The time before the shooting started was always the hardest, thought Vogel. Once the shooting started, the men would break down into their fire teams. The battle would soon belong to the sergeants and the corporals. All an officer could do now was direct them where to go and trust in their training to see it through. As Vogel did not know the quality of the men under his command, he knew that he was taking a big risk attacking the partisan camp, but it was one he knew he had to take.
Bruce nudged Shaw with his elbow as Carl walked back into the camp. The man didn’t seem to see Shaw standing beside his shelter.
“Carl,” said Shaw, trying to get his attention.
Carl turned and smiled. “Sorry sir, I didn’t see you standing there. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Not a problem. I can understand after all you have been through,” replied Shaw. “Is everything still wired up?”
“Yes it is.”
“Very good. There’s a fresh pot of coffee and some leftover stew over by the fire. You should get some food into you. It’s shaping up to be a long day.”
“Perhaps later, I’m not hungry right now.” With that, Carl turned his back on Shaw and walked away.
Shaw turned to face Bruce and said, “Come on let’s go and chat with Wahlberg and find out when exactly he intends to detonate the explosives.”
“You know sir, I don’t think it’s plane at least not in the conventional sense,” said Bruce as walked beside Shaw.
“Ok then what is it?”
Bruce shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know Captain, but I doubt that the Germans built it.”
“Then who did?”
“Our side perhaps? Sir, think about it, we were sent out here to take pictures and then blow the plane up to prevent the Germans from getting their hands on it. What if they want the pictures to see how it fairs after a crash? It wouldn’t be the first time that soldiers were sent out on a mission and weren’t told the truth about what they were doing.”
Shaw shook his head. “My God man, you do have a conspiratorial streak in you.”
“It’s the only thing I can think of that makes any sense.”
“Well then Duncan, where is the pilot?”
“Perhaps he died in the crash, and these Norwegian chaps have already buried him.”
Shaw chuckled. “Perhaps I’m not as I seem. Perhaps I’m one of those cloak-and-dagger types, and my mission is to kill you should the Germans try to capture you.”
“You know sir, that thought had already crossed my mind.”
Wahlberg heard voices. Turning his head, he saw Shaw and Bruce coming towards him. “What on earth are you two going on about?”
Shaw said, “Oh nothing really. Only that poor old Duncan here is convinced that there is a great conspiracy afoot.”
Vogel stood beside the downed craft and stared in amazement. He could scarcely believe what he was looking at. He had stopped the advance on the partisan camp so he could quickly inspect the odd-looking plane…if it even was one. Looking inside, he was surprised to see that the plane had been rigged for detonation. Quickly following the wiring, he found the detonator. It had thirty seconds left on the clock. Calmly turning it off, he was about to step away, when he decided to make sure that it couldn’t detonate. For good measure, he pulled the wiring from the detonator and the closest charges rendering it safe.
Vogel knew that whatever the allies had built it was years ahead of anything they had back in Germany. Tossing the detonator into the woods, Vogel turned to the closest NCO and told the corporal to remain by the craft and to guard it with his squad.
Vogel saw that time was slipping away. Waving Zach over to him, he quietly said, “How far to the camp from here?”
“Only a few hundred yards,” replied Zach.
“Ok then, lead on,” said Vogel, growing anxious to catch the partisans still asleep.
Inside the craft, unnoticed, the red light still flashed.
Glancing down at his watch Wahlberg saw that it was time to get everybody up. Rubbing his cold hands together by the fire, Wahlberg tried warming himself up. He had grown up in the local area but couldn’t remember a winter as bitterly cold as this one was turning out to be. Following a quick breakfast, he intended to destroy the craft. After sending his people back to their homes, he would lead Shaw and Bruce through the woods to a new safe house far from any travelled roads. He expected that it would be dark long before they got there. Moving from shelter to shelter, he roused the people sleeping there. When he got to Carl’s, he found the young man sitting alone, quietly staring up at the dark, night sky.
