by James R Benn
We went in the front entrance, brushing against the blackened timbers where the door had been burned away. I went left, Kaz right, and we stayed low, our backs to the wall, pistols out and searching for anything that moved.
Silence.
I signaled to Kaz to watch the road while I checked the one back room. Same as the rest of the place. Smashed and burned.
“Looks the same as the last time we were here,” I whispered to Kaz as we gazed into the night.
“He’s a smuggler,” Kaz said, “if not worse. He could have a secret compartment or cellar dug out and hidden under all this rubble.”
“Well, let’s have him point the way to it,” I said. “How about that barn? It gives us a good view of the cottage.”
“If this weather doesn’t turn to fog,” Kaz said. “And if the barn doesn’t collapse on top of us. Otherwise an excellent idea. Lead on, Billy.” He grinned, his scarred face looking slightly maniacal. I don’t much mind maniacal when it’s on my side.
It must have been a poor excuse for a barn even before it lost a wall. The place smelled of rotten hay and garbage, the latter probably courtesy of GIs passing through. Empty cases of field rations littered the ground, the familiar crescent-moon symbol marking them as C- or K-Rations. We cleared a spot under the overhanging corner of the roof, which looked like it might lose its fight with gravity at any moment. But it was dry, and it gave us a perfect view of the cottage and the road, not to mention a bit of cover provided by the fallen timbers.
So we waited.
And waited. For hours. The misty rain gave way to fog, rising from the ground in a dark haze that muffled the occasional hoot of a nearby owl. It was well past midnight when we first heard it: the puttering, coughing sound of a small motorbike in the distance.
“Where is it?” Kaz whispered, twisting his head to try and locate the sudden sound.
“There,” I said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “No, over there.” It was hopeless. It seemed to be everywhere, the noise and the night playing tricks on our ears. It faded away, then rose again, coming from the opposite end of the village.
“He is suspicious,” Kaz said. “I think he’s trying to draw us out.”
“Or maybe it’s his usual routine, to see if the MPs are patrolling. Not that he had a motorbike before, but he could have done the same thing on foot, circling the village until he was sure it was empty.”
“I wonder if the constables have given chase?” Kaz said.
“Unless they saw him, it’d be a wild goose chase.”
We waited some more, listening for the motorbike, picking it up in the distance only to have it fade away again. It was after two o’clock when we heard it draw closer. Much closer than it had been. We strained to find the direction, the thick fog disorienting our senses and cutting visibility to near zero.
“Over there,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Across the road, behind the buildings.” The engine was idling, giving off a rhythmic putt-putt, almost mesmerizing in the dank night air.
“What’s he waiting for?” Kaz asked. “An accomplice?”
“Us,” I said. “Let’s not disappoint him.” I was tired of waiting. If he wanted a fight, he could have one. Besides, the clock was ticking on the upcoming shelling and air attack. A mixture of frustration and practicality drove me forward, making me increasingly desperate for a solution that didn’t involve a P-47 strafing run.
I motioned to Kaz to stay low, and we used the heavy fog on the ground for cover as best we could. We slipped out of the barn, pistols in hand, and scurried to the tank in the middle of the road, straining our eyes for any sign of movement. We watched the approach to Crawford’s cottage, hoping he’d appear. Nothing. We waited ten, maybe fifteen minutes. The idling engine enticed us to move again. We darted to the blasted doorway of a cottage across from Crawford’s, where we spent another ten minutes waiting for something to happen.
“Maybe he is waiting for someone,” I whispered. “Let’s get closer.”
I led and Kaz followed, both of us swiveling our heads like mad, watching for a threat from any quarter. We froze at the sound of movement ahead, only to see a big rat run across our path seconds later. We sprinted to the edge of a wooded patch, the motorbike now sounding only yards away.
We stood still, regaining our breath, waiting for footsteps or a voice. Nothing came, nothing but the steadily idling engine. I motioned Kaz to go flat, and we began to crawl through the underbrush, skirting tangles of vines and branches, finally getting close enough to smell the exhaust fumes. Either my eyes were getting used to the fog, or it was thinning out. Kaz nudged my arm and pointed with his Webley.
