To Do or Die

by James Barrington as Max Adams

  ‘OK,’ Watson replied, put the truck into gear and swung the steering wheel to the right.

  Because of what they’d found in Nohn and Orscholz, they weren’t surprised when they drove into Kesslingen to find that village, too, was deserted. ‘I think this is as far as we go tonight,’ said Dawson. ‘There’s another main road just this side of Münzingen. I’d rather try and cross that at night. I don’t want us to get half-way down the road and find ourselves looking at a bunch of Jerry trucks heading straight towards us, and us with nowhere to go. Let’s find a barn or something and get our heads down.’

  On the northern outskirts of the village, down a side street that was little more than a well-trodden track across the rutted ground, they spotted a farm outbuilding with sagging double doors secured with a rusting chain and an equally rusted padlock.

  ‘That’ll do, I think,’ Dawson said, picking up his Schmeisser. ‘I’ll go and check it out. Turn the truck round, so you can back it in if there’s room inside.’

  Dawson strode down the track towards the outbuilding, the machine-pistol held ready in his hands, glancing in all directions as he walked and listening intently for any sound that seemed out of place.

  The small barn, or whatever the building was, was about twenty feet wide and forty feet long, the rear of it separated from the side of a small house or cottage by an open yard. There were other houses nearby, but none of them closer than about fifty yards. Dawson first checked the house, trying both doors – which were locked – and peering inside through the ground-floor windows. There was no sign of life, and the property had an indefinable air of emptiness, of abandonment.

  He checked the rear and both sides of the barn, then walked around to the front of the structure to examine the doors. Watson sat in the truck, the engine idling, the rear of the vehicle facing the barn, ready to reverse inside. Dawson slung his Schmeisser over his shoulder and carefully examined the chain and padlock. It only took a couple of minutes to break in using his trench knife, and he pulled open one of the double doors and looked inside the building.

  Even in the faint light of the early dawn, he could see that the structure was almost empty. The floor was covered in straw and dirt, and a few straw bales were visible at the back of the building. The walls were hung with a variety of tools and equipment, with other tools – spades, forks, hoes and scythes – leaning against them. He guessed that the building might have been used to store produce, because he couldn’t detect any smell of animals. But whatever its function, it would do very well for what they needed.

  Dawson turned back, pulled both doors wide open and beckoned to Watson. In minutes, the truck was inside the barn, engine switched off, and the two sappers had pulled the doors closed.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ Watson said.

  ‘You’re not the only one, but we can’t afford to both fall asleep together. Let’s grab a bite to eat, and then I’ll take the first watch, OK?’

  They had some of the hard dried sausage left and split it between them, washed down with water, and finished their meal with half a bar of German chocolate each. High-class grub it wasn’t, but it was food, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for a hot meal and a mug of tea,’ Watson muttered, as he finished the last piece of chocolate.

  Dawson nodded. ‘I’d even pay money for a bowl of that fucking awful stew back at the camp. And for a hot bath. Christ knows what we smell like after – however long it’s been – wearing this stuff.’

  ‘No,’ Watson said, ‘but we’re alive, and that’s a hell of a lot more important. Right, you’ll stay awake, then?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll take a walk around the village first, just to get the lie of the land, then I’ll come back here. If I think I’m falling asleep I’ll just walk around the barn, or step outside again. But if I know I’m falling asleep, I’ll wake you up. OK?’

  Watson nodded. ‘I’ll rack out on those straw bales in the back there.’ He walked over to the truck, picked up one of the Schmeissers and walked over to the rear wall of the barn, took off his German helmet, webbing belt and his battledress jacket and lay down.

  Dawson crossed over to the doors and peered outside. He had to keep moving if he was going to stay awake. He pushed the door open just enough to step through the gap. Then he stopped and listened to the silence. Apart from the birdsong all around him, there was no other sound at all, or none he could detect. It all felt empty and deserted. And that, he reflected, as he walked along the track back towards the largely unmade road that ran through the village, was just what they wanted.

