Incursion (A James Shaw Mission Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  Taking a long drag on his cigarette, Vogel savored the taste before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils like a dragon. Turning in his chair, Vogel looked out his window at the lights of Oslo and wished for a moment that he was back home in Dresden with his father. His mother had died when he was only ten. His father, a crippled war veteran, had raised him. Joining the army the day he turned eighteen, he had known no other home for the past dozen years. He was a loyal German but had never seen the need to join the Nazi Party. That was for the bootlicks in the SS. He wasn’t interested in politics. Vogel had no doubt that his current assignment was related to his steadfast refusal to bend as so many of his fellow officers had and join the Nazi Party.

  Butting out his cigarette, Vogel was about to reach for another file folder when the door to his office opened and General Reckow entered the room. Instantly, Vogel rose from his desk and stood rigidly at attention.

  “Please Jürgen, sit down,” said Reckow as he grabbed a chair and sat down.

  “Thank you Herr General,” said Vogel. He could see that his superior looked tired and worn down. Although only in his early forties, Reckow looked far older. Over the past couple of months, he had packed on a few pounds around his stomach, so much so that his gray dress uniform bulged where it shouldn’t.

  Looking over at the stack of work neatly sorted on Vogel’s desk, Reckow smiled and shook his head. “You’ll get an ulcer if you try to win the war all by yourself. Trust me Jürgen; the work will still be there in the morning. If it’s important, the duty staff will wake one of us up to deal with it.”

  “Yes, Herr General.”

  Standing up, Reckow walked back and closed the door to Vogel’s office. Taking a seat, he lit a cigarette and then looked over at Vogel. “Jürgen, I was just briefed by our operations staff that one of our weather and radio-relay stations on the West Coast has gone off the air. Repeated attempts to establish contact with them have gone unanswered.”

  “The weather perhaps,” offered Vogel. “It has been snowing heavily in that region for days.”

  “I thought that too, but our signals experts assure me that we should still be able to reach them.”

  “Partisans?”

  “Perhaps. The Norwegian resistance has not attacked any major installations to date, so I doubt that they are to blame.”

  “British Commandos? They have attacked our forces several times over the past year.”

  “Yes, but they have only raided islands along the coast. This installation is inland, and I cannot see what strategic advantage they would gain from attacking a relatively undefended weather station.”

  Vogel sat back in his chair. General Reckow was right; there was nothing the British could gain from attacking such a small outpost.

  Reckow said, “One of my sources tells me that the SS have heard about the weather station and have begun to sniff around. He told me that they are sending some men to see what has happened to our station at Vikedal. You know how these people operate. They see partisans and threats to the Reich under every rock. They will undoubtedly drive more Norwegians into the hands of the resistance with their heavy-handed ways.”

  Vogel nodded his head. “Yes Herr General, they aren’t known for their subtlety or tact.”

  Reckow nodded his head. “That is why you are going to Vikedal before they arrive. I want you to see what is going on over there. If it is something as simple as a broken radio, chastise them for failing to inform us and have the station commander brought up on charges for incompetence. However, if it is something more than that, I would rest easier knowing that it is you, not the damned SS, dealing with the problem.”

  Vogel couldn’t believe his ears. He was being given a chance to escape the drudgery of staff work and head back into the field. He had no doubt that it was probably some mechanical error that will be soon fixed, but he wasn’t going to say so out loud. He didn’t want to lose this opportunity.

  “When do I leave sir?”

  “First thing in the morning. There is a plane waiting to take you to Haugesund, the nearest major base to the weather station. Once you arrive there, you will take command of a company of regulars from the local garrison. I have already signed the order placing them under your command for the duration of the operation. It is about ninety kilometers from Haugesund to Vikedal. Even in the snow, it should be no more than a two-hour drive to the weather station.”

  “Very good sir,” replied Vogel with a grin on his face.

