Post by Wing on Nov 1, 2006 12:38:06 GMT -5
Chapter 1
24 June 1944
2044 Hours GMT
L’Eglise du St. Marie
La Roche Guyon, France
The night wind sighed in the branches of the mixed forest of birch and oak, rustling the full summer leaves as it passed and cooling the cobbled streets as light faded from the land. The evening birds, knowing the day had finished, quieted and settled down in their nests to sleep, unaware of the dramatic events unfolding about to unfold around them.
Outside the small village of St. Marie, Schutze Hans Strafer leaned on the concrete machine gun emplacement, yawning widely as he watched the sunset through bleary eyes. He’d been up for most of the day and a good portion of the night due to a particularly violent but thankfully brief bout of indigestion, but at long last his stomach was settling and the exhaustion was really hitting hard. Hans was only glad he had first watch—there was only about an hour left, and with any luck he would be able to curl up in a corner of the small church and catch a few minutes of sleep during his shift.
There really was no point in holding a watch anyway, in Hans’ opinion. The Allies weren’t heading this way tonight, that was for sure, and this summer evening was too perfect for anyone to do anything but head out for a night on the town and not even consider bothering their German conquerors. Conquerors, Hans noted wryly, who enjoyed a night on the town with a few French mademoiselles even more than the local lads despite the danger of the Allied invasion. No, if there had to be a watch, someone like Feldwebel Günter Benz, an enormous bear of a man who never seemed tired of bellowing at his troops and the women who dared accompany them back to the barracks for a tour—do it. He would actually relish this sort of thing, Hans thought with disgust. The man had no good taste, though he was probably the only reason half the squadron had gotten out of Poland and Belgium alive.
Hans pushed his helmet out of his eyes impatiently, tightening the strap automatically. That never seemed to help—though he was one of the older men in the squadron at thirty-one, he was shorter and stockier than nearly all of them and his uniform rarely fit him. This helmet gave him absolute hell, but he was learning to live with it by only wearing it when he absolutely had to. Guard duty, unfortunately, was one of those times: the hauptmann insisted on it.
Someone was jogging down the path towards the church, bent almost double and keeping to the side of the road. Hans stretched, keeping an eye on the figure without much interest. Probably one of the local kids playing soldier yet again. As he knew from countless watches at the post near this church, it was never anything to worry about. It was possible the boy wanted to get past, though—that would mean getting up, which was not very high on his list of things to do. Yelling in his somewhat lacking French to go away wasn’t either.
The person straightened suddenly, turning towards Hans and noticing him for the first time. The German frowned—it wasn’t a boy, by the size of the frame, but a man. Strange. His stomach churned suddenly with a wave of apprehension, and he straightened up, former laziness forgotten.
“Hey, you—” he called in German, fumbling for his pistol—and freezing.
One was already out in the open air, and it was pointed directly at him by the approaching newcomer. The man held it assuredly, as a professional would, it seemed, and gestured with it as he spoke.
“Step over here,” he said coldly in excellent German, with barely a hint of an accent that Hans couldn’t identify. “Hande höche. Schnell, schnell!”
Astounded, Hans did as he was told mutely, gaping slack-jawed at the plain badges of rank covered by dark paint and mud that could only be seen from close up. The man was literally slathered in this mix with multiple small scratches covering his face and hands from trekking across country, the dark wool cap that closely fit his head completing the image of a commando. Commando—a British commando, that was what he was! But why? The answer burst upon the sturdy German’s confused brain abruptly.
“You’re here for the field marshal,” he stated, looking up at his captor for confirmation through eyes blazing hatred.
“That’s right, Jerry.” Now the British accent was easier to pick out. “How many are inside?”
“I’ll never tell!”
The tall Englishman sighed, dragging Hans into the shadow of the church so they were invisible to the road. “Let me explain something,” he said quietly, eyes gleaming eerily on his blackened face. “You have no choice in this. You can tell me now, or I can shoot you, go around the back, and find out myself. I’ll get the number without your lads knowing either way.”
Hans hesitated, suddenly very aware of the gun’s muzzle jammed into his stomach: though he had never been taken prisoner before, he was quickly deciding that cooperating with one’s captor might be a good idea. “Sixteen, not includin’ the hauptmann,” he stammered, hating himself for his weakness but resigning himself to his fate. Maybe the hauptmann would understand, but he doubted it.
The commando grinned in a flash of startling white, patting the guard’s cheek reassuringly. “Good boy, that’s the stuff. Are you the only unit stationed here?”
“There’s another on the other side of the village maybe twice our size where our commanding oberst is stationed.” Hans found that speaking quickly made the crime feel less severe. “Also, an SS panzer division a few kilometers outside town.”
