‘Okay,’ Kruse said, hesitating before speaking again. ‘I don’t want to appear rude, Sir, but is there a chance of more troops? A door-to-door search is going to be relatively ineffective with the numbers we have.’
‘I know, I called Danzig. They’re sending a hundred more men to you as we speak. They should be with you within the next couple of hours.’
‘SS or Wehrmacht, Sir?’ Kruse asked delicately.
‘Wehrmacht,’ the hauptmann said. ‘But, don’t worry, they’ll report to you temporarily.’
‘I can’t imagine High Command being happy with an SS officer commanding Wehrmacht troops.’
‘They’re not, but I told them they had no choice since it was their negligence which led to the loss of the Pomeroze dam.’
Kruse paused, not knowing how to respond. ‘Excellent, Sir. I shall keep you informed.’
The line went dead.
Impressed with the young officer, Roehm hung up the receiver. His attention turned to the map in front of him. He located Malbork, then the Pomoroze industrial region. Realistically, how far could they have travelled since the explosion? Surely no more than fifteen or twenty kilometres? He took a pen from a desk drawer and drew a circle around the dam, scrutinising the area within the red line. Where were they hiding?
***
Having run throughout the night and most of the subsequent day, every inspiration was burnt and his legs were leaden. Unable to continue, Henry pulled up, gasping hard. Thankful for the opportunity to rest, Travers dropped into the long grass, breathing heavily. Neither of them were capable of speaking. Struggling to his feet, Henry staggered away from the teenager. The world continued to swirl around him, causing him to vomit. He slumped under a tree. It took ten minutes before he was able to crawl over to Travers, who was wincing with every breath.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked, his head pounding.
‘Badly,’ Travers said after a few moments.
Henry unclipped his canteen and unscrewed the top, pouring water into his mouth without touching the sides. Having rinsed out the taste of vomit, he spat onto the ground.
‘Do you want some?’ he said, offering the container to his companion.
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Travers panted, wiping it with his sleeve.
‘There are only a couple of hours of daylight left. We should try and make it to Prebensz before sundown,’ he said.
The teenager nodded, unable to string a sentence together.
By Henry’s reckoning, they were only five miles from the outskirts of the town. Travers was still struggling, but Henry helped him to his feet nonetheless. After a swift check of the map and compass, the two men set off again, but at a slower pace.
Every so often, they could see the buildings through the trees.
‘Let’s find somewhere warm and dry to spend the next few hours,’ Henry suggested.
‘That would be nice,’ Travers smiled. ‘Perhaps a place with room service?’
Scanning the skyline, the young soldier nudged Henry, pointing to a steeple peeping over the top of a distant row of shops. Without speaking, they proceeded down a paved lane and across the main road.
The bell tower was high in the middle of the red brick church’s facade. At its base were two intricately carved doors that opened straight onto the pavement. Henry stayed hidden as Travers tried the door. The gold handle turned easily, opening the door enough for them to slip inside.
Groping around in near blackness, they explored their surroundings. Slowly, their eyes became accustomed to the poor light. They were in a small entrance vestibule. Ahead of them was a windowed wall with two panelled doors, beyond which were rows of wooden pews. Travers went to lean against a wall but stumbled backwards onto a flight of stone steps which led upwards. Grateful his sergeant had not seen, he leapt to his feet, whispering, ‘I wonder where these lead?’
Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, Henry pulled out a box of matches, fumbling around before striking one. Waving for the teenager to follow him, he slowly climbed the stone staircase. They arrived on a square landing with a door, similar to the one downstairs, leading to a balcony. In the fading light of the match, it appeared repair work was underway. A decorator’s ladder led up to a decorative ceiling, the cloying smell of fresh paint hanging in the air. Climbing up a couple of rungs, he lifted a hatch above him. Inside was a dark, dusty tower occupied predominantly by the bells on their wooden carriages and a maintenance platform. The flame started to burn his hand, instinctively sucking his index finger to soothe the pain. He replaced the cover and slid back down.
