SBS, page 21
Afraid and partly convinced that the command must have been intended for him, Hunter swung round to look and saw immediately that it was not. Some thirty yards away, across the compound, two black-uniformed SS soldiers were standing with their Schmeissers poised, both aiming at the figure of a lone German Wehrmacht officer. But it was no German. It was Duffy. And he looked utterly terrified.
In that same moment Duffy caught sight of Hunter and as soon as he did, he looked away from him, afraid that his line of sight might reveal the lieutenant’s position. Hunter stared at him, powerless to act. The two SS men approached Duffy and motioned with their guns that he should raise his hands while at the same time telling him to do so, in German. Duffy did as they asked and they closed in on him as around them in the camp, similar isolated scenes were being played out with genuine German officers being arrested. Close to Duffy, a number of guards stopped to watch. One of the SS, a sergeant, went up to Duffy and it looked to Hunter as if he must be asking for his papers. Duffy reached into his top pocket and produced the counterfeit ausweis and other bogus identification documents, with which they had all been issued.
The sergeant looked at them and then passed them to his colleague who examined them and shrugged before passing them back. The sergeant took the papers and then, rather than returning them to Duffy, put them in his own pocket. Now Hunter was really beginning to worry.
Shouting further sharp commands in German, the SS sergeant motioned to Duffy to move forward before him and at the same time to keep his hands in the air. Duffy walked away, in front of the two men, whose guns were now levelled with his back. It was horribly clear to Hunter what was going on. They were taking him off for interrogation and they both knew exactly what that meant. For a moment it crossed Hunter’s mind to open fire and even perhaps to shoot Duffy. But he did nothing. Even if Duffy was dead, and unable to be tortured into giving away secrets, he himself was still a problem. And what of Phelps and Russell?
Then Hunter saw Phelps. He was standing beside one of the accommodation blocks, close to a group of Wehrmacht soldiers, and he too was staring straight at Duffy. Phelps’s face was a white mask of terror. Slowly, Hunter edged towards him. Most of the troops around them were now watching the unfolding drama with Duffy and for a moment the figure of a single man in a greatcoat moving among them caused no comment. Hunter was getting closer to Phelps now, almost beside him. He tried to catch his eye, but his gaze was fixated on Duffy as he was marched away. Finally, Hunter moved next to Phelps and touched him lightly on the arm. Phelps looked round and seeing the lieutenant’s face, froze. For an instant the two men stared at each other and then a voice broke the silence around them. And it spoke in perfect English: ‘Halt. Do not attempt to move. If you move, I will shoot you both.’
Turning towards the speaker, Hunter found himself staring into the eyes of a young German officer. It was the aide-de-camp.
Hauptman Eric Finck spoke again: ‘It’s you. You are the one. You are the one who did not tell my general. You are the damned British commando.’ He looked at Phelps. ‘You too. You are his accomplice. And you are both in German uniform. You will be shot. It is the Führer’s order.’
Instantly, the men standing next to Phelps moved in. There was nothing to be done.
Forty yards away, directly in front of Hunter and Phelps, Duffy’s captors had stopped momentarily and turned to see what was happening behind them. It was the chance that Duffy needed. Without hesitation, he turned and dealt the SS sergeant a huge, swinging uppercut that connected with his chin and, amplified as it was by the sharpened solid brass knuckleduster that Duffy had just attached to his hand, it smashed through the bone and ground into the man’s jaw, sending teeth and blood flying from his mouth. The sergeant crumpled to the ground and as he did so, the other SS man swung round towards Duffy and gently squeezed the trigger of his Schmeisser.
It was only a half burst. Duffy didn’t know what hit him. His body was raked diagonally by twenty rounds from the lethal semi-automatic, which, at point-blank range, almost cut him in half. His eyes staring wide in shocked disbelief, Duffy collapsed in his own blood and died in moments. Across the yard, Finck turned instinctively to see what was going on and for a brief second Hunter was almost on him. But it was too late. Even as his right hand reached out to level his own gun, two of the Germans standing beside him had ripped his weapon from his hands and pinned his arms behind him.
