Studying the map, Roehm realised he was not familiar with the country’s geography. It took him a while to find Danzig, then Warsaw and finally Krakow. The country was larger than he thought. He pulled out a small notebook from inside his jacket. Thumbing through the pages, he found the correct place. The fighter which had shot down the British plane had taken off from a makeshift airbase at Toruń. He drew a circle around it on the glass. The checkpoint where they had found the injured soldier was near Kwktzyń. Again, he circled the area.
Roehm studied the two regions carefully; they were quite close to each other. No other foreign combatants had been reported in Poland, so they must have been acting in isolation. What were they after? It was too far from any British settlement to be purely for reconnaissance. There were no major cities nearby, only dense forest stretching to East Prussia. A few small towns and villages littered the landscape, but nothing which should attract their attention. So why were the British interested in this part of Poland?
He stared absentmindedly when another thought struck him. The main geographical feature in this region was the Vistula River. It snaked through the various towns before it reached the Baltic Sea in the north. The river was to the west of where the enemy soldiers had been sighted. He moved his finger up the glass, tracing the course of the Vistula, stopping every few seconds to make notes of the places where roads crossed it. As they were travelling on foot, it meant the river would be an effective barrier to them.
Although his knowledge of the country was poor, Roehm was fully aware of the Vistula’s notorious waters. Tens of people died every year from falling in or trying to swim across it. He realised he could use this to his advantage. If he increased the roadblocks on the river crossings, it would confine them to the eastern bank. With the Vistula in the west and the Prussian border to the east, they could not stray too far. If he was able to keep them hemmed in, finding them should be easy.
The area where the plane had been shot down was under the supervision of SS Regional Headquarters at Malbork. Tapping the glass with his pencil as his brain processed the information, he realised that maybe he should visit them. It would be easier to monitor developments from there compared with Danzig. Telecommunications had not been completely restored since the invasion, and any delay in a message getting through could hinder his chances of capturing the British soldiers.
Not wanting to waste any more time he hurried back to the ward, strode through the double doors, and marched up to the desk.
‘Is there any sign of him waking soon?’ Roehm asked the nurse in an impatient whisper.
‘Not at the moment,’ she said. ‘It could be two hours, two days, or even longer. In fact, he may never wake up.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, wishing he had never asked.
He walked back down the corridor to the foyer. One of the porters looked out again. On seeing the hauptmann, he smiled and returned to his hand of cards. Roehm left the hospital, through a revolving door, then proceeded down some stone steps onto a driveway.
Dawn was starting to break, causing the edges of the sky to brighten. He opened the rear door of his squad car, waking the dozing driver. Swiftly taking his feet off the dashboard, the driver straightened his tie.
‘How long will it take us to get to Malbork?’ Roehm enquired, slamming the door.
Unfolding a map, the driver scanned the region before locating it.
‘About an hour and a half,’ he calculated.
‘You have sixty minutes. Let’s go.’
The journey was infuriatingly slow. In Poland, time seemed to take twice as long to pass. The poor roads, military traffic, and even the weather slowed them down. There was currently a break in the rain, but a bitter chill made Roehm shiver. Various snapshot images from throughout the day whirled around in his head; Danzig, the checkpoint and the hospital. Soon they became intertwined and confused, way beyond reality. Within a few minutes, he had fallen asleep.
Roehm had slept for most of the trip, waking when the car went over a bump in the road. His head pounded, squeezing his forehead like a vice.
‘How far to the castle?’ he said, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
‘Five minutes, Sir.’
‘Excellent!’ Roehm said, fidgeting to make himself comfortable on the back seat.
The squad car took a sweeping corner to the left, throwing Roehm across the seat, bringing in to view the magnificent medieval castle which towered over the Malbork skyline. Its red-brick construction and terracotta roof tiles rose above the River Nogat, making it stand out from the rest of the dreary town. The castle, built by the Teutonic Knights midway through the thirteenth century, had been taken over by the SS, becoming its Regional Headquarters. The medieval order had used the imposing building to strike fear into the hearts of the populace. How fitting.
They stopped at a checkpoint below the castle. A sentry peered menacingly through the open window, asking the driver about his business. When the guard saw an SS hauptmann in the back, his posture stiffened. He then raised his arm in a Nazi salute and waved them through.
The car trundled its way across a wooden bridge that traversed the slow-flowing river, then passed through an impressive, carved gateway. They followed the driveway around to the right before arriving in a giant courtyard at the heart of the castle complex. Having lost the sleepiness which had lingered, Roehm swung open the door and marched across the gravel. A very flustered SS officer hurried out to greet him.
‘Heil Hitler,’ exclaimed the red-faced man.
Roehm continued walking as if he was not listening.
‘Sir, I am Lieutenant Stefan Kruse of the Malbork Regional Headquarters,’ the dark-haired officer said, scurrying behind the hauptmann.
‘I know who you are,’ said Roehm tersely. ‘I need to speak to you urgently.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘British soldiers have been spotted in your region during the last twenty-four hours,’ Roehm said.
‘British soldiers? We’ve not even heard rumours of any British forces in the area. Our patrols have not reported any sightings of them. Where were they seen?’