“Where’s Gert?” said Wahlberg.
“He went to take a crap,” replied Carl, without taking his eyes off the sky.
“When nature calls, you have to answer,” said Wahlberg with a chuckle. “Pack up your gear and get a bite to eat. We’ll be leaving in under an hour.”
In the woods, Zach slowly got down on one knee, brought his rifle up into his shoulder and then looked through the scope. Selecting a target, Zach placed the scope’s reticle pattern on the head of the man he intended to kill. The shot would signal the beginning of the German attack on the camp. Taking a deep breath, he slowly took up the slack on the trigger and then pulled back on the trigger.
Shaw stomped his feet in the snow, trying to get his circulation going. Walking over to the fire, he was about to pour himself another cup of coffee when suddenly Wahlberg’s head blew apart. Blood, bone and gore flew from the gaping wound. The loud crack of the shot that killed Wahlberg reverberated through the woods. A second later, his dead body crumpled down onto the ground.
Acting on pure instinct, Shaw didn’t bother trying to see where the shot came from. The camp was under attack. Spinning on his heels, Shaw dropped his cup, ran straight at Bruce, and, diving through the air, he pulled Bruce to the ground with him.
“Stay down,” ordered Shaw. Pulling his Thompson from his shoulder, he flipped the selector switch to automatic. Edging over beside a tall pine tree, Shaw warily raised his head as tried to determine where the attack was going to come from. Throughout the camp, the fighters struggled to come to grips with the fact that they were under attack. Some hurried to get their weapons while others stood there numbly staring down at the body of their dead leader. Suddenly, a deadly ear-splitting volley erupted from the woods. Two men fell dead, while another fell to the ground mortally wounded with a gaping bloody hole in his chest.
Ignoring the incoming fire, Shaw raised himself up on one knee. Looking out into the thick woods, all he could see were the muzzle flashes from their attackers’ rifles as they fired at the camp. Cursing, he brought up his Thompson into his shoulder and quickly emptied his magazine into the forest. He knew that it was a move born in desperation; if he didn’t hit anyone, then perhaps he could force their attackers to go to ground.
A couple of the resistance fighters fired back at shapes that moved from tree to tree in the darkened forest. It was like fighting ghosts. Even when they hit a white clad figure, another took his place and continued to relentlessly push on towards the camp. It was only a matter of seconds before the Germans would overwhelm them.
Quickly changing magazines, Shaw knew that the pitiful number of fighters still alive were no match for German army regulars. Looking behind him, he tried to see if anyone was firing on them from that direction.
The path looked clear.
He was about to yell for everyone to make a run for it when a German potato masher style hand grenade came tumbling end-over-end out of the dark and landed with a thud beside Bruce. Shaw’s heart leapt into his throat. Diving over, he landed on top of Bruce, grabbed the grenade by its handle and then hurled it back into the woods towards the advancing Germans. A second later it went off with a loud boom. The sound of a man crying in pain told Shaw that he had at least wounded someone. Like a Jack in the Box, Shaw jumped back up on one knee, took aim at a couple of soldiers rushing towards the camp and then emptied his entire magazine into them.
Their bloodied bodies tumbled face-first into the snow.
“What are we gonna do?” asked Bruce, lifting his head up slightly to see what was going on.
“We’re going to make a run for it, if we can,” replied Shaw.
The fire from the Norwegians began to slow. Without Wahlberg to lead them, the fighters were gripped by fear and hesitation.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Shaw saw Carl throw his rifle to the ground, spin about on his heels and then as fast as he could, he sprinted away from the firing. Two other fighters, seeing him run, dropped their weapons as well and ran after him, hoping to escape the ever-tightening noose around their camp. Watching them flee, another fighter threw her weapon away and then ran for her life as well. She had barely gone five feet when she was cut down in a deadly fusillade of bullets.
