by Leo Kessler
‘Don’t worry, Otto,’ the Count said and squeezed the other man’s shoulder hard. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I shall be there to support you.’
‘What?’
‘Yes,’ the Count said with a tight military smile, ‘I am going with your group.’
Otto groaned. ‘Now I know it’s going to be a complete balls-up.’
CHAPTER 2
Just before dawn on the morning of 10 May 1940, an oddly assorted group of Dutch soldiers, armed with fixed bayonets, and what seemed to be a bunch of unarmed, sullen German infantrymen, appeared from the pre-dawn ground haze at the lock-bridge near the little frontier town of Gennep.
The sentries of the Dutch 26th Infantry Regiment, guarding the key bridge, watched carefully from their slit trenches, as the group came ever closer. All of them knew that an alert had been called for that morning. All night long there had been false alarms that the great German invasion had already started and rumours that the Moffen had been dropping paratroops behind Dutch lines had flown from hole to hole more than once that night. The Germans appeared to be the usual deserters – all winter they had been coming over to neutral Holland and begging for asylum – and they were under Dutch guard. Still the men of the 26th Infantry were wary; they knew they were not supposed to take any chances.
Thus when the group came to within fifty metres of the first 26th position, the soldier there sprang out of his hole, rifle levelled and commanded the men to halt. They did so obediently and waited for further orders.
‘Advance one and be recognised!’ the sentry commanded, voice firm, bayonetted rifle at his hip and at the ready, while behind him someone turned the portable searchlight on the waiting men. They were probably just the usual Moffen deserters.
A man wearing the stars of a senior sergeant on his shoulder stepped smartly up to the sentry, papers at the ready. Hastily the sentry took his eyes off one of the escorts, who seemed to have a worm dangling out of the side of his mouth, and told himself that it had been a trick of the light. He checked the senior sergeant’s papers which were perfectly in order and the NCO explained that he commanded a patrol which had bumped into the Germans in the act of throwing away their weapons. They were the usual Moffen deserters.
‘They don’t say much, do they,’ the sentry said and signalled to the men behind to start lowering the lock-bridge so that the deserters and their escort could pass over.
‘That's what you get with the Moff,’ the senior sergeant quipped, as the bridge began to creak down. He let out a horsy laugh at his own joke and the sentry's sullen face became even more morbid. Now the prisoners started to trudge across the bridge, heading for the cages that were supposed to lie to the rear, deeper in Holland. ‘Miserable bunch of shits,’ the sentry said to the NCO, who was eyeing his captives sternly. ‘Come over here now and sit on their fat German arses eating all our butter and cheese. You’d think they’d only be too happy to get their balls shot off for their beloved Führer.’
The NCO grunted something.
‘Heil Hitler!’ the sentry said mockingly at one prisoner who bore what seemed, in that half-light, a parrot on his skinny shoulder, and gave a loud fart.
The deserter dropped his head as if embarrassed.
Now the whole group had crossed the narrow stretch of water and halted in front of the guard-commander, a big bluff NCO smoking a black cheroot, taking a puff and giving a thick smoker’s cough at regular intervals.
Salutes were exchanged between him and the senior sergeant of the escort, while the deserters stared around, blinking in the lights, obviously taking in the sights of the country which would soon be their prison. The guard-commander suggested he’d guide the senior sergeant and his captives to a barn where he could lodge them for the rest of the night until the HQ of the 26th Infantry Regiment passed on orders on what to do with the all the Moffen.
The senior sergeant expressed his thanks and said it was an excellent idea. He swung round to his captives and bellowed ‘Los!’
But instead of the command making the prisoners shuffle off up the road to the barn, it galvanised them into violent action. Abruptly they were dragging machine-pistols and grenades from inside their tunics, darting forward like a well-trained football team, surging through the completely surprised Dutch sentries, while their former ‘guards’ were herding their first prisoners against the nearest wall, ripping off their pistol belts and ammunition, curtly ordering them in excellent if strangely accented Dutch to drop their rifles.
