by James R Benn
Kaz made another throw, this time hitting the mark. He let go of the ladder, pulling on the rucksack with both hands. He grunted, leaning away from the fuselage. He yelled, cursing in Polish as he pulled as hard as he could.
The canopy slid forward. Kaz tumbled from the ladder, falling onto me. We both hit the ground hard.
“Are you okay?” I asked, checking his hand. The fabric was smoking.
“Yes, I think so.” He shook his hand and winced. “A small burn, perhaps, but nothing too bad.”
I could see a red line in his palm by the light of the fire. Another few seconds and it would have been much worse.
“But we must take care of that,” he said, pointing to the canopy. The rucksack hung from the exterior handle. I looked around for the branch, which would now come in handy. As I did, I saw a faint light in the distance. Moving. Bouncing, as if going over a country road.
“Germans!” I whispered, even though I could have shouted without my voice carrying far enough to worry. On the run in civilian clothes behind enemy lines had that kind of effect. I grabbed the rucksack and gathered up the contents I’d emptied from it. The headlights were closer now, coming cross country and making for the burning wreckage. Kaz tossed me my coat and we hightailed it out of there, due east, up a gently rising knoll, until we were safely under cover in the pines.
“Give me your hand,” I said, opening the first-aid kit. I squeezed burn ointment into his palm and wrapped it with gauze. Kaz whispered his thanks as we peered into the night, watching two trucks park near the Lysander, headlights illuminating the ground around it. Germans swarmed about the aircraft, dark smoke billowing from the engine as the fire lessened. I could make out shouted orders and saw soldiers fanning out in a methodical search. Nothing unusual about that. If they thought this was a planned landing gone bad, there might be members of the Resistance nearby. Not that any sane SOE pilot would voluntarily set down a few miles from a Luftwaffe airfield.
“We should go,” Kaz said.
“Right,” I said, stuffing the medical kit back into my rucksack. I rummaged through the contents, looking for the map, hoping it included our current area.
It wasn’t there.
“Damn,” I said with a hiss. “The map’s gone. I thought I put it back.”
“They might not find it,” Kaz said. “Or they may think it came from the aircraft. The front canopy was fairly smashed.” A dog barked. Sharp, mad dog growls.
“If he has a scent from the map—” I said.
“Run,” Kaz said, grabbing me by the shoulder. I followed, working to keep Kaz in sight. Moonlight was sparse within the pine forest, the sound of Kaz’s feet on the soft ground my best guide. We both took a few tumbles, tripping on roots and rocks invisible in the gloomy dark.
Soon the land began to slope downward, and we sped up, sliding and careening through stands of dead pine, many of the trees snapped in a windstorm like matchsticks.
“Careful,” I panted, catching up to Kaz. “We don’t need a broken leg.”
“That would be inconvenient,” he said, gasping for breath. “As would be a German shepherd at my throat.” We took a quick rest, heaving in the crisp night air, listening for sounds of the chase. Barks echoed against the hillside, the dog excited at the prospect of a moonlight hunt.
“How fast can a dog run?” Kaz asked.
“Plenty fast,” I said. “But his handler won’t let him run free. He’ll keep a tight leash until he has us in sight.”
“And then?”
“Then they shoot us, or unleash the dog. Unless we give up, and then they shoot us later.”
“The prospects are quite limited, Billy. Is there anything can we do?”
“Keep running, for one. There’s a chance that dog is a plain old guard dog. He’d be dangerous if he saw us, but if he’s not trained to follow a scent, all we need to do is stay ahead of him.”
“Let’s go,” Kaz said. “Since we have no way of knowing, we should assume he is tracking us. Although it is your scent on the map, Billy.” Before I had a chance at a wiseacre comeback, the barking started up again. Too close for comfort, tracker or guard dog.
I wet my finger and held it up. The wind was coming from the east, the direction we were headed.
“We could start a fire,” I said. “It’s the only thing that could throw him off the scent.”
“Burn all traces,” Kaz said. “Good.”
