From where they stood, they could see numerous guards in long, grey overcoats stationed at regular intervals along the platform. They remained motionless, while burly men in shirtsleeves heaved sacks and crates into the wagons.
A Wehrmacht guard strode past their hiding place, casting a long shadow over their position. No one had seen him approaching; the surprise almost caused O’Shea to yelp. The four men stood motionless, as the soldier continued along the track without breaking stride. After a few breathless minutes, the oblivious guard disappeared around the far side of the locomotive.
Henry’s eyes flitted along the eight wagons behind the locomotive. The first was too close to the driver to be of any use to them. If they were spotted boarding the train, their mission would be over. The second carriage was an open-topped truck containing telegraph poles, so that was not appropriate. A considerable brass padlock secured the third wagon. The wooden-slatted doors of the fourth wagon were wide open, allowing Henry to see straight through to the platform beyond. Two German guards appeared to be looking directly at him, but neither of them moved while two red-faced workmen loaded the open wagon, hoisting cargo onto their shoulders and dumping it into the carriage.
As the sacks were being loaded, the pile nearest to Henry and his men capsized onto the ground between their position and the train. One of the previously motionless guards dashed forward and forcibly hit one of the workers with his rifle butt. Two further guards jumped from the platform and ran to the untidy heap which now littered the track.
The enemy guards were very close to their position. Henry observed them carefully as they worked with their rifles slung over their shoulders. Henry could hear their panting as they lifted the sacks back onto the train. Once everything had been reloaded, the heavy door was closed with a satisfying slam. The two guards walked back, taking up their original positions on the platform.
The thud of cargo being loaded into the other wagons lasted for another fifteen minutes before it fell quiet. The guard patrolling the station’s perimeter passed by again as an ear-piercing shriek filled the air, a plume of steam escaping from the chimney atop the burly engine. Henry slipped off his backpack and weapon, handing them to Alf. A different whistle blew from the platform; it was time for the train to leave.
The four soldiers dashed from the shadows. Henry drew level with the fourth wagon, sliding open the giant door just enough for him to climb inside. He pulled himself up, landing heavily in the wagon’s doorway. Not wasting any time, he turned around to assist the others as the train gathered speed. Next, Alf Morrison ran alongside the open door, struggling under the weight of his and Henry’s equipment. He threw the two backpacks towards his sergeant, followed by the two weapons which Henry stowed behind him. Holding out his hand, he hoisted his colleague’s hefty frame inside.
Travers was hot on his heels and was already running beside the door. He too bundled his equipment through the door before athletically launching himself inside without much effort.
The train was really gaining momentum, and O’Shea was struggling to keep up. He hurled his pack through the door and reached for Henry’s hand. Pulling hard, he tried to drag him inside, but could not get an adequate hold. Pat stumbled, causing him to lose valuable ground and disappear from view. Straining every sinew, the medic sprinted as if his life depended on it. Without the extra weight of his equipment, he found an additional burst of speed and rapidly drew level again. The three men inside the train held out their hands for him to hold. Henry leant out and grabbed O’Shea under his left arm, managing to lift the medic’s slight frame off the floor, while Travers and Alf bundled their flailing colleague into the wagon. With a collective sigh of relief, Henry slid the door shut.
They sat silently, catching their breath, as the train continued to accelerate. Henry offered around a pack of cigarettes and struck a match. The flickering orange glow lit the wagon’s interior transiently before quickly fading.
‘That was close,’ O’Shea said, after taking a long inhalation.
‘We’re all safe now,’ said Henry, trying to calm down the nervous medic.
‘What landmarks are we looking for?’ asked Travers, squinting between the slats of wood.
‘Relax, we need to pass through Elblag before we have to jump,’ the sergeant said. ‘After that, we’ll need to find a road bridge crossing the river about thirty miles the other side of the city. We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘I don’t mean to scare anyone, but isn’t Elblag in East Prussia?’ O’Shea said. ‘It’s a German city, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ Henry said, playing down the significance of this revelation.
Despite the darkness, he sensed the concerns of his companions. Henry had hoped no one would realise they would have to cross the border.
‘Nothing has changed. It makes no difference whether we’re in German-occupied Poland or Prussia,’ said Henry calmly.
O’Shea let out a nervous laugh.
‘Look, keep focussed on the job at hand,’ Henry said calmly. ‘Once the train has passed through Elblag, it crosses back over the border and heads for Danzig. We’ll only be in East Prussia for a few minutes. All we have to do is be ready to jump when we see the Vistula.’
‘What do we do if there are no boats to take us up the Vistula?’ Travers asked.
‘Don’t worry, there will be,’ Henry said, not as certain as he sounded. ‘And if there’s not, we’ll continue up the river on foot until we find one.’
‘I don’t know about you guys, but I’m concerned about jumping from a moving train,’ said Pat. ‘I hope getting off is going to be easier than getting on was.’
‘You’ll be fine. It’ll be as easy as falling off a log,’ Alf smirked wryly.
After a further forty-five minutes, they entered a built-up area. Between the wooden slats, Henry could see the silhouettes of houses, shops, and schools fly past. The locomotive began to slow as it approached the heart of the city. Suddenly, he realised the station at Elblag was on the opposite side to Prabuty, so the unlocked door of the wagon would be facing the platform.