  But he still took infinite care, checking everywhere, using his eyes and ears. But within ten minutes he knew absolutely that he and Watson were the only two human beings in the village.

  It was small, just a collection of perhaps forty or fifty properties scattered along both sides of the narrow country road. There was a kind of village square off to one side, with a couple of small shops so completely shuttered and barred that he couldn’t even tell what they sold, and a village water pump. Many of the houses had official-looking notices displayed, which Dawson guessed might be warnings against looting. He checked the doors of a few of the houses – not to go inside, just to make sure they were empty – but every one was locked.

  He walked all round the village, then retraced his steps to the barn, checking all around him as he did so. While Watson slept, Dawson would take the opportunity to refill their water bottles at the pump, which would give him something to do, and help to keep him awake for a little longer. He might even try and find a bucket or tub or something and take the opportunity to strip off and wash some of the grime from his body while he was at the pump.

  Chapter 30

  14 September 1939

  Just after two that afternoon, Dawson gave Watson a shake and handed him a tin mug of a thick black liquid from which clouds of steam rose agreeably.

  ‘Bloody hell, mate,’ Watson said. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Dawson replied shortly. ‘There are a couple of shops in the village near the pump, and I kind of leant on the side door of one of them. It’s a sort of village store, so I borrowed some coffee. There wasn’t much else there, frankly. It looked like they emptied all the shelves before they left. All I found were a few packets of stuff that had already been opened, and the only one of those that was any use to us was the coffee.’

  ‘So how did you heat the water?’

  ‘I found a couple of saucepans, half a dozen tin mugs and a kind of Jerry solid-fuel stove in the back of the truck. It took me a while to figure out how to light it, but I finally got it going. And …’ Dawson paused for a moment to make his dramatic announcement, ‘I also found a ration pack there. Somebody had already eaten some of the stuff, but there were a couple of bars of chocolate there, and a tin of something.’

  ‘You said there were two chocolate bars. How many are there now?’

  ‘Just the one,’ Dawson said with a smile. ‘I ate the other while I had my coffee. Now, we can’t leave here until it gets dark, so why don’t we open that tin of whatever it is this evening and share that before we leave? I’m hoping it’s meat or a stew or something. And I think it’s perfectly safe to use the stove here in this barn, but in the back of the truck, obviously, because of all the straw that’s lying on the ground.’

  ‘And you look clean. Or a bit cleaner, anyway,’ Watson observed.

  Dawson explained about the village pump. ‘This place is completely deserted,’ he said, ‘so there’s no danger. I’ve left the bucket there for you if you want to use it. Now I’m going to try and get some sleep.’

  * * *

  Dawson woke suddenly as a hand closed roughly over his mouth. He opened his eyes and stared up into Watson’s face.

  ‘Engines,’ the sapper said shortly, his voice low, barely above a whisper. ‘Vehicle engines and getting closer.’

  Dawson nodded and sat up, reaching for his battledress jacket. He pulled it on swi
ftly, then his boots, his webbing belt and all his other equipment. Vehicle engines meant Germans, obviously, and that was bad news. If it was a patrol, they might have to fight their way out of the village.

  He glanced at his watch – it was just after four in the afternoon, still broad daylight – and looked around the barn. Watson had already stowed everything in the truck, and was ready to leave immediately.

  ‘Looks like our stew or whatever it is will have to wait,’ Dawson murmured.

  ‘I looked at the label on the tin,’ Watson said, ‘and you were right – it is a stew, or goulash, actually.’

  The sound of an engine, perhaps two engines, was now very obvious.

  ‘Sounds like a truck to me,’ Dawson said. ‘Have you looked outside yet?’

  Watson shook his head. ‘I already had everything ready to leave, so I just woke you, in case you wanted to make a run for it straight away.’

  ‘Not without knowing what we’re facing. I’ll go and check outside.’