Shaw knew it was all but over; there were too few of them left alive to try and stop the onslaught. He and Bruce would never escape now. If they couldn’t stop the Germans, then at least they could buy some time for the others to escape, thought Shaw. Reaching down into his parka, he fumbled for a fresh magazine when a man with blood pouring from a deep wound in his neck dropped to his knees and then onto the ground right next to him. Turning his head, Shaw saw that all of the Norwegians still left in the camp were either dead or wounded; only three of them were still fighting. A feeling of red-hot anger raged inside him. Gritting his teeth, he knew he had no alternative. They had to surrender before they were all wiped out. Tossing his Thompson into the woods in front of him, Shaw called out in German, “Stop firing, we surrender.”
Nothing happened; the fire coming their way was still cutting through the air all around him.
Yelling at the resistance fighters to stop shooting, he called out again in German.
The fire slackened. An order was bellowed out in the dark. All at once, it stopped. The only sound now came from the pitiful moaning of the wounded from both sides sprawled out in the snow.
A voice called out, “Stand up and show yourself.”
Taking a deep breath, Shaw slowly stood up with his hands raised into the air. From the woods, a man walked towards Shaw; in his hand was a pistol. Shaw saw that the man was a German major. He wore an eye patch and only hand one arm. With a confident look etched on his face, the major walked alone into the camp and then stopped when he met Shaw.
Looking at their uniforms, the major looked puzzled for a moment. Shaw realized that the man had not expected to find allied soldiers in the resistance fighters’ camp.
“Good morning. My name is Major Vogel, and you are all now prisoners of the German Army,” said Vogel in impeccable English.
“Very well, Major, my name is Captain James Shaw, United States Army, and we surrender,” replied Shaw in German.
Vogel nodded his head. If he was surprised that Shaw spoke fluent German, he didn’t let it show. Looking about the camp, Vogel shook his head. He had hoped to capture more people alive and unhurt. He had questions that needed answering. Turning to look at Shaw, he wondered what he knew about the deaths at the weather station. Vogel wanted to interrogate him, but knew he would have to wait for his answers. There were more important things to worry about right now. Calling over Lieutenant Beckers, he told the young officer to look after the prisoners and for their medic to treat the wounded of both sides right away before any of them died from shock.
In the dark, the trio of Norwegian fighters ran through the woods, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the Germans. Dropping anything they thought would slow them down, they ran for their lives. Knives, packs, even heavy clothing was cast aside as they ran for their lives. Behind them, the firing had stopped, but that didn’t matter; they weren’t going to stop until they reached safety or their aching legs gave out.
Suddenly, a shot, like a clap of thunder, rang out. The fighter in the lead stumbled forward a couple of paces and then fell to the ground, dead. Stopping in their tracks, Carl and the other fighter were stunned to see two German soldiers appear, seemingly from out of nowhere with their weapons leveled at them.
“Stop! Hands up,” said one of the soldiers in passable Norwegian.
Carl and the other man did as they were told.
Warily, the two soldiers approached. Pointing back down the trail with his rifle, the nearest German indicated for them to head back towards their camp.
“What do we do?” said the resistance fighter to Carl.
Carl didn’t answer; he just stood there staring at the German soldier as they walked towards them.
Seeing Carl standing there, the soldier waved with his hand, trying to get him to move. The scant few phrases he knew in Norwegian wouldn’t help him now. The soldier’s patience instantly evaporated. If the dammed Norwegian wouldn’t move, then he would make him. He swore at him in German and then went to jab Carl in the stomach with his rifle, when, like a coiled cobra, Carl struck.
Grabbing the end of the soldier’s rifle, Carl pulled the rifle and the surprised soldier off his feet straight towards him. Before the solider could react, Carl launched his right fist into the man’s exposed neck, instantly shattering his windpipe.
Instinctively, the soldier let go of his rifle and reached up for his crushed throat.
The other soldier raised up his rifle to fire it. Pulling back on the trigger, nothing happened. He had forgotten to eject the spent casing after killing the first Norwegian. With fear in his eyes, the soldier lowered his rifle and fumbled for the bolt.