Travers opened the door and then stepped onto the creaking balcony with its many pews. Below, at the front of the church, the altar draped in purple velvet was festooned with candles. Slipping off his backpack, he slumped into one of the pews. A noise came from behind him. It was a simple click, but it was enough to send a shiver down the spine of any soldier. It was the sound of a safety catch being removed from a weapon. He recognised it instantly.
‘Halt!’ a voice shouted.
Both Henry and Travers froze, reluctantly lifting their arms in unison. Henry’s eyes frantically scanned the shadows but could see no one.
After a few seconds the voice spoke again. ‘Sarge, is that you?’
Henry breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Yes, Alf. Please put the gun down.’
‘We thought you’d been captured,’ said O’Shea, standing behind them, his weapon pointing at Travers.
‘We thought the same about you,’ Henry replied, grinning broadly.
‘Is it okay to put my hands down?’ the teenager asked awkwardly, causing Alf’s face to wrinkle into a smile.
The four men sat together on the uncomfortable pews with their kit strewn around them.
‘So, what happened to you guys?’ asked Travers.
‘We planted our explosives and had just made it back across the dam when a squad car stopped right in front of us,’ Morrison answered.
‘How they didn’t see us I’ll never know,’ interrupted O’ Shea.
‘We couldn’t move, could we?’ Alf said, looking at O’Shea. ‘So, we crouched behind this low wall.’
‘We were there for the best part of an hour.’
‘Who was in it?’ Henry interjected.
‘You will never guess,’ the medic said excitedly. ‘An SS hauptmann. He was angry about something, even before the bombs went off. He disappeared into the white building and brought out the whole bleeding garrison.’
‘I thought we’d had it,’ said Morrison.
‘Why didn’t you make a break for it when he went inside?’ asked Travers.
‘We couldn’t go anywhere, his driver was leaning against the car, having a smoke,’ said Alf.
‘A bit worrying, isn’t it?’ Henry said. ‘It sounds like this SS officer, whoever he was, knew exactly where we were going to be,’
‘Did you see the explosives go off?’ the teenager asked eagerly.
‘Oh yes,’ Morrison said proudly. ‘They went off just as planned.’
‘You should have seen them,’ said O’Shea. ‘They caused a massive plume of water which washed the dam clean away.’
‘So, how did you manage to get away?’ said Travers, continuing with his questions.
‘When it blew, we just ran for it,’ Alf said. ‘We sneaked out when they were all staring at the water.’
‘Oh! Sarge, there was water everywhere,’ the medic said excitedly. ‘They were running around like headless chickens.’
‘But how did he know what our target was?’ Henry mused.
O’Shea had assured him Mayberry would not have survived with such severe injuries. He knew Tommy would not have given anything away unless he had been tortured. The thought of this put him on edge. The mental image of Tommy being abused was distressing enough, but what if he had told them the details of the pickup? He felt helpless. They had to make the rendezvous. It was too late to relocate or reschedule it; the plane would have already left
several hours ago. Whatever happened, they had to take their chances. They had no other option.
From the street came a screech of brakes followed by the sound of hob-nailed boots on cobbles. This jolted Henry from his ponderings.
‘Quick, get up into the bell tower,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave anything behind.’
O’Shea and Morrison gathered their things while Travers and his sergeant climbed into the cramped space. Through the wooden, louvre window, Henry could see an SS troop carrier parked outside. Soldiers ran from house to house, kicking down doors and barking orders, accompanied by shrieks as families were herded into the streets. It was only a matter of time before they entered the church.
‘Quickly,’ he whispered through the hatch.
O’Shea threw his and Alf’s backpack up for them to catch, then Alf clambered up, swiftly followed by the medic.
‘Don’t leave the ladder down there. Pull it up here,’ Henry ordered.
The four men hoisted it into the confined space of the bell tower.
‘Careful,’ said Henry. ‘Try not to hit the bells. We don’t want everyone to know we’re here.’
With it safely stowed, O’Shea replaced the cover.
They sat silently in the cramped space, unable to move. Through the slats, Henry watched the SS soldiers systematically searching each house, dragging the occupants out into the street. Anyone who put up resistance was beaten severely.