“Alright. What about headquarters, hmm? How well are they guarded?”
“I don’t know,” Hans lied. This was one thing he knew he had to lie about, and if this man saw through the bluff and shot him for it, well, he would have died with some semblance of honor, though Hans had always thought that such an idea was rather stupid because you couldn’t appreciate the nobility of your death if you were dead. If they got the field marshal because of his information and he had the misfortune to be left alive, a state that probably wouldn’t last if anyone found out, he couldn’t possibly live with himself. Hans had met the Desert Fox for the first time a few days ago, and it had been during this meeting that he had realized the genius of the man—if Germany was to somehow come up with a miracle to win the war, Rommel would be the one to do it. He was quite possibly their only hope.
The gun was cruelly rammed into his stomach, causing him to gasp. The commando’s face was nearly touching his. “What was that, Jerry?” the man snarled, narrowing his eyes.
“I. Don’t. Know,” the guard choked stubbornly between gulps for air. He was a good liar, he knew that, but this situation was getting a bit difficult, especially seeing as it was now impossible to speak above a hoarse whisper seeing as the wind had been knocked out of him. “Please, I swear it—I was never assigned to headquarters! Never been there before! I wouldn’t know. Really, sir, I’m only a lowly guard. I don’t know anything.”
The British soldier studied him briefly, drawing back a bit. Finally, he growled, “Alright then. But your superior officer would know, I suppose?”
“I don’t know. Sir.”
A strong arm spun him around, and Hans found himself staring into the charcoal-blackened face of another British commando. This one was shorter with the battered features of a boxer, but he still towered over the German and was armed as well with a shiny new Schmeisser that looked suspiciously like it belonged to…
“Ach, scheiss, Hermann,” Hans groaned, recognizing the carefully polished metal of the German machine pistol. It belonged to Hermann, the feldwebel’s pet who held the same rank as Hans but was the youngest man—if he could yet be called that—in the division and always seemed to escape discipline from Feldwebel Benz, who was particularly fond of him. The older German knew the gun well—Hermann, whose bunk was above his, was always cleaning it and usually left his grease rag on Hans’ bed. “If you’ve done anything to him—” he ground out, glaring at the commando.
The Englishman shook his head, casually waving the gun towards the bushes. A moment later, a third commando dressed all in black pushed Hermann, whose hands were tied behind his back, forward. The straw-haired boy of nineteen, whose long adolescent’s face looked far too young to be topped by the menacing curved helmet of the Wehrmacht, tearfully met Hans’ gaze.
“I’m really sorry, Hans,” he squeaked, swallowing hard to contain tears and to control his breaking voice. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit more level. “I told them…I told them about the SS division.”
“It’s all right,” Hans said, feeling miserable. “I did too.”
Avoiding Hermann’s incredulous stare, the older of the two guards listened to the three assembled commandos speaking hurriedly in English. He didn’t speak a word of it himself, nor did Hermann, but when the first one he had met, who seemed to be the leader, turned back around, it appeared that he was going to share the plan with his prisoners anyway.
“You’re to go in first,” the British man said briskly, effectively switching from English to German. “Tell your men we’ve got them surrounded, and to collect all their weapons in a pile in the doorway. I want to speak with your commanding officer as well. If they…disagree with this offer, inform them that we’ll kill the boy if we have to.”
Hermann choked back a despairing sob at this, his eyes brimming with tears. Surprised at his own bravery but spurred on by the predicament his friend was being put in, Hans shook his head and stepped forward. “I’ll take his place,” he informed the commando. “If anyone’s going to be killed here, it’ll be me.”
“Are you sure?” The paratrooper was eyeing him with an unreadable expression—was it pity? Skepticism? Surprise? Respect, even?
Though he was entirely the opposite of sure, Hans nodded anyway. At the commander’s shrug and eventual nod, one of the commandos untied Hermann, transferring the crude rope bonds to the other German’s wrists, and the boy went reluctantly inside.
Two of the commandos melted into the shadows, presumably to warn their unit, and the remaining guard gestured for the German to sit. For Hans, this was indeed a relief—his knees were so wobbly that he dropped abruptly to the edge of the machine gun emplacement. The large mounted gun was several feet away from them both, but Hans knew that glancing the wrong way at it could provoke a shot since the muzzle of the pistol was still pointed unwaveringly at him. He clasped his hands in his lap and sat quietly in the unbearable silence of the scene, trying to keep his breathing even despite his fear.
What if the hauptmann decided that the threat of being surrounded was a bluff and defense was possible? He had always said you had to make sacrifices sometimes when it was for the good of the group, and surely one man could fit in the category of sacrifice.