  Dawson pulled the coal-scuttle helmet onto his head, picked up a Schmeisser and checked it, then gently pushed the barn door open. He looked all round, saw nothing to alarm him, then slipped through the gap.

  Watson remained behind, watching through the partially open doorway, his machine-pistol ready.

  For a few moments, Dawson stood just outside the barn, listening intently, trying to work out exactly where the noise of the truck engine was coming from. The vehicle had to be on the road, obviously, but the surrounding buildings meant that it was difficult to locate the source of the noise and the direction from which it was approaching.

  Dawson ran a few paces forward down the track until he could see a short distance both up and down the road. Now the sound was much more distinct, and he knew the truck was approaching them from the direction of Münzingen. Not a particularly helpful piece of information. What they needed to know was the type of vehicle and who was in it.

  He ducked into cover at the side of the track and looked down the road, waiting for the truck to come into view.

  Moments later he saw it, perhaps fifty yards away, as it swung round a gentle bend at the edge of the village. Clearly military, it looked like a three-tonner, the back covered by a kind of canvas hood. Dawson could see three figures sitting in the cab – the driver and two passengers – but there could be a whole squad of soldiers travelling in the back of the vehicle.

  Then Dawson noticed something else. One of the passengers in the cab was wearing a cap rather than a helmet, which probably meant he was an officer. His presence almost certainly meant there was a group of soldiers in the back. The truck might even be the lead vehicle of a small convoy. Usually, a squad of soldiers – typically between about eight and sixteen men – would be commanded by a corporal or sergeant. The presence of an officer suggested a platoon-sized unit, upwards of twenty-five soldiers.

  Everything depended, Dawson realized, on what happened next. If the truck carried on through the village, then presumably it was just a platoon being driven somewhere. If it stopped, then the chances were that the soldiers had been ordered to join the search for them. If so, he and Watson really were in the shit.

  He lowered himself flat to the ground, taking advantage of the vegetation that lined the side of the lane, and pressed his head down onto the leaves – he didn’t want the pale oval of his face to be visible as the truck drove past the end of the track.

  Then he just listened. About ten seconds later he heard a squeal of brakes, then the noise of the truck’s diesel engine rattled into silence. The vehicle had obviously stopped somewhere near the centre of the village.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Dawson muttered to himself, stood up cautiously and crossed to the other side of the lane. He worked his way forward until he could just see the village square and, parked close to the pump, the back end of the German army truck. As he watched, about a dozen soldiers wearing grey-green uniforms clambered down from the vehicle, weapons in hand.

  It was just possible, Dawson hoped, that they’d simply stopped for a break on their journey, to refill their water bottles at the village pump and have a cigarette. But even as this thought crossed his mind, he knew he was being ridiculously optimistic. Seconds later the officer walked around from the front of the vehicle and started barking orders, his arms gesticulating as he detailed the soldiers. They’d obviously arrived to search the village.

  Dawson could see the officer clearly, could see the Death’s Head – the Totenkopf or ‘skull of a dead man’ – badge on his cap and the SS flashes on his right-hand lapel. This was the worst news of all.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ he muttered again, and cautiously backed away from his vantage point. As soon as he was shielded from view by the adjacent buildings, he broke into a run back to the barn.

  Watson pushed open the door as he approached, then pulled it closed behind him.

  ‘It’s a fucking SS patrol,’ Dawson said, ‘with an officer in charge. I think they’re going to search the village. They’ll see that broken lock on the door, and then they’ll bust in. We’ve got to get the hell out of here right now.’

  ‘Right.’ Watson ran over to the truck and prepared to start the engine, while Dawson peered out through the gap between the two barn doors. Even as he watched, two German soldiers reached the end of the track and turned down it, heading straight towards the barn.

  ‘Now would be a good time, Dave,’ Dawson said, watching the two men approach.

