpose of our mission is to observe so that we can plan appropriately. We will come back and place enough explosives around here tonight to make them curse the day they declared war on France.”
The eager expressions on the faces of the boys were heartening but also alarming. Richard didn’t want any slip-ups. Prior to the mission he had passed out a few grenades and each boy was armed with a rifle. He had no choice. They couldn’t go into the field unarmed. He didn’t like it, but under the circumstances it was the best anyone could do.
In the distance Richard heard the distinctive sound of a truck approaching. He peered out of the undergrowth and saw three vehicles. The middle vehicle was a medium sized truck covered with a tarp. Two other smaller cars sat both in front and behind it. There was only a small detachment of men. The convoy certainly didn’t look too important, and it didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. It would be foolish to attack this group. That would only attract attention and ruin their chances for a larger score later. This was not the part of the convoy that was expected.
“Let this one pass,” he hissed, glancing down the row of eager faces. He motioned them back. “It’s not the big one we want.”
Richard could see the tension build in the boys. They were bursting with adrenaline. Just as the lead vehicle approached, one of the youngest boys leaped up and darted out into the road, clutching a grenade.
“No,” Richard yelled. It was too late. Like lemmings the other boys ran out, firing wildly. A German soldier in the lead car calmly rose in his seat and opened up with a machine gun like he was swatting at a fly. The first boy tossed his grenade into the car in front of the truck. It exploded, igniting the gas tank. The flaming vehicle lazily rolled to the side of the road and burned, oily black smoke billowing into the sky. Richard ran towards the front of the convoy and tossed his own grenade into the cab of the truck. The soldiers in the cab scrambled to find the explosive. The passenger was grabbing at it in an attempt to toss it out when it detonated in a blinding flash, ripping the men inside apart with shrapnel driven by the force of the concussion.
Immediately the driver of the second car slammed on his brakes. Richard spun and fired through the windshield, killing the soldier in the front passenger seat. The driver fired back, scrambling from the vehicle. He backed away into the underbrush as Richard dove back into the ditch at the side of the road to avoid his fire. Richard fired repeatedly at the retreating soldier, not knowing whether he hit the man or not. Without a radio the German would have to walk to find help. With Maquis groups marauding all over the countryside he would keep off the road if he had any sense.
After a short time Richard raised his head over the top of the ditch. He looked around, nothing but dead boys and men. He stood up to take stock of what had happened.
Richard walked quickly toward the front of the convoy. There were dead bodies strewn around. The boys were dead. Their bodies ripped apart by machine gun fire and the concussive blasts from the grenades. They hadn’t even lived long enough to learn how to fight, he thought as he shook his head. He quickly pulled the boys’ bodies out of sight and under the cover of the dense undergrowth along side the road. He was confident that the surviving German soldier was long gone. He cared less for the German dead and turned to see what was in the truck. He open the tarp and reached in to slide a box towards him as he stood on the road. He could barely move it. He leaped up into the bed of the truck to get a better grip. He saw that all of the boxes were marked “records” and bore the standard SS insignia.
“Records?” He muttered aloud. “Not unless they’re written on stone tablets.”
He shoved the corner of a trench knife into a crack in the wooden lid of the nearest box. He pried up carefully. The contents glowed as the sunlight danced on the bars of gold neatly stacked inside.
“My god,” he barely breathed. “Gold?” He saw the insignia of the SS stamped into one of the bars and lifted it up reverently to inspect it. He was astounded. “Somebody is going to miss this,” he said to himself. War or no war, he stood transfixed as visions of wealth darted through his mind.
Coming to his senses, Richard stood up without hesitation and jumped back down out of the truck. He made his way over to one of the dead soldiers and found a small shovel. He had few options. He had made up his mind immediately to hide as much of the gold as possible.
Working furiously Richard managed to move the heavy boxes and hide them a good distance from the side of the road. Thankfully the soil was loose and he had little trouble digging a sufficient number of holes. He worked in a near panic, expecting to hear the arrival of more vehicles at any moment. The sweat poured off of him as he dug furiously.
