The Danzig Corridor

by Paul R. E. Jarvis

  The two boys played with some large pieces of bark they had found by the stream. Niklos moved them through the air as if they were an airplane. Peter made noises like a machine gun and snapped Niklos’ ‘plane’ unfairly with his fingers, causing his younger brother to cry.

  ‘Enough!’ Viktor said, his harsh tone causing both boys to start bawling.

  Zofia snatched the bark from the children and cuddled them into her.

  ‘Look, I know it’s hard, but you have to hold it together,’ she scowled at her husband.

  ‘You’re scaring them. Look at it from their perspective. We left without an explanation, we drag them through a battle, and now you shout at them for playing?’

  ‘Hold it together? You want me to hold it together?’ he ranted. ‘Unless it’s escaped your attention, we’ve just abandoned our home and our business.’

  Viktor paused and let out an angry sigh.

  ‘Is this easy for you?’ he snapped back at her.

  ‘Of course not—don’t be so ridiculous,’ she retorted.

  ‘I’m just saying, we’re all finding it difficult, that’s all,’ he said after a few further moments of silence.

  ‘I know,’ she said as she leant over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I know.’

  ***

  Like most of the men, Henry drifted in and out of sleep for the first couple of hours, and only woke when Halstead returned from the cockpit.

  ‘How far have we got?’ he asked as the jump-master approached.

  ‘We’re about to begin our descent into Copenhagen,’ said the jump-master, before taking his seat and fastened his seatbelt in preparation for landing. Henry did the same, gesturing for Alf to pass the message along the lines.

  The plane hit turbulence as it descended through the clouds before making a heavy touchdown on the tarmac in a damp Copenhagen. Through the small window next to him, Henry watched a bowser draw alongside the aircraft and then commence filling the fuel tanks.

  ‘Does the Danish government know the purpose of this trip?’ Henry asked Halstead.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t have given us clearance. The flight manifest describes it as a routine RAF flight to Stockholm,’ said the jump-master with a smile. ‘Ultimately, we’re going to land there after we’ve dropped you guys off, so our story will check out. We’ll be a little later than we’ve predicted, but we can blame that on bad weather.’

  After ten minutes, they were ready to go again. Copenhagen shrank away as the aircraft ascended. All the men were awake, except Scotty, who slept in a particularly uncomfortable-looking position. Once they had levelled out again, Halstead unfastened his seatbelt, rising to his feet.

  ‘We’re now crossing the Baltic Sea,’ he said, waking Scotty. ‘We’ll be entering enemy airspace in less than an hour. After that, there will be about another thirty minutes flying before we’re in the drop zone.’

  Henry nodded, his stomach churning, more from anxiety than the turbulence.

  Robert Scott suffered the most in the cramped conditions. Jammed on either side by the relatively bulky frames of Alf Morrison and Joe Mayberry, his long legs were bent up, almost to his shoulders.

  Scanning their faces, his new unit clearly contained several interesting characters. O’Shea, the scouse medic, seemed a pleasant enough chap but appeared incredibly jumpy. Henry worried it would rub off on the others in the group. It was clear, Pat clung to his Irish-Catholic upbringing, especially at times of severe stress. No more so than in the hangar, before takeoff. The sight of him clutching his rosary as he whispered a few ‘Hail Marys’ had unsettled Travers.

  In contrast, Tommy Rogers appeared to be a hard man. No matter what was thrown at him, nothing fazed him. This was not surprising, as he had seen action in the trenches towards the end of the First World War, as a consequence of lying about his age when he enlisted. Henry realised, for the mission to be a success, he would have to draw on Tommy’s extensive experience. As he looked around at his men, Henry’s only real concern was Travers. The young lad had the potential to be a remarkable soldier, but his immaturity could be a problem.

  6

  With twenty minutes to go, Halstead asked the men to clip their parachutes onto the static line above their heads. At the back of the plane, Henry was the first to struggle to his feet.

