Incursion (A James Shaw Mission Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  Shaw watched him leave. Turning his head, he looked for Gert but could not see him. Something in the back of Shaw’s mind told him not to trust Gert.

  “Evening sleepy head,” said Bruce as he walked over and joined Shaw. In his hands was a fresh bowl of stew that he handed over to Shaw. The mouth-watering aroma of the stew made Shaw’s stomach rumble aloud.

  Thanking Bruce for the stew, he asked him how long he had been up.

  “About an hour,” replied Bruce. “I had to use the loo, but with none being readily available out here, I had to find a convenient bush to hide behind to do my business.”

  “There’s an image I didn’t need in my head.” Taking a spoonful of stew, Shaw was amazed at how good it tasted. These people clearly were at home in the woods. No wonder they had been recruited into the resistance, thought Shaw.

  A couple of minutes later, as Shaw finished off his meal, Carl walked out of the shadow-filled woods and told Shaw that everything was still good to go. Thanking him, Shaw realized that he was still hungry and went in search of some more stew.

  In the dark, the long shape bent down and sniffed the trail leading away from the craft. A few yards away, its smaller twin moved silently through the darkened woods and then stopped. Cautiously raising its head, it looked towards the light coming from the fire inside the fighter’s camp. The smell wafting in the air was intoxicating. There was food there, plenty of food for the taking. It had eaten an hour ago but was hungry again. If it were to grow larger, it needed to keep on feasting. But a feeling, deep down, told it to stay clear that it had to look elsewhere for now.

  There would be other opportunities, just not now.

  Stepping back, it turned about and moved over beside its twin. For a moment, their gold-tinged eyes met. With a deep guttural growl, the larger animal stepped off the trail and led them in search of their next meal. Both knew that they couldn’t wander too far in search of food. For now, they had to stay close to the craft. Their master expected it of them, and they had to obey.

  15

  German Weather Station

  January 19th, 1942

  Sturmbannfuhrer Wagner sat alone beside a pot-bellied stove trying to warm his cold hands. Since arriving at the camp, he had been sitting alone in the former installation commander’s office. Although swept as clean as they could make it, the dark-red bloodstains on the floor did little to make his foul mood go away. He had insisted on speaking with Vogel, but was respectfully informed by Lieutenant Beckers that he wasn’t in the camp and that he would have to wait until he returned to speak with him. Wagner was not used to being told to wait. He had grown far too used to getting things his way. He chaffed at sitting idle. His blood boiled over when he learned what had happened at the camp. Wagner was positive that Norwegian partisans were to blame. They must have somehow infiltrated the installation and murdered the entire German garrison in their sleep. There could be no other explanation for the deaths of the men. The army was wasting his time. The SS, not the Wehrmacht (the German Army), in Wagner’s opinion, were the true warriors of the Fatherland. It was they who would take the Fuhrer’s standard and place it in the capitals of the nations they would conquer in the name of the Greater German Reich. So far, Wagner’s time in Norway had been quiet and uneventful. For that, he despised the place. The war was being fought and won elsewhere, and Wagner desperately wanted to be part of it. Perhaps after his SS superiors saw how efficient and ruthless he could be by crushing the resistance in this area they would acquiesce to his demands for a posting to Russia, where he could earn another promotion while he perfected his art.

  The sound of a jeep pulling up alongside the building caught Wagner’s attention. Hearing a man outside barking out orders, Wagner was certain that Vogel was back. Standing, he brushed off the dirt from his black greatcoat, placed his cap on his head, and then with an arrogant smirk on his face, he waited. A few seconds later, Vogel walked into the office and looked surprised to see Wagner standing there.

  “Good day, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. My name is Major Jürgen Vogel. I was told that you were coming,” said Vogel, without offering his hand in greeting. “I, however, did not expect you here until sometime tomorrow.”

  Wagner instantly grew angry deep inside. His mission was supposed to be kept secret. How the army had found out he did not know, but he intended to find the person responsible and make them pay when got back to Oslo.

