As I waited for my mark to return, I thought of the 60 mile range of the V-1. More than half of the world’s major cities lay on the coast; with this weapon on a ship, the Nazi’s were unstoppable. If they could manufacture these rockets in enough numbers, every country with a coastline would surrender to them. With the exception of Russia and China, world domination was assured.
Suddenly my mission home was of more import than before, and far more time sensitive. When my quarry walked out of the port gates, I almost jumped him there and then.
Almost.
With a settling of low cloud, a grey darkness had descended over the town, and the streetlights were just beginning to switch on. It was the perfect time to act. Using an adjoining street, I ran ahead, hoping he was returning the way he’d come; it was taking a chance, but worth it. I stood ready, and sure enough he soon approached my position. I swung into a drunk-man act, holding onto the wall of a building to supposedly stop me falling. Through my half-closed eyelids I watched his sneer, his wallowing in his superiority, then as he neared, I pushed myself from the wall, trying to find something else to cling on to; him. “Excuse me, sir, could…”
He tried to swerve past me, but I forced myself to stumble, throwing myself in his face. Clutching his clothes against the quick brush-off, I spun us round.
“What are you doing?” he gasped, fighting his arms free. I dodged my head past his first blow, pulling him closer to the alleyway behind me. I then took a fist to the head, but the hit just propelled me farther back. Safely in the dark alleyway, it was time to drop the drunk act.
I hit him hard in the groin with my knee, and slammed my fist at his chin, expecting him to crumble; many would have. What I didn’t anticipate was the straight right hook at my own jaw. I just dodged it and no more. He now came at me with fists flying. “I’ll teach you, you scum…” he swore under his breath.
I managed to deflect most of his blows, and watched his expression change from that of overwhelming superiority to doubt. I struck back, ducking inside his fists, and pulling him towards a wall, crashing him against the stone.
Dazed, he opened his mouth to yell for help, his head turned towards the lights of the street. A straight hand to his throat cut off all sound. I had him now, raining punches on his gut and chin until he stood in a complete stupor. I think only his obstinacy stopped him from falling. I turned him round, gripped his head, and gave it a final twist, the cracking of his bones ringing off the walls of the alleyway.
It had been the toughest fight since my training, and I stood panting, holding him upright, looking for a way out.
A wooden door in the high alley wall beckoned, and I shuffled myself and my prize six feet over to it. The door opened silently, and inside I could see a small garden, and a brick coal box, its lid open and dark. A small shed lay to my right, the windows of the accompanying house were dark, the curtains still open. I crossed to the shed, and tried the door. Thankfully it opened, and although the hinges did make a racket, the door opened wide without much resistance.
I looked inside. It was tidy, but surprisingly empty. Racks of took and garden implements lay on three walls.
With only enough light to see what I was doing and little more, I stripped the man’s uniform and underclothes completely, laying them out neatly on a small bench, then shed my own. For a split second I was at my most vulnerable then, with the dexterity that practice can provide, I dressed in his clothes as quickly as I could. On one side of his belt he carried a luger in a shiny holster, on the other, a long knife, not unlike a Sykes/Fairbairn, but this was ornate and silver. My final move was to stuff his black leather gloves in my coat pockets.
I only had one last part of my mission in Rostock to accomplish; disposal of the body in such a way as to ensure the identity of my victim would not be discovered for several days, thus allowing me to use his persona to escape. I looked around the shed again, but to my dismay could see no accelerant I could use to set fire to the building; I had expected paraffin or something similar. Outside in the dark garden my search was again stymied; apart from the coal box and the shed, I found nowhere to dispose of the body. I searched my new pockets, finding a lighter deep in my coat pocket.
Shading its light with my free hand, I looked inside the coal box. The ragged black pieces were low, almost to ground level, so I couldn’t hide the body there either.
I was left with little choice, and returned to the shed.
I took a spade from the wall, and braced myself above the naked body. I almost threw up at the task ahead. It took me three well-placed blows with the sharp end of the spade to sever his head totally, a necessary act of brutality I still regret to this day.
Using the lighter, I searched his body for tattoos, finding only one on his arm, a small Knights Cross. Again, using the spade, I chopped at the area, then removed the excess flesh.
As I extinguished the light, a glint from his hand caught my eye. Examining his fingers I found a ring; almost a major blunder on my part. I removed it, and placed it in my pocket, stuffing it under the leather glove.
Putting the head and flesh from the arm in a sack which I found folded on the floor, I donned the dead man’s hat, a bit on the large side, and opened the door of the shed. Lights now shone through the gaps in the curtains of the house, illuminating the garden. I loosened a brick from a small wall, and added it to the sack. After tying the opening closed, I fled the scene with my grisly trophies.
Confident.
I was now one of the conquering heroes of the Third Reich; I had to learn to walk like one.
Calm.
