Butcher and Bolt

by Will Belford

  ‘Well he’s not dying tonight, but he’s leaving town tomorrow alright, and not for Germany. My orders are to take him to England; there’s a boat coming for us at 0500. You can’t help me with him. I’m sorry, the best thing you can do is go home without drawing attention to yourselves. The last thing I need is a bunch of Germans patrolling around here because they found you two out after curfew.’

  ‘But m’sieu …’ remonstrated the older man.

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Joe, the blood singing in his ears, ‘turn that bloody van around and get out of here, now!’

  ~ ~ ~

  ‘How do I look?’ asked Joe a few hours later, as he put on the German’s cap and straightened the shirt.

  Smythe looked him up and down and brushed some leaves off the lieutenant’s elbow.

  ‘It’s not exactly a perfect fit sir, sleeves and pants are a bit short, but if you keep out of the light you should pass muster.’

  ‘Alright men, remember, when I come back I’ll get out to move the tree. At that point you come out and nab Richter. We need him alive, got it?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ came the small chorus of voices.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this alone sir?’ asked Smythe, ‘seems like a bit of an unnecessary risk is all. Why don’t we all just storm the hotel?’

  ‘And if we accidentally kill some French civilians, what then?’ asked Joe, ‘I reckon this way’s the simplest plan Smithy and the simplest plan is always the best. I’ll return in ten minutes, be ready to move to the radar station.’

  Joe got into the Mercedes, did a three-point turn and took the car back up the road towards the hotel.

  Chapter Nine

  Pulling into the driveway in front of the hotel, Joe checked himself in the rearview mirror. The German’s forage cap was a bit small for him, but he’d stuck it at a rakish angle low over his forehead and it looked good enough.

  Expecting to find Richter waiting for him, Joe was surprised to see that the foyer was empty. He rang the bell on the concierge desk and a fat balding man with a thin comb-over and bushy moustaches came out from the adjoining office.

  ‘You have come for the Colonel, non? He has not come down yet, perhaps you would like to wait?’

  ‘Nein,’ replied Joe, ‘was ist der Zimmernummer?’

  ‘Quatre,’ he replied, pointing up the stairs, ‘but I doubt he wants to be disturbed.’

  Joe grunted in reply and headed for the staircase.

  Inside room Four, Yvette squeezed the douche bag and flushed Richter’s revolting, sticky discharge down the toilet. Wiping herself off carefully, she stood and looked in the mirror. Her hair was all over the place: the bastard had forced her to kneel on the floor so he could take her like a dog. He liked to grab her long hair and pull her head back, and of course, she had to make all the appropriate noises or he wasn’t satisfied. So she submitted, and tried to make herself sound convincing as she endured the seemingly interminable pounding that lasted only a few minutes, but drove deep into her soul.

  She re-applied some lipstick and quickly tied her hair into two side-plaits. She knew from experience that, when he arrived, Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter expected her to embody the cliché of the ‘French whore’ with her hair long and her skirts short, but that once he’d spent himself, he felt both dominant and a little regretful, and he preferred the slut he’d just raped to turn into a demure and honest young girl who was both innocent and grateful that a German officer should choose her as his concubine.

  God she hated this man. She mused for a moment about the ways in which she would torture him before he died, but…

  ‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’

  The knock on the door was not that loud, but in the silence of the hotel it sounded like gunshots.

  ‘Rap Rap Rap’ came the knock again, a little more discreetly.

  Yvette took a moment to settle herself, then crossed the room and opened the door.

  In the corridor, was a German who was Joe’s doppelganger. As she stared in surprise, the blood drained from the man’s face and a strangled whisper came from his throat.

  ‘Yvette?’

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Was ist?’ called Richer from the bed.

  Joe choked down the lump in his throat and pulled himself together, still staring at Yvette with wide eyes.

  ‘Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter,’ he said in German, ‘my name is Corporal Muller, I’m sorry to tell you that you have received an advance order. You are required in Paris at 0700 hours.’

  ‘Paris? Was?’ cried Richter, leaping from the bed, ‘But where is Hans, my driver?’

