The last enemy, p.10
The Last Enemy, page 10
“I mean it really hurts. We were out in the bush, and this guy was screaming in agony so bad I thought he would have a heart attack, so I kept him going on morphine. Enough to handle the worst and no more, but I know when enough is enough.”
“Fair enough.” He looked at the German. “You were trying to tell us something back there. Are you up to talking?”
He nodded. “I’ll do my best.” His voice was slurred like he was drunk. No surprise there with so much morphine flowing through his veins, “The man you want is Richter. SS-Obergruppenführer Karl-Heinz Richter.”
“Everybody wants Richter. He’s some kind of hotshot scientist.”
Neuberg’s lips formed a smile. “That he is. Before Hitler came to power, we were colleagues at the University of Leipzig, both physicists. They made me a full Professor, and Richter was one of my most promising students. I am Jewish, and when the Nazis came to power, they expelled Jews from the professions, so we lost our jobs. As things got worse, they began to strip us of our possessions, and they enacted new laws to prohibit Jews from taking part in public life. After that came the arrests and disappearances. Many of us ended up in concentration camps.”
“They say they were death camps. The Red Army came across some and said they’d found evidence that hundreds of thousands, possibly even millions of prisoners were executed. Then again, the Soviets spout a load of bullshit, and our people aren’t sure how much to believe.”
“Believe me, it’s all true. No matter how bad you think it is, it’s impossible to envisage the reality. Bodies piled everywhere. Prisoners like emaciated scarecrows, so thin their ribs stretch out their skin, and many just lie down and die. You must believe me. What the Soviets say is all true. The treatment I got at Nordhausen was nothing compared to how they suffer in the camps.”
He didn’t disbelieve him. The poor guy’s ribs stretched out his skin, and his face was so thin it resembled little more than a skull. Gordon had been feeding him stew and hot soup, and it had helped speed his recovery, but it would be a long time before he filled out and resembled an ordinary human being.
“What was Richter working on that was so important?”
He paused for almost a minute and appeared to be considering how to word his answer. Finally, he said, “In simple terms, a bomb.”
“Did you say a bomb?”
“That’s correct.”
Murphy fought back a smile. The last thing he wanted was to offend this guy by ridiculing him. He’d suffered enough. “Professor Neuberg, I don’t know how to break it to you, but the United States isn’t short of bombs, so I can’t see why one more would make any difference to this war.”
“This bomb would make a difference. If my theory is correct, it will explode with sufficient force to destroy an entire town, perhaps a city. Or an army.”
“If your theory is correct.”
“I have made the calculations, and there is no reason why they shouldn’t prove correct. The Third Reich has been working on this project for many years, and we were getting close. Recently, I made a breakthrough, and it is near completion, ready for a successful detonation. It will work. I know it will. Richter knows it will work, which is why he took my notebook to complete the work in the other facility.”
“The what?”
“The mirror facility. They built an identical laboratory so the work could continue should the underground complex at Nordhausen be overrun.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s…”
He was interrupted by a roaring noise. A flight of the weirdest aircraft he’d ever seen zoomed past, cannon fire and machine guns strafing everything on the ground. They didn’t have propellers, like the jets they’d seen attacking the Mitchells, but these were very different. Much faster, and shorter, with a stubby fuselage.
“What the fuck are those things?”
Neuberg looked up at the sky. “You don’t know? They’re the new, rocket-powered Messerschmitts, they call them the Komet.”
“Jesus Christ, they’re fast.”
“They can fly at speeds in excess of six hundred miles an hour. Yes, they’re fast.”
They didn’t get away unscathed. A flight of four P-51 Mustangs dove into the attack, cannons blazing, and the Messerschmitts didn’t stick around to slug it out. They turned away, heading southeast, so he figured their base was somewhere near Berlin.
He looked at Neuberg. “Why didn’t they fight?”
“Not enough fuel. Their flying time is limited to seven minutes. They designed them to intercept enemy bombers. They can take off and reach their target at high altitudes within half that time. They use their cannons to shoot down the target and immediately return to their airfield. That’s why they left, insufficient fuel to get into a fight with enemy fighters.”
