by Leo Kessler
FIVE
‘Hellfire,’ Matz cursed, as the basement rocked and trembled with the thud of the gunfire, ‘Somebody’s taking a packet.’
‘And you can guess who it is, can’t you?’ Schulze replied gloomily, as he surveyed the heating system, which seemed to have enough cocks, taps, levers and dials for the control room of a U-boat.
‘But what can we do about it, Schulzi?’ Matz asked, slumping down wearily on a pile of carbon. ‘We’ll be lucky if we get out of this in one piece ourselves.’
‘You are right there,’ Schulze agreed. What could they do to help Wotan, hidden as they were in the middle of an enemy city, hundreds of kilometres away from their own lines? Even if they could get to the CO who was probably fighting for his life in the middle of the square outside the Barracks, what help could they give him? By now the Tommy anti-tank guns must have destroyed all the Company’s vehicles. And they did not stand a chance in hell of getting away through the desert the way they had come, on foot and without water. Frustrated and angry, he slammed his foot against the boiler-room controls. There was an asthmatic gurgling, as if liquid had suddenly shot through the convoluted mass of pipes.
‘Not only looks like a sub’s controls,’ Matz commented idly, ‘but sounds like one too.’
‘That’s it’ Schulze roared, slapping his hand on his knee.
‘That’s what?’
‘Listen, cloth-ears, isn’t Alexandria a port?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But –’
‘But nothing,’ Schulze interrupted him. ‘Listen, this is what I want you to do. Haul your skinny little ass out of here and contact the CO. Now you tell him to break off the action the best he can and make for the port.’
‘And then?’
‘And then,’ Schulze announced, drawing himself up to his full height, ‘the CO must ask for Skipper Schulze. I wasn’t born on the waterfront for nothing. I’m going to get us a boat!’
* * *
Outside the port’s boom, a British merchantman lay at anchor, lights blazing, while half-naked Egyptian stevedores unloaded its cargo into lighters. Schulze crouching in the shadows, his ears full of the fight going on behind him still, breathed a sigh of relief. That meant the boom was open. There would be nothing to stop them getting out of the harbour, save half the Tommy Mediterranean Fleet, lying at anchor within Alexandria’s harbour!
Schulze surveyed the port. It was very crowded. He assumed that the merchantmen were there to unload supplies to support the Allied Army in the desert. But they did not interest him. He was looking for something small and fast, very fast – and he must find it soon. Behind him in the city, the snap and crackle of the battle was beginning to swell to a terrifying crescendo. He did not have much time.
He strained his eyes. In the darkness he could make out the outlines of several navy vessels, looming up faintly through the gloom, with smaller craft flitting about among them. Now and again signal lights winked on and off between the vessels.
Then in a sudden flash of light from a suddenly opened hatch he spotted what he sought: a long, rakish-looking boat, armed with a single light gun. It had been a long time since he had last seen a boat like that back in his native Hamburg when a whole flotilla of them had come sweeping proudly down the Elbe to escort a seasick Führer out to inspect the battleship Deutschland. But he recognized it immediately. It was a motor torpedo boat: the fastest craft in any Navy. It would have to be the one.
* * *
Von Dodenburg crouched with the bleeding ‘Prof’ behind the smouldering halftrack, dead panzer grenadiers sprawled everywhere in the dust. An instant before the SAS PIAT men had blown up the last of the tanks. Now the handful of bleeding survivors forced into the narrow side-street had nothing to defend themselves with save their own personal weapons – and the British fire was getting heavier by the minute. Soon they would drag up their powerful Vickers machine-guns and slaughter the SS men.
Another shell hit the front wheel of the halftrack. The tyre went up in flames. Next to it, two boxes of ammunition strapped to the side burst into flame too.
‘Oh, dear God,’ the ‘Prof’ moaned, holding his wound, ‘can we not do anything, Major?’
Von Dodenburg shook his head, his face set in a look of despair. ‘Afraid not, Prof. They’ve got us –’
‘Sir.’
A familiar voice broke in.
He swung round. It was Matz, his face blackened with smoke, a thin trickle of blood curling its way down his temple.