  ‘Right, chaps, this is what we’ve been training for,’ he shouted enthusiastically, motivating his men. ‘As soon as you’re down, remember to roll up your chute and then form a perimeter. Don’t forget we’re deep in enemy territory, so keep your eyes peeled.’

  All seven men rose reluctantly to their feet, some of them yawning.

  The shouts continued down the line as they checked their equipment:

  ‘One...okay.’

  ‘Two...okay.’

  ‘Three...okay.’

  The plane banked steeply, throwing them around like peas in a drum. The aircraft plunged as a machine gun resonated outside. Squinting through the circular transparent panel in the hatch door, Tommy tried hard to ascertain what was going on.

  ‘A fighter! It’s a German fighter!’ he hollered, triggering nervous shrieks amongst the men.

  ‘Okay, focus,’ Henry yelled, his own pulse racing.

  Another burst of fire raked them, leaving a row of holes in the fuselage above Robert Scott’s head.

  ‘Sheesh! That was close,’ the corporal gasped as he adjusted his helmet.

  ‘Everyone get down!’ Halstead instructed. ‘C’mon, face down on the floor, now!’

  His tone left no one in any doubt; this was not a request. They lowered themselves as the pilot performed stomach-wrenching acrobatics. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw a momentary flash, followed shortly by an ear-splitting bang. Through the glass, yellow flames licked around the trailing edge of the port wing. The aircraft shook violently, accompanied by a change in the tone of the engines. A few seconds later, the red jump light illuminated.

  ‘Come on, let’s be quick, gentlemen. We don’t have long,’ Halstead said, his voice faltering slightly.

  He wrenched open the hatch, letting in a blast of cold air heavy with smoke. Travers started to hyperventilate, looking around for reassurance from his colleagues, but it was not forthcoming.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ O’Shea said, clutching his rosary to his lips.

  The haze inside the aircraft changed to an eerie green as the jump light came on.

  ‘This is it, gentlemen,’ said Halstead, barely audible above the noise of the wind whistling through the plane. ‘Okay, number one, Go, Go, GO!’

  Alf Morrison stepped out without looking back. One by one, the men of Bravo Section followed him, glad to leave the stricken aircraft. Henry was the last man to the door. After wishing Halstead good luck, he launched himself through the door.

  ‘One hundred thousand, two hundred thousand,’ he counted as he plummeted downwards.

  On the count of three, Henry’s parachute opened, jerking him upwards. The straps around his chest tightened, squeezing the air out of his lungs. It took him a few seconds to catch his breath before he remembered to look up. Thankfully, the voluminous, white canopy floated above him.

  The aircraft was some distance behind him, moving awkwardly, like a sick bird with black smoke belching from under one of its wings. The engines emitted a horrifying whine as the pilot fought to regain altitude. Meanwhile, the tenacious German fighter continued to fire at the ailing plane. He hoped to God that Halstead and the rest of the crew would make it out alive.

  Bullets fizzed past him, appearing to come from the ground. Some of his men were nearly down, drawing the majority of the enemy’s fire. He watched helplessly as groups of men in grey uniforms converged on his unit’s positions below.

  Henry spied a clearing in the trees, so he tried to manoeuvre himself towards it. Despite wriggling in his harness, the parachute did not move as much as he wanted, directing him to a bank of trees. Expecting his canopy to become snagged at any minute, he closed his ey
es.

  As he made contact with the ground, he rolled onto his side before springing to his feet and unclipping his chute. He cocked the bolt on his weapon, searching for cover. So much for forming a defensive perimeter. Machine gun fire erupted over to his left. He dropped to his knees, clutching his rifle.

  Travers emerged from the foliage. ‘What do we do? What do we do?’ the teenager cried frantically.

  ‘Come on, stay calm,’ Henry said, trying to get his bearings. ‘How many of them are there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve seen two or three, I think. I definitely hit one in the shoulder.’

  ‘Good lad! Now, have you seen any of the others?’

  Travers shook his head as another burst of gunfire peppered the tree they were using for cover.

  ‘Okay, it’s just the two of us for now,’ he said, attempting to sound upbeat.

  ‘Return fire while I look around.’

