by Leo Kessler
‘We could ram it,’ Schulze said thoughtfully, stroking his big unshaven chin. ‘This train carries some weight.’
‘But we could well derail the train and block the line by doing so,’ Janosz objected.
‘Yes, you’re right there.’ He thought for a few moments. What about using one of the coaches as a battering ram?’
Janosz considered the suggestion for a moment or two, then shook his head. ‘No good, Schulze. Firstly you can see how packed we all are in here. We need that coach. Secondly, an armoured coach like that would make all further progress impossible if it crashed into the barrier and remained across the lines. Our locomotive would not have the power to remove it and pull the rest of the train at the same time.’
Schulze grunted his agreement and for a few minutes the planners sank into a gloomy silence, as the heavy train chugged closer and closer to the bridge. But in the end it was neither of them who came up with the answer. It was Chink.
Shuddering and turning his green face away hastily from the window as he spotted yet another sheer slope falling hundreds of metres to the valley, he said: ‘Chink think van.’
‘Chink think van,’ Schulze mimicked him. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Van, he break up when hit barrier. Van, he can be steered. Van, he – ’
Janosz held up his skinny hand for silence. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘The van has its own steering, enough to keep it on the track at high speed.’
‘And it’s not as heavy as the coaches,’ Schulze agreed eagerly. ‘Now if I could get my boys in position on either side of that slope without the Popovs spotting them down below, we could steer the van into that barricade and in the confusion, my boys could fix the Popovs’ hash for them. Then Attila could bring the train down and we’d be off towards the German lines.’
‘But who go drive van?’ the Chink asked in all innocence.
Schulze beamed at him wickedly. Who you think go drive van? Chink and me!’
The Jewish refugees worked with a will clearing the deep frozen snow from the loop line at the top of the height. Behind them, Attila was defreezing the locked switch from the main to the branch line with a blow torch, while his fireman, shovelling mightily, was keeping up the steam pressure, knowing that at this height it could not be allowed to fall.
Schulze himself was busy with his handful of young men. He had divided them into two groups. Now clad in white silk sheets as snow camouflage, they waited expectantly. Schulze glanced hastily at his watch. ‘You’ve got about fifteen minutes. I want you around the bend and in position on both sides of the track by then. Once the van is within a couple of hundred metres of the barricade, you go in – hard.’
Moments later the men had disappeared round the bend and were advancing cautiously on the Soviet positions far below. The working party had cleared the snow and the points were free. The train could move in. Schulze grinned at Janosz, leaning broken-lunged on his shovel. ‘Harder than sitting in your parlour counting your money, ain’t it, Yid?’
Now things moved swiftly. Attila drove the train into the loop and uncoupled the engine. He backed down the track and came up at the rear of the little guards van. Swiftly he and his fireman uncoupled it from the train, coupled it up to his engine and drew it out of the loop on to the main line. With a clatter of driving wheels on the steep icy rails, Attila pushed the van almost to the top of the slope. There he and the fireman again uncoupled the van. ‘I’ll shunt you beyond the height just where the slow curve begins, After that you’re on your own. The best of luck.’ He said the final words as if they were the last he would ever address to the two SS men.
Schulze dismissed him, very businesslike now. ‘All right, Chink, you stand by the door all the time, savvy?’ Chink, his face green already, could not answer. He nodded his head fearfully. ‘It’s your job to see that it stays wide open, whatever happens. When I give the word you jump. Because if you don’t, I’m going to give you a big kick up your yellow ass, which will send you out all right – then I’m coming after you.’
Behind them the locomotive’s wheels clattered on the slope and it began to take the strain. Slowly they edged their way towards the bend. Schulze gulped and seized the brass handle of the steering wheel to the rear of the van. This was it!
The van rolled forward very slowly. Not more than ten kilometres an hour, Schulze judged. The rockwall of the bend loomed ever larger. To their right, the mountain fell away in a sheer drop. Schulze tightened his grip on the brass handled wheel.