There it was. On the edge of a clearing about ten yards out. No one in sight, just the monotonous engine noise filling the empty space. Then it began to sputter and cough. It ran ragged for a few minutes and then conked out. The silence encompassed us, the absence of sound suddenly frightening. Now we had to be really quiet; there was no cover to muffle our footsteps in the forest. We moved apart, circling in on the motorbike. I could feel the warmth from the engine, see where the kickstand dug into the loamy earth.
It was as if we were meant to find it.
“Look,” Kaz whispered, pointing to a canvas musette bag hanging from the handlebar. He stepped forward to lift it off, and as he did Crawford’s words about his service in the last war flooded my brain.
I was a sapper … setting charges … laying mines and booby-traps.
Kaz pulled the musette bag by the straps, but it only gave a few inches. I heard a metallic snap and rushed at Kaz, leaning in low to hit him with my shoulder, lifting him and rolling into the bushes, keeping his body covered with mine.
The explosion blasted over us, the force slamming my face into the ground as I felt a red-hot sensation in my legs. I opened my eyes to check on Kaz, shaking my head to clear it from the shock and the concussive noise.
“Are you okay?” I managed, grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him up.
“What happened?” Kaz answered, wincing as he righted himself.
“It was booby-trapped,” I said. “Are you hurt, Kaz?” I tried not to shout, the ringing in my ears still loud.
“No, I think not. Sore but unhurt,” he said, picking up his revolver and checking it. The motorbike was a twisted lump of metal and burning rubber, the smoky flames flickering in the darkness, sending shadows dancing at our feet. I felt warmth in my boot and knew that I’d caught some shrapnel. The back of my trench coat was ripped, and I could feel the tears in my wool pants above the boot. I’d have scars on top of scars before this thing was over.
“Let’s go,” I said, ignoring the squishing between my toes.
“Billy, you’re injured,” Kaz said, spotting my leg.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Now we have an advantage.” I took off at a gimpy trot, making for Crawford’s cottage.
“What, that our heads were not completely blown off? And thank you, by the way. Mine would have been if you hadn’t tackled me.”
“Anytime,” I said, crouching behind a thick tree trunk. “The advantage is that Crawford thinks we’re dead, or close to it. The idling bike was a ruse to draw out anyone watching.”
“It is about time we had the upper hand,” Kaz said. “Let’s make good use of it.”
“We need to hurry,” I whispered, checking my watch. The sky was beginning to lighten at the horizon, the harbinger of a dawn drawing close.
“I am tempted to leave him here,” Kaz said. “To the justice of a naval and air bombardment.”
“If we didn’t need him, that’d be fine with me,” I said. But we did, and I wanted the indispensable Crawford alive and uninjured for the job I had in mind for him. We worked out a plan to approach the cottage from both sides, staying out of his line of sight from the doorway. I figured he had valuables stashed in some secret spot, and it was time to dig them up and hightail it out of here. But all I cared about was one gold ring with the Pemb
erton coat of arms.
I went left and Kaz went right, each of us in a low, careful duckwalk, scurrying across the lane guarded by the gutted tank. Fog hung close to the ground, rising from the damp earth and making sudden movements dangerous; there was no way to tell if you were about to stumble into a hole or fall across a log. The air was thick with moisture and fear as we moved in on the cottage, flattening ourselves against the whitewashed walls on either side.
I heard sounds from inside. The gritty scraping of a heavy stone being moved. The shuffling of feet, a slight grunt, the exhalation of breath. I signaled with my automatic to Kaz. He leaned out from the corner of the cottage, his Webley at the ready. I glanced at the sky, worried that I could see Kaz so clearly, then gave my watch a glance. Already after three o’clock, according to the luminous dial. Plenty of time, I told myself. As long as nothing goes wrong.
I took the flashlight from my pocket, gave Kaz a wave, then stood up at the edge of the soot-blackened window frame. Automatic held out straight, flashlight held high. I took a deep breath and clicked the light on.
“Crawford! Hands up!” I swept the burned-out room with the light, keeping the .45 steady. He was on his knees at the hearth, or what was left of it. A pry bar had lifted a large flat stone away from the chimney, where Crawford knelt, gripping an open knapsack. He dropped it, one hand going up to shield his eyes from the light, the other scrambling for something on the floor. “Don’t do it,” I warned.
