Squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Taubman began thinking ahead as he looked about at his surroundings. Trees not already blasted to splinters had been cut down on both sides of the thoroughfare, making a landing strip of, perhaps, one hundred meters. Soldiers with flashlights were stationed on either side of the street waiting to flip them on at Krüger’s command.
“You will be in Berlin by tomorrow afternoon,” Krüger clapped Taubman on the shoulders.
That’s it! Switzerland tomorrow. Eureka!
“...Martin? Are you here?”
“Yes, of course, Sir. Sorry.”
Krüger bent close and reached in his coat. “A favor please?”
“By all means.”
“Could you post a letter to my wife? She lives in Munich.”
Taubman held out his hand.” When was the last time you saw her?”
“Thirteen months, one week, three days, five hours and seventeen minutes.”
“An honor to do so, Fregattenkapitän.”
“Rudy.”
“Rudy, I wish I could deliver it personally.” Taubman pocketed the letter, cleared his throat, and then asked, “How long can you hold out here?” As if to emphasize his point, an artillery round landed two hundred meters away, throwing up a blue-black cloud of dust and rubble.
“The U-Boats are snug in their bunkers, safe from...,” Krüger waved at the billowing cloud. “The real danger is the perimeter collapsing. We have enough tanks, food and ammunition to hold out for six months, if need be.” With a smirk he added, “Der Fuhrer has assured us relief is on the way.” He raised a finger in the air. “Let no man shirk from his duty. We must hold out to the last round--”
--Three meters away, a man on a stretcher groaned. He was a hauptgefreiter, a seaman first class, whose uniform was blackened and shredded in spots. The man’s head and hands were wrapped in bandages, a hole left for his mouth. Two corpsman knelt beside him, doing their best to sooth him. Taubman had not seen such a seriously wounded man before and it made him feel uncomfortable. He nodded at the man and raised his eyebrows.
Krüger said quietly, “Yes, that’s Ott. He was terribly maimed by a battery explosion aboard U-616 yesterday. Thank God for the Storch. He’s going out with you. It’s his only hope.”
Just then Kaufman said, “Hauser reporting in, Sir. Says he just passed over the perimeter.”
“Good, the Storch is here.” Krüger cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Lights on, you men. Stand by to receive the Storch.”
In response, a dozen flashlights flipped on, their beams stabbing the sky.
Taubman looked about. “Nice visibility. He shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“This is the fourth night,” said Krüger. “Seems to be going all--”
An SS Colonel walked up, the death’s head insignia gleaming on his cap. “Excuse me, are you Fregattenkapitän Krüger?”
“Jawohl Herr Standartenführer.” Krüger and Taubman gave a military salute.
Returning a casual Nazi salute, the man said, “My name is Schroeder. I was told to report to you.” With a perfectly cut uniform, Schroeder looked as if he’d stepped from a recruiting ad. He was handsome, too. But he had that piercing stare Taubman associated with the SS. He hadn’t been this close to an SS officer since he was last in Europe. They had terrified him then, and this one terrified him now. This man, Taubman noticed, had suffered a split lip, probably as a child. Scar tissue ran from beneath his nose to his upper lip giving his appearance a strange combination of near-comical and demented.
“What for?” asked Krüger.
Taubman cocked an ear, hearing a soft whistling in the distance, the Storch gliding in for a landing.
“I am to ride on that plane,” said Schroeder.
“I’m sorry, Standartenführer. That is impossible.”
“What?” Schroeder jammed his fists on his hips.
“We have a critically wounded sailor going out, tonight, a hauptgefreiter named Ott who--”
“Who else?” demanded Schroeder.
Krüger gestured to Taubman. “This man, sir. Korvettenkapitän Taubman.”
Schroeder snapped his fingers a few times. “Taubman...Taubman...hmmm. Ah yes.” He looked up. “Martin Taubman, the appendicitis case. The courier.” He folded his hands, fixed his gaze on Taubman and said to Krüger. “You’ll bump that sailor over there.” He nodded to Ott laying on his stretcher. “I must be in Berlin by tomorrow. It’s very important.” He held a sheaf of papers in the air.
