The Hazards of War

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  The Hazards of War

  Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Text copyright © 2013 Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  All Rights Reserved

  For Dad

  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Prelude

  RAF Sergeant Stephen James Cartwright shivered away in the empty fuselage of the Dakota cargo plane. The thin aluminum skin was no protection at altitude, nor was the sheepskin-lined clothing that covered everything but his eyes. Comfort was defined by rubbing the exposed parts of his face above his oxygen mask to keep his eyebrows from freezing. Cartwright’s companion on the other side of the fuselage did the same, with about the same frequency.

  “Good God, I’ve got to take a piss,” Simon moaned. “How long do you think it’ll take to get us home, now?”

  “Why don’t you go in the soup can?” Cartwright asked.

  “Are you out of your mind? I don’t want my equipment to freeze off. There’s no way I’m whipping it out this high up. Maybe I’ll just go in my trousers, bet that’d feel nice, eh?”

  “Until your piss freezes, too. Then you’d be worse off than you are now.”

  A barely visible furrow creased Simon’s forehead above his oxygen mask. “What’s a man to do, then? How do they expect us to not turn into icicles back here?” He shifted uncomfortably in his harness. “Who the hell designed this plane?” he added, attempting a joke.

  Cartwright also struggled to find some amusement amidst the misery. He rubbed his eyebrows again. At least they were dry. Many bombing runs into Nazi Germany caused the crew to work up such a sweat manning the guns that the frozen perspiration on their skin made for a brutal flight back to England. A specialty mission like this was a cakewalk. Lieutenant Donner had shown up at just the right time.

  He and Simon stared at each other. Cartwright watched as his mate apparently decided he couldn’t hold it anymore. Simon unstrapped part of his parachute and busily pried his personal hydraulics through multiple layers of flight gear. He must have been bad off in order to take a piss at fifteen thousand feet.

  Donner’s voice crackled through Cartwright’s headset. “Hang on back there, lads, we’ve got a little company.”

  “Damn it, can’t they wait until I’m done? There’s no courtesy left in the world today, Stephen. No courtesy at all.”

  “Did you expect any less from the Jerries?”

  The Dakota started to bank to the left as Cartwright grabbed a hold of one of the cargo straps. The night sky would have been pitch black outside. How on Earth had the Germans seen them? That was why the British flew bombing runs at night, to avoid contact, unlike the brute defiance of the American daylight raids. Cartwright wondered if they had been picked up by ground radar like the English had used during the Battle of Britain. Even then, he wondered how good the fighter pilots could be when surrounded by blackness.

  Simon sat on the opposite side of the fuselage several feet further down towards the tail. The only light inside the plane provided by two working bulbs, and the dim light compounded the queasiness Cartwright felt as the plane pitched and rolled. He tried to talk to take his mind off their helplessness.

  “Did you use that soup can yet?”

  “I don’t think my aim is good enough,” Simon replied. “Why?”

  The plane banked to the right.

  “I need something to puke into.”

  “Just aim away from me, and pray it freezes before it smells.”

  “I think I’ll aim directly at you,” Cartwright said.

  “Then I will be forced to plant my foot in your arse.”

  The fuselage twisted left and pitched downward. Cartwright felt his stomach rise up into his brain.

  “The Old Man seems to be trying to do that for you.”

  “For both of us,” Simon quipped.

  The plane continued through evasive maneuvers in the darkness. Cartwright’s nerves were starting to fray. On a normal bombing run, the formation would stay on the straight and narrow in order to control the coverage over the target area, even if the flak from the 88’s was thick and heavy. Hard evasive flying really wasn’t something he was used to, something he hadn’t really anticipated when he had volunteered for the mission.

  A thunderous Crack sliced through the air.

  The Dakota shuddered violently. Cartwright barely managed to hold onto his cargo strap and not tumble down toward the cockpit. Simon was not so lucky. The other Briton somersaulted through the air into a metal rib with a sickening thud.

  “Simon!”

  The plane nosed into a freefall. Cartwright clung desperately to the strap as his feet violently dangled about. What the hell had happened?

  Donner’s voice crackled on the intercom, “The wing’s gone! Get out! Get out!”

  Oh my God, Cartwright thought. His mind raced through ways to get to the rear hatch. He pulled his weightless body up towards the tail of the plane by grabbing any handhold he could find. Despite the formidable bulk of the Dakota, it kept trying to twist away from his grip as it hurdled out of control towards the Earth. He had to get out, and fast.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Cartwright reached the rear hatch and grabbed the release lever. He fought for what little leverage he could manage and popped the hatch away and open from the fuselage. Light from the burning engine danced savagely on the remaining wing, flashing orange and yellow bursts that were quickly swallowed up by the darkness. Cartwright wedged himself in the hatch opening against the blast of cold air and looked back down the plane. Simon’s body floated limply in the dead air, and no one had come down from the cockpit—not Donner, not the co-pilot, no one. No one else was anywhere close to bailing out. Were they dead? Should he go back in and try to pull them out?

