The last enemy, p.6
The Last Enemy, page 6
“A little.”
“Here’s the deal. The underground facility where they develop the V2 rockets, where is it?”
He raised a hand to point, and Burgess rushed forward. “Don’t say anything. I’ll deal with the prisoners, and I don’t want anybody listening in. That’s an order, Mister.”
He shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
Burgess took the frightened Kraut several yards away and spoke with him. The men stood around shuffling their feet. Alert, but irritated at the Captain taking control of everything. After the firing had stopped.
He looked at Lawson. “I’m not sure I like this, Colonel. We don’t know what’s going on, what kind of a deal he’s cooking up. If our target is an underground facility, we should head there right now, not stand around chewing the fat.”
He nodded. “I agree, but in this matter, Burgess has absolute authority.”
He didn’t trust him. There was something about Burgess that left him wondering. Still, orders were orders. Even when they got men killed, and he decided he’d had enough. He approached the second prisoner and told him what they were looking for.
“I need to know how to get into the underground facility, right now. I also want you to give me the whereabouts of the head honcho, Dr. Richter, he’s a senior SS officer.”
The guy looked at the ground. Kicked at a loose stone with his boot. “I have been sworn to secrecy. I must keep my word.”
“And I’ve been sworn to kill Germans, do you want me to keep my word?”
He held up his hands in a defensive posture. “Please, no. I do not know if Dr. Richter is still here. There was a rumor he’d left, although I don’t know if it’s true.” He pointed, “You will find the entrance you’re looking for that way, but it won’t do you any good. The doors are heavy, hardened steel, and virtually impregnable. They were built to survive a direct hit from a heavy bomb.”
“There must be another way in.”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, there is nothing. There are just the steel doors, because of the security…” He paused, “Of course, there are the shafts to launch the rockets.”
“Shafts?”
“From where they launch the V2 rockets. They open the blast doors just prior to the launch and close them afterward. But they are heavily reinforced. There is an access hatch for maintenance. However, it wouldn’t be any help. It descends to one hundred feet below ground, with no ladder and no way to climb down. If they need to carry out maintenance, they use a hoist that can be operated from the bottom. Not from the top, because of security considerations.”
He questioned him further about the steel entrance doors, and he told him they were closed by turning the locking wheels on the inside. A man could open one door on his own, provided he was inside. That was the trick, getting inside. The prisoner doubted there’d be many soldiers remaining inside. Most had left, terrified of the Soviets coming from the east. More scared than they were of the Americans and British coming from the west. The idea of being captured by the Allies advancing from the west didn’t appeal, but better by far than the alternative. Capture by the Soviets many believed to be as good as a death sentence.
He’d learned enough, and he joined Lawson. “If this bastard is in there, we need to get to him before he escapes.”
“I agree.”
“I don’t agree!”
They swung around, and Burgess had returned.
“I’m telling you to leave it to me, and we’ll wait until my people arrive. They’re specialists, and I don’t want a few ham-fisted grunts getting inside and screwing everything up.” He looked from one to the other, daring them to show insubordination. Seeing none, he carried on, “I got everything I needed from the prisoner, and I’ll be calling it in. In the meantime, stay here. You’re not going anywhere.”
They stared at each other for long moments. Murphy felt more than a tad irritated. Who was this Brit, or American, or whatever he was, to pull rank? Sure, he was a captain, but he wasn’t a fighting soldier. Show him a rifle and he wouldn’t know which end the bullet came out. He looked at Lawson, who shrugged like he didn’t know what to do. He told Burgess they were so close it didn’t make sense to wait. Every hour they sat on their fannies was an hour the target would use to get further away. If he hadn’t already got away. They’d seen a man who could’ve been him up on the hillside, and it didn’t look like he was heading back into Nordhausen.
More like he was heading south, deep into the forbidding Harz Mountains, and at this late stage of the war, what was he up to? A hiking trip through the forests, climb a few of the many jagged peaks? Not likely.
