War Cry

by Wilbur Smith

  •••

  Schmitt had emptied his magazine. He slid back into his seat. There was no time to reload. The windscreen was filled with the sight of the onrushing aircraft.

  •••

  Saffron was pulling the belts of her Sutton harness over her shoulders. She could feel the aircraft pick up speed. Within the next few seconds it would lift into the air or collide with the truck like a pair of onrushing trains. There was nothing she could do.

  •••

  The truck was so close that Warden, looking over the upturned nose of the Lizzie, could only see the top of its cab and the canvas awning of the load-bay.

  Wait, you bastard . . . wait . . . Warden forced himself to fight the instinct to pull back the joystick. He’d only get one attempt at a take-off. It had to be right first time. He had nowhere else to go but up. Every fraction of a second, every mile-per-hour of speed, every inch of ground covered increased his chances of lift-off.

  But they also brought him closer to a fatal collision.

  Warden held his nerve.

  •••

  “Keep going, keep going!” Schmitt shouted.

  The driver’s knuckles were white as they gripped the wheel, his face wide-eyed, his mouth open in a terrified scream.

  •••

  Warden could wait no longer. He pulled the joystick with every ounce of strength that his arms and shoulders possessed.

  The Lizzie groaned and strained as it struggled into the air.

  The truck driver’s courage broke. He wrenched the steering wheel to the right.

  The truck was side-on to the aircraft as it clawed against the air.

  The Lizzie fought its battle to the death against gravity.

  Its wheels let go of their grip against the earth. They rose a few feet into the air, and then a few more.

  They tore through the canvas awning of the truck, hitting two of the men inside it and knocking them aside like a bowling ball through skittles as Warden rode his aircraft into the night sky. He continued to climb on full throttle until he leveled off at five thousand feet and spoke into his headset.

  “You all right back there?”

  “Very comfortable,” Saffron replied.

  Warden laughed. “Splendid. Welcome aboard the Tangmere Express. We’ll have you home in no time.”

  Below them, Jean Burgers and Andre Deforge, crouching in the canopy of trees on the far side of the field, watched the Lysander disappear. They stood and shook hands vigorously before melting into the darkness.

  Eight months had passed since the German army was driven out of Stalingrad. Since then, they had retreated twelve hundred kilometers. Kiev was about to be added to the list. Week by week the fighter wing that Gerhard commanded found itself moving from one base to another, each a little closer to home than the one before.

  These days he spent as much time behind his desk, doing paperwork, as he did at the controls of a combat aircraft. One day in late October 1943, he was working his way through a pile of requisition forms. He paused to look out of the window as the incessant autumn rain turned the airfield into a deep, sticky quagmire, when a clerk came in to tell him, “There’s a general here to see you, Herr Oberst . . . General von Tresckow.”

  “You’d better show him in,” Gerhard replied, getting to his feet.

  Von Tresckow appeared, wearing the scarlet collar tabs and epaulets on his uniform that indicated an officer of the general staff. He was about forty years old, with receding hair, a high forehead and strong, regular features that gave him an air of distinction.

  Gerhard gave him the obligatory “Heil Hitler” salute.

  Von Tresckow responded with a perfunctory lifting of the hand, but no “heil” to go with it. He glanced at a folding wooden chair with a canvas seat and back that stood opposite Gerhard’s table and asked, “May I?”

  “Of course, Herr Generalmajor,” Gerhard said. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? It’s ersatz, I’m afraid—ground acorns and brown shoe-polish. Or perhaps something stronger . . . I have vodka that’s real enough.”

  “That’s kind, but no. I shan’t be staying long.” Von Tresckow took out a silver cigarette case engraved with a heraldic crest, selected a cigarette, and offered the case to Gerhard, who declined.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke?” he asked. He had the voice and manners of an aristocrat, to go with the name and the family crest. Von Tresckow was a member of the Prussian nobility that had for centuries sent its sons away to command the German army.

