Vengeance 10 (52 page)

Memling jumped to the door and dragged the body inside. A scraping sound told him that the guard’s machine pistol was still slung over his shoulder. The Walther P-38 held eight cartridges, one now gone. There was no time to check the magazine, but no experienced soldier would keep his weapon less than fully loaded. He eased to the cell door, extended the pistol into the corridor, and fired six shots, three in either direction. A scream told him he had scored at least one hit, and a door slammed. There was now one cartridge left for himself.

Jan pulled the door partly shut. In the near darkness his sensitive eyes could see enough to strip the machine pistol from the dead man’s shoulder. The guard he had struck was trying to get to his knees, holding his groin with one hand, scrabbling at the wall with the other.

Memling kicked him down again and in the shaft of light, saw that it was the same unterscharführer who had shot the three resistance people so brutally. Without thinking, Memling jammed the muzzle of the machine pistol against the man’s throat.

‘You bastard,’ he snarled in English, pushing on the gun so that the man gagged. The SS officer tried to plead with him. There was another shout in the corridor, a door was slammed open, and a burst of automatic rifle fire ricocheted the length of the hall. Memling stared into the man’s eyes and pulled the trigger once. The body convulsed, and hands tore at the ruined throat.

Someone had turned out the corridor lights, but his eyes were still hypersensitive, and he could see clearly the two men crawling towards his cell from the courtyard entrance. He waited until both were well along, then fired two short bursts that struck them head-on. A long period of silence followed. Memling slumped against the wall, unmindful of the icy stone on his naked skin. He drew a deep breath, revelling in the loss of his terror. The time had come, he knew, but at least he had accounted for four, possibly five, Nazis, and he knew then how the two Poles he had met in northern Germany an endless time ago had felt. He was ready to die now. Memling took a deep breath and bit down on the pistol barrel.

An explosion whip-cracked through the building. Automatic weapons erupted and there were more explosions, until the noise and concussions drove him to bury his head in his arms.

It took Magnus von Braun an hour to assemble four former frontline soldiers at the radio direction station. They came as quickly as they could be detached from their duties, and replacements found, without incurring the suspicions of the SS guards. The four men - one oberfeldwebel, or sergeant major, one stabsgefreiter, or corporal, and two grenadiers - were members of the Versuchskommando Nord, or Test Command North, technically a combat unit assigned to guard the Peenemunde installation, but in reality a device used several years before to assemble six companies of technically trained men to ease the severe manpower shortage. Oberfeldwebel Harmutt Sussmann had served for three years in the Twenty-first Division of the Africa Corps. Wounded at Kasserine Pass, he was among the last to be evacuated from North Africa. After recovering from wounds, he had been assigned to command the VKN, most of which had now been reassigned elsewhere; only a few dozen from a ration strength of one thousand remained at Peenemunde. Sussmann’s eyes glowed when his assignment was explained, and when they were assembled, Magnus left to telephone the news to his brother.

With a few rapid strokes Sussmann sketched the location of Gestapo headquarters in relation to the village of Trassenheide.

‘As you see, the building is separated from the town proper by the sand dunes,’ he explained in gruff Bavarian accents. ‘They are not high but provide the privacy the Gestapo requires for its activities.’ Sussmann stared at them and singled out Prager.

‘Lay out the interior,’ he snapped. There was a distinctly hostile tone to his voice, which Prager wisely ignored.

The building is little more than a large box, thirty metres on a side,’ he began. ‘The front portion is devoted to offices and administrative areas. The files are kept in this locked room here. There are six cells, all three by three metres, on either side of this hall which runs like so.’ He sketched a narrow corridor leading from the centre front to back. ‘There are two rooms on the north wall for interrogation, and all are equipped as physicians’ examination rooms.

‘There is a garrison of eight SS and four Gestapo officers. The SS are part of a special unit attached to Division Three. They take their orders from Walsch and not from Kammler’s command. There are also eight more employees, none of them armed, and most will have been sent home for the night. The building is constructed of cement blocks. The interior is plyboard. The cells are reinforced ply and thoroughly sound- and light-proofed. In the rear, separated from the sea by a wall three metres high, is the courtyard where the resistance traitors were executed.’