In a matter of minutes it was all over at the bridge itself and the Brandenburgers were already swarming down beneath it, slashing through the wires and cables that led to the explosive chamber, while above their prisoners watched them miserably, fists balled in angry impotent frustration.
‘That's what you get with the Moff,’ the grinning senior sergeant repeated his little phrase maliciously to the red-faced guard-commander and pulled the cheroot from between his gritted teeth to stick it triumphantly in his own mouth.
‘No time for fraternising with the enemy,’ the Count said severely, as he came striding imperiously across the bridge, his sabre clattering behind him, followed by Otto and the rest of the party. ‘Can’t you hear that?’
Somewhere in the gloom to the right of the bridge, a slow machine-gun had started to hammer.
‘Dutch,’ the Count snapped, as if he had spent all his life recognising various types of machine-gun. ‘Got to knock it out.’
Now green and red flares started to hiss into the pre-dawn sky from the general direction of the Dutch positions and it was clear even to a rookie like Otto that the enemy were beginning to react, and react quickly.
At the sound of the guns, Otto's natural confidence was waning. He could feel a little wobble infect his athletic thighs, and blood drain out of his face... and into his slowly bulging groin. He looked furtively around, but none of the assembled rag-tag gang of Abwehr gentlemen had noticed. Crossing his legs, he mumbled something about needing the loo and started shuffling towards the nearest bush.
The Count was fumbling awkwardly with the hilt of his sabre, but then he drew it out with a flourish, crying boldly, ‘To the attack! … To the attack, soldiers … Hurrah!’
‘Hurrah,’ a score of excited young Brandenburgers took up the cheer and abruptly the whole bunch of them were running forward to the sound of the machine-guns. Two South Africans grabbed Otto by the arms and pulled him along with them.
‘Stop it! I’m just a shitting civilian,’ he shouted at them. But right then no one was listening to Otto Stahl.
Hirsch stumbled suddenly and his Bersaglieri helmet slipped absurdly to one side of his head.
‘What’s up?’ Otto cried above the snap-and-crackle of the small arms fight that was increasing in intensity by the second. He was feeling faint, probably due to a lack of blood flow to the brain. Somewhere there was the sound of diesel motors roaring in their direction.
Hirsch gasped and his knees started to give way beneath him, his hands clutching his stomach.
Otto gulped with horror. Thick red stuff, which could only be blood was seeping through the little Jew’s tightly clenched fingers. ‘Octavio,’ he cried in fearful alarm. Hirsch had been hit. Otto grabbed at him and gently lowered him to the ground.
Hirsch moaned in a thick Yiddish accent. ‘Bei mir is alles …’ He didn’t complete the sentence. Instead he looked up at a frantic Otto, his dark, pain-filled eyes sane for the first time since Otto had got to know him. ‘Balls,’ he whispered and tapped his khaki shorts to make his meaning quite clear. ‘A little Yid like Izzy Hirsch dying for Hitler … Total balls!’ His head lolled to one side. He was kaput.
It seemed to take Otto a long time to comprehend that Hirsch wouldn't be needing his Bersaglieri any more. Then abruptly something snapped within him and he was on his feet, carried away by that crazed blood-lust that attacks all men on a battlefield sooner or later. Machine-pistol chattering frenetically at his side, he raced towards the Dutch p
ositions, screaming, ‘You rotten cheese head shits … you've murdered him!’ And then after he had gulped down a breath, ‘Murdered little Hirsch in cold blood,’ which was not completely correct.
A soldier leapt from a trench and tried to bar his way. Otto’s heavy boot lashed out. The Dutchman screamed and went reeling back, bright red blood squirting from his broken nose, spitting out broken teeth. To Otto’s right, a pistol cracked. Some fool of an officer in full-dress uniform, complete with gleaming golden lanyard, stood there, one hand on his fat hip, taking fresh aim as if he were on some peacetime range performing for the admiring ladies of the officers’ corps.
Savagely Otto bared his teeth and pressed the trigger of his little machine-pistol. It chattered brutally at his hip. The officer flew backward, propelled by the impact of the bullets. His lacy cuffs rippled as his arms windmilled behind him. Otto ran on, as the sound of diesel engines grew nearer.