  “Coffee?” said Vogel as he reached for a pot brewing on top of the stove.

  “No, Herr Major,” said Wagner curtly. “My name is Sturmbannfuhrer Wagner and I am here to take command of your men. Did you know that your radio communications with battalion headquarters have failed?”

  Vogel poured himself a cup of coffee and then calmly said, “Interesting. That would explain a lot of things. I will have my radio operator check his gear right away. Now, may I please see your orders, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer Wagner?”

  Wagner stiffened his back. “I don’t need any orders. There has been partisan activity in this area, and I intend to eradicate it.”

  Vogel smiled. “Without orders signed by my superiors in Oslo, I will not relinquish command of these soldiers to you or any other SS Sturmbannfuhrer.”

  Wagner could no longer control himself. Like an erupting volcano, Wagner shouted, “You will do as I say or your superiors will soon hear from mine.”

  In the office doorway, Sergeant Muller placed his hand on his holster and eyed the enraged SS officer.

  Vogel grinned at Wagner’s childish outburst. If he expected a black uniform and a threat to talk to his superiors to frighten him, he was wasting his time.

  “Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, calm yourself,” said Vogel as he took a seat. “You can contact your superiors if you wish. I will not try to stop you, but with my radio down you will need to drive back to battalion headquarters to do so. I would, however, caution against leaving here as a heavy snowfall is expected shortly. The roads, such as they are, will soon become covered in snow and black ice. I can assure you that the roads will be extremely treacherous to drive on.”

  “What about the installation’s radios?” inquired Wagner.

  “Useless. They were all smashed to pieces by someone to prevent them from being used to contact the outside world.”

  “Telephone lines?”

  “Ripped to pieces. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

  Wagner fumed. He was trapped. If he couldn’t take command, then he could get Vogel to do something about the partisans. “Have you sent patrols to the village to interrogate the mayor and perhaps the priest to see what they know of partisan activity in the area?”

  Vogel took a sip of his coffee. He wanted to scream at the SS officer for his one-track mind, but decided that he had best try to keep things as calm as he could. Pointing at a chair, he said, “Please take a seat Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”

  Reluctantly, Wagner pulled over a chair, its legs scraping across the bold stained floor, and then, with a huff, he sat down.

  “I was in the village when you arrived,” explained Vogel. “I spoke with the mayor and several members of the village council. None of them denied that there probably was a resistance cell operating here. However, none of them claimed to know if anyone from the village was a member of the resistance. When I told them about the massacre here at the station, they all seemed genuinely surprised.”

  “Bah, they are all lying,” said Wagner, hitting his black leather gloves on the table to emphasize his point. “Let me interrogate them in private, and I will find out the truth.”

  “If I thought it might provide us with some actionable intelligence, as repugnant as might be to my personal morals, I would drive you down there myself and let you speak with the village council. However, I do not believe that they are lying to me.”

  “Herr Major, you are not as skilled in extracting the truth as I am,” said Wagner with a glint in his eyes. “Bring these men to me, and I will find out what happened here.”


  Vogel placed his coffee down and looked over at Wagner. His voice suddenly turned cold. “Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, come with me if you wish to learn what happened here.”

  Standing, Vogel led Wagner to the makeshift morgue inside the camp’s mess hall. Opening the door, Vogel waved for Wagner to enter. With a contemptuous look on his face, Wagner stepped inside. Seeing the rows of frozen bodies tied to chairs or laid out on the gore-covered floor wiped the sneer right off Wagner’s face. Turning on his heels, he rushed outside, his face as white as a ghost. Bending over, he instantly vomited. Retching painfully until his stomach only spat out bile, Wagner wiped the spittle away from his mouth. On unsteady feet, Wagner stood and turned to face Vogel. Smiling at Wagner’s display of emotion, Vogel saw that the man, like all bullies, was all talk. When faced with true horror, Wagner was as terrified as any normal man would be.

  Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Wagner pulled down on his jacket and tried to look as if he were once again back in control of his emotions. “They did this to our men?” said Wagner, his voice shaking.

