The Danzig Corridor

by Paul R. E. Jarvis

  Muttering to himself, O’Shea produced a needle from his bag. In one deft movement, he inserted it into a large vein in the crook of Mayberry’s arm, prompting Travers to look away. Removing a bottle of fluid from his haversack, O’Shea connected it to the needle with some rubber tubing.

  ‘How long will that take?’ Henry asked, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Around twenty minutes,’ said O’Shea, who was mopping beads of sweat from Mayberry’s forehead.

  ‘Be ready to go as soon as the fluid has run through.’

  Alf reviewed how much ammo they had left. Between them, they had nineteen clips, twenty-one grenades, and several magazines for the Bren.

  ‘If we continue to use bullets at this rate, we’ll have to assault the dam with pointy sticks,’ Henry chuckled to himself, trying to lighten the sombre mood.

  He thought for a minute before throwing his cigarette butt to the ground.

  ‘Right, you two, gather up all the ammo and guns from the Wehrmacht soldiers and let’s see what we have.”

  Travers and Alf had the unenviable task of prising weapons from the hands of the corpses and searching their uniforms for clips of ammunition. They ended up with four German MP-38 machine pistols and more than fifty magazines.

  Henry held one of the German weapons in his hands. It felt better made and sturdier than the Lee-Enfield. Besides, they were much lighter, more compact, and fully automatic. More importantly, they possessed much more ammunition for the MP-38 than they had for their British weapons. An idea struck him. He gave the order for Alf and Travers to dig their second pit of the day. Morrison glanced at Henry as if he had gone mad but said nothing as the two of them started digging.

  The earth was hard and rocky, making their job all the more difficult. Once finished, Henry caused further dissent by asking them to throw their rifles and ammunition into the pit. The two bemused soldiers followed the order, whispering disgruntledly as they completed the task.

  ‘Why are we doing this, boss?’ asked Alf.

  ‘We’ve not got enough ammo to continue with these,’ he replied, throwing his rifle into the hole.

  He handed out an MP-38 to each man. ‘We’re going to use these instead,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll sure beat lugging that monstrous Bren around,’ Alf said.

  As Travers and Morrison were looking at their new weapons, O’Shea came out of the hut and walked over to Henry.

  ‘I’ve taken the drip out. There is nothing else I can do for him here,’ O’Shea said frankly. ‘I’m trying to keep him comfortable.’

  ‘You’re doing a good job, Pat,’ Henry said reassuringly. ‘Okay, listen up!’ he said, turning his attention to the whole group. We’re moving out in five minutes.’

  ‘What about Mayberry?’ Travers asked.

  ‘He’s staying here,’ Henry said reluctantly.

  ‘We can’t leave him here,’ the teenager protested. ‘He’ll die.’

  ‘Ssh! Terry,’ Alf urged. ‘He’s more likely to die if we take him with us.’

  Travers bit his lip and kept quiet.

  ‘Terry, go and undress the body of the German officer behind the hut and swap his uniform with Mayberry’s,’ Henry ordered.

  ‘What? That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’ said Travers.

  Henry let out an exasperated sigh but tried not to lose his temper with the young soldier. ‘Look, if the Germans find a wounded British soldier they’ll either let him die or shoot him. They’re not going to care what happens to him. However, if they think he’s one of theirs, they’ll do all they can to save him.’

  ‘Fair enough, Sarge,’ Travers said. ‘Sorry!’

  Henry forced a smile. ‘Just make sure you dress the unteroffizier carefully in Mayberry’s uniform. They must not suspect anything if he’s to stand any chance. Alf, can you give him a hand?’

  After the morphine and the intravenous infusion of fluid, Mayberry looked a little better. Worryingly, he did not stir when they struggled to dress him in the unteroffizier’s uniform. O’Shea tried reassuring Travers this was most likely due to the large dose of medication.

  Henry redistributed the remaining German weaponry, grenades, and ammunition amongst his men.

  ‘There will be a strange sense of irony if we shoot them with their own guns,’ O’Shea said, rinsing the blood off his hands with water from his canteen.

