Death on the Rhine

by Charles Whiting

  She nodded mutely.

  ‘If you are asked, you will say that he told you he was going to kill an English general as a symbol to the German people. The idea was his own, nobody else’s. If you do as I say, you will continue to receive a weekly sum of money, enough to keep you. If you don’t…’ He left the threat unuttered. He didn’t want to frighten the whore into doing something foolish. ‘You do understand that?’ he said instead.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Her voice was still thick and her mouth quavered, as if she might break down and begin sobbing once more.

  ‘Good. Then you can go,’ he dismissed.

  She didn’t move. Instead she asked, ‘If I may ask the officer a question. Won’t Gerd be coming back… Would you answer me that, sir?’

  He thought quickly, glad that she was blind and couldn’t see the look on his face. ‘Not for a while,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s understandable. Your Gerd will have to do a dive until the hue-and-cry dies down. You don’t want the police to take him, do you?’

  ‘No sir,’ she answered hastily. ‘I wouldn’t like that to happen to Gerd. He’s suffered enough as it is.’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ von Horn heard himself say with a note of sympathy, fake as it was, in his voice. Inside his head, a harsh little voice rasped, ‘Don’t worry, you silly goose, the ‘Beast’ won’t be suffering much longer.’ ‘All right, are you satisfied now?’

  ‘Yessir. Thank you, sir.’ She gave him a little curtsey, as if she were still the little country girl she had once been and not the whore who had lost her eyesight due to syphilis. Without feeling, he watched as she groped her way to the door and walked past the ever-watchful Bartels. He waited till she had gone before he spoke, a note of satisfaction in his voice now. ‘Well, Bartels, it looks as if we have done everything we can do.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Bartels agreed dutifully. ‘As long as that big madman doesn’t go off his head and do something crazy.’

  ‘He won’t,’ von Horn reassured the other man. ‘The ‘Beast’s’ days are numbered. The men in the white coats with the strait-jackets won’t be coming for the ‘Beast’ much longer – thank God. All right,’ he was businesslike again. ‘Get down to the exchange and tell that fool operator to get me that special number in Munich, you know the one. Tell him it’s an “immediate”. Oh, and yes, once he’s put the call through, watch that he’s not got his big ears to the line listening in. The fewer people who know about this, the better.’

  ‘Jawohl, Herr Kapitanleutnant,’ Bartels growled and went out, telling himself that von Horn was dealing with that Nazi boss Hitler again, and wondering once more why. That braggart was going nowhere.

  * * *

  Five minutes later a hoarse Austrian rasped, ‘Wolf!’

  Von Horn, the Prussian aristocrat, wrinkled his nose up in distaste. The rabble-rouser’s accent was so thick that it was virtually unintelligible, at least to him. And why that ludicrous covername ‘Wolf’. The man hadn’t one vulpine feature about him. Still, he had orders to work with the man from above. In due course, when he came to power, von Horn’s political and financial masters would cut the Austrian upstart down to size. ‘Dr Wolf, I have news for you. Operation Five O’Clock Tea is due to start in twenty-four hours’ time.’

  Hitler chuckled. ‘Excellent code-name. Five O’Clock Tea. But this time the English milords will be served a much more lethal brew no doubt?’

  ‘You may be sure of that, Dr Wolf,’ von Horn cursed the man inwardly. Hitler had no sense of security. But they’d tame him, knock him into shape, in due course. ‘You will act according.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Auf Wiederhoren.’

  ‘Servus,’ Hitler said and put the phone down.

  Von Horn cursed again. Couldn’t the man speak German properly?

  In Munich, Hitler was not one bit concerned with the class into which he had been born nor the accent with which he spoke. Now, his mind was racing. He knew people like von Horn, those plutocratic northern aristocrats and industrialists, thought they were using him. Let them think that. It would be too late when they found out he was using them. For the time being, however, he needed them.

  He dismissed von Horn and his ilk. He had other, more important matters on his mind. After the killing of the Tommy general, Germany would be in an uproar.