  The dive was so steep that the fuselage was vertical. The whine from the engine was audible even over the rush of air. Time was running out.

  Cartwright agonized on what to do. He had known Simon since the beginning of his enlistment. But the Old Man had said to bail out, and that was final—it was the captain’s job to manage what could be done to save the crew, not for the crew to second-guess his commands. They weren’t supposed to go back into the plane. They were supposed to get out.

  Cartwright had thought he was as fatalistic as the other men of the RAF when it came to flying against the Germans, but at this moment of truth he realized he was terrified of dying.

  With a twinge of fear and no small amount of regret, he looked one last time back at Simon, drew his lips tight, and hurdled out into the darkness.

  1

  Soldiers at war often fight the weather as much as the enemy. Today, the weather was winning.

  Captain Hans Tiedemann of the Waffen-SS stood in the frigid rain and watched his men try—and fail—to get their truck free. It was a hopeless affair. Each time the Opel seemed like it was about to regain enough traction to move back onto the unpaved road, the tires would invariably slip at the last moment become stuck once again in the quagmire. The soldiers, their camouflage smocks shrugging off lines of water, would bow their heads in frustration and tr
udge over to try once again. All Tiedemann could do was follow attempt after vain attempt. They were going to be here forever.

  “Herr Hauptsturmführer?”

  Tiedemann turned and struggled briefly for the name of the lieutenant next to him. Krauss, he thought. Too many people in his Kompanie were new, with too little time for them to regroup in southern France. That’s what happened when battle groups returned from Russia. Decimation. Scores of replacements. It would take time to learn all of their names. Or maybe Tiedemann shouldn’t bother, and it would be easier to forget them when they died.

  Krauss was on the short side, a narrow mustache underneath his angular nose and glasses. He was shielding a partially folded map from the rain with the side of his coat. Tiedemann could barely recognize their location through the failing light. Heavy lines from Luxembourg to Avignon represented the roads on which they were supposed to be, but where Krauss was pointing was in the middle of a blank space devoid of any signs of civilization.

  “I think we’re here, sir,” he said as he fingered the map. “Seventy, maybe seventy-five kilometers south of Dijon, heading south. I don’t know where we got off of the main road. No one saw any signs that indicated a wrong turn.”

  “Who was navigating?” Tiedemann asked.

  Krauss paused for a moment. “I was, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

  Nodding to himself, Tiedemann filed that little tidbit away for later. Krauss came from the General Staff. While Tiedemann was sure the mousy little man was bright, field navigation would be an area for improvement.

  Damn it, too many replacements.

  Chewing out an officer in a cold November rainstorm wasn’t going to help matters. Tiedemann instead wanted to know what could be done to fix their current mess. They had a schedule to keep.

  As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps atoning for his sin of poor geography, Krauss offered a possible solution. “Sir, according to my notes, there’s a French manor house about a kilometer further down this road. Domaine des Contis, a small vineyard. If you would be inclined to stop for the night, we could take shelter there and wait out the rest of the storm.”

  “We’re supposed to be in Perpignan the day after tomorrow,” Tiedemann replied. “The Americans are in North Africa as we speak, and if they mean to invade southern France they will not wait on us because you got us lost. We still have some daylight left, even with this blackened sky. I intend to make use of it.”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than their problematic Opel lurched forward, showering the soldiers around it in a great splattering of mud. From there the truck quickly fishtailed out of control and slid off the opposite side of the road. Men picked themselves up out of the filth, and even through the heavy rain Tiedemann could see on their faces that the outlook was grim. The truck had overturned into a gully alongside the road. It wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

  Scheisse.

  Tiedemann glanced over at Krauss and their eyes met. There was a moment of silence, then without a word both men looked down in unison at the map.

  The house was a large structure that sat on top of a hill and jutted up almost imperceptibly against an angry sky. Tiedemann led a small group of men up a winding path with another lieutenant named Heinrich Springer close at his side. He didn’t know much about Springer either, except that he had been in the Hitler Youth and spoke French, and that was enough for the moment. The rest of the men stayed to secure their vehicles roadside for the night.

  The stone path was treacherous and kept them exposed to the stinging rain. They were in a fine mood by the time they reached the double doors.

  Springer pounded loudly on the wood with his fist.

  “Attention! Nous sommes les soldats allemands! Nous vous commandons ouvrir les portes au nom du Führer!”

  There was no response. Springer repeated his command to open the door, then grabbed a Mauser rifle from one of his men and punctuated his order with several strokes against the wood. Gradually, faint scrapes and scuffles could be heard from the other side. A few moments later and a door opened to reveal a blonde, middle-aged woman holding a short candle. She was clearly dressed for bed.

  “Qui est ce dehors là?”

  “Stand de côté au nom du Führer!” shouted Springer.