What was dying like? Every soldier has contemplated that at least once, and Hans, who avoided thinking about it whenever possible, was forced to revisit his earlier wonderings of years ago. Well, back then he had always imagined it was very grand and heroic, but that was before he had seen any real action and discovered war for the hell it was. Maybe there was a difference between dying in battle and being shot as a treasonous captive. That was what he was, Hans supposed unhappily. He had willingly told the British what they wanted to know without much resistance to save his own skin, but perhaps they’d be a bit lenient with his sentence for not telling about the strength at headquarters. Perhaps. If Rommel lived, maybe he’d put in a good word for him.
“You shouldn’t kill the field marshal,” Hans said abruptly to his guard. As soon as he had spoken, he regretted it—like it or not, that was their job—but he didn’t take it back.
The black-clad man looked surprised by this sudden outburst. “Who said that was what we were ordered to do?” he asked quietly.
Startled, Hans looked over at him—he was examining the safety catch on his pistol. “You mean you’re not going to kill him?” he demanded.
The Englishman shrugged. “I didn’t say that. Didn’t say we were doing either, did we?”
“What’s the harm in telling me? I’m as good as dead already,” Hans said glumly, staring down at his muddy jackboots.
“Wot, you don’t think your hauptmann will help you out?” the commando asked with a frown, seeming startled. “But isn’t he your commanding officer? I mean, won’t he help you?”
Hans shrugged miserably. “Dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just one man—he’s got the group to worry about. One death for seventeen lives. He’s let them die before.”
An uncomfortable silence took over quite quickly after this statement, and Hans went back to staring at his boots. They were an absolute mess from tramping about in the churchyard after last night’s rain and could happily stand some polishing, but, the little German thought gloomily, you really didn’t need shiny boots if you were dead. The outlook really was quite grim: the hauptmann stood and fought on most occasions even when the odds were against him, and he had hated British commandos with an intense and fiery passion ever since their near-successful raid on Rommel’s headquarters in North Africa that had left him blind in one eye from a headshot taken while trying to get a shot off at the British commander.
The minutes stretched into long, painful sections of time—what could Hermann possibly be doing in there? Was he helping the hauptmann sketch out a battle plan? Or perhaps they were all trying to escape somehow, and he had diverted his attentions to that. Had they completely forgotten about the terrified schutze left outside, his hands tied and held captive at British gunpoint?
A sudden flash of white in the gloom of the descending darkness caught Hans’ eye suddenly, and he looked up to see Hermann emerging from the church waving a pillowcase—a substitute for a white flag, Hans supposed—with Hauptmann Erich von Steinhardt and a livid Feldwebel Benz following, the former wearing his immaculate dress uniform and the latter leaning on a newly-holstered Luger butt. So they had come to negotiate, it seemed. Hans felt his spirits lift somewhat and stood instinctively, but the commando motioned him to back down and stepped forward himself.
“Good evening, Hauptmann—” the dark-clothed paratrooper began, but the hauptmann cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand and began to speak himself.
Hauptmann Erich von Steinhardt was every inch the Prussian officer, a younger version, as some had only half-jokingly remarked, of Field Marshal von Rundstedt himself. Very much an aristocrat with a long, elegant face, a calculating look in his remaining blue eye (the other was covered by a black eye patch), and a superior air to him at all times that was now accented by a cold expression that was difficult to read, von Steinhardt had obviously made special care to let these Brits know who they were dealing with: he had adjusted the Knight’s Cross with Swords over his collar just so, as well as given the wound badges and obvious marks of rank a cursory wipe. When his smooth, cultured voice filled the air, all present that knew the officer could instantly sense the boiling animal rage beneath his frosty features.
“What, sir, is the meaning of this?” von Steinhardt snapped, his tones clipped and brisk. “You do not expect me to react to British attack or cooperate in a civilized manner, so you assure my presence by taking one of my men captive. Absolutely despicable. Are you the commanding officer?”
The commando, who looked completely taken aback, stammered, “Ah—no. Captain Granby, sir?”
The first Brit Hans had encountered melted from the shadows silently and nodded quietly to the guard, saying something lowly in English to him before turning to Hauptmann von Steinhardt and giving the British salute. Narrowing his remaining eye—the only physical sign of anger he was showing so far—the German officer reluctantly gave the conventional military salute in return, performing it perhaps a bit quicker than was necessary. “What is it you want, Herr Hauptmann?” he asked stiffly, translating the English rank easily as he spoke the language.
“A quiet surrender,” Granby stated politely enough in German, meeting von Steinhardt’s gaze steadily. “If you cooperate, none of your men will be harmed: we outnumber you nearly three to one and have you completely surrounded. My troops are ready to open fire on the church at any moment.”