The cold, night air was filled with cries and shouting. Their pleas were ignored as the SS meticulously searched the street. Suddenly, the voices grew louder as the large external doors of the church were opened. From the tower, they could hear the chink of boots on the stone floor.
‘Have your weapons ready,’ Henry instructed in a barely audible whisper.
In the moonlight coming through the slatted window, he could see the anxious expressions on his colleagues’ faces. His own breathing quickening as his finger hovered on the trigger of his machine pistol.
Below, there was much shouting, with the occasional rumble of tables being overturned, their contents clattering to the ground. Worryingly, the footsteps were coming upstairs. From the different voices, Henry estimated there were at least five of them on the balcony and probably a similar number on the lower floor. They would stand no chance if they were discovered.
After twenty minutes or so, the Wehrmacht soldiers begin to drift downstairs and out into the street. A couple of voices started chatting beneath them. Although not able to speak German, Henry discerned it was an officer talking to one of his subordinates. They listened nervously until the two soldiers descended the stairs and left. The group let out a collective sigh as doors scraped shut.
Bringing his index finger up to his lips, Henry looked around at his three comrades. The engine of the troop carrier started. The soldiers, dressed in their grey uniforms with distinctive black collars, climbed back into the vehicles as the engines idled. Finally, the truck drove away.
‘Stay as you are,’ he ordered in a firm whisper. ‘Its nineteen hundred hours. Although it’s cramped in here, we’re safe for the time being. Let’s not take any unnecessary chances. We’re nearly home, lads.’
‘I suggest O’Shea and Travers keep watch, while Alf and I get some sleep for ninety minutes. At twenty-thirty hours, we’ll take over, and you guys can get some shut-eye. We’ll aim to leave here at twenty-two hundred. Okay?’
No one spoke; only reluctant nods.
21
The minute hand had not moved since Henry last checked his watch. Images of Mayberry and Scotty, dead and dying, played on his mind. Their twisted bodies seemed to blame him for their predicament. He started to sweat, despite the cold breeze percolating through the louvre window. His thoughts drifted to memories of the secretary back in Aldershot, regretting the missed opportunity. When he returned to England, he would take her out for dinner.
O’Shea quietly removed the hatch cover, allowing Henry to pop his head through to check if it was safe. Thankfully, there was nothing except darkness on the landing below. With a confirmatory nod, Travers and O’Shea lowered the ladder and Henry descended first, closely followed by the others.
‘We have two and a half hours to get to the pickup,’ he whispered. ‘So, we’d better leave now.’
They crouched in the vestibule on the ground floor while O’Shea opened the door, ensuring the coast was clear. The four heavily encumbered men jogged west into the damp, windswept night. As they navigated the back streets, they spotted a couple of uniformed soldiers walking in the town. The Wehrmacht guards appeared more interested in finding a bar than locating them.
After twenty minutes, Prebensz was far behind them. A chilly, easterly breeze laden with fine drizzle made the conditions unpleasant.
‘How far is it?’ Travers whined, trudging in a roadside ditch alongside a hedgerow.
‘About another hour,’ replied Henry. ‘Now, no chatter. We don’t want to be discovered.’
‘Can’t we walk on the tarmac, Sarge?’ the teenager grumbled, stumbling on the uneven ground. ‘My feet are killing me.’
‘Shhh!’ he said, becoming increasingly annoyed. ‘We’re walking here so if a vehicle comes along we’ll have some cover. If you’re standing in the middle of the road, you’ll be caught in the headlights like a startled rabbit. Now keep quiet.’
Alf grabbed Travers’ arm, persuading him not to protest any more.
At the top of a hill, they stared into the eddying mist in the valley. Every now and then, a gap would appear, revealing the reflective surface of a lake.
‘That’s the rendezvous point,’ Henry said excitedly. ‘Now, look for a white farmhouse with two outbuildings.’
The four men stood waiting for the fog to clear.
‘Over there!’ exclaimed O’Shea, pointing down to the far end.
‘Okay! We’ll take cover in one of the barns. Travers, lead the way.’
