“I thought Sweden was strictly neutral?” I asked the captain as we cruised resolutely east.
“The Government is, but not the people.” He puffed hard on a carved wooden pipe, the resultant smoke being dragged away by the headwind. “We are proud, we Swedish. Not everybody likes doing nothing while our brothers suffer.”
We sailed unchallenged all the way across the North Sea, until the heading changed. “That’s Gothenburg,” the captain pointed to port. “The sea gets a little busier from here.” We saw many German ships, both Merchantmen and warships, but no one paid us any attention. I guess they can’t be everywhere, and most had jobs to do of their own.
We landed in a place the captain called Grimsdaal; I call it a ‘place’ for it was too small to have any kind of a harbour, we had to take a small boat to shore. Three buildings stood on the shore, and as the boat rowed away, I came to the firm realization they’d abandoned me.
A door opened from the middle house, and a man approached. “Are you from Blighty?”
I nodded. There seemed to be no reason to deny it. “Aye.” I indicated the boat rowing away, the trawler offshore. “Just fresh off the boat.” I joked.
“Did they send anything with you?” he stopped near the edge of the small beach, and waved me to climb up the grassy dune. “Anything at all?”
“No, sorry.” I managed a shrug as I stepped up the slope. “Just me.”
He shook his head, looking over me at the trawler. “How the hell are we meant to get the job done with no resources?” he held out his hand for the last yard, and pulled me level. He kept my hand, shaking it. “George Simpson, Captain, Leicester Rifles.”
“Baird.” We started to walk towards the open door. “James Baird. I’ve worn so many uniforms; I’ve a hard time picking one to be loyal to.”
“I know what you mean. Let’s get you inside, get a cuppa down you, and get you familiar with the set-up.”
Inside the hut were three men, and two women, all intent on my entry.
“He doesn’t have any supplies.” Simpson lamented. The rest groaned.
“We haven’t had anything for five weeks.” One of the men said.
“I hope you like porridge,” One girl said.
“Well, my mum gives me it every morning.” I grinned. “Sugar or salt?” It wasn’t until I stopped talking I realized we’d been talking German from the moment I arrived.
“Where’s your home town?” Simpson asked.
“Stuttgart,” I replied, taking a cup of hot tea.
“Where did you get your training?”
“Around,” I didn’t lie.
He looked at me for a moment. “Okay, let’s get you up to speed. We’ve only got a week.”
“A week?” I queried.
“Peenemünde is taking in a new cadre of workers, mainly laborers, but some skilled men too.” Simpson said, leading the way through to what was obviously an operations room. Maps and diagrams were pinned to every wall, and in the center of the room, on a large table, lay a model of our intended target.” “We intend to get as many of us into the plant as possible.”
“This is the best idea we have of the Nazis call the Peenemünde Army Research Center.”
“The best you have?”
Simpson nodded sheepishly. “Well, we haven’t actually seen it recently; we’re going on maps from 1938.”
I could hardly believe it. “Nineteen thirty-eight?” Even I knew a lot could happen in four years.
“And we’re lucky to have this.” Simpson pointed to a grainy photograph. “This was taken from a high flying transport plane that conveniently went off course. Peenemünde has been top secret for over seven years.”
I looked back to the table s Simpson continued my briefing. “As far as we know, Peenemünde is split into three sections. Werk Ost is a production area, and we’re not entirely certain what Werk Süd is being used for, while we think Werk West is a Luftwaffe area, and we’re not immediately concerned with it.”
I saw cardboard boxes depicting large buildings, but there was little detail. “Why don’t we do a reconnaissance first, get some more up-to-date information?”
Simpson smiled, the kind of condescending father to infant smile. “We tried that, so far no-one’s got out alive.” He indicated the rest of the group. “I used to have fifteen operatives. We sent them in in three man groups. This is all we have left. If we can’t get in and out this time, the whole operation’s been a waste of time and manpower.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I’d only heard two of the others talk. “Can we all speak German?”
Simpson shook his head. “Ariel here is a German Jew, Magda as well.” Those had been the ones who’d commented earlier. “Pieter, Franke and Hilde are Poles, their German is not good, but we’re hoping they’ll manage to infiltrate the main workforce, so much of that comes from the German occupied zones.”
“So this is where you reckon the V-1’s are being made?”
Simpson looked at me like I’d just blasphemed. “You know about the V-1’s?”
“Aye,” I looked at him from furrowed brows. “I raided a V-1 launch site in Sicily.”
“Holy God; you’ve seen one up close?”
I grinned at his boyish enthusiasm. “Touched it, blew it up.”
And that led to a dozen questions from both Simpson and his German-speaking team-mates.
For five days we discussed the site, the rocket program, what little they knew about it, and possible means to get into the facility. We went through the plans of the base, the possible new additions, but to be honest, we were working on such out-of-date information; I didn’t hold much stock with it. In fact, the more Simpson spoke, the more I saw his plan as a complete disaster, and no wonder he’d already lost so many men. He spoke well on generalities, but when it got down to brass tacks, to boot-on-the-ground, he floundered on details. Let’s just say I wasn’t confident in his leadership capability.
We left for Germany exactly one week after me landing at Grimsdaal, and huddled in the hold of a fishing boat for six hours before being called onto the deck. It was dark, and my watch gave the time as 4.15. After climbing over the side, never my favorite part, we sat quietly in the middle of a rowboat as four burly sailors inched us ashore.
