by Mark Hobson
“Fraulein Hirsch has just arrived from Berlin where she has been attending the conference. She kindly brought the file with her.”
Wenzel finally dragged his gaze from her and looked across at Prutzmann with his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Do not worry, we may converse freely. Miss Hirsch has code-blue clearance and has full access to all special program operations. She is here as our new team member.”
“But… but I…” Wenzel stammered, but did not get any further as Prutzmann laughed gently.
“Now, now, do not be surprised. The women of the Third Reich have a very important role to play, and Miss Hirsch has a very special set of skills that will prove vital to us in the weeks ahead. Actually that is the main purpose of her visit. To pass on her incredible knowledge, is it not, Miss Hirsch?”
The young lady, who had so far not spoken a word or barely moved an inch, looked across at Prutzmann and gave the merest nod of her head. Then she turned to once more look straight at Wenzel.
“And in return, under your personal guidance Wenzel, you are to train her as a special defence operative in Commando Unit No 1. I also want you to handpick a squad for immediate field deployment, no more than 4 or 5 people in total. They are to be held in constant readiness for our deep-penetration Swift Strike II Plan.”
Wenzel’s thoughts were all over the place, his head spinning with all kinds of concerns and questions, but he just couldn’t seem to get them in order or to articulate them. He was actually starting to feel a bit of a fool, and he tried desperately to regain his composure.
“Your role as senior training officer makes you ideal for the task,” Prutzmann continued. “Assuming you think you are capable and up to it?”
“Of course,” Wenzel replied briskly.
Prutzmann nodded slowly. “Just as I thought. Make sure you don’t let me down. Things are moving forward with urgent alacrity.” Turning to the woman standing beside them he said to her in a gentler voice, “I leave you in Officer Wenzel’s capable hands, Miss Hirsch.”
Ilse Hirsch, captain of the BDM, replied with the crispest Hitler salute that Wenzel thought he had ever seen. With her eyes fixed on him, her lips once more parted in the merest of smiles, revealing a row of sharp little teeth.
Making his skin crawl and his heart shiver.
◆◆◆
4 WEEKS LATER
The four of them moved through the woods in single-file, treading carefully on the brown leaves and small twigs that carpeted the floor. Although only an exercise, and even though they were still deep inside friendly territory, they desired to make as little noise as possible lest any prying eyes or ears noticed them.
Dressed in heavy dark green coveralls and fur-lined overcoats to keep the autumnal chill away, together with strong military boots and knapsacks, they walked steadily on, glancing around at the trees and undergrowth in continuous alert to their surroundings. The sky was steadily darkening, even more so beneath the canopy of branches overhead, and each of them looked forward to a warm camp fire and hot food in their stomachs.
At the front, leading the little band, Fraulein Hirsch came to a sudden stop.
“This will do,” she told the others.
Wenzel, who was just behind her, moved cautiously forward to peer over her shoulder to see where she was pointing. Out of the corner of his eye he also glanced at her profile, unable to stop himself.
Since that first meeting back in Prutzmann’s office, the two of them had spent every single day working together. From his initial feeling of unease, he had developed a certain amount of respect for her. Far from been a hindrance and an extra responsibility to add to all of the others, he’d actually soon learned that she was a very capable and well-trained operative, much more so than most other girls in the BDM, who he knew spent most of their time either playing sports or training as their roles as women in German society, as wife, mother and homemaker.
But Ilse Hirsch was already a highly skilled female soldier, an expert marksman and very adept at most other commando techniques, whether it was climbing an enemy watchtower and quickly dispatching an enemy lookout with a garrotte, or making a homemade bomb from a tin of Heinz soup so loved by the American GI’s. In actual fact, as Prutzmann had indicated, she also had other skills: her knowledge of bush craft for example was first-class, better than his own he had to admit, and over the last week or so whilst they had been conducting their training in the woods east of Schloss Hulchrath, she had taught many of these survival skills to himself and the others in their party.