  ‘No more than they deserve if you ask me,’ Travers mumbled to himself.

  Henry gave the order to move out, despite Travers being unsettled by the decision to leave Mayberry behind. When they were three-quarters of the way towards the top of the embankment, Henry picked up a German stick grenade from out of the pit. He unscrewed the cap at the bottom of the hollow handle, revealing the detonator cord. Pulling it hard, he lobbed it on top of the pile of weapons before sprinting towards his colleagues. As he clambered up the bank, there was the first of many explosions as the grenade and, subsequently, the other ammunition detonated.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Travers asked, as they set off. ‘Couldn’t we have just buried them?’

  Henry smiled. Although this young lad was learning fast, he had failed to grasp the bigger picture.

  ‘The noise and the clouds of smoke will attract any nearby German units. Hopefully, they’ll find Mayberry and think he’s a wounded comrade. It’s his best hope. So, we need to get as far away from here as possible before they show up.’

  9

  General Günter von Kluge sat behind the desk in his newly acquired office on the second floor of Danzig’s civic hall. Short in stature, he always carried himself with a gravitas which demanded deference. Outside, the strong winds forced the swastika to dance around its flagpole. Its ropes clanking periodically in the breeze, a rhythmical accompaniment for his ponderings as he absentmindedly played with a smudged telegram from the Führer, congratulating him on his success.

  A few days before, the Fourth Army, under von Kluge’s leadership, had crossed Germany’s border with Poland and captured the city of Danzig against relatively little opposition. Earlier that morning, his tanks and troops had paraded through the streets in a ceremony to celebrate the city’s liberation. He felt an immense swell of pride; genuine exultation visible on the faces of the crowd.

  The inhabitants had much to rejoice about. No longer abandoned by the Fatherland, the day they had dreamt of had finally come. Once again, Danzig was now part of the mighty Third Reich. Despite the congratulations from the euphoric citizens, the remaining small pockets of Polish resistance continued to irritate him.

  The German High Command considered von Kluge to be a maverick. It had only been a year since he had been forced into retirement after protesting the aggressive foreign policy of the Nazi Party. So, a telephone call from General Jodl, the chief of operations, inviting him back to the Wehrmacht, had taken him by surprise.

  Jodl’s offer had created a difficult dilemma. Von Kluge hated civilian life—it lacked purpose and order—but returning to the army carried significant personal risk. Those who openly opposed the Führer had a tendency to disappear or die in mysterious circumstances. To persuade him, Jodl had offered the command of his beloved Fourth Army, which he accepted after much consideration. For the moment, the Wehrmacht needed him, but it had been made perfectly clear: his actions were being scrutinised.

  His musings were brought to an abrupt end by a knock at the door. The general turned in his leather chair as his adjutant entered.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Lieutenant Kathofer said enthusiastically.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ replied von Kluge, raising his arm but remaining in his seat.

  ‘Sir, I have some news. It relates to the men who barricaded themselves in the post office.’

  ‘Spit it out, Kathofer.’

  ‘I’m pleased to report most of the defenders are in custody. The area is now secure.’

  ‘Good,’ von Kluge nodded. ‘Hang on, you said most? How many escaped?’

  ‘Four,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Bu
t, I do not anticipate any further trouble, Herr General. We have identified the ringleaders. Let’s just say they have been taken care of.’

  ‘Anything else, Lieutenant?’ the general asked eventually, as Kathofer hovered anxiously.

  ‘Sir, one of our fighters encountered a British transport plane about sixty miles southwest of Danzig.’

  ‘A British plane?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. It was downed, but our pilot says some of the crew bailed out.’

  ‘How many parachutes did he see?’

  ‘He wasn’t certain, Sir.’

  ‘Have they been rounded up?’ von Kluge asked eagerly.

  ‘Not quite, Sir.’

  The general scowled.

  ‘We have managed to apprehend one of them. He is being held in the cells at the police station. We will keep him there until an interrogator arrives from Berlin.’

