by Colin Forbes
'The murdering swine!' protested Lindsay.
'Heljec had given strict orders,' Paco said quietly. 'There must be no firing at the planes to give away our positions.'
She had just spoken when Lindsay heard a sound which took him back to France, 1940. The high- pitched scream of an aircraft engine. He peered out cautiously. A second plane was following the first over the summit plateau where the crumbling fortress which had been Heljec's headquarters reared up like the mountain's summit.
The plane, a small black dart at a great height, turned on its side and plunged in a vertical dive at tremendous speed. A stick of bombs from the first machine straddled the plateau. The roar of bursting bombs reverberated down in the gorge. A hailstorm of splintered rock flew into the air. A wall of the fortress toppled, spilled down the gulches, dissolving into a thousand fragments. A cloud of dust rose from where the wall had stood.
'Jesus Christ!' said Lindsay. 'Stukas - dive-bombers. If we were up there now...'
The air armada - the sky seemed full of machines - systematically pattern-bombed the plateau from end to end. Then the air commander changed his tactics.
'They've spotted the caves!' Lindsay shouted. 'Get well to the back...'
A crouched, running figure dashed inside their cave. It was Dr Macek. He saw Lindsay and looked amazed. At Paco's urging he joined them at the rear of the cave behind a rampart of rocks. A stick of bombs trod its lethal way along the floor of the gorge, one exploding close to their own entrance. Sharp- edged bits of stone like shrapnel flew about inside their cave, clattering against the rampart.
Crouched down with Paco on his right and Macek on his left, Lindsay felt the reaction to his exertions starting. His legs and hands trembled uncontrollably. Macek placed a gentle hand across his forehead and frowned at Paco.
'All right,' snapped Lindsay, who had seen his expression and mistrusted doctors, 'what is it?'
'You've drained yourself coming down that mountain. I did say you have glandular fever. I did say you needed rest, a lot of rest …'
'So they carried me down instead,' Lindsay commented sarcastically. 'You think we'd ever have made it.
His last recollection was glancing beyond Macek and noticing Hartmann watching him - punctuated by a whole fusillade of bombs filling the- gorge with their hellish sound and dust drifting inside the cave. Then, oh God, he was falling into oblivion again.
Chapter Thirty-One
Kursk! July 1943...
A town in Russia south of Moscow few people have heard of. It was at Kursk in the summer of '43 that the outcome of the Second World War would be decided.
Here a gigantic Russian salient like a thumb protruded into the German front. The Red Army had crammed the salient with their elite divisions ready for the attack.
This vast area was dangerously over-crowded. There were the huge T-34 tanks, the latest Soviet self-propelled guns, the most battle-experienced infantry and armoured divisions. No fewer than one million Russian troops assembled in this confined pocket waited the order to advance. And Stalin hesitated.
There was no hesitation at the Wolf's Lair. The Fuhrer had made up his mind and his most able commander, Field Marshal von Kluge, fully supported the plan: to attack first, to slice off the base of the thumb and close the immense trap which within days would encircle one million Russians.
'The road to Moscow will then be open,' von Kluge continued at the Fuhrer's midday conference on 1 July. 'There will be nothing left for Stalin to throw in our path. We take Moscow, the hub of the Bolshevik railway system, and Russia is wiped out.'
'We launch the offensive on 5 July,' Hitler agreed. 'Then once Russia is destroyed we transfer one hundred and twenty divisions to France and Belgium. Any attempted landing by the Anglo-Americans will end in catastrophe. Gentlemen, Operation Citadel is on. I have decided.'
He looked round the table at Martin Bormann, Keitel and Jodl., who duly nodded their agreement. The Citadel was Kursk. Once it fell, the gates to Moscow were thrown wide open.
Hitler dismissed the meeting and told Bormann to accompany him to his quarters. He strode out of the Lagebaracke, across the compound and entered his own simple hut. Once inside the Fuhrer threw the cap he had donned onto a table and told his deputy to shut the door as he settled in an armchair.