‘Where will we find Walsch?’

‘We?’ Prager and Sussmann both asked simultaneously. Bethwig nodded. ‘We.’

‘You can’t go,’ Sussmann told him flatly.

Bethwig leaned across the table. ‘No one has a better right than I do. I intend to kill Walsch myself.’

Sussmann and Prager exchanged glances, and Prager, knowing why Bethwig felt as he did, nodded with reluctance. Sussmann saw the nod and started to protest, but Magnus von Braun, who had returned a few moments earlier, also agreed. Sussmann gave in and signed Prager to continue. The Gestapo officer placed a fingertip on a room off the administrative area.

‘Walsch will either be here or in one of the interrogation rooms with the prisoner.’

‘Which is the Englishman’s cell?’

‘The middle one, to the left or south side of the corridor.’ Bethwig glanced at each man in turn. ‘You know what we have to do and why,’ he said simply. ‘Let’s get started.’

The fitful snow had stopped by the time the six men drove up to the gate of the deserted Luftwaffe test area known as Peenemunde West, on the north-west tip of the island. A bored and half-frozen sentry was on duty at the dilapidated barrier, one of the few remaining Luftwaffe personnel on the island. He was in no mood to question Bethwig’s demand for admittance, and they drove on past rows of empty buildings that seemed like evil mountains in the furtive moonlight.

Sussmann led him to the side door of a two-storey warehouse, produced a key, and got out to unlock the door. They clattered up iron stairs to the loft, and Sussmann showed them several packing boxes labelled for machinery. Four long wooden crates were stacked on a pallet behind. Sussmann levered open the top crate, peeled back the greased paper, and exposed ten MP40 machine pistols to the gleam of the torchlight. The corporal passed them out while Sussmann opened another case and extracted ammunition already packed into thirty-eight-round magazines. A third case held potato masher-style hand-grenades.

‘Enough to start our own war.’ Prager grinned as he hefted one of the machine pistols and cocked the action, it feels good to handle one of these again.’

Sussmann directed him to park the car half a kilometre from the beach, and they went over the plan once more, then started off. They hiked along the beach towards the isolated building, depending on the sand dunes and the weather to conceal them. Two hundred metres from the building they came to the remains of the old fishing pier. They split here, Prager and Bethwig continuing along the waterline to the rear of the courtyard while Sussmann took the other four up on to the sand dunes. The sergeant major had been adamant: Bethwig would not be allowed to participate in the frontal attack. Prager had supported Sussmann, and Bethwig had given in. Their task was limited to seeing that no one escaped over the back wall. Faced now with imminent action, Bethwig was relieved at Sussmann’s decision. He discovered that he was scared to death in a way he had never been while serving with the V-2 battalion. There, death had seemed a random process of selection, much as a traffic accident would be. Here, it was entirely too personal.

The wind whipped at them as they crouched in the wet sand. The floodlit courtyard gave them sufficient light to see by, while at the same time providing concealing shadows. Even though both men wore heavy duffle coats, the wind slipped through folds and crevices to set them shivering.

Bethwig glanced at his watch again. The radium dial showed nearly 8 p.m. Less than four hours remained; and although he knew that Wernher was more than capable of carrying out the sequence without reference to him, if he was to complete the rest of his plan, he could not spare more than another forty minutes here. Yet he could not bring himself to leave until he was certain that Walsch was dead.

Two grenades exploded in quick succession, followed by burst after burst of machine-pistol fire. Bethwig and Prager could see the flares and concussive shock waves rippling outward from the building, although the wind, blowing away from them, muffled the sound. Shouts and screams mingled with the gunfire, and Bethwig was in a fury of apprehension. The battle was loud enough, he was certain, to bring SS reinforcements, even though Sussmann’s first task had been to cut power and telephone lines.

Prager nudged him; a head had appeared level with the wall. A moment later a figure dropped and, crouching, reached up to grab a weapon that someone was handing over. Prager’s hand was on his arm. ‘Wait until they are both over,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Aim low and fire short bursts.’

Bethwig nodded and pulled back and up on the bolt handle, as Prager did, trying to remember his long-ago Hitler Youth training.

