Karl Mueller waited in the station master’s office in Hamburg train station. After finally arriving half an hour earlier, he had traced the elusive manager and demanded access to a telephone before calling the number he had been given in Berlin. An efficient secretary had answered and promised to arrange a call back as soon as possible. He sank into a moth-eaten armchair and helped himself to the station master’s whisky before lighting the first in a line of cigarettes as he awaited the return call. Finally the telephone rang and he watched the red-faced station master answer, amused at the way he had sprung to attention as he realised the rank of the man on the other end.
‘Yes, sir,’ snapped the station master, and handed the phone over to Mueller.
Mueller deliberately took his time and slowly extinguished the cigarette before standing up and walking over to take the phone. At no time did his eyes leave the sweating man and Mueller enjoyed the effect his appearance had on the lowlife.
‘Hello,’ he said into the receiver, still staring at the terrified man before him.
‘Hauptsturmführer Mueller, this is Oberstgruppenführer Huber,’ said the disembodied voice.
‘Good morning, general,’ said Mueller, ‘I hope you are well.’
‘Well enough, captain,’ said Huber. ‘I have been awaiting your call. You are late.’
‘My train was delayed in some flea-ridden town en-route.’
‘Perhaps it would have been better to have got a plane.’
‘I did try, general,’ said Mueller, ‘but all aircraft are busy dodging the bullets from Hurricanes and Spitfires.’
‘No matter,’ said Huber, ‘what’s done is done. As you are aware, there is a task that we would have you do. I cannot discuss the details on the phone but suffice to say, it is of the greatest importance to the Reich. In an hour or so a truck will pick you up at the station. The driver will have a sealed envelope with your next set of orders. I cannot reveal your ultimate destination yet in case you are captured, but this will be forthcoming as you go. Read your orders very carefully and carry them out to the letter. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, general,’ said Mueller.
‘Good,’ said Huber, ‘see that you do. If all goes well, we will meet in person in a few days and I will reveal the need for such secrecy. You come highly recommended, Mueller, don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t, general,’ said Mueller.
‘Good,’ said Huber. ‘Heil Hitler.’
‘Heil Hitler,’ answered Mueller, subconsciously snapping to attention, but the phone was already dead. He turned to the station master, annoyed that the man had seen his act of subconscious subservience.
‘You,’ he shouted, ‘bring me food.’
‘Yes, sir,’ stuttered the man in poor German, and shuffled out of the door.
‘And make it hot,’ shouted Mueller after him, before returning to the chair and lighting another cigarette.
An hour later, he climbed into the cab of an Opel-Blitz troop-carrying vehicle. A squad of SS soldiers sat in the back, each with their kitbags at their feet. The flaps of the tarpaulin were lowered against the cold and though they had little effect, everyone on board was just happy they were going in the opposite direction to the unrelenting assault from the allies on the Western Front.
‘Do you have a parcel for me?’ Mueller asked the driver.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the driver, and handed over a sealed envelope.
Mueller checked the wax seal, imprinted with the insignia of the SS. He also checked the rest of the envelope to see if it had been tampered with before opening it and reading his orders. When he had finished, he read them again, ensuring they were etched into his memory. Finally, he struck a match and burned the paper until it was nothing more than a wafer of ash at his feet.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘move out.’
The driver gunned the engine.
‘Where to, sir?’ he asked.
‘Just drive,’ said Mueller, ‘I’ll tell you as we go.’
A hundred miles away, Maggers opened his eyes and for a moment forgot all about the horrors of war. The morning sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window and the warmth of the bedding was a welcome relief from the constant cold they had endured over the last few weeks since the crash. Suddenly realising where he was, he sat up and looked across at the other bed in the attic space. It was empty.
‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped, and jumped up to get dressed as quickly as he could. He ran downstairs and into the kitchen of the farm where they had been hiding since he had knocked on their door and begged for help.
‘Maggers,’ said Ryan, from the rustic table where he was sitting drinking coffee, ‘you’re awake.’
‘Um, yes, I suppose I am,’ said Maggers. ‘What are you doing down here?’