And then they were around the bend. Far below Schulze caught a glimpse of a few dark houses and some tiny figures plodding stolidly through the deep snow. The barrier guards. He concentrated his attention on the van which was gathering speed. Schulze licked suddenly dry lips and felt the wheel shiver violently in his sweating grip. He held on desperately, fighting with all his great strength to keep the van on the track.
Now the countryside was hissing past in a crazy white and green blur. Schulze leaned forward and with all his strength applied the brake. Blue angry sparks flew from the wheels – so high that he could see them flashing by the open door. Nothing happened! He stared at the wild blur outside in horror. He had to slow the thing before the barrier so that they could jump to safety!
‘STOP, YOU BASTARD!’ Schulze screamed and thudded his shoulder against the brake with the last of his strength. The screech of the locked wheels reached a terrifying pitch. It seemed as if death itself was rushing remorselessly towards them. Then when it appeared the van would never brake, the terrible bedlam of screeching metal diminished. The blur steadied to a series of identifiable objects. Schulze waited no longer. He raised his big boot and planted a tremendous kick in Chink’s baggy pants. He screamed and went sailing out into the snow.
Schulze raised his boot once more and smashed it against the brake. As the van started to accelerate again, he dived full length through the door. He landed heavily in the deep snow, all breath knocked from his body. Below little, white-clad figures were running clumsily through the heavy snow on both sides of the track towards the dark barricade. They were his men and the surprised Russians had still not reacted, though they were now doubling towards their positions.
Just as the first of them swung themselves behind the machine-guns, tearing them round to face the attackers, the van smashed full tilt into the barricade. There was the great echoing sound of metal striking metal, followed an instant later by the detonation of the High Explosives with which Schulze had packed the front of the van as an afterthought. Next moment the barricade turned to a mass of flying debris, thick black smoke, and falling bodies. Schulze raised himself and started to look for Chink. The path was open again.
FOUR
The armoured train rolled to a stop in the shattered little station. Behind it, the Russian fire which had pursued the train through no-man’s land started to peter out. Cautiously the infantry of a second-class Luftwaffe field division guarding that part of the line raised their heads from their positions in the ruins to stare at the train. It was decorated with the crossed flags of Germany and Hungary on the front of the locomotive, and both sides of the leading coach bore a large swastika.
The elderly Captain, a comb-out from the Luftwaffe Ministry, Berlin, watched as the door of the leading coach opened. Two young SS troopers – he could tell they were SS from their camouflaged overalls – sprang out smartly and took up their positions, machine-pistols at the alert. They were followed by another who unrolled – of all things – a strip of red carpet. A fourth appeared. A giant of a man, an NCO obviously, his barrel chest covered with decorations. He took up his position facing the door, waiting expectantly.
The Captain made a decision. The train was all right, and judging from the SS men, it contained someone of importance. He thrust his pistol into its holster and snapped: ‘All right on your feet and follow me.’ Reluctantly his collection of frightened old men and boys obeyed his command.
On the platform, t
he three SS men had crashed their boots down on the battle-littered concrete and sprung rigidly to attention, as if the Führer himself were going to make an appearance at any moment.
The figure who emerged was small and old and very wrinkled, with a dark, hook-nosed face that the captain took to be Hungarian. He was dressed in a light blue uniform, his skinny chest almost covered in decorations, on both sides of the tunic. For no apparent reason as he stepped on to the red carpet, he touched his hand to his high, shiny-peaked cap, with that casual manner of saluting which always, in the Captain’s experience, indicated a very high-ranking officer.
‘Heil Hitler!’ the three SS men bellowed in unison, as if they were on guard outside the Berlin Reich Chancellory and Hitler himself had just appeared. ‘Heil Hitler, Herr Generalfeldmarschall!’
‘Field-Marshal!’ Captain Blomberg of the 4th Luftwaffe Field Division could hardly believe his ears. A Field-Marshal in his section of the front. In the last four weeks, the highest ranking visitor he had received in this remote part of rural Hungary had been the divisional surgeon making inquiries about his company’s VD incidence. He started to walk towards the train, from which a group of civilians were now beginning to descend.
