Douglas Brodie 03 - Pilgrim Soul

by Ferris, Gordon

  ‘How much? We’ve got a safe-full somewhere.’

  ‘Thirty pieces?’

  Sam gave me a scolding look. Scrymgeour smiled.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Collins is out looking for a boat. You don’t happen to have one handy, do you?’

  I caught up with Collins back at the hotel. He came to my room, arms full of clothes. Mostly smelly. Bartered for food in the local market. He was grinning like a schoolboy preparing for the Christmas play.

  I dug through the pile. They looked like the miscellany worn in the gallery of the courtroom. Collins and I were about the same size, though he was slimmer. We tried it on, including the flat caps. We looked in the mirror. Two honest Germans ready to go about their business. Collins, with his blond flash of hair and blue eyes, would have made old Adolf go weak at the knees.

  ‘You all right about this, Will?’

  ‘Absolutely! It’s my first action. It’s why I joined.’

  ‘Volunteer?’

  ‘Stupid, isn’t it? I wanted to do my bit. But . . .’

  ‘You end up nursemaiding a crazed old war horse.’

  ‘No, sir! Not a bit, sir.’

  ‘It’s fine, Will. But let’s hope we don’t see any action.’ I was sticking to German. ‘What about the boat?’

  ‘Iain got hold of me. He’s been in touch with our unit down by the harbour. We can have our pick. Tugs, fishing boats, a motor torpedo boat . . .’

  ‘I’ve been looking at the map.’ I pointed over at my bed where I’d spread one out. It showed the whole length of the Elbe from Hamburg through to its mouth. Cuxhaven was at the tip on the west bank. We walked over to it.

  ‘I reckon it’s about eighty miles upriver. We need something quick. I want to get going now and be there by evening.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s eleven a.m. Target arrival is eight o’clock. Something that does nine or ten miles an hour?’

  ‘Tight, sir. What about by car?’

  ‘Where’s your sense of romance, Will? Fair point, though. But the roads are a mess all the way up. Snow. Ice. Bomb craters. Roadblocks too. A boat is quieter. Comes in from the sea. They’re keeping the harbour open and the mid-channel is clear. Our story will be that we nicked it at Hamburg docks. If we’re asked.’

  ‘What is our story?’

  ‘Let’s work it out as we go. Here. Have some.’

  I walked to the table and dug into a small bag. I pulled out a handful of glittering tablets, some gold, some silver. Collins took them, grinned at the feel of them and put them into different pockets of his faded jacket. I did the same.

  ‘Stick your service pistol down the back of your pants.’

  ‘Won’t our guns give the game away?’

  ‘If we’ve reached the stage where we have to draw them, it won’t matter whether they’re stamped with the Union Jack and a bas-relief of Churchill. Let’s go.’ I grabbed my gun and the map.

  In the car to the docks we sat side by side and began to invent. In German.

  ‘We need names,’ I said. ‘Choose a good German name. Fling in a von if you like. Goes with the accent.’ After a little pause for thought I offered: ‘OK, I’m Dieter Schulz, SS-Sturmbannführer Schulz. Who are you?’

  ‘Drexel. SS-Hauptsturmführer Ernst von Drexel.’

  ‘And a promotion to captain! Good for you, Ernst. And let’s get used to first names. Call me sir when there are people around, and Dieter when it looks like we might be accidentally overheard. Let’s start right now. OK, Ernst?’

  ‘Jawohl, Dieter.’

  ‘We need a past. A dirty past. How about the SS Totenkopf Panzer Division? A right bunch of bastards if ever there was one. Fought like madmen on the Eastern Front but guilty of atrocities wherever they went. The first recruits were SS camp guards, but later they were just the normal maniacs and zealots.’

  ‘Sounds like our sort of people. How do you know about them?’

  ‘My job after the surrender. I had to have a fair knowledge of all their units. Some were notorious. Like the Totenkopf. Fought like machines.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ he asked.

  ‘Eastern Front. They got hammered outside Vienna and did a fighting retreat back to Linz just in time to surrender to the Americans.’

  ‘So they’re in POW camps?’

