Uncommon Enemy (23 page)

“Headache.”

“Ja. Yes.” She smiled apologetically. “The hot sun, the dog, the worry.”

“I understand. There’s a shop at the end of Milford Road near the beach. They should have some aspirins.”

Both women nodded their thanks.

“OK?” He glanced at Susan who was frowning.

She shrugged. “Suppose so. I won’t relax until we’re back home, in Albany.”

“Me too.” He squeezed her hand. “Won’t be long now.”

The small dairy located at the end of the road sold ice creams and milk shakes as well as basic necessities such as bread, milk, and a limited selection of groceries. It looked deserted as they approached.

”We can all go in, but let Susan and me do the talking,” instructed Brendan quietly. He reached forward, opened the door and stepped back to let the women go ahead.

“Oh, excuse me, madam.”

The tall German officer, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, quickly stepped aside narrowly avoiding a collision with Sophie.

The three women stood stock still for a moment then Susan, recovering herself, smiled at the man.

“Thank you officer. Come on girls. In we go.”

The German watched them enter. Obviously attracted by the sight of three casually clad young women, he showed no sign of exiting. Crinkling his blue eyes into a smile he briefly doffed his officer’s cap to reveal close cropped blonde hair.

“Hauptman Hans Klemperer at your service ladies.” His bowed briefly and snapped his polished boot heels together. “It is beautiful New Zealand weather today, is it not?”

“Er, yes, officer, it is a beautiful day,” Susan smiled.

The door slammed as Brendan released it and stepped between the officer and the three women.

With a conscious effort he worked his features into an ingratiating smile.

“Good afternoon, officer. I am glad you are enjoying our New Zealand weather.” He pointed at the man’s neck. “Is that an Iron Cross, sir? Where did you win it?”

The German stared at him suspiciously. “France, von Manstein. 7th Panzer Division,” he snapped. He turned back towards the three women who were gathered at the counter where Susan had just asked for a bottle of aspirin.

“Ahh, aspirin,” he said jovially. “For the headache. Too much good Auckland sun!” As the others weakly joined his laughter he continued, “So, which one of you has the headache?” His gaze settled admiringly on Gretchen. “Perhaps it is the lovely lady with the blonde hair.” Reaching out he touched her cheek. “Your face is quite pale. Perhaps you are not used to the sun.”

Gretchen stood motionless; with her mouth half open staring at the officer. The man frowned. “Is my English so bad? Can you not understand me?”

“Yes, officer, she can, but she has a very bad headache and needs to go home immediately.”

Susan’s forced smile and nervously spoken response caused the officer to frown suspiciously.

“Your Iron Cross, sir? Tell me----,” began Brendan

Klemperer waved a dismissive hand and fixed his eyes on Sophie.

“And you, dark haired lady. Do you have a headache, too?”

Her eyes wide Sophie shook her head.

“No,” she replied softly.

“I am sorry, officer,” continued Susan, “but we really must be going. My friend is quite ill.”

The man paused and his eyes slowly swept over the whole group who stood staring back at him uneasily. The buzz of a blowfly intruded into the heavy silence. Suddenly Klemperer’s face broke into a wide smile.

“Of course. Forgive me.” Reaching the door in two strides he swung it open and stood back. He bowed slightly. “After you.”

“Thank you.” Susan walked past him closely followed by Gretchen. As the German girl drew level with him she looked up and smiled nervously. He grinned and nodded.

“Bis bald, Fraulein.”

“Danke. Bis bald.”

The officer’s hand flew to the holster at his side. Instantly, Brendan, rugby style, lowered his shoulder and charged, connecting with the man’s stomach. “Run!” he roared as the officer staggered backwards and crashed into a shelf full of tinned baked beans.

Coming upright, Brendan scrambled towards the doorway. From the corner of his eye he saw that Klemperer was back on his feet and was tugging his pistol from his holster. Seeing a large Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the road Brendan dived left onto the grass and executed a forward roll that brought him alongside the car’s front wheel.