‘Now,’ Prager shouted, and fired.

Over the sights Bethwig saw one man turn towards them; his face was hidden in shadow, but Bethwig could imagine the surprise that died as he fired two short bursts. The figure pitched forward, and Prager took the other as he dropped over the wall. Then Bethwig was running, propelled by the desperate need to reach Walsch. He ripped a grenade from his coat pocket, twisted the igniter, counted to three, and tossed it into the courtyard. Prager drew up, panting, machine pistol in hand, and mouthing blasphemies as he flung his grenade over as well. They both ducked against the base of the wall, and the bombs went off one after the other.

Bethwig started up, but Prager yanked him back and threw another grenade to make certain the courtyard was clear. After it exploded, Prager swung himself to the top of the wall, inched his head up, then swarmed over. Bethwig followed, shouting uncontrollably with excitement.

A man in black uniform lay dead. That made three. Prager held up a hand and edged towards the open doorway. From the front of the building sustained gunfire shattered the night. Sussmann’s rush had not carried the building as planned. Could they obtain reinforcements? he wondered. An explosion came, sharp and crisp against the wind - but from outside, not inside the building.

‘We’ve got to move!’ Prager shouted, and Bethwig peered along the dark corridor. He could just make out a partly opened door and, with a jolt, realised it was the cell in which he had been held the previous autumn. Two bodies were huddled on the floor of the hall. Prager jerked a thumb at them.

‘We didn’t kill those two. Who did?’

Bethwig started to shake his head, then smiled in sudden understanding. ‘Inside! Is that Jan Memling?’ he shouted down the corridor. ‘This is Franz Bethwig. Do you remember me?’

‘Franz Bethwig?’ a voice called back doubtfully.

‘Yes, Wernher von Braun’s friend.’ Bethwig had switched to rusty English and was forced to search his memory for the proper words.

‘We were at Hotel ...’

‘I know who you are. What do you want?’

The Englishman must have armed himself somehow. That could be the only explanation for the two dead men in the corridor. ‘How many have you ...’ He could not find the English word he wanted and awkwardly substituted one in German: ‘ ….
töten
?’

‘The hell with you, you bloody bastards!’

‘God damn you for a fool, Memling.’ Bethwig was so angry he began to stutter. ‘We must... we need to know how many . . . remain in ... are left, you damned ass.’

The English swear-words must have convinced him, for Memling answered after a moment. ‘Four,’ he shouted. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘There is not time ...’ Bethwig began, then switched to German. ‘There is no time to explain. Do you have a weapon?’

Memling hesitated. It made no sense... but then nothing had for as long as he could remember. ‘Yes,’ he shouted back.

‘Some of us are attacking the front. We must come in through the back. Do not shoot us.’

Bethwig did not wait for an answer but raised his machine pistol over his head and stepped into the corridor. Prager lunged for him, but Bethwig twisted away and started forward, heart in his throat, skin crawling, as he waited for the bullet’s impact. After a few steps he saw a hint of movement behind the partly opened door.

‘If you kill me,’ Bethwig blurted in sudden fright, ‘you will lose your last chance.’

He was beside the cell door now, facing a crouched figure nearly invisible in the shadows. He pushed the door wider. The fear was as evident in Memling’s eyes as he knew it was in his own, but the machine pistol the Englishman held was rock-steady and aimed at his mid-section.

‘Get some clothes and come help,’ Bethwig said quietly, and put out a hand to halt Prager as he came up behind.

‘The Englishman?’ Prager asked, and Bethwig nodded.

Prager stared at Bethwig, then went back down the corridor and removed boots, jacket, and trousers from one of the dead soldiers, tossing the clothes to Memling who began to pull them on as if in a daze. When Prager handed him two stick grenades, Memling clutched them a moment, then shook himself and braced his shoulders.

‘How many are left?’ he demanded in excellent German.

‘Possibly eight,’ Prager answered. ‘I think we should go around the side and ...’

‘I hold a commission as major in the Royal Marines.’ Memling’s voice was crisp. ‘This is your show, but I advise you to go through that door and fast.’

Prager and Bethwig exchanged glances, and Prager nodded. ‘Tell us what to do.’