The driver slowed as they approached a stone bridge. A barrier, obviously erected hastily, spanned the road on the other side. The taller of two SS guards whispered something to his colleague before walking towards the driver. Roehm beckoned the sentry over as he wound down the window.
‘Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?’ the hauptmann asked.
‘No, Sir,’ the squad leader said after saluting. ‘You’re the first people we’ve seen since we arrived a few hours ago.’
‘If you see anything suspicious, please contact the SS headquarters at Malbork immediately,’ Roehm said, before adding, ‘Keep up the good work.’
He closed the window and waited for the barrier to rise.
They made their way down to the river again, stopping a few yards from the barge. The hauptmann ran along the riverbank, scrutinising its external appearance. Nothing looked out of place, but he knew this had something to do with the British soldiers. Kruse and the other infantrymen jogged to catch up with him.
‘Search the barge!’ ordered the lieutenant, drawing level with Roehm.
Three SS soldiers stepped forward and climbed over the side onto the tiller deck. They removed the safety catches from their weapons and readied themselves. The lead soldier looked at the hauptmann, who nodded his confirmation. He forcibly kicked open the wooden door which led down to the barge’s interior. As soon as his foot made contact with the door, a massive explosion rocked the barge, blowing off the soldier’s lower leg. Letting out a sickening scream, he fell backwards onto the deck. The other two soldiers were killed instantly in the blast, one thrown into the river, the other slumped lifelessly against the deck rail.
‘You,’ Roehm bellowed at the soldiers nearest to him who had witnessed the grim scene. ‘Get them onto the bank.’
A couple of soldiers waded into the water, then dragged their dead comrade back to the shore while the screaming, injured soldier was lowered carefully into the arms of a group of men. The lieutenant rushed to the wounded man, administering firm pressure to the blood vessels in his groin, attempting to stop the bleeding from his mutilated leg until a tourniquet could be applied.
A young, fair-headed man, wearing a Red Cross armband, sprinted along the bank, commenced bandaging the soldier’s lower limb and giving him some morphine from an ampoule.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ Roehm shouted to anyone who was listening. ‘Search the area!’
The soldiers scattered as the hauptmann marched over to Kruse.
‘Well, that leaves us in no doubt. The British are responsible for the disappearance of the patrol boat,’ he commented, flexing his leather-gloved fingers.
After twenty minutes, a private came running. ‘Lieutenant, Lieutenant,’ he called.
Roehm and Kruse hurried towards him.
‘I think you should see this,’ said another ashen-faced squaddie standing at the water’s edge.
They ducked under some low trees, then scrambled through to where some of the others had gathered. Pushing his way to the front, Roehm struggled to interpret what he was looking at. Embedded in the undergrowth was the missing Wehrmacht boat. Its propeller had gouged a deep scar into the forest floor, coming to rest at an angle up against a copse of trees.
The vessel was heavily pock-marked with bullet holes, the deck stained with dried blood.
‘Is there any sign of the crewmen?’ Roehm asked an unteroffizier who had climbed onto the beleaguered craft.
‘They’re all dead, Sir,’ he replied reluctantly.
‘Bag them up and load them onto the truck,’ Kruse said, heading back out to the water’s edge. ‘Keep an eye out for any more booby traps.’
The two officers emerged from the undergrowth, deep in conversation.
‘I’ll instruct Berlin to inform their families,’ Kruse said gravely.
Roehm nodded, staring out across the water. Two soldiers walked past, carrying one of the dead bodies covered with a sheet. He asked the men to stop. Pulling back the cover, he revealed the corpse of the pilot of the boat with the back of his head missing. From their position, they could see right into the vault of his skull. Kruse doubled up and vomited uncontrollably. Roehm replaced the sheet, letting the two stretcher-bearers continue their grim duty.
‘We need to find them and make them pay for this,’ Roehm said.
‘I’ll further increase the security on this side of the river,’ the lieutenant mumbled, trying to collect himself.
Roehm paused before speaking, ‘I want foot patrols up and down the riverbanks as far as the Pomeroze Industrial Area. Also, I think we should ask our friends the Luftwaffe to fly continually up and down the river to see if they can spot them from the air.’
Kruse nodded.
***
After several hours of trudging through the dense forest, the small group of British soldiers could see the dam. The light had begun to fade at around four o’clock. By five, the daylight had all but vanished, replaced by the dim glow of the moon. They had made their way up to higher ground so they could keep track of the comings and goings from the industrial complex in the valley below. The relative silence was shattered by a plane appearing overhead. Its spotlights raked the forest, causing them to press themselves against the surrounding trees.
Once it had passed, the four of them sat down, all eyes focussing on Henry.
‘If you find yourself separated from the rest of us, you must be back here by zero three hundred hours,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll be leaving at three. So, if you’re not here, I’ll assume you’ve been captured or killed, and we shall leave without you.’
‘If we’re late, what should we do?’ Travers asked.
‘If you are late, you’ll have to make your own way to the pickup,’ Henry said. ‘Our rendezvous is at midnight tomorrow at the lake to the north of the town of Prebensz, about twenty-five miles west of here.’