  Naturally the English government would put pressure on Berlin to help find the assassin. It was exactly the plot he needed. Those Jews and socialist traitors in Berlin would be seen bowing to the victorious Allies once again. They had stabbed Germany in the back in 1918. Now they were doing it again. His dark eyes blazed as he thought of the words he would use. ‘The November traitors, German, party comrades, fellow citizens, they are betraying our beloved Fatherland once more. It must have an end. This cannot go on. Down with Berlin! Up the revolution!’

  He contained himself with difficulty. His chest was heaving violently as if he had actually shrieked the words at the mob. He licked his lips. The death of the Tommy general would be a symbol. Now he needed another. Then he had it. Germany had surrendered to the victorious Allies on November 11th, 1918. Now, five years later, he would set the date of the start of the New Germany – 11th November 1923…

  Four

  Sparks, the Swordfish’s radio operator, was the boat’s youngest and smartest crew member. He was a typical, young, carefree cockney of whom there were many in the Royal Navy. Quick young men, who brilliantined their hair, wore their caps at rakish angles and soaked their number one uniforms so often that they were almost skin tight. All of them had the ‘patter’, especially when talking to the girls – ‘tarts’ they called them. When out of the sound of Bow bells, they invariably laced their ‘patter’ with plenty of rhyming slang, all aimed at impressing the ‘tarts’ and getting them up the ‘apples and pears’ as soon as possible.

  Often CPO Ferguson would snort in irritation. ‘Sparks, will ye no cut youn blether and speak the King’s English like I do?’ To which Sparks would reply in his cheeky carefree way, ‘Go on, Chiefie! Blimey, you ain’t spoke King’s English in all yer bleeding life!’

  But Sparks had always been noted for taking risks, not only with irate chief petty officers, but also with women. It was not just the many single ‘tarts’ he had succeeded in getting in ‘the family way’, it was those married women with jealous, suspicious husbands. Indeed, it gave the young cockney actual pleasure to outwit some suspicious husband and have his ‘wicked way’. He would boast to his shipmates of his latest conquest. ‘Gor luck a duck, I had her on the sofa in the kitchen while the silly dipstick was digging up the front garden. Should look after his trouble-and-strife better, that’s what I say.’ And he would go off whistling merrily, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which he hadn’t.

  Now, this early Friday night, Sparks was going to embark on another amorous adventure, though this time the danger didn’t stem from a jealous husband, but from CPO Ferguson. He had spotted Elisa at the beginning of the week when she had been hanging out the washing in her back garden which ran to the bank of the Rhine. Stretching up to reach the taut line, her splendid figure and good stout legs had been clearly exhibited against the thin material of her frock. Naturally, she had seen him watching her as he had lounged at the rail of the Swordfish. Spontaneously, she had stopped hanging up her ‘smalls’, as Sparks called them, and waved. That had done it. ‘Like giving strawberries to a frigging elephant,’ he had said to himself, mind made up. Even if old Chiefie did put him on the ‘rattle’ for it, he wasn’t going to miss a chance as good as that. That night, and on the off-duty watch, he had stolen the little rubber dinghy which the Swordfish towed, rowed across the darkening Rhine, and had given the delightful Elisa the ‘patter’, though his German was limited to ‘Ich liebe Dich…’ and ‘wo ist dein Bett?’ He had her twice on the kitchen table and was back on the Occupied bank of the Rhine within two hours.

  Now it was Friday night and on Friday night as a kid he’d always gone on the ‘razzle’. H
alf a pint of’pig’s ear’ at the local boozer, then, fortified with just enough beer but not too much to give a ‘bloke’ ‘brewer’s droop’, he’d sally forth to find the ‘tarts’.

  Tonight, washed, shaved, talcum powder under his armpits and in his crotch, hair sleeked down with cream smelling strongly of violets, dressed in the new duds the skipper had bought them, he manoeuvred the little dinghy into the river, not using the oars, in order to prevent discovery until the craft reached the current. A little bit of hard rowing and some careful steering and he’d land right up close to her back garden. He looked back at the stark silhouette of the Swordfish, outlined by the lights of Cologne, and whispered, ‘Ta ta, Chiefie. Don’t wait up for me…’

