As the young man crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath, Jan kicked the door closed and flicked on the lights. He grabbed the towel that he had placed on a shelf the night he found the room and tied it around the soldier’s mouth. Then he took the roll of twine he had also placed on the shelf and bound the stunned boy’s hands and feet.
Jan dragged the soldier into a corner and removed the handgun from his holster. He checked the clip and shoved the gun into his own belt. Jan paused for a second, looking into the boy’s wide eyes. “Lie still and you won’t get hurt,” he said, then retrieved the wire cutters he had located the previous night and stepped over to the far corner where the telephone lines entered the building.
Leutnant Graf grabbed a rifle from the rack at the back of the room and burst from the command center. He sprinted down the hall and charged into Jan’s office. When he found it empty, he grabbed the telephone on the desk, expecting to hear the voice of the main switchboard operator.
Nothing. Silence.
“Verdammt!” Graf roared, and raced from the office, bumping into Hermann’s aide, Boettcher, in the hallway.
“The telephones have gone dead,” the aide said.
“No shit!” Graf snarled. “Get the Feldgendarmes and meet me in the utility room. Schnell! Mach schnell!”
Graf ran down the back staircase to the ground floor and then down the hallway toward the fireproof door. As he pulled the door open he shouted at the single guard standing next to the service entrance. “Have you seen anyone go down these stairs in the last few minutes?”
“Yes, sir, a civilian. He showed his badge and—”
Before he could finish Graf bolted through the door and raced down the stairs to the lower level. When he saw the light coming from underneath the closed door to the utility room, Graf smiled and flicked off the safety on the rifle.
Down the hallway, Jan stepped out from around the corner and aimed his gun at Graf. He had reviewed his options when he heard Graf yelling at the guard upstairs and didn’t hesitate.
He pulled the trigger.
Graf slumped to the concrete floor, a bullet hole just above his ear.
Jan rushed over, grabbed Graf’s body by the shirt collar and dragged it into the utility room next to the terrified young soldier who pissed in his pants. Then he stuffed the handgun into his coat pocket, and retrieved Graf’s rifle from the hallway.
The gunshot had been so loud in the confined area that Jan’s ears rang, but he held out a slight hope that the report had been muted by the thick steel door at the top of the stairs. Jan backed into the utility room and closed the door. He quickly examined Graf’s rifle. It was a Karabiner K43, semi-automatic. He checked the ten-round magazine. It was full. Then he switched off the light and stepped back into the dark room to wait.
It didn’t take long.
He heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
Voices whispered in the hallway.
He raised the rifle and aimed at the door, his finger lightly caressing the trigger.
Suddenly the door burst open. The light from the hallway illuminated three figures, one waving a flashlight.
Jan fired three shots in quick succession hitting the first figure in the side of the head, the second in the throat and the last, and least visible, in the shoulder.
The first two collapsed without a sound, save for the flashlight bouncing off the concrete floor. But the third figure yelped and fell backward into the hallway. His gun clattered to the ground.
Jan bolted toward the door.
The third figure was a Feldgendarme. Blood spurted from his left shoulder as he retrieved his weapon and lurched across the hallway toward the staircase.
Jan stepped over the two bodies lying in the doorway and chased the wounded man into the stairwell.
Staggering up the stairs, the bleeding Feldgendarme turned to fire but stumbled. Jan shot him in the forehead.
Chapter 65
CAPTAIN BRADLEY COULDN’T BELIEVE what he was seeing. As the tank regiment rolled through the streets of Antwerp, thousands of people flooded out of their homes and offices, cheering, singing and waving banners. They climbed on the tanks, offering champagne, wine, flowers and candy. A young woman wrapped her arms around Bradley’s neck and smothered him with kisses. Giant homemade flags, in the Belgian colors of red, yellow and black fluttered from the windows of apartments and office buildings, the first time in four and a half years that any flag except the Nazi swastika had flown in Antwerp.
