Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “The padre…!” He growled softly, drawing the only incorrect conclusion he could make with the little information he actually possessed, blind in his fear and anger to the obvious problems in that supposition. “That crazy bastard musta ratted me out…!” He gave a cold, malevolent grin as his hand moved to the bandages wrapping the upper part of his head beneath his issue forage cap. “Well, we’ll show him, won’t we, Buddy…? First, we gotta find somewhere safe, but we’ll show him and all o’ those bitches…!”

  His next course of action decided, Eddie moved off at as a good pace as he could manage, still limping slightly from the huge bruise he’d received to the muscle of his inner thigh where Brandis had kneed him three days earlier. His faked response to the telegraph message would buy him some time, but that would run out soon enough. He’d need to act quickly if there was to be any chance of covering his tracks.

  Reaching into his pocket, he slipped his fingers around momentarily around the bone-handled Barlow knife he’d bought in San Francisco prior to boarding the troop ship for Australia. His hand then strayed to the heavy revolver under his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his army fatigues in the small of his back as the box of extra cartridges rattled faintly in one of his pants’ thigh pockets as he walked. He hadn’t been sure of why his instincts had made him bring the gun with him when he went on duty that night but he was mightily glad of it now. He headed off between the darkened buildings in the direction of the base Infirmary which, coincidentally, lay quite close to the main gates and the road back into town.

  Clady near the River Finn

  County Tyrone, Northern Ireland

  Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

  Clady lay on the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic, a village of just a few hundred people situated seven kilometres or so south of Strabane on the banks of the River Finn. The Urney Road paralleled the river for most of its journey south from Strabane before crossing The Finn at Clady where an ancient stone bridge crossed the river and the border, affording vehicles just a single lane for travel.

  On either side of the eastern approach to the bridge, a small concrete pillbox had been constructed that was large enough to perhaps hold two or three men. The muzzle of a 13mm machine gun projected from the firing slot of each, both facing westward across the river. Nothing heavier was considered necessary: the Republic of Ireland was a relatively weak, overtly neutral country with a very small military force maintained purely for defensive purposes.

  The Irish Army possessed very few tanks or armoured vehicles – all of which were obsolete ex-British models – and the Urney Road bridge wasn’t believed to be capable of supporting such heavy vehicles in any case. Several large firing ports were also fitted to the rear and sides each structure however, allowed the men inside a 360-degree field of fire should the need arise. The Wehrmacht might not rate the Irish Army as a huge threat but it was well aware of the danger it faced from such terrorist groups as the IRA on either side of the border.

  An SS checkpoint had been set up on the eastern side of the river, little more than a small, two-man guard ‘hut’ and a red-and-white striped boom gate, while another identical structure had also been constructed on the opposite side. Technically-speaking, the second hut was actually built on sovereign Irish territory – one of many such border checkpoints established between the two countries in the wake of the 1940 invasion. The Dublin government however never pressed the issue with Berlin, recognising its tenuous position in close proximity to such a powerful and overtly aggressive neighbour.

  A checkpoint manned by the Irish Defence Forces stood further down the road at an arbitrary distance of a hundred metres or so. The guard hut there was decidedly more well-appointed, with a wood fire, bathroom and space enough for at least four armed guards to look out over the approaches to the bridge through wide, panoramic windows. Little interest was given by the Irish to the sides and rear of their own structure, and while that side of the road was also well-lit, there was no boom gate installed: any illegal traffic between the borders was almost invariably one-way and the likelihood of anyone wanting to sneak into German-occupied Northern Ireland was considered so small as to be of no consequence whatsoever. The guards on duty would sometimes wave at their German counterparts, often with a coffee in one hand, and always with the most innocent of intentions (of course), and they always remarked on what a shame it was that they never, ever got a friendly reply.

  Generally-speaking, boredom was the greatest ‘threat’ for the border guards of the Germanische-SS that evening as the light but nevertheless quite solid, drizzling rain continued to pour down from thick, black clouds that hung low over the surrounding area, creating a ‘closed-in’ sensation almost claustrophobic in nature. A pair of rifle-armed troopers took shelter within the huts on each side of the river while the rest of their squad enjoyed the greater comfort – relatively-speaking – of the pillboxes on the nearer bank, those men within each at least able to enjoy the warmth of a well-stoked coal brazier, smoke trailing away in twin streams from iron pipe ‘chimneys’ set into the roof of each tiny fortress.

  The shifts changed every four hours, and there was much griping between the men inside the pillboxes as friendly arguments broke out frequently regarding whose turn it would next be to venture out into the misting rain and brave the elements. Those remaining would make a great show of smoking cigarettes by the main firing slots and waving cheerfully to their less-fortunate colleagues out in the open, usually receiving time-honoured rude gestures and half-muttered expletives in return. Powerful lighting had been erected on both side of the road from the river right back to the Urney Road intersection at Clady, ensuring no one could approach either the pillboxes or bridge without being spotted some distance away.

