by Jana Petken
“Merde,” Hugo uttered. Marc, the French captain who had won a medal of honour, had been shot in the face. His nose was gone, his mouth a gaping, bloody hole without lips.
Hugo moved on to Jules and reverently closed his friend’s wide eyes. Jules had a two-year-old daughter. Her photograph was inside his sock, and though it was against orders to carry pictures of family on one’s person, he wouldn’t go anywhere without it.
As Hugo’s shock subsided, sharper and more rational thought returned. He gasped, spun around and shone his light towards the far side of the road, all the way to the grassy verge until he saw the last body.
Hugo finally began to cry, breaking down when he saw the state of Max. If he had a pin, he wouldn’t find any place to stick it on Max’s face that was not bright red with blood, lacerations, or swollen tissue. The major’s usually expressive visage was barely recognisable.
In despair, Hugo sank to his knees, following protocol by feeling for the pulse in Max’s neck. Nothing – but then … a feathery vibration under his fingers.
Getting away from the area as quickly as possible was the priority now, but he still had to drag Max to the back of the van and then get him into it and administer first-aid dressing packs to control his bleeding. He had no real expectations of saving the major, not after seeing the two gunshot wounds and the beating he had taken. He’d probably be dead by the time he’d been dragged across ground that was filled in with loose gravel in places, nonetheless, he had to try to save him.
Hugo grimaced at the pain shooting up and down his own wounded arm, but despite the agony, he bent down to grip Max’s wrists. The bones were intact, and he could still use the limb to help manhandle Max into the vehicle.
******
With tremendous effort, Hugo got the unconscious Max hoisted into the back of the van. He made sure he had the first aid kit but left everything else at the scene. His worries about the German military police becoming aware of the gun battle had grown, and he was beginning to panic. He was only a kilometre from the town and the same distance to the safe house, but he had the added worry that the van might be too badly damaged to drive. Its passenger side was pitted with bullet holes, and gasoline and oil were leaking onto the ground beneath the vehicle.
Hugo got into the driver’s seat and went for the ignition. “Merde. Non!” He thumped the steering wheel as he faced another setback. Where were the fucking keys?
He stared out the window at a black void. His eyes watered with frustration, and although he couldn’t admit defeat, Hugo dreaded having to get out again to search for the keys on the ground or in the pockets of dead men. He squinted again at the road ahead, certain he’d heard the faint rumble of a vehicle’s engine – silence – he was hearing things.
Moments later, an undistinguishable number of men approached the front of the van. Hugo heard their soft footsteps crunch the gravel. His instincts kicked in and although he saw nothing, he raised his hands and clasped them behind his head.
A blinding beam of light hit his face.
A man holding the torch appeared at the window. He was accompanied by a dozen men armed with rifles. One man carried a sub-machine gun, another, its tripod on his shoulder, but whilst they looked like soldiers, they were dressed in civilian clothing, with most wearing the typical black beret signifying they were possibly Frenchmen.
“Merci … merci, Dieu.” Hugo let out a long sigh of relief as he finally recognised Cesar from the Resistance. “As you can see, we met with an ambush. Those on the roadside are all dead, but Max is wounded in the back. He’s not looking good.”
While he couldn’t see anything, Hugo heard the laboured rumbling of an old vehicle. A Resistance fighter flashed his torch in the direction of the noise, and instantly the lights of a Renault farm tractor switched on.
Hugo got out of the van and watched the tractor and the rickety-looking trailer attached to its tow hitch do a five-point turn to face the direction whence it came. Cesar was already organising his men; some to form a perimeter and others to deal with Max. The van’s back doors were opened, and two men went in to get to the unconscious British major, as Cesar called him.
Hugo’s emotions surfaced, as his shock subsided. The Resistance were going through the carnage at the side of the van, sorting through what he couldn’t. Thank God for small mercies. Without orders, they silently set to work clearing the area, their faces as blank as the eyes of the dead, their voices muted with respect for the fallen.
