For three years, Huls had been protective of her, taking the brunt of Gerd’s ire, seeing that she in no way became suspect for her activities. Now Anje wanted to do something for Huls, for she sensed he was in danger.
He had sent her home that afternoon. But it was vastly more important to seize this opportunity to destroy the evidence against her friends in the underground.
The Raalte castle, hidden in an out-of-the-way grove of trees, looked peacefully quiet as Anje approached it on foot, after hiding her bicycle. The heavy, slightly ajar gates, indicated the speed with which the occupants had fled the castle. Still, Anje was cautious.
Looking to her right and then her left, Anje hurried inside, leaving the front door open as she had found it. She wasted no time in locating the tremendous file room, with its metal cabinets reaching almost to the ceiling.
She began pulling out file after file of correspondence from Berlin, from the Reichstag—mountains of papers that had no meaning to her. As time passed and she still found nothing of value, she suspected that the correspondence so sensitive to security would not be kept in the regular file room, but more than likely in the commandant’s office—perhaps his personal safe.
Leaving the file room, Anje walked down the hall and pushed open doors until she stopped on the threshold of a paneled office, decorated in much the same manner as the one Heinrich had just left, with the required picture of the head of the Third Reich in prominent position, balanced by the flags on each side. Two tall metal cabinets towered against the far wall.
For a member of the underground, the opening of a locked cabinet presented little challenge. Anje removed a hairpin from her neatly coiffeured head. But there was no need to use it. The files were unlocked, indicating once again the haste with which the commandant had fled.
Pulling open a drawer of the first cabinet, Anje began rifling through the large brown envelopes, different from the material in the file room.
As she pulled a particularly fat envelope from its resting place, two pictures fell from the envelope and dropped to the floor at her feet. When she stooped to retrieve the pictures, she drew in her breath, for she recognized a familiar face—Huls, in his chef’s uniform.
Her hands began to tremble as she quickly returned the pictures to the envelope. Her one thought was to take the damning information and hurry back to the De Groot Hotel to warn Huls.
The sound of boots in the hallway suddenly alerted Anje that she was no longer alone. She looked at the windows behind her. They were covered with bars. One door, and only one, provided an exit from the room. She had made a fatal error in her haste, for she was trapped in the room. Hugging the envelope to her breast, Anje darted under the massive desk just as the door to the office opened.
For an instant, Heinrich stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the inside light after the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Gradually, the room took shape, the telephone on the desk drawing him into the room. He decided to try to reach Model again.
As Heinrich’s steps brought him closer to the desk, Anje withdrew the stiletto from her garter, and waited to be discovered in her compromising position. She crouched like a cornered animal, ready to strike at the first moment of attack by the enemy.
Heinrich, standing on the other side of the desk, reached for the telephone, and removed the receiver from its hook.
“Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece and then jiggled the hook up and down. “Hello.” The line was dead.
“It’s no use, Horst,” he said to the man standing guard at the threshold. “The lines were probably cut by the Resistance the moment the first paratroopers came down. Why don’t you go and see if you can find something to drink? It might be a long wait for the tanks.”
“As you wish, my Colonel.”
The retreating steps of the second man told Anje that she was now alone in the room with one German colonel, waiting for armor to arrive. And she knew she had to do something to bluff her way out before he came around to sit at the desk.
“Herr Colonel?” she inquired in a frightened, girlish voice.
“Ja? Who’s in here?” Heinrich demanded. “Where are you? Identify yourself.”
It’s me—Magda. I’m hiding—under the desk.”
“Come out where I can see you.”
“You won’t shoot me, will you, Herr Colonel?”
He made no promises.
Anje, cautiously placing the stiletto back into her garter, crawled out from under the desk and came face to face with the same man she had served lunch at the De Groot Hotel several hours earlier.
Forcing herself to remain calm, she gave no evidence that she recognized him. But it was obvious that Heinrich recognized the young woman standing before him.
“How did you get here?” he demanded.
“By bicycle—as I do every day.” Her baffled expression made him impatient.
“No. You’re lying. You work at the De Groot Hotel. You have no business being here.”
A smile caused the dimple to show in the young woman’s cheek. “You must have me mixed up with my cousin, Anje. She’s the one who works at the De Groot.”
Still suspicious, Heinrich inquired. “Why were you hiding? Under the desk?”
“I—I hadn’t finished my cleaning. I was afraid Herr Blockhead—” Anje covered her mouth in chagrin as Heinrich suddenly smiled. “I mean, Herr Commandant would be angry. And so I stayed. But when I heard footsteps, I thought it was the paratroopers, and that’s why I hid.”
In a stern manner that disguised his mirth at her use of the commandant’s nickname, he accused, “No. You’re lying. You’re Anje. And you came to cut the communications lines.”
“Please, Herr Colonel. The lines were cut long before everyone left, including the commandant.”
“Where did he go?”
“Back across the border.”
Satisfied, Heinrich relaxed. Yes, that would be just like him, for he had no stomach for fighting. “Finish your cleaning, Magda. I expect the commandant will be back in several days.”
“Yes, Herr Colonel.”