  Reckow leant forward in his chair. His voice suddenly became deathly serious. “Jürgen, wrap this up quickly. I don’t want the SS messing things up for us.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  General Reckow stood, as did Vogel. With a nod of his head, Reckow left the room. Sitting back down, Vogel looked over at the pile of work sitting on his desk. To hell with it, it was someone else’s work now, thought Vogel. Standing up, he walked to his door, opened it and bellowed for Captain Ompteda to report to his office immediately. He had some work for him to do before he went to bed tonight.

  6

  Vikedal, Norway

  January 18th, 1942

  The ground was coming up fast…too fast.

  Not ground-ice and snow, Shaw quickly reminded himself. With a cloud-covered sky, the ground rushing up towards him was difficult to see. Shaw had only ever jumped in broad daylight and that was onto a flat grassy field. Now with a powerful wind pushing him sideways as he descended, Shaw knew that he had only a couple of seconds left before he landed. Remembering his training, Shaw braced himself for landing. Bringing his knees into together, he bent them slightly and waited for the inevitable impact. A second later, his feet hit the ground; the fresh snow gave way under him as he let his body roll with the impact. Through gritted teeth, Shaw let out his breath. He was certain that he had been holding his breath the whole way down. Realizing that he had survived the landing unhurt, Shaw quickly scrambled up onto his feet and started to pull on his parachute’s risers. He had to grab up his parachute before a gust of wind came along and dragged him over the snow like a child’s toy. Looking around, Shaw tried to see where his other companions had landed.

  From a wood line a couple of hundred yards distant, a white light flashed on and off three times. It was the recognition signal. Placing his right foot on his collapsed parachute, Shaw dug into his white camouflaged parka and pulled out a small handheld flashlight. Quickly turning it on and off four times, he waited for a response. Reaching down to his side, Shaw drew his 9mm automatic and pulled back on the slide, loading a round into the chamber. Better safe than sorry, he thought to himself.

  A second later, two long flashes were sent. It was the confirmation signal.

  Shaw, still working on adrenaline from the jump, bent down and hurriedly finished jamming his parachute back into its pack. Removing his helmet, Shaw dug out a dark-green toque from a pocket and placed it on his head before he lost any body heat. Already he could feel winter’s cold embrace on his body. Being dressed for the cold was half the battle.

  Voices called out in Norwegian.

  Looking up, Shaw could see five people running towards him. Shaking his head, he wished that they hadn’t called out. If there were a German patrol in the area, they surely would have heard them. Heaving his parachute harness over his shoulder, Shaw made his way towards his contacts.

  The first person to reach him was a young woman. In the dark, Shaw couldn’t see her face clearly. She stood perhaps five feet tall and was dressed like a man in heavy winter clothing.

  “Welcome to Norway,” said the woman in English.

  “If I’m in Norway, who am I?” said Shaw in Norwegian.

  The woman paused for a second and then said, “You are my uncle Gustav.”

  It was the second part of the agreed upon recognition signals. Shaw relaxed and took in a deep breath of cold night air.

  “You are early,” said the woman. “We didn’t expect you for another thirty minutes.”

  “
Yeah, the pilot said he was making good time just before we flew over Norwegian territory,” replied Shaw. Turning in place, he looked about for his companions. His stomach told him something was wrong when he couldn’t see either of them. “Have you seen Duncan or Mads?”

  The woman shook her head. Calling over the rest of her group, she told them to spread out and to try to find the other two men.

  “What should I do with my parachute?” said Shaw to the woman.

  “Follow me,” she replied and led Shaw to the tree line where she had been waiting for him. As soon as they entered the woods, she told him to bury it in the snow, explaining that she would come back in the spring and retrieve it. Using his foot, Shaw cleared a spot in the snow and then quickly buried his parachute.

  From somewhere in the dark, a man let out a loud whistle.

  Shaw cringed. “Aren’t your people being a bit loud? What if there is a German patrol moving around out here?”