  ‘Maybe. But not an American one. The Yanks handed them over to the Russians. I doubt we’ll ever hear of them again.’

  We swung into the docks and caused a ruction at the guardhouse until we produced our army identity cards. Scrymgeour had laid the way. A bulky sergeant escorted us down to the harbour. Ice extended from the shore out beyond the marina. But a gap was being kept clear all the way out to mid-channel. We gazed over the assembled boats.

  ‘I’m tempted by the torpedo boat but it’s a bit loud and obvious. And we might get blown up by one of our eagle-eyed RAF guys.’

  The sergeant pointed at a wooden cruiser with a stubby cabin, sitting at the end of the pier.

  ‘We’ve had that one out, sir. Der Schwan. She may not look much like a swan but she’s a goer. Bit like my old lady, sir. Har har.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you said so, Sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t you worry none, sir. I told her mysel’. She just larrfed.’

  He had his men run out the fuel wagon along the pier and filled her up. He showed us how to start and stop the big diesel engine. Steering was easy: a wheel.

  ‘Any experience in boats, Ernst?’

  ‘Rowing blue, Dieter?’

  ‘Of course you are, Ernst.’

  We unhitched from the pier, coiled the rope and set off into the wide basin. At first we had to negotiate wrecked boats and tangled jibs of cranes, but once we were out in the middle of the Elbe, we opened up. The diesel engine thumped away like a foundry.

  For the first time in days, weeks, I felt the chains drop from me. The bitter wind lacerated my face but told me I was alive.

  Collins steered and soon our bow wave rose up the sides and flung spray back along the deck. We were getting a good ten knots out of her. Estimated time of arrival in Cuxhaven: eight o’clock. Just in time to have a drink at the Angel’s Wing.

  THIRTY

  We took turns at the wheel and made steady progress. Here and there we had to dodge half-sunk barges and small warships. Ice floes bumped against us and ground under the hull. The Swan groaned, slowed and then powered through. We hadn’t expected so many impediments. When darkness fell in late afternoon, we had to be more vigilant. Thankfully it was a clear sky. The moon was three-quarters full and lit the wide river in front of us. Nevertheless we both kept our eyes straight ahead, looking for tell-tale masts jutting out of the water.

  We passed lit shores on either side. Just a few fragments of the lights that would have blazed from riverside towns before the war. At one stage we were intercepted. A fast motorboat cut across our bows and trained a searchlight on us. We lost half a precious hour while they came alongside and we proved our identity to the Royal Navy team on board. They wished us bonne chance and we sped on our way.

  The great grey expanse became wider as we headed towards the mouth. The shoreline curved steadily round to the left and ahead we could make out where the land ended and the North Sea took over. By half past eight we saw the lights of a town way to our left. We checked our position. It had to be Cuxhaven. We began to steer towards it. By nine we were entering the small harbour and looking for somewhere to tie up.

  There were no lights on the harbour wall and none ahead, as though there was still a blackout. Our heavy boots echoed between the sea walls. The dark mass of the town loomed up at us and now we could see the odd street light and glow from a window. We passed ruined houses and heaps of rubble, courtesy of the RAF. A street stretched out in front of us. Our boots resounded over its cobbles until we found a café. Light seeped out behind curtains and the door. We walked in.

  There were a handful of people sitting, smoking, supping beer. They turned as we walked in. The
room went quiet.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. We’re looking for a bar. It’s called the Angel’s Wing.’

  They looked at each other; then the man behind the counter said, ‘Sure. Just down the road. First left, then right. Can’t miss it.’

  We thanked them and walked out into the night.

  ‘How did that sound, Ernst?’

  ‘Fine. But it’s the strangers thing, isn’t it? We stand out.’

  ‘Like a tart at a vicarage.’

  We walked on through quiet and narrow streets. An occasional shadow flitted past the crossways. After we took the right turn we could see dim light ahead from a low building. A sign above the door showed a white wing.

  ‘Ready, Ernst?’ I felt for my gun in my rear waistband. I hoped we wouldn’t need them.

  Collins nodded. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  It was a small dark bar. A cosy fire threw flickering light round the handful of faces that had turned to the door. The air was sour with smoke and old beer. Not quite as homely as McCall’s but certainly of the same genus.