A series of shots momentarily obliterated the sound of the incoming tide. Crouching behind the car’s front wheel Brendan looked back. The German officer was clutching feebly at the doorpost of the dairy. A dark red smear was marking his slow downward slide.

“Get in the car! All of you!”

A young man clad in swimming togs and a short-sleeved shirt was standing by the driver’s door. His right hand held a smoking Weber pistol.

“How the hell----?”

“Later. Get in. Now!”

The three women came running over and scrambled into the Chevrolet’s back seat. The driver, a young woman dressed in a bathing suit and a lemon beach coat, was holding the car in gear. The man with the revolver held the door open as Brendan slid onto the bench seat next to her. As the man leapt in and slammed the door there was a jerk as the clutch was released, and with a throaty surge the big V8 motor pulled the car rapidly away.

“Easy, Harriet. Don’t want to attract any attention.”

“OK,” responded the woman, easing off the accelerator and swinging the car through the Milford intersection onto Kitchener Road. “Just make sure all of you keep alert.”

“Yea. Keep your eyes peeled, but for God’s sake try and look relaxed, Remember we’ve spent all day on the bloody beach.”

Resting the Weber on his lap the man covered it with a towel. He glanced at Brendan and then at the three dishevelled women in the back seat. “My name’s Jim.”

“Christ, Jim” said Brendan. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“We were your back up - sunbathing in front of you by the Giant’s Chair. When you left after the dog incident we followed you along Milford Beach. Just as well, too. What happened?”

“The German language and the inability of some people to keep their mouths shut!”

The vehemence in Susan’s voice caused Jim to turn and face her.

“Explain.”

“Just take it easy, Susan,” interrupted Brendan. “I’ll explain slowly so that Sophie can translate for Gretchen.”

“These are the two German women from the White Rose?”

“Yes, I’ve----.”

“Supposedly!” Susan’s voice cut in. “But the way they’re going the only white roses we’ll see are the one’s that’ll be placed on our coffins!”

“Susan, cut it out. We live in dangerous times----.”

“Obviously!”

“And we’ll get nowhere quarrelling among ourselves. Now please be quiet while I try to explain what happened. Then you and anyone else can all have your full say.”

“Yea,” muttered Susan, folding her arms and sinking back into the large leather seat. “You bet I will.”

“I am sorry for any trouble that we have given,” said Sophie uncertainly. “But please, we need to go back to our place soon. Otherwise our people will become----.”

“Suspicious. Yes, I understand. We’ll arrange----.”

“Excuse me, but there is one other thing I wish to tell you. I’m not sure but I think it may be important.” She frowned. “Because of the university.”

Brendan, who had twisted round to face Sophie, nodded encouragingly.

“Yes, go on.”

“In English,” muttered Susan.

“Yes, of course. I will try,” said Sophie. “Two days ago we were sent to a house somewhere near here. We were told to help a man who was sick. He was an older man. He was in bed. He had some cuts on his face. He was, how you say it in English, heavy with the drugs.”

“Heavily drugged. Was he a German officer or something?” asked Brendan.

“No, he was a New Zealand man. The soldiers said he was from the university.”

“Soldiers? Were they guarding him?”

“Guarding him?” she repeated slowly. “You mean keeping him from going away?”

“God!” exclaimed Susan suddenly seizing Sophie’s arm. “Do you know his name?”

“Um, they would not tell us but I saw a postcard on the bedroom desk. He is a professor.”

Susan leaned forward urgently.

“His name? What was his name?”

Sophie turned to Gretchen and spoke rapidly. She frowned and then suddenly smiled.

“Sterling. Herr Professor Sterling.”

“You look very convincing, mein Herr,” smiled Stuart grimly.

“Huh.” Brendan grunted as he completed checking the brim of his hat and the knot in his black tie. “Main thing is to convince myself.” He shifted uncomfortably. “These bloody coats are too heavy for this kind of weather.”

“Yea. But they look the part. Now let’s go through the routine one more time. Firstly, you do the talking.”

“Check. No English at all unless you need to talk to the prisoner.”

“You’ve got your identity papers?”

