The area around the German transport was a moonlit beehive of activity, and Santora, Jennings, and Kowalski added to the bustle. Jennings and Kowalski repeatedly dunked their mops into the cans of grease and slopped a coating of the thick black goo over every swastika, Balkenkreuz, and German military marking they found.
“Looks like the paint is covering up the ID markings pretty well, Sergeant,” said Newmont.
“Yes, sir,” Santora said, “except we couldn’t find any paint, sir.”
Newmont dipped his fingers into the black mess covering the Balkenkreuz near the rear door, rubbed his fingers together, sniffed, then wiped his hand on his pant leg. “Is this grease?”
“It’s all we could find, sir.”
Newmont watched the two men going at it with the mops. “Seems to be working, Sergeant. I’m going to talk to the pilot, make sure he’s ready to leave. Gather the men.”
“Yes, sir,” Santora replied, disappearing into the shadows.
Newmont waved up at Stirling. The pilot slid the side cockpit panel open.
Newmont cupped his hands around his mouth. “Are you ready?”
Stirling held up crossed fingers. “Stand clear.”
Newmont backed away and glanced at his watch. We should have been gone by now.
The starboard engine coughed to life, the two-bladed propeller spinning slowly at first, then faster, until it became a silvery disc in the moonlight. Next, the port engine started, running as smooth as the first engine. Come on, come on. One more to go. The engine on the nose of the aircraft started to turn over, then died. Stirling tried again. This time the engine turned over and caught, the propeller spinning faster and faster. All three of the BMW radial engines were humming in sync.
As Newmont backed away from the Ju 52, he couldn’t believe the RAF pilot had actually gotten all three engines started. This insane plan just might work.
Everyone converged on the German transport at once.
The largest of the beast-things was led by Dr. Gautier, who held a chain attached to a leather belt wrapped around the creature’s waist. Its manacled paws were secured to the belt by shorter lengths of chain. A black sack was tied over its head. Maurice Durand followed, leading two smaller creatures wearing the same getup. A nervous Wilkins accompanied on their right, a stoic Heinemann on their left.
Jennings and Kowalski had finished covering all the German military markings, then tossed the grease cans and slick mops well away from the airplane. Now they waited for Newmont’s orders while they marveled at the bizarre parade.
Renaurd, Philippe, Vincent, and Henri foraged through the supply tent looking for anything they could use in future raids.
Santora was returning with O’Connell, Dalton, and Giordano, all at a dead run. They drew up in front of Newmont where the sergeant did a quick head count. “Looks like everyone’s here, sir. We’ll move out with the Frenchies as soon as you give the order, sir.”
“Slight change of plans, Sergeant.” Newmont raised his voice so all of the American commandos could hear. “We are taking this airplane back to England.” He pointed. “These creatures are an experiment we have been ordered to bring back with us. The doctor has assured me they are safe to bring aboard. Everyone stay calm and they will too.”
As the Americans filed into the German airplane, Newmont walked toward the four approaching Frenchmen. He extended his hand to Renaurd. “We won’t be leaving with you. We’re going out on this airplane with the doctor. Your group performed admirably.” He shook hands with Philippe, Vincent, and Henri. “You should leave right now.”
“Indeed, Captain, we will leave immediately. We have taken as many weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, and rations as we can carry. We will destroy these two vehicles when you take off so they may never kill another French citizen.”
Newmont climbed up into the airplane and jostled through the crowded cabin, giving a wide berth to the beast-things. He tapped Dalton’s shoulder. The young radioman looked up. “Dalton, get up front and stay near Stirling and Adler. They may need help with the communications gear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Newmont leaned into the cockpit. “Are we ready to take off?”
“I’m not really comfortable up here, sir,” said Adler.
“Sorry,” Stirling said. “You’re my co-pilot for this flight.”
“Ready to go, Flight Lieutenant?”
“Just waiting for your order, Captain.”
“Let’s go home.” The roar of the three engines grew as Stirling advanced the throttles.