Raising the rifle in his hands over his head like a bat, Carl swung it down straight on top of the hapless solder’s head. Like a ripe watermelon, the man’s skull cracked wide open, spilling his blood and brains down the side of his white uniform. A second later, his feet buckled underneath him, and his dead body fell to the ground, covering the snow with crimson gore.
Spinning about on his heels, Carl smashed the blood-covered butt of his rifle into the side of the gasping German’s head, finishing him off.
Blood covered the ground at Carl’s feet.
Looking over at Carl, the other Norwegian said, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Carl said nothing. Tossing the rifle down, he looked over at the fighter and then with a cold look in his eyes he walked straight at him.
In the blink of an eye, fear filled the young fighter’s body. His mind screamed for him to run, but his feet felt as if they were made of lead. He just stood there knowing that in a second, he was going to die.
Wrapping his right hand around the man’s throat, Carl crushed the man’s neck as if it were made of paper. Feeling the man’s life leave his body, Carl let go of the man and watched as his corpse hit the ground. Looking around to ensure that they were alone, Carl pulled a long hunting knife from his belt, knelt down, and ripped open the dead man’s jacket. Placing his hand on the man’s chest, he could feel the heat coming off the dead body. With a smile on his face, Carl plunged the knife into the man’s chest and dug a long incision down his chest. Steam rose into the cold air from the open wound. Soon blood began to pour out of the wound, staining the snow a deep crimson color. Reaching in with his right hand, Carl grabbed hold of the man’s liver and yanked it out. He didn’t have time to carefully cut out the man’s organs; there wasn’t time, and he was starving. Jamming the blood-covered liver into his mouth, he began to feed.
Bruce dejectedly stood beside Shaw with his hands jammed into his pockets. His breath hung there in the cold morning air. His nose had turned bright red, and his checks showed the early signs of frostbite, not that he even noticed. Bruce was in a deep, foul mood. His camera and film had been confiscated by the German soldier who had frisked him for hidden weapons. Likewise, the journal held by Shaw was now in the German Major’s hands. Watching as the Germans moved through the camp separating the wounded Norwegians from the dead and dying, Bruce realized that he had never felt this low in his entire life. They had lost the film and failed to destroy the downed craft. Their mission
was a complete and utter failure, and now they were prisoners of war. That’s if they weren’t shot as spies for helping the Norwegian resistance. The only bright spot was that Anna was still alive. Her head had been grazed by a bullet during the fight. She was sitting on the ground with a bandage around her head. Aside from a splitting headache, she was going to be fine.
The whine coming from deep inside the craft had grown louder by the second. It was an annoying high-pitched noise that hurt the ears of the men standing around it.
“Step back,” ordered the corporal to his men. Placing his hands over his ears, he tried to block out the noise with his hands.
His men gladly complied.
Turning to look over at one of his men, the corporal yelled as loud as he could over the whine, telling him to report at the double to Major Vogel and to inform him that something was going on.
The soldier nodded his head, turned about and dashed towards the fighters’ camp, happy to be away from the strange-looking airplane and its horrible noise.
“Corporal, look,” called out one of the soldiers.
Turning his head, the corporal was stunned to see that the craft’s outer skin had begun to glow a bright-red color. A second later, blindingly bright arcs of electricity seemed to shoot out of the craft’s interior up into the air. He was about to order his men to move further away from the object when it exploded. There was no loud bang. In fact, there was no noise at all as a bright white light raced through air, instantly incinerating the German soldiers standing around the craft. The soldier running back towards the camp was hit by the powerful blast wave racing away from the explosion. His body was picked up and sent flying through the air. A second later, his unconscious body landed in a tall snowdrift, covering him from sight. The only noise came from the trees around the blast site that were either torn to pieces or knocked down forming a perfectly symmetrical ring for fifty yards around the spot where the craft had once sat.
Incursion (A James Shaw Mission Book 1) Page 11