‘Matz where in the name of hell –’ von Dodenburg began, but Matz interrupted him urgently. ‘No time to explain, sir. Schulze told me to tell you that you’ve got to get to the harbour immediately.’
It would be a hell of a job to try to disengage his force with the Tommies so close. Besides both ends of the street were blocked. ‘It’s going to be a bitch to get out of this, Matz,’ he expressed his fears openly. ‘They’ve got us by the short and curlies now, I’m afraid.’
‘Never say die, sir,’ Matz answered cheerfully, wiping away the blood, before thrusting his hand inside his torn shirt to bring out what looked like a mess of putty. ‘This’ll do the job, sir.’
‘Plastic explosive,’ von Dodenburg whispered while the NCO busied himself tearing off a chunk and fashioning it into a small ball.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘A Tommy who suffered a sudden heart attack,’ Matz grinned maliciously, ‘at the end of my knife.’ He clamped the ball of explosive to the wail behind them and held up the time pencil. ‘How long shall we give it, sir?’
Von Dodenburg’s eyes lit up. Matz was adopting the old House-to-house fighting technique to their own situation; he would blast a way through one wall and another until they were clear of the trap they found themselves in. ‘Give it two minutes, you cunning little shit.’
Ignoring the slugs that started to smack into the wall around him, von Dodenburg rose to his feet and shouted urgently. ‘Listen everybody. As soon as you hear my whistle, break off the action and rally to me!’ Von Dodenburg gave a shrill blast on his whistle. Firing as they came, the tankers and the panzer grenadiers broke from their cover and began to fall back on the wrecked halftrack. Here and there a man was hit and crumpled to the ground. But their manoeuvre had caught their attackers by surprise and it took them a couple of moments to react. By then the first of the Wotan men were already stumbling through the gap in the wall. Wotan – or what was left of it – was on its way.
SIX
Naked save for his boots, Schulze slipped into the lukewarm water, machine pistol slung round his neck. Before him the motor torpedo boat seemed as big as a battleship now, but he had to take it!
Hardly making a sound, he swam slowly round the bow to the rope ladder, which led to the dinghy. As he swam he could hear above the rattle of fire-fight in the town the soft throb of the torpedo boat’s engines. The sound pleased him. The boat was preparing to go to sea. With the beam still open, they might just make it yet.
One by one he mounted the rungs, alert for the slightest sound out of the ordinary. But although he could hear voices and movement on the deck above him, everything remained normal. Cautiously he raised his head above deck level. The rating on sentry duty was facing the quay, with his back turned to the sea. To his right, there was a faint chink of light coming from behind the blackout curtain of the bridge. He hoped the occupant would be the man he was looking for.
Gingerly he heaved himself over the side and started to cross the dark expanse of deck. He had almost reached the bridge when a gruff voice rapped: ‘Here, what’s this – you the ruddy fairy queen or something?’
Schulze spun round. A big sailor stood there, hands on hips, looking at the naked man in bewilderment.
‘Well, cocker,’ the sailor demanded. ‘Lost your ruddy tongue? What ship are you from, chum? And why you run –’
Schulze dived forward. His heavy shoulder caught the sailor in the chest and his words ended in a surprised gasp as the air
was knocked out of him. But to Schulze’s surprise, the man did not go down. Instead he recovered and jabbed the outstretched fingers of his right hand into Schulze’s face, trying to blind him. Schulze dodged them at the last moment. He grabbed hold of the man, burying his own face in the sailor’s chest so that he could not try the blinding trick again and sought the Tommy’s brawny neck.
The sailor grunted and brought up his knee. Schulze blocked it with his own knee and winced with pain. The sailor, he told himself grimly, must have learned his dirty tricks in the same waterfront dives as him. Thrusting up his powerful arms, he tried to break Schulze’s hold. It was a wrong move. Schulze let go suddenly. The sailor stumbled. Next instant Schulze’s tremendous hands wrapped themselves around his neck. Feet astride, eyes bulging with effort, veins standing out on his forehead, Schulze exerted all his strength. The sailor thrashed and gasped, wriggling frantically to break that murderous hold. To no avail. The sailor’s struggles grew weaker and weaker, then suddenly his body went limp and he hung there lifeless, held upright only by Schulze’s grip. Schulze held on to him for a few moments longer before lowering the dead sailor gently to the deck. ‘Poor brave bastard,’ he whispered and then after taking a deep breath, he continued towards the bridge.
