Maggers and Ryan spent the next ten days crossing the German countryside, moving by night and laying up in hedgerows during the day. Where possible they lived off the land, pulling up root vegetables from farmers’ fields or carrying out dangerous forays into quiet farm kitchens, desperate to find enough to eat. Overall they had been lucky as though they had often seen German vehicles in the distance, it seemed they had managed to get far enough away from the crash site to ensure their trail had gone cold.
Maggers ran as fast as he could, crouching low behind the hedgerow to ensure no prying eyes from the nearby village saw his silhouette against the moonlit sky. He had been gone half the night, leaving Ryan wrapped in a horse blanket they had stolen from a stable a few nights earlier. Ryan was struggling. Not only had he contracted some sort of fever, he was also weak from hunger and their pace had slowed right down. Maggers knew that if he could just get some hot food and a dry bed for a few nights, Ryan should be fine, but they were both very conscious that they were still in Germany and if they could just hang on for a few more days, they would cross the border into Denmark. Once there, the chances of finding a friendly local would be far higher.
He slid down a muddy bank and made his way back to the cave they had found in the side of the riverbank. As he approached he heard the sound of the hammer being drawn back on the shotgun.
‘Ryan,’ he whispered, ‘it’s me,’ and crawled into the tiny space containing his friend.
‘You… took… your… bloody… time,’ said Ryan, his voice hardly coherent because of his violent shivering.
‘Bloody hell, Ryan,’ said Maggers, ‘are you OK?’
‘I’ve been better,’ said Ryan, and broke into a coughing fit. ‘Any luck?’ he asked eventually.
Maggers unzipped his jacket and pulled out half a loaf of rustic bread.
‘I’ve got this,’ he said, ‘and half a dozen eggs. Now if we only had a frying pan, we could rustle up a few egg banjos, however, all is not lost. I found this in one of the barns.’ He held up an old paint pot. ‘How does a boiled egg and some toast sound?’
Ryan smiled weakly.
‘Sounds good,’ he said, and laid his head back against the rock.
‘Ryan, you don’t look so good,’ said Maggers.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Ryan, ‘you just get a bloody fire started so we can boil those little beauties.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Maggers, and started to assemble the kindling he had gathered earlier. Most nights they couldn’t have a fire in case it was seen in the darkness but tonight, as they were sheltered between the high banks of a river and inside a small cave, they had decided to risk it.
Soon he had a small fire going and he filled the old paint pot with water along with the six eggs. He then sliced a piece of bread from the loaf with his combat knife and held it close to the flames. Ten minutes later he peeled one of the eggs and after slicing it up finely, added it to the slightly charred bread.
‘Ryan,’ he said, nudging his sleeping comrade, ‘wake up mate, I’ve got some lovely egg on toast for you.’
Ryan murmured but his eyes remained closed.
‘Come on, Ryan,’ said Maggers, ‘you’ve got to get something hot down you.’
Ryan struggled to sit up and after catching his breath, held out his hands.
‘There’s no butter,’ said Maggers, ‘but we can’t have everything, can we?’
Ryan smiled weakly and took the food from his friend. Maggers picked up his own bread and they ate slowly, savouring every last mouthful.
‘There are four eggs left,’ said Maggers. ‘I think we should have one more each and keep the other two for tomorrow. What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Ryan and lay back again.
Maggers leaned forward and tucked the horse blanket tighter around his friend.
‘Hang on in there, mucker,’ he said, ‘a couple more days and we’ll be in some safe house in Denmark. You see if we don’t.’
‘Can’t wait,’ murmured Ryan, and slipped into a fitful sleep.
Maggers opened his eyes. The tiny cave was starting to lighten in the dawn’s cold light. He had slept little through the night, often being woken by his own shivering despite sharing the coarse blanket with his friend. For a few seconds he lay there, silently cursing the circumstances that had brought them to this situation and hating the war in general. When war had been declared he had been too young to join up, but on his eighteenth birthday, in 1942, he had made a beeline for the recruitment office, much to the chagrin of his mother. She had already lost one son and didn’t want to lose another.
That had been three years earlier, and Maggers had joined bomber command to fly Lancasters over Europe, part of the campaign to bomb Germany into submission. He and the other six crew members had been very lucky and the closest they had come to being killed was when they had to crash land in a field in Kent after hitting a particularly thick and unexpected wall of flak over France when returning from a mission. Despite this, they had all survived with nothing more than a couple of broken bones between them. They had soon returned to duty and apart from some more flak holes, had again enjoyed a good run of luck. That is until a week earlier, when they had caught a piece of flak right in the cockpit, killing the pilot and sending the plane spiralling toward the ground.
