Night of Flames

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  The proprietor of the café nodded at Boeynants from behind the bar and prepared a cup of coffee for him. He stepped over to the table, set the cup down and returned to the bar. Boeynants took a sip and asked Leffard, “Did you get a report from London?”

  Leffard nodded. “MI-6 has heard of him. He’s in their files because of the lawsuit, but that’s all. He’s not on any of their lists of collaborators, and he’s not known to any of the other Resistance groups here in Belgium. SOE is aware of the factory in Dochamps.”

  “Really? What do they know about it?”

  “They know that it was taken over by the Germans and that it’s producing war materiel for the Wehrmacht. It’s on the RAF target list, but there’s been no reconnaissance yet—other priorities and all that. If we learn anything, they’re interested. Did you talk with van Acker?”

  “Oui. He doesn’t know de Smet, but he was aware of the factory. He didn’t know what they produced, though, and I didn’t tell him.”

  The door opened, and a bald man dressed in a fashionable gray suit entered the café. He was of medium height with the stocky build of an ex-athlete. Spotting Boeynants and Leffard, he stepped forward and held out his hand. “Bonjour, I’m Paul de Smet.”

  Leffard and Boeynants introduced themselves, and they sat around the table. A moment later the proprietor returned with another cup of coffee, then retired to the back room of the café. De Smet glanced around the empty room.

  “The café doesn’t open until noon,” Leffard said. “We won’t be disturbed.”

  De Smet took a sip of coffee and set his cup on the table. “So, I understand our mutual friend, Rik Trooz, has told you about my situation,” he said to Leffard. His eyes darted around the room another time.

  Leffard nodded but didn’t respond.

  De Smet continued. “My factory in Dochamps produces war materiel for the Wehrmacht—shell casings to be exact. It was not my choice, you understand. I objected. I even filed a lawsuit to stop it.” He took another sip of his coffee and shook his head. “Now, it seems like a ridiculous gesture but at the time, none of us knew how ruthless these people would become. I was pressured into dropping the lawsuit, and for the last two years I have been afraid to act. I was afraid for my family.” He glanced at Boeynants then back at Leffard. “But, that no longer matters.”

  “What do you mean?” Boeynants asked.

  De Smet sighed and said, “Six months ago my wife died of cancer. She was very ill for several years. We had only one child, Karl, who ran the factory in Dochamps.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Unfortunately, my son was always rather bullheaded. He had more than a few run-ins with the Germans. I interceded and thought things had settled down, but last month the Gestapo showed up at the door of my son’s home…and took him off to Germany.”

  Leffard stared at de Smet. The man was obviously having difficulty saying all this.

  De Smet continued. “I tried every day for two weeks to find out where he had been taken…but I got nowhere. Finally, one of the agents I had been to see several times took me aside and told me to give it up. He said he had learned that my son…had been…exécuté.”

  Leffard and Boeynants were silent for several moments. Finally, Leffard said, “I’m very sorry about your loss, M. de Smet, but why are you telling this to us?”

  De Smet sighed. “I have nothing more to lose, M. Leffard. They took over my business, and now they’ve taken my son. My wife is gone…they can’t hurt me any more.”

  Leffard looked at him in silence.

  De Smet leaned over the table. “I want to help, M. Leffard. I have money—and I have information. I want to help.”

  Leffard stared at the bald man for a moment before responding. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean. What is it you want to help with?”

  De Smet glanced around the empty room again. “With your patriotic activities, M. Leffard. In my heart, I am also un partisan.” As he spoke, de Smet’s voice became passionate. “For two years I have done nothing, while they forced my factory to produce war materials. I was afraid. I’m not proud of myself—but it’s the truth. Now, it no longer matters. I can help you, M. Leffard, if you will allow me.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Leffard was intrigued. If the man was sincere, it could provide an opportunity to strike a significant blow against the German war effort. “What kind of information do you have?” he asked.