Once the boxes were buried, each in its own shallow hole, Richard spread leaf litter and branches to cover their location. His rough estimate was that there was at least 600 kilos of gold. His mind raced with ideas. The one he kept coming back to was that this was German gold. He knew it would never replace the family the Nazis had taken from him, but he wasn’t about to share it with anyone. If he survived the war his plan was to wait and return for it. He would be patient and claim it for himself. As he finished he took his bearings. One good rain and all evidence of his digging would be washed away as the soil compacted. Even if they came looking for it there was a lot of ground to cover. He had carried the boxes a good way into the forest and on a diagonal path. He was counting on the notion that the Germans would think a second vehicle had cleared out the contents of the truck. His aching back told him that that theory might be believed. With little hesitation Richard decided that the war was over for him. He made his way towards the south, and Spain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Major Diekmann, wake up, sir. I have the General on the phone,” a young soldier said, carefully shaking his Major’s shoulder. Diekmann groaned and tried to roll over. The soldier wrinkled his nose as the smell of stale alcohol and a very late night rose up from the crumpled Diekmann.
“Major,” the soldier almost shouted. “The General!”
Diekmann’s eyes slammed open. All at once clues as to who he was and where he was came rushing through his hangover and into his mind.
“The General? I’m on leave. We don’t move out for two days.”
“He is fit to be tied, Major. He is screaming much more than talking.”
Diekmann suddenly focused on an emotion rattling around in his fuzzy, alcohol-clouded mind. He had less respect for Lammerding than some of the other command officers. He was damned if he was going to be jerked around by that blow hard. Diekmann had his own connections on the General Staff.
“Diekmann,” he muttered into the phone his orderly handed him, holding his head in his other hand.
“Where the hell have you been, Diekmann? I have been calling for hours!
“I am on leave, sir, and have been here all morning.” Diekmann’s orderly handed him a cup of coffee. As he drank from the cup he listened to the General keep up his rant. Knowing that he wasn’t expected to speak he placed his hand over the receiver.
“Claus, did the General call before?”
“No sir, the phone service had been interrupted. This was the first call that came through.”
“Some sweetener in your coffee, sir?” Claus held out a flask of the powerful local brandy and poured some into the major’s coffee. He had been with Diekmann long enough to know it was best to maintain the man’s blood alcohol level. He was mean enough even when drinking.
“You are a good man, Claus,” Diekmann said gesturing with his cup. He put his ear back to the phone, noticing the pitch of the General’s voice drop a bit.”
“You there, Diekmann?”
“Yes.”
“Kampfe is missing and so is our gold.”
“What! How did you let that happen?” Diekmann shouted.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Major,” Lammerding shot back.
“That really won’t matter if this is discovered, General, now will it?” Diekmann shouted back.
“Just get dressed. We need answers.”
The phone was slammed down in Diekmann’s ear. Kampfe taken, he thought. That was his most immediate concern. Kampfe was his frien
d and comrade. He was instantly worried. Find Kampfe and maybe we find the gold, he considered. Either way he knew the best way to get to the bottom of the disappearance: start shooting people and see who talks. He gulped down his coffee and yelled for another cup as he pulled on his pants and boots.
“Nice way to finish my leave,” he muttered, the brandy starting to take the edge off his blasting headache. Time to shoot some terrorists, he thought to himself. Maybe this day won’t be so bad after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kampfe and Gerlach sat in the basement of a small farmhouse. Their hands and feet were bound. Kampfe and Gerlach spoke in whispers.
“We might as well try to escape, Victor. It is highly unlikely that our lives would be exchanged for Resistance prisoners,” Kampfe said plainly. To Gerlach’s surprise, Kampfe was massaging his wrists. He had managed to wriggle out of the knots securing his hands.
“How did you do that?” came Gerlach’s incredulous reply.
“These men are amateurs at best. When my hands were being bound they should have checked them more closely. It took awhile but they’re free now.” Kampfe grunted as he worked on the ropes securing his feet. Once free he crawled over to Gerlach and undid his bonds.
“The longer we wait, the greater the likelihood that there will be no exchange. This war is quickly moving to the north. There is little to gain from concentrating on terrorist activity once our reinforcements arrive at the front. The move begins today. The convoy will need refueling along the way and I’m sure it will be harassed. That’s when the terrorists will strike.” Kampfe said, slowly standing trying to work circulation back into his limbs.
Gerlach nodded slowly, “Do you have a plan, sir?”
“Next time someone comes in, we jump them. We will loosely secure our ropes. Once the man or men enter the room we strike. Most importantly, the less sound we make, the better. We can’t be sure how many men remain upstairs. These are not soldiers. They have never seen real combat as we have. They will hesitate, that I promise you. Then we overpower and disarm them quickly. We’ll make our way upstairs and escape. Surprise is often the best weapon of all. My guess is that they will bring some kind of evening meal. You can generally rely on the French to feed you, even if you are the enemy. We go then. Remember, we still control this part of the country. Once we get out we obtain weapons and flee.”