‘I’m feeling a lot better,’ said Ryan, ‘and came down to get a drink. An old lady came in and kindly made me a coffee and some breakfast.’ He nodded to the sliced cold sausage on his plate and a generous slice of home-made bread. ‘Bratwurst,’ he continued. ‘Try some, it’s rather good.’
‘Bloody hell, Ryan,’ hissed Maggers, ‘for a second back there I thought you hadn’t pulled through and they had taken your body to be buried.’
‘Why would you think that?’ asked Ryan, through a mouthful of bratwurst.
Maggers thought back to the violent convulsions he had witnessed over the last few days as Ryan had fought off the viral infection.
‘Never mind,’ he sighed and he reached over to grab a slice of sausage, dodging the playful lunge aimed at him by his friend. As they shared the breakfast, an old woman entered the kitchen and smiled when she saw the two of them at the table.
‘That’s her,’ whispered Ryan.
‘Mrs Jacobs, good morning,’ said Maggers.
‘Good morning,’ she answered in broken English, and made her way over to feel Ryan’s forehead. ‘Fever gone,’ she said before busying herself around the kitchen as if having two crashed British airmen in her house was the most normal thing in the world.
‘So, what’s the story here?’ asked Ryan to Maggers.
‘Do you remember that night by the river?’ asked Maggers.
‘Vaguely,’ said Ryan.
‘Well, I knew you couldn’t go on any more so took a chance and came here to ask for help.’
‘Bloody hell, Maggers. That was a bit risky.’
‘I know, but you were in bits. There was no way you could go on.’
‘You should have left me there and continued alone.’
‘What, and miss out on that ten bob you owe me?’ laughed Maggers. ‘Not a chance. Anyway, it all turned out all right. Mr and Mrs Jacobs are Belgian immigrants and they don’t owe the Germans any favours. Mr Jacobs fought against them in the First World War.’
‘Lucky break for us,’ said Ryan.
‘It was, it turns out you had some sort of virus and for a couple of nights it was touch and go. You were so weak your body struggled to fight the illness. Mrs Jacobs sat up and fed you chicken soup to build your strength.’
‘Lucky me,’ said Ryan. ‘So, what happens next?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Maggers.
‘Well, unless something has drastically changed in the last few days, my guess is there’s still a war on.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Maggers, ‘but don’t worry. Now you are getting better, we can think about getting out of here. Apparently there is a line of sympathisers throughout this part of Germany who help people like us. Mr Jacobs has made contact with them so they should be here any day now. You just need to build up your strength.’
‘Can’t we just wait here until the yanks swarm all over this place?’
‘We can’t risk it,’ said Maggers. ‘Even if they come this way, they’ll probably be preceded by a lot of Germans scampering back to Deutschland as fast as their shiny jackboots can carry them. If the Bosch find us here, they’ll not only shoot us, but Mr and Mrs Jacobs as well.’
‘Right,’ said Ryan, picking up the remains of the sausage, ‘so when these people arrive, they’ll get us back to allied lines.’
‘Hopefully.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Ryan. ‘In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just have to eat as much of this stuff as I can.’
Maggers smiled.
‘Is it really that good?’ he asked.
‘Nah, not really,’ said Ryan, throwing it back on the plate, and both men burst out laughing, both enjoying the all too short respite from the horrors of war.
They stayed at the farmhouse for a few more days until one morning they came down the stairs to find a stranger sitting at the table. Maggers paused and looked toward Mr Jacobs for encouragement. The old man smiled and nodded toward the young man at the table.
‘Friend,’ he said, in his broken English.
The young man stood up and walked toward the two airmen. He held out his hand.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I am Fabien. I have been sent here to look after your interests.’
‘Resistance?’ asked Maggers.
‘Something like that,’ said Fabien. ‘Let’s just say that not everyone around here believes in Hitler’s dream.’
Maggers shook his hand.
‘I’m Maggers and this is Ryan,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’ They all took a seat around the table while Mrs Jacobs poured them coffee.
‘So, Fabien,’ said Ryan, ‘what’s the news from the front?’