Murphy was watching the sky, and not all the ‘rocket’ aircraft had gotten away. The Mustangs, although unable to match them for speed, had managed to score a hit on one rocket plane at long-range, and it was spiraling down to its doom. It exploded in a fireball of flame before it hit the earth. Neuberg explained the fuel they used to power the aircraft often exploded. “During the development, they lost a lot of pilots.”
I’ll bet. Tough titty.
He didn’t give a shit about Nazi pilots biting the dust. The airstrike ended as fast as it had begun, but now a battle was raging up ahead. The column, an entire division, had been hit by an ambush from the left flank, and it looked like they were in trouble. Shells and machine gun fire raked men and vehicles. Several tanks were returning fire, as well as a few braver souls who’d got the machine guns into action, but it wasn’t going well. Smoke and flame erupted into the sky, and this time it wasn’t the Germans who were getting the pasting, it was the United States Army.
He felt his anger and frustration rise. His men were fighting soldiers, and the fight wasn’t here, guarding the supply trucks. It was ahead where the Division was up against it. A supply truck was close, and his men were standing nearby, staring ahead, trying to make sense of what was going on. He made an instant decision. The time for pointless guard detail was over. This was a time for fighting soldiers to earn their pay and do some soldiering.
“Sergeant, get them onto the truck. We’re going up there.”
Rooker was a man of action, uncomfortable at being sidelined when a fight was going on, and he looked relieved. “Roger that, Lt. Men, mount up.”
Murphy leaped into the cab and looked at the driver seated in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette, and reading a magazine he had resting on the wheel.
He gave him a startled look. “What the fuck!”
“Soldier, get this truck moving. We’re going up there.”
He looked horrified. “But… it’s not safe. Orders are to keep the supply trucks in the rear until ordered to go forward.”
“I’m ordering you to go forward.”
“Sir, I don’t think you can do that.”
Murphy didn’t argue. He leaned over, opened the driver’s door, and pushed him out. He jumped into the driver’s seat, pressed the starter button, and the engine roared into life. He heard Rooker shout, “They’re all aboard.”
He engaged low gear, stamped on the gas pedal and the heavy vehicle began to move. The passenger door opened, and Kelly swung inside from the back.
“The Sarge said to ask you what’s the plan.”
“The plan is to kick seven colors of shit out of the Krauts, that’s what.”
He grinned. “We’re all in favor, but how do we do it? Oh, one thing I forgot. He said to tell you, the wooden crates in the back are carrying machine guns. Eight .30 caliber Browning M1919s with several crates of ammunition belts. He’s got the men breaking open the crates and mounting them ready to use.”
“That’ll do for a start. Bastards won’t be expecting us, and they won’t be expecting eight .30 caliber Brownings. Shock and awe, Kelly. Scare the pants off ‘em.”
He looked doubtful. “Uh, they got armor, Lt. The Sarge climbed on the cab roof to get a better look, and he said they looked like mobile assault guns, you know, StuGs. They’re bad bastards, low hull profile, and he said they likely dug themselves into the side of the hill, so they’ll be difficult for the artillery and armor to deal with.”
He glanced at the steep hill flanking the western side of the Harz region. Like the wall of a fortress, making the task of any attacker a bloody business.
“We’ll handle them.”
He drove on and came upon a scene of increasing ruin and devastation. The guns were still firing, but mostly enemy guns, so it was one-sided. Like Rooker had surmised, the STuGs were firing from prepared positions on the hillside. Although the Shermans attached to the Division were shooting back, it was tough going, and three armored vehicles already lay wrecked, in flames and smoking, as well as a dozen destroyed infantry trucks. Scores of bodies littered the ground, and a few shocked men were running to get away. It shouldn’t be happening. The Nazis were finished, but here they were, anything but finished. He drove on and came across a jeep overturned and on fire. He was about to drive past it when he recognized the two bodies that lay alongside. British Colonel Cuthbert Lawson, and his driver, dressed in Free French uniform, Clemence Delon.