  ‘We have not been able to locate him sir, he was expected at the barracks several hours ago but he did not arrive, so I have been sent to collect you. I have a car waiting outside.’

  ‘Very well,’ grumbled Richter, reaching for his trousers, ‘ein moment.’

  ‘Naturlich Hauptsturmfuhrer,’ said Joe from the corridor. Stepping away from the door he gave Yvette a searching look and made his way downstairs.

  Stepping back into the bathroom, Yvette stared at her deathly pale reflection. Was this a ruse? Was the man outside the door really Joe? No, it was too fantastic, it had to be a coincidence; the British didn’t have the imagination to plan something so unlikely, surely? But he had said her name! For a few seconds she stared at herself in utter confusion, then, remembering that she had to maintain her cover for just a few minutes longer, she opened the door and stepped back into the room.

  Richter had his shirt and pants on and was sitting on the bed struggling with a jackboot. He looked harried and she thought she’d never seen him so vulnerable; she had to smother the urge to grab a hatpin from the dresser and drive it into his throat.

  ‘Alouette, I am called away early after all it would seem. Help me with this boot will you?’

  As she knelt beside the bed and pulled the jackboot up his calf, he reached down and held her plaits in both hands.

  ‘Aah, my sweet Alouette, I shall miss our nights together, but unfortunately duty calls at the oddest hours. Here, take this as a parting gift.’

  Donning his jacket, the Nazi dipped his hand in a pocket and pulled out a gold bangle.

  ‘I was intending to give it to you in the morning over breakfast, but now will have to do.’

  ‘Thank you Hauptsturmfuhrer, it’s beautiful,’ whispered Yvette.

  ‘Ja, well, enjoy it, and now it is goodbye, ja?’ He pulled her up from the floor and squeezed both of her breasts fiercely.

  ‘Ach, I shall miss these,’ then he turned and, without a backward glance, strode to the door and stepped into the corridor.

  As the Hauptsturmfuhrer closed the door behind him, Yvette sank to the floor. The gleam of gold in the lamplight drew her eye to her left hand where she still clutched the bangle. Holding it up to the light she saw an inscription carved into the inside: ‘Love always. Elijah.’

  She hurled the bangle across the room where it clattered against the bar heater and settled on the floorboards, spinning ever-faster until it fell and lay silent.

  Joe. Joe. He had said her name, it was him. She thought he was gone forever, had tried night after night to forget him, and here he was on her doorstep.

  Joe already had the engine running when Richter climbed into the back seat. He engaged first and moved off down the driveway, the headlights illuminating the entrance to the dark tunnel of trees that enclosed the road.

  Richter drummed his fingers on the window sill.

  ‘This order,’ he said, ‘who sent you to deliver it? Do you have it with you?’

  Joe cursed inwardly, this was precisely the sort of question he wasn’t prepared to answer. He pushed his foot on the throttle and pretended not to hear.

  ‘Corporal! I asked you a question!’

  ‘Enschuldigung sie bitte sir, I didn’t quite hear you over the engine.’

  ‘Who sent you to pick me up?’

  Joe searched for an a
nswer, names were no use, he’d see through that right away.

  ‘The Obergruppenfuhrer sir.’

  ‘Schwarze? But he’s supposed to be in Essen.’

  ‘Yes sir, the order came by telephone.’

  ‘Verdammt! Why Paris? I was told Dresden.’

  ‘I don’t know sir, I was just instructed to come and collect you.’

  The ambush site was close now, only a few hundred metres to go. He could hear Richter’s fingers drumming louder.

  ‘Corporal,’ said Richter, ‘take me back to the hotel, I must make a phone call to confirm this.’

  Joe realised he’d blown it and braked abruptly, then reached down and lifted the Webley revolver that lay concealed under his left leg. He pointed it at the German.

  ‘Put your hands up, now!’

  ‘Was ist?’ cried Richter in surprise.

  ‘Hande hoch!’ screamed Joe, cocking the hammer.