‘Quick!’ said Henry in a loud whisper. ‘Help me push these sacks over to this side of the train.’
O’Shea and Travers sprang into action when they heard the tone of Henry’s voice.
‘C’mon, stack them higher. We need to hide behind them,’ Henry said, heaving a sack of flour across the carriage.
The four men worked busily in the darkness rearranging the sacks into neat piles. They lay on the floor and covered themselves and their equipment with more sacks, so they were hidden from view.
With a grating screech, they came to a juddering halt. The tallest stack toppled over, landing on Travers, pinning him against the wooden floor. They lay motionless, listening to the German voices talking on the platform. The air around them was thick with flour dust, and Henry found it hard to breathe.
Outside, he could hear someone checking the carriages, whistling while they walked. The door of their wagon screeched open, allowing a cold breeze to filter in. Henry tried to catch a glimpse of whoever was looking in, but it was too dark.
Although only a few minutes, it seemed like hours before the door was shut again. The train remained in the station for some time before it slowly surged forward.
‘I’m not sure my nerves can handle much more of this,’ Pat whispered his familiar insights.
‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ said Alf. ‘I could have sworn they were going to find us.’
‘No use worrying about that now,’ said Henry dismissively. ‘We have to be ready to leave.’
‘Can someone get me out of here?’ Travers asked desperately. ‘I can barely breathe.’
Alf and Henry rearranged the fallen sacks, before dragging the teenager back onto his feet.
‘Are you okay?’ O’Shea asked, watching the young lad rub the left side of his chest.
‘Yeah, I’m all right. Just a bit bruised.’
‘Right, make sure you’re
ready to go,’ Henry said, picking up his backpack. ‘Don’t leave anything behind. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been here.’
The three other men nodded and set about gathering their equipment.
Henry grabbed the iron handle and slid the door open in preparation for a swift exit, but it only moved two inches before jamming. Presuming it had come off its runners, he shut the door and then rattled it briskly, trying to relocate it before trying again. Despite his best efforts, the door would not budge. To his horror, he spotted a large, steel padlock had been applied to the wagon’s door.
‘They’ve locked it!’ he shouted. ‘It must have happened when we were at the station. Quick! Try the other side. We can’t miss the bridge.’
Alf clambered over the sacks and attempted to slide open the other door.
‘This one’s padlocked too,’ he said.
Feeling like an animal trapped in a cage, Henry kicked the door hard, venting his anger. He tried to find something to lever the door with, but other than the sacks of flour, there was nothing else in the carriage. Alf and Travers put their combined weight behind it, but the door would still not move. Through the gap, Henry watched helplessly as the train passed the bridge over the river. He felt deflated. They had missed their destination and were now heading towards Danzig.
Out of desperation, O’Shea grabbed his weapon and forced the butt through the small opening between the door and its frame, then started striking the lock as hard as he could. First hit, nothing. Second, nothing. Third and fourth, nothing. Snatching the weapon, Alf hammered it into the lock. The first of Alf’s blows caused it to buckle, but the door held fast. The second blow shattered the padlock, allowing O’Shea to open the door.
Henry immediately threw his backpack and weapon out of the wagon door and launched himself from the moving train. He hit the ground at speed and rolled several times. Finally coming to rest face down on a grassy verge next to the track. Slightly dazed, he clambered to his feet and set about finding his equipment. After searching more than a hundred yards of trackside, he found his backpack lying in a puddle, but his MP-38 was safe and dry. After ensuring everyone had managed to jump without serious injury, they headed back towards the bridge over the river.
After an hour’s trudge, they arrived back at the spot where they had planned to leave the train. The Vistula glistened below them as the moon emerged from behind the dense cloud. If circumstances had been different, Henry wished he could have spent time watching the light dance on the surface of the water, but they had a job to do. Alf set off down a steep bank which led down to the river.
The three of them waited at the foot of the embankment as Alf crept along looking for a craft to commandeer. Several barges were tethered close to one another, leaving a mass of tangled mooring ropes for him to negotiate. As it was late, there were no lights visible on any of them.
A little way downstream, one barge was tied to a jetty, set apart from the others. Typically, those in the river community were a social bunch. Most evenings, the families who lived and worked on the Vistula would congregate at a particular spot to share a communal meal before retiring for the night. Noticeably, this craft was some distance from the rest, suggesting its owners were not regulars on this stretch of the river, or perhaps it was empty.
The four men communicated with gestures and silently mouthed words. When everyone was happy with their roles, a nod from Henry set the men about their work. Three men boarded the barge while Travers stood on the bank keeping watch. Luckily, the door leading below deck was not locked. Alf, followed by Henry and O’Shea, disappeared down the steps.
Once inside, they turned on their torches, methodically sweeping the interior. The medic checked the toilet cubicle while Henry and Alf searched other cupboards and closets. The barge was empty.
Alf removed his uniform jacket and slipped on the overcoat he had squeezed into his backpack.
‘Let’s get underway before the owners return,’ Henry said. ‘Do you think you can steer this thing?’