  * * *

  Frau Klose was terrified of him, the ‘Beast’ could see that. When he had entered the little riverside cottage, her hand had flown to her mouth, as if she had been about to shriek at the sight of that terrible face. Later, when she had brought him coffee and a roll with leberwurst, she had kept her gaze averted as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. The knowledge heightened his black rage and he felt he could have slaughtered her there and then, as he had done with those other women in Berlin, but von Horn had expressly ordered him not to touch the woman. ‘Frau Klose is part of the tale, Leutnant,’ he had explained slowly and carefully, as if he were talking to an idiot. ‘She is a war widow – husband killed at the front in Italy in seventeen. Now, this beast of a Tommy has raped her. You know of this because you were a comrade of her husband at Verdun. She has confessed all to you. This is the last straw. You decide that her shame and all the insults heaped on us Germans by those foreign pigs must be avenged. That’s the story.’

  So he sat there moodily under the single yellow bulb, waiting for the Tommy to come, while she pretended to busy herself in the kitchen next door, rattling the fire irons, doing all sorts of purposeless tasks, no doubt in order that she hadn’t to sit with him and look at his ruined face.

  He knew what he had to do. He had to kill the Tommy tonight, drag the body to the bottom of Frau Klose’s garden, conceal it but not too well. Then he’d take the man’s boat, cross the Rhine and abandon it on the other side. On Saturday morning, he would be in position. In the meantime Frau Klose would wait till the morning of Sunday before going to the police to report that she had been raped by the unknown Tommy. The day before, she will have told an old friend of her husband’s and he will have gone off in a mad rage to find the Tommy rapist. ‘That will start the ball rolling. Neither the Tommies nor the German authorities, those weak swine in Berlin, will be able to hush up the matter, Leutnant, ’von Horn had sneered.

  ‘Sir,’ Frau Klose’s urgent whisper broke into his black reverie. ‘I can hear him… his boat.’

  For a big clumsy man, the ‘Beast’ acted with surprising speed. He hurried into the kitchen. Carefully, he peered into the darkness, with the lights of Cologne stretched along the bank on the other side. He made out the dark figure rowing a little boat closer to this side. ‘It’s him?’

  She nodded, not daring to look at him. ‘All right, you know what you’ve got to do first.’

  ‘Must I, sir? I feel defiled letting that Tommy swine paw me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you must. The Chief has ordered that you must go through with it. The police must find semen on your underclothing later when you report the rape.’

  Her bottom lip trembled, as if she might cry. She looked across at the already fading photograph, framed with black crepe. It showed a serious young man, posing martially with spiked helmet and long bayoneted rifle. ‘What must he think of me?’ she quavered. ‘I was always loyal to dear Heinrich, even when he was away at the front for so long.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ the ‘Beast’ said brutally, ‘you’re getting paid for it, aren’t you?’

  She nodded tearfully.

  Now as the squeak of oars got nearer, he retreated back into her ‘best room’. He had his pistols and there were no houses very close to the woman’s cottage. But he felt like using his hands. He looked down at the two hairy hams dangling between his knees. He flexed them, the knuckles cracking as he did so. The noise gave him pleasure. He squeezed them together as if tightening them around someone’s throat. That gave him even more pleasure. His terrible face cracked into a parody of a smile. ‘Yes, definitely the hands,’ he whispered to himself.

  Hurriedly Sparks tied up the little dinghy. He could see her outlined against the yellow light streaming from the open door of the kitchen. He grinned to himself. ‘Can’t wait for it,’ he told himself happily. ‘Lovely grub.’ He touched his pocket. The packet of ‘Players’ was still there. It was a little surprise for her. ‘Bring her a couple o’ bob on the black market,’ he muttered, hurrying down the path, already feeling that old pleasurable thickening in his loins. ‘Lovely grub,’ he repeated to himself.

  ‘Hello ducks,’ he chortled. ‘lch liebe Dich.’ He grabbed her in his arms and stuck his tongue deep inside her mouth. She wriggled and he said thickly, ‘Now then, old girl. Don’t go on fighting – you know you love it.’

  His hand slipped up her skirt and he felt between her legs. ‘What did I tell yer. Come on, no time to waste. Let’s get at it, wotcher!’

  She let herself be led into the kitchen. Arm still around her, he kicked the door closed behind him, fumbling with his belt at the same time.

  ‘Aber—’ she began to protest. She didn’t want to be found on her back when it happened.

