“RSM MacMichaels, Seaforth Highlanders of Canada, as are most of my boys here,” the NCO indicating the silent men behind him, all waiting for some indication of what to do next.
The RSM’s attention was taken by the approach of Schultz, similarly clad to Müller, but sporting a Soviet snipers rifle and wearing the Knight’s Cross.
Having spent time with the small Canadian group they had stumbled upon after TostedtLand, Müller better understood the humour of his new allies.
“This is the tea boy, Feldwebel Schultz.”
Deliberately ignoring the comment, Schultz too checked his handiwork in the shelter, his grunt indicating pleasure at the accuracy of his shot.
“Same in your army I suppose,” addressing his comments to a bemused MacMichaels as he strolled past, nose in the air, ignoring the grinning Müller, “NCO’s do all the work, officers get all the glory and girls.”
Both men had profited from their time with the Canadian soldiers, their English much improved.
The RSM permitted himself a small smile, one that was not missed by either German.
“Now, I must ask that your men do some more digging for me,” he looked around quickly, making a swift judgement.
“Over there, if you please, nothing fancy, just enough for five to stay out of sight.”
The twenty-eight ex-prisoners quickly dug in the woods, creating a last resting place for the dead guards.
The final touches were made and it was difficult to believe that anything had been there, let alone dug holes and interred dead men.
“Attention men,” Müller called the group to order, “We must move away before you are missed. Complete silence now. One, maybe two hours march, before we can rest up.”
Turning to his own men, he nodded at the Canadian corporal, who understood and took the point, moving off towards their most recent base.
Their hiding place was just under a kilometre north of Stemmen, a modest woodsman’s hut, long since forgotten by its owner. It was not large enough to house the thirty-six men who now called it home, so small shelters sprung up quickly, providing a dry resting place for those wearied by their imprisonment.
The two men Müller had left in camp distributed some of their food stocks to the new arrivals, but supplies were short, so empty bellies with tantalised with a morsel, rather than a meal.
Bordered on three sides by streams, there was no shortage of fresh water, and everyone drunk their fill of the cool reviving liquid.
Most of the new arrivals took advantage of the security and fell asleep.
RSM MacMichaels observed the two Germans whilst drinking his third ‘can’ of water, careful not to cut himself on the rough edges of the tin that had once contained standard British bully beef.
The three, another Canadian Corporal was involved, were deciding the following nights activities.
He moved closer, expecting a rebuff at any second.
Far from it, as Müller realised the NCO was nearby, and beckoned him forward.
“Apologies, Sergeant-Maior, I had thought you would sleep.”
Accepting the apology for what it was, MacMichaels took the proffered hand and found it firm.
“No problem, Sir. Now that I am back in the war, I don’t want to miss out.”
Turning to the other German, he nodded respectfully, understanding the requirements of the award that hung around the German NCO’s neck.
“Sergeant Schultz, I believe?”
The two shook hands and both found strength there.
“Welcome Sergeant-Maior MacMichaels. And don’t believe everything this one tells you,” he indicated Müller, “Whilst I will grant you that he is reasonably competent at what he does, he forgets who gets things done around here.”
Entering into the spirit of the exchange, the RSM challenged his counterpart.
“So you’re not the tea boy then? Shame, I needed a brew.”
That earned him a comradely slap on the back from Schultz.
“Corporal?” the word full of enquiry, aimed at the NCO wearing the Carlton and York uniform.
“Staunton, Lieutenant Staunton Sarnt-Major, A Company, Carleton and York’s.”
Confused, MacMichaels awaited further explanation.
“I was knocked out by a shell outside Avensermoor. Came to wearing nothing but my pants and boots. This uniform belonged to my batman, poor fellow.”
“I see, Sir,” which he patently did not, but held his peace.
“I will do something about it, now you and your men are here.”
Both the Germans had moved off to one side, seemingly fully occupied with arguing over how to smoke Russian cigarettes, so MacMichaels asked his question.
“What is happening here, Sir?”
Staunton deliberately misunderstood the question, and twisted the map towards the NCO.
“We are only a small group, but we carry the fight, Sarnt-Major, we carry the fight.”
He tapped an area circled in charcoal, drawing the man into the plan.
“Now that we have your group, we have decided to go for a plum target. The airfield and supply centre at Lauenbrück.”
“So we continue to fight the bastards then? But under a Jerry officer”
“Yes we do, Sarnt-Major, under the command of Captain Müller, who, incidentally, is the most competent officer I have ever served with, bar none.”
His eyes challenged MacMichaels to comment further.
The RSM’s prejudices died under their unblinking scrutiny.
“I want back into the fight, so that’s good enough for me, Sir.”
“Excellent, Sarnt-Major. Now, we gave this place the once-over a week back, just in case we ever had the opportunity to do some work there. Here’s what we have.”
And as he sketched the layout of the Soviet air base, Müller and Schultz drifted back into the impromptu briefing, aware that MacMichaels’ issues had been addressed and that there would be no problems.
Oberst Pömmering was furious, his wrath not confined to the lower ranks that strayed within range, but also heaped upon his closer officers, men who saw a new side to their quiet, laid back commander on this awful day.
Calling a meeting of his Regimental officers, the allotted hour had come and gone, and still Maior Gelben and Oberstleutnant Wilcke had not arrived.
Determined to get to the bottom of the sabotage, he waited for the two battalion commanders to put in an appearance, whilst hounding the Regimental Supply Officer, questioning him about the fire still raging in the ammunition compound.
He would wait long and hard for both missing officers.
Oberstleutnant Wilcke was dead, shot in the heart by his driver, the body and car dumped unceremoniously into the Rhine, leaving 2nd Battalion leaderless.
The communist soldier, a GRU operative slipped through the lines at the end of the war, walked steadily back to his unit, the story of their beloved commander’s death at the hands of enemy aircraft already prepared in his mind.
Maior Gelben was actually at the regimental headquarters already, something that would give Pömmering the briefest moment of regret before he died.
Peter Gelben, or as he was known at school, Pjotr Gelben, was another agent who crossed over during the refugee influx into Western Europe.
Setting out his stall carefully, he rehearsed his actions, laying out his tools ready for the job that he was about to undertake. The other two occupants of the room were beyond help. One, a glassy-eyed Gefreiter, whose shattered forehead was gently dripping blood over the radio set. The second, a Hauptfeldwebel and the important piece of stage dressing, the tunic pocket containing some incriminating letters, already tainted with the blood from his chest wounds.