In the midst of the mad, chaotic celebration, German snipers, crawling along the rooftops, fired at the tanks and into the crowd. British soldiers and White Brigade Resistance fighters returned fire, but dozens of civilians were killed and wounded. With bullets pinging off the steel sides of the tank, Bradley was terrified, amazed and exhilarated, all at the same time.
On and on it went, the wildly cheering crowds becoming more impenetrable the farther the tank column drove into the central city, to the point where it became difficult to maneuver the ponderous machines without running people over. Their progress slowed to a crawl.
Finally, two infantry platoons caught up to them and slowly pushed the throng back, clearing the streets. The tanks picked up a little speed. The firing from the rooftops continued, but the crowd of celebrating citizens seemed oblivious, undaunted in their jubilation. Crouched low in the open turret and yelling instructions down to his driver, Bradley was certain he would never see anything like this again.
A Jeep carrying two officers came up, weaving through the crowd with its siren blaring. A civilian, wearing a green beret and a leather jacket with the White Brigade armband, sat in the rear. The driver waved for Bradley to follow. They came to a roundabout and Bradley, followed by three other tanks and an infantry platoon, stayed with the Jeep as it veered off to the right. The remainder of the regiment headed toward the port.
Bradley’s tank was first in line behind the Jeep, moving slowly along a wide boulevard. Ahead was an expanse of grass and stately trees. His headset crackled with instructions from one of the officers in the Jeep. “Dead ahead is a park where the German headquarters is located. We’re going to let you pass. Take out the bunker at the entrance.”
Ducking into the turret, Bradley yelled instructions to the firing crew, and the Sherman’s big gun arced downward. The tank lurched as the gun fired.
The left half of the German bunker disappeared.
The turret swiveled a few degrees, and the big gun fired again, blasting away the rest of the bunker.
All civilians vanished, and the street ahead was empty as Bradley’s tank accelerated toward the remains of the bunker, firing its machine guns at the fleeing German soldiers.
They turned left, crunching over chunks of concrete from the shattered bunker, and rambled down a broad street that traversed the western edge of the park. A hundred meters ahead Bradley spotted a large group of civilians in paramilitary dress and the now familiar armbands, firing into a three-story building with machine guns and grenade launchers.
Following the instructions coming over his headset, Bradley maneuvered his Sherman tank to the north end of the building while the other tank stopped at the south end. The turrets of both tanks swung toward the German headquarters.
One by one, Jan dragged the three corpses into the utility room then stepped over to the young German soldier who was twitching and sweating profusely. Jan pressed the rifle against the terrified boy’s head. “Remember what I said before. Lie still. Verstehen Sie?”
The soldier nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with fear.
Jan stepped into the hallway and glanced up the staircase. The door was still closed.
It was the only way out of the lower level, which meant it was also the only way in. Provided they weren’t going to come after him with flamethrowers, Jan calculated he had a momentary advantage. As he crouched at the bottom of the staircase, aiming the Karabiner K43 at the door, he heard muted sounds of gunfire and scattered explosions that he
guessed were hand grenades.
Then a deafening blast shook the building.
A second blast and the steel door flew open, banging against the concrete wall, sagging on broken hinges.
Jan’s ears rang and his pulse raced as he looked up the staircase. The ground floor hallway was filled with smoke and dust. Shadowy figures raced past the open doorway, heading for the service entrance, yelling and shouting.
Smoke and dust drifted down the staircase.
Jan waited.
Gunfire erupted and shadowy forms raced back the other direction.
The gunfire was constant, the yelling louder, but now different—it was in English! British soldiers yelled, “Get down! On the floor! Down, now!”
Heavy boots pounded down the hallway, machine guns rattled. British troopers screamed at the trapped Wehrmacht soldiers, “Lie down! Now! Lie down!”
Jan crouched at the bottom of the stairs, watching and listening, considering his next move. The British had taken the building. He needed to surrender. But how? He thought about the towel he had used to gag the young German, the white towel.
Jan stood up and turned back toward the utility room just as a voice bellowed out from the top of the stairs. “Halt! You there! Halt and drop the gun!”