“How do you know you outnumber us?” demanded von Steinhardt, falling back into his native language. “We could have nearly a hundred men packed into that church.”
“You could,” the British captain replied agreeably. “But you don’t. Including yourself and those accompanying you in addition to the hostage—”
“‘The hostage’ has a name and a rank, you know,” snarled the hauptmann abruptly, clearly struggling to control his temper now. Hans frowned: he had never seen Hauptmann von Steinhardt so physically out of control. What on earth was going on? He usually handled surprises like this without batting an eye.
Ignoring this outburst, the commando continued, speaking louder to cut off any attempts at going on: “—you have seventeen men. Your guard was rather cooperative when asked.”
Von Steinhardt’s eye widened in astonishment, and he turned his head in the abrupt manner Hans so often associated with him to meet the bound schutze’s abashed gaze with a mildly startled expression. After a long moment, his mouth tightened slightly, but it appeared that he had gotten himself under control once again and showed no other emotion. However, Hans, like the other two who knew him well in the area, could still sense the anger beneath his cool stare.
“Very well, Herr Hauptmann,” the German aristocrat said finally, jerking his head in a civil half-bow with a smart snap of his jackboots. “Hauptmann Erich von Steinhardt at your service. It appears I have been caught in an unfortunate situation: I believe I have been too forward. My apologies. Perhaps we shall discuss these aforementioned terms of surrender after all.”
Captain Granby seemed to take this in stride and courteously returned the bow without quite managing the heel-click, though this was overlooked by all the Germans present—as Hans had already found out, one did not criticize one’s captors—and began to list his demands.
The stocky German guard hung his head as the feldwebel’s furious eyes sought his, staring fixedly at the small flower clinging to the short, neatly clipped grass of the churchyard in order to avoid Benz’s wrath for as long as possible. The feldwebel was bad, but the hauptmann had been worse—the complete disbelief in his remaining eye when he had initially looked over at Hans showed just how much faith and trust he had had in him, and now he had completely betrayed von Steinhardt. More than anything, Hans wanted to apologize, but he could say nothing with the young commando still holding a gun on him and the hauptmann speaking to the British commander.
Maybe this is all a bad dream, Hans thought hopefully. Maybe I’ll wake up in a few seconds in my nice warm bunk after a good meal…no, I wouldn’t be having nightmares after that.
After a few minutes, Hauptmann von Steinhardt turned abruptly away from the group and took a few quick paces away, lifting his face to the branches of a large oak tree overlooking the church. Confused, Hans looked up, glancing back over at the feldwebel and the British captain. Benz was looking over his shoulder towards their commanding officer, his jaw set and his eyes hooded, while Granby stood at a respectful distance with his hands clasped behind his back. A moment passed before the German aristocrat spun around again, his remaining eye bright with hate in a face tight-lipped and twisted with anguish.
“Do you accept, Herr Hauptmann?” Captain Granby asked quietly, seeming a shadow whispering from the darkness in his black clothes.
“I have no choice, Hauptmann,” von Steinhardt spat, purposefully leaving off the respectful title. “I shall tell my men once you have released Schutze Strafer, but you will know this: what you are planning to do is a mistake, and it will fail.”
“Perhaps, Herr Hauptmann,” Granby wasn’t sounding so respectful himself anymore. “But I beg you to allow me to try.”
The hauptmann met his gaze levelly. “I would rather put a bullet in my head than allow that,” he whispered, though by leaning forward slightly Hans, who was following the transaction in horrified fascination, was able to hear him. “But honor demands I go by the terms I have agreed to.” In a single quick motion, he drew out the officer’s Walther holstered to his hip—for an instant, despite his words Hans thought for a moment he was actually going to try suicide, as did his British guard by the way he raised his machine pistol. Instead, however, the German officer threw the pistol at Granby’s feet in disgust. Feldwebel Benz and the two schutzes gasped simultaneously: there was no doubt now that this was the angriest any of them had seen their CO, and even the British were looking surprised.
“Feldwebel Benz, Schutzes, they intend to lock us up inside the church while they carry out their assassination,” the hauptmann said, raising his voice so everyone present could hear and putting emphasis on the word assassination. “Inside, please.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann,” Benz said automatically. Hans followed him and Hermann unhappily, hating the idea of being in close proximity with the hauptmann after that display but hating the British—and himself—even more.
Because the hauptmann wasn’t right. These commandos would not fail. Rommel would have no warning because of his wretched attempt to save his own skin, and the professional British soldiers would have easy access to him. The field marshal was not one to go overly guarded. It would be a work of the moment, and by tomorrow morning the British would either have the Germans’ last hope of winning the war—or it would have been lost permanently.