Without taking his eyes off the landscape, Stirling reminded Adler to keep his feet off the rudder pedals and to put his hands lightly on the round wooden control yoke in case Stirling needed help raising the nose. The shadowy scenery flew by them faster now as the German transport bounced down the grass landing strip gathering speed. Suddenly, with slight back pressure on Stirling’s control yolk, the big transport slowly rose. The corrugated metal-skinned aircraft roared over the trees at the end of the landing strip with plenty of room to spare and climbed into the dark sky.
In the cabin, the men sat on the floor, backs against the cabin walls, some wound up, others almost asleep. Santora had squeezed into a spot next to Newmont. The captain’s helmet rested on the floor between his knees; his Thompson lay across his lap.
“Quite a night, huh, Captain?”
“That it was, Sergeant. In spite of everything, we did not lose a single man.”
Santora could just make out the shapes of Gautier, Durand, and the beast-things huddled on the floor, a shaft of moonlight jabbing through the adjacent window. “Looks like our passengers are quiet so far.”
“So far,” Newmont said, then leaned his head back and nodded off.
Stirling estimated the distance from Compiegne to Tangmere was approximately 195 miles. It should take an hour and a half at the Junkers’ maximum cruise speed of 178 mph, give or take, depending on the uncalculated weight in the cabin and winds aloft. He had added an additional thirty minutes for skirting around major populated areas in France. The aircraft’s service ceiling was 19,357 feet, but he kept to an altitude of 3,000 feet to stay below any fighters prowling the area.
Captain Newmont headed through the cramped center aisle of the cabin to the back where Dr. Gautier sat quietly against the rear wall. The three beast-things were curled up and sleeping around him.
“Everything okay, doctor?”
Gautier slipped on a pair of pince-nez glasses. “Oh, yes, Captain. They are doing fine. The sedative was a help, I think.” He smiled. “Captain, thank you. We owe you very much for freeing us.”
“No thanks needed, doctor. I’m just glad everyone got out. I’ll feel better when our feet are back on English soil.”
“You are a very modest man, Captain. What you did was no small feat. We are riding a stolen German airplane all the way to England! You see? This is amazing what you have done.”
Newmont smiled. “If you say so, doctor. Try to get some sleep while you have a chance.” He looked at the three big mounds of fur curled up on the cabin floor.
“You are curious, yes, Captain?”
“I’ve been trained not to ask questions.”
“Well, you deserve to know what you risked your life for, and the lives of your brave men. Our experiment had its roots in the science of eugenics, a process by which a race of people is cleansed of perceived undesirable elements, usually through selective breeding or sterilization. The Nazis have carried it to a new brutal low, committing mass murder under the guise of eugenics. They believe the German people must be cleansed of all racially unsound elements to become all powerful.”
“Now, Captain, during these mass murders, a number of scientific breakthroughs pointed to the possibility of genetically altering the next generation of Germans. From there, it became a question of whether man could create any type of person, or creature, he desired. The Nazis came up with these creatures.”
“Their intent w
as to make them into disposable soldiers. Send in wave after wave of these killing machines, and if they were wiped out, simply send in another wave. Who would care if these creatures were wiped out time and again? The Germans were very close to a production-line process, but these creatures did not seem violent by nature and that was the flaw in their grand plan.”
“The Nazis were forcing me and my assistant to find out how to make them violent, yet subservient. We kept our research on behavioral manipulation running in circles, stalling for time to get out. And then, the entire research team and all of the creatures they had created were wiped out when the Resistance blew up the facility.”
“The documents survived, however, and since we possessed the only creatures left alive, the Nazis decided to move all of the research here in hopes of restarting the project. All of the original research documents, the only copy of them, in fact, is in our bags, and we are now able to hand them over to the Allies.”
“Sounds like a lot of Flash Gordon to me, doctor.” Newmont rose. “Better get some sleep.” Finding his spot next to Santora, he wedged himself in and drifted into a troubled sleep, trying not to think of wave after wave of beast-things, claws slashing and teeth gnashing.
