Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  Five minutes later and he was back outside, with a huge satisfied grin on his face and still feeling the effects of a cocaine rush. In desperate need of a piss, he headed across the bridge towards the outdoor urinal near Oude Kerk.

  As he hurried over the cobbles he glanced at his watch, noticing that it was coming up to two in the morning. Jesus, where did the time go? A good job he’d booked a later flight for tomorrow, he reckoned he could spend another couple of hours here before heading back over to his hotel. Perhaps grab a drink, pop a couple of pills of Bloom, and maybe have Round 2 as he was still feeling randy as hell. Or he could go and watch one of the live sex shows, and maybe get selected for a bit of audience participation, fuck yeah! They might even offer him a job.

  Either way the night was still young, and wifey was still waiting back home, convinced that her hard-working husband was tucked up in bed, homesick and counting down the hours until he came dashing through the front door to fling his arms around her and the baby.

  Silly bitch. If she’d have tried being a little more adventurous in the bedroom department then perhaps he wouldn’t need to get his jollies away from home like this. It wasn’t his fault that he was highly sexed and brimming with testosterone. He wanted – no, he needed – sex virtually every night, and if she wasn’t willing to provide what he required, then really he had no option but to see all of the escort girls back in the UK or make these trips abroad. And screwing a prostitute wasn’t that big a deal these days, at least he wasn’t having a proper affair behind her back. So really, when you thought about it, it was really all her fault, and he was the reluctant victim here.

  Laughing loudly to himself and at the night, Oliver stepped into the outdoor urinal, and started having a good piss.

  Yes, it had been a very worthwhile trip. The meeting earlier had been mostly a formality, really just a case of sitting there and letting the execs run through their annual targets and profits threshold, while he, Oliver, had nodded his head and spoke words of praise which always helped to massage their fragile egos. He had even broached the subject of raising his expenditure allowance for these trips, mentioning his excellent record of undercutting their chief rivals and bringing in extra secured assets in the process, oh and by the way I now have a young family and these trips away from home are quite a drain on my private home life and quality time. It had worked a treat, and he’d secured a very satisfying response, and the extra expenditure had nicely paid for the top quality cocaine that he’d snorted earlier.

  Standing there and emptying his bladder into the small drain in the ground, with only his upper body and feet visible to any passers-by, Oliver suddenly noticed the quiet that had descended, the streets and canal-side empty of people and noise. At this time of night it was hardly surprising that most of the crowds were gone, the tourists starting to drift away, but there were normally a few people about. Yet at the moment everywhere was still, and a bizarre hush had descended. He glanced around and looked across the small cobbled square next to the church. Oh, there was somebody standing over there after all, noticing two shadowy silhouettes by the wall. And another, this one a little closer up on the bridge to his right. What’s more, they seemed to be watching him. Standing stock-still and just staring.

  Oliver squinted and tried to make out their faces, but it was impossible to see much in the dark, and anyway, why the hell were they looking at him taking a piss? Were they fucking faggots or something? There were enough of them around, and to each his own, Oliver had no issues with anybody’s sexual preferences, but come on! They were putting him off. A man needs his privacy.

  Sighing and shrugging in annoyance, Oliver glanced down at his dick and shook off a few drops, and started to zip himself up.

  But then there was a sudden rush of footsteps, a scraping of feet on the cobbles close by, and somebody giggling in a high-pitched kind of snicker. And the creepy thing about it was that Oliver was convinced there was somebody standing right behind him.

  He felt something weird between his legs, a sudden cool draft around his scrotum and then a wetness that dribbled down his trouser leg.

  Silly bugger, he scolded himself, you haven’t even finished taking a leak and now you’ve gone and pissed down your frigging trousers. But the wetness didn’t trickle away, it actually became a sudden gush, saturating the whole of his trousers and stomach and pooling around his feet, and it was making a splashing sound on the cobbles, and somewhere he was aware of the patter of tiny feet quickly dashing away, and a tinkling sound as something small dropped onto the ground close to him.

  Oliver’s legs buckled and turned to jelly, and he seemed to deflate like a balloon as he sank slowly to a squatting position, with his back to the metal wall of the urinal and his feet sticking out. His forehead broke out in a cold but clammy sweat, and he weakly groped at the front of his soddened trousers, his brain fluttering in a sudden panic at the wet stickiness he felt through the torn and ripped material.

  The last thing that passed through his mind before he lost consciousness wasn’t thoughts of his wife and little baby waiting for him back in London. No, what flashed through his dying brain was the simple question: where have my balls gone?

  SCHLOSS HULCHRATH - HITLER YOUTH TRAINING CAMP

  LATE SUMMER 1944

  The sound of gunfire broke the still early-morning air, the noise echoing across the castle grounds and the small town beyond.

  Herbert Wenzel stood in the shade below the beech tree, the low overhanging branches offering shelter from the warm sun. Even though the day was still young, it promised to be another long and hot one as the summer dragged on. There was a faint smell of cooking wafting across from the kitchens as breakfast was prepared, but before they ate he had insisted on the boys turning out for another training session.

