It was ten minutes after midnight before they saw what they’d been expecting.
‘Slow-moving truck, left ten o’clock,’ Dawson whispered.
‘Got it.’
The two men watched in silence as the vehicle approached. In the light from its partially blacked-out headlamps they could see two of the other sentries waiting patiently to be relieved.
‘It’s stopped where sentry Able was positioned.’
As Dawson made this observation, the truck started moving again.
‘Now Baker.’
Again the lorry braked to a stop. Dawson and Watson couldn’t see anyone climb out of the vehicle or get into it, because the back of the truck was in darkness, but they had no doubt about what was happening on the road in front of them.
‘And that’s Charlie,’ Watson murmured.
‘And Dog,’ Dawson added, a couple of minutes later, as they watched the vehicle drive out of sight towards the north.
Twenty minutes later, what they assumed was the same lorry drove back, heading south along the road. The sentries, briefly illuminated by its headlights, acknowledged the vehicle’s passage with raised hands or nods.
‘That should be it for another hour or so,’ Dawson whispered.
Ninety minutes later, they heard, rather than saw, two men walking down the road, though the cigarette one of them was smoking indicated their position reasonably clearly. The patrol stopped by each of the sentries and talked briefly with them – Dawson and Watson could just about hear the faint sounds of their conversation – and then the soldiers walked on.
‘Another half hour or so, they should be on the way back. Then we can move,’ Dawson said.
It was actually closer to an hour before they saw the two-man patrol walking back down the road beside the river, and this time both of them were smoking.
‘Sloppy, that,’ Watson muttered. ‘On a clear night you can see a cigarette being smoked a quarter of a mile away. It’s a dead giveaway.’
‘Yeah,’ Dawson replied. ‘But they’re not that bothered. They’re well inside Germany, surrounded by other Germans. But it’s good news for us.’
He glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch. ‘We’ll give them ten minutes,’ he said. ‘That should be long enough for them to get well clear of the area, but not so long that the sentry will be too suspicious when he sees two men coming towards him.’
‘Right,’ Dawson said. ‘Time to go.’
The two men stood up, slung their Schmeissers and settled the German helmets on their heads.
‘You want a fag, for realism?’ Watson asked, fishing a packet out of one of his battledress pockets.
‘Yeah, but we don’t light up until we feel the tarmac under our feet, OK?’
Dawson led the way, walking slowly across the open ground, and aiming to intercept the road midway between the two sentry positions that they’d named Baker and Charlie. They’d already decided that their target would be Charlie.
In a couple of minutes, Dawson saw the hard surface of the road directly in front of him, and turned right, towards Charlie, Watson following right behind him. After they’d walked a few yards, they paused, and Watson lit two cigarettes. Dawson closed both eyes tight as he did so, to preserve his night-vision, then took one of them from him.
Ahead, they could hear the sentry moving. Obviously the sight of the match had alerted him to their presence, but at the same time the fact that somebody was on the road and felt able to light a cigarette should reassure him that they were a couple of German soldiers rather than hostile troops.
They strode on towards the sentry, making no attempt to walk quietly.
Suddenly Dawson saw a dim shape ahead, perhaps ten yards in front of them.
Watson muttered a couple of German words – he only knew a handful – and Dawson grunted in reply, attempting to sound natural.
The sentry switched on his torch as they approached him, shining the beam towards them. He obviously saw the Schmeissers slung across their chests, and the German helmets, and gave no sign of having noticed the different colour and type of uniforms they were wearing.
And then they were right beside him.
Dawson knew they had to act fast and decisively, because within a matter of seconds the sentry would realize they weren’t Germans. He walked straight up to the man and without a moment’s hesitation smashed his fist straight into the sentry’s stomach. The German soldier had no time to react. He doubled up, retching painfully, and Dawson followed up his first blow with a rabbit punch to the back of the man’s neck. The German collapsed senseless to the ground.
Watson bent down and picked up the sentry’s Mauser, pulled out the bolt and sent it spinning away into the darkness, rendering the weapon useless. ‘Nicely done, Eddie,’ he whispered, undoing the man’s belt and starting to lash his arms together behind his back. ‘You sure you don’t want to kill him?’
‘No,’ Dawson said firmly. ‘He’s out of it now. By the time he comes round, we’ll be in Luxembourg.’
‘I bloody well hope so, after all this.’
Less than a minute later, Dawson and Watson were crossing back over the road, heading for the spot where they’d hidden the two lengths of wood. They’d left their weapons and other equipment near the unconscious and incapacitated sentry and moved as quickly and soundlessly as they could.
‘Over here,’ Watson said, as he spotted the timber.
‘You reckon we can take both of them at the same time?’ Dawson asked, looking at the pale grey shapes lying on the grass in front of them. ‘That’d reduce the time we’re exposed out here.’
‘Let’s give it a try.’
They moved one of the logs so that it was about two feet away from the other one and lying parallel to it, and then stepped between them. Together, they bent down and wrapped one hand around each of the logs.
‘On three,’ Dawson muttered. ‘One, two, three.’
They straightened their backs, grunting with the effort, and lifted both logs up to waist level. They were heavy – they already knew that, having carried them all the way from the woodpile deep in the forest – but Dawson thought they’d be able to manage, as long as neither of them stumbled or tripped over anything.
‘You OK, Dave?’
‘Just about,’ Watson replied. ‘Ready?’
‘Yeah. We’ll do it on three again. One, two, three.’
The two men took a step forward simultaneously, and began walking slowly back towards the river. Fortunately, the ground they had to cross was fairly level – if it had been full of tussocks and dips they would certainly have had to make two journeys.