“The smoke will do most of the work. The wind will blow it right in their faces. Gather some wood.”
We were surrounded by dead and weathered limbs, perfect for starting a forest fire. The trick was to get it going fast. They’d spot the fire in no time, so it had to be a blazing inferno with thick, choking smoke before they got too close. We stacked small branches against a fallen tree and I lit a match. The wind blew it out. I tried another, shielding it with my body. The flame took, climbing twigs and brush until it leaped onto larger sticks, the dry pine a tinderbox of roaring, dancing fire in no time. The wind fanned the sparks, sending glowing embers out over the fallen trees.
We had our inferno.
A rapid pace took us to the crest of the next hill, where we stopped to rest and check on our pursuers. Lines of yellow and red blurred by whirling smoke snaked down the slope, obscuring our visions. And theirs. No dog barked, no boots thumped against the ground.
“They’ve given up?” Kaz said.
“Or wised up,” I said. “Why fight your way through smoke and fire when there are other Germans to the east? There have to be patrols along the Swiss border.”
“We’re not close enough for border patrols,” Kaz said. “I prefer to think they’ve gone back to their warm beds. No reason for all of us to be miserable out here.”
“You’re a prince, Kaz,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder as we leaned into the wind and continued our eastward journey.
“A mere baron, Billy, but thank you.”
Chapter Three
The esteemed Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz and I huddled in a shepherd’s abandoned cottage. At least I hoped it was abandoned, since that would mean no one else had been forced to spend a night in this dump for years. It smelled like a barnyard and the wind howled through the one window, which held no more than a shard or two of glass. Moldy blankets littered a rough-hewn bed frame. We stretched out on the hard-packed dirt floor, which was the cleanest thing in sight.
Kaz—I called him that since his full name was a mouthful—was a lieutenant in the Polish Army in Exile. He and I worked for General Eisenhower, which probably had a lot to do with why we were in this ramshackle hut in southeastern France right now. Last night we’d had a rendezvous with an SOE Lysander. Special Operations Executive, that is. Lysanders are SOE’s preferred means to ferry agents in and out of occupied France. We’d expected to be taken back to London after our last assignment, but someone had a better idea: send the two of us to the Swiss border, smuggle us across, and then have us make contact with the OSS, a different group of highly dangerous letters. The Office of Strategic Services was an American outfit, modeled after the SOE. Why they wanted us in neutral Switzerland, I had no clue, but I did have hopes it would be a rest cure in a peaceful nation. Some wags claimed OSS stood for “Oh So Social,” since they drew a lot of personnel from Ivy League schools and the elites of industry, Wall Street, and high-powered law offices. If it meant reservations at a nice hotel, I had no problems with their pedigrees.
But we were a long hike from the Swiss border. First we had to make it to Cessens and meet our French Resistance contact. Then a team of Jedburghs—SOE commando types—would get us across the border, evading both German patrols and Swiss border guards. After that, our orders were to meet with an OSS operative in Geneva, not too far from the border. Easy, right? That’s what our pilot said when he’d briefed us at the pickup. Now he was a charred corpse.
It
was supposed to have been so easy that we weren’t prepared for an overland trek. We were dressed in suits and overcoats, with civilian IDs using our real names. The paperwork showed that we were attached to the American Legation as assistant economic attachés which would hold water for about ten minutes if anyone questioned us. Travel in or out of Switzerland was limited and strictly regulated. The Swiss government knew exactly how many diplomats were attached to each legation. Right now I would have happily traded my phony identification for a Thompson submachine gun and a grenade. All we had were the meager supplies in our rucksacks.
I was too worried to sleep. Kaz snored softly as I listened to the sounds of the forest, every rustle of leaves and gust of wind making me grip my .38 Police Special revolver even tighter.
“Billy, wake up,” Kaz said, his low voice penetrating through the fog of sleep. Okay, so fatigue had trumped worry.
“What?” He pointed in the direction of the broken window. Outside, a man stood cradling a rifle. He was watching us, his face devoid of expression, the rising sun painting the clouds pink at his back.