  “Not at all, sir,” Gerhard replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here because of an argument you had in a bar, several months ago . . . in Taganrog. Perhaps you recall the occasion?”

  “Ah . . . I was wondering when I would get a visit about that. Although I must confess I was expecting someone from the SS or Gestapo—one of my brother’s creatures. I feel honored that I merit a visit from someone of your standing.”

  Von Tresckow smiled. “Do you imagine that I am here to interrogate you? I suppose that’s understandable. From what I gather you were very frank in your opinions and they were far from flattering toward our country’s leadership.”

  Gerhard had long ago decided that when they came for him, he would not try to deny what he had said. “I was in Stalingrad from the moment the city was attacked. I got out one step ahead of the Russians. I had earned the right to say my piece.”

  Von Tresckow nodded, breathed out, and, as the smoke drifted across the table, he asked, “And did you mean what you said?”

  “Yes.”

  Von Tresckow inhaled, stubbed out the cigarette, and said, “Good. I was hoping you would say that. You see, I agree with you. So do a lot of men, including some of the most senior officers in the Wehrmacht. We can all see that the Nazis are monsters. Do you have any idea what they have been doing here in Russia . . . the killings?”

  Gerhard gave a grunt, thought for a second and added, “I saw them using a gas truck once. Up close . . . I could hear the people inside. Saw what was left of them afterward. So yes, I know what they’ve been doing.”

  “And you know that the war is lost?”

  Gerhard gave a mirthless laugh. “I told you. I was in Stalingrad.”

  “Now you are here, in Kiev. A year from now, if you’re lucky enough to live that long, you will probably be flying from bases in Germany itself. The barbarians will be at the gates of Berlin. Unless we stop this whole thing now.”

  “There’s only one way to do that.”

  “Yes.”

  “How would you get to him?”

  “We have people who are close, people willing to risk and even sacrifice their lives in the cause.”

  “Then what? Will Bormann, Himmler, Goebbels, Göring, all that gang roll over and hand you their Reich?”

  “No, but we have plans. We believe we can take it from them before they realize that it’s gone.”

  “You and your generals, you have power. Then what?”

  “We sue for peace.”

  “The Allies will demand unconditional surrender.”

  “If the Nazis are still in power, yes. But if they are gone, they may be more reasonable. That jumped-up Austrian housepainter was right about one thing: the real enemy is Bolshevism. The British and Americans may not believe that yet, but they soon will. They don’t want to wake up one day and find that Stalin’s tanks have reached the Rhine, because they won’t stop there. They will need a strong, free Germany as a bulwark against the Reds.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing . . . not yet. But when the day comes, if we should succeed, then we need to know that there are Luftwaffe formations we can count upon. Can you deliver your fighter group to us?”

  “That depends on my men. Some of them are still diehard Nazis. But most want to live long enough to see the end of the war. If I tell them that this is the best way to bring peace and save the Fatherland from total destruction, they’ll follow my le
ad.”

  “Excellent. There is one other thing. . . . We need to bring the people with us. It will be a great help if they hear our message from a genuine hero, a dashing fighter pilot with medals on his chest and rows of kills painted on the side of his plane.” Von Tresckow paused and looked inquiringly at Gerhard. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Because that is what the propaganda boys at the Air Ministry told me, when they sent me off on a tour of the country a couple of years ago.”

  “I’m not surprised. Fighter pilots are modern-day knights in armor. Everyone wants you on their side . . . So . . . Are you on our side?”

  “Yes,” said Gerhard. “I am on your side.”

  “Good. Then you will hear no more from me. But when the day comes, we will be counting on you to do your part.”

  “I understand.”

  Von Tresckow got up to leave but stopped and added, “You understand, this is our country’s last chance. If we don’t do something soon, it will be too late, and Germany will be like a modern Carthage: every brick torn down, salt plowed into the soil . . . wiped from the face of the earth.”

