The sergeant tossed back the last of his brandy and handed over the empty glass. “Obliged, sir.”
Adams poured fresh drinks. “The Americans are going as insurance, as it were, for our paras. If our lads fail to secure the Tempelhof Airport, the Jerries will egress from the Berlin-Schönefeld Airport.”
“Correct.”
“What we’re missing is insurance on the Jerries.”
Wilkins’ stomach flipped as he accepted a fresh glass of brandy. This didn’t sound good. In fact, it sounded as if the colonel had cooked up some dangerous task for him. “Thank you, sir. What did you have in mind, exactly?”
“A second mission to secure the facility. A small team dropping directly onto Tiergarten itself.”
“Chri—! I mean, splendid idea, sir.” It was absolute rubbish.
Adams smirked, the expression accentuated by his upturned white mustache. “Chin up, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was still a rubbish idea, though. The whole area was a death trap for a para drop. There were only a few open, flat, and firm spaces in the park, each surrounded by a vast concentration of hazards. Trees, monuments, buildings, the River Spree, and the ravenous dead.
“Should this team succeed,” Adams went on, “they’ll dash to the airport and mission accomplished. If they succeed but run into trouble, the Jerries will help. If they don’t succeed, we’ll be relying on the Jerries.”
“Do the Germans know about this, sir?”
“Of course not. If they did, do you believe they’d make the maximum effort?”
“Perhaps not,” Wilkins admitted. “Though I feel like we’re using them as a decoy. Hardly a sporting way to treat a new ally, sir.”
“Allow me to get one thing clear, Sergeant. I don’t give a flying toss about the Germans.”
“Of course.” Though he remembered how Von Boeselager, a Fallschirmjäger with the 9FJR, had saved his life in the Ardennes during the Battle of the Bulge. He wondered how the man was faring in his dying country. If he ever made it home.
“They’re bloody good at war, and we need them for this operation,” Adams said. “After that, they can go hang. Nod if I’m clear on exactly where our new ally stands with Great Britain.”
“Crystal clear, sir. I have to point out something dodgy about the plan, however. It’s a precision drop. If the planes miss, our boys will be landing on roofs and alleys.”
“The Pathfinders will take care of it. If not, our lads will have to make do.”
Wilkins sat back in his chair and sipped his brandy. “Brilliant, sir.”
“It’s a shambles, Sergeant, but it’s the best we can come up with. Now listen.”
And here it comes, Wilkins thought. “Sir?”
“I want you to go along on the mission. When it comes to fighting these bastards, you know your onions better than any of our lads. Pick your own shooters. You’ll report to Lieutenant Chapman, who will lead. Like you, he speaks Kraut, which should be useful. You know Chappie?”
“He’d be my choice to lead as well, sir.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Adams. “We’re counting on you, Sergeant. Get it sorted.”
Wilkins took this as his cue to leave. He drained the last of his brandy and stood. “I’ll see to the necessary preparations then, Colonel.”
Adams was already rifling through the paperwork on his desk. “Very good, Sergeant. Good luck to you. Good night.”
Wilkins walked back out into the freezing night. So now he was the British Airborne’s resident expert on ghoul fighting.
All because he’d been lucky enough to survive two battles against them. Luck that was bound to run out at some point.
The result was another suicide mission.
Jocelyn would never forgive him, not that he had a choice in the matter, orders being orders. He pictured her smiling at him with her innocent eyes, her figure stunning even in her drab wren uniform.
In his mind’s eye, her smile faded. You want to go, don’t you, she said.
He did. He wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself. He’d known the moment he set foot in the colonel’s office he’d be getting a choice but dangerous mission. A part of him had been hoping for it.
The only way Jocelyn would ever be truly safe, the only way the United Kingdom would ever be safe, was to stop the undead the Nazis had unleashed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BERLIN OR BUST
The Fallschirmjäger tramped onto the moonlit runway toward their assigned C-53 Skytroopers, which were C-47 cargo planes modified for para drops and towing gliders. They fell out in “sticks” of eighteen men per plane and watched the ground crews load their weapons containers under the wings.
One and a half meters long and color coded by unit, each drop canister carried 100 kilos of weapons, ammunition, and other equipment and supplies. After they dropped, the first thing the paratroopers would have to do would be to locate these containers and arm themselves, which struck Jäger Muller as highly precarious.
Otherwise, he carried everything on him he’d need to survive and fight. German triangular RZ36 parachute harness attached to D-rings on his waist belt. Wool toque and brimless helmet with its camouflage cloth cover. Jump smock that buttoned down the front and around the upper legs. Knee pads to cushion his landing. Snow-camouflage quilted jacket and trousers, black leather gloves. Heavy wool socks and jump boots. Water bottle kept under the smock to keep the water from freezing. Bandolier and every pocket bulging with spare ammunition for his Mauser K98 rifle. Luger strapped over his thigh.
Three days’ supplies of rations, compass, bayonet, spade, Esbit cooker, medical kit, and four stick grenades. And as they’d be traveling over water, a Mae West flotation device hung around his neck, nicknamed for an actress with large breasts, a typically crude Ami attempt at humor.
The planes started their engines, which coughed to life in a cloud of exhaust until they emitted a steady roar in the cold night air.
Wolff nudged Muller. “Are you scared?”
“Nein, Herr Oberfeldwebel. Excited.” Which was true. He was excited about making his first combat jump, anxious about seeing Berlin.
“If you aren’t now, you will be,” the veteran said. “It’s normal to be scared. Being brave is being scared to do something dangerous but doing it anyway.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberfeldwebel.”
“We’re all in the same boat tonight, Muller. As far as I know, the Fallschirmjäger has never made a night jump. It’s going to be interesting.”
“Interesting.” The trooper gulped in sudden dread.
“There’s nothing we can do about it. Just remember your training. If the Amis and Tommies can do it, we can.” Wolff smiled. “You should be happy you joined up in time to get issued the new jump smocks. You had to take the old smocks off if you wanted to take a crap. It’s the little things…”
The sergeant often sermonized on that theme. Dry socks, smocks that let you crap without a hassle, warm chow, a cleaned and well-oiled weapon. In his mind, these things won wars more than grand strategy and tactics.
The rest, like jumping out an airplane at night, would take care of itself.
Wolff wore his FG42 semi-automatic strapped to his back. Other men carried machine-pistols tied to their thighs, similarly risky, but it’d allow them to jump ready to fight. Muller felt naked without his rifle. All he had was his Luger, which he’d wisely held onto and hadn’t traded away for Ami luxuries.
The moonlight made the transport planes glow along the airstrip. The air filled with the acrid smell of engine exhaust.