Viktor glanced over his shoulder. Niklos and Peter hared around, screeching as they played. As he lit his pipe, Viktor’s attention returned to the fisherman’s float being tossed by the wash from the passing barges.
The fisherman twitched as the float dipped briefly under the surface, lowering the tip of his rod. He wound the reel a little, reducing the slack in the line. The float bobbed again before disappearing completely. He leapt to his feet and pulled back on the rod viciously, causing it to arch and dance. Viktor peered over the edge and caught a glimpse of a silvery-grey fish opposing the angler’s actions.
Once unhooked, the friendly angler studied his catch as it convulsed on the jetty. After a few moments of contemplation, the fisherman gently reintroduced it to the water with calm words of reassurance. This puzzled Viktor. After waiting all day for a fish, you threw it back as soon as you catch one. Fishing seemed pointless.
From behind him came a loud scream, followed by a splash. He spun around to see Peter yelling and pointing at Niklos, who had fallen into the river. A sickening feeling came over Viktor as the young boy drifted away. Viktor shouted desperately, but the boy did not respond.
He shed his jacket and shoes and leapt in. The shock of the cold water took his breath away, as he frantically started to swim. He yelled to Niklos again. The child gasped before dipping below the surface as he thrashed to stay afloat. Viktor stretched to reach him, but his fingertips only brushed the boy’s clothes. Fighting against the current, his efforts only pushed Niklos away.
Viktor made a bold lunge, managing to grab hold of the collar of Niklos’ jacket and pulling the child close. The boy writhed in terror, accidentally kicking his father multiple times. Holding the child’s head above the fast-flowing water, Viktor propelled himself towards the bank using his legs. Water splashed into Niklos’ face, causing him to panic. The child thrashed out, struggling to keep his face from being submerged, winding Viktor. He wriggled from his father’s grip and was dragged away by the current.
A hand reached from above, lifting the child out of the river onto the jetty. The fisherman handed the screaming boy to a woman in the group of onlookers.
Zofia sauntered out of the shop, carrying several bags of groceries. Seeing the crowd on the riverbank, she wandered towards them, wondering what spectacle had attracted them. Expecting to see a fisherman with a big fish or a street performer, she was horrified to see Niklos soaked through and in some distress. Zofia dropped her shopping and fought her way through the crowd.
Gathering her youngest son into her arms, she looked around for an explanation.
‘What happened?’ she screamed over the distraught cries of the young boy.
‘He fell in,’ Viktor tried to explain. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘Where’s Peter?’ she demanded.
Unable to prevent his teeth from chattering, he spied his elder son sitting some distance away on the riverbank.
‘I didn’t mean for him to fall in, Dad,’ the boy sobbed as his father sat next to him on the riverbank. ‘He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’
‘He’s going to be fine,’ Viktor reassured Peter, putting his wet arm around him.
‘Will Mum be cross with me?’ Peter asked, looking up at his father.
‘Nobody’s angry with anyone,’ he said, knowing full well Zofia was furious with him for not supervising the children properly.
‘Are we still going to see Grandma and Grandpa?’
‘Of course,’ he said reassuringly.
‘Now, give your dad a hug and let’s go and see how your brother is doing.’
Viktor held Peter’s hand as they trudged across the riverbank towards the jetty.
‘This man saved his life,’ Viktor said, introducing the rugged fisherman.
‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you,’ she said genuinely, still cradling the young boy. The man shrugged bashfully.
‘Let me buy you a drink,’ Viktor suggested, wanting to avoid his wife.
‘It was no trouble, honestly,’ replied the angler modestly. ‘I’m just glad he’s okay.’
‘Please, I insist,’ he persisted, trying to avoid spending time with Zofia until she had calmed down. Finally, the fisherman conceded.
Viktor went back to the cart and changed out of his wet clothes, using the large blanket they slept under to preserve his modesty. By the time he returned, an arthritic, older woman had ushered the rest of his family into her cottage a few yards from the riverbank.
Niklos’ clothes dried in front of the fire while the family ate hot vegetable soup accompanied by freshly baked bread rolls at a circular table.
