Newmont gave Dalton a thumbs-up, then lifted the binoculars. Sweat formed on his brow in spite of the chill air. He zeroed in on a second floor window, which remained black for a few seconds, then suddenly lit with a soft glow, barely visible. The light flickered off and on three times, finally winking out for good. It was Dr. Gautier’s signal that he was ready for the raid. In a few minutes all teams around the perimeter would cut their way through the barbed wire encircling the facility and penetrate the three entry points of the villa using hand-drawn floor plans supplied by the Resistance.
From deep within the bowels of the dark stone fortress a mournful cry rose. Newmont shivered as an icy chill ran through him.
The scientists and small force of Germans were housed in the right wing of the villa. The lower level contained a large kitchen, a banquet-size dining room, and a den converted into the commandant’s office. Two living rooms were transformed into an armory and communications room. The upper level contained eight sleeping quarters, one of them housing Dr. Gautier and his assistant, Maurice Durand. Their room was at the end of a hallway on the right, guarded by a sentry. The left portion of the villa was an attached courtyard surrounded by an eight-foot-high stone wall. A ten-foot-wide covered walkway ringed the courtyard just inside the wall. A few enclosed areas stood along the walkway: a carpenter and mason’s supply room, a blacksmith’s workshop, and a few storage rooms. A section of corridor was set up as two large prison cells. Wall sconces provided dim puddles of light every ten feet.
Newmont had divided his force into six teams. He, Dalton, and Vincent made up the command team.
Jimmy Santora, Fred Wilkins, and Michel, a Resistance fighter, made up Team One. Their job was to go through the courtyard entrance and move toward the main building.
Bull Heinemann, Danny Jennings, Private First Class David Adler, and a Frenchman named Renaurd, made up Team Two. They would secure the front entrance with assistance from Team Three: Paddy O’Connell, Private First Class Tony Giordano, and Philippe, a Resistance fighter. Once inside, Team Three would take the upper level and retrieve the scientists while Team Two secured the lower level and disabled all communications in and out of the villa.
Team Four contained only one commando, Private First Class Joe Kowalski, and a pair of Frenchmen, Pierre and Henri. They would secure the villa’s rear entrance.
Marcel and Andre, the final French resistance fighters, made up Team Five, which would secure the adjacent grass landing strip to make sure no Germans reached it. The only things at the landing strip were a Kübelwagen, a Leichter Panzerspähwagen SdKfz. 222, and a Junkers Ju 52/3mg7e airplane. The Kübelwagen and Junkers were unarmed, but the SdKfz. 222 carried a 2 cm KwK 30 L/55 autocannon and a 7.92mm MG34 machine gun. If the enemy got to the SdKfz. 222 and its autocannon, it could wreak havoc with the commando force.
There was a muffled thud as the German sentry dropped to the ground. Jimmy Santora released the garrote from the dead man’s neck when the body stopped twitching. He had waited patiently in the shadows near the spot where the sentry repeatedly ended his patrol and turned around.
Fred Wilkins moved out of the shadows, his Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) at the ready. Santora picked up the MP40 from the ground where the German had dropped it, placed the weapon on the German’s chest, and motioned for their Resistance team member to get the body out of sight. Wilkins tossed Santora his Thompson, then moved toward the entrance. Wilkins eased open the heavy oak door leading into the courtyard.
Michel dragged the body away, dumping it behind a hedgerow. The Frenchman unslung his old German Mauser Kar 98K bolt action rifle and laid it on the ground near the body. He picked up the MP40 submachine gun from the dead man’s chest, unhooked the German’s ammunition belt with the six thirty-two-round box magazines for the MP40 attached to it, and draped it over his shoulder. He held the weapon up like a valuable prize. With a dingy nicotine-stained grin, he whispered, “Merci pour la belle arme, Nazi cochon.”
Santora eased through the doorway and hurried down the twenty-foot-long walkway, leaning against the damp stone wall just before a bend in the corridor where he waited for Wilkins to catch up. Michel’s orders were to watch the door they had just passed through, making sure there was no attack from behind. Wilkins stood next to Santora, his BAR against his chest, while Santora checked his floor plan.