24 June 1944
2044 Hours GMT
L’Eglise du St. Marie
La Roche Guyon, France
The night wind sighed in the branches of the mixed forest of birch and oak, rustling the full summer leaves as it passed and cooling the cobbled streets as light faded from the land. The evening birds, knowing the day had finished, quieted and settled down in their nests to sleep, unaware of the dramatic events unfolding about to unfold around them.
Outside the small village of St. Marie, Schutze Hans Strafer leaned on the concrete machine gun emplacement, yawning widely as he watched the sunset through bleary eyes. He’d been up for most of the day and a good portion of the night due to a particularly violent but thankfully brief bout of indigestion, but at long last his stomach was settling and the exhaustion was really hitting hard. Hans was only glad he had first watch—there was only about an hour left, and with any luck he would be able to curl up in a corner of the small church and catch a few minutes of sleep during his shift.
There really was no point in holding a watch anyway, in Hans’ opinion. The Allies weren’t heading this way tonight, that was for sure, and this summer evening was too perfect for anyone to do anything but head out for a night on the town and not even consider bothering their German conquerors. Conquerors, Hans noted wryly, who enjoyed a night on the town with a few French mademoiselles even more than the local lads despite the danger of the Allied invasion. No, if there had to be a watch, someone like Feldwebel Günter Benz, an enormous bear of a man who never seemed tired of bellowing at his troops and the women who dared accompany them back to the barracks for a tour—do it. He would actually relish this sort of thing, Hans thought with disgust. The man had no good taste, though he was probably the only reason half the squadron had gotten out of Poland and Belgium alive.
Hans pushed his helmet out of his eyes impatiently, tightening the strap automatically. That never seemed to help—though he was one of the older men in the squadron at thirty-one, he was shorter and stockier than nearly all of them and his uniform rarely fit him. This helmet gave him absolute hell, but he was learning to live with it by only wearing it when he absolutely had to. Guard duty, unfortunately, was one of those times: the hauptmann insisted on it.
Someone was jogging down the path towards the church, bent almost double and keeping to the side of the road. Hans stretched, keeping an eye on the figure without much interest. Probably one of the local kids playing soldier yet again. As he knew from countless watches at the post near this church, it was never anything to worry about. It was possible the boy wanted to get past, though—that would mean getting up, which was not very high on his list of things to do. Yelling in his somewhat lacking French to go away wasn’t either.
The person straightened suddenly, turning towards Hans and noticing him for the first time. The German frowned—it wasn’t a boy, by the size of the frame, but a man. Strange. His stomach churned suddenly with a wave of apprehension, and he straightened up, former laziness forgotten.
“Hey, you—” he called in German, fumbling for his pistol—and freezing.
One was already out in the open air, and it was pointed directly at him by the approaching newcomer. The man held it assuredly, as a professional would, it seemed, and gestured with it as he spoke.
“Step over here,” he said coldly in excellent German, with barely a hint of an accent that Hans couldn’t identify. “Hande höche. Schnell, schnell!”
Astounded, Hans did as he was told mutely, gaping slack-jawed at the plain badges of rank covered by dark paint and mud that could only be seen from close up. The man was literally slathered in this mix with multiple small scratches covering his face and hands from trekking across country, the dark wool cap that closely fit his head completing the image of a commando. Commando—a British commando, that was what he was! But why? The answer burst upon the sturdy German’s confused brain abruptly.
“You’re here for the field marshal,” he stated, looking up at his captor for confirmation through eyes blazing hatred.
“That’s right, Jerry.” Now the British accent was easier to pick out. “How many are inside?”
“I’ll never tell!”
The tall Englishman sighed, dragging Hans into the shadow of the church so they were invisible to the road. “Let me explain something,” he said quietly, eyes gleaming eerily on his blackened face. “You have no choice in this. You can tell me now, or I can shoot you, go around the back, and find out myself. I’ll get the number without your lads knowing either way.”
Hans hesitated, suddenly very aware of the gun’s muzzle jammed into his stomach: though he had never been taken prisoner before, he was quickly deciding that cooperating with one’s captor might be a good idea. “Sixteen, not includin’ the hauptmann,” he stammered, hating himself for his weakness but resigning himself to his fate. Maybe the hauptmann would understand, but he doubted it.
The commando grinned in a flash of startling white, patting the guard’s cheek reassuringly. “Good boy, that’s the stuff. Are you the only unit stationed here?”
“There’s another on the other side of the village maybe twice our size where our commanding oberst is stationed.” Hans found that speaking quickly made the crime feel less severe. “Also, an SS panzer division a few kilometers outside town.”