He did. In spades. Rising up, he hoisted a Thompson submachine gun and let loose a volley in my direction. The muzzle flash was lightning bright, and the noise inside the stone cottage was eardrum shattering. Rounds chewed the window frame, whizzing over my head as I ducked. The first few shots were close, but then he went high, unused to the kick of the Thompson. I fired one wild shot through the window and then pressed myself against the wall a few feet away, listening for movement, my ears still ringing.
Another burst came through the window, then several more through the door and other windows. I hadn’t heard Kaz, and Crawford was probably unsure if anyone was with me. The sound of the bolt being worked told me Crawford had loaded a new clip. I went to the corner of the cottage and aimed at the door, then pulled back as I saw Kaz do the same. Great minds think alike, but in this case we were more liable to hit each other than Crawford.
Before I could reorient myself, he flew out the door, twisting and turning, firing the Thompson and sending me diving for cover. I heard two single shots, Kaz firing his Webley, and I rolled out from the protection of the cottage wall, my automatic ready, searching for a target.
Nothing.
Was he hit? Or waiting for us to make a move and get peppered with .45 slugs for our trouble? The fog cloaking the ground was beginning to thin out, providing all of us with lessening cover. I was beginning to feel naked, flat on my stomach in the mud, nothing but swirling grey air between me and a tommy gun. Kaz darted past me and I followed, huddling at the base of the abandoned tank. We waited quietly, maybe fifteen minutes, watching for any sign of movement.
“See him?” I whispered. Kaz shook his head. I motioned for Kaz to stay low and pointed to the stone wall fronting the field to our right. He nodded and I stood, working my way slowly along the other side of the tank, scanning the ground ahead.
The Thompson spat rounds from dead ahead, ricochets zinging off armor plating as I went as flat as I could against the side of the tank, firing my automatic in the general direction of the burst, hoping Crawford would duck for long enough for Kaz to get to the cover of the stone wall. I did my own ducking in time to avoid another volley that stitched a line in the mud inches from where I laid. I stuck my hand up and fired off my last shots, hoping it kept Crawford focused on the tank. I loaded a fresh clip and worked the slide as I backed up, worried about Crawford getting the same idea for a flanking move.
“Crawford!” I yelled. “Come out with your hands up. You can’t get away, the area is surrounded.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. What I wanted most was a reply, so I could be sure of his location.
Silence.
I stood and fired one shot, then sprinted away from Kaz, making for the cover of a cottage about twenty yards away. The one shot was to make Crawford flinch and give me a few seconds’ head start. Darkness was fading into light, and I knew I’d make a decent target if I didn’t hustle. I pumped my legs as fast as I could, feeling the sticky blood in my boot with each stride, not to mention the pain of accumulated injuries. I felt my knee buckle and hoped I’d be fast enough.
Crawford fired again, the muzzle flash a white-hot blast in my peripheral vision. Bullets hit the cottage wall in front of me, and as I thought about what a lousy shot Crawford was, I caught a root with the toe of my boot and went sprawling, rolling as best I could to gain the cover of the cottage wall.
I made it, but my .45 didn’t. I’d dropped it when I fell, about seven or eight feet from the corner of the house where I lay gasping. I crawled on my elbows, hoping I could reach it before Crawford realized where I was. A shot inches from my head told me it wasn’t in the cards. He’d gotten smarter, changing the selector to single shot. Better aim and more control. I slithered back, drawing the .38 Police Special from my shoulder holster. Not as much stopping power as the .45, but that hardly mattered if I couldn’t see Crawford well enough to shoot him.
If I couldn’t plug him, then the next best thing was to give Kaz a chance. Which meant making myself a target again, and trusting Kaz had found a place to hide and fire from. I gripped the revolver tightly and rounded the cottage, running broken-field style, aiming for a point directly opposite where I guessed Kaz to be.
Crawford squeezed off several rounds, slowly, taking his time. The bullets thrummed through the air, some of them smacking into stout trees behind me. Was Crawford playing with me? Missing on purpose? However he’d acquired the Thompson, my guess was he wasn’t familiar with it, not yet anyway. But as a slug whizzed closer to my head, I had to admit he was getting the hang of the thing.
