The knife remained steady in Bonhof’s grip, its tip twinkling in the light of the feeble flame. It winked viciously at Langer.
“Put it away, Bonhof,” said Herzog, quietly but forcefully. The ex-policeman looked at him for a moment, then threw the knife into the air. It spun end over end before the hilt slapped back into his palm and he slid the blade back into his boot. A moody silence descended which Steikel finally broke.
“What did Sturn say when you told him about the ambulance?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.
Herzog emptied the remnants of his meal out. “Nothing. Not a word. What the hell did you expect him to say? He doesn’t give a fuck about the men under his command. We’re all numbers on a register to him and, if a few of those numbers get rubbed off, too bad. There’s plenty more poor bastards to take their place.”
“Didn’t he used to be commandant of a labour camp?” asked Langer, plucking a flea from his chest.
Herzog nodded, then his voice turned reflective. “My old man died in a labour camp.”
“What was he put in for?” Steikel asked.
“The usual thing. Treason. Incitement to riot but what they really wanted him for was because his best friend was a Jew.” He spat, angrily.
Reaching into his pack, Steikel produced a bottle of the brandy from his endless supply. He hastily removed the cork and took a large pull before handing it to Herzog who did likewise. Langer sat up eagerly. “About bloody time,” he beamed. They drank, passing the bottle from hand to hand. It offered a morsel of comfort amidst the misery.
The rain was getting heavier. It poured off the rims of the men’s helmets and ran down their necks.
“At least when it rains we don’t have to wash,” observed Langer, lifting his face to the black sky. There were no stars visible and no moon. The darkness around the camp site was total. Weasels and owls went hungry rather than venture out of their lairs.
Willi Feld shivered. His hands and feet were numb from cold, the fire was throwing out little heat and he still felt hungry. The meagre helping of undercooked rabbit had not filled his belly adequately. The taste of brandy in the gravy had made him feel sick and now he could feel the rain beginning to sink through his thick greatcoat. A few hastily erected tents offered some inviting shelter at the far side of the camp and the trees under which they sat gave little or no protection from the stinging particles of water.
Standing silently on the small dirt track leading from the wood were two ten-ton Krupp lorries. A group of men were standing around them, hands thrust deep in their pockets. The rain formed little waterfalls as it fell from the canvas of the Krupps. One of the men was urinating up against one of the great wheels. Willi watched him for a second then struggled to his feet, the sucking mud grabbing for his boots, almost pulling them off. He shivered uncomfortably and left the meagre warmth of the fire.
God, how he hated guard duty and tonight would be even worse standing only a few yards from the woods in teeming rain. He longed for the war to end.
There was a sudden crackle which he recognised as machine-gun fire and then it was happening. He screamed as the first bullet hit him. Lights danced madly before his eyes, a blinding white muzzle discharge blossomed from the woods. Willi staggered, clutching at his chest. He felt sick, the blood was welling thickly between his numb fingers. The second burst hit him in the face, tearing away most of the right side. He was dead before he fell into the mud. He lay in a foetal position. Willi Feld was dead. Simple as that.
Herzog pulled the P-38 from his belt and ran across to Willi’s body. The camp-site erupted into a hive of panicked activity. Men dived for weapons, their eyes searching the darkened woods. There was another burst of fire and two more Germans fell. Using the muzzle flash as a source, Herzog squeezed off two shots and heard the bullets thudding into wood.
Steikel flipped a grenade into the woods while Langer sprayed the area with fire from an MP 40. There was an explosion and vast lumps of earth and wood hurtled into the air. Above the roar could be heard the heightened scream of human agony.
“We got him,” snarled Langer, slamming in a fresh magazine. He stepped forward but Herzog held him back, perturbed by the sudden silence. He squinted into the gloom but could see nothing.
“We got the bastard,” persisted Langer.
Herzog was unimpressed and his suspicions were confirmed a second later when the ground was swept by automatic-weapon fire. The night came alive again. From the woods a stream of fire swept the waiting Germans. Langer felt a sharp pain in his chest and was hurled off his feet into the mud. Blood was bursting from his punctured heart and, as he fell, he raised one hand in silent reproach. Herzog sprinted across to the first Krupp and, leaping behind the steering-wheel, started the engine. He flicked on the headlamps and the two broad beams of light picked out two figures desperately trying to merge with the trees. He jammed his foot down, hard, on the accelerator and the Krupp leapt forward. It smashed into a young sapling, crushing it flat.
Caught in the twin beams, the two figures turned and fled before the pursuing truck. Chancing a glance behind him, the first of the men suddenly stumbled. He fell a few feet in front of the roaring Krupp. Herzog put his foot down and felt the almost imperceptible bump as the truck crushed the man’s body beneath its heavy wheels. As he drew nearer to the second man, the sergeant leant out of the side window and squeezed off two shots. The second found its mark, drilling its way into the man’s leg just above the calf. He buckled and pitched forward.
Herzog shut off the engine and sprang out of the cab, the P-38 gripped in his fist. The man made no attempt to move, not even to shield his eyes from the lorry’s fierce headlamps. The sergeant pulled him roughly to his feet, pressing the barrel of the pistol against his cheek. The man coughed and winced as the pain of his wound intensified. Herzog pushed him into the cab and climbed in. The engine roared as he spun the wheel and turned the lorry back the way it had come.
Bodies, French and German alike, were loaded into another truck. Steikel and Erhardt climbed in with them and the big Austrian held Langer’s hand, feeling the grip growing more feeble. When Langer died, Steikel folded his arms across the shattered chest. He looked across at the wounded Frenchman and felt the hatred rising within him.
Herzog drove fast, in the direction of St Sarall. An attack of this nature had to be reported. Even if it did mean getting Major Sturn out of bed.
Chapter Five
It was a surprise for Herzog to find Sturn not only up, but dressed and waiting for him. The major had been contacted by field telephone barely ten minutes earlier. Brauss had awoken him, nervously holding out his jacket until it was snatched from his grasp. He had been told to inform Divisional Headquarters and scuttled off to obey the order.
Now the major was pacing impatiently backward and forward behind his desk, alternately glancing at the door of the office and the phone, as if he expected either to burst into life and tell him what to do next. The photographs of Hitler, hanging on the wall above the fireplace, regarded his agitated pacings impassively.
Sturn had lost count of the number of times he had walked across the office, then suddenly he heard raised voices coming from outside the door. A second later it burst open and he saw Herzog standing there, a strong hand clasped around the neck of the wounded resistance man. With a contemptuous shove, the sergeant sent the man crashing to the floor before Sturn. Herzog saluted and slammed the door on a protesting Brauss.
“A prisoner, sir,” he announced, “resistance.”
“I was informed,” replied Sturn, clasping his hands behind his back. “This attack,” he paused, “were your men asleep?”