Three Dutch Army trucks leaped over the hill and down the little country road towards the bridge. Still carried by the impetus of his blood-rage, Otto was undismayed. Indeed he only paused to fire a wild burst at them, which splintered the windscreen of the first one and sent it careering off the road to overturn in the ditch, scattering screaming Dutch soldiers everywhere, and then he was running straight for them: David against Goliath.
The second truck screamed to a halt. The driver of the third did not react so quickly. He smashed his truck into the second one and for a moment there was complete confusion as Dutch soldiers dropped into the muddy ditches or stared around while a few red-faced NCOs blew their whistles and officers bellowed orders and counter orders.
Otto pelted forward, zig-zagging like a centre-forward as the first wild bullets started to cut the air around him, firing as he ran. He knew instinctively, although he had never been in action before, that boldness was the only way he'd save his skin this time.
A Dutchman popped up out of the ditch, fired and popped down again. Otto continued running. The soldier popped up again. This time Otto was waiting for him. The bullets caught the Dutchman unawares, and he fell backwards, eyes wide in surprise.
Otto's boots slipped on the mud and he fell feet-first into the ditch. Oh big Jesus, this is the end of me, he thought to himself. I've landed in the hornet's nest! But instead of grabbing him, the confused, completely demoralised Dutch infantry in the ditch started throwing away their rifles, raising their hands and crying ‘Kamerad … nicht schiessen, Kamerad!’
Mind racing, Otto realised he must slam the bolt home. ‘You’re no damn comrades of mine!’ he cried angrily and smashed the nearest soldier across the head with the butt of his Schmeisser. ‘Get running back to that bridge and surrender!’ He pressed the trigger of his MP and the mud was churned up into crazy little spouts at their feet.
Wildly, hopping around in a crazy polka, the ashen faced Dutch infantry fled from the ditch and streamed across the field to where the Count’s positions were, hands above their heads, screaming their little litany. ‘Kamerad … nicht schiessen … Kamerad, bitte nicht schiessen!"
Otto was out of the ditch. It was only the first line of defence. He dived into the cab of the first truck. The driver lay moaning across the wheel, his face full of glass splinters from the windscreen.
He heaved with his shoulder and the man slipped out of the hanging door and dropped to the ground with more of a sigh than a moan now, as if life were simply too much. To his immediate front, Otto could see tiny figures running for cover on the ridge-line, and then in the foreground a handful of soldiers, grouped around a portly officer carrying what seemed to be a wreath.
He didn’t wait to find out what their intentions were. Instead he gave them a quick burst, swinging his MP from side to side with some difficulty in the tight confines of the cab. A couple of them whirled around and slammed to the ground like dolls whilst the rest shot up their hands like children at school, anxious to be excused.
Otto dropped out of the cab, his lethal luck and energy beginning to drain from him rapidly now, and approached them suspiciously, machine-pistol at the ready.
But all fight had gone from the Dutch and Otto could see that he’d get no trouble from them, an impression that was confirmed an instant later when the portly officer, complete with wreath, said in German, ‘We surrender.’
‘I thought you would,’ Otto said, playing tough, but inwardly astounded at his luck. He looked beyond the officer and saw that on the ridge beyond, the infantry were dropping to the ground, as if they were going to make a more determined fight of it than the men of the 26th Regiment had. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your hand?’ he asked.
The Dutch officer turned it round so that Otto could see it more clearly. It was a silver painted wreath with the figure ‘thirty’ in the centre, also in silver. ‘I was going to celebrate my thirtieth anniversary of joining the 26th today when you appeared so unexpectedly,’ the portly officer replied. ‘Never fired a shot in anger before, not even at the blighters out in the Dutch Indies, and now I go and lose my first battle. And on my anniversary of all days!’
For a moment Otto thought the Dutchman was going to break down and cry. ‘Never mind,’ he consoled the crestfallen man, ‘you’ll have something to talk about with your cronies, now that you’ve retired.’
