‘It’s broken,’ she said. ‘Go on, be a love.’
He was too tired to protest. All he wanted was to collapse into bed, but he knew the quickest way to achieve this was to do as she said.
‘Okay,’ he said in a falsely cheery tone, before calling the two boys who were exploring upstairs.
Not only would the three of them be able to carry more water than he could on his own, but it would also give their mother some time to herself, which she clearly needed. After locating appropriate vessels, they set off in search of water.
The drizzle was stopping with the sky threatening to restart at any moment. The wind blew hard, whistling through the long grass which towered over Niklos’ head. The ground behind the inn was an unkempt wilderness. Viktor told the boys to stay where they were until he had made sure the wasteland held no nasty surprises. He stumbled his way across the uneven surface, sometimes in grass up to his waist. Suddenly, Viktor slipped down a muddy bank landing on his back, ending up like some ailing insect. The two young boys ran over to help him, trying to stifle their laughter as their muddied father struggled back to his feet.
Peter, the elder boy, stared at his father, gauging whether they would be in trouble for laughing, bracing himself for a telling off. As Viktor reached the top of the bank, his frown broke into a huge beaming grin. They laughed together for the first time since leaving Danzig. After a very muddy cuddle, they recommenced their search for water.
A quarter of an hour of searching was ended by Peter shouting, ‘Over here! Over here!’
Viktor scurried over to the child, who was leaning against an old well. A sprawling hawthorn bush partially obscuring it from view.
Among the weeds lay an old bucket. Despite it being rusty, there were no holes in it. When he tried to attach it to the well’s spindle, Viktor found the rope was missing. The three of them could only find a few frayed inches of old cord strewn on the ground. Certainly not enough to reach the water. He looked to the sky and muttered to himself before sending Peter to fetch the rope they used to tether Miedziak.
‘Niklos, find me a stone,’ he said.
The young lad scoured the wasteland, returning with a round, grey pebble in his hands. Viktor held it over the well while his youngest son eyed him suspiciously.
‘What are you doing that for?’
‘When I let go, I want you to count out loud.’
Viktor released his grip, and the stone disappeared down the well.
‘One.’
‘Two.’
‘Three.’
Splash!
Viktor let out a celebratory cheer.
‘What does it mean, Dad?’ Niklos asked, slightly confused.
‘It means the well has not dried up,’ he said.
Niklos cheered but was unsure why.
Peter returned with the bundle of rope strung over his shoulder. He was surprised to see his father and brother celebrating.
‘What’s making you two so happy?’ Peter asked, worrying if he was the subject of a secret joke.’
“There’s water in the well,’ Viktor said triumphantly as he eagerly took the rope from his son.
The notion there might not have been water had not occurred to Peter, leaving him puzzled.
‘Don’t worry about it—I’ll explain later,’ said Viktor.
Viktor tied the bucket to one end of the rope, making the two boys play a game of ‘tug of war’ with the line to ensure it would not come loose when laden with water. Once he was sure they were not going to lose it down the well, he fastened the free end to the spindle.
The children started to turn the iron handle, finding it difficult at first but slowly building up speed. After a few winds of the handle, the rope went slack.
‘Okay,’ said Viktor. ‘That means it’s reached the water. Give it time to fill.’
They waited patiently before rewinding the handle. Crystal-clear water slopped over the bucket sides as it reappeared.
‘Perfect,’ Viktor said, after tasting it cautiously. ‘Now let’s fill up those bowls.’
It took three further buckets to fill all their pots and pans. They carefully staggered back towards the inn. With only a couple of minor spillages en route, they walked into the bar to find a fire blazing in the grate. Zofia was sitting at one of the tables chopping vegetables.
‘Well done. Put those pots on that table,’ she said to the boys. ‘Now, take off those wet things before you catch your death of cold.’
She stripped the two boys down to their underwear, placing their soggy clothes over the table nearest to the fire while Viktor bolted the inn’s front door, securing them for the night.