Krüger protested. “But Sir, that man has very serious burns.” He lowered his voice, “He may die. One eye is gone. We may be able to save the other if we--”
Schroeder stood to his full height. “Put him on the next plane.”
“That won’t be until tomorrow night.”
“I order you. And must I remind you that I’m under the direct authority of Reichsführer Himmler?” Schroeder smirked. “All I have to do is make one phone call.”
A putrid odor swept across the three.
From the corner of his eye, Taubman watched Krüger’s fists ball. Casually, Schroeder’s hand went under his overcoat.
This is getting out of hand. Taubman stepped away just as a shadow zipped overhead. All three turned their heads as the storch’s tires chirped on the roadway.
Krüger beckoned, “Kaufman?”
“Sir.” Krüger’s orderly stood to attention in the back of the Kubelwagen.
“There’s a change in the manifest. Please remove hauptgefreiter Ott from the list and insert...” Krüger spat, “insert Standartenführer Schroeder in his place.”
“But...” said Kaufman.
“Do it!” Barked Krüger.
“Jawohl, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” said Kaufman. He sat and began scribbling on a form.
“You see, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” said Schroder. “That wasn’t too difficult, hmm?” He bent to pick up a larger bundle and walked toward the Storch, its engine now still.
Krüger watched him go. “What a turd.” He looked up to Taubman. “And I can’t take you off the list either.”
With a flash of guilt, Taubman said, “I’m afraid not, sir.”
“That man, Schroeder. He made us watch movies.”
“Movies?”
“Hitler is having people killed. Hundreds, I’ve heard. Maybe more.”
“Why...why?”
“He’s killing people suspected in taking part in the bomb plot against him last month. Generals, admirals. Hitler’s henchmen had these people stripped of their clothes and hung by piano wire tied around their necks. The bastards filmed it, and we were forced to watch them die, dangling from meat hooks.”
“My God.”
“The rumor is that even Rommel is implicated. Can you believe that?”
“No. Impossible.”
Krüger shook his head slowly. “I don’t see how they can ever prove that, but there you have it. Anyway, that’s Schroeder’s job. Flying from station to station, forcing people to watch movies.”
“I thought he was here for that torpedo investigation.”
“Oh, that’s beneath Standartenführer Wolfgang Schroeder. He’s doing just one thing. Touring the countryside on a pass from Himmler, making sure Der Fuhrer’s officer corps watches the movies. How’s that for the most efficient, morale boosting, use of our time?”
“My God.”
The Storch’s pilot was a small, tight lipped Stabsfeldwebel, flight sergeant, named Dieter Hauser who hovered over the fueling crew like a mother hen. When that was complete, Hauser hobbled over to Krüger, gave a military salute and asked, “I’m ready to depart, Herr Fregattenkapitän. My orders, please?” My God, Taubman marveled. The man is ninety if he’s a day. White, close cropped hair bristled from under his garrison cap. And he was sleight and stooped. Perhaps that’s why he hobbled; stooped with arthritis, Taubman thought. And small, he almost looked like a boy. Perhaps his superiors had calculated it that way, he mused.
More payload on the Storch.
“Good God, it’s Dieter Hauser,” grinned Krüger. He extended his hand, “Dieter, how was your flight?”
Hauser shook and bowed stiffly. “Very good, thank you, Herr Fregattenkapitän.”
Krüger turned to Taubman. “Dieter will take good care of you. He flew Fokkers in the Big War. Lost a foot and kept flying. How many Tommies did you shoot down, ehh Dieter?”
A shell landed 200 meters away, throwing rubble high in the air. Hauser waved at it saying, “apparently not enough, sir.”
Krüger lowered his voice. “Dieter, do you have room for a third passenger?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” replied Hauser. “Plus, we have a bit of mail and some cargo, I see.” He waved to some boxes and luggage piled at the Storch’s door.
“Where’d--”
“--that’s mine, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” Schroeder walked up to them. “Priority material.”