  De Smet spoke softly as though he were still concerned about being overheard. “The factory is heavily guarded. All of the workers are closely watched by the local Gestapo. Shipments in and out occur on a very irregular basis, and the schedule is a closely held secret. I am no longer allowed to visit the factory—my own factory—can you believe it?” De Smet paused and shook his head. “Forgive me, this has been very difficult.”

  “I understand.” Leffard said. “Please, take your time.”

  De Smet managed a thin smile and continued. “I still have a few contacts among the managers who are willing to provide me with certain information. One of them is in a position to know when shipments are leaving the factory.”

  Chapter 39

  WRAPPED IN A COARSE WOOLEN BLANKET and shivering with cold, Jan scraped frost from the solitary window of his small room above the barn and looked out into Tadeusz Kaliski’s farmyard. The sun was rising and cast a sparkling glow over the new snow that had fallen during the night. This was the harsh Polish winter Jan remembered so well. Pulling the blanket tighter, Jan wondered if Anna was warm.

  Anna. Thinking about her brought up a myriad of emotions always churning just below the surface: frustration, anxiety, fear. After almost three months back in Poland, he still knew no more about her whereabouts than when he first arrived.

  At first, Jan hoped that Slomak might be of some help, but the AK operative was closed-mouthed and secretive. Jan learned quickly that it was strict AK policy never to reveal true identities or have discussions about families, relatives or friends.

  Only once, during a late-night conversation, had Slomak acknowledged their meeting in Krakow four years ago. But when Jan tried to push the discussion by mentioning the SS special action, Slomak became reticent, and the conversation ended. The longer he was here, the more Jan understood what living underground, in constant fear of exposure and death, did to a man. He knew he was on his own. When his mission was completed he would strike out, and one way or another, he would find Anna.

  The mission. Another source of frustration. He had gained little useful information about the wunderwaffen. The launches continued, and the AK stepped up their surveillance of the area around Blizna and the SS training grounds. Many hours spent in kitchens, barns and cellars discussing the possibility of infiltrating the test areas and launch sites led to nothing. They monitored the freight trains and trucks entering and leaving the area, searching for hijack opportunities. It all looked futile. German security was intense and organized to the point of appearing impenetrable.

  Jan heard a noise outside and looked out the window again, wiping away the fog his breath created. A horse-drawn sleigh pulled into the yard, and a man bundled up in a brown woolen coat, a fur hat and heavy leather boots jumped down from the seat. The door of the house opened, and Tadeusz stepped onto the porch, shouting and waving to the early morning visitor.

  Jan pulled on a pair of woolen pants just as Tadeusz yelled to him from the lower level of the barn. Jan wriggled his feet into his boots, buttoned up the heavy plaid shirt, grabbed his hat and coat, and climbed down the ladder.

  Tadeusz awaited him by the open door. “Come quickly, there’s been a discovery.”

  They stomped into the kitchen, kicking snow off their boots. Lidia stood at the old cast-iron stove, brewing coffee. Slomak sat at the table with the visitor Jan recognized as one of the AK operatives he had met a month ago but had never been introduced to. He and Tadeusz hung their coats on a hook by the door and joined
the other two men at the table.

  Slomak turned to the visitor. “Aaron, why don’t you start at the beginning.”

  The man was excited and nervous. He wrapped his hands around the steaming mug that Lidia set before him and looked directly at Jan. “A rocket came down in a marsh along the Bug River.”

  Jan waited.

  Slomak chimed in. “It didn’t explode. It’s intact, isn’t that right, Aaron?”

  The clearly flustered young man nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, of course! It’s completely intact. We covered it up.”

  “Covered it up?” Jan asked.

  “With leaves and branches. Most of it’s in the water—just the tail was sticking out. We covered it up so the SS wouldn’t see it.”

  Jan glanced at Slomak. “Let’s go.”