  Richter raised his hands slowly.

  ‘Now sit there and keep your hands up, don’t try to run or I’ll shoot you like a dog, verstehen sie?’

  ‘Ja, ich verstehen,’ replied Richter.

  Keeping one eye on the German, Joe unlatched his door, pushed it open with his leg and leapt out, retraining his gun on the German.

  ‘Get out of the car, keep your hands up.’

  ‘Now, very slowly, remove your pistol and drop it. Remember if you try anything I’ll shoot you dead.’

  Richter complied.

  ‘Now start walking, that way,’ said Joe indicating the road with a nod.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Richter as they walked into the darkness.

  ‘No questions! Move!’ snapped Joe.

  The men were expecting a car. He had to alert them somehow or he risked both of them being shot. He began whistling ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary.’

  After a few minutes of walking the challenge came in English.

  ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Lieutenant Dean and prisoner,’ said Joe, but even as the words left his mouth the German made a break to the left and dashed towards the shadows of the woods.

  ‘To me men,’ yelled Joe. He turned. He had a clear shot. He steadied himself to fire, then lowered the gun. He wasn’t here to kill the man. He ran into the woods.

  A cloud had covered the moon, and inside the wood it was black. Joe heard a crack ahead and to his left and headed in that direction.

  ‘Let’s hope he keeps moving,’ he thought to himself, ‘if he goes to ground here we’ll never find him.’

  A rustle of leaves ahead and Joe stopped and listened. What would he do in Richter’s place? he wondered. Find a nice dark hole and hope the searchers gave up before dawn? Or keep moving, risking making enough noise to bring the hounds down on him?

  As he was musing on this question and listening intently, the clouds drifted away and the moonlight seeped into the woods, casting a dim luminescence over the twisted trunks and branches of the trees. Still, he could see nothing moving.

  ‘Dammit!’ he cursed, ‘where is the bastard?’

  An hour of fruitless stumbling about later, Joe called to his men.

  ‘It’s nearly 2am. I reckon we’ve lost him,’ he said as he changed back into his British uniform. ‘We’ll have to forget about Richter and try to salvage something from the mission. If we’re going to lay these charges and make the boat we’ll have to move now. Sergeant Smythe, I want you to note that I take full responsibility for the failure to achieve the primary objective of the mission. Gather the men.’

  ‘What about the driver sir?’ asked Black.

  ‘Tie him to a tree near the road. They’ll find him soon enough. Here’s his uniform. Let’s move.’

  Chapter Ten

  3am. The charges were all in place around the base of the radar station’s tower. After spending an hour closing in on the station from three sides, watching for guards, the commandos had realised that whatever garrison might be guarding this particular piece of the coast was not expecting anything more alarming that night than a sudden shower from the Channel.

  Joe lay in the darkness beside the concrete bulk of the bunker. The metal superstructure of the radar gantry towered overhead and the shadows the moon cast through its criss-crossed beams made a chessboard of the grass behind him.

  The sole guard they’d encountered lay nearby, his throat cut from ear-to-ear by Black’s razor-sharp combat knife. The man had taken his time dying, and they were certain that the rest of the garrison would hear his gurgling cries, however much they tried to muffle them, but no-one had come.

  In just five minutes of silent, efficient work, the commandos had laid their charges at the vulnerable points of the pylons and run the wires to Joe’s hiding place. This was little more than a scrape in the ground, as the Germans had cleared all the undergrowth around the station for a distance of 50 yards in every direction.

  Joe took the two wires and connected one to the positive pole of the battery.

  ‘Smithy, you understand your orders if I’m not there by exactly 5am?’

  ‘Yes sir, but I can’t say I like them,’ said Smythe miserably.

  ‘Never mind that. I lost Richter hours ago, so there’ll be Germans all over the place here soon. Get going. I’ll see you at the foot of the cliff in less than two hours. And take this, when you make it to Dover, call that number and ask for Major Benjamin. He’ll come and take your report.’