As the men carried Max to the trailer, Hugo explained to Cesar, “We got ambushed by German deserters. How did you know it was us out here?”
“We heard the gun battle from the farmhouse and came to investigate. We suspected it might be your team in trouble. You were due to arrive sometime tonight.” Cesar observed the dead bodies being loaded into the van and added, “We would have come out regardless. We’ve been building up our forces and getting ready for a fight. I’ve got more than thirty men at the farm.”
Within minutes, the area was cleared, apart from the van that remained in the same position minus its keys. The dead bodies were piled high in the back of the vehicle, and most of the Resistance fighters were now congregating by the farm tractor.
Hugo got into the front passenger seat. Cesar started the tractor engine and pulled away. Four of his men were on the back attending to Max whilst others, on foot, were protecting the tractor by keeping pace beside and behind it as it drove slowly and carefully along the road.
Hugo started at a whump noise and turned sharply to look behind him. A soft bang was followed by a rush of flames ignited by the leaking gasoline and oil now engulfing the van. Lit up by the fire, two men were running along the road towards them and their trailer. He twisted his body and blazed at Cesar, “You’ve just woken up the Feldgendarmerie and every Wehrmacht soldier in town!”
“I know.”
“Then why…?”
“You have questions. I have questions,” Cesar replied, turning off the road and entering a field. “But we will have to save them.” He glanced at Hugo. “Follow my instructions. Trust me.”
Cesar pulled up at a bomb-damaged farmhouse, long since devoid of animals or crops. He turned off the engine and said, “We’re finally fighting back. You’ll see.”
The men got Max off the trailer and straight into a car accompanied by a man whom Hugo presumed was a doctor.
“Go with Thierry. He will look after the British major,” Cesar said.
“What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to draw the Germans here and then blow them to smithereens along with the remains of this house. Go now.”
As Hugo reached the car, he saw at least thirty men around the house. He got in, wondering if his team’s demise had been the catalyst for what looked like preparations for a battle. Men were setting explosive devices around the building’s façade and at strategic locations outside. Others were unloading the old trailer that had brought them here, and spotters were disappearing into the field. He pulled the car door closed, and as it sped off, he heard Max groaning in the back seat. “He’s still alive,” he said, daring to believe it.
Thierry, the man in the back seat who was putting pressure on both sides of Max’s shoulder wound with linen cloths, said, “Oui, but only because the bullets went straight through him.”
“Will he make it?”
Thierry shrugged noncommittedly. “If I can get him to my colleague in the next few minutes … maybe.”
Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to a house that sat a few metres from the river. Outside was a plaque saying Docteur Descoteaux.
******
It was 0400, only an hour since the Sussex team had encountered the Germans, and four of them were dead.
Hugo watched as Thierry and another doctor removed Max’s jacket then cut off his cotton shirt and started cutting away his trousers.
“How long has he been unconscious?” the older of the doctors asked Hugo.
“I don�
�t know. Maybe around forty-five minutes … when the fight ended.” It seemed to Hugo that hours had gone by since he and his friends had been joking in the back of the van. “He saved my life. A German was firing at my back as I ran along the road, and then he was shot dead. From where he was lying, Max must have killed him before he passed out – my God…”
“What is it?” Thierry prompted.
“It’s just hit me that it is probably true. Max was unconscious when I found him, but his pistol was still in his hand. I don’t know how he managed it, but I am standing here because of him.”
As if hearing his name, Max’s eyelids fluttered, then settled shut again.
Thierry said, “Let me treat your arm. Mon père – Henri – will see to your friend.”
“I will try, but I’m not hopeful,” Henri responded without looking up from his patient.
In another room, surgical and medical equipment sat in complete disarray, looking as though it had recently been brought in and dropped there. Thierry ordered Hugo to sit. “Don’t move,” he said, as he shone his bright Anglepoise lamp on Hugo’s wound site and began to examine the extent of the damage. He lifted his head, taking in Hugo’s bloodless, greyish, waxy complexion and pain-filled eyes, then he gestured to a table full of medical supplies. “I’ve got to make sure this bullet is out. Luckily for you, we ambushed a supply convoy a few days ago, and for the first time in weeks, I have morphine.”
