‘By the way, mate, grey really doesn’t suit you,’ Alf quipped, his attempt at humour failing to lighten the gravity of the situation.
With his helmet pulled down low and a machine pistol over his shoulder, Travers was visibly shaking as he started up the steps. On the tiller platform, the teenager stood with his back to the patrol boat.
Turning rapidly, the teenager squeezed the trigger. His main priority was the machine gunner. He sprayed the foredeck with bullets, causing the soldier’s body to recoil as he took multiple hits, killing him instantly. The sound of gunfire prompted the three other British soldiers to commence firing through the small portholes in the side of the barge. Their target was the pilot. If he managed to escape, the entire German Army would descend on them.
The surprise of the attack had stunned the crew. With the machine gunner dead, the pilot was virtually defenceless. He opened up the throttle and attempted to speed away as Travers redirected his fire. The boat’s engine fought against the rope, tethering it to the much heavier barge.
The wheelhouse windows shattered, throwing shards of glass into the air, the pilot’s body slumping over the wheel.
‘Cease firing!’ cried Henry, prompting an immediate halt to the shooting.
The pilot was dead, but his hand remained on the throttle lever. With the engine revving wildly, the rope creaked under the strain before it snapped. As the force was released, the boat sped off.
The patrol boat hit the opposite riverbank hard, becoming airborne, before crashing into the woodland beyond. It eventually came to rest, hidden from view, deep in the undergrowth on the far side of the river. The engines still emitted a dreadful noise, likely to attract any nearby German patrols.
‘Alf, take the barge over to the other side,’ said Henry. ‘Terry, keep your eyes peeled.’
Morrison leapt up to the tiller deck and restarted the barge’s engine. He deftly guided them across the river, bringing the vessel alongside the other bank.
‘Alf, keep a lookout,’ he said, looking up the stairs to the platform. ‘Pat and Terry, come with me.’
The three men jumped over the side rail, then hurried towards the noise. Hurdling several broken and uprooted trees, they were surprised by how far it had travelled. Henry and the medic climbed aboard cautiously, while Travers stayed hidden in case any unspotted crew members tried to make a getaway. Ducking underneath a low-hanging branch, the two of them edged around the gunwale of the boat. O’Shea nudged the machine gunner’s body with his boot, causing the corpse to roll over, splaying its limbs awkwardly. He thumbed his weapon’s safety catch anxiously as his sergeant ducked under the metal canopy into the small wheelhouse.
Broken glass crunched under Henry’s boots as he shuffled into the narrow space. His stomach churned when he saw what remained of the pilot. The bullet-riddled body was slumped over the wheel, the back of his head missing, replaced by an oozing, stellate exit wound. The pilot’s left hand was still gripping the throttle lever, causing his body to hang ghoulishly. Swallowing hard to fight back the revulsion, Henry grabbed the lever, pulling it into an upright position. The vibration underfoot reduced before he turned the key, bringing the engine to a stop.
In the eerie silence, he glanced again at the dead pilot before stepping onto the foredeck.
‘It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ Henry said.
O’Shea clutched a rosary in his one hand, while the middle finger on his other gripped the trigger guard of his weapon.
‘Have a good look round and make sure no one else is on board.’
Henry signalled for Travers to join them.
‘Right, Terry, what I need you to do is search every nook and cranny of the boat. I want as much rope as you can get your hands on.’
The teenager nodded, wondering what Henry was planning.
‘Alf, can you tie all these together?’ said Henry as his two colleagues dumped coils of rope onto the tiller platform.
‘Sure thing, Sarge,’ said Morrison.
‘Pat, come below and gather up all our belongings,’ Henry said. ‘I don’t want there to be any traces of us being here.’
Henry followed him. Dragging the body to the foot of the steps, while the others set about their work.
‘Alf, can I come up?’ he asked.
‘Hold it,’ he said, knotting two ends of rope together. Two barges are coming around the bend.’
‘Let me know when it’s clear.’
He waited impatiently until they had passed out of view.
