Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  It continued for several long minutes: screeching metal, snapping trees, and thud after thud as the railcars and thousands of tons of cargo piled up in the valley on the other side of the tracks.

  Then it was over and the forest was quiet.

  Chapter 30

  RENE LEFFARD SAT at one of the small round tables in front of the Den Engle café on the Grote Markt, in the center of Antwerp. He took a sip from his glass of weak, wartime beer. Of all the finer things about life in prewar Belgium that Leffard missed, the normally excellent beer ranked right at the top. Fine wines, real coffee, good food—all just distant memories.

  But, as he glanced around, Leffard smiled. It was a warm September afternoon, and the cafés around the Grote Markt were practically full. Most people in Antwerp had difficulty just finding enough food but here, on a pleasant autumn afternoon, they joined their friends at the cafés, as they had for generations. In his heart, Rene Leffard knew they would survive.

  “Bonjour, Rene,” Willy Boeynants said as he slipped into the metal chair across from Leffard.

  Leffard nodded and signaled to the waiter to bring another beer. The two friends exchanged small talk about the weather until the waiter delivered their beers and departed.

  Boeynants took a sip of beer and grimaced. He set the glass down and glanced around at the other patrons. “The last train wreck has caused quite a stir,” he said quietly. “The head of our department is beside himself, and the Gestapo boys are running around like crazy covering their asses.”

  “Anything we need to be worried about?” Leffard asked.

  “Non, not any more than usual, I suppose. But it may be a good idea to tell van Acker to lay low for a while. There’s a lot of pressure coming from Berlin, and the Gestapo’s going to pull out all the stops trying to find out who’s doing this. We’ve hit them pretty hard the last few months, you know.”

  Leffard stared into his beer glass contemplating the situation. Boeynants was right of course. Van Acker’s White Brigade cell had indeed hit the Germans pretty hard. Since late spring they had pulled off three train wrecks, blown up two refueling stations and set fire to a munitions plant. Was it time to lay low?

  Leffard lifted the glass and took a sip. That may be the prudent thing to do, he thought. But, they were at war. Risks had to be taken. He finished the beer and tossed some coins on the table. “Je comprends. Just let me know if you hear anything more.”

  Chapter 31

  IT WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY HOT for early October in London. Colonel Stanley Whitehall sat in his steamy office at the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive on Baker Street, staring at the latest decoded dispatch from Poland. He loosened his tie, stained with gravy from this noon’s lunch, and read it over a second time, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. This was the third report forwarded to him from MI-6 on the same subject and, from the tone of the note attached to it, the intelligence boys were getting nervous. They wanted verification, and that meant only one thing: someone would have to go over there. Where in the hell is Blizna? he thought to himself as he got up and lumbered across the office to get a map of Poland from the filing cabinet.

  A few minutes later, Captain Roger Morgan walked into Whitehall’s office, carrying the file he had been reviewing, and sat down in the single wooden chair, sliding it a few feet to the left to catch some of the paltry breeze from the fan whirring away on the top of the filing cabinet.

  Whitehall looked up from the map that was spread out across the cluttered metal desk and squinted at him over the top of his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Christ, it’s way down south, east of Krakow.”

  “What is?” Morgan asked, in confusion.

  “Blizna,” Whitehall said removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “The bombed-out little village where all this crazy activity is supposedly taking place. God, these Polish names will drive me up the wall. Is that the file?”

  “Yes,” Morgan said, tossing the thin folder on top of the map.

  “Give me a summary,” Whitehall said, leaning back precariously in his chair.

  Morgan took the file and opened it, flipping through the first few pages. “Well, the chap’s name is Jan Kopernik. He’s a cavalry officer, career man, a major with some demolition training to boot. He was a regimental commander with the Wielkopolska Brigade in ’39. Fought in the Battle of the Bzura—”

  “God, bloody affair that was,” Whitehall interrupted. “Sorry, old man, go on.”

