The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  ******

  Paul glared at his twin while Max and Duguay discussed his fate as though he were a commodity. He was astounded at his brother, who’d seemed to be agreeing with every demand Duguay made. He hoped Max was merely feeding the Frenchman’s ego to get them both out of the farmhouse in one piece. He’d learnt a lot during his weeks of imprisonment, and despite his allegiance to the German army, had been impressed by Duguay’s French Communists who, every day, were undertaking dangerous missions to undermine the occupation forces at tremendous risk to themselves. Hardly a day had gone by Paul hadn’t treated somebody’s wounds.

  His freedom was in sight. He was ecstatic to see Max, who was once again bailing him out of a terrible situation, one he never thought he’d survive. But this Max was a different man than the one who had gone to Germany to help him. He was threatening imprisonment and calling his own twin the enemy, and he was being very convincing.

  “… I’m taking a huge risk,” Duguay was now saying.

  “As am I, even by being here,” Max retorted. “Look, you need to trust me on this. I never expected to find Paul alive, but now that I have, he cannot be allowed to re-join his unit. It would be lethal for you and other Resistance groups.”

  Duguay stood and gave Paul a dismissive glance. “Major, you and I will discuss this further upstairs.”

  When Duguay headed for the stairs, Max got to his feet and looked down at Paul’s horrified expression. He held his finger to his lips and whispered, “I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but it’s the only way. We’re not out of the woods yet and won’t be until we board the plane tomorrow night. Don’t say anything that might spook Duguay or his men, you hear me?”

  Paul was livid. Max was right about most things, but they were alone now, and he needed to clear something up before Duguay and Max continued their discussion. He rose, drawing himself to his full height and standing only inches from Max’s face. “I can’t let you take me to England. I won’t go to prison. Christ, Max I have a wife in Berlin. What were you thinking?”

  Paul followed Max to the bottom of the steps. “Max, think … I can’t do it. You have to … you must find another way,” he called out even as Max disappeared, and the trapdoor shut, leaving him alone again

  Paul sat in the chair Duguay had occupied. He was elated, not quite believing that soon he’d be free of the constant, terrifying nightmares of dying at the Communists’ hands. But he was also distraught. His dreams of seeing Valentina and Berlin were disintegrating and in their place was the vision of him behind prison bars in England. He accepted that Max had acted with good intentions. He recognised the perceived folly of allowing a German officer held hostage by the enemy to return to his barracks with a basket full of intelligence. Max was right; the Gestapo and SS would make him retrace every step he’d taken on the night he’d been captured. They’d force him to join them in a manhunt for Duguay and the location of the Communist base, and they wouldn’t stop looking until they found both. Yet the alternatives: England, detention, losing Valentina, were infinitely more terrifying.

  He’d been duped by fellow officers. Apart from hearing about a couple of high-profile assassinations, he’d not been privy to German reports of sabotage on their trains and convoys. He’d known nothing about the hijacking of German military trucks and soldiers, nor had he guessed that French Resistance groups operated with disciplined men and women who weren’t overawed by the colossal German army. The Third Reich was being challenged, and contrary to the impression given to him by the men he’d dined with in Parisian restaurants, the French were not cowed or accepting defeat.

  An hour after leaving him to agonise over Valentina and the thought of incarceration, Duguay returned alone to the basement. Paul stood to attention, desperately trying to show his captor respect and cooperation.

  “You’re a good doctor, Paul. Thank you for helping my men.” He gestured to his arm. “And for this.”

  Paul nodded, surprised by the compliment.

  “Your brother and I have made the arrangements. You will go with him, but if you try to escape, my men will shoot to kill, as will the major. He gave me his word as a British officer.”

  Paul blinked. “I’ll do as I’m told.”