***
The rain was falling hard. Henry was very wet and hated being on his own. He had too much time in which to think. Sending the entire squad away meant he was isolated and vulnerable. Crass decisions like this had gotten Mayberry killed. His thoughts turned to the soldier they had left behind. He did not know for sure if Joe was dead, but the severity of his injuries suggested his chances of survival were negligible. In contrast, he was not too self-critical when it came to Robert Scott’s death. That had been unfortunate, but out of his control.
He heard footsteps behind him. Using a log for cover, he lay on the ground, releasing the safety from his weapon. His breathing quickened as his eyes darted from tree to tree. Some leaves rustled to his right, his finger trembling on the trigger. To his relief, Alf Morrison emerged from the foliage, followed promptly by O’ Shea and Travers. The three men walked over to Henry, still lying on his belly in the mud.
‘Are you all right, Sarge?’ Morrison asked jovially.
‘Just relaxing,’ he laughed, clicking the safety back on before rising to his feet.
‘We found this one wandering back up the hill,’ said the teenager, pointing at Alf.
‘Anything of interest in the town?’
‘I’ve loads to tell you,’ Morrison said mysteriously.
‘Excellent,’ Henry said. ‘Did you find us anywhere to shelter?’ He turned his attention to Travers and O’Shea.
‘There’s a small hunting cabin over that ridge,’ the medic said proudly.
‘Great,’ said Henry emphatically. ‘Let’s get out of this weather, then Alf can tell us about what he’s found.’
Pat led them along an indistinct animal track, then through a thicket of trees. Its location was perfect, a secluded cabin deep in the forest, but the rugged, wooden structure was tiny. With barely enough room to close the door, the four soldiers sat on the floor amongst their equipment. At least they were dry and out of the unpleasant autumnal wind. Henry immediately knuckled down to business.
‘I’m glad you made it back safely,’ he said, rather too formally. ‘Now Alf, what can you tell us about the town?’
‘Well, this snazzy coat was my best find,’ he said, trying to mimic a catwalk model in the cramped space.
‘Oh, very nice,’ said O’Shea in an exaggerated camp manner.
Henry started to lose his patience. They did not have time for this clowning around.
‘Oh, yes! I forgot to mention,’ Morrison said, noticing his sergeant’s frustration. ‘I now know where we are.’
Finally, a smile broke across Henry’s face. The others leaned forward, giving Morrison their full attention.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep, quite sure,’ said Alf confidently. ‘The town in the valley is called Prabuty,’ Morrison said.
The four men huddled around the broad sheet of paper in the evening light coming through the cabin’s only window.
‘Don’t ask me to pronounce it correctly, but we are here,’ Alf said, pointing at the map.
‘So, you think we are in this forest to the south of the town?’ Henry asked, his finger resting on their location.
Alf nodded.
‘That’s about seventy miles south-southeast of Danzig,’ he estimated.
‘So, does that mean we don’t have to go all the way into Danzig anymore?
’ Travers asked.
‘I guess not,’ Henry said. ‘Now, we are here, and this is where the dam is situated. We don’t have enough time to travel this distance and make the rendezvous.’
‘Well, there’s something else I haven’t told you,’ Alf said with a smile. ‘It is not shown on this old map, but Prabuty has a railway station.’
‘I don’t know where the MOD find their maps, but they’re missing some crucial information, don’t you think?’ O’Shea said.
‘I have more good news,’ Morrison said. ‘The train from Prabuty travels north to Elblag. From there, the line heads towards Danzig. The last one leaves at twenty-two thirty hours.’
‘How did you find out all this?’ Henry asked curiously. ‘I hope you didn’t make yourself too obvious.’
‘Nope, I sat in the bushes next to the track. Luckily, the station master was showing a Wehrmacht officer around.’
‘Germans!’ O’ Shea exclaimed, more loudly than he meant.
‘The town’s absolutely crawling with them,’ Alf said sternly. ‘There were a few narrow escapes, but don’t worry, I wasn’t compromised.’
‘Are you sure you weren’t followed?’ the sergeant asked, glancing nervously out of the window.