‘From what I gather,’ said Fabien, ‘the allies have achieved a complete breakthrough and are marching on Berlin. It is only a matter of time.’
‘And Jerry?’
‘Some are fighting on, but a lot are heading back toward Berlin to make a final stand. In fact, there are reports of an infantry division heading this way as we speak. That’s why we are here. You were relatively safe, but when the retreating soldiers pass this way, they could take this place apart. We have to get you out of here now.’
‘What about the Jacobs?’ asked Ryan.
‘They are too old to travel,’ said Fabien, ‘and even if they are found, hopefully they should be seen as no threat and left alone.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Maggers.
‘Into the hills near the coast,’ said Fabien. ‘We will let things settle down for a while and then try to get you on a boat to England.’
‘That easy?’ said Ryan.
‘No, of course not, but we do not have the time to discuss the details. My men are loading what supplies the Jacobs can spare into our truck as we speak.’
Maggers stood up.
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ he asked. ‘Let’s get going.’
For the next few minutes they helped load the wagon before climbing in the back and heading north-west, leaving the farm behind them. Two other resistance fighters sat opposite the British airmen, staring at them with mistrust.
For several hours they drove along the roads, preceded by a lone motorcyclist half a mile in front. Maggers and Ryan managed to doze off, though woken by the occasional plane flying overhead. Strangely, they were more worried about allied aircraft as they would be far more likely to attack them, assuming the truck to be German. Finally, sleep became impossible as the truck turned off the road and onto a dirt track, kicking up a plume of dust in its wake.
The two resistance fighters jumped up and looked over the cab, obviously nervous about something. The truck headed to a nearby copse and pulled into the undergrowth. Fabien jumped out of the cab and dropped the tailgate.
‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘there’s a column heading this way, everyone out.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Maggers, jumping down.
‘Into the hills,’ said Fabien. ‘The situation is worse than I thought. The Germans are everywhere, we will have to travel the rest of the way on foot. Here, arm yourselves.’ He handed over two pistols. They looked up at the line of hills before them. ‘See the one on the left,’ he said, ‘if we get split up, head for that one. On the far side there is a trail that leads deep into a forest. Follow the track as far as you can until you reach a stream. Wait there until you get contacted. Right, let’s get out of here.’
All five men and the driver started to run toward the hills, taking advantage of the ground to keep as low a profile as possible. Soon they paused and looked back the way they had come. Along the road they had been travelling less than five minutes earlier, a military convoy stretched back as far as the eye could see.
‘Shit,’ cursed Ryan, ‘just as things start looking up, we bump into the whole bloody German army.’
Maggers heard a sound behind him and turned around, before calling out in alarm.
‘Messerschmitt,’ he shouted, and all five men ducked into the undergrowth, but it was too late, the plane had made a visible turn toward them.
‘Move!’ screamed Fabien and they started running as fast as they could toward the safety of the nearby treeline. Up above they heard the sound of the plane’s engine get louder as it straightened up and came lower to line up its machine guns.
‘Scatter!’ shouted Ryan and they spread out to make a harder target.
The sound of the plane’s engines screamed as it came closer and Maggers threw himself to the floor as the ground around him erupted into mini fountains of potential death. As soon as it had passed over, they sprang up again and ran into the trees. All six men gathered together, looking up through the branches as the plane made several passes.
‘What now?’ asked Ryan.
‘We can’t stay here,’ said Fabien, ‘there will be infantry on their way up as we speak.’
‘Why would they pay us so much attention?’ asked Maggers. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘We have made their lives miserable around here over the past few months,’ said Fabien, checking his machine gun. ‘They’ll stop at nothing to catch themselves a few resistance fighters.’
‘The plane’s gone,’ said Ryan, peering out of the trees, ‘but Fabien’s right. There are a couple of hundred men detached from the main column and are on their way up.’
‘Right,’ said Fabien, ‘stay just inside the treeline, but keep going uphill. We’ll have to risk the last few hundred yards in the open, but until then we should be OK. Let’s go.’
They started to run again, knowing full well that if they were caught, their lives were over.