Butcher and Bolt

by Will Belford

  Fortunately for her he was not quite as sadistic or perverse as Schmidt, the last German who had raped her when her home town of Roubaix fell to the Germans during the invasion of France. Where Schmidt had been sadistic, this man was unimaginative and cold, simply using her as a receptacle for the pent-up needs of his body. While he talked, while he groped her breasts, while he thrust himself into her, Yvette occupied her time visualising the ways she would kill him, given the chance. Instead, the plan was that he was to be taken to England for trial as a war criminal, and this would have to satisfy her thirst for vengeance.

  Once he was gone there would no doubt be an investigation, but there was nothing to connect Yvette to his disappearance, beyond the coincidence of his having been with her that night. Unless they tortured a confession out of her, or found something incriminating against her, there was no way for them to know how the British had taken him.

  She touched her belly, where the bump was still not yet noticeable, and wondered for the thousandth time whether the father was Joe Dean or the Nazi pig Schmidt. The thought brought on a wave of nausea, and she rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

  Joe Dean. What had happened to him she wondered? She’d had no choice but to send him away. If she’d known what was to come she’d have begged him to take him with her. No doubt he was dead, lost in the shambles of the retreat or drowned at Dunkirk. Even if he’d made it to England she knew her chances of ever seeing him again were next to zero. She couldn’t take the risk that the child might be Schmidt’s—there was no way she was going to bring his child into the world—but so far all the scalding baths and gin had had no effect. She’d even stopped eating for a week to try and starve it to death, but to no avail.

  The knock on the door roused her from her thoughts. Smoothing her dress, she walked to the door.

  ‘Alouette.’

  ‘Good evening Hauptsturmfuhrer,’ she said, smiling, ‘punctual as ever I see, please do come in.’

  ~ ~ ~

  Two hundred yards away, Joe and his team crouched in the shadows, observing the hotel. It was a grand two-story stone building with half a dozen windows along the top floor, and a dining room and bar on the ground floor. Along the front, a rose garden flanked a set of steps that led up to a porch illuminated by a lantern. The road curved around the hotel and disappeared into the woods beyond.

  ‘Smithy, do a quick recce up the road for me will you? Hillbilly, crawl over to the edge of the trees and keep an eye on the front of the hotel. Let me know if anyone arrives or leaves. Sully, you, me and Black will start moving towards the ambush point and set up. Any ideas anyone has for stopping the car without making any noise I’m all ears. Go.’

  Joe pondered his dilemma. In the original plan, the bomb for the radar station was to have been set off by a timer at 5am, by which time the MGB would have taken them off the beach with their captive. The ambush was to be carried out by shooting out the tires of the car, tying up the driver and seizing Richter. The argument was that on this isolated stretch of road, no-one would hear the shots, but Joe had never trusted that theory. With the timer now smashed, he had to nab the German silently and find a way to set off the explosives manually at the last minute, so they could reach the boat in time to make it off. He couldn’t risk any shooting—if they blew their cover they’d never get near the radar station—he needed a way to stop the car silently.

  ‘Let’s get down to the ambush site, at the double! Look for a fallen tree.’

  Joe and Privates Hill and Black hurried through the undergrowth. Within a minute they made out the white ribbon of the road gleaming palely in the moonlight. Crouched beside it they found Smythe and O’Sullivan.

  ‘Nothing further up the road sir,’ said Smythe, ‘all clear.’

  Just then they heard the roar of an engine approaching as it wove its way through the forest road towards the hotel.

  ‘Everyone down!’ yelled Joe, plunging into the undergrowth.

  In a glare of headlights a large black Mercedes raced past them and disappeared around the bend.

  ‘Goddamn it, the bastard’s ten minutes early,’ said Joe in exasperation, looking at his watch, ‘I thought Germans were supposed to be punctual?’

  ‘What now sir?’ asked Private Hill.