  “If, by they, you mean Germans, then yes, they did this to themselves. For some reason, they all went mad and either committed suicide or killed one another until not a soul was left alive inside this camp.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know but I intend to find out why this happened.”

  Looking back towards the mess hall, Wagner asked, “Is that all of them?”

  “Oh no, I’ve saved the best for last,” said Vogel, indicating towards the barracks with his hand.

  On wobbly feet, Wagner reluctantly followed Vogel inside the barracks. At the far end, he could see a sergeant standing beside a soldier who was speaking Norwegian with an elderly looking man in civilian clothing. As he got closer, he could see that the man was examining one of four corpses laid out on the floor.

  “What is going on?” Wagner asked Vogel.

  “I brought the village doctor back with me. I wanted him to examine these bodies,” replied Vogel as he watched the doctor work.

  “Why?”

  “For two reasons, first, the medic assigned to come with me is nothing but a glorified pill pusher. He barely knows human anatomy. And secondly, because I want an expert to examine these four bodies.”

  “Why these four?”

  “They were murdered and then mutilated,” said Vogel, calmly as if discussing the weather.

  “You said that they were mutilated. How?”

  Vogel pointed to the body currently being examined on the floor. “You can see where someone cut them open and removed parts of their innards.”

  “Herr Major, you cannot honestly believe that German soldiers resorted to cannibalism?”

  Turning his head, Vogel looked into Wagner’s eyes. He could see that the man was scared out of his wits and was trying his best to put on a brave face. “Herr Wagner, I truthfully do not know what to believe at this time.”

  After carefully examining all four cadavers, the doctor stood up and tried removing the blood from his hands with his handkerchief. He looked over at the soldier assigned to translate for him and began to speak.

  The soldier waited until the doctor finished and then said, “Sir, the doctor said that the necks of all the men were shattered. This is what most likely killed them. After that, the heart, liver, and kidneys were surgically removed from the first three men.”

  “And the last one?” said Vogel.

  The soldier translated the question and waited for the doctor to speak.

  “Sir, he said that only the liver was removed.”

  “Ask him who he believes removed the organs,” said Vogel, trying to understand what had happened.

  A minute later, the solider said, “He is adamant sir, that a surgeon removed the organs. He said that the cuts were too precise for it not to have been done by a physician. As there isn’t a hospital for miles around here, he has no idea who could have done this.”

  “Thank him and have him driven back to the village,” said Vogel.

  Wagner stepped forwards and looked over at the doctor. “Also tell him to tell no one what he saw here today. We will know if word gets out. The repercussions to him and his family would be immediate.”

  A minute later, only Vogel and Wagner remained in the room. Walking over to the remains, Vogel pulled back the blankets, exposing the bodies underneath. Looking over at Wagner, he said, “What is wrong here?”

  “The last man, he’s not a German soldier,” replied Wagner.

  “Exactly. Why is a Norwegian civilian lying here beside these other men?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps he worked in the camp?”

  “A good assumption Herr Wagner, but wrong. I thought the same thing, but when I spoke to the village council, they made it clear to me that no Norwegians were allowed inside the camp for obvious security reasons.”

  Wagner stood there staring down at the bodies. He was about to say something when the far door opened and Sergeant Muller stepped inside. Walking over, he reported that Corporal Zach had returned and had found a partisan camp in the hills, barely five miles away.

  A flash of anger shone in Wagner’s eyes. Looking at Vogel, he blurted out, “You said that this wasn’t the work of the resistance.”

  “That is correct and I still stand by my theory. The resistance had nothing to do with this, but someone from that camp was here before we arrived and took a journal from the dead camp commander’s desk, and I want that journal,” said Vogel firmly. “Come Herr SS Major let’s see what Corporal Zach has for us.”

  With that, they left the barracks and walked outside. Already the heavy snowflakes were beginning to fall.

  It was going to be a long night.