They’d covered maybe fifty yards before Dawson felt the strain on his arms becoming intolerable.
‘Gotta take a break, Dave,’ he muttered, and began slowing his steps.
‘Me too. OK, start lowering now.’
The logs thudded softly onto the grass as the two men bent down and released their grip on them.
Dawson rubbed his hands together. His arms, he noticed, were quivering with the strain, but he was pleased. They’d already carried the timber about a quarter of the distance they needed to cover.
‘We’ll just take a couple of minutes, Dave,’ he murmured, ‘then we’ll do it again.’
The second time, they managed to lug them a little further, perhaps seventy yards, before they stopped again.
‘Nearly there,’ Dawson said. ‘Once more lift and that should be it.’
In fact, they only managed to get the logs just to the river side of the road before they had to lower them to the ground again, but then the water was only about twenty yards away, so they were able to carry them to the riverbank one at a time. That took them less than three minutes.
‘You get the stuff, Eddie. I’ll start tying these together.’
‘Right,’ Dawson replied and walked back up the bank towards the road.
Three minutes later he was back, carrying their two Schmeissers, webbing belts and all their other gear in his arms.
Watson had already tied a belt around one end of the logs. ‘Give me another couple of belts, Eddie,’ he said. ‘That should be all we’ll need.’
Dawson helped him secure two more belts around the lengths of timber, effectively turning the two round logs into a long and narrow raft, which they hoped would be enough to keep their gear clear of the water and fairly dry as they made the crossing, and keep Dawson afloat as well.
Silently, the two men stripped off their uniforms and bundled them up. They just kept on their underwear because it was going to be cold in the water and they would need some kind of protection. They placed the uniforms, with their boots and the Schmeissers and grenades and everything else, on the logs.
‘Now let’s see if this thing floats,’ Dawson said.
‘It had fucking better,’ Watson muttered. ‘OK, I’ll get this side.’
The riverbank where they’d positioned the logs had a reasonably gentle slope down to the surface of the water, and their makeshift raft was pointing almost straight down the bank.
‘Grab hold of both logs at the same time,’ Watson instructed, ‘but don’t put any strain on the belts.’
‘Understood.’
‘Right, we’ll pick this up between us and just walk forward into the river, OK?’
The two men bent down and lifted the raft cautiously, being careful to balance it and keep it level, and slowly moved forward.
‘Bugger, that’s cold,’ Watson muttered as he stepped into the river. ‘OK,’ he said, as Dawson splashed in behind him. ‘Now just lower it down, but keep a firm hold on it. We don’t know how strong the current is, and we daren’t let it get swept away.’
Moments later, the raft was floating on the surface of the Moselle. Dawson looked at it critically, partly to take his mind off the crossing, which he’d been dreading. ‘These logs are floating a bit low in the water, aren’t they?’ he asked.
‘I expected them to. This isn’t properly dried and seasoned timber, so the logs are heavy. But don’t worry about it – this’ll float, no problem.’
‘So how am I supposed to do this?’ Dawson asked, his teeth already chattering – the water was very cold.
‘Easy. I’ll go at the front end, you stay at the back. We’ll just walk forward until we’re in the water up to our necks, then you just hang on to the logs. I’ll swim along beside the raft, and if you can kick out a bit with your feet, that might help as well. Just don’t panic. If you hold on to the logs, you can’t possibly sink, OK?’
‘OK.’ Dawson forced out the response.
Watson moved forward. ‘Right, I’m swimming now, so just let yourself go as soon as you like.’
Dawson took another step forward, then another. Suddenly his probing foot touched nothing, and for an instant he floundered, feeling himself sinking beneath the surface. He bobbed up, spluttering and shaking his head.
‘No noise, Eddie. Just take it easy,’ Watson hissed. ‘Hold on to the logs, and keep your head above water.’
Dawson flung both his arms over the top of the log raft and clung on desperately. The fragile craft wobbled dangerously for a few moments, then stabilized again.
‘Careful,’ Watson warned, looking behind him.
‘Sorry, mate. Fucking terrifies me, this,’ Dawson gasped.
‘Just hang on.’
Watson looked behind them. The current had caught the improvised craft and had already pulled it a few yards away from the east bank of the river. But that would never be enough – they needed to get across to the other side, not just go with the flow of the current along that bank.
He kicked out strongly, almost willing the log raft forward, across the wide river. The opposite bank was dimly visible as a dark line above the even darker surface of the water. It looked a long way off. But the good news was that it didn’t actually matter where they landed – within reason – though the further downstream they went, the further they’d have to walk through Luxembourg to get to the French border.
The current didn’t seem too strong, and Watson’s efforts did seem to be driving the craft out into the middle of the river. He glanced back at Dawson, who was still clinging on to the logs, his hands visibly shaking with the strain.
‘Eddie, just relax, OK? And if you could wiggle your legs about a bit that’d help me.’
Dawson looked at him, then seemed to shake himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, and slid back off the logs, still keeping his hands on them for support. His head dipped down, but didn’t go under the surface, and he started kicking out.
‘Great stuff, Eddie,’ Watson said.
‘I’m still fucking terrified, mate, but I’m trying to think positive. If I hold on, I can’t sink, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So I’ll try and help. Where are you aiming for?’
‘West, basically,’ Watson replied. ‘Anywhere on that far bank will do.’
‘OK.’ Dawson continued kicking, though he wasn’t entirely sure his efforts were actually helping propel the raft forward.
In five minutes, they’d drifted quite a way downstream, but were well over half-way across the river. Dawson was just starting to think they were going to make it, when it all went badly wrong.