I took cover behind a well, the thick, cold stone reassuring. I waited, hoping to spot Crawford in the open, but he was too clever for that. After several minutes of cat and mouse he sent a couple of shots ricocheting off the stones, to let me know he had me in his sights. I looked to the east, where the horizon showed a reddish hue. I glanced at my watch. Just after four o’clock. Time to be getting the hell out of here.
“Crawford!” I yelled. “This place is going to be shelled any minute. We need to clear out.”
“Go to hell, Yank!” Crawford hollered back. At least I had him talking instead of shooting.
“It’s true,” I said. “Naval bombardment followed by fighter-bombers. There won’t be anything left of Dunstone, or anyone in it.”
“Your lot’s made sure of that already,” Crawford said. He sounded closer. The well was excellent cover, but it wouldn’t matter if he snuck up on me while I was hunkered down. I eased myself up, pistol at the ready, and looked out from the stonework in time to see Crawford hide behind a thick tree about twenty yards out. He knew how to move quietly, a smuggler’s advantage.
The stone wall Kaz had used for cover ended on the other side of the road. A thicket of shrubs abutted it, and that’s where I hoped Kaz was hiding. If I could get Crawford to turn a bit, Kaz would have him in his sights. Then it was simply a matter of getting him to drop the tommy gun so we wouldn’t have to kill him. My plan depended on that, but I was tired of being shot at, and my leg was starting to hurt like the blazes, so a .38 cross fire sounded pretty damn good.
I aimed and shot, nicking the bark of the tree right where I wanted. I could make out Crawford pulling back, a perfect target for Kaz. Now was the moment of truth. If Kaz was not where I thought he was, this was going to go badly.
“Give it up, Crawford!” I said, standing up. “We’ve got you covered from two sides.”
“Liar!”
Kaz fired, taking off his own chunk of treebark. Crawford s
wiveled to take aim, then realized he had exposed himself to me. He could take one of us, but the other would get the drop on him.
“I know it wasn’t your idea,” I said, taking careful steps closer, the .38 cradled in both hands. “You helped them out, was all.”
“You don’t know a damn thing,” he said. If he didn’t care about dying, he’d fire any second, I decided.
“So it was your idea? To kill Peter Wiley?”
“I’m not going to hang for that, Yank.” Good. He wanted to live. Very helpful.
“Okay, so put the Thompson down. We have a lot to talk about, but we need to get the hell out of here.” I glanced for a second toward Kaz, who moved in closer, his Webley aimed square at Crawford’s chest.
A distant noise drew closer, and I froze until I realized it wasn’t an aircraft or the beginning of the bombardment. It was our two constables in their automobile, disobeying orders and racing toward the sound of gunfire.
“I told you the place was surrounded,” I said, moving in on Crawford. “Drop the Thompson.”
Crawford stared at the police car, a bitter look of defeat on his face as headlights lit the roadway. He lowered the Thompson, looking for a way out, but he was hemmed in on three sides. He dropped the weapon and the knapsack at his feet.
“At least I’ll be taken by proper Englishmen, not a bloody American or Pole,” Crawford said, watching Constable Carraher as he stepped out from behind the wheel. His look of resignation changed to puzzlement as he gazed skyward, hearing a faint rumble in the distance, as if thunder had erupted along the horizon.
The screaming sound of naval shells arcing through the air told me it was no spring storm. I ran for Crawford, grabbing his arm before he had a chance to raise the Thompson, and knocked it from his grasp.
“Take cover!” I yelled, and dove for the ground, taking Crawford with me. The explosions came seconds later, hitting the woods on the outskirts of the village, sparing us and what was left of the village buildings. They came again and again, volleys of fire that tore trees into shreds and sent geysers of earth skyward. When the shelling stopped, we all looked at one another, stunned to be alive. Crawford was subdued, the way a lot of criminals are right after being taken. Sometimes the toughest hoodlum falls apart as soon as you get the cuffs on. Others bluster and curse, but Crawford was in the quiet category. I liked to think it was because they were ashamed, but I knew better. Exhaustion, more like.