‘He’s a fortunate boy,’ Mrs Szewska said, looking down at Niklos as he slept cuddled up to his mother in the rocking chair.
‘Thank you for all this,’ said Zofia. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
‘I’m glad the lad’s not come to any harm,’ the old lady said, sinking into the armchair next to the fireplace. ‘I don’t recognise you. You’re not from around here. Where are you from?’
‘Danzig,’ Zofia said politely. ‘We left when the invasion started. We’re heading for Olsztyn.’
‘Olsztyn? You have a long way to go. Why would you want to go there? It’s full of Germans.’
‘It’s where Viktor’s parents live. We think it’ll be much safer than staying in Danzig.’
‘True enough,’ Mrs Szewska said.
The single-roomed cottage was lit by the orange glow emanating from the hearth. Mrs Szewska monopolised the conversation, which ranged from the outbreak of war to the children’s eating habits. The old lady’s soft tone and the warmth of the fire was causing Zofia to feel sleepy. She suppressed a yawn as the old lady continued to talk.
Viktor and the fisherman had enjoyed a meal of locally made sausage, washed down with many glasses of illicit vodka. Unfortunately, there had been more drinks than Viktor cared to remember, and now he was slightly unsteady on his feet.
‘We had better be going,’ he said, his voice a little slurred.
‘Can’t we stay a little longer?’ Zofia asked, worrying about Viktor’s inebriation. ‘The boys have been through so much today. I’m sure they’ll have a room at the inn.’
‘No, we are grateful to Mrs Szewska,’ Viktor said, turning to the old lady. ‘But we have a long journey ahead of us.’
‘You’re in no state to take charge of yourself, let alone a horse and cart,’ Zofia said firmly as they walked to the door. ‘And don’t think I have forgiven you for earlier either.’
Viktor frowned.
Zofia knew better than to persist when Viktor had been drinking. Without another word, she helped a sleepy Niklos into his dry coat before thanking the widow for her hospitality again.
‘Please call in again if you’re passing,’ the old lady shouted.
Waving as they left, the four of them set off again towards Olsztyn.
***
The forest was a dense mixture of towering oaks and elegant pines. It felt like such a dark and secretive place. Periodically, Henry glanced at his compass to make sure they were not veering too far from their northerly course. Every once in a while, he would have to set them on a new heading. A few trees had fallen and now lay at awkward angles on the ground. Clambering over one such obstacle, he quickly looked back to see if Tommy Rogers was behind them, but there was nothing. He knew the chances of seeing him again were dwindling.
They were well behind schedule. Consequently, Henry was pushing the men hard to make up for lost time. Everyone was jumpy, severely shaken by the events earlier that morning. He feared he was pushing them too much and hoped it would not exacerbate their anxiety further.
At the head of the patrol, Joe Mayberry walked down a grassy incline, then suddenly dropped to his knees. The rest of the group stopped and crouched slowly. After checking that all was clear at the rear, Henry crawled forward to where Mayberry squatted. Through the leaves, he could see a small timber hut at the bottom of an embankment and a
road leading away through the forest. It was no more than a hundred yards in front of them.
A metal chimney on top of the hut sent spirals of grey smoke into the cold air. Ahead, a makeshift barrier spanned the road, and next to it stood two Wehrmacht soldiers, chatting idly. Henry listened as they talked in German. From their tone, he could tell his unit’s approach had not been detected.
‘What are they talking about, Alf?’ he whispered, not taking his eyes off the guards below.
‘Girlfriends back in Hamburg,’ Morrison said with a smile.
Should they pass by quietly and aim to reach Danzig with as little contact as possible? Or, should they assault the roadblock? The major had instructed them to refrain from engaging the enemy, but the hut would provide some well-needed shelter from the drizzle which was falling and an opportunity to regroup. Henry was about to suggest they should avoid an engagement when he saw something which changed his mind.
Between the trees, he could see a grey army truck, emblazoned with German insignia. What a prize that would be! If they could capture a vehicle, then everything would change. Morale would rise, and their journey time would be considerably reduced. Henry told Alf to set up the Bren and briefed the other men on his plan.
