Deathwatch: Inspirational WWII Suspense

by V. B. Tenery

  Soon the woman brought large bowls of thick, soup and fresh baked bread. Before Grey took a bite he looked into the woman’s eyes. “This is not your family’s food, is it?”

  She shook her head. “We are good for now. The Germans take half of what we produce, but we’ve managed to hide cured meat and vegetables from them. The English grow flowers, we French grow vegetables. We can’t eat flowers.”

  Grey smiled at her. “Thank you, madame, for your hospitality. We are not unaware of the risks involved to you and your family.”

  A sad smile tilted her mouth. “Eat, monsieur. You can thank me by killing as many Germans as possible.”

  Grey nodded his understanding. She had suffered much from the occupiers of her country.

  Appetites sated, they checked out the disguises they would wear tomorrow. Clothing and a packet of identity papers lay on a nearby bed. Grey couldn’t help but speculate who paid for the expensive tailored suit, shirt, tie, hat, and cashmere overcoat that fit him perfectly. Perhaps the Yanks. He couldn’t see the Resistance having that kind of money. Mack’s German uniform was equally resplendent and apparently made to order as well.

  The farmer joined them later that evening bearing warm mugs of a fruity spiced wine and filled them in on plans for the next day. These brave people never gave their names. In the event of capture and torture, their guests couldn’t reveal names they didn’t know.

  Afterwards, Grey turned in for the night. He had to be ready for whatever tomorrow would bring. Grace slipped into his mind as she so often did at night. He had to get back to England. War rumors said Rommel was advancing towards Egypt and he needed to ensure she made it back to England safely.

  Next morning, after a breakfast of fresh eggs, ham and toast, a black Mercedes pulled in front of the farmhouse. Grey and Mack, dressed in their finery, slid into the back-seat.

  Mack shook his hand. “The game is on, my friend. Let’s hope we live to tell the tale.”

  It was a two-hour drive into Calais where the scientific conference was winding down. They were dropped at the entrance and exited to the sidewalk. Long red banners with black swastikas in a white circle swayed in the cold east wind.

  Inside, the hotel’s marble floors had a swastika inlayed in the center and walls were festooned with the Iron Cross and other Nazi propaganda. Very opulent, very grand, in a vulgar sort of way.

  He and Mack made their way to the concierge and paid for rooms already reserved for them on the same floor as Bree. Scholarly-looking men in drab tweeds and SS officers in black and silver uniforms with glossy boots milled around the lobby. Four scientists, judging from the badges clipped to their lapels, joined Grey and Mack in the elevator. They spoke excitedly about the conference speakers and forums.

  After they deposited their luggage, provided by the Resistance, in the appointed rooms he and Mack returned to the lobby where afternoon tea was served. A grand buffet table in a dining room just off the lobby was laden with pastries and sandwiches. He and Mack made their way to the food, filled plates and cups, and adopted the pose of guests who belonged there, while they surreptitiously searched the crowd for Professor Bree.

  A portly figured moved into Grey’s peripheral vision, towards the buffet table.

  It was Bree, dressed in the tweedy scientist’s uniform, a pair of rimless eyeglasses perched on his pudgy nose.

  Grey quickly swallowed his last tiny sandwich and joined the scientist. “Professor Bree, how delightful to see you again.” He offered his hand. “My name is Gaston Allard. You may not remember me, but your friend Marta introduced us in Paris a few years ago.”

  Bree’s hand trembled slightly as he grasped Grey’s. “No, I don’t recall . . .”

  “She asked me to say hello and tell you she misses you. I’m here at the hotel. Can you join me for a glass of wine this evening?”

  Bree seemed to push down his fear. “I’d like that, but the conference ended at noon. Perhaps we could have coffee before I leave. I’d like to hear more about Marta. Is she well?”

  Grey nodded. “She’s fine. I’m in room 3014. Meet me there in an hour and I’ll order room service.”

  Two SS officers joined the group. They always seemed to come in pairs like book-ends. Grey’s stomach tightened as he shook Bree’s hand and the scientist made a quick exit towards the elevators.

