So far, so good, only a few yards to go.
Temple kept a steady pace. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he quietly clicked the safety off his machine gun. The column came to a halt.
One of his men moved forward, greeting the guards in fluent German. ‘We have a delivery of new workers for you.’ Temple’s linguistics expert handed over their papers with a smile.
‘We are not expecting any new labourers until tomorrow?’ The guard glanced at the papers and then at the trooper standing before him.
Temple’s heart missed a beat. It wasn’t just the German accent that needed to work; the papers forged by the British had to be up to the job as well. If they weren’t they would soon find out.
Temple faced towards the nearest machine gunner, sprung like a coil.
If things go noisy now this guy will die first.
Muttering and the exchange of papers went on at the sentry box.
What the hell is taking so long?
The conversation went back and forth. Temple moved his forefinger under the trigger guard – he would only get one shot at the machine gun nest before they returned fire.
Laughter erupted at the sentry box. Temple gave them a glance.
Christ!
The linguistics man was handing out cigarettes.
Come on get through the damned gate!
Suddenly, all relaxed and casual, the lead sentry waved a hand at his comrade and the entrance was duly opened. All the same, Temple kept his finger on the trigger as they marched through the gate.
The approach road continued on into the base, more or less in a straight line, but running parallel to the shore some hundred yards or so up from the beach. The buildings were clustered into three groupings along the road; the main barracks and living quarters were first, the workshop was another fifty yards down the road, and at the far end sat the main experimental station. Each cluster of buildings was surrounded by trees, so there was plenty of cover to be had.
The plan was brutally simple.
The men would march down the road and be dropped off as three separate work details; one for each cluster of buildings. It was still fairly early in the morning, and with luck, they could contain most of the German forces in the barracks. They had to – they were outnumbered by ten to one. If the German troops could break out in force it would all be over.
Temple took the first and largest team of South African Special Forces to hold the barracks. The demolition crews moved onto the workshop and the experimental station. Each four-man unit consisted of two Sappers with the explosives and the engineering know-how to maximise destruction, and two Special Forces guys armed to the teeth to lay down covering fire.
Temple held his work detail in the road outside the main barracks. He felt vulnerable in the open, but had to wait the agreed two minutes while the other teams got into position. Temple made things look busy by issuing shovels to the work detail; it also cleared the cart sporting the heavy machine gun, which was now positioned nicely in front of the main door. It would just be a matter of quickly removing the tarpaulin and then pouring hundreds of rounds per minute into the barracks. The men inside would not stand a chance. For good measure, some of the work detail moved to flank the building. Feigning a bit of gardening with the shovels, they were ready to toss grenades through the barrack windows.
Temple checked his watch. The two minutes were up. He ripped off the tarpaulin from the heavy machine gun: that was the signal to unleash hell.
He pulled back on the cocking mechanism, the first belt of large-calibre rounds clunked into place. He’d barely cocked the heavy weapon when the first explosion went off, followed closely by several more rapid explosions: the grenades were doing their work.
Dust, splintering timbers, and bloodcurdling screams issued from the barracks. Temple waited at the ready.
The barrack door swung open as a group of men, dazed and confused by the smoke, tumbled down the short wooden step onto the street.
Temple opened fire.
A hailstorm of bullets took them out instantly, and pulverised the door. He arced the weapon to the left, and then to the right, spraying rounds through the front windows; methodically trying to kill as many as possible. The advantage of surprise wouldn’t last for long.
Suddenly, the weapon clicked.
‘Stoppage! On me!’ Temple yelled at the nearest trooper. Ducking down behind the cart for cover, he desperately fished for a fresh ammo crate and tried to change the feed on the machine gun.
Rounds danced in the road a few inches from his position. Small arms fire. Off centre for now, but with the dust clearing, the rounds would soon find their target.
The magazine clicked into place. Temple leapt to his feet. He pulled back on the cocking mechanism, unleashing another storm of bullets into the front of the building.
Timbers splintered into match wood as the German troops were caught in the deadly tirade. Bodies piled up in the doorway as men were trapped in the confusion. Others dived for cover as best they could.
Hot shell casings bounced and clattered rhythmically onto the floor around him; so many that he risked losing his footing in the debris.
‘Feed me! Reload!’ Temple dropped the firing rate to heavy bursts. A trooper slid up to the cart, grabbing a fresh ammo crate. Temple let out another burst.
‘Come on! Come on! Feed me!’
Click – nothing – the belt was empty.
The trooper lunged forward, slapping another belt into the feed. Temple didn’t wait. He hit the trigger, showering the trooper with hot shell casings as more rounds thundered home into the barracks.
Temple shouted, ‘Hold them! Hold them!’
He glanced down at the empty ammo crates: only two crates left. At best they could hold out for another four or five minutes. He hoped it would be enough.
‘About fucking time!’ Nash whispered to himself as he heard the first explosions issue from the camp. He slapped the plastic explosive on the fence post, and lit the fuse – not much finesse, but it would do the job. He threw himself into the nearest depression and waited for the bang.
One… two… three… four… thud.