“Bonjour,” Kaz said, smiling as he slowly stood and pushed open the door. I followed suit, grinning at the prospect of better accommodations. The fellow didn’t smile back, or do much of anything. He stared at each of us in turn, his rifle held lazily within the crook of his arm. He wore a black beret covering long, dark, curly hair. His corduroy pants were mud stained, and as dirty as his worn leather jacket and threadbare sweater. His boots, the bayonet in its leather scabbard, and his Kar 98k rifle were all German.
“Resistance?” I asked.
“Comment vouz appelles-vouz?” Kaz said, asking his name. He didn’t respond, but moved toward us, taking Kaz’s pack and searching through it. He studied the K ration packet, his brow furrowing as he contemplated the English description. Then he held up the box of bullets, his eyebrows raised.
Kaz understood. He slowly lifted his Webley revolver from his coat pocket, and then returned it. I did the same with my pistol. Our friend gave a quick nod, the closest we’d come to any kind of communication.
Kaz unfolded his map and held it open. “Où sommes-nous?” Yeah, it would be nice to know where we were. He studied the map, Kaz still gripping it. He smiled and pointed to a spot in the air, about a foot to the left of the sheet.
“I guess mine was the one we needed,” I said as Kaz folded and stowed his map.
“Yes, this one shows more of Switzerland,” Kaz said. “Suisse?” he asked, his finger tracing the Swiss border.
The swarthy fellow spat, his dark eyes narrowing at the mention of the nation. He crooked his finger and strode off. Kaz offered up a shrug and followed. We didn’t have much choice, so why not? Any port in a storm, any Resistance fighter when you’re lost in the forest. If that’s who he really was.
He led us up another steep hill. The terrain was a series of folds in the landscape: a hill, a narrow valley, then an even higher hill. We trudged along, on paths and through meadows ripe with wildflowers. It was mid-June, and spring was in full bloom. Scant days ago, men had fought, struggled, and died to assault the beaches in Normandy. It felt strange to be walking amid such beauty, heading to neutral safety, as the battle to liberate France raged a few hundred miles to the north.
We neared the top. The trees were thinner here, and we moved with care along a rocky path, hunched over and heads down, watching the terrain ahead for any sign of movement. At the ridgeline, the view was stunning. Below, a wide valley glistened in the sunlight, a broad river cutting through lush green fields. In the far distance, snowcapped peaks floated in the haze.
“Switzerland,” Kaz said. Our guide—or whatever he was—didn’t respond.
“Cessens?” I asked, keeping things local. “Lake Gris?” At the mention of the lake, he faced me, his eyes quiet pools of dark light. He held my gaze for a long time, then glanced at my pack. I got the message. I broke open the K rations and gave him the can of diced eggs and ham. It went into his pocket, along with the small pack of Chesterfields. He sat, stretching out his legs on a flat rock. I handed around crackers and we all munched in silence, enjoying the view.
“Américaine?” His voice was gruff, nearly a growl, as if he didn’t use it much. He pointed at me as he picked crumbs from his bushy mustache. I nodded.
“Anglais?” he asked Kaz, a sneer on his lips.
“Polonais,” Kaz said. That got something close to a smile, Poles obviously being in his favor more than the English.
“Cessens,” he said, pointing with a sweep of his hand to the opposite side of the river, to the southeast. His hand moved to the right, pointing out a high ridge and waving as if jumping over it. “Lac Gris.”
“Is that the Rhône?” I asked Kaz.
“Yes. It’s the last bend in the river before Cessens. It looks much wider than it did from the air, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. How do you say boat in French?”
“Bateau. Avez-vous un bateau?” Kaz leaned over to look the fellow in the eyes.
He shrugged. Maybe he knew where we could find a boat, or maybe he was bored.
“Comment vous appelez-vous?” Kaz said, trying again.
“Yeah, my name’s Billy. What’s yours?” This attempt didn’t even warrant a shrug. Ignoring our questions, he rose and began walking down the slope. With no better choice, we followed.