‘One was captured yesterday by the Wehrmacht. Another was killed at a checkpoint near Kwktzyń.’
‘Communications are understandably a little slow in getting through. I shall increase the number of patrols in the Kwktzyń area.’
Roehm made a mental note. It was clear, the Wehrmacht were not passing on regular patrol information to the SS. Clearly an attempt to gain favour with the Third Reich’s high command. It came as no surprise to him. The friction between the two facets of the German military was well known. The Wehrmacht believed they were the real armed forces, but Hitler had created the SS as he did not trust their senior officers. Consequently, the SS was seen as over-privileged interlopers who abused their position of power and were given priority when it came to funding, training, and resources. Somehow Roehm needed to tap into any extra information the Wehrmacht had if he was going to catch the British soldiers.
‘Is the general in his office?’ the hauptmann asked, entering the great hall.
‘No, Sir,’ said Kruse. ‘He left early this morning for a meeting in Danzig. I’m surprised you didn’t see his car on the road.’
Roehm checked his pocketwatch, having stopped listening after the first words.
‘I need to make a few phone calls. May I use your office?’
‘Certainly, Sir.’
Kruse led Roehm down a magnificent corridor. The ceiling was twenty feet high and supported by ornate, hand-carved beams. He was surprised the cream-coloured walls were already covered with paintings of the Führer. These headquarters were more impressive than the Wehrmacht buildings in Danzig. The lieutenant strode up a grand staircase to the second floor where a series of narrow corridors spread out. Roehm could not help feeling the rooms on this level were much less ostentatious than those below, probably because fewer visitors saw these.
Kruse continued down a
dark oak-panelled passageway, taking the last door on the left. They walked into the office, prompting a prim-looking woman to stand up from behind a neat desk.
‘Hauptmann, may I introduce my secretary, Miss Agnes Trinke?’
‘I am delighted to meet you, Miss Trinke,’ he said.
‘Agnes, this is Hauptmann Roehm. He’s just arrived from Danzig.’
The aging, prim secretary smiled, shaking his hand politely. Kruse ushered the SS officer through a door into a private office.
‘This is my office. Feel free to use it while you are here. How long do you plan to stay with us?’
‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Roehm said, walking around the desk in the centre of the room.
‘That’s not a problem. I shall ask Agnes to organise a guest room for you. Is there anything else I can get you, Herr Hauptmann?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I wish to make a few phone calls in private.’
Kruse nodded before closing the door behind him. Roehm picked up the receiver, staring out of the window towards the river. After a few seconds, a female voice answered which he recognised as the secretary in the adjacent room.
‘Miss Trinke, or may I call you Agnes?’ he flirted.
‘Of course, Sir. What may I do for you?’
‘Well, Agnes, would you put me through to St. Catherine’s Hospital in Danzig?’
14
The peculiar early morning light made the river shimmer. Dressed in his overcoat and a cloth cap he had found stowed in one of the cupboards, Alf looked every inch like a local bargeman. Below deck, O’Shea reviewed the status of their ammunition, while Travers slept in one of the bunks. With the map open across the table in front of him, Henry studied the map. With ten miles to go, it would soon be the time to ditch the barge and continue the rest of the journey on foot. He walked to the bottom of the steps and opened the door.
‘What’s the traffic like, Alf?’ he said, remaining concealed.
‘Not too bad at the moment, but I imagine it’ll get heavier when the sun comes up.’
‘Looking at the map, there’s a bend in around five miles,’ Henry said. ‘Pull up on the left bank when we get there. We’ll have to walk the rest.’
‘Okay, Boss...’ Alf’s expression changing suddenly, his usually lighthearted demeanour becoming serious. ‘Keep your head down and shut the door. Tell the others to keep quiet.’
‘Why? What is it?’
‘A German patrol boat.’
Henry closed the door and dashed back through the cabin. His sudden movement alerted O’Shea. Using hand gestures, he conveyed a warning, then knelt next to the bunk on which Travers was sleeping. He placed his hand over the teenager’s mouth and woke him with the minimum of noise.
***
Still dozing beside him, Zofia wriggled. Trying hard not to disturb her, Viktor edged his way out of the bed. Across the landing, the two boys were still fast asleep on another mattress. He crept down the creaking staircase into the bar. The sun streamed through holes in the threadbare curtains, putting him in a good mood. Next, he grovelled around in the grate, attempting to light a fire. Fifteen minutes later, a copper kettle boiled away above the roaring flames. He made himself a mug of coffee, then wandered outside.
All traces of the dark rain clouds had gone. Miedziak, the only other member of the family who was awake, fed noisily on the long grass by the back door. Viktor patted the horse’s neck, soaking up the early morning sun. How long he had stood there, he was not sure, but he jumped when a pair of arms crept around his chest and squeezed him. A warm, moist kiss on the back of his neck followed.
Zofia whispered ‘I love you’ and hugged him again.
Although she was not wearing makeup and her hair was uncombed, Viktor realised how much he loved her. He placed his arms around her waist and kissed her passionately on the lips.