Fragments of fence post and soil flew into the air. Not bothering to wait for the dust to settle, he jumped through the gap. There was no time to waste engaging the enemy; getting to the workshop was the priority. He skirted through the pines, ignoring the assault and the rounds ricocheting amongst the trees, and sprinted in the right direction.
He pulled up behind a pine tree at the back of the workshop, breathing heavily; instinctively changing the magazine in his weapon, Nash observed the scene.
It wasn’t looking good.
The four-man demolition team were out the front, pinned down by machine gunfire from within. The workshop was well guarded.
It was time to move, with adrenalin pumping, Nash ran at full tilt towards the side wall of the workshop.
He piled into cover at the side of the building, thankful to be alive. He tossed a grenade through the nearest window, and ducked for cover. The gun battle raged on at the front of the workshop: it at least kept attention away from the rear.
Boom!
A cloud of dust issued from the remains of the window frame. Nash dived in.
Rolling to his feet, he sprayed the room with an arc of fire, taking out two of the guards near the front door in the process. The weapon juddered in his hands until the click of the trigger reported that the magazine was empty. He dropped onto one knee behind a solid workbench, quickly changing the magazine. A slap on the bottom of the casing told him the magazine was firmly home. He clicked a round into the chamber, and peered over the bench top.
Mayhem.
The demolition team were still laying fire into the front of the building, but they had their work cut out. The last two remaining guards were dug in behind some upturned oak benches at the front windows. Surrounded by spare ammo and with heavy-calibre weapons, the guards had the advantage; but their full
attention was out front.
Orders were orders. The job was to take out the device, not to interfere with the fighting. Ignoring the gun battle, he scanned the workshop.
Just the usual crap: bits of metalwork, machine parts, what the hell is it supposed to look like?
Suddenly, an odd-looking cylindrical tube came into view at the back of the workshop. A strange reddish-green plasma glowed from its centre. It was certainly out of place with all the other bits of engineering. That had to be it! The carbon device!
Nash moved towards the back of the workshop, scuttling in a monkey run along a row of workbenches, with his head down. Stray rounds bounced off the benches. Keeping low was the best option; besides it was a good twenty yards across the open workshop to the device.
He arrived at the end of the first row of benches, and peered across the gap: it seemed all clear. He dove across the gap into the next row, instantly rolling up into a three-sixty arc with his weapon. He checked the vicinity.
Ten yards to go, and one more row of benches.
He froze.
Movement caught the corner of his eye. He peered at an angle back across the workshop: a leg. It belonged to one of the guards, who was still busy pouring rounds out of the front window.
‘Fuck it.’ Carefully aiming the Browning, he fired a shot at the back of the guard’s knee.
The man twisted around cursing at the pain, raising his weapon, seeking out the new threat. A big mistake. Machine gunfire from outside peppered the man’s chest full of holes.
Nash mumbled to himself. ‘That’s one down for the home team, now let me get on with my job!’ Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the carbon device.
Lifting his weapon ready for another monkey run, his brain just about registered the swift dark shadow heading his way – but too late!
Pain exploded in his forehead, and by reflex action his arm somehow managed to deflect some of the blow. The sound of a heavy wrench pounding into the concrete floor caught his ears, as blood gushed into his eyes. Sensing a gap and, despite blurred vision, he raised the Browning pistol; and then fired.
Another blow from the wrench sent the shot wide.
He scrambled to close the gap with his assailant, and kicked out with his feet.
Nash got lucky, his attacker slipped and crashed to the floor. A wild swing from the assailant sent the wrench thudding into the bench, fractions of an inch above his head.
‘Fuck that!’
He grabbed hold of the mystery wrist, and heaved down with all his might against the side of the bench. Bone crunched on the woodwork.
‘Arggghhhh!’ The opponent dropped the wrench.
Swivelling round, still unable to see, Nash planted his boots squarely in the middle of the man’s chest; and pushed. It was enough to momentarily pin his attacker against the bottom of the far bench.
He raised the Browning, hoping for a headshot, and fired. The reverberation through his feet, still firmly planted in the man’s chest, told him the rounds had struck home. He quickly wiped the blood from his eyes, and levelled the weapon for another shot.
His vision finally cleared, revealing a man in a white coat staring into space with the top of his head missing: a dead scientist.
‘Jesus!’ Nash kicked the body aside. He’d nearly been taken out by an egghead!
Get yourself together!
He wiped the blood from his weapon and checked the magazine, before grabbing a field dressing. It was worth spending a moment tidying up his head wound; after all, he couldn’t set the explosives with blood running into his eyes.
Tugging on the bandage, satisfied that it was secure, he scampered out of cover towards the device. More bodies in white coats – it looked like a few more scientists had been caught up in the crossfire.
He slid across the floor, keeping in the last of the cover, and came to rest directly underneath one end of the strange tubular device.
It was time to finish the job; he only hoped the new high-tech explosives would work. Pulling off his rucksack, Nash produced a Mark I Bee Hive demolition charge. The unusual conical shape of the explosive was designed to funnel the blast in one direction: ideally onto the object it was attached to.