Jan stopped and let go of the rifle. It clattered to the floor.
“Hands up! Hands up!” the voice yelled.
Jan raised his hands.
“Now turn around, slowly, and walk up the stairs.”
Jan turned around and started up the stairs with his hands above his head.
A British soldier stood in the doorway, pointing a submachine gun at him, backing away as he reached the top of the stairs.
A second British soldier appeared. “Whatcha’ got here, Tommy?”
The first soldier kept the submachine gun pointed at Jan. “I don’t know. Looks like a Kraut in a suit. He understands English, though, and he was carrying a rifle.” He jabbed Jan in the ribs with the gun barrel. “Lie down!”
Jan looked down the smoke-filled hallway, littered with massive chunks of broken concrete and shattered wood. Sunlight poured through a gaping hole in the outside wall. At least twenty German soldiers were lying on their stomachs with their hands behind their heads. British troopers moved among them, removing their weapons. Another dozen Germans lay sprawled in pools of their own blood.
Jan remained standing. “I’m with the White Brigade. You are to take me to Antoine.”
The soldier jabbed him with the gun barrel again. “On the floor, asshole!”
Jan pushed the gun away and shouted at the startled soldier, hoping to attract the attention of an officer. “I said I’m with the White Brigade, you dumb shit! There are four dead Germans down in the lower level and another one bound and gagged! Go take a look!”
“What the hell’s he talking about?” the second soldier asked.
“Damned if I know. Nip down and check it out.”
“Are you daft? I’m not going—”
A British officer approached the group. “What’s going on here, Private?”
“We found this man hiding at the bottom of the stairs, sir. He says he’s with the White Brigade.”
“Right, and I’m the bloody Prime Minister,” the officer snapped. He stepped in front of Jan and glared at him. From his insignia, Jan could tell he was a lieutenant, which was unfortunate. He probably wasn’t senior enough to make a decision.
“I’m with the White Brigade and—”
The officer cut him off. “Shut your mouth. Wilson, get over here and search him.”
The second soldier stepped over to Jan and patted him down, instantly discovering the handgun. He removed it and handed it to the officer. Then he reached into the breast pocket of Jan’s suit coat and removed the black identification folder.
Goddamn it, Jan cursed to himself. Everything had happened so fast, he had completely forgotten about the ID badge.
The soldier handed it to the lieutenant who opened it, then looked at Jan with contempt. “So, Ernst Heinrich, now the Belgians are letting Nazis join the Resistance?”
“You don’t understand; that’s just a cover. I’m—”
The lieutenant pointed the handgun at Jan’s head. “You can bloody well get down on the floor right now—or I’ll kill you with your own fucking gun!”
Jan stared into the lieutenant’s eyes. The British officer was almost a foot shorter and much younger, no more than twenty-five. His cheek was twitching.
Jan stepped closer to him and shoved his face within a few centimeters of the young lieutenant’s. He spoke just above a whisper. “Listen to me, Lieutenant, before you do something stupid. I’m an undercover agent with the White Brigade. There are four dead Germans down in that utility room, and they didn’t die of heart attacks. Now, before you get yourself court-martialed, send someone down to check it out.”
The lieutenant blinked. He took a step back and said, “Wilson, check it out.”
Two minutes went by, and neither Jan nor the British lieutenant took their eyes off each other.
Wilson ran back up the stairs and blurted out, “There are four dead Krauts down there, sir. Three of ’em shot right through their bloody heads. There’s another one all tied up, scared shitless.”
Jan said, “Take me to Antoine. Now.”
“Who the fuck is Antoine?” the lieutenant yelled. His face was red.
“He’s the leader of the White Brigade,” Jan explained, painfully aware that he was talking very boldly about a man he had never met. “He’s probably outside right now with the tanks that shot the hell out of this building.”
The lieutenant glared at him, then stepped back and pointed toward the front of the building. “Get moving and keep your hands in the air.”
With the British lieutenant and the two soldiers walking right behind him, Jan stepped out of the heavily damaged building into the bright midday sunshine.