‘Okay, you’re safe to come up now,’ Alf said.
Henry dragged the body onto the platform, then heaved it over the side. He jumped down and lugged the corpse deep into the bushes. Morrison quickly checked the river was clear before waving him back aboard.
‘I’ve finished the rope,’ Alf announced. ‘What do you want it for anyway?’
‘We have to put the Germans off our scent,’ he said, trying to catch his breath. ‘They need to think we’re on this side of the river.’
None the wiser, Morrison smiled.
‘That’s not going to be long enough,’ said Henry frankly, studying Alf’s handiwork. ‘We need more.’
Alf prowled around the flat roof of the barge, but found nothing. Henry poked his head out of the doorway and checked that the coast was clear before dashing again to the patrol boat.
O’Shea had obviously been quite thorough with his search. After frantically scouring the vessel, Henry found nothing. As he was climbing back over the rail, a thought struck him. Due to the ghoulish appearance of the pilot’s corpse, he suspected the medic may have avoided searching the wheelhouse. Henry trotted back across the foredeck to the pilot’s body.
Coiled up on a hook at the back of the cabin was a length of cable used for towing. He threw it over his shoulder, then struggled with the heavy cable back through the undergrowth to the riverbank.
‘This is what we needed,’ he said jubilantly.
He gave one end to Alf to incorporate into the knotted rope he had been making.
‘That’s better. It’s plenty long enough now,’ said Henry.
‘I don’t understand,’ Morrison said. ‘What’s it for?’
‘All will become clear,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Take us over to the other bank.’
The barge’s engine choked to life, and Alf manoeuvred the boat accordingly.
‘Are you two ready to go?’
‘Yes,’ came the reply as two faces appeared from at the foot of the steps.
Travers was wearing his British uniform again, and the medic was slipping on his jacket.
‘I want you to unload all our kit,’ Henry said. ‘Dump it on the riverbank.’
O’Shea appeared with his medical bag and his own pack. He was about to climb over the rail when Henry stopped him. Taking the two bags from him, Henry dropped them over the side onto the ground.
‘Go below and boil the kettle,’ he said to the medic.
‘Oh! Okay, Chief,’ O’Shea said, somewhat bewildered.
Travers continued unloading their belongings while Alf sat on the tiller platform, watching the river. After five minutes, O’Shea’s face appeared in the doorway. ‘The water’s boiling.’
Henry turned to Travers and Morrison. ‘You two, take all our kit and hide in the treeline.’
‘Okay,’ they replied, confused as to what Henry was up to.
Henry disappeared below decks.
From where they stood, Alf and Travers could hear raised voices.
‘I’m not doing it!’ the medic refused.
‘But you’re the lightest,’ Henry reasoned.
The shouting died down, and Henry appeared with a steaming kettle in one hand and a bath towel in the other. Alf looked quizzically at Travers, who shrugged. He jumped onto the riverbank and placed them on the ground.
‘Alf, can you hand me one end of the rope?’ Henry requested.
Morrison handed it to Henry, who struggled across the boggy, leaf-covered surf
ace with the cumbersome length of knotted rope. He tied it around the trunk of a sizeable tree before returning to the barge.
‘Are you ready, Pat?’ asked Henry.
‘Yep, is it safe to come up?’
To Terry and Alf’s surprise, O’Shea appeared on the tiller platform wearing only his underpants. ‘Tie this around your waist. Make sure it’s secure,’ Henry said, giving it to him. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose you.’
The medic fastened the rope as instructed, glaring at his sergeant. Meanwhile, Henry smiled back reassuringly, gathering O’Shea’s clothes and boots in his arm.
‘Take the barge over to the other side of the river and moor up,’ Henry said. ‘Do what you have to do, then let us know when you’re ready.’
Pat nodded.
Rubbing his arms to stay warm, O’Shea started the engine and followed Henry’s instructions. He disappeared from sight for a few moments, before climbing onto the footplate to face his colleagues. This was not going to be pleasant.
‘Take the strain!’ Henry said to his two colleagues.