  ‘Good evening, all,’ I said cheerily in my best Bavarian accent. It got some muttered responses but they still kept staring at us, as if waiting for us to break into song. We walked to a small table away from the fire and therefore away from the other drinkers. We sat and waited.

  The barman lifted the bar flap and came over. ‘Yes, gentlemen? What can I get you?’

  His eyes flicked over us, registering the military bearing, Collins’s blond locks, my wariness.

  ‘Two beers. Thirsty work that trip up from Hamburg.’

  ‘Hamburg, eh? River?’

  ‘Easier than the roads. And the ice wasn’t bad.’

  He nodded and went off to get us our drinks. I reached for my cigarettes and realised I’d left them behind. Senior Service stands out among the local weeds, even with the black market. I called out to the retreating barman.

  ‘Bring us some cigarettes too, please.’

  He came back with a tray bearing the two long glasses of beer and fags. As he turned to go, I gripped his arm.

  ‘We want to pay with this.’

  I held out between finger and thumb one of the gold ingots. It caught the light and the barman made a soft sound, sucking his teeth.

  ‘Put it away.’ His voice was low enough not to be heard across the room. I nodded in understanding.

  ‘We’re hungry. Do you have anything to eat?’ I asked.

  ‘Bread? Cheese? A little ham?’

  ‘Bring it. Thanks.’

  We sat quietly eating and drinking. The other customers had picked up their chat again and it could have been a normal pub anywhere in Europe. But I noticed the barman slip away through a back door. He was gone for ten minutes.

  A little later the front door opened and a man came in. A big guy, bull neck and barrel chest, with the rolling gait of a seaman. He wore a heavy grey pullover with a crew neck. He took off his cap and nodded to all before sitting down in a corner. The conversation dropped off again. This time it didn’t pick up. One by one the other drinkers said their goodnights and drifted off. Finally it was just Bullneck, the barman and us. The man looked up and raised his glass to us.

  ‘Prost!’

  ‘Prost,’ we answered. He got up and walked over to us.

  ‘I’m the owner of this place. I hear you might have difficulty paying, gentlemen?’

  ‘No difficulty. As long as you accept these.’ I placed the small rectangle on the table between us. The firelight caught it and made it glow.

  ‘These? You have more like it?’

  ‘Enough. We want to take a holiday.’

  ‘I hear you have a boat. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Out of fuel, no maps, broken compass, and nowhere to go. Otherwise you’re right. Can you suggest someone who might help?’

  ‘Maybe. But I need to know who I’m dealing with.’

  ‘So do we.’

  ‘I’m Günter Hoffmann.’

  ‘Dieter Schulz.’ I nodded at Will.

  ‘Ernst von Drexel,’ he said.

  We shook hands and I felt the power of those huge arms coming through the grip. I hoped we weren’t going to have to wrestle. I decided to up the pace.

  ‘Shall we stop pussy-footing, Günter? You know why we’re here. Can you help?’

  He didn’t answer, just simply began to roll up his thick jumper. His arm was bare underneath. Was he getting ready to fling a punch? When he got to the biceps a tattoo began to appear. He stopped halfway. He didn’t need to go any further to uncover the death’s head.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘We’re among friends.’

  ‘Maybe. What’s your story? Or should I say, what rank?’

  I looked at Collins and nodded to him. I went first. ‘Sturmbannführer Dieter Schulz.’

  Collins followed. ‘Hauptsturmführer Ernst von Drexel. At your service.’ I’m sure if Collins had been standing he’d have clicked heels and bowed. Easy does it, boy.

  ‘SS?’ asked our new pal.

  I pointed at his tattoo and smiled in complicity.

  ‘1st battalion, 3rd Unit Panzer Division.’

  He grinned. ‘The Totenkopf. Who was your commander?’

  ‘Obergruppenführer Priess. Hermann Priess.’

  ‘Last engagement?’

  ‘Linz. The Reds forced us back from Vienna. We chose to surrender to the Americans rather than those animals.’

  Günter grunted. I looked grim.

  ‘But we were betrayed. The Americans handed us back to the Soviets. That’s why we – shall we say – left.’