Krüger hobbled over to the plane, and called back. “Looks like two cases of Kreigsmarine Commissary wine.”
Schroeder shrugged.
“And what’s this?” Krüger’s cane tapped a large cardboard box.
“Official films of the Reich,” said Schroeder.
“This is what you showed to us?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you leave it here and let me ship it instead. My men would be very grateful.”
An artillery shell landed closer; fifty meters this time. Schroeder whipped around, then threw his hands over his head. “In a pig’s eye. Now let’s get going.” He started walking to the plane.
Krüger shook his head slowly.
“Sir?” Hauser called to Schroeder.
“What?” snapped Schroeder.
“I don’t have room for all that. Where do I store your box of film?”
The box was dumped in Taubman’s lap, with Schroeder insisting it be tied down, lest it lurch into Schroeder’s back in the event of a crash landing.
Hauser goosed his Argus inverted vee-eight engine, and the overloaded Storch staggered into the sky, the flashlights and brilliant moonlight guiding his way. The air was smooth, and light shimmered off the Blavet River as Hauser settled on an easterly course for Tours keeping his little plane fifty meters above the deck.
Schroeder turned and shouted over the engine’s noise. “I heard about your trip from Japan, Herr Taubman. A hazardous voyage. Welcome back.”
“Umff.” The box of film weighed on Taubman’s legs, cutting off his circulation. In spite of that, his heart raced unaccountably. Just speaking to the man made his blood run cold.
“What?” yelled Schroeder.
“I said ‘thank you,’ sir,” said Taubman, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.
Schroeder’s head turned further. His teeth gleamed as he hollered, “How are our little yellow friends doing?”
Think of something! “Holding on, Sir. But it’s becoming harder and harder for them.”
“Are they having torpedo problems?”
“No, sir. Their torpedoes are the finest in the world.”
“Impossible,” Schroeder yelled.
Taubman bit his lip. How can I get rid of this man. If he keeps asking questions, surely he’ll figure me out.
When Taubman didn’t reply, Schroeder continued, “Let me put it another way. As a Naval liaison officer, wouldn’t you think that our torpedoes should be as good as the Japanese?”
“What?” said Taubman. Looking forward, Taubman noticed Hauser’s head was cocked slightly.
Schroeder raised his voice. “Our torpedoes. They’ve been sabotaged. Surely you’ve heard.”
“Frankly, I haven’t.”
Schroeder turned all the way around. “Surely you have. What the hell have you been doing out there all this time besides screwing Geisha girls?”
“I...we...”
“Our U-boats, you idiot. They’re having failure rates of over fifty percent. All due to incompetence. Where have you been?”
“Japan, sir.”
“Did anyone check your papers when you landed?” Schroeder asked suddenly.
“Of course, Sir,” lied Taubman. Do it! Blood pounded in his head as he leaned forward and reached down to his belt.
Schroeder took another tack. “Fregattenkapitän Krüger, for one, is implicated. His record is the worst. Upon arriving at Tours, I plan to file my report and recommend his arrest. How close are you to Fregattenkapitän Krüger? “
Working frantically, Taubman eased his luger out of its holster, transferred it to his left hand and flipped off the safety. Bile rose to his throat with the realization that he’d never done anything like this before. “Standartenführer Schroeder.”
“Yes?”
“You are an ass.”
“What?” Schroeder’s head whipped around.
Taubman jammed the pistol to Schroeder’s forehead head and pulled the trigger. A loud report followed as brain matter and blood splattered on the cabin’s starboard side. The acrid coppery odor of blood flooded the cockpit.
Taubman threw up.
“What was that?” yelled Hauser.
Still retching, Taubman began untying the knots securing the box to his lap. “Can we open this window in flight?” he asked.
“What did you do?” Hauser shrieked.
Taubman yelled back. “Shut up you old fart and answer my question.”
Hauser turned all the way around. His eyes bulged when they settled on Schroeder. “What—what--what the hell have you done?”
Taubman leveled his luger on Hauser. “Open this cabin window. Now.”
“Shit!”
