Jorgensen rummaged in his pack and took out a salami and some bread.
“Here, Oberführer. I daresay the man can use some food to soak the fruit juice up.”
The food stayed in Knocke’s hands for the briefest of moments before it was scooped up and forced between cracked and bleeding lips.
“Who are you? Czech? Pole? German?”
There was something about the rags under the sacking that suggested some organisation… some official group…
“Czech… Bohemien…”
The man spoke in German, or as best he could through a rapidly moving mass of bread and sausage.
“Sudeten?”
“Ja.”
“We’re German soldiers here.”
The man said nothing, but was clearly still weighing up how to proceed.
Knocke played the matter softly.
“We were in the German Army but now fight with the French Foreign Legion against the communists.”
“Army?”
“Yes,” Knocke replied semi-truthfully.
“He called you Oberführer. That’s not army.”
Knocke inclined his head by way of contrition.
“In one sense, perhaps not. We were soldiers of the Waffen-SS. And you?”
“I’m a Jew.”
“You are safe wi…”
The rags under the sacks suddenly metamorphosed into something that jolted Knocke’s mind.
“…from a camp?”
“Ja. Theresienstadt, Herr Offizier.”
“And you escaped when?”
“I don’t know, Herr Offizier. The SS went, the Russian came. Nothing changed.”
He stopped only to cram more of the food in his mouth.
Knocke accepted the cigarette offered by his procurement specialist and waited for the rest of the story.
“The Russian was about to leave and started killing again.”
The food induced a heavy belch.
“I ran… weeks ago… maybe months… I’ve been running ever since.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mandl… Ahron Mandl. I was… am… a journalist”
The man was staring with pure hunger at the cigarette pack in Hässelbach’s hand.
“Well, you’re safe now, Ahron Mandl, journalist.”
Hässelbach placed a lit cigarette in Mandl’s hand and the three watched as he alternated between chomping on the bundle of food in one hand, and dragging on the cigarette in the other.
Conscious of the darkening skies, Knocke made a decision.
“Why don’t you come with us, Mandl? We can have you looked at by our doctor, and you get to sleep in clean sheets for the first time in quite a while I expect.”
With less reluctance than had been expected, the emaciated form of Ahron Mandl, former Sonderkommando at Theresienstadt, slid into the Krupp.
Ten minutes later the vehicle made a hurried stop as Mandl summoned up the whole contents of his stomach, his system having rebelled against such comparatively fine fare.
He then proceeded to snore his way through the journey back to Camerone’s headquarters.
0237 hrs, Saturday, 2nd November 1946, a field, two kilometres southeast of Baltrušaičiai, Lithuania.
The signal pots had been lit at 0230 as had been arranged, coinciding with the sound of aero engines in the night.
The partisan group were facing out, ringing the drop zone, securing it in case the NKVD were prowling in the night.
Only Mikenas and the heavily pregnant Luistikaite were looking towards the illuminated space.
Normally, Luistikaite would not have been there, but SOE had insisted that one of theirs was present when the ‘packages’ arrived. After all, this was the first insertion into Lithuania since the ‘peace’ had been agreed, and the British were rightly nervous.
Mikenas had progressed to operational command of ‘the Shield’, as Pyragius, the de facto commander, fought a continuing battle against the infections in his old wounds, despite Greim’s radio message and the subsequent air-dropping of medical supplies.
Suspicions had long departed, and both Greim and Luistikaite were full and unequivocal members of the group.
The latter pointed into the air.
“Here’s the first.”
Mikenas couldn’t see anything, and marvelled, not for the first time, at the night vision of her comrade.
“Where?”
She looked down Renata’s arm and immediately spotted the round parachute. It seemed to be descending at considerably above what she thought would be safe for the man dangling underneath.
He slammed into the ground and rolled as he had been trained to do.
“Damn and blast it!”
A second pair of feet came into view and the next man came to ground in a similar fashion some fifty metres further away.
Mikenas watched as five men touched down, all within her field of vision.
‘These men know what they’re doing for sure!’
“Round them up, Sarnt!”
“Sah, You heard the Major. Speed your arses up, lads!”
The men were battling to organise their parachutes into a portable bundle.
The Major moved towards the double light, which marked the direction they would leave the drop zone, as well as where he would encounter the reception committee.
He didn’t get there before an urgent voice reached his ears.
“One missing, Sah.”
“Who?”
“Just checking, sah… Joy… it’s Joy, sah.”
“Damn and blast. Move them to the exit point, Sarnt.”
Bottomley decided to discuss the missing man with the partisan leader, rather than go off half-cocked.
He was surprised to discover that Mikenas was a woman, but didn’t let it show, greeting her and Luistikaite with a handshake.
“Bottomley, Major, SAS. We’ve lost a man somewhere. Do you have sufficient men to look for him?”
Renata translated his comments, but he understood the nod without any problems, and recognised Mikenas’ authority as she barked out orders to some of the partisans, who quickly moved off.
Cookson brought up the rest of the party and they took a knee, just as one of the partisans extinguished one of the twin fires, a signal to the circling aircraft that it could come in lower and deposit its other cargo in the centre of the ring.
The details had been sorted out previously, and another group of partisans were ready to rush out onto the drop zone and recover the canisters containing all sorts of items with which to hurt the enemy, as well as a few items to make life easier for the Lithuanian freedom fighters.
The good news and the bad news arrived together.
The SAS soldiers watched as the canisters were dragged past them, and as the body of Lance-Corporal Kevin Joy was carefully laid out near Bottomley.
His radio pack, such as it was, was placed next to him.
Cookson, one of the SAS’s rare Lithuanian speakers, translated for the benefit of his boys.
“They found him outside the zone. Chute had only partially opened. Bounced off a tree. Probably broke his back. Fuck and abhorrence.”
He looked around, anticipating Bottomley’s orders.
“Tappers, Choc… you bring Smiler along, nice and gentle like. OK?”
Corporal Tappett and Trooper Cadbury said nothing but moved off ready to pick up the gruesome burden.
“I’ll grab the radio. Boozy, you’re point. Suprasti?”
“Lay off the bleedin’ Lithuanian, Sarnt. I’m Polish.”
“All the same to me, now move yer narrow ass up front and wait ‘til I give the signal.”
Trooper Bouzyk took up position, ready to lead the small SAS group off.
Cookson dropped down beside Bottomley.
“I’ve got the lads organised for when you’re ready, Sah.”
“Excellent, Sarnt. Shame about Smiler. Radio’s u/s.”