“Check. You’ve got yours?”

“Check.”

“Pistol?”

He nodded grimly. “And you?”

“Check.”

“I’ve got the authorization letter which you’ll hand over after you’ve told them that we’ve come to collect the prisoner.”

“Check.” Brendan held the letter of authorization on the Auckland Gestapo Headquarters letterhead. “The Gestapo is still getting established but Sophie said that the letterhead will intimidate the guards. All Germans are conditioned to responding immediately to Gestapo requests.”

“Let’s hope she’s right. She must have taken a hell of a risk. It looks authentic enough and this gear”, he indicated their attire, “looks pretty convincing.”

“OK. But just keep well back in the seat and try to avoid looking out of the window,” his friend cautioned. “Don’t want to be recognised by any of the locals.”

The plan, when originally developed, sounded simple enough. Sophie had sent word through the university cell that she could obtain some Gestapo letterhead paper and type out an appropriate authorization allowing Professor Sterling to be collected from his house and taken away for further interrogation. The day chosen had been one when she and Gretchen were scheduled to be on duty at the professor’s home.

Brendan, due to his German fluency, was an obvious choice to imitate a special police officer. Stuart had immediately volunteered to accompany him on the basis that the Germans would not imagine his undertaking anything so audacious. Eventually, after a fierce argument, Dan had agreed.

The special police uniform of dark suit, long coat, trilby hat and black tie had been relatively easy to put together from Fightback’s ‘Costume Department’ – their expanding collection of enemy clothing. The car, although a British Morris, was black. On the front mudguards fluttered twin red and black swastika flags. The driver, a Fightback member, wore the uniform of a German private soldier.

It was 20 April 1942, Adolf Hitler’s 53rd birthday.

After an incident-free journey the car pulled up on the street outside the professor’s house in Castor Bay.

“Best back up the driveway,” said Stuart. “Easier for the prof.”

“And for us if we have to make a quick getaway,” muttered Brendan.

He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his fair hair.

“OK?” asked Stuart as the driver reversed the Morris up the driveway beside a high hedge.”

“Yea. Just a little keyed up.”

The car came to a halt.

“You’ll be fine, mate. Come on, let’s get on with it.” Stuart felt his mouth going dry and the thin film of sweat that began spreading over his body owed little to the warmth of the day.

Brendan led the way to the front door where, after a moment’s hesitation, he knocked loudly.

From inside a radio was playing at full volume.

“It’s a marching song about the German troops in Russia,” he muttered.

The song ended abruptly and after a pause, a crackling voice shouted, “Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer!”

Immediately the now familiar chant of “Sieg Heil!” began.

“Three cheers for Adolf,” muttered Stuart.

“Shhh, someone’s coming.”

A corporal, swaying slightly, opened the door and stood peering at the two men. He wore no cap, his tunic was unbuttoned and in his hand was a half full glass of colourless liquid.

For a moment he peered at the two men then abruptly he snapped to attention while at the same trying to unsuccessfully conceal his glass behind his back.

Brendan glared at him. “Trinken sie Schnaps, Feldwebel?” he demanded.

Guiltily the corporal brought the glass forward.

“Es ist der Geburtstag vom Führer. Wir sind----.”

Stuart, noting that the birthday of Adolf Hitler was the excuse for the man’s unmilitary bearing, relaxed a little.

Brendan thrust the Gestapo authorization in the soldier’s hand.

“Wir kommen wegen Herrn Professor Sterling. Fuhren sie mich zu ihm, sofort!”

Clearly taken aback, the soldier began studying the letter. With a grunt of impatience Brendan pushed past him, signalling Stuart to follow.

From the radio in a room off the corridor a stream of shouted German, distorted by the shortwave signal, filled the villa. Stuart guessed it was the German leader exhorting his people to greater achievements.

“Herr Professor Sterling!” demanded Brendan over his shoulder as he began to stride down the villa’s corridor.

Clearly uncertain as to how he should react the soldier hurried after them calling, “Hauptman Stumme!”

A door opened. Adolf Hitler’s crackling voice surged from the room. A German officer appeared at the doorway.