“Thank God. I’m not good with pain,” Hugo said.
An hour later, Hugo stirred from his morphine-induced stupor, still on the doctor’s table. The Anglepoise lamp was turned off, but cosy oil lamps sat on an adjacent table. The blackout curtains on the window were closed, and Thierry was sitting on a stool beside him.
“Ah, you are properly awake now?” the young doctor asked.
“Max … the major?” Hugo responded, his question a hoarse whisper.
“He lost a lot of blood and is still fighting for his life. According to my father, he will either die before morning or live with a badly damaged hip. We were fortunate to have a donor who is the same blood type as your major, and so we gave him a person-to-person blood transfusion.”
“His other injuries, Doctor?”
“You may call me Thierry – oui, he took some heavy blows to his head, and he is still unconscious…”
“Still?”
“He could have bleeding or swelling in the brain, in which case, his life will be in God’s hands.”
Hugo, whilst trying to digest that news, was also thinking about what had happened at the farm. “Were the Resistance successful?”
“Ah, that I do not know. We will learn soon enough. If Cesar and his men succeed, we will remain here. If they fail, we will run for our lives, and your major will die. It is as simple as that.”
Hugo was groggy, his mouth was dry, and his arm was beginning to ache. He tried to sit up.
“No, stay where you are.” A jug of water sat on a low wooden table. The doctor filled a tumbler and handed it to Hugo. “Drink this, then you must tell me what happened tonight to cause the death of eight people … or nine, if our British friend here doesn’t make it.”
“The Germans appeared from nowhere. The van’s lights were dimmed, and we couldn’t see more than a few metres of road at a time. They shone torches directly at us. The major stopped, cut the engine, and then everything got messy. They lined us up against the van, then they found our radio…” Hugo gulped down most of the water, then cleared his throat as the horror on the road came flooding back to him. “A German soldier dragged the major to the other side of the road and began to kick him. Another soldier joined him … they seemed so intent on hurting Max that they took their eyes off the rest of us, and then we … we pounced, without signals or planning, on the other two Germans who were guarding us. One had a rifle, the other a pistol. It was pitch-black apart from the one torch that was shining on us … that fell at some point.”
Hugo felt a lump of grief swelling the back of his throat. He gulped, “We tried to disarm the soldiers, but we – and them, I suppose – could hardly see past the end of our arms, never mind what or who we were hitting. We outnumbered the bastards … I think Jules even managed to get to his pistol and take a shot.” Hugo squeezed his eyes shut as guilt flooded him. “When the rifle fire began, I was already on the ground and being stood on and kicked by God knows who. I did what I could to get up, but I couldn’t move and had to roll under the van – I didn’t see what happened after that. I hid like a damn coward until the firing stopped a while later.”
As he wiped his tears away, his self-disgust grew. “Everyone was bunched together, and when the torch was kicked away, it must have been impossible … we couldn’t see a damn thing! I got to the far side of the van and started to run in the direction of the safe house. I didn’t see the German – le porc – I didn’t think anyone was left alive. He fired his rifle, hitting me in the arm, then he stopped shooting … but when he fell silent, I heard the pistol discharging … damn it. It’s blurred like a bad dream.”
“Take your time.”
“Afterwards, I heard nothing but my own breathing … that’s when I went back to see if anyone else was alive, and when I found Max.”
Hugo finally looked at Thierry, tears rolling down his cheeks unabated. “We tried to take them on. We fought back.” He covered his face with his hands as another wave of grief shrouded him. “I can’t believe this. It was all going so well.”