‘What if we miss it?’ O’Shea asked.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to do that,’ Henry said. ‘If you miss the pickup, you basically have two options. You can either make your own way back to Britain or alternatively, you can hand yourselves over to the Germans. Hopefully, you’ll spend the rest of the war as a POW.’
O’Shea fidgeted uncomfortably.
‘My advice to you is, if you’re stuck here on your own, make your way to one of the big cities. Then, make contact with the Polish resistance. They should be able to help you out of the country. But be careful you are not sold down the river by someone posing as a friend. If we succeed tonight, the entire Fourth Army will be out looking for us.’
Henry looked around the group. They were listening intently.
‘Be under no illusions,’ he continued. ‘They’ll want to make an example of us for the German propaganda machine.’
No one spoke for several minutes as they mulled over the grim possibilities.
Henry broke the awkward silence. ‘Alf, what’s the state of play with the explosives?’
‘Remember these?’ he said, unclipping one from his backpack. ‘They’re new, the Army has never used them, but don’t let that bother you. The two key things are: they’re waterproof and weighted. They sink to the riverbed, so they are perfect for blowing up dams. All you have to do is set the clock, prime them, then drop them in the water next to something you want to blow up. Make sure you don’t throw them too far from the dam because all they’ll do is cause a big splash. Just remember, they need to be right next to the wall.
‘I don’t like it,’ O’Shea said bitterly. ‘I mean, we’ve not even practised with these explosives, and now we’re expected to use them for real. What if they don’t work?’
‘These have been specifically designed for this mission,’ Henry butted in before O’Shea’s negativity gripped the whole group. ‘They only arrived the day before we flew out. There was no time for us to practise, but I’m assured by the major they’ll work fine. We have to ensure they land in the water close to the dam—right, Alf?’
> ‘That’s right,’ Morrison said with a nod. ‘They function in the same way to what we used back in Aldershot, the only difference is they’re waterproof.’
‘It feels like years since we were in England,’ said Travers. ‘I can’t remember what we had to do with them.’
‘Don’t panic, mate. The explosives are fairly simple to use,’ Morrison reassured him. ‘Think of the timer as a small alarm clock. The difference being, you don’t want to be lying next to it when it rings.’
No one laughed at Alf’s feeble attempt at humour.
‘What time are we setting the clocks for?’ Morrison asked.
‘Four o’clock,’ Henry said. ‘That’ll give us an hour to get as far away as possible before they go off. Once they go off, things are likely to heat up.’
‘Surely they’ll know we’re here by then?’ asked Travers.
‘No!’ Henry replied. ‘We can’t go in guns blazing. We have to sneak in, plant the devices, and leave unnoticed. Remember, there are only four of us. We can’t draw too much attention to ourselves, or we’ll never get out of here alive.’
Sitting on the ground, everyone listened to the rest of Henry’s briefing.
***
It was ten o’clock in the evening, and Captain Miro had not returned Roehm’s call. He paced back and forth, irritated, while a tired and hassled Agnes tried to contact the garrison at the Industrial Area again. The secretary shrugged as it continued to be unanswered.
‘Do I have to do everything myself?’ he muttered to himself.
Miss Trinke kept quiet, placing the earpiece of the telephone back onto its cradle, avoiding making eye contact with the hauptmann. Roehm grabbed his overcoat from the hat stand in the corner of the office and stormed out. Barging past Kruse in the corridor, he hurried down the main staircase and out into the cold night air. The hauptmann tried to open the rear door of the squad car, but there was no sign of his driver. This was the final straw. He started ranting at the top of his voice, mostly expletives, at anyone or anything.
After a few minutes, Roehm’s driver ran out, struggling to put on his jacket, while, simultaneously, trying to eat a chicken leg.
‘Sorry, Sir,’ he mumbled with his mouth full.
Roehm scowled as the flustered man fumbled with his keys.
‘Take me to the Pomeroze Industrial Area as fast as you can,’ he demanded.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied the driver. ‘I’ll need to take a brief look at the map.’
The hauptmann fidgeted irritably in the back of the car as the driver worked out the route by torchlight.
‘It’ll take us several hours, Sir. The roads over that way look appalling.’
‘Just get me there as quickly as possible.’
16
The four British soldiers were making their final preparations when searchlights illuminated the sky. Unperturbed by the interruption, Henry returned to the task of ensuring none of his kit squeaked or rattled. It would be disastrous if their position was revealed by a loose piece of equipment not appropriately secured.
Morrison screwed the lid onto the camouflage paint before returning the small, shallow tin to the side pocket of his rucksack. Next, he opened the body of the backpack and pulled out his ‘waterproof bomb.’ He turned it over in his hand, examining it. The device was quite weighty, and he looked forward to a time when he did not have to lug it around.
‘Be honest with me,’ O’Shea said, handing his explosives to Alf. ‘Are these safe?’
‘We’ve carried them this far without them going off,’ he said, assuming Pat wanted him to carry it for him.’
‘I mean, won’t all the running around set them off?’
‘No, it’ll be fine. You could play football with it, providing it’s not primed.’