‘Retired?’ The officer looked up. ‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I don’t suppose you Germans will be wanting to keep the Dutch Army intact.’ His fat face creased in a suddenly worried frown. ‘I wonder what will happen to my pension.’ He looked directly at Otto. ‘Would you happen to know what provision your authorities have made on that score?’
Otto shook his head in mock wonder. It seemed the Royal Netherlands Army had its share of loopy men too.
‘Let’s not worry about your pension, pal,’ he snapped with some irritation. ‘Those blokes up there on the ridge... Are you listening to me?’
The Dutchman shook himself out of his reverie, ‘Yes, I’m listening.’
‘Well, they’re about to open fire in a minute. Let’s have them out of those holes with their hands up.’
The Dutchman shook his head so strongly that his fat jowls wobbled. ‘Impossible,’ he said.
‘What do you mean – impossible?’
‘They’re the Queen’s Grenadiers. They never surrender!’
‘How do you shitting well know?’ Otto cried in exasperation, knowing that if he didn’t act soon, the Dutch on the ridge would open fire. ‘You cheese heads haven’t fought a war for over a hundred years. So let’s have a go and see what happens.’
The Dutchman’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘All right,’ he said miserably, handing his precious wreath to one of the infantrymen, ‘but let me assure you that I’m doing this under strong protest.’
Otto couldn't believe it. ‘Fine by me. Protest all you want. Come on.’
Deliberately the two of them left the others and stumped across the damp field towards the Queen’s Grenadiers on the ridge, the Dutchman pausing every couple of moments to cup his hands around his mouth and cry in Dutch, ‘Vriend!’
Finally when they were about two hundred metres away from the Grenadiers’ positions, Otto halted and said to the Dutchman, ‘All right, you go on alone, but remember I’ve got this,’ he slapped the Schmeisser, ‘pointing right at your fat arse.’
‘I’ll remember,’ the Dutchman said nervously, ‘and what am I supposed to say?’
‘Tell them,’ Otto improvised hastily, remembering the dialogue of the Wild West films of his youth when the outlaws had been trapped by the posse, ‘that they haven’t got a chance. Their only hope is to surrender.’
‘But they’re the Queen's Gren – ’
‘Go on,’ Otto gave him a rude shove in the back and the Dutchman stumbled forward, looking very unhappy, crying the word ‘friend’ like a medieval leper tinkling his bell to advise his presence. When he was a hundred metres away, a tall scowling Dutch officer, who seemed to be carrying a sword just like the Count, sprang dramatical
ly onto the ridge and shouted something in Dutch.
The fat officer stopped, as if he had been shot.
There was a moment’s interchange of question and counter-question and then the sword-brandishing man on the ridge burst into laughter, hysterical bouts of doubled-over cackling as he leant against his hilt, the tip stuck in the ground. After a little time had passed, he managed to straighten up and roared in German, obviously for Otto’s benefit, ‘Never! The Queen’s Grenadiers never surrender!’
‘I've heard that one before,’ Otto said. But his luck had run out. ‘Come on, cheese head, let’s get back to the bridge.’
The fat Dutchman needed no urging. Hurriedly he turned and started jogging heavily towards a waiting Otto. It was then that the man on the ridge drew his pistol and, taking very careful aim, pulled the trigger.
‘Why you rotten treacherous shi – ’
The crack of the pistol drowned the rest of Otto’s angry outburst.
The fat Dutchman howled with pain and staggered a few paces more to collapse in Otto’s arms, a great scarlet flower growing by the second between his shoulders. ‘It’s been a funny anniversary,’ he gasped and then he was dead.
CHAPTER 3
‘Counter-attack,’ the Count said through parched lips and wiped the beads of sweat delicately from his dirty forehead.
Now it was midday and the May sun was hot. Most of the Brandenburgers, digging ever deeper holes around the bridge, had stripped to the waist. There was even a relay of men down to the water to fill their water-bottles in spite of the fact that a dead Dutch soldier floated on its stagnant surface.