'Bormann, you must by now agree that everyone accepts me for who I am. Citadel is the biggest operation Germany has so far launched in the whole war.'
'Mein Fuhrer,' began Bormann, 'I have only one anxiety. There is still no news of the killing or capture of Wing Commander Lindsay.'
'Who cares about him any longer? How could he affect me?'
Bormann noted he used me, not us. Since the impersonation which had begun the previous March, Bormann - who had expected to manipulate Heinz Kuby like a ventriloquist's dummy - had found himself relegated to his earlier role under the original Fuhrer. And, he reflected, there was not one thing in the world he could do about it without destroying himself.
'I have studied Lindsay's file carefully,' Bormann persisted. 'He was once an actor used to studying mannerisms and he was very close to that promiscuous Christa Lundt. Before they escaped together I caught her watching you closely. I think she detected something wrong.'
'So, what do you propose?' Hitler interjected impatiently.
'That SS Colonel Jaeger be sent back to the Balkans in the hope that he can pick up Lindsay's trail.'
'Jaeger is taking command of his unit again for Citadel,' the Fuhrer said brusquely. 'We need every experienced man we can lay our hands on to pull this off. Just so long as that Soviet spy Hartmann insisted was here does not pass on details of Citadel to the Russians. Everything depends on the element of surprise …'
That evening at the pine-shrouded Wolf's Lair on 1 July the atmosphere was tense. It was going to be another sultry, humid night and so much hinged on Citadel.
Three of the leading personalities passed through the various checkpoints separately. None of the trio was likely to want the company of one of his colleagues. Keitel was regarded by Jodl as a stuffed shirt who had been promoted above his level of ability. Martin Bormann was possessed of one universal attribute. He was detested by everyone except the Fuhrer. And Hitler's dog, Blondi.
Keitel considered Jodl a tricky individual, not a man you would ever strike up an intimacy with. Certainly an officer it would be wise to hold at a distance. And so it came about that the three men went their own ways, seeking brief relief from the claustrophobia of the Wolf's Lair before the midnight conference.
In these northern climes it was dark at 11.15 pm, when once again experienced hands opened up the log pile concealing the powerful transmitter in the forest. The signal tapped out with the aid of a pocket torch was unusually long. The operator replaced the logs and returned just in time to attend the Fuhrer's conference.
'Anna, I am exhausted,' Rudolf Roessler exclaimed as he closed the flap inside the cupboard which hid his own transceiver. 'I feel something very important is imminent.'
'And how do you know that?' Anna enquired as she handed her husband a cup of coffee which he drank greedily.
'I have received, in normal code, the longest signal yet from Woodpecker. I have, immediately re-transmitted it to Moscow. I suspect it gives the order of battle for a very major operation...'
'Well, you have done all you can,' Anna said briskly, 'so we shall just have to see.'
Roessler swivelled round in his chair and stared at her, his face lined with fatigue. 'From what has happened so far we know Stalin is not making full use of the information I send. Will he ever come to trust me?'
'Kursk! It could be a huge trap to destroy us...'
Inside the small office in the Kremlin it was the early hours and the atmosphere was strained as Stalin spoke. Two other men stood alongside each other, listening. The aggressive General Zhukov and the quieter, more intellectual Marshal Vassilevsky, Chief of Staff.
Stalin was holding the long signal just received from Lucy w
hich had originated from Woodpecker. Never before had Stalin received from this source such a detailed order of battle for the German Army. It was quite terrifying, the vast amount of war material the Wehrmacht had assembled. If it were true. The Generalissimo read the signal again slowly, repeating aloud a few of the details
'Tiger and Panther tanks... Ferdinand mobile guns... General Model to attack from the north. General Hoth from the south... The pick of the German generals... a huge mass of their elite divisions. This is a colossal force. If it is true we could make our own dispositions and destroy them.'
'Could I ask,' Vassilevsky began casually, 'what is the record of this Woodpecker-Lucy espionage ring so far?'
'The information has always proved correct.'