They heard the drone of approaching aircraft, and every man tensed and looked up at the sky. Kelly spotted them first and grinned with relief. “It’s okay, they’re ours.”
There was no question they were friendlies. An incoming flight of eighteen Mitchell B-25 medium bombers. The armies were advancing, and they’d be on their way to give the enemy front-lines yet another pounding.
“Where’re they headed? Berlin?” Crockett murmured.
Rooker shook his head. “Nope, Not in that direction. We’re advancing all along this sector, so they’ll be softening them up ready for the next big attack.”
“Where are they, the Krauts? I mean, they must be real close.”
“They are. Our guys and the Soviets are squeezing them in from both sides, so all they have left is a narrow corridor north to south, down through the center of Germany.”
“Well, okay, but how close are they? If their aim isn’t accurate, some of those bombs could go astray and drop on our heads. Maybe we should find some cover.”
Rooker grinned. “The front is at least ten miles away. Nothing to worry about.”
Murphy wasn’t so sure. The bombers were flying on a heading that would take them right over the shattered town, and he recalled the number of bombs they’d dropped to flatten the town that was the center of the Nazi V2 rocket program. What if there’d been a foul-up, and nobody had informed them a recce patrol was in the area?
He held that thought for a few seconds more, and in the still, clear air, he saw the bomb doors opening. He had his answer, another strike on the town. Another screw-up and they were right underneath it.
“Cover!”
They hit the deck and crawled into the broken buildings, trying to find shelter beneath shattered bricks and timber floorboards as the first bombs landed and detonated with massive explosions. When a man is targeted by a stick of heavy bombs, it’s no fun, and when they’re your own bombs, it’s even less fun. The ground shook, and bomb fragments and stone chips ripped through the air. All they could do was huddle in tiny spaces, their arms and legs tucked in tight to their bodies. They weren’t all religious, and most didn’t pray. Not until they lay helpless beneath a storm of high explosive. That was when a man discovered the comfort of prayer. And every man prayed like crazy.
The raid went on for ten minutes, and during that time it seemed like it was never going to end. It stopped when a flight of fighters roared in, cannon shells punching into the lumbering bombers. They turned away, but not before three Mitchells were torn apart, and they watched fascinated and with mixed feelings when chunks of wing and fuselage broke away, and the big aircraft fell away, diving toward the ground. Another bomber exploded in midair when an attacking fighter tore into it with cannons blazing.
He was trying and failing to identify the aircraft that’d saved them. German aircraft like nothing he’d seen before. It didn’t seem possible anything could fly that fast. They raced across the sky like thoroughbreds, faster than any fighter they’d seen on the Western front, and one swooped low over Nordhausen.
He looked at Lawson. “What the hell are those things?”
“They’re jets, Messerschmitt 262s. They introduced them a few months back to intercept and shoot down our bombers, and the damn things are tough to deal with. We don’t have anything to compete, although our fighter pilots are doing their best to hold them off.”
“Jesus Christ, if they send up many more of those, they could dominate the skies over Germany.”
“It would’ve been possible; except they don’t have that many to send up. The Third Reich is short of everything, materials, gasoline, skilled labor, and the special metals they need to build the engines. They’re also desperate for pilots. Most have been shot down and killed during the past year, so we’re not likely to see many.” He looked thoughtful, “I’m glad we’re still alive, but I don’t like the idea of owing our lives to the Jerries.”
The sky suddenly cleared. The bombers, those that hadn’t been shot down, had flown away, and the German jets disappeared as fast as they’d arrived. They glanced around, and every man looked like a ghost, covered in a thick coating of white dust. Everything was quiet. No bullets, no bombs, no aircraft in the sky. No nothing. No birds sang. It was as if the war was holding its breath. Like somebody had pressed the pause button.
The dust cloud slowly cleared, and they brushed themselves off. Rooker went around checking for casualties, and by some miracle they’d all survived. None dead. None wounded. Just a few minor cuts and bruises where men had been hit by flying masonry. Nothing to worry about. Murphy breathed a sigh of relief. They’d got away with it this time, although it’d been close. Sadly, too close for those bomber crews. They hadn’t seen any parachutes from the stricken planes, and he liked to think one day soon those Messerschmitts would get their comeuppance.