  Behind him, the truck’s engine sprang noisily into life, the sound unmistakable in the quiet afternoon air. The two German soldiers stopped and stared towards the barn, puzzled looks on their faces, then raised their weapons and started walking slowly forward.

  Dawson abandoned his post by the doors and ran back to the truck. ‘Now, Dave,’ he said.

  ‘But the bloody doors are still closed,’ Watson pointed out.

  ‘They won’t be when this fucking truck hits them. Now go.’

  Dawson jumped into the passenger seat, grabbed one of the Schmeissers and dropped the strap around his neck, then put two stick grenades on the seat beside him and removed the caps from the ends, ready to trigger them.

  Watson let out the clutch, and the truck surged forward, accelerating swiftly. The front of the vehicle hit the barn doors hard, the impact forcing one back on its hinges. The other toppled forwards, the hinges torn away from it completely, to crash to the ground outside as the truck’s wheels ran over it.

  Dawson stood up in his seat and aimed the machine-pistol at the two German soldiers, who had dodged to the side of the track as the vehicle had erupted from the closed barn.

  As both soldiers raised their rifles, Dawson pulled the trigger, sending a steam of nine-millimetre bullets crashing into their bodies at almost point-blank range. They never stood a chance.

  ‘Go right at the end,’ Dawson yelled, as Watson changed up into second gear.

  As the truck continued to accelerate, half a dozen more German soldiers appeared at the end of the track. For an instant they stared, puzzled, at the sight of a German army truck being driven by two men wearing German helmets and emerging from a barn. Then they obviously also saw the bodies of the soldiers lying behind the vehicle, aimed their weapons and opened fire.

  The thick glass of the windscreen cracked as a couple of bullets smashed into it. Dawson could heard the thuds as other rounds impacted the heavy steel bodywork. The truck wasn’t armoured like a tank or personnel carrier, but it was still pretty tough.

  While Watson weaved the truck from side to side within the confines of the narrow track, trying to throw off the aim of the German soldiers, Dawson reached down and picked up one of the grenades. He pulled the cord, counted a slow ‘one, two’, then lobbed it as hard as he could towards the approaching men. It exploded in the air, before it even reached them, and cut an immediate swathe through their ranks. But even before the weapon detonated, Dawson had already armed and thrown the second grenade.

  Other soldiers tumbled to the g
round as the grenade exploded near them. Even the truck lurched with each explosion, though the grenades had exploded about twenty yards away, and the two sappers were well protected by its steel from the effects of the blasts.

  Dawson let fly another couple of bursts with the machine-pistol, to make sure any of the German soldiers who’d survived the explosions wouldn’t cause them any trouble.

  But, actually, those soldiers weren’t the problem, as both Dawson and Watson realized as the truck swung out of the track and onto the road that ran through the village.

  Dawson glanced to his left, and swore loudly.

  The German SS officer was running down the road towards them, a pistol in his hand. Behind him were another dozen or so soldiers, most armed with rifles. They were the problem because the road out of the village was straight and there was literally nowhere else they could go. Once the Germans started firing at them, from behind, they’d be sitting targets. The only thing that might save them was the thickness of metal in the cargo area directly behind the cab of the truck. It wasn’t much to rely on.

  Dawson grabbed another two stick grenades, and armed and threw each one towards the soldiers. But, even as he did so, he guessed most of the Germans were beyond the lethal radius of the weapons.

  Watson pressed down on the accelerator as hard as he could, trying to accelerate out of trouble, but the truck gathered speed terribly slowly.

  Dawson stood up in the seat and fired another long burst from the Schmeisser at the enemy soldiers, barely even bothering to aim. The machine-pistol jammed after a couple of seconds, and Dawson dropped it back onto the seat.

  He grabbed one of the Mauser rifles, pulled back the bolt to chamber a round, then aimed it back down the road and pulled the trigger. Again, trying to aim it was pointless because the truck was bouncing and jolting as Dave Watson powered it down the road.