Santora motioned to the right. Wilkins swung around the corner, his weapon snapping down, pointing forward, ready to clear the area with deadly fire if necessary. He froze, then backed up on uncertain feet while making the sign of the cross, and bumped into Santora who had turned the corner to follow him. On his right were two large prison cells with thick rusty bars. In one of the cells stood three of the biggest two-legged creatures Wilkins had ever seen. Matted fur covered their muscular bodies, dangerously long teeth protruded from their mouths. And they were glaring at Wilkins with impossibly huge eyes.
The Americans and Frenchmen crawled on either side of a dirt path toward an ornate archway set in a low stone wall that wrapped around the villa. Luckily, the Germans had determined there were no threats this far behind their lines, and saw no reason to cut down the ornamental bushes and shrubs just outside the wall. Instead, they installed a barrier of barbed wire. Beyond was a stone path forty feet long stretching through a lush garden and ending at the front entrance to the villa. The archway entrance was patrolled by two German sentries. Bull Heinemann used the dense foliage for cover and moved into position on the left side of the path with Danny Jennings, David Adler, and Renaurd. Mirroring their approach on the right were Paddy O’Connell, Tony Giordano, and Philippe.
Jennings and Giordano carried De Lisle Commando carbines, special purpose British weapons fitted with an integral silencer, in addition to their regular weapons. In a well-rehearsed moment, both men would fire simultaneously and eliminate the two sentries.
Jennings lay behind a small row of bushes and slid the muzzle of his De Lisle along the ground through some low branches. He gave a thumbs-up to Heinemann, indicating he had the sentry on the left in his sight. Heinemann glanced across the stone path to O’Connell who had gotten the same sign from Giordano. O’Connell, who had the sentry on the right ready to die, now gave Heinemann a thumbs-up.
Suddenly Heinemann pointed at the sentries and whispered “Now!” to Jennings. O’Connell saw Heinemann point and whispered “Now!” to Giordano. Both men fired one shot each from their silenced weapons. The two German sentries collapsed, dead before they hit the ground.
Renaurd and Philippe scurried forward, grabbed the corpses, and dragged them from the archway, dumping their bodies behind bushes. Heinemann peered through binoculars over the stone wall. He saw no one else outside. The two Frenchmen took up positions near the archway keeping the path open for a retreat, if necessary, while the Americans moved forward toward the front entrance of the villa.
Joe Kowalski, Pierre, and Henri took up positions just outside the rear entrance to the villa. Their orders were to form a defensive barrier to cut down any man trying to escape.
Two German sentries patrolled the back of the villa. They approached each other and stopped. One offered the other a cigarette. The man pulled out a lighter and lit his fellow sentinel’s cigarette, then his own. Both men puffed deeply, small tendrils of expelled smoke curling around them in the cool moonlit night. They spoke briefly, then resumed their patrol.
Kowalski had a death grip on his submachine gun as he watched the two sentries. He would have preferred to be partnered up with members of his own unit. While he trusted in the ability of the two Resistance fighters, he didn’t know them, hadn’t fought with them. With any luck, no one would come his way.
Marcel was older than Andre and a veteran of many raids. This was only Andre’s fifth mission. They had approached from the dark woods bordering the landing strip. As they made their way toward the vehicles, they saw the beam of a flashlight and heard German voices. Two soldiers were doing something in the engine compartment of
the Kübelwagen. The two Frenchmen laid their firearms under the fuselage of the German cargo plane and proceeded to crawl toward the Kübelwagen with knives drawn.
Marcel was no stranger to killing with a blade but this would be a first for Andre. Marcel trusted the younger man’s abilities but he was prepared to strike quickly enough to kill both Germans if Andre froze.
It seemed that the Germans feared nothing. They were making noise with their tools and speaking loudly. The two Frenchmen glided up right behind them. Marcel covered his victim’s mouth while ramming the blade in his back. The flashlight dropped, clattering as it fell into the engine compartment. Andre tried the same tactic and missed. He wrestled with the other German soldier on the ground. Marcel grabbed the German by his hair and drove his knife through the base of his skull. He pulled the body off Andre.