Morrison and Travers picked up the rope and drew in the slack. Checking it was tied securely around his waist, Pat O’Shea gave a wave before diving into the river.
‘Pull as hard as you can,’ said Henry. ‘We have to get him out of the water as quickly as possible.’
‘One, two, three, pull!’ he yelled. ‘One, two, three, pull!’
The force of the fast-flowing waters made O’Shea more cumbersome. Alf and Travers struggled as the soggy rope became hard to grip. Henry joined in and started heaving the medic towards the riverbank.
‘Keep going!’ he ordered, as the strength of consecutive pulls weakened.
Every so often, O’Shea’s body broke the surface, each stroke bringing him nearer to the bank.
Finally, O’Shea collapsed in the shallow waters. His dripping body was blue, shivering continually. Henry ran into the water and dragged O’Shea back to the cover of the trees. Laying his colleague’s quivering body on the ground, Alf swiftly wrapped him in the towel.
‘Cover him up,’ Henry said. ‘We can’t let him develop hypothermia.’
Morrison dried the medic briskly with the rough towel. At the same time, Travers stayed in the treeline, watching for signs of anyone approaching. They dressed O’Shea in his uniform, then placed Alf’s overcoat around his shoulders.
Using the hot water from the kettle to heat a ration pack, Henry shovelled it into the frozen man’s mouth. The medic slowly began to warm up, but it was many minutes before he was able to speak again.
‘Don’t ever make me do that again,’ O’Shea said, his teeth chattering.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think you have any idea how cold that water was,’ he shuddered, struggling to talk.
‘You did a great job. It’s over now. Just get yourself warm. Okay, everybody, listen up. We’re leaving in five minutes,’ said Henry. ‘Alf, untie the rope from the tree. We’re going to have to carry it for a while before we ditch it.’
‘Why? It weighs a ton,’ stated Travers.
‘If they find it on the riverbank directly opposite the barge, it won’t be long before the Germans put two and two together and conclude we’re on this side of the river. That would mean Pat would have gone through all that for nothing. Not to mention, we would have wasted a lot of time. Time we can ill afford.’
‘Do you think you’re able to walk?’ Henry asked the cold medic.
O’Shea nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ll be all right.’
‘We’ve been in one place far too long,’ he said. ‘They’re going to notice the patrol boat’s missing soon. When they do, they’ll descend on this place in vast numbers. Hopefully, this little decoy will distract them for a while. So, grab your things. We have a long walk ahead of us.’
Alf helped O’Shea to his feet, offering to carry his backpack until he had recovered. After stuffing the damp towel into the top of his rucksack, Henry threw the half-full kettle into the fast-flowing waters of the Vistula. It floated at first, filling as it was dragged along by the current before sinking out of view.
15
Standing in Agnes Trinke’s room, Lieutenant Kruse knocked sheepishly on the door of his own office.
‘Come,’ shouted the voice from inside.
‘Hauptmann, may I have a word?’ he asked nervously, closing the door behind him.
‘What is it?’ Roehm snapped from behind the desk.
‘One of the Wehrmacht patrol boats has not reported in for nearly two hours. At first, we thought they had a problem with their radio. Now I’m wondering whether their disappearance has something to do with the British soldiers you mentioned,’ he said, his voice falling to a barely audible mumble.
‘When did you last hear from them?’
‘A couple of hours ago. They were using one of our relay communications teams to update their Headquarters in Danzig.’
‘What was their last message?’
‘They were inspecting a barge travelling up the river.’
‘Did they give any indication why they felt it warranted a closer inspection?’
‘They said it was riding high in the water, but it was heading up the Vistula,’ the lieutenant said, stumbling over his words.
Roehm did not understand.
‘It suggests it had no cargo,’ the lieutenant explained, unfolding a large map across the desk in front of him. ‘Barges usually travel downstream to collect coal from the mines around Danzig. This barge appeared to be empty, but was travelling upstream, away from the city.’
Realisation dawned on the hauptmann’s face.
‘It doesn’t sound important, but apparently it’s really unusual,’ Kruse added.
‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about this earlier,’ Roehm said, his demeanour thawing slightly. ‘We could’ve been out looking for them for the last couple of hours.’
‘Sir, since the invasion started, we’ve been having serious problems with our radios. When you arrived, we had lost contact with twelve units. I didn’t want to concern you unnecessarily if it turned out to be purely a communications problem. The network is now working, Sir, and we have reconnected with the others,’ Kruse said, ‘but not this one.
Roehm nodded, appreciating Kruse’s predicament. ‘Do you have their last coordinates?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ the lieutenant said, removing a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘It’s about an hour away by road.’
Kruse handed a transcript of the patrol boat’s final message to the hauptmann.
‘Okay, we need to double the number of patrols on this section of the river and make sure they all report in every thirty minutes. If they’re even a minute late, I want to know about it, understood?’
‘Very good, Sir.’
‘Now, load up fifty of your men. We’re going to find that boat.’
Roehm studied the map sprawled across the desk. He located the Wehrmacht boat’s last known position and surveyed the surrounding area. All his instincts told him this was the work of the British soldiers. Where were they heading? To the east and west were forests and farmland. He could think of no reason why they would be interested in those. His finger followed the Vistula as it wound its way through the countryside. Suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine. Twelve miles to the south was the Pomeroze region. He did not know much about Poland, but he knew it was the industrial hub for the north of the country. The armament factories and the hydroelectric dam would make perfect targets for a small team of saboteurs.
One of the reasons for the invasion had been the region’s industrial installations. These would boost Germany’s manufacturing capabilities and bolster their war effort. The repercussions of losing them so soon did not bear thinking about. Alarmingly, the British soldiers were now moving with relative ease.
Grabbing the phone, he contacted the police and made them aware of the situation. Roehm then asked Agnes to connect him to the Wehrmacht garrison
at the dam.
‘I wish to speak to the officer in charge,’ he asked politely.
‘May I ask who is calling?’ replied an officious-sounding secretary.
‘Hauptmann Roehm of the SS,’ he answered.
‘I’m afraid Captain Miro is not in the office currently, Sir,’ she said.
‘Is there nobody I can talk to?’
‘No Sir, the men are out on patrol at the moment. You could always call back later,’ the receptionist said.
He presumed she must be a civilian due to the tone in which she spoke to someone of his rank. ‘No, tell him to ring me at the SS headquarters in Malbork as soon as he returns.’
Roehm fidgeted with his collar while he waited impatiently for Kruse to organise his men, becoming more agitated as time ticked by. When the lieutenant was finally ready, he climbed into the cab of the lead truck while Kruse sat in the second vehicle. Unfolding a map across his thighs, the hauptmann showed the driver the position of the patrol boat’s last known location.
A combination of tiredness and anxiety was causing Roehm’s head to swim. He had to catch these British soldiers. Otherwise, things would become increasingly difficult for him in Berlin. The Roehm family name had been unpopular with the higher echelons of the Nazi Party ever since Hitler and his uncle, Ernst, had fallen out. The stigma was apparent whenever he met anyone of substantial rank. In private, everyone talked fondly of his father’s late brother, but as soon as someone else was in earshot, their comments became much more acerbic.
After thirty minutes in the truck, the small convoy arrived on the eastern bank of the Vistula. Before the vehicle had stopped, Roehm had opened the door and was climbing out. The water flowed tranquilly in front of him. A cold breeze ruffled the hair sticking out from under his cap. A couple of hundred yards up the riverbank, a coal barge was tethered to the opposite bank. He thought nothing of it at first, but an unexplainable sixth sense made him curious.
‘Damn, we’re on the wrong side of the river,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Get back in the trucks!’
Hauling himself back into the cab, he instructed the driver to take them over to the other side. The throaty engine started. The driver crunched into first gear before driving slowly over the uneven riverbank. They lurched over the bumpy ground before rejoining the tarmac, gathering speed as they travelled along the leafy country lanes.
The Danzig Corridor Page 12