The big SS NCO heard the sound of his boots. He swung round and viewed the scruffy old company of Luftwaffe soldiers coming out of the ruins, weapons now slung over their bent shoulders. ‘Officer in charge?’ he bellowed.
‘Here,’ Blomberg heard himself saying, like a schoolboy reporting at the morning roll-call. ‘Here Sergeant-Major.’ He felt himself flushing even as he said the words. ‘Blomberg is my name – Captain Blomberg.’
‘Over here, Captain Blomberg,’ the big NCO barked. Blomberg marched forward and clicking his heels together in his best imitation of the elegant staff officers at the Ministry, he saluted.
The Field-Marshal acknowledged his salute. ‘Report?’ he said in excellent German.
‘Captain Blomberg, Commander of 8th Company, 1st Regiment, Fourth Luftwaffe Field Division. Four men sick, one man wounded, one hundred and thirty effectives, Field-Marshal,’ he barked, looking at some distant object behind the skinny Hungarian’s right shoulder in the approved fashion.
‘Thank you, Captain Blomberg,’ the Field-Marshal said and held out his wrinkled hand graciously. ‘My name is Jerzcy von Stuhlweissenburg. I am responsible for bringing out the last Hungarian cabinet.’ He extended a hand towards the under sized, middle-aged, somewhat shabbily dressed civilians standing a little uneasily behind him on the platform. Captain Blomberg was overwhelmed. ‘But how. . . what . . . why?’ He seemed unable to get the questions out.
‘We have escaped from Budapest at the risk of our lives and with the help of your brave SS soldiers.’ He indicated the massive NCO, who towered above the civilians and the shabby Luftwaffe soldiers. ‘Now we are tired. We need rest and food – and help.’ With a spontaneous gesture, he unpinned one of the myriad decorations on his skinny chest, pinned it on Captain Blomberg’s unadorned tunic. ‘The Star of St Stefan, First class, Captain,’ he announced. ‘It is yours in anticipation of the help you will give us.’
‘Anything that is within my power, Herr Generalfeldmarschall,’ Blomberg snapped, already feeling several centimetres taller.
‘Good,’ the Field Marshal said graciously. ‘Let us get my people under cover. We shall of course need hot food. Then I shall want you to telephone all along the route we will be taking to Berchtesgaden – ’
‘Oh, my God,’ Blomberg said to himself, ‘they’re on their way to see the Führer.’
‘And ensure that we have no difficulties with petty officialdom. We have wasted enough time as it is – and time is of the essence, is it not, Captain?’
‘Of course, Field-Marshal,’ Blomberg agreed hastily. ‘But please follow me, if you would be so kind.’
As he swept past the SS men, who were standing rigidly to attention, the Field-Marshal winked solemnly at Sergeant-Major Schulze, whose face was full of admiration. They had pulled it off. They were through the German line.
That long afternoon, while the Luftwaffe men, harassed by an anxious Blomberg, prepared a gigantic pea-soup, Schulze and Janosz prepared the rest of their route into Austria.
‘From Mencsel’ Janosz explained, ‘the direct route leads to Vienna. But that is too dangerous. There are too many unpleasant questions that could be asked and we don’t want that, do we?’
Schulze agreed. The closer they came to the Reich, the more he was becoming aware of the danger. These desperate days, the authorities were quick to act once the ‘head-hunters’ of the military police picked up a deserter: it was against a wall and a quick burst of machine-gun fire. Courts-martial were looked on as a waste of time.
‘That uniformed fool will fix up our route to Berchtesgaden via Vienna. Once he has done that we shall switch direction at Bratislava. From there we will bear south-west and enter Austria in the Burgenland area – here. It is a country of little villages, few towns and a poor populace, who are not immune – ’
‘To Christian charity,’ Schulze beat him to it.
‘Yes, money will make our way easier,’ Janosz agreed. ‘Now, I intend that we move on to the secondary line – here – and cross the Austrian frontier at the small village of Pamhagen. If we are lucky, we shall only have to contend with the single frontier guard who is also the local gendarme and undertaker.’