He was also, in truth, in awe of her beauty. Ice-cold though her personality could be, he actually found this immensely attractive and alluring. She had an animal magnetism about her that grabbed him in its claws like some helpless prey. A little bit, he mused, like the animals that they were setting snares for right now.
“Just ahead there. You can see the trail and spoors just outside the opening in the ground.” She slung off her knapsack and started to rummage inside. “If we set the snare just outside, the rabbit will run straight into the wire loop. While we do that, the other two can set up another sapling trap over in that copse like I showed them earlier.”
The other two members of the team, instructor Leitgeb who everybody called ‘Sepp’ for some reason, and the young teenager Erich Morgenschweiss, both looked to where she indicated, nodded eagerly and strolled off. As they moved through the trees, young Erich couldn’t resist glancing back over his shoulder at her, something that Hirsch herself noticed.
Wenzel watched as she set the snare before the rabbit den. He passed her some bait which she placed just the far side of the wire loop. As she worked she looked over towards the others, who were bending a slim branch of one of the saplings down to the ground before attaching a snare from the branch to the small wooden stake they had placed in the ground. “They need to make the trigger-action more precise, so that the slightest movement sets it off.” She shook her head as she spoke. “Also, if the branch snaps up too high it will pull the head right off the creature like last time. Once it bleeds into the carcass it becomes inedible. Unless you like to eat your meat raw,” she joked, with a sly smile at Wenzel.
He grinned back. “I don’t think their stomachs would cope, especially the young boy. He might pretend to be tough, but he is a city boy and used to hearty home-cooked food.”
Hirsch listened, her eyes flicking back to the youngest of their little group. She wiped her forehead with her hand, leaving a smear of dirt on her skin. “He wants to fuck me,” she told him simply.
Wenzel was thrown for a moment, not used to bawdy bar-room language from a woman.
“But most men do, so it will not be a problem. Our training is our priority, and our mission to come. There can be no distractions.” She stood up, her body so close to him that it brushed slightly against his. “If it starts to be a difficulty, I will let him. And then we continue as before.”
Hirsch turned to move away, and Wenzel licked his lips which were suddenly as dry as sandpaper.
She turned back again. “Tonight, I share your dugout Wenzel.” Then she marched off through the trees.
They reached their campsite about one hour later, after they had set their snares and one more deadfall trap, hoping to eat rabbit or squirrel in the morning. For their evening meal they would have to make do with canned meat heated above a fire, and some biscuits.
They had chosen a site on the south-facing side of a heavily wooded slope, close to where a small brook flowed. It consisted of three underground dugouts, two for sleeping two people each, and the third to stockpile supplies of food and weapons. Similar arms caches were placed throughout the local countryside, their location marked on their map which they would hand in once they returned to Hulchrath.
The dugouts were constructed so as not to destroy the trees around them and thus give away their location. Once closed for the night or for longer periods, they would be virtually impossible to spot from above ground, their wooden ent
rances covered as they were with undergrowth and leaf-mould to camouflage them. The way in and out was an opening about two feet across which went straight down several feet before opening out into a horizontal space roughly 8 to 10 feet long and wide enough for two people to sleep and move about in reasonable comfort. Each had a wooden floor plus a drainage ditch on the downward side, and the walls and roof were reinforced with timber, making them snug and mostly soundproof.
They ate their supper quietly, sharing a few words in hushed tones. Wenzel sat across the small fire from his two male colleagues, while Hirsch boiled up a small Gerry can of water to make coffee. Once it was done she handed it around. He noticed Morgenschweiss still darting the odd glimpse at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, but the small exchange of glances she shared with Wenzel told him she was fully aware of the boy’s interest. This perturbed him. In spite of her earlier insistence that she would not allow this to become an issue, Wenzel could foresee problems ahead. It was something he would need to keep an eye on, and if necessary make it clear to the boy why it might potentially be required to drop him from the unit.