  Conditions were far more comfortable at the small inn up on Urney Road, perhaps fifty metres or so south of the intersection leading to the bridge over the River Finn. It was a small, single storey structure of stone and brick with a small bar, warm fireplace and tables and chairs enough for perhaps twenty guests. There was one door facing west onto the road with tall windows on either side, while a kitchen and family residence to the rear of the building led out into a narrow alley that stretched away on either side and backed onto the neighbouring shops and houses.

  The inn’s owners had vacated the premises earlier that day, seeing no benefit in remaining in the area as the Germanische-SS had moved in, ‘commandeering’ the building in preparation for the arrival of high-ranking officers expected that evening. A small, mobile office had been set up near the fireplace with two typewriters, several crates of notes and files and a small but powerful radio set taking up space across several of the inn’s thickly-hewn wooden tables, while the officers in question had taken up residence – naturally – in the family areas at the rear of the inn.

  A small field kitchen that had been attached to the company for the duration of the exercise had already arrived in Clady earlier that afternoon and had set up operation in an abandoned warehouse a few dozen metres back along Urney Road.

  It had been a long and tiring day for Stahl and Bauer as the pair stood at the untended bar that evening, sharing a bottle of whiskey with their accompanying aide – a young obersturmführer of equally Aryan appearance and fanatical leanings. Working separately they’d spent the last fourteen hours leading armed squads of Wehrmacht and SS border guards through every house, commercial property and farm they came across from Londonderry down through Strabane and then on to Clady, searching high and low for Richard Kransky and the Jewish fugitives believed to be in his company.

  “A long day, Pieter,” Bauer ventured with a tired smile, raising a shot glass of Bushmills single malt in a momentary toast before downing the whiskey in one gulp and following it with a grimace that was half enjoyment, half cringe at the a taste so unlike the schnapps he normally preferred.

  “Long indeed, Franz,” Stahl replied with mild sourness, holding his own glass halfway to his lips as
he gave a matching expression, “and longer still for the lack of success…”

  “Patience, my young friend, patience…” Bauer grinned with mock condescension, ignoring the fact that their ages were not so dissimilar. “When I was playing for TSV München, I didn’t care, after the game, what the score was at half time … it’s how it ends up that matters.” He poured himself another shot from the bottle between them as Stahl grinned also and downed his own drink. “Remember: the goalie has to be successful every time, while the striker needs to get though just once to steal the game…”

  “Where do you want to go tomorrow?” Stahl changed the subject with a noncommittal shrug, more pessimistic than his partner. “I was thinking I would take my squads south through Pettigo and Irvinestown…” Both men had spent much of the last few days going over details maps of Northern Ireland to the point that they could now quite clearly recall most of the major towns and villages in the local area by rote.

  “Then I shall head south-east to Omagh, then down to Ballygawley… Rolfe!” Bauer added, turning his attention to the aide for the first time. “If you can take the rest of the men down through the middle, from Dromore across to Fivemiletown, we can perhaps meet up in Enniskillen for dinner.”

  “Of course, Mein Herr…!” The man barked in stiff response, all business as he sat two seats away from the others with a large glass of water, having refused the alcohol they’d offered (the Führer was a teetotaller so, naturally, he too abstained).

  “Jolly good, Herr Obersturmführer,” Bauer nodded in serious approval, not for a moment allowing himself to grin sardonically over the youthful naivety of the man’s fanatical fervour. “See to it that you send a rider ahead to identify and acquire the finest lodgings there for tomorrow night. Something as comfortable as this would be vorzüglich…” He paused, momentarily deep in random thought “We should thank the owners, wherever they’ve gotten to…”

  “Das schert mich nicht…” Stahl muttered softly, and as Bauer turned back to him, surprised at the faintly aggressive tone of that dismissal, he realised that Stahl was barely taking any notice of what was being said at all and was instead suddenly very interested in something he could see outside through the tall front windows.

  “What is it, Pieter?” Stahl asked quickly, instantly serious and alert: he knew better than to discount the expression on his partner’s face as being of no consequence.

  “Ihr fehnglas, Herr Obersturmführer…” Stahl had risen from his seat now and was moving slowly toward the front of the building, his eyes never straying for a moment.

  “Bitte, Mein Herr…?” Obersturmführer Blatter asked slowly, uncomprehending.

  “Your binoculars, man… are you deaf?” This was from Bauer now, barked as an order than got the aide moving quickly for the field glasses he kept in his pack by the front door.

  “What do you see, Pieter?” Bauer asked again, deeply interested now as Stahl neared the windows and accepted a pair of Zeiss binoculars from Blatter with one hand.

  “There’s a group of vehicles waiting at the checkpoint to cross the river…” Stahl murmured half to himself as he adjusted focus on the binoculars.

  “The intelligence reports we read indicated there was still a reasonable amount of cross-border movement and trade,” Stahl began, already knowing somehow that there was more to it than that as he drew level with his partner and also stared out through the drizzling rain. “So long as they have valid paperwork, that’s no concern of ours.”

  “This appears to be an official convoy of sorts… two civilian sedans and one kubelwagen…” As he spoke those words, Stahl handed the binoculars across to Bauer with a look of deep concern on his face. “How many Opel Olympias do you think there are in Nordirland at the moment?”