'So it could be correct again. At some moment we have to take our courage in both hands, and gamble
everything on the belief that Lucy is right …'
'Zhukov?'
Stalin, who was also standing in the gloom of his office lit only by the shaded desk lamp, glanced sideways at the General. Vassilevsky sighed inwardly. Stalin was up to his old tricks — enticing others to express opinions which could be employed against them if there was a disaster.
The trouble was Stalin had never lost his crafty Georgian origins. Treacherous and devious by nature, he saw trickery everywhere — and Lucy could be Hitler's pawn, luring the Red Army into a gigantic trap from which it would never extricate itself.
Zhukov did not hesitate. The only general capable of contradicting Stalin to his face, he spoke out vehemently.
'Woodpecker tells us D-Day is 5 July - three days from now. He further tells us H-Hour for the attack is 1500 hours, a most unusual time for the launching of a German offensive, so it has the ring of truth. I wish to return immediately to GHQ to make our dispositions on the basis that Woodpecker is telling the truth.'
'You would take full responsibility for such a decision?'
'Yes, Generalissimo!'
'We must consider the problem further, gentlemen. Prepare yourselves for a long night,' Stalin replied.
At 2.30 pm on 5 July Colonel Jaeger's old leg wound began to play him up. Perched in the turret of his enormous Panther tank, he was commanding a section of an armoured division of General Model's 4th Army which was to drive a hammer-blow south at the base of the Russian 'thumb' to link up with General Hoth's 9th army advancing from the south. Between them the two armies would amputate the thumb - encircling one million enemy troops.
It was a hot sultry afternoon as Jaeger checked his watch and surveyed the endless rows of tanks drawn up for battle. His leg wound always troubled him just before the start of a great offensive. Looking across to the next Panther he saw Schmidt wiping sweat off his forehead.
'In half an hour it will be really hot!' he shouted jovially. 'Save your sweat for then!'
There was the sound of laughter from the turrets of tanks nearby. Jaeger was a commander who had the gift of breaking almost unbearable tension with a joke.
'Colonel!' Schmidt shouted back. 'Your sweat pores differ from ours. When the time comes you will sweat beer!'
There was another burst of laughter. Jaeger, anything but a stiff-necked, Prussian-type officer, was always ready to bandy words with his men regardless of rank. At precisely 1500 hours he gave his driver the order through his throat-mike.
'Forward! And don't stop till you see the whites of General Hoth's eyes!'
The immense leviathans began to rumble southward on their massive tracks. There was the thump of heavy artillery opening up a non-stop barrage. The endless, mind-wearying steppes of Russia spread before them as Jaeger's Panther pushed ahead of the vast tracked armada. Ignoring the shell-bursts which began to crater the sun-bleached earth, Jaeger directed his Panther straight ahead. South — ever south — until the link-up with Hoth and the pincers closed behind the Red Army cooped up inside its huge salient.
Altogether, on that humid July day, Field Marshal von Kluge had over half a million German troops under his command. They included seventeen Panzer divisions equipped with the monster new Tiger and Panther tanks, countless mobile guns - all backed up by motorized infantry. It was the largest force ever thrown against a single objective. Citadel.
H-Hour, the starting time - three in the afternoon - should certainly have taken by surprise the enemy who was accustomed to dawn attacks. It was anticipated that before Zhukov grasped what was happening he would find himself surrounded.
And in addition, the 2nd Army - comprising six Panzer and two infantry divisions - was attacking the tip of the 'thumb', as a diversion to draw Soviet troops away from the main battle area.
Earlier than he had expected, Colonel Jaeger found himself staring at two Soviet T-34 tanks advancing towards him about one hundred metres apart from each other. An average commander's reaction would have been to slow down, to wait for reinforcements to catch up with him. Jaeger was not an average commander.
'Increase speed!' he ordered.
As he had foreseen, he could see the huge gun like a telegraph pole on each tank traversing to aim at him. Their traverse was too slow because the last reaction they had expected was for the Panther to continue on course at higher speed: on a course which would naturally take the German tank between the two Soviet T-34s with fifty metres to spare on either side.