After a short time Wenzel decided it was time to turn in. They had one more day to go with the usual dawn start, and then they were to make their way back. The other two shuffled off. Hirsch poured water onto the fire and kicked and smoothed away any traces, then covered it over with leaves. She followed him over to their dugout, squirmed down into the entrance, and Wenzel follow suit.
The inside was already lit with a small oil lamp. They both settled down in their positions side by side, their bodies pushed up against each other, and without any words closed their eyes and waited for sleep.
Somewhere outside, in the distance, Wenzel heard the distinctive howl of a wolf. The sound made his skin crawl, but when he looked over at Hirsch he saw her eyes wide and glistening in the light from the lamp, a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. He closed his eyes once more and tried to sleep.
“Damn it,” Hirsch suddenly said. Wenzel turned to gaze at her once again, to see she was sitting up and already looking at him. She stared long and hard, her brow furrowed in thought. Then, to his amazement, she commenced to undress, removing her coverall and kicking it down towards the end of the dugout. And she removed her underclothes, Wenzel seeing her hard nipples and her blonde plaits coiled down over her stomach, and the pink flush between her legs which she opened wide for him.
Eyes burning into him like icy diamonds.
“Come,” she told him.
◆◆◆
They made it back to Schloss Hulchrath on time the following evening, the castle and grounds mostly in darkness except for a few lights burning in the highest windows. Sepp and the boy made straight for the kitchens where a hot meal awaited them, but Wenzel and Fraulein Hirsch were both summoned to Obergruppenfuhrer Prutzmann’s office on the top floor.
As they ascended the narrow staircase Wenzel reflected again on last night’s events. The animal ferocity of their coupling – Wenzel would not describe it as love-making, for it was quick and wild and savage – had left him physically spent and mentally confused. Once they were both finished, she had pushed him away, telling him simply to sleep, and no further words were exchanged on the subject, not last night or this morning. Hirsch had simply carried on as though nothing had happened. But throughout the day Wenzel had pondered on things, his mind trying to fathom this strange woman, but unable to reach any conclusions. She was a total enigma to him. He had also begun to wonder what exactly was the real purpose for her being sent to Hulchrath? What role was she to play? The fact that she had attended the mysterious Magus Conference with the hierarchy of Nazi Germany told him she was not simply here to learn commando training.
Prutzmann was waiting for them in his office. As they went through their debrief, Wenzel sensed a certain agitation from his superior, the way he fidgeted and shuffled about. Eventually, he raised his hand to interrupt them.
“Yes, I’m sure everything went well. Perhaps we can skip the details tonight, I will read your full report when you present it in the morning.”
Then he clasped his hands together and smiled broadly, the most animated that Wenzel had ever seen him. He and Hirsch exchanged a glance.
Reaching out, he pulled out a slip of paper from his desk drawer, and fluttered it in the air before them. “Another communiqué from Berlin,” he explained.
Wenzel and Hirsch waited.
“Our blue-print for Swift Strike II has been sanctioned.” He rocked back and forward, his shoulders shivering in barely-suppressed excitement. “Unternehmen Werwolf!”
Unternehmen Werwolf, Wenzel thought.
Operation Werewolf.
CHAPTER 5
WORKING THE CASE
The location of the body – still inside the urinal – made it impossible to cover it over with a white forensic tent, and so a number of dark boards and sheets had been erected around the spot, both on the pathway and the canal side, blocking the view of the ghouls and gawkers.
Pieter made his way across the cobbles of Oudekerksplein, which were wet and glistening, not from early morning rain but from the road sweeper which was making its slow way around the square. He noted the time on his mobile – 06:42am. Approx. thirty minutes since he’d received the call, and nearly ninety minutes since the body was found. As he watched the cleaners go about their task he could almost visualise them cleaning and scrubbing away any forensic evidence right before his eyes, and he shook his head, not for the first time bewildered by the incompetence of the Amsterdam Police Department.