  The Gestapo henchmen made no introductions. Grey would have bet his Bentley they already knew his and Mack’s identity. “You are staying at the hotel?” one asked in German.

  Mack replied in the same language. “We just arrived.”

  “What is your business in Calais?”

  The other officer didn’t speak, but studied Grey with singular intensity.

  Mack nodded towards Grey. “I’m accompanying Monsieur Allard on government business.”

  The office continued the interrogation. “What kind of business?”

  Mack sent him a pointed stare. “Chancellery business.”

  The SS office didn’t take the snub well, but Mack wore a uniform that outranked him.

  The officer who’d been staring a Grey spoke for the first time. “I know you, Mr. Allard.”

  Grey cocked one brow and kept his voice casual. “Really? Have we met?”

  The SS officer shook his head. “No, but I’ve seen you somewhere recently. I never forget a face.”

  “I travel frequently. Perhaps our paths have crossed.” The Nazi may have seen the wedding photos. They weren’t front page news but they were in all the newspapers. He glanced at Mack and he gave a slight nod, realizing the danger. The window of escape just shortened. They must get Bree to the Resistance before this goon remembered where he’d seen Grey’s face. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must go unpack.”

  Grey suppressed the urge to run and strode casually to the lift and on to his room. He strode quickly to the window and gave the Resistance the signal they agreed on to start the escape plan. He placed the order for room service then changed into the dark clothing he’d worn to the farm. The farmer’s wife had laundered and folded them neatly into the luggage. He stuffed his Vichy suit and accessories into his backpack. It was a tight fit, but he might need it again.

  The waiter arrived with coffee and set it up on a corner table then departed. Almost immediately a fast rap on the door ushered in Mack, with Bree right behind.

  Bree clutched Grey’s arm. “My wife, is she well? I’ve missed her . . .”

  Grey stopped him. “She’s fine and waiting for you in New York. Once you’re safely in England, we will answer all your questions. For now, we must get ready to move when our French friends give the signal—”

  “I need to pack,” Bree interrupted.

  “There is no time, Professor. You’ll have to leave everything. People are risking their lives to get you out of here. We must follow their rules. No exceptions.”

  Bree nodded his acceptance.

  “The underground will set off explosions on the hotel’s lower floor and smoke bombs outside. That’s our signal to leave through the back entrance. We’ll hand you off to them and they will see you get safely to the Channel where you’ll be picked up by British commandos and taken to England.”

  “Where will you be?” Bree asked.

  “We have other business to attend—.”

  A boom blasted from three floors below. Frantic screams seeped through the closed door. The walls shook, and china bounced off the coffee service and shattered. Overkill, but these people weren’t experts. The explosion was supposed to create panic not cause structural damage to the hotel. Too late to worry about that now. He grabbed Bree’s arm.

  Mack opened the door and peered into the corridor. “Let’s go.”

  Chaos. That was the only word to describe what was happening in the hallway. Grey and his two companions fought their way through screaming humanity down the smoke-filled stairwell.

  Over his shoulder, Grey spotted the black uniforms of the two SS officers moved fast towards them down the ha
llway. Because of the smoke, the black-clothed figures hadn’t spotted them.

  “Keep heading towards the exit, Professor. We’ll catch up with you,” Grey whispered.

  He caught Mack’s eye and nodded at the two Gestapo men gaining on them.

  Mack stepped into a recently deserted hotel room and Grey followed. As the two Nazis passed the doorway, he and Mack grabbed them from behind and dragged them inside. Grey closed the door.

  Caught by surprise, the two officers offered no resistance. When Grey turned towards Mack, the men lay crumpled at his feet. He’d snapped their necks with his bare hands.

  Grey closed the door and they hurried to catch up with Bree.

  Outside, two commandos, dressed as peasants, and a French guide, grabbed Bree and shoved him into a vegetable truck that idled at the curb.