‘You haven’t done that since we were teenagers,’ she said, cuddling into him.
He smiled, stroking her long hair gently.
‘I’m sorry to spoil this, but Peter and Niklos are awake. They’ll be down soon, so I’d better prepare breakfast.’
‘The kettle’s already boiled,’ he said helpfully, not wanting to let her go. ‘Can we stay here for a few more minutes?’
Zofia began unpacking one of the boxes they had unloaded the previous night. Retrieving a small block of butter and some ham, she added them to the left-over bread and sausage from their meal the evening before. As she set the table, the boys made their way down the stairs, shattering the relative silence.
Sitting around one of the tables in the bar, the family ate their breakfast. The children sipped milk while struggling to eat chunks of bread too large for their mouths while their parents drank coffee and discussed the day ahead.
‘Which route are we taking?’ Zofia asked, removing the cup from her lips.
‘I think we should take the back road towards Orneta,’ Viktor said, trying to avoid meeting any more Germans troops.
‘What a great idea!’ she said excitedly. ‘There is a beautiful waterfall there. My father used to take me there when I was a little girl. Will we have time to stop and have a look? I’d love to see it again.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, wanting to get to Olsztyn as soon as possible.
‘That would be nice,’ she smiled, remembering something from long ago. ‘Now, come along, we have to leave.’
***
The grey, flat-bottomed patrol boat pulled up alongside them. A machine gun on its foredeck pointed straight at Alf. Not knowing what else to do, he waved as if he was a regular traveller on the river, his eyes scanning them as they approached. There were three crew members: a gunner, a pilot, and a guard standing against the side rail with a thick rope in his hand. In the wheelhouse, the pilot focussed on the front of his boat. Paying extra attention to the close proximity of the bow of the barge, Alf leant forward and surreptitiously knocked on the door which led below before the German crewman threw a rope towards him. With adrenaline surging through his veins, Alf clumsily secured the two boats together, then waited for him to come aboard. Before he even stepped onto the tiller platform, he began barking instructions and continued to shout, even when he stood toe to toe with the British soldier. The man spoke so fast, Alf struggled to understand, but it was clear he intended to go below deck.
Stalling for as long as possible, Alf led him down the steps into the living quarters.
He expected to see weapons and uniforms lying around, but instead, there was no trace of their equipment anywhere. Travers and O’Shea were sitting at the table in the far corner, where only moments before, Henry’s map was spread open. The two British soldiers were dressed in civilian clothing, which they must have found in the overhead lockers. The medic sipped nervously from an enamel mug, while Travers smiled pleasantly at the crewman.
The soldier strode towards them, continuing shouting instructions in German.
‘Hände hoch! Hände hoch!’ he said firmly.
They remained sitting, as if oblivious to the soldier’s request.
‘Hände hoch! Hände hoch!’ he said again, shouting more aggressively.
Neither of them moved.
The German soldier reached inside his grey uniform jacket, producing a pistol, which he pointed at O’Shea. Pat’s insides froze, giving him an ache deep in his belly. He and Travers stood with their arms raised. The guard continued to bellow at them, but no one responded. Coming to the end of his tether, the soldier drew back the firing pin on his pistol and forced the barrel against the medic’s forehead. Pat closed his eyes, expecting to hear a gunshot at any minute, muttering a prayer under his breath.
Having watched events unfold through a crack in the door of the cramped lavatory cubicle, Henry crept out when O’Shea had been threatened. In one decisive movement, he sliced the man’s neck from the midline at the front all the way round to the back. The soldier’s body went rigid, collapsing backwards onto him. A look of surpris
e persisted on the stricken man’s face, his chest contorting as he struggled to fill his deflated lungs with air. The deep wound in his neck bled profusely, his severed larynx making it impossible for him to cry out.
After a few seconds, Pat realised nothing had happened to him. Plucking up the courage to open his eyes, to his surprise, the German soldier lay on the floor with Henry standing over him.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ O’Shea said in a harsh whisper. ‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Have you forgotten there are more of them outside?’ Travers panicked.
‘Keep calm,’ Henry scolded. ‘We have to keep thinking straight.’
Without pausing, the sergeant set about undressing the dying soldier. First, he removed the grey uniform jacket and then his trousers. Apart from a blood-stained tidemark on the collar, it was acceptable. He explained his plan as he tried on the dead soldier’s clothes.
Unfortunately, the sleeves were way too short, and it was a little tight across his chest. Even from a distance of several feet, he would have immediately been identified as an impostor. There was no way it was going to fit around the immense girth of Alf Morrison. Conversely, the uniform would bury the slight frame of O’Shea. As a last resort, Henry handed the jacket to Travers, who had a similar build to the crewman. Reluctantly, the youngster tried it on. The fit was not perfect, but they might get away with it. By default, the teenager had volunteered to go on deck to act as a decoy. He fastened the buttons, then placed the dying man’s helmet on his head.
‘Does everyone know what they’re doing?’ asked Henry.
His three companions nodded.
‘Good Luck, Terry,’ he said, patting Travers on the back. ‘Just concentrate on what you have to do.’
The Danzig Corridor Page 11