“Marcel! I am sorry!” said Andre.
“Quiet, you fool! Turn off their damn flashlight!”
Andre retrieved the flashlight and turned it off. They quietly closed the engine compartment of the Kübelwagen and threw the tools and flashlight under the vehicle, then dragged the bodies to the tree line, dumping them out of sight. Running back, they dove into the shadows under the Ju 52. From their vantage point the Frenchmen now had a clear field of fire all the way to the villa.
The two men on Team Five had been armed with a captured German MG42 light machine gun to make up for being short one man. Marcel swung the MG42 from left to right and back again, shifting the front bipod to give him the best field of fire. Andre carefully opened the steel ammo box and pulled out the rag he had stuffed in the top to keep the ammo belts from rattling.
“Marcel?” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“Are you ready for a belt of ammunition?”
“Yes. Hand it over. That box holds five fifty-round belts. Tell me when you hand me the fourth belt. I need to know when we’re running low.”
“Yes, Marcel.” He handed Marcel one of the belts of 7.92mm linked ammo. “Marcel?” Andre’s voice again came out of the dark. “I am sorry I failed you. I could have gotten us both killed.”
“It is all right, Andre. All that matters is that the Germans are dead and we are not.”
“Marcel?”
“What is it now?” Marcel pulled up the sleeves of his ill-fitting black overcoat so they would not hinder his firing the MG42.
“You seem like your thoughts are somewhere else tonight.”
Marcel continued to load the belt of ammo. “I was thinking of another night, a long time ago.” He sighed. “It was a full moon like this when I last walked along the Seine with my Marie. We stood on the Pont Royal holding hands in the moonlight. People walked all around us, even at that late hour. So many happy people.” His hands tightened on the MG42. “That was before these Nazi bastards came. And now, it is all gone. The Nazis take everything from us. They take our wine and food while we wear these rags and dig through their garbage for scraps.” He bowed his head. “So many friends and families are dead. And so too is my beloved Marie...” A long silence. “There is nothing left but to drive these filthy murderers out of our country, even if it takes my last breath.” Marcel patted Andre’s shoulder. “Do not worry, my young friend. My thoughts are here right now.”
“Damn it, Wilkins, move!” Jimmy Santora shoved his way past Fred Wilkins, then stopped dead. “What in the name of God…” Crouched in the first cell around a wooden trough were three large creatures. At first Santora thought they were bears. But the faces were almost human. They stared quietly at the Americans, their noses raised and sniffing. Not seeing the commandos as a threat, they turned their attention back to the wooden trough and dipped their paws in, licking off some kind of gruel.
“Sarge…what, what are…Sarge?”
“Keep moving, Wilkins! Whatever they are, they’re locked in!” Santora continued along the walkway. Wilkins stood by the cell, still staring. “I said move, Wilkins! Now!”
Wilkins slid his back along the wall, keeping his BAR trained on the creatures. When he caught up to Santora, the sergeant grabbed and shook him so hard Wilkins’s helmet almost fell off. “Wilkins! Are you watching my back or not?”
“I’m okay, Sarge. I just wasn’t expecting those...those beast-things.”
Santora released his grip. “Neither was I. Let’s move.”
They had to pass one more room eight feet up on the left before they could move into the villa itself. Santora signaled Wilkins to stop. He had heard something, like bottles clinking against each other. Santora slipped his knife out of its sheath. He handed his Thompson to Wilkins. Now the sound of shuffling feet. And whistling? They edged closer to the door, flattening themselves against the wall. Without warning, a German soldier strode through the doorway and turned left toward the door leading into the villa, the same door the Americans were headed for.
In three quick steps Santora was on the German, jamming the knife into his back and piercing his heart. The German had been holding a bottle of wine. Wilkins dove and caught the bottle just before it would have shattered on the stone walkway. Santora dragged the corpse back into the room behind a large wine rack filled with dusty bottles.