  ‘Has he said anything of interest so far?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll talk when the interrogators get here.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we’ve just received reports of an attack on one of our roadblocks near Kwktzyń in the Malbork region. It’s close to where the British plane was sighted.’

  The general placed a pair of silver-framed pince-nes onto his angular nose and studied a map on the desk in front of him. ‘The logical conclusion is the two things, the plane and the roadblock, are connected,’ he commented.

  ‘The driver of the truck transporting the British soldier says he barely escaped with his life.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ von Kluge mulled over the information. ‘How many enemy soldiers did he see?’

  ‘He’s writing a statement for the interrogators. I’m afraid he’s not sure.’

  ‘Typical,’ said the general, annoyed that his day had been ruined so soon. ‘Berlin would be impressed if this little problem was resolved quickly. He would now have to settle the matter before any criticism could be levelled at him. ‘I do hope we’ve sent reinforcements.’

  ‘The SS have already left with around fifty men, Sir.’

  ‘What?’ erupted von Kluge. ‘Who asked for them to get involved? Danzig is under the Wehrmacht’s jurisdiction, not theirs. We should be dealing with it ourselves, not the Führer’s glamour boys.’

  ‘Sir, it was a direct order from Berlin,’ Kathofer apologised. ‘They seemed to know about it before we did.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, Lieutenant. They have eyes and ears everywhere.’

  Kathofer nodded.

  ‘Out of interest, which SS officer is it?’

  ‘Hauptmann Roehm, Sir.’

  ‘Roehm? Andreas Roehm?’ His face paled. ‘That’s a name I haven’t heard for some time. I knew his uncle Ernst. It must be five years or more since he died.’

  ‘Sadly, I never met him, Sir,’ Lieutenant Kathofer said.

  ‘Don’t believe the rumours, Lieutenant,’ the general said forcibly. ‘Ernst Roehm’s murder was a huge cover-up by the Chancellery. The last time I saw Andreas, he was wearing lederhosen and riding on his father’s shoulders, and now you tell me he’s made the rank of hauptmann. Incredible. He must have rocketed through the ranks, just like his uncle before him. I hope he stays on the good side of the Führer, for his sake.’

  Preoccupied, von Kluge walked over to the window, gazing across the city. Kathofer stood awkwardly until the general spoke again.

  ‘Keep an eye on what the SS are up to and please inform me of any progress they make.’

  ‘Of course, Herr General.’

  ‘By the way, have the Wehrmacht Headquarters in Malbork been made aware of this incident?’ von Kluge asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Could you ask their commanding officer to keep me informed?’

  ‘Of course, Sir,’ said Kathofer.

  ‘That’ll be all, Lieutenant.’

  With that, Kathofer clicked his heels, turned, and left, leaving von Kluge staring across the city. The mention of Roehm’s name had unsettled him. An anger rose up inside him which had been buried for many years. Ernst Roehm had been a senior aide to Hitler, the commander of the Nazis’ paramilitary wing and, at one time, Hitler’s closest confidant. However, a power struggle had ensued, and Roehm, a heavy-handed thug, had fallen out of favour with the Führer. Ultimately, this led to his assassination. No one ever spoke of it, but everyone knew the truth. Hearing the name of Ernst Roehm reminded him of his own vulnerability, especially if he continued to swim against the tide of party opinion.

  He returned to his desk and poured some iced water from a decanter into a glass. What would happen when the Führer had no use for him? He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He had more a pressing issue. What were the British up to?

  ***

  Walking at the rear of the patrol, Henry silently chastised himself over what had happened to Mayberry. Thoughts raced around his head. What had he done wrong? Was he to blame? The longer he thought about it, the fewer answers he had, and he had become thoroughly despondent. Raising his hand, O’Shea stopped the unit. Edging forward, he could see a small town at the bottom of the valley through the trees.

  ‘Well, that’s a darn sight better than another German patrol,’ Henry whispered to O’Shea.