  Joe handed Smythe a slip of paper with a phone number on it. The men moved off silently into the dark, leaving Joe clutching the car battery. He realised he was holding it with a grip of iron and loosed his hand, taking a few deep breaths.

  He cursed himself for the hundredth time for not keeping a closer eye on Richter. Picking a stone out from beneath his hip bone, he tried to make himself comfortable. The radioactive dials on his watch showed 3.11. At exactly 0445 he would blow the charges and bolt for the cliff. To do it earlier would mean he and his men would have to wait too long for the MGB that was due to arrive at 0500. In the meantime, his thoughts dwelt on Yvette. Surely she’d recognised him? Even if she had, what good did it do them? Three hours from now he’d be back in Dover, separated from her by twenty-odd miles of the most dangerous stretch of water in the world. Unless he stayed here. But that was madness, desertion if nothing else, and if he could somehow find her without being captured, how could he be sure she’d even want to see him again? After the way they had parted the last time, she could be forgiven for thinking him a coward. He allowed these thoughts to torture him until his watch showed 0430, when suddenly he heard voices coming from the radar station.

  A German came out of the steel door and called out ‘Heinrich? Heinrich? Wo sind sie?’

  Heinrich was in no condition to reply, and the man climbed up the concrete steps to the watchpost, which was not only empty, but splattered with blood. He stared about him in disbelief, then clattered down the stairs yelling ‘Achtung!’Achtung!’

  ‘Bugger the bloody bastard,’ muttered Joe, and grasping the second wire, touched it to the negative pole of the battery.

  The charges exploded with a flash and a roar, and the mast of the radar station tottered, swayed for a second, then toppled over and crashed into the field with a rending shriek. Joe didn’t wait to see if the garrison had survived, he grabbed his rifle and bolted across the field towards the cliff edge.

  Behind him, the stunned Germans were still clawing their way out of the rubble into the smoke when the tank of diesel fuel for the backup generator, punctured by a chunk of flying concrete, took fire and exploded. A bright yellow plume leapt into the air and liquid flame fell in all directions, lighting up the night sky and setting ablaze the wooden superstructure of the observation platform.

  Joe had just reached the cover of the undergrowth when the flames took hold and the whole cleared field became illuminated. He could see the figures of the German soldiers standing away from the blaze, shielding their eyes—ther
e was nothing they could do to quell the flames—then he turned seaward and felt the sudden and unexpected jarring impact of a fist on his chin.

  Stumbling back in shock, he looked up to see the enraged face of Haupsturmfuhrer Richter, coming in to throw another punch, and he raised his arm to shield himself. Ineffectually, as the German swung with full force into the side of his head.

  The pain seemed to split his head open, and Joe’s eyes swam with tears, but he’d been hit like this before by his instructors, and his training took over. He sidestepped as the German came in with an uppercut that would have broken his jaw had it connected, and using the man’s momentum, tripped him up, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

  ‘Hilfe! Hilfe!’ screamed the man, as Joe dropped a knee into his back and pinioned his left arm. The garrison troops were only fifty yards away, and hearing Richter’s cries for help they came at a run.

  Outnumbered five to one, Joe gave Richter a final kick in the side of the head for luck, and bolted for the cliff.

  ~ ~ ~

  Down on the beach, Smythe looked at his watch for the thousandth time. In the greyness of early dawn the MGB was clearly visible offshore, and the inflatable boat was making its way unsteadily towards them.

  Still no sign of Joe. They’d all heard the explosion clearly enough, but the lieutenant had yet to materialise.

  A big swell was running and the tide was high. The sailors on the little boat heaved-to outside the point where the waves began to crest and crash into the shingle.

  ‘We can’t come in any further,’ hailed one of them through a speaking trumpet, ‘you’ll have to swim out to us!’

  ‘Okay boys,’ said Smythe, ‘dump all your gear and let’s go. Tie a rope around Gregson, we’ll have to pull him out with us.’

  The men divested themselves of rifles, helmets, bayonets, backpacks and webbing, dumping them in a heap on the shingle. Those who had rifles pulled the bolts and tossed them into the icy water before wading in after them.