I was carrying the head of a high-up in the Gestapo in a sack by my side, and wearing the clothes of a man I neither knew nor knew the identity of; that was an oversight I had to correct at the earliest opportunity.
But I also had a secret essential to the Allied war effort. If my information was not passed on quickly to the highest levels, the fate of the whole world would be changed forever.
At a quiet corner, under a street light, I palmed my pockets, and found a wallet in my inner jacket pocket. Inside, under a see-through panel, sat an impressive ID card.
Capitan Jürgen Seeler. Waffen SS.
1st SS Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSSAH)
It gave an address in Berlin, and my age as twenty-seven.
I gasped in disbelief at my luck. From a hundred possible victims, I had chosen to take the identity of one of Hitler’s personal bodyguard corps. I could hardly think of the range of possibilities.
The wallet also contained over four hundred Reichsmarks, which no doubt would come in handy
Sticking the wallet back in my pocket, I continued, hoping to find the river sometime soon.
Two soldiers turned a corner in front of me. I almost jumped for cover. With my heart in my mouth I watched as they moved to one side, halted, and came to attention.
“Heil Hitler!” they chorused loudly.
I raised my hand in a relaxed salute suitable to my lofty position. “Heil!” I barked, and never pausing in my stride, walked confidently past.
Oh, how I loved that moment.
As the road dipped, I saw the river beyond, and thanking my good fortune, walked to the quay’s edge. I looked to either side, but although there was some movement, none was directed in my direction. I didn’t even pause. Seeing there was water deep enough to hide my cargo, I tossed it into the dark waters of the river.
I had now passed the most vulnerable of my deception, and with a mental wipe of my brow, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Taking in the whole of my surroundings, I settled my nerves, and retraced my steps back into town. I was determined to see just how far my position could take me.
As I walked I considered my options, and thought that discretion was the best policy. I needed to get out of town, any direction, any method.
Knowing that my presence near the Gestapo Headquarters would be dangerous, I walked south on the main road until I saw a small staff car approach from behind, a soft top, the back seats apparently empty. Striding onto the road I waved it down. The driver slowed and stopped.
“Are you busy?” I asked over the bonnet as the driver opened his door.
“No, sir,”
“What are your orders?”
The man seemed disturbed by my questions. “I’m returning the car to the pool.”
“Where is it?” I walked round
“119th Division, near Kritzmow.”
“I need it,” I held my hand out. “Give me the keys please.”
Considering my rank, the poor man had no possible avenue to refuse or even question me. He handed the key into my hand and got out of the way as I got inside, started it, and drove off.
Well, I drove off sure enough, I was driving south, but with no idea of direction. The map that traitor Simpson had given me had shown nothing much of any detail inland; I didn’t even know what the next major town was.
The fuel gauge showed three quarters full, possibly enough for a hundred miles.
On the streets or in the countryside, dressed in civilian clothes, darkness was my friend. Now, with transport, but without a map, the gloom of night played against me; it restricted my direction options, and compromised my speed. The headlights of the car were mostly covered in black tape, and I knew if I removed it, I could be stopped on that infraction; attracting unwanted attention.
I drove, racking my brain the name of any harbour town, then as I passed a green road sign, the word Hamburg splashed across my retinae.
“Hamburg!” I announced aloud with some glee.
At the junction, three soldiers stood, their truck nearby. I turned right, then stopped, sticking my head out of the window. “How far to Berlin?” I laughed.
And drove off.
On a wider, more major road, I now passed quite a few military vehicles, some in small convoys, others single. Considering the Germans now had a considerable presence in most European countries, their manpower deep in their own country impressed me.
Soon I found new road signs, promising the oncoming location of Lübeck, the next stop on the way to the German port.
Before the town’s limits, I stopped at the first signs of houses, parked the car, and continued on foot.
Two minutes later, a truck passed me, and stopped at my wave. “Are you going into town?” I asked up at the driver.
“Yes, sir, I can take you there.”
I made light of my position as I got into the truck, smiling at the driver’s awkward expression. “It’s alright, soldier; you’re doing me a favor. I have nothing but happiness in my heart; I’m a father for the first time, and making my way to Paris to see the baby for the first time.” The lie/half-truth came easily to my mind, knowing Alice’s situation. “I need to borrow a car for a while.”
“I can take you straight to the main compound” the driver gave me a wan smile. “Congratulations, Herr Capitan.”
At my returned smile, the driver relaxed, and soon we were driving into an army base, the driver’s pass easily gaining access.
“The motor pool is to the left.” He turned the truck in that direction, and dropped me right by the brick building denoted by the sign. Motor Pool, 27th Armenian Infantry.
I strode inside, my confidence buoyed with every face that turned itself from my determined gaze, avoided direct contact with my eyes. It became immediately obvious I was as much an enemy of these men as they were to me, and it felt good.