  He pulled out his map, attempting to identify their location, but it could be any town along the course of one of the many rivers in the region.

  ‘What shall we do, Sarge?’ Alf asked.

  Henry was unsure. Should they skirt around the town and continue towards Danzig on foot? Or, should they creep down and search for another way out of this mess? The latter strategy carried a much higher risk of them being spotted, but the clock was ticking. They had to complete their objective in time to make the pickup.

  Henry spoke to the others and explained the options. O’Shea piped up, oblivious to Henry’s indecision.

  ‘I think we should go down there. We can have a root around and hopefully find out where we are.’

  ‘Sarge, I agree with Pat,’ said Alf. ‘Maybe we could look for a vehicle or something. Otherwise, we might end up stuck in this God-forsaken forest forever.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled,’ said Henry without having to issue an order. ‘One of us will go into the town and scout around while the rest of us stay here.’

  ‘One of us?’ O’Shea asked. ‘That goes against everything we’ve ever been taught. We always work in pairs. That was what we were told during basic.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Henry said calmly. ‘I know it’s not ideal, but look around you, we don’t have the manpower. One person can slip in and out of a town much easier than two can.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Travers said. He adjusted his helmet, leaving a smear of mud on his forehead.

  ‘No, lad. I think it’ll be better if I go,’ Alf said. ‘I know I can’t speak Polish, but I can hold a conversation in German. Most of the people around here are bilingual, so I should get by.’

  O’Shea suggested drawing lots, but Morrison was adamant he was going. Frankly, Henry did not care whether Morrison or the medic went, but Travers was definitely not going on his own. The teenager was far too inexperienced to do something like this on his own.

  ‘Leave your weapons behind. You’ll look conspicuous with them strung across your chest. You’d better take this,’ Henry said, handing him his pistol.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  ‘You know if you’re caught with this, they will execute you. So only use it if you really have to, and try and stay as inconspicuous as you can.’

  Alf nodded, then struggled out of his backpack and webbing.

  He took off his uniform jacket and stood, then unwound his puttees from his ankles and let his trousers hang freely.

  ‘I’ll warm up as soon as I get moving,’ he said nonchalantly, forcing it into his pocket.

  Giving his helmet to Travers for safekeeping, Alf started removing the camouflage paint from his face. Within a few minutes, he looked much less formidable and was re
ady to go. The others shook his hand, wishing him luck.

  ‘This’ll make things seem a little better,’ O’Shea said, standing up from a billycan resting over a spirit burner.

  In his hand, he held an enamel mug of piping hot tea. Henry nodded his appreciation and warmed his frozen hands. The two men sat on the forest floor, side by side with their backs to the fallen log while Travers stood watch. Henry sipped tentatively. The liquid burnt a little as it swilled around his mouth.

  ‘Never underestimate the power of a hot drink,’ the medic said philosophically. ‘They’re excellent at focusing the mind.’

  ‘Well, things are not going to plan, Pat,’ Henry admitted, cradling the mug.

  ‘Nah, we’ve had a few setbacks,’ O’Shea said. ‘But now we’re heading in the right direction.’

  Henry smiled falsely. Discovering the town had given the group something to focus on, and it seemed to have lifted everyone’s spirits slightly.

  ***

  Alf was a mule of a man; he was five and a half feet tall and just as broad. His stocky build and swarthy complexion meant Alf bore a striking resemblance to the local Polish population. From that perspective, he was quite confident about blending in. His first priority was locating some more suitable attire.

  Since leaving Mayberry behind, the atmosphere in the group had become incredibly tense. Alf was glad to be on his own; having a few hours away from the others would improve his mood.

  Having plodded down the valley for around thirty minutes, the land opened out into a large clearing. Alf stepped through an iron gate onto a narrow path flanked by long grass. He moved swiftly, meandering across several fields, only breaking cover when there was no other option. The path disappeared between two wooden barns, and as he approached, Alf could hear the low-pitched chatter of two Polish farmers as they went about their work. Ducking under a small window, he scurried past on his hands and knees undetected.