‘Yes, quite sure,’ he said. ‘I watched the path for half an hour before coming back up the hill.’
‘Good,’ said Henry.
‘So, what do you think we should do?’ Travers asked.
Henry held up his map. ‘The train will help us regain some of the time we’ve lost,’ he said, formulating the plan.
‘Won’t that be a little risky?’ asked Travers. ‘It sounds as if they’re using the station to move in troops.’
‘There was always going to be danger,’ Henry said. ‘We knew it would be risky, long before we ever set foot in Poland. We’re going to have to take some chances if we’re going to complete our mission and get out.’
‘Can I say something, Sarge?’ O’Shea asked.
‘Of course.’
‘In my opinion, we should use the train.’
‘The Germans know we’re in the area, and you can be sure they’ll be looking for us. If we sneak out of here, they’ll be focussing their resources in the wrong place.’
‘I couldn’t say it better myself,’ Henry commented. ‘I suggest we go tonight before any more troops are brought in.’
Everyone nodded.
‘Alf, you’ve been to the station. Do you think we’ll be able to board a train without being spotted?’
Morrison paused for a while as he considered the layout of the station. ‘Yes, it is possible,’ he said, drawing the outline on the floor. ‘There’s a central platform which has a railway line on either side. There were several German guards positioned on the platform. But, I think we can get to the train from the other side, staying out of sight.’
‘Are you sure we can do it?’ asked Henry.
Alf nodded.
‘From the contours, the railway should run parallel with the main Danzig to Elblag Road,’ Henry said.
‘Where will we get off?’ Travers asked.
‘If you look here, thirty miles to the west of the Elblag, the road crosses a tributary of the Vistula,’ Henry said. ‘I suggest we leave at this point. From there, we can try to commandeer a boat and sail towards the dam. Do you remember what the major said before we left? There’s a high volume of traffic on the river, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find a vessel. But, if we can’t, we’ll have to cover this distance on foot.’
‘Anyone disagree?’
The mood in the cramped hunting cabin changed. They momentarily forgot the difficulties of the past twenty-four hours, focusing entirely on the task at hand. They plotted and schemed until every small detail was finalised. Every possibility had been considered and appropriate contingencies discussed.
***
The murky evening sky cast a sinister shadow over the checkpoint. Confusion reigned. Roehm struggled to understand the scene in front of him. A tall pillar of smoke emanated from a hole containing the twisted remains of guns and ammunition. Many corpses littered the ground, their eyes still open, any signs of life long departed.
Inside the hut were further bodies; a British soldier and several Wehrmacht guards lay on the floor. An unteroffizier with a severe chest wound lay on a table. He had been patched up with bandages. Despite his horrific injuries, he was still alive. A weak pulse was palpable in his neck, but he looked awful. Roehm shook him, but he was scarcely rousable. Apart from a few incomprehensible sounds, the man was unable to speak.
A team of medics, travelling with Roehm’s convoy, took over and inserted more intravenous lines and started running fluids into the ailing man, desperately trying to keep him alive until they could get him to an operating theatre in Danzig.
Despite it being late in the day, Roehm looked immaculate in his crisp SS uniform. He paced back and forth, trying to make sense of what they had discovered. Something was not right. If all the soldiers had been killed, then who had dressed the unconscious officer’s wounds? It could have been one of the British soldiers, but why would they have wasted time and effort on a Wehrmacht officer who had injuries so severe he was likely to die anyway? Also, why had they attended to this soldier but none of the others? Some had wounds which would not have killed them outright, so why had they chosen to treat this man? Was it because of his rank? Roehm thought this was unlikely. So, was there anything special about him? He thought about contacting Wehrmacht Headquarters in Danzig, to find out all he could about this soldier. However, that would mean the SS asking them for help, which his superiors would frown upon.
Roehm’s brain raced. This war was only three days old, and the British were already in Poland, despite no formal announcement of an invasion. That would suggest their mission had a clandestine nature. What could they want here? To the best of his knowledge, there was nothing of strategic importance in the area. What would warrant an operation of this level? Instinctively, Roehm knew he was missing something, but he could not put his finger on what.