“Over there,” the lieutenant said and shoved Jan in the direction of two officers and a man in a leather jacket and green beret, standing in front of a Jeep and a Sherman tank. Several British soldiers and a group of civilians wearing odd uniforms, helmets and armbands milled about nearby.
As they approached the Jeep, one of the officers, a major, stepped forward. “Who is this, lieutenant?”
“He says he’s with the White Brigade, sir. He says we’re to take him to Antoine.”
“Antoine?” The major glanced at Jan.
“We found this on him, sir.” The lieutenant handed over the black ID folder.
The major examined the ID badge, then called over his shoulder, “Antoine, would you like to meet Ernst Heinrich?”
The man wearing the leather jacket and beret stepped forward. “So, you’re ‘Ernst Heinrich,’” he said in very good English as he shook Jan’s hand. “I’ve been looking for you. Your intel has panned out so far. Care to join me to see what happens next?”
Chapter 66
THE BRITISH MAJOR OFFERED the use of his Jeep and driver, and a few minutes later Antoine and Jan wound their way through the narrow streets of the central city, heading toward the river, the driver constantly honking his horn trying to get through the crowds of celebrating citizens. Antoine leaned close to Jan to be heard over the noise from the crowd. “I’m sure you’d prefer not to use the name ‘Ernst Heinrich’ any longer, so perhaps we should just call you ‘Colonel’ for the time being. I believe Sam told me you’re a colonel?”
Jan nodded. “That would be fine.”
“I understand that all this secret identity business may seem a little silly to you regular army types, but it’s vital to our success.”
“I understand,” Jan said, though he still hated the duty.
Antoine shouted some directions to the driver, then turned back to Jan. “This is only the beginning. With the Brits moving into Antwerp as fast as they have, the German forces have already begun to retreat across the Albert Canal into Merksem. It’s crucial for the Britis
h to seize the bridges over the canal before the Germans blow them, or it’ll be hell rooting them out. If the Germans gain control of Merksem they can attack the port by way of the Groenendallaan, the main east–west road north of the canal.”
Following Antoine’s instructions, the Jeep turned onto the Schelde Kaai and headed north. Antoine glanced at Jan. “Better hang on, now.”
The wide boulevard that paralleled the river was essentially deserted, the crowd of civilians driven off by German machine guns, mortars and 88s firing at them from the west bank of the river. Craters pockmarked the cobblestone road, and hundreds of windows were broken in the apartment buildings that lined the picturesque riverfront street. The driver shoved the accelerator to the floor, and they sped forward, dodging exploding shells and bodies of Belgian civilians and British soldiers.
As the Jeep approached the docks, the driver weaved through the rear ranks of the British regiment returning fire across the river. They made their way to the head of the column where Antoine and Jan jumped out, keeping low and ducking behind tanks and machine gunners.
Antoine grabbed an artillery officer and asked for the regiment’s commander. The officer led them to a location alongside the wharf, just beyond the range of the German guns, where a British colonel studied a map along with several other officers.
Across the street, Jan noticed a group of more than a hundred heavily armed men in paramilitary dress, wearing White Brigade armbands. He guessed they were waiting for instructions from Antoine.
When the British colonel saw Antoine and Jan approaching, he gave them an uncertain look and stepped forward. “Colonel Canfield, Third Royal Tank Regiment. Who are you?”
“My name is Antoine. We’re with the armed forces of the White Brigade. I’m told you’ve been briefed on our activities.”
“Well, yes…somewhat,” the British colonel said.
Antoine stepped directly to the map spread out on the hood of the British officer’s Jeep and pointed to their location. “We are right here, at the Bonapartedok,” he said. “This dock, along with the next two, the Willemdok and the Kattendijkdok, were seized last night by White Brigade forces and are under our control. A few hours ago our forces also seized the Kruisschans Lock, located right here.” As Antoine said this, he pointed to the location of the crucial lock, almost five kilometers to the north. “Our forces at the Kruisschans Lock are in desperate need of reinforcements.”
Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II Page 34