  It was midday on April 1, 1944, when the door to Saffron’s office at Baker Street opened without a knock and Leo Marks burst in, a thunderous look on his face, waving a piece of teleprinter paper in the air.

  “Have you seen this?” he asked, too filled with righteous fury to bother with social niceties. “It’s Herr Giskes’s little April Fool’s jape.”

  Saffron got up and walked around her desk to meet him.

  “Here you go,” Marks said, handing her the paper. On it was printed the text of a telegram, which read:

  YOU ARE TRYING TO MAKE BUSINESS IN THE NETHERLANDS WITHOUT OUR ASSISTANCE. WE THINK THIS IS RATHER UNFAIR IN VIEW OUR LONG AND SUCCESSFUL COOPERATION AS YOUR SOLE AGENTS. BUT NEVER MIND WHEN EVER YOU WILL COME TO PAY A VISIT TO THE CONTINENT YOU MAY BE ASSURED THAT YOU WILL BE RECEIVED WITH SAME CARE AND RESULTS AS ALL THOSE YOU SENT US BEFORE. SO LONG.

  “Ha!” Saffron gave a mirthless laugh as she handed the message back to Marks. “I suppose this must be the Abwehr’s idea of a joke.”

  “Cheeky sod, isn’t he? He sent it from ten of our own radio sets simultaneously, letting us know that he’s had them all this time. On the other hand . . .” Marks took a few steps toward the door, closed it and returned. “You didn’t hear this from me, but at the very moment Giskes was playing his joke, we were sneaking onto his patch. There were two separate drops over Holland last night, four agents in total. And he didn’t know they were coming.”

  “I hope they’ve got a good supply of your one-time pads.”

  “They have indeed . . . and all because of you, dear wife of mine, proving that they worked.”

  “Anything to help you, darling husband.”

  The pretense that they were married had remained a running joke between Saffron and Marks in the months since her return to London. When she arrived back from Belgium, she had been thoroughly debriefed. She explained to Gubbins and Amies in forensic detail about what had happened to her, how she had responded, her impressions of every encounter, event and place, in case there were nuances that could be gleaned from her information. She told them about Schröder’s speech at the Ridderzaal in The Hague and the Nazi’s plan to solve the Jewish question in the Netherlands, and, it would appear, their monstrous ambitions to eradicate all the Jews in Europe.

  She informed them of Jean Burgers’s suspicions about Prosper Dezitter and his mistress Florie Dings. Burgers was convinced they were German spies and were compromising Groupe G’s activities in Belgium by infiltrating Resistance groups, running fake safe houses and informing on agents’ activities. They were highly effective double agents. Dezitter was a master of aliases and bluff but could be clearly identified by the missing first joint or two joints of the little finger on his right hand. It was a feature he could hide most of the time, but not all of the time.

  In the weeks that followed, Burgers had published Dezitter and Dings’ description in underground newspapers and Amies had organized Operation Rat Week to use agents to assassinate traitors in Belgium. Dezitter and Dings were top of the list. The exiled Belgian government in London was unhappy with the idea of execution without trial, and the campaign was officially canceled. However, Saffron heard reports that Dings was found dead outside her flat, killed by twenty-two blows from a pointed hand tool. Dezitter had fled Belgium and was being pursued by the Resistance.

  Saffron had been promoted to the rank of captain and given a new role: handling agents who were being sent into Belgium, planning their missions and watching over their activities once they had been sent into the field. This meant that she was in contact with many of the local Resistance groups in Belgium, whose activities were becoming more effective, as the tide of the war turned against Germany, and as Baker Street itself became more experienced in the way it went about its business.

  Saffron’s job demanded long hours and brought a heavy burden of responsibility. She took the safety of her agents personally and feared for their safety more than she had ever done for her own. Even when Baker Street was doing the best job, the life of an agent in Occupied Europe was fraught with terrible danger, for there were still turncoats, collaborators and double agents scattered among the ranks of the Resistance forces. Two of Saffron’s agents had been betrayed to the Gestapo and their loss had hit her hard.

