by S C Brown
‘Check your ammunition, they will be after us soon.’
One of the soldiers next to Ritter raised his head a little to see down the track. His helmet rattled into the air as he fell with a crash back to the ground, dead. Ritter wiped the man’s blood from his own face, looking sideways at the body. The dead man’s eyes stared right back at him.
Ritter looked again at the man’s head. The bullet had not entered the front but instead the back of the man’s head.
The back?
* * *
Saxon darted downhill along a track, hand-railing a hedgerow, keeping his head low. He had spotted Ritter coming up the track and decided to attack.
Dashing down to hide in a deep furrow, Saxon carefully raised his head. There they were, Germans - pushing a dead body up onto the lip of the hollow to make a parapet. Saxon dipped his head as he saw Ritter turn to look uphill, no doubt searching for whoever it was that fired that last lethal shot. Saxon’s heavy breathing made small granules of earth roll away from him. Saxon gently, oh so gently, raised his head again.
Bang! The round just missed him. Saxon didn’t wait for the next round to arrive; he leapt to his feet and dived into the hedgerow for cover. Maurice opened fire from behind with the Bren gun, spraying the German position with ammunition. Saxon heard the thwack of bullets hitting flesh. Two down, two to go.
Further down the hill, Saxon could make out Clement’s men breaking cover and coming out onto the Rouen Road, to finish off the Germans left in the gully. This battle was nearly done but it wasn’t over just yet.
Saxon looked back towards Maurice, positioned ready to fire another burst with a small stack of Bren gun magazines laid out ready. As Maurice glanced across at him, Saxon gave a clear, deliberate nod.
Maurice opened fire, a whole magazine by the sounds of it. In that instant, Saxon was back on his feet, hurtling down the track a few more yards as fast as his feet would carry him. He hit the ground as Maurice stopped firing, sliding to a halt in some gravel. German voices whispered in the hollow, talking rapidly. Saxon heard Maurice work the cocking lever again and got ready for another run. One of the Germans seemed to raise his head too high and Maurice fired. The top of the German’s head flew off. Maurice continued to fire.
One left, thought Saxon, reaching for his commando dagger.
Clement’s men were at work on the road, taking prisoners and finishing off the badly injured. He saw Clement marshal men ready to attack uphill towards Saxon’s own private little battle with Ritter. Back up the hill, Maurice was struggling with the magazine of the Bren gun.
‘Oh no, not now, please.’
Maurice’s gun had jammed.
Saxon began to crawl forward very slowly, drawing closer until he was only an arm’s length away from the hollow’s edge. Patiently, Saxon waited. Lying at a slight angle, he could see Maurice in his peripheral vision, still struggling with the Bren gun. Saxon focused on the lip of the hollow. He could hear movement. Saxon couldn’t wait for Maurice any longer.
In a flash, Saxon was on his feet. He leapt straight at Ritter. Ritter’s eyes opened wide as he prepared to receive his flying assailant. Crossing his arms in front of his face, he was just able to stop Saxon’s dagger piercing his throat. Both men began to grapple desperately, grunting.
Saxon used his weight to thrust the blade closer to Ritter’s face, pushing down with both hands - but this German was strong. With all his might, the German drove a knee up between Saxon’s legs and shoved him off.
In pain, Saxon struggled to keep his eyes open. Ritter lunged, clawing for Saxon’s dagger. Every time Ritter breathed out, Saxon felt Ritter’s spittle spray in his face. Both men fought for their lives. All four hands ended up on the handle of the dagger and Ritter, strong as an ox, bore down.
Saxon knew he was in trouble. He darted his eyes off to the right.
For a moment, Ritter’s eyes followed Saxon’s.
In that instant of uncertainty, Saxon took his right hand off the dagger and landed one almighty punch squarely against Ritter’s temple. The German rocked back but recovered quickly, surprising Saxon with an outpouring of pure rage.
Desperate, Saxon looked right again but Ritter didn’t fall for it this time. Saxon heaved air into his chest and braced himself, before clanging his forehead into Ritter’s face, not once but twice. Saxon felt Ritter’s nose break under the last blow. As Ritter closed his eyes, it was Saxon’s turn to thrust a knee into Ritter and barge Ritter off him.