  The location of the crash on the Bug River was eighty kilometers east of Warsaw. Following an indirect route to avoid police checkpoints and obtain black market gasoline from AK partisans, it took Jan and Slomak two days to make the trip in the ancient Russian truck.

  In the evening of the second day, they met a local AK operative in the rear of an abandoned blacksmith shop, just outside the village of Sarnaki. He explained to them that the Germans were desperate to find the unexploded rocket. SS troopers were combing the area, threatening local farmers and villagers with their lives.

  Jan and Slomak waited with the AK operative in the cold, damp shop until after midnight before they headed out to the crash site. When they arrived they found twelve AK partisans and a team of draft horses attempting to extricate the fourteen meter, twelve thousand kilogram rocket from the icy mud in the marsh along the river. Jan couldn’t see them, but he was certain another dozen or so men waited in the woods, heavily armed, keeping a lookout.

  The effort continued all night until, near dawn, they succeeded in hoisting the huge device onto a wagon. They hauled it deep into the forest and concealed it with canvas tarps and cut pine boughs. At nightfall the following day they moved it to a nearby farm belonging to an AK partisan who served the cause by operating a long-range wireless.

  For three days, the armed AK operatives kept a round-the-clock lookout in the area while the farmer sent to and received coded messages from a team of MI-6 scientists in London. He decoded instructions and passed them on to Jan and a Polish engineer who had arrived from Warsaw. Slowly, painstakingly, the two men dismantled the rocket, which the British code named “V-2.”

  Chapter 40

  LEFFARD AND BOEYNANTS met Paul de Smet again in mid-February on the Schelde Kaai, near the Bonaparte Dock, the oldest in the port of Antwerp. It was just after noon, but the sky was slate gray and there was a stiff wind blowing from the north. Leffard spoke first as the three men walked along the busy avenue that fronted the River Schelde. “We’ve considered your proposition, M. de Smet, and we want to pursue it.”

  “Très bien. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you,” de Smet replied. “What’s next?”

  “We need more details about these shipments,” Leffard said.

  De Smet nodded. “The factory is producing 88mm shell casings. The railcars leave the factory after dark. They’re hauled to a secluded rail siding near Salmchateau and get linked up with freight trains going to Germany.” He glanced at Leffard then at Boeynants. Boeynants nodded and de Smet continued. “My source says the trains start in Luxembourg and end up in Cologne.”

  “How long do the cars sit on the siding?” Boeynants asked.

  “Two to three hours.”

  “How do you know that the railcars will be hauled to that siding?” Leffard asked.

  “That’s the standard procedure,” de Smet said. “All shipments leave after dark, and they’re all hauled to that siding. The Germans never bring trains into Dochamps. They’re very careful not to call undue attention to the activities at the factory.”

  “I assume the railcars are under guard at the siding.” Boeynants said.

  “Oui, oui, bien sûr. I have not been there myself, but my contact said six to eight guards ride with every shipment. There are also two permanent guards at the siding.”

  Leffard looked at Boeynants and nodded.

  Boeynants removed a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to de Smet. “Memorize this number before we depart. We’ll need forty-eight-hours notice. When you know the date of the next shipment, call the number between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning. Identify yourself as ‘M. Rodin’ and ask if your order is ready to be picked up.”

  De Smet studied the number scribbled on the paper and handed it back.

  Chapter 41

  AS FEBRUARY PASSED INTO MARCH, the winter of 1944 began to slide away and with it Germany’s stranglehold on Europe. Since the first of the year the Wehrmacht had been moving backward. The Russians liberated Leningrad after a nine-hundred-day siege and marched into Poland for the second time in five years. American forces landed in Italy. The Allies neutralized the German Luftwaffe while British and American air forces conducted daylight bombing raids on German cities.

  Belgium’s underground newspapers speculated about the long-awaited Allied invasion, with rumors surfacing daily about where and when it would take place. The Resistance struck with increasing boldness, and German reprisals followed suit. The Gestapo worked overtime, trying to ferret out those financing and orchestrating the Resistance.