They walked in single file down the hillside towards the farmhouse. Their movements hindered by waist-high grass whipping against them in the frequent gusts of wind. Henry surveyed the house. Some of the windows were broken, and no lights shone within.
‘Let’s settle down in that building,’ he said, pointing across a weed-strewn courtyard at the larger of the two barns.
The open-fronted barn contained the rusting hulk of a tractor and a mound of old hay. They placed their backpacks on the straw-covered floor but continued to carry their weapons.
‘Can’t we stay in the house?’ Travers asked after a few moments. ‘The weather’s awful, Sarge. I’m sure it’ll be warmer in there.’
Henry glared at the young soldier, swallowing hard to avoid losing his temper.
‘If we’re indoors, we might not hear the plane, whereas if we’re out in the barn, we won’t miss it,’ he said beginning to become irritated.
‘Sarge, where will they land?’ asked Alf. ‘I mean, there’s no runway around here, is there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Henry, having not given it any thought. ‘I presume they’ll send one of those flying boats.’
‘Oh!’ said Alf, a little surprised.
‘Right! Listen out for it,’ Henry said. ‘We’ll need to let the pilot know it’s safe to land.
Sitting on a bale of hay, Henry fidgeted nervously. What if it does not arrive? How would they get out of Poland? What about Mayberry and Tommy Rogers?
After a further twenty minutes, a faint, distant hum began. The sound grew louder until the cyclical noise of propellers was directly above them. He ran outside, but the dense cloud cover obscured his view of the sky. Taking his torch from his pack, he turned it on and started waving it skywards.
A few moments later, the pitch of the engine changed, as the aircraft began its final approach.
‘Collect your things,’ announced Henry. ‘We’re going home.’
Travers was the first to see the peculiar-looking plane. It had floats instead of wheels, and four propellers suspended below a single broad win
g which spanned the cockpit. They waited impatiently beside the barn as it came in to land. As it touched down on the water, the pilot slipped the engines into reverse before reducing the throttle.
The cold night air suddenly became illuminated by a red flare as German soldiers poured over the valley sides. The deafening machine gunfire opened up all around them.
‘Return fire!’ Henry cried, bullets throwing up clods of earth near him. ‘Make every shot count.’
A grenade exploded at ground level about fifty yards from where they were lying. The explosion threw mud into the air, showering them with debris. Vastly outnumbered, the plane was their only realistic chance of survival. Henry squinted over his shoulder towards the aircraft. It was now nearing the end of the lake.
‘O’Shea, Travers! Make for the plane,’ he shouted, his voice faltering. ‘Alf and I will cover you.’
They did not need to be asked twice. The two men scrambled for the water, as Morrison and Henry returned fire. Looking around, his heart sank. Despite Alf firing repeated bursts at the approaching troops, it was clear they would soon be overrun.
A mortar whistled overhead and exploded near the water’s edge; an acrid smoke began to hang in the air.
‘Alf, are you ready to go?’ he said.
‘Yep.’
Travers and O’Shea started to return fire from the plane while Morrison and Henry set off. Bullets whistled past them, as they sprinted across the uneven ground. One passing very close to Henry’s left ear. Reaching the shore, he could not find Alf. He scoured the landscape, finally spotting the massive shape of Morrison lying face down about fifty yards away. Slipping off his backpack, Henry made his way towards his stricken colleague. Henry slid into the grassy tussock next to his comrade.
‘Are you hit?’
‘No, I went over on my ankle. I can’t stand.’
Henry placed his left arm around the big man’s shoulders and hauled him upright. The two of them moved awkwardly over the grass.
Over his shoulder, he could see the enemy were near. A bullet clipped Henry’s helmet, causing him to stumble. His grip weakened, sending Alf to the ground. Henry struggled back to his feet, then began dragging Morrison towards the lake. As he got closer, bullets pinged off the plane. Travers and O’Shea continued to provide covering fire from inside the aircraft as Henry, with his boots in the water, bundled Alf onto the float. The plane lurched under his weight, and the sergeant gave him a forceful shove through the narrow hatch. Thinking everyone was aboard, the pilot increased the throttle.
The Danzig Corridor Page 16