“Alright. What about headquarters, hmm? How well are they guarded?”
“I don’t know,” Hans lied. This was one thing he knew he had to lie about, and if this man saw through the bluff and shot him for it, well, he would have died with some semblance of honor, though Hans had always thought that such an idea was rather stupid because you couldn’t appreciate the nobility of your death if you were dead. If they got the field marshal because of his information and he had the misfortune to be left alive, a state that probably wouldn’t last if anyone found out, he couldn’t possibly live with himself. Hans had met the Desert Fox for the first time a few days ago, and it had been during this meeting that he had realized the genius of the man—if Germany was to somehow come up with a miracle to win the war, Rommel would be the one to do it. He was quite possibly their only hope.
The gun was cruelly rammed into his stomach, causing him to gasp. The commando’s face was nearly touching his. “What was that, Jerry?” the man snarled, narrowing his eyes.
“I. Don’t. Know,” the guard choked stubbornly between gulps for air. He was a good liar, he knew that, but this situation was getting a bit difficult, especially seeing as it was now impossible to speak above a hoarse whisper seeing as the wind had been knocked out of him. “Please, I swear it—I was never assigned to headquarters! Never been there before! I wouldn’t know. Really, sir, I’m only a lowly guard. I don’t know anything.”
The British soldier studied him briefly, drawing back a bit. Finally, he growled, “Alright then. But your superior officer would know, I suppose?”
“I don’t know. Sir.”
A strong arm spun him around, and Hans found himself staring into the charcoal-blackened face of another British commando. This one was shorter with the battered features of a boxer, but he still towered over the German and was armed as well with a shiny new Schmeisser that looked suspiciously like it belonged to…
“Ach, scheiss, Hermann,” Hans groaned, recognizing the carefully polished metal of the German machine pistol. It belonged to Hermann, the feldwebel’s pet who held the same rank as Hans but was the youngest man—if he could yet be called that—in the division and always seemed to escape discipline from Feldwebel Benz, who was particularly fond of him. The older German knew the gun well—Hermann, whose bunk was above his, was always cleaning it and usually left his grease rag on Hans’ bed. “If you’ve done anything to him—” he ground out, glaring at the commando.
The Englishman shook his head, casually waving the gun towards the bushes. A moment later, a third commando dressed all in black pushed Hermann, whose hands were tied behind his back, forward. The straw-haired boy of nineteen, whose long adolescent’s face looked far too young to be topped by the menacing curved helmet of the Wehrmacht, tearfully met Hans’ gaze.
“I’m really sorry, Hans,” he squeaked, swallowing hard to contain tears and to control his breaking voice. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit more level. “I told them…I told them about the SS division.”
“It’s all right,” Hans said, feeling miserable. “I did too.”
Avoiding Hermann’s incredulous stare, the older of the two guards listened to the three assembled commandos speaking hurriedly in English. He didn’t speak a word of it himself, nor did Hermann, but when the first one he had met, who seemed to be the leader, turned back around, it appeared that he was going to share the plan with his prisoners anyway.
“You’re to go in first,” the British man said briskly, effectively switching from English to German. “Tell your men we’ve got them surrounded, and to collect all their weapons in a pile in the doorway. I want to speak with your commanding officer as well. If they…disagree with this offer, inform them that we’ll kill the boy if we have to.”
Hermann choked back a despairing sob at this, his eyes brimming with tears. Surprised at his own bravery but spurred on by the predicament his friend was being put in, Hans shook his head and stepped forward. “I’ll take his place,” he informed the commando. “If anyone’s going to be killed here, it’ll be me.”
“Are you sure?” The paratrooper was eyeing him with an unreadable expression—was it pity? Skepticism? Surprise? Respect, even?
Though he was entirely the opposite of sure, Hans nodded anyway. At the commander’s shrug and eventual nod, one of the commandos untied Hermann, transferring the crude rope bonds to the other German’s wrists, and the boy went reluctantly inside.
Two of the commandos melted into the shadows, presumably to warn their unit, and the remaining guard gestured for the German to sit. For Hans, this was indeed a relief—his knees were so wobbly that he dropped abruptly to the edge of the machine gun emplacement. The large mounted gun was several feet away from them both, but Hans knew that glancing the wrong way at it could provoke a shot since the muzzle of the pistol was still pointed unwaveringly at him. He clasped his hands in his lap and sat quietly in the unbearable silence of the scene, trying to keep his breathing even despite his fear.
What if the hauptmann decided that the threat of being surrounded was a bluff and defense was possible? He had always said you had to make sacrifices sometimes when it was for the good of the group, and surely one man could fit in the category of sacrifice.