He saw Burgess crawl out of a hole in the rubble, pulling the prisoner with him. He didn’t take any notice of him and looked for the other soldier they’d captured. He hadn’t gone far. He was crouched behind a low wall, all that was left from had once been a substantial building. Too bad, shit happens when you start a war. Lawson was brushing down his clothes and staring across the countryside. He followed his gaze toward a cloud of dust rolling toward them from the west. It looked like an entire army was on the move. Their army.
“They’re early,” the Brit muttered, “They weren’t due to get this far for another four hours.”
“I’m not complaining. When our guys get here, we can relax without worrying about a bunch of Krauts crawling out of the woodwork and hitting us. There’s still plenty of them around. They’re not done yet.”
“It’s not the Krauts hitting us that worries me.”
“Then what?”
“Our people hitting us. The last I heard the plan was to cover our advance with a big artillery strike, following a preliminary bombardment from the air. We’ve had the bombardment from the air, and if they keep to plan, we can expect the artillery to hit the area with a rolling barrage any moment. They’ll flatten what’s left of the town. And us.”
“Shit! We need to pull back, now! What the hell was that?” he grunted as a shattering roar erupted from nearby. Shells landed and more whistled through the air, “Don’t the stupid bastards know we’re here?”
Yet another foul-up in communications, and there was no way they could pull back across open ground while it was lashed by high explosive shells. Neither could they stay where they were. They were on an express ride to hell, a soldier’s nightmare. Couldn’t go back, couldn’t go forward, and couldn’t stay where they were. The rolling barrage would engulf the town and churn up what was left of it. And churn up anybody unfortunate enough to be caught inside.
They were looking at him like he had answers, and he didn’t. To survive the artillery barrage they’d need a bombproof shelter, and they didn’t have a bombproof shelter. He looked at the prisoner who was cowering on the ground after the first shells exploded. Like he was trying to burrow into it, and it reminded him of something he’d forgotten. Burrowing into the ground. The underground V2 rocket facility, almost beneath their feet. It was designed to withstand a direct hit from five thousand-pound bombs, so it wouldn’t likely have a problem with artillery shells. The problem was getting into it.
He dragged him to his feet. “Show me the location of the maintenance shaft.”
“It won’t do you any good! You can’t get down there. The hoist is at the bottom.”
“I don’t have time to argue. Where is it?”
He looked at Sergeant Rooker. “If Burgess gives you any shit about security or need to know, tell him I said to go fuck himself. Find the main doors and wait there. When I get them open, I want to see you all waiting out there.”
“Don’t worry about Burgess. I’ll take care of him.”
He pushed the German forward, and he reluctantly threaded his way through the rubble-strewn streets. He led the way to a circular hatch on the edge of the town, around eight feet wide, set into a concrete plinth. They’d constructed the hatch of steel, but like so much in Nazi Germany, the concrete plinth was of poor quality. When he wrenched at the steel bolt holding the hatch shut, he found it loose. The concrete was more sand than cement, and he looked around for a lever and found a rusty steel pole lying on the ground. He inserted it between the bolt and beckoned the German to lend a hand. Between them they levered the pole up.
The pole pulled away like it was made of rotten timber, and they wrenched open the hatch. He was looking down into a deep, dark shaft, and like the guy had said, there was no ladder fixed to the side. Murphy considered how to get down there, a descent most men would say was impossible. Impossible for most, but back home in Whitefish, Montana, he’d been an enthusiastic climber. He belonged to the local Mountain Rescue, and he’d carried out his share of hazardous climbs up treacherous, ice-coated peaks to rescue beleaguered and injured climbers. And climbed safely down.