He had moved toward the door as he heard Horst coming back down the hallway. “You’re certain you’re not Anje?” he inquired again.
“Oh, no, Herr Colonel. I’m too clumsy to be a waitress.” The small glass paperweight fell off the desk and broke.
Staring in dismay at the broken shards of glass on the floor, Anje said, “The commandant will be angry at me for this.”
“Yes, I expect he will, Magda,” Heinrich replied, as he faced Horst coming into the room. “You found something to drink, Horst?”
“Yes, my Colonel,” he replied, frowning as he saw the woman in the room with his commander.
In a dry voice, Heinrich explained her presence. “Anje’s cousin, Magda. She’s the cleaning girl here. Well, what have you found, Horst? And where is it?”
“In the sitting room. I thought you would be more comfortable there.” He continued to glare at the woman picking up the pieces of glass from the floor.
Heinrich nodded, closed the door, and motioned for Horst to lock it behind him, leaving Anje trapped again, with bars at the windows and the only exit lost to her.
Chapter 33
Anje heard the sudden closing of the door and the click of the key, and she knew that Heinrich had not believed her flimsy story.
Silently she waited with her head pressed against the door and listened to the double set of steps as the two Germans made their way down the hall. At least Heinrich had not assigned his aide to guard duty before the locked door.
Anje walked back to the desk and reached under it for the envelope containing the pictures, the information on the Dutch Resistance. And her eyes, unbelieving, examined again the picture of Huls and the information in his dossier.
Huls, her friend, was the double agent! No, it couldn’t be true. Gerd was the Nazi collaborator, not Huls. But the chef’s own handwriting condemned him, as his information condemned the network o
f Resistance workers in that district, his contacts in other cities, and even the telephone operators working in the exchange.
She looked at the real names and labeled code names opposite them, one by one. One code name remained alone with no identification beside it. The Griffon—operating independently in the district, no clue as to his cover.
Anje, remembering Gerd’s actions, his close monitoring of Huls, and his avowed loyalty to the Nazis, began to suspect that Gerd might well be The Griffon. What better cover than working in the hotel where Nazi officers came and went and, slightly drunk, talked with loosened tongues to a known collaborator or sympathizer?
She must get out—to warn the underground of Huls, the betrayer in the midst. A sadness overwhelmed her. Then Anje began to pick the lock. Hidden in her chemise was Hul’s dossier. The others she had destroyed, setting fire to the bits of paper in the metal wastebasket.
A steady rumble of tanks in the distance caused the ground to tremble, the windows to rattle. Anje, opening the door to the hallway, peered down the long corridor and glanced toward the curved marble stairs that led to the second floor. With her shoes in her hands, she fled toward the front door and put on her shoes and began to run through the compound, past Heinrich’s staff car and toward the wooded grove where she had left her bicycle.
As she reached the bicycle, she stopped. Leaning against a nearby tree was Heinrich, and directly beyond him was his aide, Horst.
Anje stared at Heinrich and then at Horst, her hands tightening their grip on the handlebars of the bicycle. A satisfied expression passed over Heinrich’s face at the dismay he had caused.
Pitching the empty wine bottle into the brush, Heinrich lazily gave Horst the order.
“Shoot her, Horst.”
“My Colonel?”
“I said shoot her, Horst. Immediately.”
Horst gazed apologetically at Anje, removed his gun from its holster, and aimed. The muffled shot rang over the countryside, answered in kind by the din of the moving tanks.
Anje’s hands loosened on the handlebars. The bicycle fell, and the seventeen-year-old member of the Dutch underground crumpled to the soft earth, her fall dislodging the picture of Huls, the double agent, from its hiding place, to lie beside her outstretched hand.
Satisfied, Heinrich said, “Come, Horst. I hear the tanks. It’s past time to start for Nijmegen.”
For over ten hours, Model, the commander of Army Group B, who had fled his overrun headquarters at Oosterbeek for Bittrich’s quarters in Doetinchem, had no idea of the extent of the invasion or the importance of the Arnhem bridge. He only knew that his army had been cut in two by British paratroopers and he had mistakenly thought that his headquarters had been their prime goal.
But farther south, General Student and Heinrich von Freiker were well aware of the plans, and they now put into action a massive assault to stop the Allies from meeting their goal.
As darkness descended in the town of Mook, Marsh, Gig and Laroche, plus the two members of the team—Howard and Megan—were exhausted from the continuous fighting from village to village. They were holed up in the cellar of a deserted house to eat their K rations, cold, without benefit of anything to wash it down, while around them, the sporadic sound of guns signaled a lull in the fighting.
For the first time that day, Marsh surveyed the two rookies—the tall, calm, aristocratic Megan, and the smaller, nervous Howard, who ate in a crouched position, as if he were ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
The seasoned Laroche, tired and hungry, looked around the temporary shelter and complained, “Never heard of a wine cellar without wine.”
“Why don’t you try the water faucet in the kitchen?” Gig suggested, busy feeding bits of K rations to Lester, the small brown puppy he’d carried all day. He dumped the few remaining drops of water from his canteen on his fingers for the puppy to lick. “If you’re that thirsty.”