What was dying like? Every soldier has contemplated that at least once, and Hans, who avoided thinking about it whenever possible, was forced to revisit his earlier wonderings of years ago. Well, back then he had always imagined it was very grand and heroic, but that was before he had seen any real action and discovered war for the hell it was. Maybe there was a difference between dying in battle and being shot as a treasonous captive. That was what he was, Hans supposed unhappily. He had willingly told the British what they wanted to know without much resistance to save his own skin, but perhaps they’d be a bit lenient with his sentence for not telling about the strength at headquarters. Perhaps. If Rommel lived, maybe he’d put in a good word for him.
“You shouldn’t kill the field marshal,” Hans said abruptly to his guard. As soon as he had spoken, he regretted it—like it or not, that was their job—but he didn’t take it back.
The black-clad man looked surprised by this sudden outburst. “Who said that was what we were ordered to do?” he asked quietly.
Startled, Hans looked over at him—he was examining the safety catch on his pistol. “You mean you’re not going to kill him?” he demanded.
The Englishman shrugged. “I didn’t say that. Didn’t say we were doing either, did we?”
“What’s the harm in telling me? I’m as good as dead already,” Hans said glumly, staring down at his muddy jackboots.
“Wot, you don’t think your hauptmann will help you out?” the commando asked with a frown, seeming startled. “But isn’t he your commanding officer? I mean, won’t he help you?”
Hans shrugged miserably. “Dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just one man—he’s got the group to worry about. One death for seventeen lives. He’s let them die before.”
An uncomfortable silence took over quite quickly after this statement, and Hans went back to staring at his boots. They were an absolute mess from tramping about in the churchyard after last night’s rain and could happily stand some polishing, but, the little German thought gloomily, you really didn’t need shiny boots if you were dead. The outlook really was quite grim: the hauptmann stood and fought on most occasions even when the odds were against him, and he had hated British commandos with an intense and fiery passion ever since their near-successful raid on Rommel’s headquarters in North Africa that had left him blind in one eye from a headshot taken while trying to get a shot off at the British commander.
The minutes stretched into long, painful sections of time—what could Hermann possibly be doing in there? Was he helping the hauptmann sketch out a battle plan? Or perhaps they were all trying to escape somehow, and he had diverted his attentions to that. Had they completely forgotten about the terrified schutze left outside, his hands tied and held captive at British gunpoint?
A sudden flash of white in the gloom of the descending darkness caught Hans’ eye suddenly, and he looked up to see Hermann emerging from the church waving a pillowcase—a substitute for a white flag, Hans supposed—with Hauptmann Erich von Steinhardt and a livid Feldwebel Benz following, the former wearing his immaculate dress uniform and the latter leaning on a newly-holstered Luger butt. So they had come to negotiate, it seemed. Hans felt his spirits lift somewhat and stood instinctively, but the commando motioned him to back down and stepped forward himself.
“Good evening, Hauptmann—” the dark-clothed paratrooper began, but the hauptmann cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand and began to speak himself.
Hauptmann Erich von Steinhardt was every inch the Prussian officer, a younger version, as some had only half-jokingly remarked, of Field Marshal von Rundstedt himself. Very much an aristocrat with a long, elegant face, a calculating look in his remaining blue eye (the other was covered by a black eye patch), and a superior air to him at all times that was now accented by a cold expression that was difficult to read, von Steinhardt had obviously made special care to let these Brits know who they were dealing with: he had adjusted the Knight’s Cross with Swords over his collar just so, as well as given the wound badges and obvious marks of rank a cursory wipe. When his smooth, cultured voice filled the air, all present that knew the officer could instantly sense the boiling animal rage beneath his frosty features.
“What, sir, is the meaning of this?” von Steinhardt snapped, his tones clipped and brisk. “You do not expect me to react to British attack or cooperate in a civilized manner, so you assure my presence by taking one of my men captive. Absolutely despicable. Are you the commanding officer?”
The commando, who looked completely taken aback, stammered, “Ah—no. Captain Granby, sir?”
The first Brit Hans had encountered melted from the shadows silently and nodded quietly to the guard, saying something lowly in English to him before turning to Hauptmann von Steinhardt and giving the British salute. Narrowing his remaining eye—the only physical sign of anger he was showing so far—the German officer reluctantly gave the conventional military salute in return, performing it perhaps a bit quicker than was necessary. “What is it you want, Herr Hauptmann?” he asked stiffly, translating the English rank easily as he spoke the language.
“A quiet surrender,” Granby stated politely enough in German, meeting von Steinhardt’s gaze steadily. “If you cooperate, none of your men will be harmed: we outnumber you nearly three to one and have you completely surrounded. My troops are ready to open fire on the church at any moment.”