  “Well, let’s see, after Warsaw fell he led what was left of his regiment out of Poland and made it to Hungary where they were interned. He was, as you know, sent off on that mission to Krakow then returned to Hungary. He eventually got his men to France though they didn’t arrive until just before the invasion in May of ’40. He fought at Montbard where he was pretty severely wounded, evacuated from Marseille in a hospital ship and spent a year recuperating in London. In ’42, he was transferred up to Scotland and assigned to the Polish First Armored Division.”

  “So, that’s where he is now?” Whitehall asked, wiping sweat from his brow again.

  “Looks that way,” Morgan said, scanning the file. “According to this he’s put in for intelligence work in Poland, but nothing’s come up.”

  “Until now,” Whitehall interjected.

  “Yes, until now.”

  “Languages?”

  “Polish, of course. The file says he’s also fluent in German, decent in French and coming along pretty well in English since he got over here.”

  “I’d guess his German would be pretty good if he got away with impersonating a Gestapo agent in Krakow,” Whitehall remarked with a yawn as he hoisted himself from the chair, tucking a shirttail back under his sagging beltline. “God, this bloody heat’s enough to put you to sleep in the middle of the day. So, how’s this chap’s health?”

  “According to this, he’s recovered. Seems like it was shrapnel wounds and a badly fractured leg.”

  “Anything else?” Whitehall asked, anxious to get out of this suffocating office and over to the Lion’s Head for a drink.

  “Yes, this may be important,” Morgan said, looking back at the file. “When he went on that mission to Krakow, he apparently found out that his wife had been arrested by the SS and imprisoned.”

  “Really? How do we know that?” Whitehall asked.

  “It’s a note written in by one of the doctors at the hospital. Probably something Kopernik told him—or a nurse; you know how it is with wounded soldiers.”

  “Hmmm, yes…quite right. Well, that obviously explains why he’s offered to go back. Has it affected his work at all?”

  “There’s nothing in the file about depression or anything of that sort,” Morgan replied. “His fitness reports are all first class. He appears to be a top-notch officer.”

  “Who’s itching for a reason to go back to Poland and look for his wife. Certainly would solve the problem of retrieving whomever we drop in there.”

  “You mean…”

  “Why not? We drop him in, he verifies the identity of the contact in Poland and the accuracy of these reports, then he’d be free to go off looking for his wife.”

  Morgan squirmed in his chair. “But…the army is going to want him back.”

  Whitehall waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll take care of that with MI-6. If they want this done, they’ll have to square it with the army chaps. Besides, by the time they sort it all out, the invasion will be on. There are a million troops in England at the moment, and thousands more arriving every week. One officer more or less, and a Polish officer at that, who the hell’s going to notice. Get him down here for a chat. I’ve got to get moving on this. MI-6 is getting their knickers in a tizzy about verifying the contact in Poland, and Kopernik here is the only one we know of that’s ever met this bloke…this…what’s his name again?”

  “Slomak.”

  “Yes, Slomak. Well, that was his name, anyway.”

  Jan had not been back in London si
nce he was transferred up to Scotland over a year ago. He remembered how it had been then, during the blitz. The constant blackouts, air-raid sirens blaring in the night, the fires he could see in all directions from the windows of the hospital. But now the city was bustling with activity as he stood in front of King’s Cross station trying to hail a taxi.

  Finally, one of the venerable black vehicles pulled up, and a middle-aged man wearing a bowler hat stuck his grizzled face out the window. “Hop in, laddy. Where to?”

  “The Northumberland Hotel,” Jan remarked as he climbed into the backseat of the spacious automobile, throwing his bag on the seat.

  “Right-O,” the man said as he whipped the car into the traffic, right in front of a red double-decker bus. “Don’t recognize that uniform, laddy—where you from?”

  “Poland,” Jan replied.

  “You don’t say. You’re the first I’ve met from Poland. Pretty tough, I guess, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was,” Jan said. He stared out the window, not knowing what else he could add that would matter now.