  Once more he stuck his great paw and shook both our hands. ‘Welcome. How did you find us?’

  ‘We bumped into a certain Fritz Suhren. He was also on the run.’

  A frown crossed Günter’s face. ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a year ago. He told us he’d put himself in the hands of the Americans but they were going to try him. So he escaped.’

  ‘Ah, that figures. He came through here about then.’

  I grinned at Collins. ‘That is great news! So Suhren got away?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  I tried it out. ‘So, a boat to Scotland, was it? Is that how it works?’

  His face darkened again. ‘You know a lot about us.’

  ‘Suhren was a talker with a drink.’

  He was nodding all the time. ‘Ja, a drinker. But then who isn’t, eh?’ He laughed and we all joined in.

  ‘How many of us have you saved, Günter?’

  ‘About twenty. Haven’t seen any for a while though. You’re the first this year.’

  ‘We thought we could lie low. But they’re closing the net. It was time to get out. Warmer where we’re going. I mean South America. Not frozen Scotland!’

  He laughed but I wondered if I’d pushed things too far.

  ‘So, Günter, what happens now?’

  ‘We wait. I have to get in touch with someone. It takes a bit of fixing. We will give you a house. You will have to stay put. No going out. Sometimes there are British patrols. You understand?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A week. Maybe two.’

  I weighed up the situation. We could hang around and get the pick-up. We could follow it all the way through to Scotland. Roll up the whole network. But every hour, every day we spent here was high risk. They would check our story. There would be other questions. One of us would talk in his sleep; me probably. I needed names of the twenty who’d gone through already. How many were still in Scotland? I’d made my mind up to jump Günter and drag him back to Hamburg for interrogation, but suddenly he was on his feet.

  ‘OK, boys. I need to fix some things. I’ll be gone for a little while. Stay put and I’ll be back soon. Then we can get things moving. OK?’

  He slid out of the bar. For a big man he could move fast and silently. Now we waited. We talked in a low murmur. In German still. The barman watched us and occasionally smiled.

/>   Half an hour went past and we heard the sound of a truck trundling along the cobbles. It stopped outside and I heard doors open and close. Then it went quiet. Steps sounded on the pavement. At least two sets. They stopped at the door. I also heard a door creak behind the bar. The barman had disappeared.

  ‘Guns out!’ I whispered fiercely. ‘Get hold of this table.’

  We heard running steps outside.

  ‘Now!’

  We lifted up the solid oak table and crashed it on to its side to form a barrier just as the front and back doors slammed open.

  ‘Front’s yours!’ I called to Will and faced the rear.

  Men with shotguns burst in from both sides, weapons up, swinging about, seeking targets.

  I put a bullet in the man who’d crashed through the back door. Collins got off two shots. I glanced round and saw a man tumbling to the ground. There was a roar from the back door and Günter barrelled through, blasting away with his shotgun. We ducked and the table rocked as the blast hit it. I dived to the side and got a shot in under the flap over the bar. Günter bellowed and fell back clutching his leg. His shotgun boomed again and smashed through ceiling plaster.

  A fourth man made it through the front door, exchanged shots with Collins, and dived back out. In the echoing silence I heard him running off on the cobbles.’

  ‘Get him! Don’t let him take the truck!’

  Collins sprinted to the door. I scrambled to my feet and charged the bar. I slid over the surface and found Günter sprawled on the floor, cursing and trying to reload.

  ‘Drop it! Drop it, Günter, or your balls are gone!’

  My pistol was aimed directly at his groin. He got the message and lowered his shotgun. With his left hand he was gripping his thigh. Blood soaked his trousers and ran through his fingers.

  I heard shots and a cry. I prayed it wasn’t Collins going down. I twisted and took aim at the open front door. Collins walked in, grinning. He gave a thumbs-up.

  ‘Well done, man. Let’s get this pig out of here. On the truck.’

  We wrestled Günter out through the bar flap, dragging him by his feet. His head bumped on the flagstones and then crashed on the doorsill. His groans cut out. Outside, a man lay face down by the door of the truck.

  ‘Good shooting, Will.’