Across the other side of the canal, on the corner where the bridge was, he saw Daan Beumers standing and talking with a young couple, and he raised a weary wave which his colleague returned. Then, after showing his pass, Pieter ducked through the narrow gap in the wooden boards and entered the crime scene.
A pair of forensic techs were working around the periphery of the urinal. They may have been the same two from the murder two nights ago, but clad in their white get-up and with hoods and masks covering their faces, they had the appearance of NASA astronauts, and so it was impossible to tell. At the moment they were busy using what looked like a tiny hand-held mini-vacuum, sucking up microscopic detritus from the ground. To the side was a large silver crate which was opened out a little like a fishing-tackle box, filled with vials and brushes and fancy gizmos.
The body was still in-situ, as of yet not disturbed apart from two plastic bags covering the deceased’s fingernails.
Pieter stepped forward to take a closer look.
The male victim was crammed unceremoniously inside the urinal, all crumpled up and folded into the cramped space near the ground. One of his legs was folded underneath him, the other one sticking straight out into the open, so that he was squatting just above the small drain cover that people pissed into. Pieter immediately saw the dark, damp patch around the man’s crotch area, and the ripped trousers there, as well as the huge loss of blood from what was quite obviously a large stab wound in that part of his anatomy. Much of the blood from the ugly-looking rent would have splashed straight into the drain and been lost forever, but there was still a large pool of it staining the cobbles. The victim’s hands hung loose at his sides, and his head lolled back to rest against the back of the metal urinal, the face already starting to turn a blackish colour from the first signs of decomposition.
Pieter moved sideways around the urinal, intending to pass around the back and look down into the canal itself, his mind already thinking about where any murder weapon might have been disposed. But the boards there went right up the edge of the canal, stopping his circumnavigation, and anyway he didn’t much fancy risking an early morning dip. Coming back round he took note of the forensic guys scowling at him, no doubt fretting over their precious crime-scene, and so taking the hint Pieter squeezed back through the opening and made his way across the bridge.
As he approached, Daan Beumers was still speaking to the couple, but on seeing Pieter
heading his way he broke off from their conversation. The man and woman waited patiently.
“Morning boss.”
He was wearing a bright white tracksuit with matching plimsolls, sticking out like a sore thumb. He looked very self-conscious.
“What’s with the gear? I never had you down as an early-morning jogger.”
“Ah, this? The girlfriend bought it for me last Christmas. She’s currently on another health push, which means by default that I’m also on another health push, and so some mornings I wear it when I leave for work to let her think I’m taking it seriously. I normally park up around the corner and change clothes, but I never got the chance this morning before I got called over here.”
“Looks expensive,” Pieter nodded at the fancy running shoes.
“You’re telling me.”
“Give me the run-down then.”
Beumers leaned on the bridge railing, the early-morning sun behind his back casting his shadow on the water below. “The body was spotted just after five this morning by those street cleaners. They were doing their usual rounds when one of them, an enterprising young guy who is new on the job, decided to jet wash inside the urinal. Probably the first time in years that it’s been done, those places stink something terrible. Anyway, he spotted the guy just before he turned on his thingamebob, thought he was either a crackhead or someone sleeping off too many tequilas, until he noticed the guy’s pecker sticking out of his pants was all mangled up. He raised the alarm, or rather his boss in the road sweeper did when he saw the kid crawling on his hands and knees puking up his syrup pancakes. Our guys were here within a few minutes, but in the meantime Mr Jobsworth, in his nice warm cabin there, went straight back to work cleaning the square. Fucking fucktard, has he never seen CSI Miami? Says he has a schedule to keep.”
“Just the single injury?”
“From the looks of it yes. Sliced his balls clean off. Luckily they were too big to disappear down into the drain, so at least they can be reattached by the undertaker in time for the viewing. He had a few scratches and bruises here and there but they were probably self-inflicted whilst he’d be no doubt thrashing about.”