As the SS man who had shot Duffy bent down to help his wounded sergeant, Finck spun round to face Hunter. He was smiling. ‘You see. So shall die all commandos. You’re vermin. Gangsters. Not fit to wear any uniform, far less than our own that you now dishonour. Take off your coat!’
The soldiers released Hunter’s arms and he unbuttoned the greatcoat and removed it. Finck laughed and nodded. ‘I knew it. You’re a spy. You pass yourself off as an officer of the DAK. Who are you? What is your name?’
Hunter said nothing.
‘No matter. Soon you will tell us everything we need to know.’
He nodded to the men around Hunter to restrain him and looked at Phelps. ‘You too. You are one of them.’
Phelps was silent. Unable to speak.
Finck struck him across the face with the back of his hand. ‘You dare to look at me in defiance. We shall see how long you remain defiant.’ He turned to a sergeant who was among the men holding Hunter and Phelps. ‘Take them to the colonel. I will follow. I need to clear up this mess.’
He nodded in the direction of Duffy’s body.
Each of them escorted by four German guards, Hunter and Phelps were frog-marched away. Their route, either deliberately or by chance, took them past Duffy’s body and Hunter cast a last, regretful glance down at his dead comrade. Finck was kneeling beside Duffy. He had pulled open the dead man’s tunic and, his hands covered in blood, was rifling through anything he could find inside. He wasn’t going to have much joy, thought Hunter. All of them had absorbed the lessons of the training school and had taken care not to bring any genuine personal documents. All that Finck was going to find were whatever of Duffy’s fake papers hadn’t already been taken by the sergeant, a map of the island, a book of Greek phrases, a bar of chocolate, a purse of twenty gold sovereigns and a 500,000-drachma note, both of which he presumed the young captain would be quick to pocket for himself.
He saw that he had already appropriated Duffy’s fighting knife, the coveted commando dagger, which was lying beside his body and also his beret, which he had, like all of them, hidden in one of his pockets as the only means of identifying himself as British, when the moment came. For Duffy that moment would never come.
Hunter hoped that Phelps would not look at Duffy’s mangled body, but knew that he would be drawn to it regardless and that the sight of it was bound to have a profound effect upon the man’s already shredded nerves. He could only imagine now what Finck had in mind for the two of them and dared not contemplate their fate at the hands of the SS colonel. How, he wondered, would Phelps possibly cope with what was coming?
*
Russell had seen and heard everything. He was standing in the narrow space between two of the huts just to the left of where Duffy had been shot. When Duffy had gone to punch the SS sergeant, Russell had had to stop himself from shouting out to him. Had been desperate to tell him not to try anything. But he had known what would happen. So he had managed to hold his silence and keep absolutely still as it all happened before him. Now Duffy was dead and as he watched from his cramped hideout, he saw Hunter and Phelps being marched away, taken prisoner. He hadn’t seen either of the others and hoped to God that they at least had managed to get away. As for the mission, it was anyone’s guess what had happened. He knew that Wilson’s commandos should have attacked the base by now, but guessed that they too must have seen events unfold and had decided to call it off. The question now was what should he do himself?
It occurred to him that, given the fact that he was still well armed and had not yet been wounded, his duty might be to attempt to help Hunter and Phelps get away. His only problem with this was that, given the fact he was wearing enemy uniform, were he too to be caught, he would almost certainly be tortured and shot, as they were now sure to be.
Russell weighed up all the options and after a few minutes came to his decision. Then, taking great care not to be observed, he left the narrow hiding place and quickly leant against the rear wall of one of the buildings, where he reached into his hand and pulled out a packet of German cigarettes. He flipped open the lid and lit one, then took a long drag and looked around. Waiting. Sure enough, it was only a few moments before a senior sergeant appeared and seeing Russell shouted at him, in German, ‘Hey there. You. Put that cigarette out and get over here, on the double. We’re still looking for the others you know.’