The coastline of France passed under them. Stirling nudged the Ju 52’s nose to a course of 307 degrees and dropped down to 1,000 feet as they cleared the darkened beach. “Last course correction, Mr. Adler,” he said. “We’ll be in England in about forty-five minutes.” The German aircraft was sporting the standard dark green camouflage for a Luftwaffe Ju 52. Stirling intended to keep the transport as low to the surface of the English Channel as he could, figuring it would blend in with the dark water.
Twenty-five minutes later Stirling estimated they were approximately fifty miles from RAF Tangmere.
“Mr. Adler, time to call home.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll let the Captain know.”
Stirling transmitted to the RAF Base at Tangmere: “Beetle from Blackhawk One. Are you receiving?”
Tangmere Control came through. “Blackhawk One from Beetle. Loud and clear.”
“Beetle from Blackhawk One. Fifty miles, vector three-zero-nine, Angels one. Requesting escort. Flying captured Ju 52.”
An uncomfortable silence was punctuated by static. “Blackhawk One from Beetle. Please say again.”
Stirling repeated: “Beetle from Blackhawk One. Fifty miles, vector three-zero-nine, Angels one. Requesting escort. I am flying a captured Ju 52.”
Tangmere Control answered: “Blackhawk One from Beetle. Understood. Vector three-zero-nine, Angels five. Watch for Red Flight.”
Stirling sighed deeply. “Beetle from Blackhawk One. Watching for Red Flight.”
“Beetle, out.”
Soon, a Hawker Hurricane dressed in camouflage slid along the port side of the Ju 52. “Looks like our escort is here,” Stirling said.
“Blackhawk One from Red One. On your port.”
Stirling radioed back: “Red One from Blackhawk One. I have you.”
“Blackhawk One from Red One. Red Two above and starboard your position. Continue vector three-zero-nine, Angels five. Beetle will contact you with landing instructions. Red One, out.”
The German transport and both British fighters flew on in formation, crossing over the coast of England.
“There it is! We’re almost home!” Stirling saw land slide under them. Newmont, Adler, and Dalton craned their necks to glimpse the moonlit beach below.
“Blackhawk One from Beetle. Six miles out. Start descent. Use east-west runway. Taxi to end and shutdown. No one is to leave aircraft. Repeat, no one is to leave aircraft. Beetle, out.”
Stirling soon saw the RAF base. He swung the Ju 52 gently to the left and started pulling off power as he lined up with the runway. He made continuous corrections with the ailerons, rudder, and power. The German transport approached the east-west runway and dropped slowly toward the near end of the concrete strip. Closer, closer, a little left rudder, too much, a little right rudder, closer, too high, drop the nose. The transport was right in line with the center of the runway and descended slowly.
The Ju 52 flared too high. There wasn’t time to add power. The aircraft dropped rapidly, the main wheels slamming the runway, the big aircraft bouncing back into the air, once, twice. After the third time, it settled. Stirling chopped the power. The aircraft rolled toward the far end of the runway and came to a halt.
Stirling quickly shut down all other switches, almost fearing the big transport would jump back into the sky. The sudden silence was deafening, then broken by Newmont slapping Stirling on the shoulder. “You did it, Stirling! You did it!” The men cheered as the magnitude of the escape they had pulled off finally hit them.
“Two bad landings in one day, Captain. I fear I may be losing my touch,” Stirling said.
“Flight Lieutenant Stirling, that was the best landing I’ve ever witnessed!” Newmont weaved his way back through the cabin, smiling broadly. He stopped in front of Santora.
“Now what, Captain?” the sergeant asked.
“We were told to stay aboard, so that’s what we do.” Newmont caught approaching headlights through the window. “But not for long, Sergeant. Look.”
Santora turned. “Three vehicles coming toward us, sir, and it looks like they’re in a hurry.”