Bull Heinemann moved up the left side of the path followed by Danny Jennings and David Adler. Paddy O’Connell and Tony Giordano moved up the right side. They all stopped in the bushes on either side of the steps leading to the front entrance of the villa.
Heinemann crept up the four stone steps to the heavy oak double doors. He listened intently. Nothing. He opened the door a crack and saw a grand foyer lit by candles burning in a large iron chandelier. A marble staircase led to the villa’s second level, turning to the right halfway up.
According to his map, the first room on the left should be the radio room, the next, the commandant’s office. On the right was the armory. He motioned for his men, then pulled the door open just enough to slip through. Jennings and Adler slid in behind him. O’Connell and Giordano moved to the wall on the right.
Without warning, a German came down the staircase, barefoot, yawning, and scratching his head. The German stopped in mid-step, hand in his hair, eyes wide.
“Amerikaner! Amerikaner! Achtung!” he screamed. Heinemann opened up with his submachine gun at the same instant O’Connell squeezed off a burst from his Thompson. The flurry of rounds hit the German, his body jerking like a puppet. He rolled drunkenly down the staircase and landed on the foyer floor, leaving bloody smears on the staircase.
“Hit the upstairs, Paddy!” Heinemann yelled. O’Connell ran for the staircase, Giordano pounding behind him. Heinemann turned to Jennings and Adler. “Blow the radio room!”
A man in socks, riding breeches, and an open gray tunic over a white undershirt ran out of the commandant’s office. “Was ist das?” He waved a Luger, not realizing what was happening until his eyes fell on the dead soldier at the foot of the staircase. By then it was too late.
Heinemann let loose a burst from his submachine gun, his bullets stitching a random pattern on the man’s chest. Red splotches bloomed on the man’s white undershirt before he collapsed in a heap in the foyer, the unfired Luger clattering to the floor.
“Fire in the hole!” yelled Jennings, as he and Adler each rolled a grenade through the radio room doorway. They tucked themselves behind the doorframe as the explosives went off, spewing dust, plaster, and debris. They fired their weapons into the smoky room until their M1 rifles spit out the empty cartridge clips. They snapped in fresh clips and entered the room, making sure the radios had been destroyed and the Germans in the room were dead.
“Clear!” Adler yelled.
“Check the other rooms on this level!” Heinemann ordered.
O’Connell and Giordano leaped over the dead body of the German at the foot of the marble staircase and flew up the steps. The upper level had four bedrooms on each side of a wide hallway. Each wall had three large marble statues, one between each doorway.
As soon as they reached the upper l
evel, O’Connell hit the wall dropping behind the first statue on the right while Giordano dove for a spot behind the first statue on the left. They immediately took fire from the end of the hallway, shots ricocheting off the statues and the stone floor tile. O’Connell peeked out, then pulled back just as a shot chipped the marble from the spot where his head had been. He heard a burst of fire from Giordano across the hallway.
They were pinned down. Grenades were ruled out, too big a chance of killing the men they were there to free.
As soon as Santora heard gunfire, he knew quiet time was over. He and Wilkins ran for the door leading into the villa. They kicked it open and burst inside, sprinting through the corridor. He heard the blast of grenades exploding. He rushed past a doorway that led to a kitchen and continued running.
“Ooooooof!” Santora heard a loud grunt and thud from behind. “Sarge!”
Santora spun, Thompson at the ready, just in time to see a German soldier on top of Wilkins, doing his best to ram a large kitchen knife through Wilkins’s chest. Santora fired a short burst from the hip that tore into the enemy soldier’s head. “You okay?” Santora yelled.
“Yeah, Sarge, yeah.” Wilkins grabbed his BAR and got to his feet. “That Kraut bastard came outta nowhere!”
“Well now he’s dead. Get your ass moving. And keep your damn eyes open!” They ran toward the side entrance of the foyer.
The first burst of fire stopped the two sentries who had been walking away from each other, twenty feet part. They unslung their rifles and ran for the rear entrance, arriving at the same instant.
The Devil's Claw Page 2