  What indeed thought Joe, his mind racing through the possibilities. He looked around and spotted a fallen elm, its pale bark gleaming in the moonlight.

  ‘Quickly now, drag that tree onto the road,’ he ordered.

  The five men grabbed the trunk and hauled it with much cursing out of the undergrowth and positioned it across the road.

  ‘Any way to get around that do you think?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Not unless he goes into the ditch sir,’ said Corporal Black, ‘and the way he was driving I doubt he’ll be wanting to do that. He’ll ‘ave to stop.’

  ‘Righto then, take your positions.’

  The four commandos disappeared into the ditches on each side of the road and waited, wondering what their lieutenant had in mind.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ethel Waters was singing ‘Stormy Weather’ on the gramophone as Richter popped the cork.

  ‘Some champagne mademoiselle?’

  ‘Merci.’

  Yvette was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, her left calf gently swaying up and down in time to the music. Sometimes she had to struggle to remember that her name was ‘Alouette’ to this foul German. She was not used to playing the whore, and these little deceits did not come easily. She supposed that aliases were something she would have to grow used to quickly if she were to survive while fighting the German occupation.

  ‘You will be disappointed to hear my dear,’ said Richter, taking a sip and eyeing Yvette’s stockinged leg appreciatively, ‘that our little tryst must come to an end tonight.’

  Oh God, does he know something? thought Yvette, turning pale at the thought.

  ‘Now now my dear Alouette, I didn’t mean to upset you, you’ve gone white as a sheet.’

  ‘It’s just, well, a shock Hauptsturmfuhrer, I’ve grown … accustomed to seeing you,’ she replied, taking a gulp of the wine.

  And no doubt accustomed to my ‘gifts’ of stockings, wine and food, you cheap French slut, thought Richter.

  ‘Ja, and me you, but that is war is it not? I have been promoted and my duty calls me elsewhere.’

  ‘Promoted?’ cried Yvette with mock enthusiasm, ‘congratulations mon cher! Where will you be going?’

  ‘Well that is all highly confidential of course, but I see no harm in telling a little girl like you about it. I will be in charge of a flak battalion in the Totenkopf Division, and if I know anything at all, we’ll be transferred east shortly.’

  ‘East? Why east? I thought England was supposed to be next?’

  ‘Ha, England, I think the Fuhrer may have bigger fish to fry than that pathetic little island. No, it will be Russia. This time next year I will be in Moscow, and we will have the whole continent at our feet. We might have some ‘domestic’ duties to complete in France first though.’

  ‘And so tonight is to be our last night? Must you leave so soon?’

  ‘I am ordered to Dresden, I leave tomorrow on the evening train. Now, enough talk. Tonight is your last chance to remind me why the French are supposed to be such famous lovers. I see no reason not to stay here until morning.’

  He walked over to the window, leant out and called out something in German that Yvette didn’t catch, then turned to her with an expectant expression.

  She lowered the straps on her dress and, shrugging it off her shoulders, made a silent prayer that the British came tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  Private Hans Sprenger started the engine of the Mercedes and turned the big car around. Now he had the rest of the night to himself he intended to make good use of it. Ten minutes down the road toward Boulogne sur Mer was his friend Johan Becker, one of a pioneer unit building bunkers designed to ho
use a battery of 380mm naval guns.

  ‘There’ll never be a better time to have a beer with him,’ said Hans to himself as he changed into second gear and headed south away from the hotel. The Hauptsturmfuhrer was obviously having a good time: he’d called out to him from the first-floor window.

  ‘I’ve decided to stay here tonight Hans, you’ve got the night off now, as long as you’re here at 0700 and not too hungover.’