Taubman pulled out a handkerchief and wiped vomit off his chin. “That’s what you’ll be doing if you don’t do what I tell you.”
Hauser reached back and unlocked a series of latches. Wind whistled in as the window popped open a quarter of the way. Taubman reached in the box and began tossing out film reels stamped with the official seal of the Third Reich. “How much more range will we have if we dump Standartenführer Wolfgang Schroeder and his cargo?”
“Why?” Hauser yelled.
“We’re going to Switzerland.” Taubman tossed out another can of film. “Now, answer my question, you stupid schwanz.”
“All I have to do is set her down in Tours and you’ll be arrested,” said Hauser.
Aiming carefully, Taubman squeezed off a round which grazed Hauser’s left ear, the bullet exiting the windshield up and clearing the Storch’s propeller. Somehow, the pistol’s report made him feel better; the nausea left him.
“Ow, ow, shit!” Hauser clamped a hand on his ear. “Listen. I don’t have anywhere near the gas we need to get to Switzerland.”
“Then think of something. Look, how would you like to make five thousand dollars?”
“What?”
“American.”
Hauser spun again in his seat, forcing his eyes away from Schroder’s face. “How much did you say?”
That’s more like it. “I said five thousand dollars, American, payable the minute you land me in Switzerland.”
Hauser returned to checking his controls. “That’ll take some doing.”
“And?”
A minute passed while Hauser rubbed his chin and looked out the windows, checking for enemy aircraft. “I suppose I can do it.”
Taubman finished cleaning himself with the handkerchief and tossed it out the window. “What do you have in mind?”
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
13 August, 1944
Tours, France
Taubman couldn’t recall a time in his life when he’d felt so vulnerable; not even aboard the I-Boats. Against his better judgment, he’d allowed Hauser to talk him into landing the Storch at the airfield outside Tours. It was a night fighter base, and they had to dodge around Ju-88Gs on the taxi strip, as they picked their way to the fueling station. Finally Hauser shut down his engine and flipped open the door. He waved a hand over his face and went, “Wheeeeow!�
� They’d poured a bottle of wine over Schroeder for two reasons: One was to cover up the sharp, copper odor of blood; the other was for their charade.
Taubman drew his pistol.
Hauser cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t get cold feet now, you damn fool. The guards would have you for breakfast.”
“Stay where I can see you or we’ll both be had for breakfast.”
“Do your part, trust me, and everything will be fine,” Hauser said, alighting from the Storch.
Taubman held the pistol low. “Move more than five meters away and you’ll have a bullet up your bung.”
“You are our ticket out of here, Herr Standartenführer.” Hauser reached in the cockpit, grabbed Schroeder’s shoulders and propped him upright. Then he tipped Schroeder’s cap over his face letting it rest on the corpse’ nose. “Hmmm, sleeping like a baby, all right.”
In the blink of an eye, Hauser grabbed Taubman’s pistol by the barrel and yanked it from his hand. “Who are you calling schwanz, you phony little shit?” With a lopsided grin, he said, “I suppose I could take the money from you and turn you over, but then again,” he nodded toward the hanger where guards strolled back and forth, “these animals would probably steal it from me. In any case, keep your mouth shut, schwanz, and do your part. You may get to Switzerland, yet.” He tossed the pistol in Taubman’s lap. “And put on the safety before you blow your balls off.” Shaking his head, Hauser limped away.
“Shit,” muttered Taubman. He wiped sweat off his forehead, tipped his head back, and opened his mouth as if he were asleep.
One of the corporals pulled up a fueling hose and nozzle and called out, “Sir, how much?”
Hauser replied, “All you can give her.”
The man’s hands went to his hips. Then, he quickly stooped and stuck his head in the cabin. “Wheeeoow.”
Taubman peeked from under an eyelid, his heart jumping as the corporal’s eyes flicked over the two human forms.
“Officers: the pride of the Reich,” the corporal muttered, as he backed away and stood. “Herr Stabsfeldwebel,” he called. “You have all this weight and--”
“--shut up you damned fool. Do you want to wake them?”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 29