Although it looked shallower, I jumped out of the boat into thigh high freezing Baltic water. I gasped at the sudden immersion, and strode for the shore, pulling Magda by the hand. At last I stood on German soil.
The plan was to get into Rostock, the main assembling point for workers bound to Peenemünde. As far as our maps were concerned, we were now just eight miles from the German port. As we climbed through the considerable dunes, I found myself in the rear, helping Magda keep her balance; she’d not had a great sea journey, and looked weak.
Suddenly the night was lit by a bright searchlight. “Halt!” a voice commanded, and I heard a number of guns being cocked; rifles and Schmeissers. “Hands up!”
I ducked behind Magda, and threw myself onto the ground, a dry sandy bed. Out of the searchlight’s direct blast, I crawled away as the surrender scene was played out behind me; these operatives were not trained for fighting, no shots were fired, no resistance given. Cursing our bad luck, I put as much distance between myself and the soldiers as I could. There was silence for a while, then the sound of whistles, commands; I knew my flight had been discovered.
I suddenly found myself on a graveled road, and took off, running into the night, having no earthly idea of direction, just getting away. Then a loud-speaker crackled, breaking the silence, and I stopped to listen.
“Herr Baird. Surrender now while you have the chance.”
I baulked at his knowledge of my name. Jogging along the grass verge of the road to keep my footfalls to a minimum volume, I continued on my way.
“Herr Baird! If you do not give yourself up, I will shoot the remaining members of your party!”
“Aye,” I muttered under my breath. “And you’ll kill me too if I’m stupid enough to fall for that one.” I could reason no other possible reason for the German to know my real name; Simpson must have given me up.
And that made him either a weakling beyond belief, or in collusion with the Germans. “Maybe that’s why his ‘missions’ never worked.” I cursed the turncoat, hating the idea that I’d been conned for the last week.
“Damn, damn, damn.” I hissed, knowing that I had yet another journey ahead of me; getting home from Rostock.
Well, that was where Simpson expected me. I needed another plan, and I needed it quick.
I heard a truck behind me, and dashed off the road, throwing myself to the ground, and pulling my body as low as I could manage. The loud speaker came closer, then passed, still offering me clemency if I surrendered. A few hundred yards further on, the truck turned, and drove back the way it had come, until its traitorous sounds could not be discerned.
As I got back onto the road and redoubled my efforts to get distance between us, I set myself a list of tasks.
I had to get a new ID card; the name on the one I had would probably be circulated in hours; Eric Volland was suddenly a wanted man.
I had to change my appearance; my semi-business suit had to go. A new hat, scarf, glasses, and a new coat were top of my shopping list.
I had to get out of the area, away from Rostock, away from all possible involvement in the dreaded area called Peenemünde, fifty miles away.
And I had to get home and stop the S.O.E. sending more agents to their deaths in Simpson’s trap. As I ran, I went through Simpson’s plan, kicking myself that I hadn’t noticed the significance of certain details before. He’d held the German money for the whole group, promising to split it when we arrived. He’d said we’d meet a contact where we’d be issued with ID cards.
Damn the yellow-bellied rat. The whole operation hadn’t been planned to last past the first landing on the beach.
As the western sky grew lighter, I took my bearings, and damned it if I wasn’t walking west, away from Rostock, yes, but towards the Peenemünde area. With the possible pursuit behind me, I shrugged my shoulders and walked on; I had little choice. When my gravel road hit a paved one, I struck out west again, or west-ish. My map showed the town of Ribnitz-Damgarten to be just a few miles away, and I knew I had to make a choice; head into town and lose myself in anonymity, or stick to the countryside and hide up during the coming day.
I chose the latter, content to lie in a dry roadside ditch, hoping that Jerry didn’t bring out dogs.
As the sun rose, I made out waterways all around me, and swam over a couple, to rid my trail of any scent. In the cover of long marsh grass I settled down.
At around eleven I heard a low whistle coming towards my position; a tune albeit crude and breathy. I rose slowly to see a man wheeling a bicycle not fifty yards from me. I looked around. Nothing man-made could be seen. I crept through the grass on a converging course. The poor shit had no idea until I leapt from behind and spun him around. One punch to the throat cancelled any shout of alarm he’d planned, and a kick behind his legs brought him to the ground.
I hated taking an innocent life, but there was no way to make my escape half-heartedly; getting back to Edinburgh was now my foremost mission, not being shot as a spy. I slid my arms around the struggling man’s throat, and put up with a wild punch or two. In a minute he was dead, limp in my arms. I searched him thoroughly.
ID card, Jan Heintze, forty one years old.
“I can do forty,” I said. All I needed was some talcum powder for my hair, and dirty my face a bit. The address was a place called Gelbensande; I assumed it was nearby. In his other pockets he had four marks, and a dribble of change. I took his jacket, his wooly scarf, and his shoes. From my training, I remembered that shoes were often the giveaway, the hardest thing to get in your size. Luckily his were a size or two larger than my feet, as perfect as I could have hoped.
The grass was trodden down like it was some form of path, so I proceeded to drag his semi-naked body quite some distance from the scene of his demise to a small land-locked pond. Hopefully it would be days before he was found.
I grabbed his bicycle, and wheeled it back to my hiding place.
Now all I had to do was wait until dusk.