The shaft was a different problem. They had no ropes and no climbing equipment. The sides were smooth concrete. Any sane man would have forgotten about going down there, not without equipment. He considered himself sane, at least he hoped so, but his platoon was out in the open, facing annihilation from an American artillery barrage. Sanity wasn’t the issue. Survival was.
He placed his MP-40 on the ground and pulled out his sidearm, a Colt M1911. Held it by the barrel and used the steel butt as a hammer to chip away at the concrete just inside the shaft. As expected, it was soft, suffering from the same dire shortage of construction materials as the rest of Nazi Germany. He was able to chip away a tiny crack he could use as a handhold, and he leaned down further to make a second, larger fissure he could use as a foothold. Just one more handhold, and he could start down, creating a series of cracks in the concrete he could use to reach the bottom.
He'd clean forgotten about the prisoner. The first reminder he was still around was when he felt somebody grab hold of his boots and try to push him over the edge and plummet a hundred feet to the bottom. He jackknifed over and spun around. The guy snatched up the machine pistol and stood over him. They stared at each other for several seconds until the man’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen that tell-tale before when an enemy was about to squeeze the trigger.
“You won’t get away with it. My men are out there. They’ll hunt you down and kill you. If they don’t get you, our artillery barrage will blanket this town any moment, and what’s left of your body will be mixed in with rubble. Give it up. The war is as good as over.”
He hesitated. Concentrated on Murphy’s gun hand to make sure he didn’t bring up the Colt and start shooting. “It’s not over, not yet. You don’t know, none of you know.”
“What don’t we know?”
As he said it, the soldier’s eyes flickered, and it was all the opening he needed. He didn’t need the Colt. He swung his legs around and slammed his boots against the German’s knees. Tripped him, and he fell forward toward the yawning opening of the shaft. He dropped the machine pistol, trying to regain his balance. For several seconds he teetered, waving his arms in desperation. Murphy could have put up a hand to steady him. He didn’t. Funny thing, when a man tried to kill him, he didn’t feel like he owed him spit. The soldier lost his balance and fell into the dark shaft, screaming all the way as he fell to the bottom.
What had he meant, ‘you don’t know?’ What was Burgess not telling them? Too many questions, and no answers. There’d be time to think about that later. Right now, he had to descend the shaft and reach those steel doors. He picked up his MP-40, slung it over his back, and put a leg over the side. Felt for the first foothold and lowered himself down. He used the Colt to hammer further handholds and footholds into the crumbling concrete, and it was a slow job. Yet he needed to hurry before the artillery barrage swamped the town and killed his men. He took a chance, and it nearly killed him. He reached down too far, slipped, overbalanced, and started to slide down into the void.
In desperation he hammered the Colt into the concrete, attempting to dig even a tiny crevice he could use. He was still picking up speed when the steel butt seemed to sink into the concrete, and he grabbed it with both hands. Pushed a finger through the trigger guard and yanked the Colt hard to wedge it into the tiny crevice he’d created in an even softer patch of concrete.
His descent slowed, although the gun was starting to slip. Supported by one finger, he felt around the fissure that’d given him a possible lifeline. It was coated in thick grease, some kind of ratchet mechanism. It had to be part of the maintenance hoist that ascended and descended the shaft. A ratchet that had to go all the way to the bottom.
He was no longer falling, but his grip was still slipping. He twisted the Colt and allowed himself to slip down the ratchet, this time not so fast, and every second he twisted the gun to jam it into the teeth of the ratchet to slow his fall. It worked well until he estimated he was about twenty feet from the bottom, and the plan fell apart. Or at least, the Colt fell apart. It’d taken some rough treatment, and abruptly the barrel and breech mechanism came away from the butt.
He plunged into blackness, automatically preparing himself for a hard landing. He’d done his share of parachute drops, and he was alive to tell the tale. He’d taken a few tumbles during his climbing career, and he was alive to tell the tale. Plenty of wins, and no losses. He didn’t plan to surrender his one hundred percent record. He bent his knees and relaxed his muscles, but when he landed, it still felt like he’d fallen out of a twenty-story skyscraper.