  “Ce qui?” The woman was blocking any passage to the warmth inside.

  “Étape de côté, maintenant!” Springer shoved the Mauser at her to leave no mistake about whether or not they were coming in.

  “Mouvement? Ah! Ah, non! Robert! Robert!”

  The indignation on the woman’s face was plain as day, but a soaking Tiedemann didn’t care. The people of a conquered land were subject to the will of the conqueror. Passing troops often required food and shelter and most of the French north of the Demarcation Line cooperated—begrudgingly. However, down here in Vichy France, which was presumably still independent, the Germans would have to be a little more forceful. Not that they wouldn’t treat everyone decently. France was a cultured country. The Russians received quite a different handling.

  The SS troops forced their way into the house. Tiedemann stood in the rear, edging out of the rain as best he could until he was sure his men had secured the area. The doors opened up into a large foyer that revealed corridors on the left and right, with limestone flagstones underfoot that darkened with the water the men brought in. On the grand staircase that faced them, a Frenchman in his late forties was rapidly descending the steps with his palms forward to show he was unarmed. The woman who had answered the door was clearly yelling at him to do something, evident to the Germans in spite of the language barrier.

  “Gentlemen, is there something we can do for you?” the Frenchman asked in workable German.

  “We require shelter for the night,” Springer announced with all the authority of the Reich. “You will provide for our men until the storm ends and the roads become serviceable. Your treatment will be fair if you follow instructions properly and don’t force us to throw you out.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man answered in a stammering voice. The horrified reluctance was as plain as day on his face, though he quickly regained his composure. “The six of you are welcome in our home. We are more than happy to greet travelers with a spare bed.”

  Springer interrupted him. “Six? We have closer to twenty. Officers will be taking over the bedrooms and furniture as required. You and your family may displace to another part of the house as long as you don’t cause trouble.”

  The Frenchman turned white.

  The wife saw his reaction and started jabbering at him in incomprehensible bursts. The Frenchman answered in kind, and whatever he said made the woman even more agitated than when she had opened the door to a group of armed men. Springer tried to bark instructions but found himself increasingly ignored as the domestic argument spiraled out of control. The lieutenant’s face began to turn red and he reached for the Mauser he had used on the door.

  Tiedemann saw what was about to happen and decided it was time he brought their introduction to a close. He stepped through the gauntlet formed by his men and approached the Frenchman.

  “What is your name?”

  Silence descended upon the room save for the pounding of raindrops outside the open doors.

  “Conti, monsieur,” said the Frenchman. “Robert Conti.”

  Tiedemann studied the man for a moment. He was short, well groomed, and clean-shaven. Still quite pale. The brown hair slicked across his head covered a touch of baldness, and his clothes were well tailored with the vague smell of cigarette smoke. Judging by the appearance of the man and his home, it wasn’t much of a leap to guess that Conti and his family must have lived well and enjoyed their wealth before the war.

  “You say your name is Robert Conti?” Tiedemann asked politely.

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “You are the Robert Conti of the winery, Domaine des Contis?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Ah. I thought so,” Tiedemann said, s
miling. “An excellent vineyard. I especially liked your, oh, what was it, Cadiau 1934. I used to have several bottles, that is, before the war started. What an outstanding stroke of luck for us to have happened upon your manor.”

  “Merci. We have tried to work very hard at making the best wine possible.”

  “And you have succeeded, very much so.” Tiedemann took a dramatically deep breath. “Monsieur Conti, my men have their own equipment, bedrolls, and provisions. All they need is a roof over their head out of this dreadfully cold rain. Perhaps, if you thought it fitting, they could simply sleep on the floor?”

  Conti seemed to regain some of his color at this concession and was now merely off-pale. “Of course, monsieur, if that would be all they need, we could certainly accommodate you. The ground floor would probably work well. Uh, that is, I think there would be room for that many men.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be fine. As far as my officers and I are concerned, however, we would hope for more comfortable accommodations. If that could be arranged, of course.” Tiedemann looked directly into Conti’s eyes. “We wouldn’t want anyone to have to sleep outside in this awful weather.”

  The Frenchman started nodding slowly, glancing over at his wife before looking back at Tiedemann. The threat was not lost on him. “Yes, yes, we have a few rooms upstairs that would work well. If there aren’t too many of you. My wife could bring you some linens if you like.”

  “That would be splendid. Please ask her if she would do so.” Tiedemann stretched out his arm towards where the woman stood at his left, prompting Conti to begin making the necessary arrangements.

  Tiedemann walked back to the open doorway. He could see Obersturmführer Eppler, another one of his lieutenants, leading the rest of the platoon up the path towards him. That was good. But when he turned around it was obvious that Springer was seething. He looked like a dog that had just been yanked back on his leash by his owner.

  Conti’s wife had already left the room, and Conti himself was calling up the staircase for either servants or more family members to assist. Tiedemann pulled Springer over for a private conversation.