  After taking a deep breath, the teenager fired a few rounds, doing little more than disturbing the birds in the trees. Silhouettes moved within the forest, but it was unclear whether they were friendly.

  Bullets shook the tree again, forcing them to keep their heads down. Henry attempted to look out but was pinned.

  ‘Terry, aim towards that ash tree over there,’ he said.

  As soon as the next burst finished, Travers unleashed a quick volley, allowing Henry to set off, crawling through the carpet of leaves. He clambered over several low-hanging branches before finally taking cover next to a rocky outcrop. Up ahead, amidst the undergrowth, a Wehrmacht soldier crouched on the forest floor. Intermittently, his grey uniform was illuminated by the flash of his weapon’s muzzle. Henry unclipped a grenade from his webbing and then removed the pin. Clutching it tightly, he waited for Travers to fire again. When the shots rang out, he lobbed it at the enemy position. There was a momentary cacophony of white noise, followed by a shrill, high-pitched whine and then total deafness. Henry nervously scanned his surroundings, pushing his back against the rock.

  Cordite-tainted smoke swirled in the autumn breeze as his hearing began to return. Travers crawled across the forest floor, Henry waving the teenager forward.

  Every so often, he could see Travers’ uniform amongst the greenery, before disappearing completely. A couple of shots rang out, causing Henry’s pulse to race. For a while, there was no movement at all, then Travers reappeared on an embankment, beckoning him over.

  Brushing through the leaves, he found two dead German soldiers lying beside their damaged MG-08. One had a shrapnel injury to his chest, presumably from his grenade. The other had a blast injury to his right leg, and an ugly entry wound in the centre of his forehead.

  ‘He went for his rifle, Sarge,’ Travers said. ‘I had to shoot him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ said Henry. ‘You’ve done well. Now, stay vigilant. There’s bound to be others.’

  Cautiously, Travers scanned the bushes around them while Henry examined the bodies for any intelligence. He found very little, except for a leather wallet full of German banknotes and some personal photographs. Behind them, a twig snapped. Henry raised his weapon and was about to pull the trigger when the unmistakable figure of Alf Morrison clambered through the trees.

  ‘Whoa! It’s me!’ he said, fighting his way through the greenery.

  ‘You idiot,’ grumbled the sergeant. ‘I almost unloaded this rifle into you.”

  ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Alf said. ‘I was pleased to see someone I recognised. Have you guys seen any of the others?’

  ‘No,’ said Travers, before Henry had a chance to speak.

  ‘How many of the enemy have you seen?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Only those two,’ Morrison said, pointing to the dead soldiers at their feet. ‘I landed miles away.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now; that’s the main thing,’ Henry said, relieved to be slipping off his backpack. ‘You’d better set up the Bren. I don’t suppose they’re the only two.’

  Infrequent bursts of rifle fire erupted from their right. A British soldier ran through the trees, but Henry could not work out who it was.

  Travers whistled to direct the fleeing man.

  ‘Quiet!’ chastised Henry in a forced whisper. ‘Don’t give away our position.’

  Four Wehrmacht infantrymen pursued the soldier, who frantically dodged bullets as he weaved through the trees. Alf squeezed the trigger once the chased man had passed. The ‘pinking’ noise of the machine gun echoed through the forest, only easing off when all of the pursuing guards had been mown down. Henry jogged forward to make sure they were dead.

  ‘Am I glad to see you guys!’ Mayberry said, breathing hard. ‘I thought I was a goner.’

  ‘Any sign of the others?’ Travers asked.

  Mayberry shook his head grimly.

  As the adrenaline wore off, Henry began to think more clearly. He took the map from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. It was futile; they could literally be anywhere in Poland. He had to work out where they were and, more importantly, find the other members of Bravo Section.

  Patrick O’Shea found his four comrades easily. The unmistakable sound of the Bren had directed him to their location, and he had heard them whispering long before he had seen them. Embarrassed by their lack of professionalism, Henry shook Pat’s hand.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit shaken,’ O’Shea said, sitting down on an upturned tree bough.