Ritter’s grip faltered for a fraction. In that moment, Saxon gripped the knife in both hands and plunged it straight into Ritter’s heaving chest.
Ritter gave out a half-scream, his eyes wide in fear and incomprehension. Saxon scrabbled back to get away as Ritter kicked out furiously. Saxon grabbed the handle of the dagger again and heaved it downwards. Ritter threw his head back in resignation. Weakening, Ritter tried to roll onto his side but Saxon just kicked at Ritter’s legs to prevent him moving.
Ritter’s hands fell outwards and touched something. Before Saxon had realised what was happening, Ritter grasped a pistol and pointed it straight at Saxon. Saxon flinched and felt his shoulder explode.
Ritter pointed the pistol at Saxon again. Saxon closed his eyes, unable to do anything in the time left. Saxon heard another bang but felt nothing, followed by a long rattle of automatic fire.
Saxon opened his eyes. Ritter lay on his back, quite still. Quite dead. Off to one side, Saxon saw Maurice, with smoke drifting from the barrel of his Bren gun.
Clement appeared, wheezing up the gradient of the hill. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘I think so. He got me. Thanks, Maurice.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘You’re sure that’s him?’ asked Saxon, nodding towards Ritter.
‘Oh that’s him alright, the murdering bastard,’ confirmed Clement, reaching for his pipe from a pocket.
Saxon winced as Maurice pushed a pad onto his wounded shoulder. ‘London will be pleased.’
‘The train?’ asked Clement.
‘Destroyed. It wasn’t quite what we were expecting but Maurice and the boys here made short work of most of the soldiers on the train. So we got 'em. As mentioned,’ said Saxon, trying to concentrate as Maurice bandaged his shoulder, ‘there were a lot more on that train than we were expecting, so Michel must have told Ritter what we were up to.’
‘Hm?’ asked Clement, distracted for a second.
‘Michel. He definitely told Ritter here what we were going to do.’
‘And here he is…’ said Clement slowly, turning to look behind him. Michel, with his hands tied behind his back, was being pushed up the hill by Paul.
‘Traitor! I knew it!’
Years of pent-up tension poured out of Paul in an instant.
Michel remained still, gazing at the dead Germans in the pit, Ritter in particular.
Paul continued: ‘You, you grew up with us and here you are telling the Germans how to get us all killed? You make me sick. How could you do it? How could you betray us?’
‘Did I really?’ said Michel impassively. ‘He tried to kill me, too, you know. I’m glad to see him dead. I only wish it had been me who had killed him. As for you lot, I just wanted to survive.’
Paul reached for Michel. Clement, lowering his rifle, put out an arm. ‘Steady, Paul, steady.’
Clement reflected Michel’s apparent calm.
‘I agree, Paul, you were right about Michel all along, I grant you that. You were right to keep him in quarantine and Saxon was right to feed him all that juicy information to take back to Ritter. I must say, Michel, I was hoping these two would be wrong about you. Your father and I were old friends. Did you really think you would get away with it?’
‘I don’t care any longer.’
Clement’s men crowded behind Michel, watching him like some exotic zoo animal.
Clement looked directly at Michel and shook his head slowly before scanning the area around him. ‘That tree,’
he eventually said, gesturing to an oak tree a few yards away.
Men rushed forward to grip Michel’s arms. Michel wriggled but everyone knew it was pointless. One of the men ran downhill, ferreted about amongst the dead in the vehicles below and came back with a rope. Michel continued to struggle in vain.
‘No, no.’
Michel’s feet scraped against the track, trying to slow down the inevitable. Three men dangled the rope over a thick branch and knotted one end quickly into a noose.
‘What would you have done?!’ screamed Michel, ‘Tell me, what would you have done to stay alive? I dare any one of you to go through what I went through and not break eventually. You betray me!’
What would you have done?’
Standing as close him as they were, no one could look Michel in the eye.
Except Clement.