  “Bon, c’est fait.” Duguay stared at Paul; through him, as though not really seeing him at all. “I hate Germans, not just because they are my enemy but for their total disregard for codes of conduct regarding civilians. It is because of your disgusting ethics of killing innocent people that we will fight you to the death. We won’t yield to your occupation or your powerful weapons, your soldiers on our streets, or your vengeful slaughters. Your brother was candid with me. He said he’d once warned you not to choose the wrong side because you would … how did he put it? Ah … you would be on the wrong side of history. You should have listened to him, Oberarzt Vogel. You should have listened.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Claude’s Post Office van was used to take Max, Paul, Claude, and a driver to the Dieppe airfield. It was the only vehicle that could legally break the Germans’ night time curfew and have enough space in the back to hide the men. Duguay had taken extra measures to conceal the passengers. The Germans, should they stop and search the van, would see Max and Jean, the driver, wearing postal workers’ uniforms and pill box hats and carrying ausweis ID cards, albeit forged ones. The hope was the inspectors wouldn’t spot the false wall in the back with a hollow space behind it. Erected near the driver’s end, the wooden panel had ventilation holes and was partially hidden by the packages and sacks full of letters.

  Max had instructed Darek to return the food delivery van to Marcel in Saint Quentin. The men would rendezvous at Marcel’s farmhouse that night before travelling on to Dieppe.

  The aircraft picking up Max, Darek, and Paul was due to land at 2 am on the same grass airstrip as the one that had dropped Max and the weapons off eight days earlier. Max was buoyant and heady with their success to this point, but he was also nervous about the bureaucracy and questions that would face him when he got back to England. He was the only passenger on the flight manifest, but he was not worried too much about the pilot’s reaction to carting two additional men in his plane; Royal Air Force pilots were aware of the secrecy surrounding SOE and MI6 missions and generally trusted the actions taken by agents in the field. Max was, however, more concerned about the slating he’d get once they arrived in England.

  Max’s superiors in the Intelligence Branch wouldn’t appreciate his unilateral decision to bring a German Wehrmacht officer into the country without prior permission. He hadn’t followed security protocols relating to the capture and custody of enemy prisoners, nor had he given any advanced notice to the Warrant Officer who’d be meeting the flight in Kent. Given the circumstances, it would be incumbent upon him to handcuff both Paul and Darek before stepping foot on British soil – he wondered how Paul would react to that? It was a hell of thing to have to do to his twin.

  His biggest worry now was what would happen to his brother when they got to London. He’d been honest with Paul, stating correctly that he’d be given no special favours, nor would he be regarded as a trustworthy ally just because he was part English and brother to an intelligence officer.

  What possibly could affect a positive decision regarding Paul’s freedom, or incarceration, was that he’d always been a moderate German who had refused time and again to join the Nazi Party. He’d been forced to enrol in it when he’d signed the SS papers for Hauptmann Leitner, but Max had gathered from his father that Paul had never been in a paramilitary group, at least not officially. Leitner had apparently committed fraud, and when that had been found out, Paul’s bogus SS documents and Nazi membership had been torn up and his SS status rescinded, remaining buried under a cloud of secrecy and embarrassment.

  Paul could also help his case if he confirmed everything in Max’s report about the Brandenburg gas programme and the German plans to expand it, and if he shared intelligence on the Wehrmacht’s s
trategies in France and Germany. It was doubtful that Paul would know anything of importance, but Max was hopeful the authorities would recognise an opportunity to turn Paul’s allegiance away from Germany, and in so doing, free him from any military custody and enlist him into the Army Medical Corps. It was a long shot, but an objective well worth pursuing.

  After collecting Darek in Saint Quentin and then travelling through country lanes to the outskirts of Dieppe, the Post Office van finally turned into a lane twenty metres from the landing site. Located in a secluded area and hidden by woods on all sides, the airstrip was a devilishly unpredictable spot for pilots to land their planes. There was no room for error. An early or late descent could be catastrophic; the aircraft could hit trees before reaching the grassy strip or overshoot it and crash into the thick coppice at the far end.