  The room on the fifth floor of the hotel was completely bare except for a battered metal desk and two wooden chairs. The windows were open to let in what breeze there was, and a fan had been set on the floor doing little good. Jan removed his coat, following the invitation of the portly man sitting behind the desk who introduced himself as Colonel Whitehall of the SOE.

  Whitehall looked up from the file he was studying, took off his reading glasses and folded his pudgy hands on the desk. “So, Major, how are you getting on in Scotland?”

  “Very well,” Jan said, “but we’re all getting a little restless to get back into action somewhere.”

  “Yes, yes, I can imagine,” Whitehall said. “Lot of fighting ahead of us yet before Jerry throws in the towel, I should think.”

  Jan nodded but didn’t respond.

  Whitehall cleared his throat, looked at the file and then back at Jan. “Major, according to the notes in this file, you apparently believe that your wife was arrested by the SS back in ’39. Is that correct?”

  Jan sat back in the chair, stunned by the unexpected reference to Anna’s disappearance. He stared at Whitehall. Did this man have some information about her? No, he knew better than that. The army wouldn’t go through this elaborate setup just to tell him they’d located his wife. Besides, thousands of soldiers were worried about their families, and it wasn’t the army’s concern. This was something else. “Yes, Colonel, that’s correct,” he said.

  “And how did you happen to come by this information?”

  Jan hesitated. Where was this going? He leaned forward and locked eyes with Whitehall. “I’m sure that file you have there, Colonel, makes reference to the undercover mission I was sent on to Krakow in 1939. While I was there I tried to find my wife. Our apartment had been ransacked by the SS and…” Jan paused and took a breath. He hadn’t talked about this in a long time. “What’s this all about?”

  Whitehall closed the file folder. “Well, Major, we may be able to help each other out. We’d like to send you on another mission—a very important one—back in Poland.”

  Jan remained silent and continued to stare at Whitehall.

  The colonel stood up and walked to the window. He turned around and lowered his bulk onto the windowsill. “I think it goes without saying that anything we discuss here is strictly between us. Nothing leaves the room. Understood?”

  Jan nodded.

  Whitehall looked at him for a moment then continued. “A little over a month ago the RAF carried out a massive bombing raid on an enemy facility near a small village named Peenemunde located on an island in the Baltic just off the coast of Germany. The raid was prompted by reports that British intelligence had received concerning German wunderwaffen. Do you know what I mean, Major?”

  “Wonder weapons?”

  “Yes, quite. Wonder weapons. In this case, rockets, unmanned rockets carrying warheads. The Germans were building them in secret at Peenemunde.”

  Jan ran a hand through his hair. Unmanned rockets?

  Whitehall continued. “Well, we now have some new information that suggests the raid was only partially successful. Information, you will be interested to know, supplied by agents of the Armia Krajowa. You’re familiar with them, Major?

  Jan nodded. “Armia Krajowa, the AK. It means ‘the home army,’ the Polish Resistance.”

  “Yes, quite correct,” Whitehall said, “a courageous group.”

  “They were just getting started when we were ordered to escape,” Jan said.

  “Well, according to these reports from the AK, the Germans have shifted much of the work on the wunderwaffen to a new facility located in Poland near a village by the name of Blizna. Do you know where that is?”

  Jan had to think a moment. “Blizna…yes, I think so. It’s in the south, east of Krakow, I believe.”

  Whitehall pushed himself off the windowsill and plodded around the small room. “Major Kopernik, when you were sent from Hungary on the mission to Krakow, you made contact with a man named Slomak. Is that right?”

  Jan leaned forward, now very curious. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, this Slomak now goes by a different name. But he is supposedly the one sending the messages about the rocket facility at Blizna. Needless to say, the British government is very concerned about this but, quite frankly, we have no way of knowing if these reports are real or just a ruse to throw us off. The Germans sealed off Poland like a drum after driving out the Russians, and it’s almost impossible to get anything out of there except for these messages from the AK. Bottom line is someone has to go over to Poland, verify the identity of this chap and find out what the hell is going on.” Whitehall paused and managed a thin smile. “And I’m afraid that you, old fellow, are the only one we know who would recognize him.”