“And get my head blown off? You think I came all this way for a drink of water? If I’d wanted that, I would have dunked my head in the canal.”
“Or landed in another well.”
“That’s getting old, Madison, reminding me of that.”
“Stop your bickering,” Marsh ordered, his patience worn thin.
The sound of heavy boots on the floor overhead caused the five to freeze and listen. Their thirst was forgotten as they swapped messkits for their rifles, took positions against the barricade of barrels and waited. Rapid fire outside the house was answered in turn by enemy rifles above Marsh and the other paratroopers.
“I think the Germans are directly above us,” whispered Megan, one of the new men.
A grenade thrown from the street into an upstairs window caused the cellar to rain down plaster upon their heads and a wooden beam to sag dangerously.
“Let’s get out of here,” Marsh said, moving toward the back entrance, for he had no wish to be buried alive.
“You think the shed next to us is unoccupied?” inquired Mel Howard, the other paratrooper.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Marsh answered, glancing toward the outbuilding of stucco, with its sloped roof of faded tile.
Heading toward the door, he was stopped by Gig. “I’ll go first,” Gig volunteered. “I can run the fastest. Just let me get Lester zipped up here.”
“Why not send the dog first?” Megan suggested, to be answered by a furious glare from Gig.
“We’ll give you cover,” Laroche commented, also ignoring the suggestion..
With the animal safely zipped into his combat suit, Gig edged toward the door, glanced out into the small garden area between the buildings, and suddenly streaked through the rows of bright yellow sunflowers to the safety of the next building.
No fire strafed the garden. But Laroche, going next, was not so fortunate. From the upper windows came the sound of rifles. Laroche fell flat in the dirt, concealed by the few sunflowers with their heads intact. Marsh, shooting from the small opening in the door, aimed his rifle toward the windows and, out of the corner of his eye, watched to see if Laroche had moved. The almost imperceptible stirring of the sunflowers gave Marsh hope that the little Cajun was still alive.
Mel Howard, without waiting for a signal, rushed from the doorway, causing Marsh to swear. But it was already too late. He went down in a burst of fire before he had reached the halfway mark in the garden.
“Have you got a grenade left, Megan?” Marsh demanded of the one remaining paratrooper. His voice was harsh.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, give it to me. And after I throw it, run like hell. Are you ready?”
“But what about you, sir?”
“I’ll be all right if the grenade hits its mark.”
Marsh removed the pin from the plastic in his hand, hurled it toward the windows where the enemy guns had pinned them down, and, in an urgent voice after the explosion, commanded, “Run, Megan!”
The young paratrooper, lurching low, swept past the door and a split second later Marsh followed, his large frame a target for any guns still in action.
Megan reached the shed with the others, but Marsh, searching for Laroche, paused long enough to lift the wounded Cajun into his arms and carry him toward the shed.
“Medic!” Marsh yelled, his voice loud enough to be heard throughout the town. There would be no more fighting for Laroche in Operation Market-Garden.
As the smoke from the grenade cleared and silence reigned in the small Dutch garden with its miniature windmill barely turning in the breeze, Marsh cautiously went back into the garden for Howard. The man was dead. He already knew that but he brought him into shelter anyway.
“You hurt bad, Laroche?” Gig asked, leaning over his buddy.
Before answering, Laroche inquired, “Is my arm still there, Madison?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I don’t hurt so bad.”
Gig tore a strip of cloth from Laroche’s shirt and used it as a tourniquet to stop the flow of blood while they waited for the
medic to reach them with his stretcher and claim Laroche for the hospital and Mel Howard, on his first jump, for the list of those killed in action.
Now the odds were catching up with the four veterans who had survived the Sicily campaign. First Giraldo, then Laroche. But neither was dead. There was still hope for them both.
Without saying a word, Marsh and Gig looked at each other and tightened the muscles in their stomachs. They knew that, at any moment, they too might be separated from each other.
Once the three able-bodied paratroopers left the shed, Marsh decided it was safer to go from rooftop to rooftop, for then they could see below the approach of enemy vehicles from all directions.
For the townspeople, caught in the fighting without prior warning and, hiding in their attics and other sheltered places carved out in their houses, the sound of combat boots overhead was a strange noise. Some, unable to resist looking out the gabled windows, saw men, used to the air, hopping, surefooted, minus their parachutes, as if the wings on their uniforms had give them some special ability over their landgrounded brothers.
The pathfinders, fighting with one unit and then another of Gavin’s troops, finally reached the Maas-Waal canal at the same time the British paratroopers, farther north, were taking the upper end of the bridge at Arnhem. As Marsh, Gig, and Megan approached the tanks of the canal, the crossing of the wide expanse of water was already underway, soldiers in flimsy canvas boats hidden by a cover of smoke.
Gig, watching the loading of boats, turned green. “Thirteen! I’m not about to get in a boat with twelve others. That’s positively unlucky.”
“You didn’t add the three engineers already in each boat,” Marsh countered.
“Well, that’s more like it. Guess Lester and I will chance it after all.”
After he climbed into one of the boats with Marsh and Megan, and they had pushed off, Gig became silent, listening for the sound of guns on the other side of the canal.
On Wings of Fire Page 28