‘I’m not convinced. You know I’m not meant to have one of these, being a medic and all.’
‘The mission is more important than the individual,’ Henry interjected. ‘You’ll have to carry your own.’
Alf smiled, placing the device forcibly back into O’Shea’s hands.
The four men descended the hillside nimbly, stopping on the outskirts of the industrial estate. The night sky was dominated by the silhouette of the tall furnace towers looming over the rows of warehouses and workshops.
Crouching behind a stone wall, he checked the compass bearing. As they were about to set off, torchlight appeared at the far end of the road. The British soldiers pressed their bellies against the cold earth, staying as low as possible to the ground. Travers flicked off his weapon’s safety catch in preparation, but Alf placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and shook his head, prompting him to put it back on.
Watching the two men approach, Henry removed his combat knife from the scabbard on his leg. The guards were so close he could hear them talking. Deep in conversation, the two Wehrmacht infantrymen walked past their position, unaware they were being watched. They proceeded along the tarmac before disappearing from view down a side street. Feeling his comrades relax around him, Henry re-sheathed his knife.
The four men crept down a narrow alley, running parallel with the main road. Morrison stopped on the L-shaped path between rows of workshops and peered around the corner. Thirty yards ahead stood three German soldiers, with two Alsatians sitting obediently next to them. Alf turned back, relieved the dogs had given no sign of picking up his scent.
‘We’re going to have to find another way round’ he whispered. ‘More guards!’
Raising his eyebrows, Henry waved Travers back down the alley.
Silently, they retraced their steps until the teenager, now at the front of the group, raised his right arm, bringing them to a halt. The sergeant wormed his way forward, his eyes following the young lad’s outstretched hand to a window in a building which was slightly ajar. He nodded approvingly.
Travers slowly eased it open, reaching inside and removing items from the internal sill. With Henry and O’Shea’s help, the soldier clambered through into the workshop. His backpack and weapon were passed through to him, which he dumped on the floor. Crouching on a counter, Travers attempted to pull his sergeant through. Suddenly, at the other end of the vast room, he heard somebody rattling a key in the lock. Panicking, he let go of Henry, waving him away. With no time to think, the teenager gathered his equipment and crawled under a workbench.
The door opened as he struggled out of sight. From the oily grime, he observed a man carrying a torch amble down one side of the room. From his untidy appearance, Travers assumed the man was a caretaker rather than a soldier.
The man mumbled as he walked to the open window and slammed it down. Trembling with fear, Travers realised he was urinating uncontrollably. Oblivious to the teenager’s presence, the caretaker locked the window using a key he wore on a chain hanging from his belt. Continuing to talk to himself, he completed his circuit of the room before locking the door behind him.
Embarrassed and petrified, Travers lay under the workbench, his trousers damp and cold against his skin. After his anxiety had dissipated, he summoned enough courage to slide out and approached the window.
He forced the frame, but the lock would not budge. It had been replaced recently and was too strong for him to open with his bare hands.
By the exit, he found a small office. Closing the door, he grappled around for a few seconds before locating a cord dangling next to the entrance. A bulb in the ceiling emitted a fierce light in the windowless room. A desk occupied the majority of the small room, and his eyes adjusted to the brightness. To Travers’ disappointment, there was nothing except a pile of receipts and a pen holder. Next, he opened the drawers underneath, but inside was only a couple of ledger books and unimportant papers. Disappointed, he swore under his breath.
Mounted on the wall in front of him was a steel box secured with a padlock. Travers’ first instinct was to wallop it with his rifle, but the risk of alerting the caretaker, or even the guards outside, stopped him. Looking around, he noticed the receipts
on the desk were held together with a paperclip. He unwound it, then started jiggling it inside the padlock.
Frustratingly, Travers failed to move the tumblers within the lock. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead as he continued to wiggle the piece of wire without success. Just as he was about to give up, the bar popped open with a satisfying click. He clawed the door back only to find two long door keys hanging on hooks inside; neither looked as if it would unlock the window.
Downhearted, he switched off the light and ventured back into the workshop. At the far end of the room, he could see a curious face looking in. Relieved it was his sergeant peering in, Travers scurried towards the window.
‘The caretaker locked it,’ the teenager mouthed exaggeratedly.
Henry could not figure out what the young lad was trying to say, so the young soldier tried again, but he was no wiser. Next, he performed an exaggerated charade, before Henry finally understood.
‘A key,’ he said, gesturing with his hands.
‘I can’t find one,’ Travers replied, shaking his head.
Trying not to cry, the teenager looked away. A pair of pliers lay on the counter near to his knee; he must have moved them when he crawled in. He was surprised he had missed them when looking earlier. Not wasting any time, he picked them up and gripped the bar of the lock. Squeezing with all his might, it offered surprisingly little resistance before snapping.
Travers pulled the broken stub out of the way, then gently slid open the window. Henry crawled through, followed promptly by Morrison and O’Shea. When everyone was inside, Travers closed it before joining the rest of them on the floor.
‘That was a bit scary,’ he apologised, thankful the darkness concealed his damp clothing.
The Danzig Corridor Page 13