‘I don’t blame you for cracking under torture. Who wouldn’t? All you had to do was tell me. We could have come up with something to protect you and all of us. But no. You went your own way and sold our lives cheaply. For that, Michel, you die.’
Michel stared furiously into Clement’s eyes as the men pulled the noose tight around his neck. Michel writhed and jostled as the men heaved him skyward.
After a short while, Clement and the remaining men turned their backs upon Michel, and walked down the track in silence, carrying the wounded Saxon. One by one they left the smouldering ambush site, where only the dead remained.
* * *
That evening, Eve took off her earphones, decoded a message and simply said: ‘Ritter’s dead.’
Turning towards the door of the barn he and the others had hidden in all day, Berner breathed out heavily and looked out at a world that felt a little safer. What had been one of the longest days of his life was at last coming to a close. Berner was a professional in setting up situations and waiting for the results but never before had the results been so personal.
Berner turned back and smiled as he watched Eve pack away her radio surrounded by soldiers who had dedicated most of their military careers to tracking down people just like her. Steinseck was following her every move, fascinated.
With everything packed away in her suitcase, Eve moved close to Berner to whisper something she did not want the others to hear. ‘We need to move, we have an RV to make early tomorrow morning. There’s someone you need to meet.’
* * *
Lieutenant Schmidt watched the Pioneers prod for mines on their way to the ruined train. Medical orderlies waited pensively to tend the wounded.
Schmidt heard something pop up on the hill to his right. Frowning in curiosity, he looked up before suddenly recoiling, raising his arms to protect his face from an almighty explosion. Dust rushed at him as he squinted to try and see what was happening. The dust cleared just enough to allow Schmidt to watch the boulders leave their perch, pick up speed, and crash downwards, destroying still more of the railway. Schmidt heard the metal tracks snap.
Taking off his cap, Schmidt turned his back on it all, for now anyway. He walked in the direction of Rouen, shaking his head and laughing to himself. He was going to need more men.
* * *
Saxon, Clement and Paul crouched in the field Saxon had landed in only three weeks before. They stood at the foot of a ‘T’ of lights, held by men shivering in the pre-dawn twilight, waiting to guide the aircraft in. Saxon and Clement’s instructions had been especially clear - remain at the base of the T: other agents will conduct activity at the top of the T.
On time, the Lockheed Hudson arrived, circled and bumped twice before coming to a halt. The plane looked huge in the dawn light. Dawn, that was the point, thought Clement: dawn landings were rare and Clement’s men were openly nervous at the prospect of still being in a field in open daylight. The Germans were on high alert as it was and it was a long way from here to the relative safety of the woods.
Yet with Saxon’s wounded shoulder getting worse, the RAF had agreed to come to his aid at this unusual hour.
Actually, thought Clement, the RAF had agreed to come all too easily. Something was up and Clement had a pretty good idea what it was. Clement looked up to the other end of the landing strip, where two men and a woman waited. One of the men was leaning against a tree. Whoever they were, it had been made all too clear to Clement that under no circumstances were they to have anything to do with the elegant-looking couple at the end of the landing strip. Clement watched the aircraft bump and trundle towards the strangers, who stepped out to meet it.
Chapter Twelve
The aircraft door hatch opened and out clambered Smithens. ‘Hello Eve.’
‘Hello, Sir.’ It was the first time Eve had seen Smithens in uniform.
‘You must be Berner?’ The hint of suspicion was clear in Smithens’ voice. Berner shot a glance at Brunswick.
Berner nodded a small bow. ‘And you are Smithens. I have heard a lot about you.’
Smithens shot a glare at Eve.
Berner spoke quickly ‘No, no. Don’t worry, Eve hasn’t said a thing to me about you. I knew about you long before you sent Eve my way. Anyway, I wanted to give you this.’
He handed Smithens a book.
‘Gefunden?’ asked Smithens, looking at the title. ‘Is this some kind of joke, Walter?’
The two men were behaving as if they had known each other years, which in a way they had. Eve was fascinated to be a bystander at such a moment.
‘Hidden on one of the pages is a set of microfilm images of the recent notes and maps made by Field Marshal Rommel himself of the sea defences of France,’ said Berner, eager to please.