  For Paul de Smet, the days were filled with tension and frustration. He waited for a message from his contact at the factory about the next shipment of shell casings but, for more than a month, none came.

  When he finally received a message, it was not what he wanted to hear. Production at the factory was sharply curtailed due to supply disruptions. The Allied bombings were taking their toll. The German managers running the factory were under enormous pressure from Berlin to get back up to normal production levels, but the next shipment wouldn’t occur for several weeks.

  The next day Willy Boeynants met Paul de Smet in front of Antwerp’s Cathedral. It was noon and the cobblestone pedestrian square was crowded with people carrying meager sacks of groceries obtained with ration coupons. A few sat at the outdoor cafés sipping weak beer and lunching on herring and boiled potatoes and, for those who could afford it, perhaps an omelet.

  “M. Leffard is not joining us?” de Smet asked.

  “Let’s walk,” Boeynants said, ignoring the question. “What’s the problem?”

  “Production at the factory has been disrupted by the air raids, and the next shipment will be delayed.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Perhaps until next month.”

  Boeynants didn’t respond.

  “Will that be a problem? We can still proceed I hope?” de Smet asked.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Boeynants said. “Many things are happening now and—”

  “But we must proceed! C’est dangereux! People are risking their lives.”

  Boeynants glanced at the stocky, bald man. He seemed edgy, nervous. “Keep your voice down. I’ll pass along the information. Unless you hear otherwise, proceed according to the original plan.”

  “But, can you be sure that—”

  Boeynants stopped and turned to de Smet with a hard look. “We’ll wait to hear from you as planned.”

  De Smet nodded, and the two men walked off in separate directions.

  Later that day, Boeynants visited Rene Leffard at his home. Mimi Leffard was out, and the two men sat together in the study. It was a damp, chilly day, and a fire blazed in the fireplace. Leffard handed his friend a cup of coffee before taking his seat in the big leather chair.

  “I saw de Smet today,” Boeynants began and related the news to Leffard.

  “Do you believe him?” Leffard asked. “Or is he trying to back out?”

  “I don’t think he’s trying to back out. My inclination is that he’s telling the truth,” Boeynants said. “We both know that factories all over Belgium are suffering from the bombings. If anything, he wanted
to make sure that we were still committed to carrying out the action.”

  Leffard grunted and took a sip of coffee, the small ceramic cup all but invisible in the grasp of his thick hand. “I’ve been in contact with SOE,” he said. “Destroying this quantity of 88mm shell casings is still very important to them, and they want us to proceed. But they warned me that things could change if it gets delayed too much longer. They’ve assigned several other missions to us to coincide with the invasion, and they would take priority.”

  Boeynants nodded.

  “I’ve passed some of the target information on to van Acker,” Leffard continued. “It’s mostly telegraph and telephone lines that SOE will want taken out to disrupt communications, along with a few rail lines into France, that sort of thing.” Leffard set his cup on the coffee table and leaned forward. “A network is being organized for the defense of the port.”

  Boeynants’s eyes widened. “Defense of the port?”

  Leffard continued. “If the invasion is successful and the Allies gain a foothold on the continent, they’ll push through France and Belgium, heading as fast as possible for Germany. But they won’t get too far without a major port for supply.”

  “Antwerp,” Boeynants said.

  “Oui, and the main concern is that the Germans will attempt to destroy the port if they determine they’re going to lose it. SOE has been given the task of making sure this doesn’t happen.”

  Boeynants whistled softly. “Who’s going to be involved in this?”

  Leffard shook his head. “I don’t know all the details yet, but there is a contact in Merksem. He goes by the name of ‘Auguste.’” Leffard paused. “For now, they have a task for us…for you actually.”

  Boeynants smiled at his burly dark-haired friend. “And what would that be, Rene? Let me guess. They want information from the Interior Department. Perhaps names of German officials involved in the operation of the port, and what they may be working on?”