Russell, his German perfect, muttered a hasty ‘ja’ and stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, before picking up his weapon and hurrying over to the sergeant major. As Russell drew closer, the man took a closer look at him.
‘Who are you? Where are you from? I don’t remember you.’
Russell replied, taking care not to use the cultivated German that he had originally been taught by the contessa, but the more provincial dialect that Hunter had told him about. ‘Private Wulpert, sergeant major. I’m with the new bunch, sir. We only arrived this morning. From the mainland. To replace 322 regiment.’
The sergeant nodded. Seemed happy enough with the answer. After all, it was true. Just that morning 322 had been posted to join Rommel in North Africa and to replace them a few dribs and drabs had arrived on the island. This man must be one of them. No enemy commando would know the exact date and details of such an irrelevant troop movement, would he? God knew, he hadn’t heard about it himself until this morning. Communications here were less than useless. Nobody gave a damn. They’d all got too sloppy. No wonder they’d been taken by surprise. He addressed Russell, his accent that of a manual labourer from industrial north Germany.
‘Right then, Private Wulpert. Get yourself along to the perimeter gate. There’s a search party going out in ten minutes and you’ve just volunteered for it. Right? We’ve got to find those bloody commandos. Can’t let them get away. The captain’s in a filthy mood and I can’t see the CO being too happy about it all, neither.’
He paused and looked again at Russell’s appearance, moving his gaze from top to bottom and back again. For a moment Russell thought that the game might be up. He needn’t have worried. After some consideration, the sergeant spoke. ‘Christ you lot are a bloody shower, aren’t you. I’ll smarten you up, my lad. Just you wait. I’ll tell you something, Sergeant Franz Neuer won’t tolerate sloppiness in his unit. See? Can’t abide it. Right, what are you waiting for? Get moving.’
Russell could hardly believe his luck. Firstly to have been taken as a genuine German soldier by a senior sergeant-major and then for the same man to actually have sent him to go to the perimeter and out through the gate was more than he might have hoped for. The man had even given Russell his name! He hurried over to the gate and found two squads getting ready to leave in pursuit of the commandos. Noticing that while one was made up of ten men and the other of just nine, Russell went towards the second and found the sergeant. ‘Private Wulpert, sir. Sergeant Neuer sent me. I’m from the new intake. Arrived this morning.’
The sergeant looked at him. ‘Are you? I’ve never seen you before.’
Russell didn’t move. Perhaps he had gone too far. Perhaps he’d muddled his accent. The sergeant spoke again. ‘Neuer sent you, did he? Really? Is he having a laugh? Well, too bad. If Neuer says to take you, then we’ll just have to take you. Right then, fall in with the rest of them. We’re going to fan out and all of you, keep your eyes peeled. They’re a shifty lot these bloody commandos. You never know when they’ll pop up behind you and slit your throat. Keep on your guard. Alright?’
Russell joined the rear of the squad and they filed out through the gate. None of the men spoke. He could see why. Then one of them whispered to him, ‘You know, this whole thing was bloody inconvenient. I mean there we were. Just eaten, there’s a great film showing in the hut, Anuschka. Really, a great movie. And then, bang, out of nowhere, a load of bloody British commandos drop in and mess up your evening. I tell you, my friend, it’s just bloody irritating. Bloody gangsters. What does a man have to do? I’ve been looking forward to that movie for weeks. She’s gorgeous, that Hilde Krahl. The real thing.’
Russell nodded. ‘Yes. You said it. She’s a real piece of skirt.’
The soldier offered him a cigarette. ‘Turkish. Very good.’
Russell accepted with a well-spoken ‘Danke’ and tucked it behind his ear.
Slowly, the squad to the right, and then the other, including Russell, to the left, they climbed the path that led either side of the road into the aerodrome and headed into the hills. After a few yards as the sergeant had directed, they fanned out until there was a long line of twenty men, five metres from each other, trudging through the rocks and scrub, weapons levelled, at the ready. Ready, thought Russell, with an ironic smirk, to shoot the ‘bloody gangsters’.