The three-vehicle convoy came to a halt by the aircraft’s cargo door. Newmont’s commander, Major Clarkson, hopped from the jeep. His driver, a young private named Jeremiah Davis, remained behind the wheel. A second soldier stood at a .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the rear. Behind the jeep sat a pair of deuce and a half cargo trucks, each with a driver and armed escort. Clarkson moved quickly to the German transport and rapped on the cargo door.
“Captain,” Clarkson said. “There’s no time to waste. We’re backing that first truck up to the door. Move the Frenchies and their experiments into it. When that’s done, offload your men and wait by the other deuce and a half. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Newmont replied.
“And, Captain?”
“Sir?”
“No speaking to the men driving the vehicles.”
Clarkson waved to the first truck. “Corporal! Back it in here now!”
The bed of the truck had a thick layer of straw and buckets of food and water for the creatures. Dr. Gautier led the first creature in, quickly followed by Durand leading the other two. Kowalski and Wilkins handed the two battered suitcases through the cargo door, where they were taken by two guards.
“Thank you, Captain,” Gautier said. The conversation was cut off as the driver pulled down the rear flap of the vehicle’s canvas cover.
The corporal hopped back in the truck and swung back in line behind the jeep.
“Let’s go, Captain. Everybody out!” Clarkson said.
Newmont’s men jumped from the cargo door. They double-timed to the second truck, then milled around the back waiting for instructions. Newmont stood outside the aircraft with Clarkson as Stirling, the last man out of the aircraft, dropped to the ground, patted the fuselage on the side almost affectionately, then turned and saluted Clarkson.
Clarkson returned the salute. “Very impressive, Flight Lieutenant. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“It was my pleasure, sir.”
“You need to understand something, Flight Lieutenant.” Clarkson’s eyes locked on Stirling’s. “Everything happened tonight just as it did, except for one item. There were no creatures on board.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Stirling replied, bewildered.
“Very good. We’ll drop you off at the base commander’s office. He will reiterate what I told you about tonight’s events.”
“Yes, sir,” the RAF pilot repeated. “Not a word.”
“Let’s get moving. Captain,” Clarkson ordered. “I’ll debrief your men on the way.”
“Yes, sir.” Newmont shook Stirling’s hand. “Thanks, Stirling. We would have had a tough time making it back without you.�
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“You’re quite welcome, Captain, and good luck to you.”
As Newmont moved off, Stirling felt something in his trouser pocket. His memory jogged as he examined it under the coming dawn. His father’s compass. He glanced up to see Newmont at the rear of the truck with his men. “And thank you, Dad, for getting me home.”
Clarkson stood at the forward end of the truck bed. “Men!” he called out. “You did an outstanding job. This mission was extremely important. Every detail will be in my official report with the exception of one item: the beast-things.” His eyes fell upon Wilkins. “And thanks for giving them a name we can use in our report, Wilkins.”
Chuckles and a few back slaps circled around Fred Wilkins. He blushed. “Thank you, sir.”
“These beast-things never existed. Is that understood?”
Some nodded their heads, others answered with a simple, “Yes, sir.”
“Now, I can tell you where we’re going. There’s a port in Weston-super-Mare. The Frenchies and their beast-things will be loaded onto a fishing trawler which will sail out to sea and offload them onto a cargo ship. The cargo ship will then join a convoy headed back to the States. We need to get there on time, otherwise, the cargo ship will miss the convoy.”
“Sir?” said Newmont. “What happens to us?”
“You and your men are going on a well deserved R & R, Captain.” Clarkson stared at every man. “And there will be no mention of this mission ever, to anyone.”
The convoy ground to a halt along a secluded stretch of road on the outskirts of Salisbury. Major Clarkson hopped from the second truck, trotted up to the first truck, and rapped on the tailgate. One of the soldiers stuck his head out from the side of the rear canvas flap. After reporting all was fine with the scientists and beast-things, the soldier pulled his head back inside like a shy turtle. Clarkson ran up to the jeep, where he slid onto the front passenger seat and pounded on the dashboard, signaling Davis to get going. They were in and out of Salisbury quickly.
The Devil's Claw Page 4