‘Of course,’ said Alf. ‘We’ll be fine providing we can get it started.’
‘C’mon then, let’s get cracking.’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n!’ Alf smiled, fastening the buttons on the front of his coat.
With that, Alf disappeared up the three wooden steps onto the tiller platform at the stern. Travers, with one foot on the barge and the other on the riverbank, greeted Alf with a smile. The burly soldier set about starting the engine and could not believe his luck when he found the key was in the ignition. In a community where everyone knew everybody else, the thought of somebody tampering with, let alone stealing, someone else’s barge was unthinkable.
Alf pushed any thought of the owners to the back of his mind. He made sure no one was coming before he turned the key. The engine spluttered temporarily before it stalled. After another turn of the key and a little more throttle, the engine ticked over with a regular vibration. Travers gathered in the rope from the bank and then pushed the barge away with his foot as they pulled away.
13
Andreas Roehm had spent the entire evening at the hospital in Danzig, and it was now well into the small hours. By some miracle, the unconscious officer had survived the bumpy journey from the checkpoint and had undergone surgery to clamp off a bleeding artery in his chest. According to the surgeon, it was a miracle the patient had lived this long. Nonetheless, a couple of things continued to puzzle Roehm. Why had this officer’s wounds been treated and who was responsible?
Sitting at the soldier’s bedside, Roehm waited impatiently for him to wake up. Although he had no medical knowledge, he knew the young officer was improving. The soldier now appeared a warm pink colour, rather than the languid yellow complexion he had demonstrated earlier. Encouragingly, his breathing no longer seemed laboured. Roehm became mesmerised by the blood dripping into the man’s forearm from a glass bottle hanging on a stand.
He glanced at his watch. Was it only five minutes since he had last looked? When the officer woke up, he would have some questions for him. What had actually happened at the checkpoint? Had he been working with the British? Had the surgeons worked all night to save a spy? There were so many things Roehm wanted to ask, but the doctor had been rather unhelpful as to when the officer would regain consciousness. He would have to wait. He hated waiting.
As he sat on the uncomfortably hard stool next to the bed, another thought hit him. Absorbed in the mystery of the wounded soldier, Roehm had overlooked another critical issue. Why were British soldiers in Poland? There had been no reports of any other enemy contact in the region, so what were they up to?
A pretty nurse rose from behind a desk at the far end of the ward to commence her evening rounds. Under her hat, her red hair scraped back into a ponytail which swung from side to side as she walked. After reviewing a couple of patients, she arrived at the young officer bedside. She bent over him to check his blood pressure. Roehm noticed the first two buttons of her uniform were unfastened, and he could not help his eyes from wandering. When he looked up, she was staring straight at him.
‘His blood pressure’s okay,’ she said with a smile.
Somewhat embarrassed, Roehm tried to appear unflustered. ‘Any idea when he’ll wake up?’
‘When he’s ready,’ she said. ‘He’s been through a lot. It’s best he sleeps.’
Roehm nodded and slipped back into his thought while she fussed with the sheet for a few moments, then turned to walk away.
Without looking up, he asked, ‘You don’t happen to have a map of Poland, do you?’
‘Not on the ward, Sir,’ the nurse said, ‘but if my memory serves me correctly, there’s one on the wall in the hospital foyer.’
‘Thanks!’ he said with a false smile.
The officer had not shown any signs of waking, so Roehm thought he would investigate the map to pass the time. He attempted to stand without making any noise with his stool, but only managed to disturb the whole ward. Sadly, the unconscious so
ldier did not stir. Frustrated, Roehm picked up his cap and leather gloves, then walked briskly out through the wooden doors. The two sentries in the corridor saluted him, and he reciprocated without even slowing.
He hated these places. The smell of carbolic soap and the poor lighting unsettled him. There were so many wards and offices, he doubted the orderlies and porters would be able to find their way around. He hurried past the maternity unit and entered an impressive, rectangular foyer with a high-domed ceiling. Admiring the framed portraits of long-dead professors, he tried to locate the porter’s office. A cheery face poked through a door and enquired if he could help. Two other porters sat inside the windowless room, smoking and playing cards. In the corner, a gramophone emitted a soft waltz.
‘You were with the young officer they brought in earlier, weren’t you?’ the porter said.
‘Yes,’ replied Roehm, not interested in engaging in small talk.
‘How’s he doing?’ said another of the porters, standing up to reduce the volume of the music. ‘I hear he was in one hell of a mess. I do hope he pulls through, Sir.’
‘It’s a terrible shame,’ the other added. That young lad can’t be more than twenty.’
Roehm gave an absentminded grunt. ‘Do you have a map of Poland around here somewhere?’
‘Yes, of course, Sir. It is around this corner on the wall,’ said the second porter, pointing in the general direction. ‘Would you like me to show you?’
‘No, I’ll find it,’ he said, walking away.
The large map was behind a glass screen, hanging on the wall in an alcove. It seemed incongruous in such a grand lobby. Roehm had come to Poland with the first wave of the Blitzkrieg, having never been to the country before. From what he had seen so far, it would not bother him if he never returned.
The Danzig Corridor Page 10