* * *
The British armoured car skidded to a crazy stop. Three men jumped out and set up the bren gun in a flash. Von Dodenburg ducked. A line of slugs slapped along the wall above his head, spurting yellow flame and sprays of plaster every time they struck. ‘Back,’ he yelled and retreated the way he had come.
Directly behind them two British snipers were firing out of an upstairs window. Von Dodenburg could see the muzzles of their rifles projecting through the window. ‘Come on,’ he commanded, knowing they would have to brave the snipers’ fire now. Pressed tight against the wall, the escapers edged from doorway to doorway. Slugs bounced off the bricks. Here and there a man yelled with pain as he was struck. Matz was wounded again. He cried out in rage and pain and overcome by a sudden madness, he dashed out into the middle of the Street and raising his Schmeisser, completely ignoring the bullets slapping the cobbles all around him, he fired an angry burst upwards.
The glass shattered like a spider’s web. There was a shrill scream and one man came sailing out of the window to smash onto the cartridge-littered cobbles, while the other staggered back, his face red with gore. They ran on.
* * *
Before he could realize what was happening, Schulze’s machine pistol butt slammed into his face and sent the jaunty young skipper sailing against the wall of the bridge. The officer’s face blanched. ‘What…what…’ he attempted to stutter, staring in astonishment at the naked giant who had appeared from nowhere on his bridge.
‘Schnauze!’ Schulze rapped, kicking the door closed behind him and flashing a quick look around the tiny bridge. He had been right. The charts and instruments were scattered across the small conning table, as if the scared young officer who faced him had been just planning a course.
‘You are German?’ the skipper, who did not look a day over twenty, said, dabbing his bleeding face with the end of his silk muffler.
‘No, Father Christmas,’ Schulze sneered, relieved all the same that the young skipper seemed to understand his language; it would make his task easier. ‘Now listen, no harm will come to you, if you do exactly as I say. If everything works out right, Tommy, you’ll be spending a nice holiday in Germany, out of the nasty war for good. So listen.’
Carefully he explained what he intended to do, while listening all the time for any unusual movement from outside. But everything seemed to be normal. As yet no one had discovered the dead seaman’s body and raised the alarm. But it would not be long before they did; he knew that.
The young skipper looked at him, his gaze a mixture of fear and complete disbelief. ‘You can’t…get away with that,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is impossible. Unmöglich…impossible!’
‘Then you’d better make it possible,’ Schulze snarled and raised his Schmeisser. ‘Or you’ll be a dead duck. Now come on, let’s get cracking…’
* * *
‘How far now, Prof?’ von Dodenburg gasped and halted for a moment in the cover of a buttress. Behind him the panting survivors, most of them wounded, clattered to a stop, grateful for the rest even though the Tommies were still firing at them.
‘Quarter…quarter of a kilometre,’ the ‘Prof’ gasped. ‘I think this is the Kasr El Nil.’
‘Thanks,’ von Dodenburg swung round to Matz. ‘Now, Corporal, what do you think? Where are we going to find Schulze? With this ship of his.’
Matz shrugged. ‘All he said was to tell you to come to the docks. He was going to get Wotan a ship.’
Von Dodenburg breathed out hard. ‘Alexandria is a damn big port. That rogue could be in any one of a dozen places.’ A slug whined off the bricks just in front of the buttress and reminded him again of the danger they were in. ‘All right, come on,’ he cried. ‘We can’t just stand here!’
* * *
‘My God, man, don’t you realize we’ve got to kill every last one of them!’ Slaughter, his face blackened with gun-smoke and his uniform ripped by bullets, cried angrily.
The harassed infantry lieutenant pointed to the cook and the regimental postman dying in the corner of the shattered wall. ‘But my lads have had it, can’t you see,’ he protested. ‘They’re base wallahs, not fighting men.’