No!!!
Chapter Five
He jammed on the brakes, and the truck went into a skid and almost overturned. He was out and running while it was still sliding across loose gravel. He reached the bodies and to his immense relief, they sat up when they heard him arrive.
“We’re okay,” she said quickly, “Just shaken up, so don’t worry.”
“Clemence! I thought you were…”
“Dead? No way. Don’t worry about us, worry about them.” She pointed to where a barrage of shells exploded, tossing yet more bodies into the air, “They’re killing our people. Do what you do best and do it fast.”
He nodded. “I’ll be back.”
He glanced up at the hillside. The enemy was so well entrenched they couldn’t hit them with sufficient force to stop them. Something had to be done. Like she said, they were killing them.
He shouted at Rooker, “We’re going up there. Tell them to stay on the truck and hang on. It’s gonna be a rough ride.”
He vaulted back into the driver’s seat, jammed the lever into gear, and the truck picked up speed. He swung the wheel over, heading toward the hillside lit with muzzle flashes and incoming shellfire. They immediately came under a hail of machine gun fire.
The windshield broke into a thousand pieces as a storm of lead smashed into it. More bursts perforated the metal sides of the cab around where he sat. He hunched down low to avoid the incoming fire. He didn’t need to ask about the men. Rooker would have them stretched out on the bed of the truck. It was probably the best they could do, but they did even better. By the time they’d covered the first hundred yards Rooker had three machine guns ready to open fire. In the next hundred yards, they started shooting. He risked a glance back, and it was more than the machine guns. Every available man was firing his rifle, and Kelly was choosing targets for the Springfield he’d snatched up.
He drove grimly up the slope, and despite the incoming machine gun fire, it felt good. They were up against it, and the truck lurched to one side when intense gunfire shredded the rubber from the tires. Sooner or later, the six-wheel M35 ‘Deuce and a Half’ would take too much punishment and grind to a halt when they scored a hit on the powerful, 127-horsepower engine.
They were driving into the unknown. The Shermans knocked out two StuGs, but three were still firing. A moment later, a third assault gun exploded in a ball of fire. Three down, but the remaining two were well dug in and difficult to hit. The ground around them was pockmarked with shell holes from near misses, but a near miss was still a miss. The nearest StuG fired again, and smoke from the propellant poured from the barrel. The shell struck a White half-track, turning it into a blazing wreck. The StuG had its hatches battened down, and without getting in real close with a bazooka, the most they could hope for was to scratch the paintwork. The German fired again, and this time the shell struck the track of a Sherman maneuvering to get into a better firing position. It came to a stop, helpless, and lay there, a sitting duck for the next shell.
He could picture those men inside the armored hull, braced for the hit that would turn the tank into a ball of flame. Shermans were reputed to catch fire so often their crews called them ‘Ronsons,’ after the brand of cigarette lighter. Murphy considered how to put the STuG out of action, but it was too well armored, too well dug in. The gun was another matter. It was difficult to hide the 75mm barrel of a main gun. Pushed out in plain sight, it was a no-brainer. He twitched the steering wheel to change direction and headed straight for it.
He shouted, “Hold tight, we’re gonna ram!”
He wasn’t sure they’d heard him above the roar of the engine, but it was too late to repeat the warning. The truck drove at the barrel and smashed into it head-on, so hard the truck almost stopped. The rear went up in the air before it gathered momentum, and they raced past. Behind them, they left the gun bent, hanging uselessly to one side. The collision had sideswiped the coaxial machine gun. The truck was back on all six wheels, and he brought it to a stop. Rooker shouted an order, and men covered the armored vehicle with machine guns, in case the crew emerged to start blasting with their remaining MG-34.
A good call. The top hatch opened, and a man reached out to mount the machine gun, but the Rangers were quicker and lashed the hull with a storm of .30 caliber lead from the Brownings. The crewman slid back inside the hull and didn’t try a second time. He got the truck moving again toward the last remaining assault gun, but they’d spotted the rampaging truck and opened fire with their coaxial MG-34. Another storm of gunfire threatened to engulf them. Bullets plucked at his uniform, and one ripped into his shoulder where he’d been wounded before. This time the bullet passed all the way through, but the pain of the second wound over the first was unbelievable, and he almost passed out.