  There were triumphs to set alongside the disasters. Less than three months earlier, Groupe G had pulled off an astonishing coup: a series of simultaneous bomb attacks on the Belgian electricity network that left the country without power for the following day. Offices, factories, mines and railways all shut down—some not getting back to full operation for a week. The enemy war effort was hit by a serious blow, and the country received a clear message that their occupiers were no longer in full control. The news had thrilled Saffron and the fact that Jean Burgers had helped organize the scheme made the triumph all the sweeter.

  “So, are you going to this pow-wow with our American cousins?” Marks asked, changing the subject.

  “Yes, Amies asked me to represent T Section.”

  “I’ll see you there. I’m giving a talk to the assembled company on our new cryptography methods . . . In the meantime, how are you coping? With that Dutch business, I mean . . .”

  It was not the done thing in Baker Street to admit to the physical or psychological after-effects of missions. Saffron had found it hard to rid her mind of the events of the night when she had killed Karsten Schröder, but had never made a fuss. Leo Marks was the one person in whom she had confided. But even with him, she felt compelled to underplay her feelings.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Marks was not so easily fooled. “Are you still getting the nightmares, old girl?” he asked, his flippancy replaced by genuine concern for a friend.

  “Sometimes . . .” Saffron sighed. “I feel as if that bloody man’s haunting me. Maybe that’s what a ghost is—a presence of the dead in the dreams of the living.”

  “Hmm . . .” Marks murmured appreciatively. “That line is almost worthy of one of my celebrated poems.”

  Marks was almost as well-known in Baker Street for his poetry as his codes.

  “You can have it,” Saffron said, “for the price of a four-ounce steak. I was raised to be a carnivore. I need red meat to survive, and more than the ration book can get me.”

  “Then we have a deal: your words for my beef. I shall consult my sources at once.”

  “Oh, thank you, darling, what a wonderful provider you are! Now I must get back to work. I don’t want those Yanks thinking that I don’t know my stuff.”

  •••

  Two days later, having lunched in a Lyons Corner House, where they tested one another on the presentations they were about to make like school pupils preparing for an exam, Saffron and Marks walked down Whitehall toward the War Office and through its grimy black arches. T
hey were in fine spirits. The meeting concerned the coordination of the various Resistance movements in Occupied Europe with the forthcoming invasion. A campaign of sabotage and guerrilla warfare, organized in large part by the Special Operations Executive, would sweep through Holland, Belgium and France, cutting railway lines, blocking roads, blowing up bridges and doing everything possible to prevent the Wehrmacht from bringing reinforcements to the beaches on which the British, American and Canadian forces would be landing. There was a time when Baker Street would have struggled to meet that challenge. But now the organization was buoyed by its ability to get agents in and out of Europe; to supply Resistance forces with guns, munitions, radio equipment and money; and to plan campaigns of sabotage and subversion.

  The success of the invasion depended on being able to secure a foothold on French soil. Baker Street would play a vital part in ensuring that was possible, and Saffron was looking forward to laying out the contribution that the Belgian section would make.

  She and Marks proceeded up a spectacular white marble staircase that rose to a half landing, before splitting into two separate flights that ascended to the left and right, around the central atrium, before meeting again at the first floor landing. An ornate, golden clock hung on the wall in front of them and above it a balcony protruded from the colonnade that ran around the top of the staircase. Saffron could see men in the uniforms of different countries and services, some smoking, others holding cups of tea, chatting to one another before the formal proceedings began.

  One man caught her eye. He was wearing the dark blue service dress and white peaked cap of the U.S. Navy. The cuff of his jacket bore the single quarter-inch stripe, between two half-inch stripes that signified a Lieutenant Commander. He was leaning against the carved stone balustrade that ran around the balcony with a relaxed, easy-going stance that seemed familiar to Saffron.

  She stopped dead on the stairs, her heart suddenly racing. No, it can’t be him!