‘The bren carrier,’ Slaughter snapped, pointing to the little carrier.
‘But my driver has been hit,’ the Lieutenant objected.
‘Drive it yourself then.’
‘I can’t,’ the lieutenant answered.
‘No, because you’re yellow – you’ve got a yellow streak a mile wide down your back,’ Slaughter cried in rage and snapped at the boy in Arabic. ‘Get in.’
He slid into the driver’s compartment. Next to him the boy fondled the mounted bren gun lovingly, his dark eyes shining; he had never seen so much killing as he had this night.
Angrily Slaughter clashed home the gear and let out the clutch. The bren carrier jolted forward. At 30mph it rattled along the Kasr El Nil towards the port. ‘Get ready with that gun,’ he ordered, as the snap-and-crackle of small-arms fire indicated that they were coming closer to the spot where the Germans were trying to break out of the trap.
The boy beamed at him. ‘Never fear effendi,’ he replied, ‘I will do you honour with it.’
They clattered over the debris of war to where a couple of wounded SAS men lay in the gutter next to a smashed tram car, still firing their weapons at a group of houses, walls bullet-pocked as if with the symptoms of some loathsome disease. Slaughter braked. ‘Are they in there?’ he asked. One of the SAS men, a bloody gash down the right of his face in which his one eye lay like a pearl, croaked in a hoarse Yorkshire accent ‘Ay, that the booggers are.’
Slaughter let out the clutch. The carrier shot forward. The fire from the houses where the Germans were holed up intensified. The boy pressed the butt of the bren into his right shoulder as he had seen the British do. He pressed the trigger. Tracer began to zip towards the houses. Bullets pattered against the carrier’s armoured sides. Neither the Major nor the boy flinched. Both were possessed by an all-consuming rage and desire to kill the men who had plagued them for so long. This time they would not escape again.
* * *
As the little armoured carrier rattled past the two snipers who were holding up all further progress to the port nearby, von Dodenburg saw his chance. ‘Matz, Meier after me!’ he barked.
He vaulted out of the window and doubled forward towards the advancing carrier. The boy saw them at once. He swung the machine-gun round. A flood of tracer headed towards them. Meier skidded to a stop and sank to the cobbles, staring at the bloody hole ripped in his thigh, his liquid eyes full of disbelief.
Von Dodenburg and Matz, the veterans, kept going. Instinctively Matz knew what his CO was going to do. When the two groups of desperate men, we
re separated by a matter of metres, Matz cried, ‘Now sir,’ and fired a burst right at the driver’s slit. The bullets whined off the metal crazily. Matz knew that they could not hurt the driver, but they could put him off. Just as von Dodenburg ran up the bren carrier’s glacis plate, Slaughter, confused by both the tactics and the bullets, braked hastily, throwing the boy face forward against the metal front. Next moment, von Dodenburg was inside the stalled carrier. The boy, his face covered with blood, squirmed round in the tight compartment to face this unexpected enemy. Von Dodenburg did not give him a chance. Balancing on the side of the carrier, he aimed a tremendous kick at the boy’s head. The Blue Veil howled with pain, and red and blue lights exploded in front of his eyes and he slumped in his seat stunned.
‘You bastard – you German bastard!’ Slaughter screamed as he saw his beloved boy fall back. With surprising speed he sprang from his seat and rose to grapple with the man towering above him.
Matz squeezed the trigger of his Schmeisser. Slaughter howled with unbearable anger as the burst ripped his back wide open. Grabbing the air, trying to keep his balance as if he were climbing the rungs of an invisible ladder, he crashed over the side.
Von Dodenburg grabbed the dazed boy by the scruff of his neck and flung him out after his lover. Sobbing blindly, the boy cradled the dead man’s head in his lap, stroking the suddenly still face with his brown hand. Major von Dodenburg slipped into the driver’s seat and re-started the engine. Matz sprang over the side next to him. Now the survivors began to stream out of the houses behind the cover of the bren. Over the roar of the engine, von Dodenburg yelled: ‘Follow me!’