  ‘Have you seen any of the others?’

  ‘Yeah, I landed not far from Scotty.’

  ‘Scotty? Where is he?’ Travers asked.

  ‘He’s dead. His ’chute snagged in the trees as he came down. I tried to help him down, but a German patrol appeared from nowhere. I ducked into the undergrowth and hid from view. I heard him shouting, then some shots were fired. After that, it went quiet.’

  ‘How awful,’ Henry said.

  ‘They started spreading out to find the rest of us, so I didn’t hang around. I just ran.’

  ‘How many were there?’ asked Alf glumly.

  ‘Ten or eleven.’

  ‘Well, they’re still in the forest,’ Henry said. ‘We’d better get moving.’

  ‘What about Tommy?’ Mayberry asked. ‘Has anyone seen him?’

  Everyone shook their heads.

  The five men retraced Mayberry’s steps until they found the corporal suspended from a tree; a small pool of blood had collected beneath his feet. Mayberry climbed up and cut the gangly corpse from its harness, causing the body to slump to the ground. Pulling the identity tags from around Scotty’s neck, Henry placed them in one of the pouches in his webbing.

  The other men dug a shallow grave with their entrenchment tools while he stripped the ammunition and any other useful equipment from the corpse. Once finished, they heaved the body into the freshly dug pit along with their reserve chutes to lighten their loads.

  Alf and Mayberry started to fill the hole, as the others kept a lookout. Being the only religious man in the group, O’Shea whispered a brief prayer for their fallen comrade. Henry felt numb. It was his first mission as a sergeant, and already, one of his corporals was dead and the other missing.

  They spent the next half-hour searching for Tommy but could find no trace of him. Not even his parachute.

  ‘This is like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ Alf grumbled.

  ‘We need to keep looking for him. He’s around here somewhere, I know he is,’ Travers persisted.

  ‘How long must we do this?’ Morrison muttered. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Would you like it if we left you for dead?’ Travers snarled.

  ‘Will you two keep it down?’ Henry scolded, looking up from his map. ‘We’re going to have to leave without him. We can’t afford to spend any more time here.’

  Everyone nodded except the teenager.

  ‘Hopefully, Tommy is okay, just separated from us,’ the sergeant said. ‘He knows where the rendezvous is going to be. He’ll have to make his own way th
ere. If anyone can get out of here, it’s him. In the meantime, I suggest we head north.’

  ‘North?’ asked Mayberry incredulously. ‘Towards Danzig? Are you mad? The Fourth Army occupies the city. Do you really want to waltz in and thumb a ride home?’

  ‘Take it easy, Private,’ warned Henry, quickly losing his patience. ‘As I see it, we don’t really have many other options. We don’t know where we are. If we travel north for long enough, we’ll reach the coast. If you remember our briefing, the dam was not far from Danzig. We’re likely to end up further away from our target if we head in any other direction.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree,’ said O’Shea, who had remained quiet during the heated exchanges. ‘When we make it to Danzig, we might be able to commandeer a vehicle. That would make life a bit easier, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘If you ask me, if we do that we’ll end up in front of a firing squad,’ said Mayberry petulantly.

  ‘Thankfully, no one asked you,’ Henry said pointedly. ‘I know heading towards Danzig is risky, but right now we’ve no other option.’

  7

  The road had been virtually clear since they set off earlier that morning. They pulled up in the small village of Ryszca to collect some provisions for the days ahead. The Vistula River wound its way through the heart of the settlement, dividing it in two. A rickety, wooden bridge, barely wide enough to let the cart across, was the only link between the two sides. Other than a few farms, an inn, a general store, and a handful of ramshackle cottages, there was little else.

  Zofia sought out the village shop, while Viktor took the two boys down to the water’s edge, to see the barges travelling up and down the river. A fisherman sat on a narrow jetty, silently watching his line in the water. The gentle breeze ruffling his sparse grey hair which poked out from under his black, peaked cap.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘No, my friend, the fish are not biting today,’ the angler replied, shaking his round head.