  They looked at each other in silence. Finally Jan stood and walked over to the window watching the traffic on the street below. The building across the way was boarded up, apparently a casualty of the blitz. “It’s a one-way trip, isn’t it,” he said, turning back to Whitehall.

  Whitehall shrugged. “Well, retrieval does pose some difficulties at the moment, as I’m sure you can understand. We’ll be in communication, of course, through the chaps in the AK…and conditions may change in the next few months. If our boys make some progress in Italy it may open up some airstrips and perhaps…”

  “Yes, I think I understand, Colonel.”

  Tadeusz Kaliski perched on a rock at the top of a hill overlooking a small grassy field near Blizna, Poland. On the other side of the field lay a dense forest and beyond that the SS training grounds. It was from this forest, three weeks ago, that he had first seen the extraordinary airplane without wings streaking toward the heavens.

  Today, Tadeusz had a radio transmitter and a compass, taking his three-hour shift watching the launch site. If a launch occurred he would send a coded message indicating its direction and alerting the AK cell in that area to begin a search for the crash site.

  He was nervous. When the wind was right, he could hear the barking of the German guard dogs that roamed through the woods with the sentries. Off to his left, less than a half kilometer away was the newly constructed railroad spur that ran from Blizna, through the forest and into the training grounds. An hour ago a freight train had rumbled along the tracks toward the training grounds. Tadeusz had counted twenty-seven freight cars draped with canvas tarps, moving slowly as though heavily loaded. Armed sentries guarded every car. If he were caught out here he would be executed on the spot. Of that, he was certain.

  A thunderous roar suddenly jolted Tadeusz out of his reverie. He lost his grasp on the compass and reached down to grab it before it rolled down the hill. He looked up just in time to see an enormous cylinder emerge from the trees, trailing a blazing white fire. With his ears ringing and his hands shaking, Tadeusz scrambled to his feet and checked the compass.

  In a few seconds it was over. The rocket
had vanished from sight as quickly as it had emerged. The rumbling noise trailed off leaving behind an uneasy silence in the forest.

  Chapter 32

  ANNA SAT IN A WICKER CHAIR on the porch of the chalet and watched Andrew swing the axe, cleanly splitting another log. Justyn picked up the two pieces and stacked them on the pile.

  The late October air was crisp, and the leaves had begun to turn. They would need the firewood for the winter, and she was grateful for the help of the American aviator. Andrew’s ankle had healed nicely, and judging by the way he was swinging the axe, his cracked ribs had mended as well. Anna watched as he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his forehead, then picked up another log and set it on its end. He seemed pleased at the opportunity for some exercise after being confined to crutches for so long.

  Andrew had been with them for almost two months. He was no longer reticent and enjoyed talking about his family and his life back in America, where his father worked as a welder at a factory in Milwaukee that produced bomb casings, and his mother was as an administrator in a hospital. He described their home and the neighborhood where he grew up. Anna found herself enthralled with his tales of America and excited by the opportunity to practice her English, which she had studied during her university years.

  She was surprised to learn that this city in the heartland of the United States was home to thousands of German and Polish immigrants. She found the irony of Germans and Poles living and working together in an American city while they slaughtered each other in Europe distressing but, in another way, hopeful. It sounded like a nice place to visit with Jan when all of this was over.

  Her thoughts turned to Jan, as they inevitably did, wondering where he was and if he was safe. She never allowed herself to dwell on her fear for his safety—but it was always there, right beneath the surface.

  Anna stood up to go inside and prepare lunch when she heard the snort of a horse and the creak of wagon wheels. She stepped around the corner of the chalet and saw Leon Marchal climbing down from the wagon.