  A local Resistance report from Marcel had stated that German patrols hadn’t discovered the airstrip’s location yet, but Max believed it would only be a matter of time before they found it. They would then destroy the ground, making it inoperable or staff it with personnel and use it themselves. He was surprised British aircraft were still landing there, even though they stayed on the ground for no more than a few minutes before taking off again.

  Soon, Max predicted, planes would not land in Northern France at all. SOE operatives were now being supported by the Royal Air Force after months of negotiations, but in most cases, the final leg of an agent’s journey was by parachute, and always at night. He knew only too well about dangerous landing sites and the damage they could do to one’s body.

  Max got out of the van and surveyed the area. It was 01:45, a cold night with a soft rain that had been with them since Paris. The weather was in their favour, he thought, for they had not passed a single German military vehicle or foot patrol for the last ten kilometres or so.

  He opened the back door and moved the boxes and sacks until he got to the false wall. He tapped on it, then stepped back to watch the panel fall forwards onto the floor.

  “The plane should be here in ten. Start digging in the fire torches. We’ll light them at the last minute,” Max instructed Claude and Jean once the men were outside.

  “How long should we wait around here after the plane lands?” Claude asked.

  “Don’t wait at all. As soon as the aircraft turns around and opens its doors for us, douse the torches and get the hell out of here. It’ll be on the ground for no more than a couple of minutes but they’ll seem like the longest minutes you’ve ever lived.”

  Darek looked around him, his tall, powerful body taut with apprehension. A rifle was slung over his shoulder along with a rucksack carrying his personal belongings. “Max, will I be all right? Your government won’t kick me out, will they?” he asked for the second time that night.

  “You’re going to a friendlier country than the one you’re leaving, Darek,” said Max with a grin. “Give your rifle to Claude. You won’t be needing it where you’re going. Keep your eyes on the perimeter. Claude, you too. We should hear the plane any minute.”

  “I need to pee,” Paul said.

  Max glanced at his brother. He couldn’t see his expression clearly, but he could imagine the emotions playing through his mind. Paul wasn’t restrained by handcuffs or rope, but as they strode to a hedge bordering the field, he grumbled under his breath.

  “Will you at least let me have a piss in peace?”

  “I won’t turn my back on you if that’s what you’re implying,” Max answered.

  Paul sighed as he fumbled with his trouser buttons. “Jesus, Max, you’re taking this prisoner shit a bit far. I’m hardly going to run away when I don’t even know where I am or in which direction I’d need to run.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll relax once we’re in the air, but until then, don’t give me any reason to forget you’re my brother and that I love you. You have more to worry about than me. If you so much as take a step out of line, the French…”

  A soft humming noise and increasing vibration distracted Max as the Westland Lysander came into view only a few feet above the treetops. Max craned his neck at the black sky, leaving his threats unspoken. “Hurry up, Paul.”

  Paul finished and buttoned his trousers. “What do you think our parents would think of you forcing me to go to England?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about our parents, so trust me when I say they’d think I was doing my job and saving your life into the bargain.”

  The torches guiding the plane in were not as bright as they should have been because of the rain, but despite that difficulty, the Lizzie landed safely, skidding on the wet grass a little on her one hundred and eighty degree turn.

  Over the noise of the engine, Max yelled to Claude to begin removing some of the torches. Darek was already running towards the plane’s open door, and Jean had returned to the vehicle and was waiting for Claude.

  Max’s eyes widened like plates, as Paul took off like a gazelle towards the other side of the airstrip. Half way across, he weaved diagonally in front of the plane’s nose as it taxied down the runway almost to a stop to allow the passengers to board.

  “Merde!” Claude raised his rifle and trained it on Paul’s back just before he disappeared.

  Max, intending to pound after his brother, first jerked the gun upwards, ruining Claude’s aim. “Don’t be stupid, man. You might hit the bloody fuselage!”