  This was the first time Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter had done this, and Hans reckoned he knew why. There’d been a round of promotions in the wake of the French campaign, to reward the successful officers and replace the dead ones. The lieutenant commanding his platoon had won an Iron Cross Second Class during the fierce fighting against the British in Belgium, he was sure to be promoted. The Hauptsturmfuhrer himself had commanded several successful actions and was bound to be promoted too, although Hans suspected he owed this more to the gallantry of his men than to any innate skills as a combat leader. In all the actions they’d been involved in he’d never once seen Richter place himself in the line of fire. If he was being promoted then he’d most likely be transferred as well, to take over some new unit being formed out of raw recruits and beat them into shape. Richter was taking his last opportunity to enjoy the fruits of victory in France before returning to Germany and the dubious delights of the infantry training school. No bits of French tail eager to do your bidding there.

  As the forest closed in around the road, he accelerated into the corners, enjoying the power of the big machine in his hands. Swerving around a bend he saw that a tree had fallen across the road. Assessing the distance to the tree and the width of the gap at one end of it he realised he wouldn’t make it, and reluctantly jammed on the brakes.

  ‘Thank God he stopped,’ whispered Smythe as they watched the German step out of the car from the shadows of the ditch beside the road.

  ‘Go!’ whispered Joe to O’Sullivan and Black.

  The two men rose silently out of the ditch and sprinted across the short gap to where the German was struggling to drag the tree off the road. Black grabbed the man around the neck from behind, while O’Sullivan delivered a series of left and right hooks to his defenceless stomach, ignoring the muffled screams. Black dragged the still-struggling man into the ditch where Joe was waiting.

  ‘Achtung!’ he said in a violent whisper, then continued speaking in German.

  ‘Stop struggling and you’ll live. If you try to escape or make a sound, this man,’ Joe pointed at the grim-faced Black, ‘will slit your throat with that big knife he’s carrying, verstehen sie?’

  The German nodded furiously, his throat still in the remorseless grip of the big corporal.

  ‘Good work boys. HillBilly, get his uniform off, then put him out of sight, tie him up and gag him. Black, if he gives you any trouble, cut his throat, but only after you’ve got the uniform off okay?’

  ‘This is gettin’ to be a habit with you sir, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so,’ said Smythe, as Joe pulled on the uniform.

  ‘At least this time I’ll be driving in style, not riding a motorbike right through German lines Smithy,’ replied Joe.

  After getting caught behind the German advance in Belgium only months earlier, Joe and Smythe had killed two Wehrmacht soldiers riding a motorbike and sidecar combination, stolen their uniforms and ridden at high speed straight for the British lines. The ruse had worked, but had it failed they would both have faced a firing squad.

  ‘Be careful sir,’ said Smythe, ‘we know this Richter bloke is a murderous bugger. How are you goin’ to play it?’

  ‘If I can keep up the act until I get him in the back and reach here, so much the better. If not, I’ll just pull a gun on him. Now, let’s find out what time he’s expecting to be picked up.’

  Joe walked over to where the German sat tied up in his underwear. Once he had changed into the German’s uniform he squatted beside the man who was shivering from a combination of cold and fear, and removed the gag.

  ‘What time is the Hauptsturmfuhrer expecting you to return? And don’t try to mess with me, or Corporal Black here will take care of you.’

  The German eyed the big corporal nervously and said ‘drei and zwanzig heure.’

  ‘2300 hours. What do you reckon Smithy, should I be punctual, early or late?’

  ‘Never late sir, you might want to turn up a bit early, do a bit of a recce,’ said Smyth.

  ‘Car coming sir!’ called O’Sullivan.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Joe. What were the odds on a back-road like this?

  The clatter of a poorly-tuned diesel engine came through the trees, but no headlights, not even the tight, shuttered beams expected during a blackout.

  The commandos watched from the shadows as a small van came around the corner and slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid ramming the tree lying across the road.

  ‘Merde!’ cried the driver, rubbing the lump where his forehead had connected with the windscreen. He and another man jumped down and looked at the tree and the abandoned Mercedes.

  ‘What do you make of it Etienne?’ asked one man.

  ‘The driver must have walked back to the hotel to call his unit.’

  They tried to drag the tree off the road. After a minute they gave up and sat down on the trunk.