  “Commander Hamilton,” a British voice whispered behind Grey. “Follow me, sir.” The commando was dressed as a German infantryman. He led Grey and Mack to a troop vehicle. Grey climbed in back with four other men. Mack, still in his German uniform, rode in the cab with the driver.

  Lost in the smoke, police cars, and sirens, the truck moved out of the city.

  They would have to wait for nightfall to approach the prison compound where the RAF pilots were held.

  Daylight dimmed as dark clouds formed above the trees, and rain splattered the truck’s canvas roof. Rain was good. It would provide cover for the rescue. The driver pulled off the road and one of the men in back fished out a bag of sandwiches and water, passed them around. To the casual observer, they would merely be troops stopped for a dinner break.

  They ate in silence. They’d gone over the rescue ad nauseam over the two weeks preceding the mission. Everyone knew their job, but waiting made them itchy, anxious for the action to begin.

  CHAPTER 18

  Prison Compound

  Calais, France

  Grey’s Resistance team once again depended on the commandos to provide a distraction while he and his men moved the prisoners to safety.

  The truck stopped a half-mile from the compound. The rescue team trekked the rest of the way on foot. The driver would pull to the entrance once the commotion started.

  A large fuel storage tank sat fifty meters from the building where the pilots were being held. Commando units would blow up the tank, disable the telephones, and simultaneously blast through the wall that surrounded the facility. Grey and Mack, assisted by Resistance fighters were to enter first, secure the site, and start the men who were mobile moving towards the truck.

  Ten Nazi guards protected the prison’s perimeter. No one knew how many armed men were inside but they estimated four to six. With semi-automatic pistols, grenades, and a small machine gun each, Grey and Mack remained concealed in the trees, waiting for the signal.

  Mack eased up beside him “This has been too easy. I get nervous when things go too well. We’re due for a major screw-up, and this is the wrong place to have one.” He wiped his hand across his mouth. “I sure could use a cigarette right now.”

  Grey kept his binoculars trained on the compound and the shadowy figures of commandos as they wended their way to the targets. “Easy is good. I never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “You know,” Mack said with a soft chuckle, “that’s an American phrase.”

  “Where do you think you Yanks go it?”

  Movement in the prison gun-tower drew Grey’s attention. He focused the lens on the guard as he moved to the rail. He stopped, peered into the darkness, and raised his rifle.

  He’d spotted the commandos.

  They couldn’t wait for the fuel tank explosion. If the guards locked down the building or used the prisoners as hostages, the mission would fold like a paper fan. “Mack, we’re on. Let’s go!”

  Grey aimed his silenced Browning and fired. As the guard toppled from the tower, Grey pulled a grenade and tossed it at the wall’s base.

  Mack tossed another one and they punched through the holes into the muddy courtyard the two Frenchmen close behind. Machine gun blazing, Mack sprayed bullets as they rushed the compound. Explosives couldn’t be used inside. Too dangerous for the prisoners.

  The Nazi guards tried to take cover but were stopped by Mack’s gunfire. The team quickly eliminated the perimeter guards and blasted their way towards the entrance.

  An earth-shaking boom rocked the ground under their feet. Despite the steady rain, a giant fireball lit the sky. The clock was now ticking. No way could nearby Nazis miss the fireworks. The team had less than twenty minutes before German reinforcements would swarm in like flies on a dead horse.

  Grey dashed for the back entrance, taking one man with him. Mack and the other Frenchman rushed the front.

  The guards would try to reach the prisoners. Grey had to ensure that didn’t happen. He disabled the lock with one shot and slammed the door back, making it bounced against the interior wall. An empty hallway loomed before him with four doors on each side.

  The prison cells.

  He stormed to the door closest to the corridor entrance, blew the lock open, and went in. The fetid air of sewage and unwashed bodies almost took his breath away.

  Grey glanced behind him and scanned the room. A lone man lay on a filthy cot. Pain- clouded eyes turned on Grey. “I hope you’re on our side.”

  “No time for introductions. I’m with MI6. By God’s grace, my friends and I will have you out of here in the next ten minutes.”