Two stretcher bearers carried the critically injured officer towards the ambulance, with Roehm following closely behind. He sat on the hut’s doorstep as they loaded the stretcher into the back of the vehicle. The night was drawing in. Half of his men were digging graves, while two moved from body to body, removing the personal effects from the dead. A couple of his guards were preparing to spend the next twelve hours at the checkpoint, manning the barrier. He knew they were going to have a long, cold night.
‘Sir, we’re ready to go,’ his driver said.
‘Thank you,’ said Roehm, walking over to the guards who were going to be there overnight.
‘Stay vigilant,’ Roehm said. ‘There are British soldiers in the area.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ they replied.
Climbing back into the cab of the truck, he gave the instruction for the small convoy to move out. The driver glanced in his mirrors, then set off along the bumpy road back towards Danzig.
12
By seven o’clock, it was pitch black outside—virtually no light remained inside the crowded cabin. Henry intuitively applied more camouflage paint to his face while the others groped around on the floor for any belongings they had not packed away.
Bitterly cold, the four British soldiers set off down the valley. Apart from the distant lights of Prabuty, they could see nothing. Alf led the way, retracing his steps from earlier in the day, the others following in single file.
The grass was damp. On several occasions, Henry’s boots slipped from underneath him. He was not the only one. Every few steps, one of them would stumble in the darkness. Once they were off the hills, the terrain was much easier to negotiate. Nonetheless, they proceeded cautiously, using fences and trees as cover as they dashed from field to field.
At the southeastern edge of the town, they approached a squat, whitewashed farmhouse. A light emanated from the small, downstairs window. Instinctively, Henry put his finger t
o his lips unnecessarily. The fence posts stopped in front of the house, leaving a wide-open space for the men to cross without any cover. Alf dashed across the open land first, hiding against the farmhouse wall. O’Shea was next, swiftly followed by Travers. Henry hovered nervously, waiting for his colleagues. He was about to set off when he heard a click from the latch on the farmhouse door. Dropping to the ground, he witnessed an old farmer amble out.
With a broken shotgun over his arm, the farmer sauntered towards him, causing Henry’s stomach to knot. The old man rubbed his arms to keep warm. When he reached a point halfway from Henry’s position and the house, the farmer stopped abruptly. Henry thought he had been spotted and expected the old man to raise his shotgun.
Unaware of his audience, the farmer reached down and unfastened his flies. Steam rose as the old man began to urinate into a clump of long grass. Henry froze, unsure what to do next. His training had not prepared him for this situation. It was clear he had not been seen, but any sudden movement might alert the old man, provoking him to shoot. Half crouching and half standing, Henry prayed he would not be noticed.
The old man corrected his dress, then headed back towards the farmhouse. His colleagues smiled with amusement as Henry’s predicament unfolded, but Alf soon realised he and his two comrades would now be in the farmer’s line of sight. With nowhere to hide, they would have to rely solely on the darkness to conceal them. Alf and the others lowered themselves to the floor, their bellies pressed hard against the cold earth.
The old man sauntered back, blissfully unaware his movements were being scrutinised so closely. When the door closed, Henry darted over to the other three men.
‘That was close,’ he said.
‘Too close,’ O’Shea added. ‘I’m not sure I can take much more of this.’
‘Nice view?’ Alf asked glibly, causing Travers to snigger.
Henry raised his eyebrows, which said everything.
Three-quarters of an hour later, they had made their way to the railway track to the east of the city. Only a simple wooden fence separated the line from the field in which they were standing, and it provided little obstacle for the four of them. To avoid the sound of them walking on the rocky ballast, their successive steps had to land on sequential railway sleepers. Up ahead, a motionless steam locomotive straddled the track with the well-lit station on their right. In the shadow of the train was a thicket of leafy trees, almost encroaching upon the line. Perfect for concealing them.
The Danzig Corridor Page 9