Smithens looked impressed and suspicious in equal measure.
Berner understood. ‘A present from me, to show good will. It’s all verifiable. You’re my boss now, I assume?’
‘I’ll have to get back to you about that, Walter. This all looks a bit too good to be true, doesn’t it? Anyway, aren’t the Nazis a bit annoyed about you killing Ritter and your man Brunswick miraculously getting out of jail? That’s him with the leg, I take it?’ Smithens pointed towards the battered figure of the man he assumed to be Berner’s Sergeant.
‘Those men over there,’ said Berner gesturing towards an impatient-looking Clement, ‘killed Ritter. As for Brunswick, he was lucky enough to have been sprung from prison along with many others. What with the raid on the railway, it all looks like a concerted and sophisticated effort by the local Resistance. You watch,’ said Berner pointing to Clement and his men, ‘the SD will have me pretending to hunt that lot down in no time. And thank you, by the way, for agreeing to take Brunswick back to Britain for me; he’s hurt and he won’t be safe in France for some time.’
Smithens grunted in acknowledgement and then glanced at the aircraft for effect. ‘I don’t have much time but I have to hear it from you in person, Walter. Why are you doing this?’
‘I’ve explained it all to Eve but in short, I’m no Nazi. I’m no communist either. I have a feeling you’ll need a hand beating both of those elements in the future - so here I am, ready to help.’
‘My enemy’s enemy and all that?’ enquired Smithens, his hair blowing in the propeller wash.
Berner frowned. ‘Do you know how close to Dresden the Soviet Army is this week?’
By his expression, Smithens either didn’t know or care. Berner decided to try a different tack. ‘You are, I think, from the North of England, yes?’
Smithens nodded.
‘How would you feel if the Soviet Army was only a few weeks’ advance from Yorkshire?’
Smithens eyebrows lifted.
‘Exactly,’ said Berner.
‘This won’t happen as quickly as you think, Walter. If you’re genuine, then you’ll be well looked after, but it’s going to take time to get you checked out. Understand?’
‘Of course,’ said Berner. ‘I know the risks. Let me know how I can satisfy you and your boss and I will do my best.’
Smithens wasn’t going to reveal who his boss was but B
erner probably knew only too well that the final say on Berner’s future as a double agent would rest with the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.
Smithens turned. ‘Right. Eve, if you want to go home, get in the plane. There’s no shame in you leaving now; you’ve done a good job, you know.’
Eve paused, about to say something.
‘Or,’ Smithens interrupted, ‘you could stay here and be Berner’s agent-handler for me.’
Eve had known this moment would come from the moment Berner had said he wanted to play double-agent. It stood to reason that MI6 would need someone in France to ‘run’ Berner, and despite her lack of experience, Eve knew Walter Berner better than any other Brit alive. She wasn’t stupid; she knew just how dangerous this might get – Berner could well end up being Britain’s biggest agent in France and that was going to drive the Nazis wild if ever they found out. The risks were as high as they could be.
When Walter and Eve were driving down the lanes from Paris to Rouen, she knew then she would be forced to make this decision: to remain in France or go. Eve knew Smithens was genuine when he said there was no shame in flying home, having done her bit. But deep down, Eve knew that was not her style. To leave something unfinished, to walk away, was not her style. Eve looked Berner in the eyes, he looked back encouragingly.
‘I’ll need some money,’ said Eve.
Berner and Eve shared a warm smile.
‘That’s settled then,’ beamed Smithens, a little embarrassed by the suddenly display of friendship between an Agent and his newly-appointed Handler. He turned and hobbled back to the aircraft. Smithens leaned in through the aircraft hatch, shifted things unseen and dragged out a small suitcase.
‘Here you go, it’s packed full of notes,’ he said, giving it to Eve. ‘That will keep you in fashion for a while.’
Eve gave Smithens a peck on the cheek. The old Colonel’s eyes twinkled with what looked like pride.
Smithens turned to Brunswick. ‘In you get,’ he gestured and Brunswick was helped up into the aeroplane.