  He turned his attention back to the hallway. Guards would be forced to pass this position to reach the prisoners and it wouldn’t take long. The blast from the back door would bring them running.

  His concerns were verified by the crack of gunfire from the entrance that moved towards the corridor where he and the prisoners were located.

  British Consul

  Cairo, Egypt

  A sense of urgency pushed Grace to work late into the night, and to rise early each morning. They were five days into the month and they hadn’t found the key to the Italian codes, but they were getting close.

  Cairo daily temperatures rose to a hundred degrees and dust seeped in everywhere, making her hot and irritable. The spicy food was often too hot to eat and she frequently by-passed lunch to sneak back to her room for a quick, tepid shower. The slight relief from the heat got her through the last half of the day.

  Daily rumors of Edwin Rommel’s advancement into the Egyptian desert kept everyone speculating on how long it would be before Rommel broke through British lines. Charles dutifully ran them through bugout drills every time a new invasion report surfaced. Despite the heat, barrels for fire were close by to destroy files if and when the word came for them to leave.

  Commonwealth forces had pushed the Italians back into Tunisia in late 1940 and kept them there, but the Nazis now tried to succeed where the Italians had failed. Charles was much encouraged by news that General Montgomery would soon lead the desert campaign. In the interim, British forces, knowing they didn’t have the troops or equipment to meet the “Desert Fox” head-on, delayed his advancement by destroying his supply lines.

  Grace kept a what-will-be-will-be attitude and stayed busy. It kept her mind off Grey. She hadn’t heard from him since leaving Bletchley Park. She’d hoped to pump Sam Norton for information, but he had dropped out of sight two days after she met him. Charles told her it wasn’t unusual. Sam would be around for a day or two, then leave without a word to anyone.

  About mid-morning, Charles walked into the decoding center, his mouth in a grim line. He handed her a mug of tea and pulled up a chair beside her desk. “Bad news from home.”

  Grace felt the blood drain from her face replaced by cold numbness. “What, Charles? Tell me!”

  He seemed to realize he’d frightened her and quickly place his hand over hers. “Nothing personal, my dear. It’s bad war news. The Bismarck sank the HMS Hood and badly damage HMS Prince of Wales. No information yet on how many lives were lost. But you can be sure our chaps are throwing everythi
ng we’ve got into chasing down and destroying that bloody monster.”

  Her pulse returned to normal and guilt flooded over her. She was so glad it wasn’t about Grey she forgot what the loss meant to England’s Royal Navy. “That’s horrible news. Those are two of our best ships. I pray others were close enough to pick up the survivors.”

  Charles nodded. “Guess we’ll get the bad news on our losses tomorrow.”

  “Any other news from London?” she asked.

  Charles squeezed her hand, a well of sadness filled his eyes. “No, my dear. There’s nothing on Lord Amherst, good or bad.”

  Grace hadn’t realized her anxiety was so obvious. She appreciated the kind man’s concern for her. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Of course.”

  She returned to work and stayed busy until after dinner, then took her tea and Stormy into the courtyard, for the quiet and cooler evening air. The area was unique from English gardens, with its high walls, palm trees, and exotic desert flowers. The fish-pond in the center was Stormy’s favorite place to watch the large golden fish make lazy passes in the cerulean water. He loved the warm desert temperatures and would hate to return to the cold of England.

  When the embassy became too hot at night, she often came here for the coolness and solitude, that gave her mind rest from the pressures of code-breaking, only to fill the time worrying about Grey.

  Heavy footsteps on the stone path made her glance at the heavy doors that lead from the embassy. She glanced up to see Sam Norton smiling down at her.

  “Hello, beautiful. I’ve been looking for you. Miss me?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” she said. “Have you heard anything more about the French mission?”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. I haven’t heard a word. But I do have a gift you’ll love.” He sat beside her on the bench and handed her a bound book with a plastic cover.

  “What’s this?”

  He lifted her chin with one finger and smiled into her eyes. “Only the key to the Italian codes for this month.”