“How do you know you outnumber us?” demanded von Steinhardt, falling back into his native language. “We could have nearly a hundred men packed into that church.”
“You could,” the British captain replied agreeably. “But you don’t. Including yourself and those accompanying you in addition to the hostage—”
“‘The hostage’ has a name and a rank, you know,” snarled the hauptmann abruptly, clearly struggling to control his temper now. Hans frowned: he had never seen Hauptmann von Steinhardt so physically out of control. What on earth was going on? He usually handled surprises like this without batting an eye.
Ignoring this outburst, the commando continued, speaking louder to cut off any attempts at going on: “—you have seventeen men. Your guard was rather cooperative when asked.”
Von Steinhardt’s eye widened in astonishment, and he turned his head in the abrupt manner Hans so often associated with him to meet the bound schutze’s abashed gaze with a mildly startled expression. After a long moment, his mouth tightened slightly, but it appeared that he had gotten himself under control once again and showed no other emotion. However, Hans, like the other two who knew him well in the area, could still sense the anger beneath his cool stare.
“Very well, Herr Hauptmann,” the German aristocrat said finally, jerking his head in a civil half-bow with a smart snap of his jackboots. “Hauptmann Erich von Steinhardt at your service. It appears I have been caught in an unfortunate situation: I believe I have been too forward. My apologies. Perhaps we shall discuss these aforementioned terms of surrender after all.”
Captain Granby seemed to take this in stride and courteously returned the bow without quite managing the heel-click, though this was overlooked by all the Germans present—as Hans had already found out, one did not criticize one’s captors—and began to list his demands.
The stocky German guard hung his head as the feldwebel’s furious eyes sought his, staring fixedly at the small flower clinging to the short, neatly clipped grass of the churchyard in order to avoid Benz’s wrath for as long as possible. The feldwebel was bad, but the hauptmann had been worse—the complete disbelief in his remaining eye when he had initially looked over at Hans showed just how much faith and trust he had had in him, and now he had completely betrayed von Steinhardt. More than anything, Hans wanted to apologize, but he could say nothing with the young commando still holding a gun on him and the hauptmann speaking to the British commander.
Maybe this is all a bad dream, Hans thought hopefully. Maybe I’ll wake up in a few seconds in my nice warm bunk after a good meal…no, I wouldn’t be having nightmares after that.
After a few minutes, Hauptmann von Steinhardt turned abruptly away from the group and took a few quick paces away, lifting his face to the branches of a large oak tree overlooking the church. Confused, Hans looked up, glancing back over at the feldwebel and the British captain. Benz was looking over his shoulder towards their commanding officer, his jaw set and his eyes hooded, while Granby stood at a respectful distance with his hands clasped behind his back. A moment passed before the German aristocrat spun around again, his remaining eye bright with hate in a face tight-lipped and twisted with anguish.
“Do you accept, Herr Hauptmann?” Captain Granby asked quietly, seeming a shadow whispering from the darkness in his black clothes.
“I have no choice, Hauptmann,” von Steinhardt spat, purposefully leaving off the respectful title. “I shall tell my men once you have released Schutze Strafer, but you will know this: what you are planning to do is a mistake, and it will fail.”
“Perhaps, Herr Hauptmann,” Granby wasn’t sounding so respectful himself anymore. “But I beg you to allow me to try.”
The hauptmann met his gaze levelly. “I would rather put a bullet in my head than allow that,” he whispered, though by leaning forward slightly Hans, who was following the transaction in horrified fascination, was able to hear him. “But honor demands I go by the terms I have agreed to.” In a single quick motion, he drew out the officer’s Walther holstered to his hip—for an instant, despite his words Hans thought for a moment he was actually going to try suicide, as did his British guard by the way he raised his machine pistol. Instead, however, the German officer threw the pistol at Granby’s feet in disgust. Feldwebel Benz and the two schutzes gasped simultaneously: there was no doubt now that this was the angriest any of them had seen their CO, and even the British were looking surprised.
“Feldwebel Benz, Schutzes, they intend to lock us up inside the church while they carry out their assassination,” the hauptmann said, raising his voice so everyone present could hear and putting emphasis on the word assassination. “Inside, please.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann,” Benz said automatically. Hans followed him and Hermann unhappily, hating the idea of being in close proximity with the hauptmann after that display but hating the British—and himself—even more.
Because the hauptmann wasn’t right. These commandos would not fail. Rommel would have no warning because of his wretched attempt to save his own skin, and the professional British soldiers would have easy access to him. The field marshal was not one to go overly guarded. It would be a work of the moment, and by tomorrow morning the British would either have the Germans’ last hope of winning the war—or it would have been lost permanently.