  16

  Partisan camp

  January 20th, 1942

  Shaw switched on his flashlight and then looked down at his watch; it was fifteen minutes past midnight.

  A heavy snow had been falling for the past several hours, blanketing the camp. With the bonfire still burning bright, the look was almost festive, thought Shaw. A couple of seconds later, Carl walked back into the camp, his dark-blue jacket covered in snow. Stopping beside Shaw’s shelter, he passed on that he had just checked the charges on the craft and as before everything was as it should be. Shaw thanked Carl and then sat back under the tarp of his shelter. Although he had slept earlier, he felt himself becoming fatigued. A loud snort from Bruce made Shaw chuckle. It would appear that Bruce had no problem falling asleep anytime he wanted. Unfortunately, the man snored incessantly. Lying back, Shaw began to make himself comfortable, when he heard a man heatedly yelling at another man at the top of his lungs.

  Something was wrong. Shaw instantly sat up and looked around, trying to see where the noise was coming from. Whoever it was, the man was furious, thought Shaw.

  Suddenly, the shouting got louder and angrier.

  Shaw stood up, picked up his Thompson and saw that Anna and Wahlberg were also upon their feet, and moving towards a blonde bearded man threatening Carl with a knife. Instantly, Shaw was on the move. He had to help Carl before the man killed him.

  “You murdering bastard,” yelled the man as he brought his razor-sharp hunting knife back, ready to thrust it into Carl’s stomach.

  However, before he could strike, Wahlberg thrust out his right hand and grabbed the man’s knife hand from behind. Shaw, seeing his chance, stepped forward and struck the man as hard as he could in the stomach with his submachine gun, causing him to double over and moan in pain. Twisting the attacker’s arm, Wahlberg forced the man to drop his knife.

  Anna darted forward, grabbed Carl by the arm, and then pulled him back a few feet, giving everyone some breathing room.

  Grabbing the attacker by his jacket collar, Wahlberg hauled him up onto his feet. Anger still burned in the man’s dark-blue eyes. He looked like a man hell-bent on murder.

  All over the camp, men and women who had been sleeping were now wide-awake and rush
ing over to see what was going on.

  Shaw bent down, picked up the dropped knife, and then pocketed it. No point in leaving it around, in case the man or anyone else gets any ideas.

  Wahlberg shook the man by the shoulders and said, “Andreas, what the hell has gotten into you?”

  “He killed Gunnar,” said Andreas, pointing at Carl.

  A shocked murmur ran through the crowd.

  “I didn’t kill him,” protested Carl. “I haven’t killed anyone.”

  Wahlberg turned his head and looked around the camp for Gunnar. When he didn’t see him, he grabbed Andreas by the shoulders and then looked deep into his eyes. “Andreas, where is Gunnar?”

  “He’s lying dead at the sentry post.” Tears began to well up in the man’s eyes. Uncontrollably, his feet buckled out from underneath him. A second later, he was on his knees weeping inconsolably.

  “I’ll go and check,” said one of Wahlberg’s men.

  “I didn’t do anything,” pleaded Carl.

  A minute later, the man returned. Shaw could see that the look on his face was a mixture of sadness and confusion.

  “What did you find?” Wahlberg asked the man.

  “Gunnar…Gunnar is dead,” replied the man, struggling for words.

  A woman in the crowd broke out crying, while others began to look accusingly at Carl. In an instant, the mood in the crowd turned angry.

  “What happened?” said Wahlberg calmly.

  “His neck has been crushed, and his body has been violated,” said the man.

  “What do you mean by violated?”

  “His chest had been cut open. There’s blood all over the place.” The man paused for a second, took a deep breath, and then said, “I think his heart and liver are missing.”

  “Murderer,” yelled someone in the crowd.

  “I didn’t do it,” said Carl, looking about at the people he thought were his friends.

  Wahlberg drew his pistol, cocked it, and then said, “I want everyone to step back and give me room. We’ll get to the bottom of this. What I don’t need right now is all of this idle speculation. Now do as I say and back up.”