Below us, a road paralleled the river. We were more furtive heading down, darting from the cover of trees and hiding behind boulders until we were sure the coast was clear. There wasn’t much in the way of traffic, nothing but a few bicyclists and a farmer on a horse-drawn cart. Still, it didn’t pay to take chances. Any of the innocent-looking French travelers could be an informer.
We halted in a grove of saplings, the last cover before open fields and the road ahead. With a finger to his lips, he gestured for us to be quiet as he peered out from behind the trees. Then, apparently satisfied with the silence, he beckoned us to follow. He sprinted across the field to the road, diving into a ditch on the opposite side. Thick grasses provided decent cover as we lay prone, waiting for who knows what. He waved behind us, his hand forming a pistol; then he aimed his rifle through the grass, right at a bend in the road.
“He wants us to watch the rear,” I said, drawing my pistol. “What the hell is he up to?”
“He appears to be waiting for someone,” Kaz said, his voice a whisper. “It seems he was not guiding us anywhere. He was simply heading here for this ambush.”
“Why the hell won’t he talk?” I said. Kaz gave me the finger-to-the-lips treatment, which was good advice in the ambush business, I had to admit.
We waited, scrunched down in the tall grass, the river on one side, an open field on the other, in the care of an unknown rifleman waiting to fix someone in his sights.
We heard the motor. A deep-throated growl, echoing off the hills. No, it was two engines, two distinct sounds. After checking the other direction—it was clear—I watched for the vehicles to round the bend.
First came a motorcycle, with a sidecar. The passenger held a Schmeisser submachine gun. Then a staff car followed about thirty yards behind. That had to be the target. One rifle against two Krauts on the motorcycle, a driver and maybe one or two officers in the car. Not the best odds, even with the two of us and our peashooters to watch his back.
The motorcycle drew closer.
A sharp crack sounded as he fired, metal flying from the hood of the car. He worked the bolt and fired again. The motorcycle wobbled, swerved, and crashed, the driver having taken a hit from his second shot.
A third shot, and the windshield on the staff car shattered. Steam gushed from the radiator, where his first bullet had been aimed to disable the vehicle. He fired a fourth round on general principle and stood, watching, as the staff car slowed and veered off the road, coming to rest in the ditch.
We follow
ed, stealing glances to our rear as we approached the motorcycle. The Kraut in the sidecar struggled to get out, his Schmeisser still slung around his neck.
Kaz put a bullet between his eyes.
I glanced at the other German, who been thrown from the motorcycle. His chest was a red blossom where the bullet smashed through his sternum.
The staff car was tilted to the side, the doors on the right jammed against the ditch. The driver was dead, having taken a shot to the face. One officer stumbled out, fumbling with the pistol in his holster, a dazed look on his face. Our companion brought the Kraut to his knees with a rifle butt to the head.
His captive was a major. In the SS. He wore the runic symbols on the lapel of his gray uniform and the death’s head insignia on his service cap, which lay on the road in front of him, an unspoken accusation.
Quite a prize, this major was. Red oozed from a cut on his temple, and he moaned as his hand came away thick with his own blood. He looked at us, his eyes wide in a silent plea for mercy. Much the same look as his captives must have given him when the tables had been turned.
Our man grabbed the Kraut from the back by his hair and drew his bayonet. Its sharpened edge shone bright in the morning light. He looked at the blade, admiring it, then to us.
“You wish to know my name? It is Anton Lasho, and I kill every German I see.”
He twisted the handful of hair and pulled the SS major’s head, laying the blade against his skin. He whispered in the German’s ear as he drew the blade across his throat. He stepped back, watching blood spurt and gush as the major grasped his neck, fingers clutching the gaping wound in a futile attempt to stem the bubbling flow.
Chapter Four
Lasho dragged the four bodies into the middle of the road. He beamed when he saw how Kaz had drilled the motorcyclist, gracing Kaz with a maniacal grin.
“A Pole knows what to do with Germans, yes? Kill them,” he said, “like the swine they are.”