He kept his foot flat on the pedal, but he was losing blood badly, struggling to cope with white-hot shards of agony ripping through him. He couldn’t keep going, he was on the verge of passing out, yet he had to keep going. Had to reach the barrel of that remaining STuG. The crew had spotted the danger, and the armored vehicle started the engine, throwing up a cloud of exhaust smoke. It started to move, edging out into the open. Picking up speed, and it was about to get away. There was nothing he could do. He doubted he could stay conscious for long enough to get to it, but suddenly Kelly was there.
He pushed him aside. “Get out of the way. I’ll take over.”
He didn’t argue. Dan gripped the wheel, stamped his foot on the gas and drove. Hunched down low, ignoring the automatic fire that continued to tear into the cab, and they were nearly there when the engine faltered. A bullet had struck something vital, and the truck started to slow. They weren’t going to make it, but Dan kept driving, refusing to give up. Murphy watched, mentally urging the truck to keep going, refusing to succumb to the blackness threatening to engulf him.
The STuG was moving away, and they’d angled the gun on the far side to keep it away from the truck bearing down on them. Kelly spat out a curse. A few more seconds and the faltering truck would’ve made it, but now it would take a miracle to reach it. Battlefield miracles were almost unheard of, but only almost. The miracle occurred when a shell from a Sherman struck a track and immediately the STuG slewed to one side, so the gun was once more right in front of them.
Kelly drove straight toward it, the engine still spluttering and almost dying, but the ‘Deuce and a half’ had enough life left under the hood to reach the target. It hit the barrel, this time not so hard, but enough to put it out of action. The American truck stopped abruptly, locked against the StuG, but it had carried out its final mission with honors. The 75mm barrel had pierced the engine compartment and pushed through into the cab, between Kelly and Murphy. They stared down at the scratched, gray, drab painted metal, even able to read the name of the German unit on the steel next to the inscribed manufacturer's markings.
Dan sucked in a breath. “Holy Mother of God, that was close. The damn thing’s hot.”
The barrel had scraped the side of his pants. Another fraction of an inch and the steel would’ve torn into his leg. Or his crotch. He gingerly moved to one side as the fabric of his pants started to smoke. Meanwhile, the platoon had got the machine guns into action. They were so close to the Germans that they didn’t need to aim. Just squeeze the trigger, spray and pray, and their prayers were answered. The enemy didn’t shoot back. They had other problems.
The loss of the assault guns had sent them into a panic, and although a couple of rifles and a single machine gun continued to fire, men were running. At the foot of the slope two Shermans were heading in, coaxial machine guns blazing away, churning the Germans into bloody ruin. Most didn’t make it. A running man is no match for a machine gun. The coaxials in the Shermans kept firing, so close it had become a turkey shoot.
Murphy glanced at Kelly. “Dan, I need a shot. It hurts so bad. I don’t think I can take it much longer.”
Kelly looked at the wound and winced. “That’s where you got hit before, and it’s a bloody mess. Damn, no wonder it hurts. Anderson was carrying morphine to give to that injured German. Give me a few seconds, I’ll go get him.”
It felt like more like hours, during which time he felt like he was going mad. The pain was so intense he was almost tempted to use his Colt to put a bullet in his head. Before he could make that decision, Anderson arrived and gave him a double shot. Almost immediately the pain eased, and he was floating away in a state of semi-consciousness. They carried him down the hill and found a medic who was going around attending to the wounded. He took one look at Murphy and pointed to the field ambulance.
“Take him over there. They’ll deal with him. I’ll be along as soon as I’m done here.”
He lay on a gurney inside the ambulance, watching corpsmen bringing in more wounded, and it became so crowded they shoved him to one side, so he had to share. He didn’t object, didn’t care about anything, as long as they kept the morphine shots going. He heard Rooker’s voice and opened his eyes. “Sarge.”