  “There aren’t any. There never are,” she replied confidently. “They keep to themselves mostly and never go out at night. We keep a close eye on the weather station, and I can tell you that no one has entered or left that place in days.”

  “Well, that at least is something positive.”

  “We don’t bother them and they in turn leave us alone. It is an understanding that has been in place ever since the first Germans arrived to build their weather station.”

  “If we are going to work together, can I at least know your name?” Shaw asked the woman.

  Pausing to think, the woman replied, “You can call me Anna.”

  Shaw knew that it wasn’t her real name, but it was better than nothing.

  “Come,” said Anna as she headed back out into the open field. Ten seconds later, they could see a couple of men helping one of Shaw’s compatriots out of his parachute harness. Hearing the unending swearing, Shaw knew that Bruce was alive and by the sound of it, he had landed in one piece.

  Stopping in front of Bruce, Shaw looked down and saw that he was covered in snow and had somehow become entangled in his parachute’s lines. One of the resistance fighters was busy cutting Bruce out his parachute while the other stood there laughing at him.

  “How are you doing Duncan?” asked Shaw.

  “Well sir, aside from nearly freezing to death after jumping out of a perfectly serviceable and well-heated aircraft, I’d have to say not too bad,” said Bruce.

  Shaw shook his head and offered him his hand. Standing up, Bruce quickly brushed the snow from his body. Like Shaw, he was wearing a white camouflaged parka, thick woolen khaki pants, and heavy winter boots on his feet.

  A man’s deep voice called out.

  As one, everyone in the group turned and looked in the direction of the voice. The man called out again. Leaving one of the men to dispose of Bruce’s parachute, Anna led the way towards the man.

  As they approached the man, Shaw’s gut told him that something bad had happened. Looking down at the man’s feet, he could see a dark shape lying in the snow. It was Mads.

  “His chute never opened,” said the man. “He died on impact.”

  “Oh Lord, no,” said Bruce as he looked down at Mads’ corpse. He had never seen a dead man before. Instantly, his knees went weak. His head began to spin. Turning on his heels, Bruce quickly bent over and emptied his stomach out onto the snow.

  “Take him and bury in the woods,” Anna said to the closest couple of men. Turning, she looked up at Shaw and said, “I’m sorry about the loss of one of your men.”

  “So am I,” said Shaw, not sure how he should feel. He barely knew Andersen and now the man was dead. Deep down, Shaw knew that Andersen probably wouldn’t be the last man to die before the mission was over. “I think that you ought to know that Mads was one of yours. He was a Free-Norwegian soldier.”

  “Thank you for sharing that,” said Anna. “We will see that he gets a proper burial in the spring.”

  Shaw nodded his head. “There should also be a container in the field somewhere,” he said. “It has our explosives, camera equipment, and weapons inside it.”

  Anna quickly called over a couple of men and told them to find the container.

  Stepping aside, Shaw moved over and placed a hand on Bruce’s back. He was still hunched over, gasping for air. “You’ll be fine,” said Shaw, trying to reassure Bruce. “He wouldn’t have felt a thing when he hit the ground.”

  Bruce stood, wiped the spittle from his chin, and then looked away as Andersen’s body was dragged away to be covered in snow. “That may be so sir, but all that time he was falling, he knew he was going to die. It’s a horrible way to meet your maker if you ask me.”

  “Come on, let’s help them find the container so we can get to work,” said Shaw, ending the conversation.

  After about ten minutes, one of the resistance fighters literally tripped over the container buried beneath the snow. Like Andersen, its chute had also failed to open. Luckily, it was a metal container and had survived the impact in one piece.

  Opening it, Shaw grabbed a Thompson submachine gun for himself and another for Bruce, who looked at it as if it were something foreign and dangerous. Quickly jamming home a magazine, Shaw charged the weapon and then leaned it against the container while he looked for Bruce’s camera equipment. Finding it, he handed over the camera case and spare film to Bruce before standing up. In Norwegian, he told a couple of the men to drag the container back into the woods, take out the explosives and spare weapons before they buried it.