  There were around about twenty recruits here, lodging at the castle and learning new skills, each one chosen on merit after showing considerable ability and aptitude and energy, a desire to advance their training beyond that of their friends and peers back home. So without their parent’s consent they had been brought here to this special facility, to be drilled and instructed and taught like real soldiers, instead of doing simple map-reading and rambling.

  As their senior training officer Wenzel realized how important it was to instil in them the necessary discipline required to transform them from mere boy scouts into real fighters. He also understood that with the war going from bad to worse, now that the allied forces were already entrenched in mainland Europe and advancing steadily east towards Germany’s borders, that time was of the essence. So every day he and the other instructors pushed them hard, from sunrise until sunset, teaching them such things as first aid, infiltration exercises, close-weapons training, physical conditioning (which included not only increasing their stamina but also character-building sessions of boxing and wrestling), fencing to test their reflexes, hunting and foraging and building shelters in the woods. And also rifle practice like today.

  It wasn’t strictly necessary for him to be in attendance in person at the daily drills, for the other instructors, dressed in shorts and grey gymnastic vests, were more than capable of instructing the boys adequately. He also felt slightly out of place in full uniform, something which he knew unsettled the recruits and gave them the jitters. But he liked to watch and appraise them, to spot those with promising potential. Boys like Erich Morgenschweiss, the sixteen year-old from Munich. Tall and blond, with a magnificent physique even at his young age, fully committed to the fatherland and their Fuhrer, a model Aryan and already a fine soldier. A perfect candidate for the next level of training.

  Wenzel watched him closely, impressed with his skill with the rifle. Lying flat on the wooden platform, with the barrel of his gun resting across the sandbag to steady the weapon, he fired shot after shot down the rifle range, hitting the human-shaped target with unerring accuracy.

  Very good, very good.

  Wenzel made a mental note to take a look at the boy’s
file later with the intention of putting his name forward and recommending him for the ‘special commando unit’ that was been discussed back at headquarters in Braunschweig.

  In stark contrast was the recruit lying next to him. Short and tubby, with a ruddy face covered in acne, he was a walking disaster when it came to the military training or physical exercise. He was only here because of the boy’s family connections, their patronage and donations to the Nazi party over the years allowing him opportunities that would otherwise, certainly on ability, be denied him.

  However, the boy was said to be academically very bright, and there were numerous other ways in which he could contribute to the national cause, if only in clerical work or perhaps as an aide de camp.

  Wenzel went across to where the boy lay, pointing the barrel of the rifle he held in the general direction of the target and squinting at the sights. As he approached the boy fired, the kick from the .22RL thumping back into his shoulder and making him wince. The shot, as usual, went wide, kicking up dust in the pile of soil behind the line of wooden targets.

  “No, no,” Wenzel implored. “Do not fire when you breathe in. First you exhale, then hold your breath, and gently squeeze the trigger.”

  There were several sniggers from some of the other recruits, and the boy squirmed in embarrassment. Wenzel looked around for the nearest instructor and beckoned him across.

  “Sepp,” he addressed him by his nickname, “take this boy off the guns for now. He may be better suited for other duties.” He looked down at the boy, not wanting to be too harsh on him. “Do not fret my lad, we will make a soldier out of you yet.” He gave him a wink, which seemed to cheer him up.

  Just then a junior clerk from the officer’s quarters came trotting across the field from the direction of the large round castle tower beyond the footbridge. He drew to a halt before Wenzel, snapped a crisp salute with his right arm shooting out and his heels clicking together.

  Wenzel refrained from returning the salute and simply asked, “what is it?”

  “Sir, Obergruppenfuhrer Prutzmann wishes to see you immediately in his rooms.”

  Wenzel sighed and took a last look at the recruits, watching as the sixteen-year old Erich Morgenschweiss scored another bullseye, and then turned and followed him.

  Schloss Hulchrath wasn’t a particularly big or majestic castle compared to those in the Harz Mountains or along the Rhine. It consisted mostly of one large, squat and circular tower which leaned out over the moat like a fat drunk, plus the great hall which stretched back and connected it to several smaller towers and the gatehouse. A number of separate and more modern buildings dating from the 18th Century were clustered together near a long drive that led up from the village, and these had been turned into stables for the officers’ horses and sheds for the vehicles. The moat was also a bit of a disappointment, Wenzel thought, for it only curved around a part of the castle in a crescent-moon shape – he presumed that over the centuries parts of it had been filled in and grassed over. The inside was also quite spartan: the rooms were large and bare and with little in the way of medieval refinery or tapestries and so on, they were in fact quite drab, and the boys’ dormitory was simple and functional with lines of wooden beds up against both side walls, the room chilled at night by cold draughts blowing through the ancient stonework. But the castle had not been chosen for its beauty or setting, and he doubted if any princes or nobles had ever held it as their seat of power in the region. It was actually a little-known castle tucked away in the back-of-beyond, and as such was perfect for its current purpose as a military training camp for the Hitler-Jugend, the Hitler Youth.