Maggers was particularly disappointed. The allies were pushing through Europe and it was common knowledge that the war was almost over. Despite this and their extraordinary run of luck, it was a bit sickening to finally have been shot down over enemy territory.
‘Still,’ he thought, ‘at least we are alive.’
He turned around to face the back of his friend.
‘Ryan,’ he said. When there was no answer he nudged him in the back. ‘Ryan, wake up.’
Again there was no answer, and Maggers threw off the blanket to get to his knees. He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and shook it hard.
‘Ryan, wake up,’ he said, ‘are you OK?’
Though he was rewarded with a groan, it was obvious something was wrong. He felt his friend’s forehead and under his chin.
‘Bloody hell, Ryan, you’re burning up.’
‘I’m freezing,’ stuttered Ryan, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Shit,’ cursed Maggers, knowing full well his friend was seriously ill. Ryan was shaking violently and soaked in a bath of sweat. Maggers wrapped his half of the blanket around his friend’s shoulders before sitting back and taking stock of the situation. Within minutes he knew what he had to do. He grabbed the last of the eggs they had boiled the previous night.
‘Ryan,’ he said, cradling his friend’s head, ‘I want you to try to eat something.’
Ryan shook his head, without opening his eyes.
‘Thirsty,’ he responded faintly.
Ryan held his water bottle to his friend’s mouth, letting the water drizzle between his lips.
‘Listen, mate,’ said Maggers, tucking the blanket tight around the ill man’s neck, ‘you stay here and try to stay as warm as you can. I’ve got to go somewhere, but I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ryan.
Maggers paused, wondering if he should tell him. At last he decided he had to; after all, they were in this together.
‘I’m going back to that farmhouse a few miles back,’ he said, before adding, ‘I’m going to get some help.’
Ryan’s eyes opened briefly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m all right. Just let me rest for a few hours and I’ll be fine.’ He tried to raise himself up but broke into a violent coughing fit. Maggers grabbed hold of him and held him until his friend fell quiet again.
‘You’re not right, Ryan,’ he said, ‘and there’s no way we can go on. We can’t be far from the border, and the locals may well be friendly. Hell, even if they are krauts, they may still help us. They must know the writing is on the wall and they may see that by helping us they may get preferential treatment when the yanks arrive.’
Ryan didn’t answer, just closed his eyes against the pain filling his head.
‘Right,’ said Maggers, tucking the blanket back around his friend, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ and without wasting another minute, he ducked out of the cave to run back up the riverbed.
Hundreds of miles away, Karl Mueller watched the train depart the station. He had travelled overnight from Berlin and now stood on the platform, watching grimly as his comrades continued toward the Western Front. He, on the other hand, wouldn’t be joining his countrymen facing the allies in the west; his next journey lay northward to Hamburg, and whilst he wasn’t sure where his ultimate destination lay, he knew that wherever it was, it was on the orders of Hitler himself.
Mueller was a Hauptsturmführer in the Waffen SS, the rough equivalent of a captain in the US army. His record was impeccable and whilst he was only twenty-six years old, his ruthlessness on the field of battle, unstinting loyalty and indeed commitment to the German cause had seen him rise rapidly through the ranks to his present position. He had been one of the lucky few evacuated from Stalingrad in 1943, having been cut down by a machine gun after he had taken out a Soviet tank single-handedly. Though he had been close to death, lady luck had been with him. His comrades had forced a cargo plane pilot, at gunpoint, to take him back west to a field hospital. From there he had been evacuated to Berlin where he had eventually found out that every member of his unit had subsequently been either killed in action or taken prisoner and executed by the Soviet defence forces. This wasn’t unusual as the Waffen SS were hated by the enemy due to their brutality and they often fought to the last man and last bullet, knowing full well that they could expect no mercy should they be taken prisoner.
Despite this, it was a still a blow to Karl Mueller to lose the men he had trained and fought alongside. For months he had lain in a hospital bed as his body healed and then had spent several more recuperating in a training barracks for Hitler youth. Finally his pleas to be returned to active service seemed to have been heeded and he had been summoned to the commanding officer’s quarters.
There he had been given an envelope containing his orders. He was to proceed immediately to Hamburg where he would be given further orders on arrival. That was it. He didn’t know where he was going, or what his ultimate posting would consist of. All he knew was he wasn’t going to the front line and that his journey was top secret.
Karl limped toward the waiting room of the train station, his leg aching from one of the old wounds. He found a corner amongst the other sleeping bodies and sat down before lighting up a cigarette. Many of the other soldiers present glanced at the young officer, nervous about his unit and indeed his rank. Mueller didn’t care. After the heady atmosphere and alcohol-fuelled antics of his comrades on the train from Berlin, all he wanted to do now was sleep. Finally, he wrapped his greatcoat around him and closed his eyes, wondering what the future held for him.