Henry crouched in front of his small squad, speaking in a calm whisper. His words were accompanied by some reassuring nods from the rest of the group, which calmed his own anxiety.
The five remaining members of Bravo Section crept stealthily through the dense foliage until they were nearer to the barrier. They slipped off their backpacks, signalling to each other when they were ready. Henry took up a concealed position which provided a good view of the whole area. He lobbed a grenade through the trees, remembering to cover his ears. After a few seconds, an earth-shattering explosion knocked the two Wehrmacht sentries to the floor.
Alf Morrison, opened up with the machine gun, while Mayberry and Travers set off. The noise of the machine gun drew two other German guards from out of the hut, struggling into their uniform jackets. Alf saw them too and directed his fire towards them.
From his elevated position, Henry could see the two sentries who had previously been standing next to the barrier. One, who had sustained a leg wound, lay prone on the road. Despite his injuries, he returned fire blindly into the treeline. The other squatted with his back against the hut’s wall, trying to assess the situation. Henry cocked the bolt on his rifle and peered down the barrel. He took a second to line up the sight with his target and then squeezed the trigger. Instantly, the Wehrmacht soldier by the hut slumped after being hit in the chest, leaving a spray of blood on the wall behind him. Frustratingly, Henry’s view of the other sentry was obscured, so he knelt and waited patiently.
Alf pivoted the Bren and fired again. Small clods of earth were thrown into the air as he walked the rounds towards the other sentry. The German soldier scrambled awkwardly towards the relative cover of the barrier’s supporting pillar.
The wounded soldier started returning fire, forcing Henry to retreat to the safety of an ash tree as Mayberry and Travers emerged from their leafy hiding place. Mayberry led the way, deftly firing while running, releasing an impressive shot which killed the cowering sentry.
As the two British soldiers approached the other side of the road, Henry heard an engine start. His heart sank as the truck pulled away. Travers and Mayberry chased after it, but despite their best efforts, it escaped along the road. Reluctantly, they separated and circled the hut in opposite directions.
Shortly afterwards, another Wehrmacht soldier emerged from the hut. Henry was about to take a shot when Travers crept across his field of view. Afraid of hitting him, Henry refrained from squeezing the trigger as the young lad and German soldier edged around the building towards each other.
As Travers turned the corner, he spotted the Wehrmacht soldier a fraction of a second quicker than his adversary. To Henry’s relief, the enemy guard was dispatched with machine-like efficiency, causing a warm swell of pride to rise up inside him. The young lad continued to perform well. Much better than he had expected.
Another two soldiers cowered inside. Travers fired several rounds through the open door while Alf and Henry watched nervously from the other side of the road. After reloading, Travers waved Henry over. Disappointingly, the hut was bare except for an enclosed coal stove and a small table draped with a navy-blue tablecloth. Several chairs lay scattered along with the remains of a card game. Assisted by Travers, Henry dragged the two dead soldiers outside, then checked them for any intelligence. Nothing. The truck had gone, and the hut was empty. It had all been pointless.
8
Kneeling next to the muddy tyre tracks, Henry rubbed the disturbed ground with his hand, contemplating the lost opportunity. If only they had managed to capture the truck. Something moved in his peripheral vision, prompting him to raise his rifle.
Joe Mayberry was sitting against the back wall of the hut with a dead German unteroffizier lying in front of him.
‘Sarge, I’m sorry,’ Mayberry said.
‘What do you mean, sorry?’ Henry asked. ‘I’m sure you and Travers tried your hardest to catch the truck. There’s not a lot we can do about it now.’
‘No, I’m afraid I’ve messed up,’ he apologised excessively.
The soldier lowered his arms to reveal a rapidly expanding blood-stained oval on his shirt, immediately below his collarbone. Henry leapt to his feet, scrambling across the rough ground between them.
‘Don’t worry, son,’ he said, trying hard to reassure him. ‘You’ll be fine.’
With the injured man’s arm around his shoulder, Henry dragged the injured soldier around the corner to the hut.