  Stunned by his brother’s audacity, Max was further dismayed when the pilot gave the signal to board, then started moving again. Not able to delay take off, he grabbed Claude’s jacket and yelled in his ear, “Go after him on foot. Take him alive – alive! If you touch a hair on his head, I’ll come back here and kill you myself!”

  “Go, go. I don’t care about your threats, Englishman. If I find him, I’ll kill him. This time he’s dead! You hear me? This time we’ll kill him!”

  Max ran to the plane, his stomach in knots. Darek was at the hatch as the plane was starting its run and he pulled Max on board before closing the door behind them.

  Max pulled his knees up to his chest, thumped them with his fists, and growled with rage directed at himself and Paul. “I’ll bloody throttle him – damn him – fuck him!”

  “What the hell happened?” Darek shouted as the plane lifted off the ground.

  Max glared at Darek, then grabbed him by the lapels until they were only inches apart. “You took your eyes off him. You were supposed to watch him, not just think about yourself. It’s your fault, you son of a bitch. We lost him. That’s what happened!”

  ******

  Paul charged through the wet, black woods without any clue as to where he was, no landmarks to tell him if he was going deeper into the coppice or running around in circles. The noise of the plane taking off over his head was music to his ears, and, within seconds, the rumble faded to a soft purr as it cleared the trees and disappeared into the night sky. He was certain Max and the Pole were on board, therefore no longer a threat. Max would never strand himself in France, not even for his twin brother. Duty would have called him home, despite his blasé to-hell-with-duty – you’re-my-twin-brother attitude.

  He was getting scratched to hell as he ran, stumbling over boulders, his jacket getting snagged on protruding branches, his skin being stung by nettles. But a bit of discomfort was not going to slow him down or make him think twice about escaping into the murkiest of nights. Max would have sent the two Frenchmen after him, and he was determined to keep the good head-start he’d already gained. Claude wouldn’t show him mercy, not this time.

  Paul puffed until he had to stop to catch his breath. He groaned and bent over to massage the knife-like pain from the stitch in his side. The wind had picked up, and the rain had intensified, spattering the winter branches, battering what leaves remained, and drowning out any other noise. He couldn’t get any wetter. His clothes were already saturated, his hair dripping. Nature’s foibles were making his escape even harder.

  He stumbled blindly into a thorn bush,
the sharp needles penetrating his skin. He clamped his mouth shut and dropped to all fours, cursing as twigs snapped under his knees. Then crawling forward, he held one hand in front of his face and felt around the foliage until he found a gap in the bush’s perimeter. It seemed to have a thick trunk in the centre and wide-spread branches like an acacia which afforded enough room for him to wriggle through and conceal his body inside. Ripped to shreds by thorns and sharp branches, he pulled his knees up to his chest and made himself as small as his six-foot body would allow. As well hidden as he could be, but unable to see around himself in the dark, he shut his eyes and considered his next move.

  Should he stay where he was, silent as the grave, and in no position to keep an eye out for Claude, should he or Jean appear? Should he make a run for it to the edge of the woods where he’d hopefully find a road and a German patrol? Where was the edge of the coppice? Where was the road? As wet as he was, the rain was doing him a favour; it was obliterating his tracks. And if he couldn’t see Claude, then in principle, Claude couldn’t see him. He would, at some point, give up his search. The Frenchman wasn’t stupid; he wouldn’t leave his Post Office van parked for hours in its present location.

  During his time with the communists, Paul had come to know Claude. Out of all Duguay’s Resistance fighters, he was the most committed to killing Germans. He’d made no bones about his feelings towards the Nazi in the basement and had on numerous occasions urged Duguay to get rid of the German scum.

  An hour passed. Paul, in pain with bleeding cuts, cramps in his calves and toes, tried to shift into a more comfortable position. Unsuccessful, he remained in his foetal state, squeezed his eyes shut and battled with visions of Max. Guilt, as painful as any physical kick in the guts, desecrated Paul’s victory. “Don’t tie me up. I won’t try to escape,” he’d promised. “You know me, Max, I’m not a liar.” But he was.