  ‘What now?’ said the driver.

  ‘We either drive around the long way and risk getting arrested, or we hope someone clears this away tomorrow and try again tomorrow night,’ replied the other man.

  ‘But the German is leaving tomorrow!’

  ‘Etienne, are you prepared to drive through Wissant after the curfew? It’s the only other way in.’

  ‘We could walk in.’

  ‘And how would we escape after we kill him?’

  ‘Unless someone alerts the Nazis we could run into the woods and get back here easily enough.’

  ‘It’s too risky, we need to be able to get away fast.’

  ‘Why don’t we take the Mercedes? If we have to kill the driver too, what of it? Where is the driver anyway?’

  Lying in the ditch, Smythe whispered in Joe’s ear.

  ‘What are these Frogs jabberin’ about sir?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, but it sounds like they’ve come to do the same thing we have Smithy. This road only leads to once place, Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter’s a popular man it would seem.’

  Joe couldn’t help wondering whether this was too much of a coincidence. Had the mysterious Mr Smith set up a second hit squad in case he and his men failed? Either way, he couldn’t risk these two amateurs blundering into the middle of his operation. He signalled to O’Sullivan and Black to circle around the rear of the van.

  ‘We’re going to take these two prisoner Smithy. Quietly.’

  ‘Righto sir.’

  ‘I’ll address them in French. When I start speaking, you and O’Sullivan stand up and cover them. Ready?’

  The men had made a decision and were heading to the back of the van when Joe spoke loudly in French.

  ‘You two men, stand still and put your hands up!’

  At the sound of his voice the driver jumped and the other man dived for cover behind the van.

  ‘You are covered by four rifles, the first man to move dies. Now stand up, put your hands up and walk this way. Smithy, search ‘em.’

  Neither man was armed, but when Joe walked out of the shadows in his German uniform they stared wild-eyed from the men in British uniforms to the German.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ asked the passenger.

  Close-up, Joe could see that he was a strongly-built man. Not particularly tall, but solid, with thick black hair and clear, honest features. He was young and his whole demeanour radiated defiance. The other man was older, his brown hair and moustache streaked with grey, but he carried himself with a natural air of authority.

  ‘You’ve blundered right into the middle of a British commando operation,’ s
aid Joe, ‘what the hell are you doing here at this hour?’

  ‘British?’ said the older man, eyeing the German uniform, ‘you look German to me.’

  ‘If I were German you’d be either dead or arrested by now,’ said Joe, ‘count your lucky stars we stopped you. From what you were saying it sounded like you were planning to assassinate a German at the hotel. That wouldn’t be Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter would it?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ the man gasped.

  On closer interrogation, the two Frenchmen turned out not to be the amateurs they first appeared. The older of the two, one Marcel Fabache, claimed to be an ex-officer, while the solid Etienne Rigal said he was a sergeant from an elite French mountain unit or chasseurs alpin.

  ‘M’sieur,’ remonstrated the older man, ‘you must let us help you. I am the man who has been in radio contact with your superiors. One of our resistance members is in the hotel with Richter, she has been preparing for this night for weeks.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘We had agreed that you would take Richter last night, but when you failed to show up we decided to kill Richter tomorrow night when our agent was expecting to see him again. Then a few hours ago we discovered that he is due to be transferred tomorrow and has left word that will be ‘occupied’ tonight. Tonight was our only chance, but time is short, he usually leaves at eleven and returns to Wissant.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’ asked Joe.

  ‘We have friends everywhere. My brother works as a clerk in the German headquarters. He saw the transfer order.’

  ‘Why are you so keen to neck this bloke anyway? We’ve got our reasons, what are yours?’

  The younger man’s face darkened, ‘He is a murderer! We have been forced to stand by as he and his men have shot innocent civilians and packed all the Jews onto trains. He has also taken to choosing local girls and forcing them come to his room at night. One of them is our agent and she is with him now. He has to die.’