  Bauer raised the glasses to his own eyes and adjusted the focus again minutely, bringing everything into sharp relief. There were open fields directly opposite the inn, and beyond them was a clear view of the bridge and pill boxes just a hundred or so metres away, all bathed in the light from the rows of bright sodium lamps lining the road and bridge on either side.

  Sure enough, three vehicles were there just as Stahl had pointed out, and as he focussed on the Opel, he also picked out the Swastika flags on its fenders and SS runes on its registration plate. It was at that moment the last piece of the puzzle dropped into place.

  “Herr Barkmann’s Opel – he said it’d been stolen earlier this week!”

  As Stahl simply nodded, he gave the other two vehicles a more thorough check, paying particular attention to the Kubelwagen in the lead. Two men in what (from that distance, anyway) appeared to be authentic Germanische-SS uniforms, but there was someone in the rear of the little utility car that suddenly caught his whole attention.

  It wasn’t so much the man’s appearance – one man looked much the same as another, presumably, at night over a distance of a hundred metres or more, street lighting or not. Rather, it was the way that the man seemed quite hunched up in his rear seat, the tops of his knees quite clearly visible over the glassless window sill of the back door.

  “Take a look at that big fellow in the rear of the Kubelwagen, Pieter…” Bauer said thoughtfully, handing the binoculars back to Stahl. “How tall do you think he might be, now?” He didn’t wait for his partner’s response.

  “Rolfe,” Bauer continued, a forceful tone entering his words now. “Do get on the radio immediately and advise the border guards to delay those vehicles if you would… do it quickly, now… and make sure the guards know not to arouse any suspicion… just that they’re awaiting ‘routing authorisation’ or some such rubbish…”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr…!”

  “Mein Gott, the arrogance of it all…!” Stahl breathed softly, almost impressed as he too saw what Bauer had seen and came to the same conclusion.

  “…And Rolfe…” Bauer added just as calmly, as if asking for milk with his coffee, “…bring us our rifles after you’ve done that, would you…?”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr…!” Blatter snapped again, seating himself before one of the radios on the long table by the bar, seating a headset over his ears and lifting the microphone to his lips.

  The journey to the border had been even longer than expected, mostly due to the incessant rainfall. Although not actually heavy, it was constant enough to make it difficult for the cars’ wipers to deal with sufficiently for safe travel at any kind of decent speed along the narrow, winding country lanes between Newtownstewart and Clady. The situation hadn’t been helped at all by the fact that all three vehicles had been using ‘black-out’ style slotted covers over their headlights that dramatically reduced what little light was provided in the first place.

  Other than that the trip had been relatively uneventful, the convoy having no encounters whatsoever with German patrols along the route, for which all were mightily thankful. There was little conversation, with tensions running high as they travelled through dark villages, fields and rolling hills. There were no jokes… no random topics of conversation… most of the time was spent staring sullenly out at the damp, dark world beyond, each lost in their own private thoughts.

  That tension had increased exponentially as they’d finally reached the western end of Bells Park Road and its termination at the intersection with Urney, about 250 metres north of the turn off to the bridge. There was a little more activity now at Clady – relatively speaking – and at least one or two of the village’s homes were still lit with residences going about their evenings as they had done for many years, some oblivious to the occupation and others trying to convince themselves of something similar.

  There was also evidence of patrols now, with several small groups passing in either direction, both on the Bells Park Road and at the intersection as they waited to turn south onto Urney. They were small forces for all that, ranging from two men on a motorcycle and sidecar – possibly the worst motorised duty one could get in such weather – to one small Fennec armoured car and a Kubelwagen identical t
o their own.

  “The last leg now, boys,” McCaughey advised softly as they waited for a Wehrmacht 3-tonne truck to pass at the Urney Road intersection. “You’ve all the paperwork there, Pearse, and Jimmy can speak German like a bloody native so there should be no bother… just keep your cool and it’ll all be right as rain…”

  “Funny bugger,” the Pearse growled, wiping moisture from his face as a misty spray blew in through the open side window, and all managed a faint smile at the intended irony.

  “Let’s be at ‘em, boys – sooner it’s done, the sooner we’re home in bed with a dram o’ Tullamore in our coffee.”

  “Never mind the fookin’ coffee part…” ‘Jimmy’ shot back from the drivers’ seat, bringing even larger smiles all round as he crunched the little utility car into gear and turned into Urney Road, following on behind the disappearing truck at a discreet distance.

  It was no more than a few moments before they were at the first boom gate, and all waited with baited breath and hearts in their mouths as Jimmy conversed fluently with the lance-corporal on duty, the junior NCO dressed in wet-weather oilskins and looking decidedly damp, definitely tired and extremely over the whole concept of being out in such terrible weather. As he sat there in the back, rigid as a statue and staring straight ahead, Kransky had to hand it to the driver: the man could indeed speak as well and colloquially as any German, and managed it with the easy reassurance of someone seeming at complete ease with the validity of their reasons to be on that bridge that night seeking passage.