  After what seemed like an eternity in the cold to Shaw, everyone made their way back to the woods. With Andersen and all of the spare equipment buried, they were finally free to get on their way.

  The anticipated storm had arrived. Turning his head to look up, Shaw saw the snow begin to fall from the dark, cloud-covered sky. Thankfully, it wouldn’t be long before their tracks would be covered, erasing any sign that they had ever been there.

  Anna walked over and stopped beside Shaw. Placing a hand on his arm, she said, “We have a truck waiting in a clearing just a few hundred yards away. We should get going.”

  Shaw nodded his head and passed on what had been said to Bruce, who was happy to hear that they would be leaving the woods. His feet were growing cold and any chance he got to get his circulation flowing would be welcome. He told Shaw that wherever they were going, he hoped that it would be warmer, but he doubted it. He was resigned to the fact that he was going to be cold and miserable the entire time he was in Norway.

  By the time they arrived in the clearing, the snow had begun to fall harder, reducing visibility to less than a couple of dozen yards. Shaw was happy to see that their ride was a three-ton truck with a canvas tarp cover over the back. At least they wouldn’t have to sit out in the open, thought Shaw. Climbing up into the back of the truck, Shaw turned about, helped up Bruce, and then three of the resistance fighters. Anna and the truck’s driver got in the cab. Taking a seat, Shaw tapped the back of the cab, letting the driver know that they were good to go. A moment later, the truck’s engine coughed and spluttered to life. Slowly, the truck began to make its way down the snow-covered road. Looking down at his watch, Shaw saw that it was nearly one in the morning. They had at best six more hours of darkness before the sun came up.

  “Captain, are they taking us to the crashed German plane now?” asked Bruce.

  “Duncan, please don’t use my rank. My first name is James or Jim; I don’t care which one you use,” said Shaw. “And to answer your question, yes we are.”

  “Good, I wanna get this over as quick as we can. I’m not used to all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. You might be sir, but I’m just a humble photographer, not a commando like you,” he said, looking down uncomfortably at the Thompson resting on his lap.

  Shaw shook his head; Bruce was never going to change his ways.

  They drove for fifteen minutes. Shaw sat there listening to the drone of the truck’s engine. If he hadn’t been in Nazi-occupied territory, he was certa
in that the gentle rocking of the truck could have easily put him to sleep. Taking a deep breath to clear his weary mind, he was about to ask Bruce how his photographic equipment faired from the rough landing when he felt the truck begin to slow down. A second later, it came to a sliding halt on the icy road. Instinctively, Shaw grabbed his Thompson and made his way to the back of the truck. His heart was racing. His body coiled tight, ready for a fight.

  Voices called out in Norwegian. Shaw relaxed somewhat. At least they weren’t Germans. Shaw leaned out the back of the truck and saw that there were a couple of men standing in the middle of the road talking with the driver of the truck.

  “What’s up? What do they want?” asked Bruce, who had moved over beside Shaw.

  “I don’t know. Stay here, I’m going to see what is going on.” With that, he jumped down from the back of the truck and walked up to the front of the truck with his weapon resting in his arms. Anna had also climbed down and was now talking to the two men. It was hard to hear what was being said over the noisy truck engine, but Shaw could see that both men looked to be in their late seventies. What instantly bothered him was the frightened look in the men’s faces.

  Something was wrong.

  Anna saw Shaw approaching, told the two men to step off the road and then turned to face Shaw.

  “What’s going on?” Shaw asked Anna.

  “Those men,” she said, pointing to the men standing off to one side, “they are brothers. They keep an eye on the German weather station for us.”

  “And?”

  “When they did not see any movement in the camp for several days, they grew curious and decided to take a closer look.”