“Was ist los?” he began, then on seeing the two Gestapo men, paused and frowned.

In short sharp sentences Brendan repeated his request and signalled to the soldier to show the officer the letter. The officer read it and frowned. His eyes narrowed uncertainly and he began to question Brendan. Taking advantage of the conversation, Stuart moved further down the villa’s hallway to the left hand bedroom. Cautiously he opened the door and looked inside. On a bed, with his back to the window lay Professor Sterling. His face was pale and he appeared to be asleep. Clad in medical
uniforms, Sophie and Gretchen sat either side of him. Quickly closing the door Stuart moved to the bedside.

“We have the letter. Brendan is showing it to the officer. I presume he’ll be convinced.”

“The papers. Good, Stuart,” said Gretchen hesitantly. Her eyes sought his assurance. He smiled and patted her reassuringly on the arm.

“Your clothes also look very good,” added Sophie. She smiled nervously. “I am sure the officer will let the Professor Sterling leave.”

Abruptly the door swung open. Stumme, with the corporal behind him, stood in the doorway holding the authorization letter in his hand. He looked hard at the two women. Gretchen putting her hand to her mouth coughed nervously. He continued to stare at her for a moment and then turned an unwavering gaze on Stuart.

Pushing his way into the room Brendan, with a minimum of ceremony greeted the two women. He then bent over the professor, removed his glove and rested his right hand on the man’s brow.

“Professor Sterling,” he said softly, “we have come to take care of you.”

Slowly the old man stirred. Anticipating a shock of recognition Brendan moved his head forward to prevent the officer seeing the professor’s face. The precaution was justified as the man’s eyes instantly opened and he gasped.

Stuart, seeking to create a distraction pointed to the letter and brusquely addressed the officer in what he hoped was a convincing accent.

”Die Papiere. In Ordnung!”

The Hauptman frowned and regarded the group for a long moment. Through the walls, the German Führer’s voice increasingly punctuated by the rhythmic chants of the multitude, was reaching a crescendo.

Slowly the man nodded.

“Ja. Alles in Ordnung.”

Brendan turned to the professor.

“The two nurses will help you get ready, Professor. Then they will assist you to the car. Please cooperate with them. It is in your best interests.” He nodded and Sophie and Gretchen moved forward.

“Sie können Englisch gut sprechen,” said the officer to Brendan,

“Yes,” replied Brendan. “All Germans in New Zealand should learn English.”

“Huh,” grunted the man. His smile was cold as he carefully replied, “All New Zealand people should German learn!” Turning on his heel he left the room followed by the soldier. A door opened, the radio surged and the door slammed.

“Back to schnapps and the Führer,” muttered Stuart.

“Do we put his clothes on?” whispered Sophie.

“No. Just his dressing gown and slippers,” responded Brendan. “We must move quickly.”

The professor had been sedated and consequently required assistance. Helping him to his feet the two women then moved either side and draped his arms across their shoulders.

“OK?” asked Stuart quietly.

They both nodded.

“Lead the way,” he nodded to Brendan, “I’ll watch the rear.”

Cautiously opening the door Brendan stepped into the corridor. The sound of a German anthem surged from the radio in the nearby room. Turning back he jerked his head and the two women with the professor between them, moved slowly forward along the polished wooden floor. The sunlight, streaming through the leadlight window of the villa’s front door created soft coloured patterns on the walls and ceiling, contrasting sharply with the penetrating blare of the military anthem. Reaching the end of the corridor Brendan grasped the large brass doorknob. Turning it quickly he pulled the heavy wooden door open.

Sprawled on the grass next to their car’s front wheel was their driver. A dark stain was slowly seeping out from under his motionless form. Standing above him and facing the doorway was the corporal. Alongside him stood Hauptmann Stumme and two other soldiers. Their rifles pointed unwaveringly at Brendan.

“Step forward, all of you,” shouted one of the soldiers in a local accent. “Obey us and you will not be harmed.”