‘O’Shea!’ he screamed.
‘How bad is it?’ Mayberry asked as he laid him on the table.
‘It’s only a scratch,’ he lied unconvincingly.
‘Am I going to die?’
Henry paused, slightly too long.
‘Oh my God, I’m going to die! I’m going to die!’ Mayberry yelled.
‘Don’t be daft. Calm down. You’re going to be okay,’ Travers said with a firm reassurance as he appeared in the doorway. He squeezed past Henry and crouched at Mayberry’s shoulder, offering him a few further words of comfort which seemed to be working.
An expanding pool of blood collected under Mayberry. He writhed around on the uneven table, causing it to bang on the floorboards. O’Shea arrived, perspiring and panting hard. On seeing the stricken soldier, he muttered a swear word under his breath. He applied pressure to the bleeding wound before starting his initial assessment, counting the respiratory rate and checking the pulse.
Mayberry was becoming increasingly short of breath from a combination of anxiety and blood loss. The medic tore open the front of the soldier’s uniform to reveal a small puncture wound on the left side of his chest. It was oozing a little and bubbled with every breath. A look of alarm came over O’Shea. With help from Travers, he rolled Mayberry onto his side and lifted the back of the blood-soaked shirt. O’Shea’s worst fears were confirmed. A fist-sized hole occupied the space between his shoulder blades. It was bleeding torrentially, prompting the medic to work faster. He hurriedly emptied the contents of his haversack and quickly sorted through the items.
Picking up a large battlefield dressing, he bound it around Mayberry’s torso, instructing Travers to apply as much pressure as possible. The medic placed another over the smaller frontal wound, securing it on three sides.
Standing back, O’Shea caught Henry’s eye, and the two of them walked outside. Henry lit a cigarette, shook out the match, then took a long drag.
‘How bad is it?’
‘Not good,’ the medic said, shaking his head. ‘He has a sucking chest wound.’
‘A what?’ asked Henry, hearing a foreign language.
‘A sucking chest wound,’ the medic repeated. Henry remained baffled. ‘Look, every time he takes a breath, the air goes into his chest cavity through the bullet hole, rather tha
n down his windpipe. As a result, he’s not getting enough air into his lungs.’
‘You mean he’s suffocating, despite breathing.’
‘Essentially,’ O’Shea nodded.
‘So, what can we do for him?’
‘Not a lot here,’ the medic muttered. ‘I’ve dressed the wounds which will help, and I can give him some fluid. But I’m only buying him time. He’s going to die unless he gets surgery in the next hour or so.’
‘You’re kidding? Are things really that bleak?’ Henry asked. ‘I mean, he didn’t seem too bad when I found him.’
‘It doesn’t get much more serious than this,’ said O’Shea grimly.
‘Are you sure we can’t do anything else for him here?’
‘No! I have no way of telling what else the round may have damaged as it’s travelled through his chest. From the way the wound is bleeding, the bullet’s nicked something important.’
‘Hell!’ cursed Henry. ‘I imagine the nearest hospital’s in Danzig.’
‘He’d be dead before we got there,’ said O’Shea bluntly. ‘You’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but we’re going to have to leave him here. His only chance is for him to be found by a German patrol and they transport him to one of their field hospitals.’
‘They’re not likely to go to that amount of trouble for a British soldier, are they?’
O’Shea wandered back into the hut. The young private was now sweating profusely and crying out incoherently. The medic retrieved a white box from his pile of equipment and took out a syrette of morphine. After snapping off the cap, he jabbed it into the muscle of the stricken soldier’s thigh, squeezing the contents of the tube. Worryingly, Mayberry barely moved despite the pain it must have caused.
Over the next few minutes, Mayberry’s cries became quieter and less agitated. The colour had drained from Mayberry’s face, his complexion waxy. O’Shea reached up to the neck and felt for a pulse. It was difficult to find, racing and thready. The medic pulled at the skin below the injured soldier’s right eye, causing his eyelid to pucker. The usually red area of flesh inside was practically white.
The Danzig Corridor Page 6