12
The night was at its darkest now and out on the hill above the searchlight-bright airfield, the men of the German search parties were all finding it heavy going, as they advanced steadily in extended line, further and further into the unpredictable, rocky terrain countryside. Moving with them, Lennie Russell had been trying for the last twenty minutes to work out a plan that would allow him to slip away from his squad when the man to his right gave a cry.
‘Damn. Help me.’
Russell moved across to find him in the darkness and saw the figure of the German guard who had spoken to him earlier, rolling on his back and clutching his right foot.
‘Ahh, Christ. I think I’ve broken it. My ankle.’
Russell bent down to look and carefully felt around the man’s right ankle. The German let out another anguished cry.
Russell spoke to him in perfect German. ‘Hard to tell. It might just be a sprain. Can you walk?’
‘No, not without help. No, I can’t.’
‘Right. There’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to help you back. You can’t go on like this.’
The squad leader was nearing them. ‘What’s wrong?’
Russell spoke: ‘It’s his ankle. Probably just a sprain. But I think it might be broken. Either way he can’t go on, Sergeant. Shall I take him back and rejoin you?’
‘Alright. That would be best. But be quick and bring another man with you. We can’t afford to lose these bloody gangsters. Anyway, there should be two more squads moving up the hill behind us. Why don’t you just hand him to one of them and then catch us up?’
Russell nodded. ‘Yes, Sergeant. That’s what I’ll do. I’d better get a move on.’
The German sergeant gave Russell a pat on the back. ‘Right, lad. Good thinking, well done.’
Russell bent over the injured man and gently helped him to his feet, allowing his weight to fall on his left-hand side. Russell couldn’t believe his luck. Here was the ideal opportunity and it had been handed to him on a plate. Slowly he helped the man away from the squad, back down the hill, in the general direction of the airfield. It was hard going in the dark and twice he almost lost his own foothold. Gradually though, he managed to steer the man over to the right, away from both the squad and the camp. The German was in too much pain to notice at first, until they had lost sight of the squad. He muttered, ‘Are you sure we are going in the right direction? The lights of the camp. They look smaller to me, I think.’
Russell calmed him. ‘No, no, it’s an illusion, my friend. We’re getting closer now. It’s just the pain doing it. Don’t worry.’
They carried on and, at length, Russell managed to steer them on to a level contour, so that they were no longer going steeply downhill. But the German was becoming increasingly agitated. ‘Where are we going? Where are you taking me? I can hardly see the camp now. Where are we going?’
Russell whispered to him through the darkness, ‘I think we need to stop.’
Russell gently lowered the German to the ground and placed his head against a rock. There was hardly any moonlight and what there was, was obscured by the towering forms of several tall cypress trees. The man looked down at his ankle. Tried to see it. ‘It’s so sore. Christ, it hurts so badly. I can’t see it. Can you see it? It’s so dark here. Have you a light?’
Russell said nothing. He readied himself to make his move and as he did so his heart began to beat hard in his chest, so hard that it seemed to pound in his head. Adrenalin pumping, he began to move. Everything, every action, seemed to happen in slow motion as he silently slipped his fighting knife from its scabbard with his right hand. Trying to recall in detail everything he had been taught in the fighting school at Athilt, Russell moved fast, slipping swiftly behind the supine German, very quickly and with great dexterity. His whole body was horribly tense as, trembling, he knelt down behind the man and plunged the knife into his neck. The cut made, he started to recall everything and pushed it hard in for what he thought must be about an inch and a half. Then, quickly, he cut the man’s throat from left to right, severing the carotid artery. There was a sudden rush of thick, dark blood, followed by the gurgling of air escaping the severed trachea. Sounding almost like a cry for help, it lasted for a few ghastly moments and was followed by more blood, thinner but in a powerful spray. Then there was silence.
Russell’s pumping heart was slowing down and his hands no longer trembled. He wiped the blood from them and from his knife. The German lost consciousness in five seconds and was dead within twelve. And Russell knew that he had got it right.