He checked the three sharp metal prongs on the base of the charge and hoped they would hold; it all depended on wedging the charge securely. He rammed the Bee Hive in between some carbon-coated aluminium plates, letting the metal prongs dig in.
Now for the time pencil – not exactly the greatest detonator – but it would have to do. Nash carefully pushed the time pencil into the top of the charge.
The time pencil was an ingenious idea consisting of a firing pin held back inside a small copper tube by a thin wire. The wire was surrounded by a glass vial containing acid. The deal was simple: crack the glass vial by squeezing the outer copper tube with a pair of pliers, and be long gone by the time the acid has eaten its way through the firing wire. The trouble was, the acid never worked at the same rate. A fuse might take two minutes, three minutes, or even four to blow.
He had to be sure the device was destroyed.
Sweat erupted in his palms as he picked up the pliers; and for good reason. Squeeze too hard and the thin wire holding back the firing pin would break, causing an instant explosion. But if you don’t squeeze hard enough – no acid – so nothing happens at all.
He lifted the pliers to the time pencil, then suddenly stopped.
Photographs!
In the heat of the moment he had nearly forgotten the photographs! The boys in Whitehall loved their intelligence briefings; it wouldn’t do to return from a top secret mission without photos. It was hardly the best way to keep a mission secret, but apparently Churchill had asked for some pictures.
Nash snapped away with the camera, working his way around the device. One side was still under construction, evidently the device wasn’t finished. But then he noticed something; another bench with similar mounting and retaining bolts.
Was there a second device? The bench had a depression in the surface from something heavy, and a light dusting of black powder marked out the shadow of a long object. The bench had definitely been used to make a device, but where was it now?
Nash glanced around.
Nothing.
He took photographs of the bench and stowed the camera in his rucksack.
It was time to set the detonators.
He focused on the pliers, ignoring the mayhem outside. He adjusted his grip, feeling the pliers firm up on the surface of the time pencil.
Crack – the vial broke.
Still alive!
The countdown was on.
That left two, maybe three minutes, to set some other charges. The orders were to stay and confirm the destruction of the device, and blow up anything else that looked important along the way.
Nash set about placing a second Bee Hive on what looked like a complex fuel injection system being constructed on a bench a few feet away. He wedged the charge into one of the manifolds and pushed in a time pencil as before, then working carefully with the pliers, he crushed the copper tube.
The charge was set.
Pain erupted in the back of his head.
A powerful metallic blow sent him sprawling to the deck.
Nash rolled over, willing his eyes to focus; fighting down nausea, his head started to spin.
‘Well, well, if it’s not my American friend from Kummersdorf!’ Commandant Kessler stared down at Nash. ‘If I remember correctly, I did promise to kill you – and I always keep my promises.’
Kessler swung the metal pipe again.
Nash rolled. The pipe gouged a three-inch dent in the floor instead.
Kessler raised the pipe for another swipe. It was a pity he couldn’t use his Luger pistol, but it was too risky; the intruder had pockets full of explosives. Besides, the second prototype needed to remain intact.
‘No more games, American.’ Kessler swung wildly, using the heavy pipe to good effect.
Crab-
like on all fours, Nash scuttled backwards, trying to keep out of the path of each blow. The pipe struck home. Pain issued from his ribs.
Instinctively, he grabbed the pipe with both hands; rolling and twisting, Nash tried to liberate the pipe from his attacker.
Success!
The pipe clattered to the floor.
Kessler shrugged, and with a sadistic smile drew his SS dagger.
‘So, a knife fight… ’ Nash returned the favour, drawing his commando knife.
The two men locked together in close quarter combat.
Kessler hissed, ‘You’re too late! Mayer has told us everything!’
‘You lie! Mayer’s dead. I was there remember!’
Kessler gritted his teeth. ‘No, I think you’ll find Professor Mayer is very much alive.’
‘No…! ’ Nash pushed forwards with his knife.
Kessler used the thrust to put Nash off balance. Rolling to the left and then to the right, Kessler tried breaking Nash’s handhold on his wrist. Nash strained under Kessler’s larger weight; the SS blade inched closer to his throat. Kessler sensed the advantage.
‘You must die!’ hissed Kessler. He renewed his efforts. The blade nicked Nash’s neck.
‘Not today!’ Nash screamed, suddenly finding the strength to twist his commando knife down towards Kessler’s abdomen. He would let the weight of his assailant find the blade.
Kessler was quick to respond, arching his back to create room for the knife; the blade swept dangerously below him.
It was enough, Kessler was off balance. Nash forced his knee into the gap and, finding Kessler’s stomach, he pushed like hell.
The two men parted but, despite the exertion, both sprang to their feet quickly, ready for the next round.
Kessler had a longer reach. He swiped out with his blade. A patch of blood welled up on Nash’s chest.
Ignoring the pain, Nash readied for the next swing. Kessler lunged. Rolling under the thrust, Nash expertly slashed his own knife across Kessler’s ribs: a superficial wound opened. At least they were even – both men bled from the chest.
The Reich Device Page 29