“Get down!” shouted Brendan flinging himself backwards and kicking the door shut. All five went sprawling on the wooden corridor as shots rang out and the leadlight window disintegrated, showering them with glass shards.

“How the hell did they know?” he muttered.

Moving quickly into a crouching position Stuart leaned against the sturdy door pillar.

“Give yourselves up! The house is surrounded! You can’t escape!” came a shout.

Estimating the position of the voice Stuart thrust his pistol forward at the end of his outstretched arms, sprang upwards, caught a momentary glimpse of the leading soldier and squeezed the trigger. The groan was immediately followed by several more shots that buzzed angrily over his head as he dived back to the floor.

“One down,” he muttered.

Footsteps were heard thudding past the outside of the villa.

“They’re heading round to the back door,” hissed Brendan.

“Take up a position half way down the hall and cover the door,” ordered Stuart.

He turned towards the girls who were huddled near the prone figure of the professor.

“Stay here. I think there’s a window open in the lounge.”

Brendan, crouching down, took up a position inside the professor’s bedroom door facing the back entrance. Stuart, keeping low, dashed across the corridor to the lounge door and shouldered it open. The alcoholic odour was pungent. A German marching song swelled from the tall polished wooden radio cabinet standing in the corner of the room. The large bay window on the far side was open. Thrusting his head out Stuart quickly checked left and right, hoisted himself over the windowsill and dropped onto the grass, thankful that the radio masked the sound of his landing.

Immediately on his right was a tall, thick macrocarpa hedge. Crouching next to it to catch his breath, he heard two shots come from the rear of the house, echoed by the sound of breaking glass. Resisting the temptation to investigate he moved rapidly forwards towards the front edge of the villa and peered round the corner. Stumme had joined the sprawled body of the driver. The other soldier and the Feldwebel were crouching behind the car engaging in an earnest conversation while keeping a watchful eye on the front door. Slowly Stuart raised his pistol. Although the distance was well within range, he was aware that his hand was trembling slightly.

“Easy,” he muttered to himself.

Taking two long slow breaths he slightly repositioned his pistol. His eyes narrowed and he squeezed the trigger. The corporal fell forward without a sound. The soldier whirled and looked Stuart squarely in the face. For the barest of moments he registered the man’s brown features before squeezing the trigger again. The soldier clutched at his throat in a vain attempt to stop the blood flow before pitching forward onto the body of his comrade.

“It’s me. I’m coming in!” he shouted. In three strides Stuart leapt up the steps onto the veranda and flung open the door. “Get the professor into the back seat of the car,” he ordered. “Quick as you can!”

Keeping low he moved rapidly down the corridor and slid into a bedroom doorway on the right, opposite Brendan.

“Got the other two bastards out front,” he said loudly above the blaring of the radio.

“I think I got another one. They tried to burst in but when he was hit the others pulled back.”

“How many?”

“Not sure. Maybe another one or two.”

“OK. Go and help the women. Then get into the driver’s seat and start the motor. As soon as you’re ready to leave, sound the horn. I’ll join you.”

“Won’t the sound alert the others?”

“Have to chance it. I’m closer to the car than them and they may be a little cautious.”

His friend opened his mouth to protest but Stuart pointed to the front door.

“Reinforcements could come at any time. Go!”

Crouching low, Brendan moved quickly towards the open front door. As his footsteps sounded on the broad wooden front steps Stuart fired a shot through the broken wooden panel of the back door. An answering rifle shot sent a bullet whining angrily through the empty hallway.

Keeping up against the wall and with his eye glued to the back door he slid swiftly after Brendan.

“Ein Volk! Ein Reich! Ein Führer!” blared the radio.

“Baaarp!” blared the car horn.

Spinning round Stuart dashed down the steps and reached the left hand side of the car. Scrambling in he slammed the door as Brendan released the clutch and with revving motor steered the car down the driveway between the hedgerows. Emerging onto the road Stuart noticed a smattering of people watching cautiously from the footpath on the opposite side. By the kerb on their immediate left was an empty khaki-coloured Kübelwagen - the small open topped Volkswagen troop carrier.