  But Sparks had no time for protests. He shoved her down on the sofa. ‘Get them off,’ he commanded hurriedly.

  She didn’t understand the words, but her eyes could tell her all too clearly what he wanted at this particular moment. She pulled down her knickers, keeping them hanging on her left leg.

  ‘Hullo, hullo,’ Sparks said cheerfully, ‘that’s a sight for sore eyes. Does me old mince-pies a world of good. Righto, let’s get to it, as the actress said to the bishop.’ He whipped his own trousers down to his ankles and positioned himself above, his organ jutting out and swaying like a policeman’s club. He saw the look in her eyes and misinterpreted it. ‘Don’t worry, luv,’ he said, ‘I’m particularly gentle with virgins.’ He grunted and thrust his penis inside her.

  Carefully, the ‘Beast’ peered through the gap in the door. The Tommy was on top of Frau Klose, his lean white buttocks pumping up and down vigorously and it was obvious to the ‘Beast’ that the bitch was enjoying it. Her legs were spread wide, high in the air, as if she couldn’t get enough of him and her breath was coming in short, sharp, hectic gasps, her eyes screwed tight, her face twisted to one side, flushed and lathered in sweat.

  ‘Lovely grub, eh,’ the Tommy gasped. ‘Bet you’re enjoying this. They allus do.’

  Noiselessly, the ‘Beast’ began to open the door wider, his anger mounting rapidly at the spectacle. The bitch had said she was a patriotic German who was only doing this in order to entrap the Tommy. But that wasn’t true. It could have been a black Senegalese pumping himself into her. She wouldn’t have cared, as long as he was a man.

  He flexed his hands back and forth, as if he was itching to get them round the Englishman’s throat and strangle the life out of him. On the couch the woman was beginning to moan, tossing her face from side to side in passion, her mouth gaping and stupid.

  The ‘Beast’ growled deep in his throat. He swung the door open.

  The Tommy reacted at once. He had felt the cold air coming from the cooler living room sweep across his naked rump. He stopped what he was doing immediately and flung himself from the woman, nimble and quick despite the fact that his trousers were around his ankles. ‘What’s the bleeding little game?’ he demanded. Then he saw the ‘Beast’s’ ruined face in the light of the single electric bulb and gasped. ‘Christ Almighty, what a frigging mug!’

  On the sofa the woman still lay with her legs spread and in the air, her eyes tightly shut.

  Sparks took in the situation at once – wrongly. The fellow with the ugly
mug was her husband. He’d been in situations like this before. He’d really been caught with his knickers down this time. In a swift gesture he pulled up his pants and faced up to the German who towered above him. Sparks wasn’t afraid. He had been brought up in a tough neighbourhood, where he’d learned while still in short pants how to handle himself. Since then, he had learned a few more nasty tricks in waterfront bars all over the world with the Navy.

  The ‘Beast’ growled something and reached out with his huge hairy paws. Sparks didn’t hesitate. He lashed out with his right foot. The highly polished toe of his ‘winkle-picker’ caught the ‘Beast’ right in the crotch. He tumbled back, false teeth gaping from his shattered mouth.

  The ‘Beast’ growled low and threatening. He struggled back up. Sparks looked anxious. A kick in the groin like that would have put most men out. Not this monster. Behind him the German woman gave a little scream. She pulled her frock down and held her hands to her eyes as if she couldn’t face the horror to come. Sparks’ quick cockney brain raced. He knew if the monster once caught hold of him, he’d had it. His best bet was to get out of the cottage and do a runner. Desperately he looked around for some way of stopping the monster so that he could do so. His eye fell on the pepper pot on the kitchen table. He seized it and in one and the same motion sent its contents flying in the direction of his attacker.

  The ‘Beast’ yelled with sudden pain. He clawed at his suddenly burning eyes, sneezing violently as he did so. He shook his head crazily, trying to drive away the burning.

  Sparks was off. ‘Bye bye birdie’ he sang out and then he was out of the door in a flash, telling himself that had been a close one. He ran towards where he had tied up the dinghy, heart leaping with sudden joy at the thought that he had got away with it again. Luck had been on his side once more.

  Behind him he heard the monster stagger through the open kitchen door and shout something in German.