The Russian guns began to move more rapidly to bring their muzzles to bear on Jaeger at point-blank range. The Colonel timed it carefully. Just before the traverses were completed he spoke again into the mike.
'Maintain course. And give me everything you've got. Go like hell!'
The Panther rumbled forward, suddenly at top speed. The guns of the T-34s were traversing a little too slowly. Jaeger was midway between them when the Soviet commanders realized this maniac was continuing to advance past them.
They ordered their gunners to traverse to an angle of ninety degrees. The guns went on turning. Jaeger went on advancing. The Soviet commanders gave the order simultaneously.
'Fire...!'
A second earlier Jaeger passed beyond them. The guns of the two T-34s faced each other. The shells passed each other in mid-flight and detonated. Looking back, Jaeger saw the tanks burning, flames leaping from the turrets. So far he had not fired a shot.
'Continue to advance on the same course...'
Earlier he had seen the two tanks approaching, one behind the other before they separated to avoid bunching into a solid target. Jaeger could clearly see the marks of their tracks and he guided his Panther along the same avenue.
Minefields! The everlasting gut terror of all tank commanders. By keeping to the track course of the burning T-34s Jaeger knew he was safe from mines. The wisdom of his judgement was vindicated a moment later when he heard a series of explosions.
To his left and right three Panthers were disabled or destroyed. One had a track sheared off the chassis and stood motionless in the battlefield. Two more were burning where they had encountered mines. Jaeger wirelessed back to the remainder of his squadron.
'Follow in my tracks. Precisely. Pathway through major minefield.'
As he completed his instruction to his operator Jaeger began to worry. Instinctively the incident he had survived told him something strange was happening. Minefields ….
The Russians had sown no fewer than 40,000 mines in a single night, each mine capable of disabling a Panther or Tiger tank.
They had sown these lethal weapons in each sector where they knew the Panzer divisions were coming. In the early hours of the morning of 2 July inside the Kremlin, Stalin had finally decided to trust the Woodpecker signals. Given the go-ahead, the Soviet generals had reorganized their entire defences inside the Kursk salient, converting it into the greatest military death-trap in history.
The Germans still fought hard. Low-flying Stukas equipped with cannons swept over the battlefield, wiping out a large number of T-34 tanks. Across a vast area savage tank duels were fought but Hitler had lost the vital element of surprise.
> It does not take all that much skill to win a battle if you know in advance exactly what the enemy plan is. The two men who really won the turning-point battle of Kursk were absent from the field of carnage. Woodpecker was at the Wolf's Lair in East Prussia. The middle-aged, shabbily-dressed Rudolf Roessler was in Lucerne.
Even so, the Russians did not find it a walkover. Fighting continued to rage from 5 July to 22 July as the salient became a charnel house. The casualties on both sides were enormous. Medical personnel on the German side described their field hospitals as slaughterhouses.
Throughout the long days and nights the sound was deafening as the artillery continued to pound, the tanks to fire and the bombs to fall. The earth was desecrated, turned into a desert - a desert littered with shattered planes, tanks, and men.
Colonel Jaeger survived the holocaust - and saved Schmidt. Two Panthers had been blown up under the Colonel and he was in the turret of the third in the midst of chaos and milling confusion when he saw Schmidt, hit by a sniper's bullet, topple over the side of his turret.
'Halt!' he ordered.
Clambering down onto the churned-up earth he ran across as Schmidt's tank detonated a mine. A huge length of track splayed out and slapped, onto the ground. Schmidt, sprawled on his side, looked up.
'Get out of it, Chief! The medics will come for me...'
'Shut up and keep still!'
Jaeger gathered up Schmidt in both his arms and carried him to his own tank. He had reached the Panther when he felt a thump against his leg. He ignored it, hoisting up Schmidt as his wireless operator reached down to grasp the injured man.
'Colonel! Your leg!' the wireless operator shouted to make himself heard above the mind-numbing thunder which never ceased.
'Get Schmidt inside! I can get up myself. That's an order...'