  Wenzel followed the clerk along the path and across the narrow footbridge over the moat. As they walked he glanced up towards the wooden hoarding attached to the side of the main tower, for a movement there had caught his eye. This small timber structure, not much more than a covered balcony, would have been used to allow enfilading fire from archers and crossbowmen if the castle had ever come under attack. Although he’d never stepped inside – as access was via Prutzmann’s office – Wenzel knew there were gaps in the wooden floor allowing defenders to drop missiles on attackers at the foot of the tower, such as hot water or red-hot sand, or heavy rocks.

  Now, however, he was more interested in what had made him look up, for he was sure he had spotted a slim silhouette standing there, almost hidden within the shadows of the structure. Someone looking down at him through the openings of the balcony.

  He stared hard, unsure, for the figure now appeared to have stepped back out of sight.

  Then he passed beneath the stone roof of the castle’s gateway, and it slipped from his view.

  Obergruppenfuhrer Hans-Adolf Prutzmann’s official title was General Inspector of Special Defence, a promotion sanctioned by Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler himself just a month or so ago. Since this appointment his priority had been to set up the training schools both here at Schloss Hulchrath and also at the larger site over in Braunschweig, as well as liaising with Berlin. With these tasks complete he had chosen to base himself here, choosing the rooms on the top floor of the main tower as his private quarters and office.

  Wenzel was escorted inside and the door was gently shut behind him, leaving him alone with Prutzmann. Standing before the wide oak desk he waited whilst his superior leaned forward, continuing to read a file spread out before him without once looking up. Wenzel watched the man patiently, seeing his own dim reflection in Prutzmann’s highly polished, balding head.

  After a minute or so he finally mumbled “sit please,” and as Wenzel took the only other seat in the room, Prutzmann closed the file and looked up. His thin lips twitched briefly into what might pass as a smile, before his features slipped back into a neutral expression.

  “Is the training going well Wenzel?” Prutzmann’s voice was low and gravely, almost a rumble like distant thunder.

  “Yes Obergruppenfuhrer. The recruits are showing impressive potential. The selection process was time-consuming, but as is becoming apparent is proving fully worthwhile. They are mostly ahead of schedule, both in their military disciplines as well as their academic studies.”

  As he spoke Wenzel cast his eyes around the office, noting the large painting of Alexander the Great above the empty fireplace, the portrait of The Fuhrer which hung beside the deep-set window, and the small door in the corner which he knew led out onto the wooden balcony.

  “Everything is proceeding exactly as we had hoped,” he added with not a small degree of self-satisfaction.

  “Excellent,” Prutzmann replied. He looked straight at Wenzel with his eyes narrowed in consideration. “Because we have just received final confirmation from the Reichsfuhrer that we are to press ahead with the special program.”

  Wenzel’s attention came fully back to the meeting at these words. He found himself subconsciously sitting up in his chair a fraction, and for some unaccountable reason felt a queer prickling sensation at the back of his neck.

  Prutzmann gently patted the file on the desk before him. “Here are our final instructions, as obtained and modified during the Magus Conference.”

  Wenzel’s eyes lowered to look at the leather bound file, noticing the strange symbols across the front.

  “It is imperative that we follow all of the observances correctly,” Prutzmann continued, his hand still touching the file in an almost protective manner. He waited for a response, and so Wenzel merely nodded, for his mouth was suddenly very dry.

  Finally Prutzmann took hold of the heavy file and leaned across his desk, holding it out. Wenzel gripped the leather in both his arms as he sat back in his chair, looking down at the cover. On the front, in simple typed words – UNTERNEHMEN WERWOLF.

  “You may read it tonight and only tonight. The lunar phase is correct. It goes without saying, however, that you should still conduct all of the necessary protective measures.”

  “Of course Obergruppenfuhrer,” he managed to reply.

  There were several mo
ments of silence between the two men as each thought about what was to come, before Prutzmann quite quickly came to his feet. “Now, I wish you to meet someone.”

  Wenzel jumped up, making sure not to drop the large file, his eyes automatically shifting over to the small door in the far corner and thinking of the figure he had seen from outside.

  As he guessed he would Prutzmann called across in that direction, his voice suddenly more animated. “You may join us please.”

  The door was pushed open from the other side and in walked a short and young person.

  “This is Fraulein Ilse Hirsch,” Prutzmann announced.

  Wenzel stared in shock and surprise.

  Before him stood a strikingly beautiful young woman, he guessed aged in her very early twenties. Quite short and petite with long blonde hair perfectly arranged in a pair of plaits that hung down over the front of her shoulders, and with crystal blue eyes that held his gaze with confidence. She was dressed in the uniform of the BDM, The League of German Girls, the female branch of the Hitler Youth: long dark blue skirt and brown brogues and white socks, and a pristine white short-sleeved blouse and black necktie. Wenzel noticed on her left sleeve the black and silver insignia that gave her rank as Captain, above the small diamond patch with a swastika at the centre.

  Wenzel cast his gaze over her, rooted to the spot, and when he glanced back up to her face her ice-cold eyes were now looking not at him but at the file he still gripped tightly to his chest. There was the faintest hint of a smile and her lips parted just a fraction.

  Prutzmann, standing to the side, watched them both curiously with his head tilted slightly. Then he blinked lazily and moved around his desk to join them in the centre of the room.