Schulze could guess that Janosz had been engaged in this business of smuggling people – Jews most likely – across frontiers for a long time now. In 1938 and 1939 there had probably been many Austrian and German Jews he had helped across that lonely frontier.
‘What about us after that?’ he asked instead.
‘You could go with us the whole way.’
‘To Palestine?’ Schulze cried.
‘You are a useful man. We of the Hagannah will have need of you in the days to come.’
‘What and have my dick shortened like a Yid? No thank you, Janosz.’ He paused. ‘But it’s a long way back to Hamburg and the head hunters are everywhere in Germany today.’
‘I shall help you, if that is your wish.’
‘You mean you’ve got some of these Hagannah Yids of yours in Germany, too?’ Schulze asked incredulously.
‘Yes. We have. We are everywhere.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Once the people have eaten and the train has been refuelled, we shall leave. I don’t want to spend a night so close to the frontline. One never knows when the Russians might attack.’
Schulze rose and slung his machine-pistol. ‘All right, Field-Marshal, let’s go and see if the Hungarian cabinet have finished stuffing their guts with pea soup and sausage yet.’
FIVE
The jump in the blinding snowstorm had been a catastrophe. Suslov had warned his Grey Eagles of the danger in advance, but not one of them had backed down. Revenge for their murdered comrades overrode all other considerations. At ground level the wind velocity had been forecast as seven metres per second. Instead it turned out to be twice that speed. The casualties had been appalling. Man after man had had his chute caught by the howling wind, fought desperately to empty the air out of it, and been borne away across the white waste never to be seen again.
By dawn Suslov had collected exactly one hundred survivors and of that pathetic handful of men some twelve were seriously injured and had to be left behind – at their own request. But that was not all. As soon as the snow had ceased to fall and he had been able to orientate himself, he had found that instead of being well inside the Soviet lines in Hungary, he was twenty kilometres behind the German front!
The Grey Eagles had been cut off behind the Fritzes’ line often enough in the past. What concerned Suslov more was that he no longer knew which direction the runaway train was taking inside the German front.
Fortunately the sole surviving radio operator had managed to pick up Tolbuchin’s message that ‘object X’ (as he put it so carefully) had broken through the Soviet front at Mencsel. Suslov did some qu
ick map work. There was no branch line leading off either north or south from the track which ran westwards from Mencsel to Bratislava. The line did not divide until the Austrian border where branches were needed to deploy as many troops as possible quickly along the frontier.
It seemed that he could be sure that the missing train was continuing in the direction of Bratislava. He must stop them somewhere along that line. But where? The train’s speed would have to be greatly reduced. It had to be somewhere where he could spring an ambush. After all, his men were armed with nothing heavier than automatic pistols.
One hour after receiving Tolbuchin’s message, he found the ideal spot. It was some thirty kilometres to the east of Bratislava. A small hamlet, at the foot of a very steep ascent, where, according to his detailed military map, there was a watering and fuelling stop as required by any train approaching the height. His mind made up, he had ordered a speed march to the little, lonely railway hamlet. His men had performed splendidly, covering the twelve kilometres in two hours, despite the snow. The place had been just what he wanted. The railway track ran through a steep gully beyond the collection of wooden cottages and tiny station which made up the hamlet and then began to climb rapidly. On one side the track was bordered by an almost vertical cliff; on the other, the shallow slope was strewn with snow-covered rocks, deposited there in the previous century by the engineers who had blasted a passage through the mountain. They would make ideal cover for the bulk of his force.
The Eagles had killed the handful of inhabitants as a matter of routine; they could not afford any betrayal so far behind the enemy lines. The only man Suslov spared was the ancient, ashen-faced station-master. Suslov needed him to stop the armoured train.
His plan was complete. Up among the rocks above the hamlet, be had sixty men in position, with the remainder hidden about the rickety wooden station, ready and alert. Satisfied he turned to Schmitt, a Volga German, and said idly: ‘Ask him what they call this place?’ He jerked a careless thumb at the trembling station-master.