Thierry shook his head, “Oui – I suppose it always does until everything turns to shit.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Paul Vogel
Bielański Forest, near Warsaw, Poland
31 July 1944
Paul and Amelia packed up their meagre possessions, both suspecting this would be the last time they would wake up in the wooden shack they had called home. Paul studied Amelia’s downturned head as she rolled up their fur blanket. How many times had they made love on it, slept in each other’s arms, used its warmth on the coldest of winter nights? The bittersweet memories filled his eyes with tears and blocked his throat with regret.
“It’s time, Amelia. We should go to Romek before he moves out,” Paul uttered, sensing her sadness.
She raised her bright eyes to him, and in them, he saw his own fear reflected. He had no comfort to give her but love and inflated optimism that wouldn’t fool her. “Dearest, this could be our final battle. If we succeed, and we will, we will finally be free to imagine a future together. We must believe this,” he urged her.
“I know, but I’m worried we’ll be separated, and I won’t know where to find you in the madness,” she responded, wrapping her arms around his waist and nestling her head against his chest. “I’m scared, Paul.”
He tilted her chin. “I will protect you. I will always find you,” he said, kissing her hard on the lips.
Over six hundred Polish insurgents with weapons and equipment had amassed in one of the densest areas of Bielański Forest, near Warsaw. Paul had witnessed the build-up during the night. At first, a trickle of people had arrived, but then whole platoons coming from the eastern front at the old Polish border appeared with injured men. Whilst treating the wounded, Paul had learnt that these Home Army detachments had been fighting for weeks; harassing the Wehrmacht forces’ rear and cooperating with Soviet forces, which had on 13 July crossed into Poland.
Paul and Amelia found Romek and Kurt deep in conversation with three Poles, all of whom Paul knew from the many missions he had participated in the last few months. He greeted Wójcik, young Bogdan, and Kacper, then he set his and Amelia’s rucksacks on the ground.
“What’s the latest news?” he asked Romek.
“Sit, both of you,” Romek said, looking distracted.
The five men went back to discussing Warsaw locations on a map, but Wójcik managed a good-natured wink at Amelia. The Pole, who had led the operation to assassinate Manfred Krüger, had taken a leap of faith and allowed Paul to go on missions,
treat wounded men in the field, and work and train with highly skilled Jewish surgeons under the most appalling circumstances. Thanks to Wójcik, Paul had become a competent doctor with surgical experience.
Amelia waved to a woman she had come to know well and left the men to join her friend. Paul sat on a log, and whilst Romek spoke of strategies and locations, he cast his eyes around the area. The camp, now bursting at the seams with men and women wearing a mishmash of uniforms put together using both Polish army castoffs and civilian clothing, was remarkably orderly. Most of those congregated carried rifles either slung over their shoulders or casually held. Some had buckled grenade belts around their waist, were carrying flame throwers on their backs, or were armed only with the pistols tucked into their trousers. Regardless of age or sex, all wore the same indomitable expressions of determination on their war-weary but resolute faces.
The logs Paul and the other men sat on were strategically placed around a campfire. This group of people had spent many nights together drinking rotten coffee or homemade vodka and eating whatever they had managed to forage that day; and on some days, they ate nothing at all. They had sung songs, Paul had read his poetry aloud, Romek had told his silly Polish jokes, which at times made no sense to Paul or Kurt, but they had laughed anyway, and emotional reunions had taken place between comrades. Here in this spot, they had planned operations, rejoiced in their victories, and lamented their defeats. This had been Paul’s world for almost a year, and today it would end for a future of unknowns.
“… but don’t go any further than here. Even if you see a breakthrough, you must hold until the other two battalions arrive to back you up,” Romek was insisting to Bogdan, the tall, lanky fellow who hardly ever removed his flat cap or trouser braces unless it was to show someone the scar next to his penis.
Jolted back to the present, Paul asked hesitantly, “When are we moving out?”
“General Bór-Komorowski and Colonel Chruściel have ordered the full mobilisation of the Polish Home Army. The offensive will begin at 1700. This is it, Paul.”
