‘Dig!’
A line of men with shovels formed up quickly, and twenty minutes later two shallow trenches had been excavated. In the meantime another group unloaded the aircraft while a third disappeared into the night to cut brushwood.
The co-pilot took over, shunting Memling and Culliford aside. Memling felt like the proverbial fifth wheel and said so to the worried New Zealander who only grunted.
‘If they dig us out of here, you must realise that our troubles are only beginning.’
Memling closed his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Well, we’re past schedule now, so we’ll be in the air, over enemy territory, during daylight. For several hundred miles. With the landing gear down. And,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘we won’t have any brakes for the landing.’
Memling stalked off with what he hoped was a semblance of dignity. A few minutes later he noticed that Captain Reynolds was struggling with a canvas shroud that covered a piece of the rocket. Memling started towards him, but Reynolds dropped the cover and walked away. The canvas was neatly tagged, but in Polish, and its lumpy shape was unidentifable. Puzzled at Reynolds’s actions, Memling had started after him when Culliford shouted.
The Poles were already reversing the loading procedure. Culliford was casting worried glances at the sky. A high cloud cover had begun to move in, obscuring the moon and the brighter stars visible through the glare of the landing flares.
The pilot jerked a thumb at the sky. ‘Rain, before dawn.’
General Kierzek hurried up and drew the co-pilot aside. His head snapped up, and he glanced around for Culliford and Memling.
‘Lorries have been sighted leaving the SS camp near Bialystok. They are headed in this direction. The road has been mined, so it will take them at least an hour to get here.’
‘Let’s go. Now!’
The bearded Pole grunted and shouted to his followers. The reloading was accomplished in fifteen minutes, and Memling swung the door shut. The starter cartridges went off with a bang, and both engines ran up easily, but again the aircraft refused to move. Through the window Memling saw one of the resistance men waving his arms frantically, and he flung the cockpit door open, grabbed Culliford’s shoulder, and pointed at the Pole. Cursing at the top of his voice, Culliford shut the engines down.
This time the wheels had gone in up to their hubs. Culliford stared at the bisected wheels, too angry even to swear. Finally, he took a deep breath. ‘Without brakes, we couldn’t run up to full power, and so she just vibrated her way in again. Goddamned ground!’ He kicked at the mound of soil that had piled up on either side of the landing gear.
Memling studied his watch. The SS detachment was now twenty minutes nearer. Culliford took his arm and pulled him aside. ‘I think we had better burn her and take to the hills, old man. We’ll never get her off the ground now. It’s going to start raining any moment, and even if it holds off a bit, the Hun is going to arrive.’
For a moment Memling was on the verge of nodding agreement, but then something made him hesitate. ‘Damn it, no. We’ve been through too much to… to…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look here, Stan, we’ll dig out once more, only this time we’ll use boards rather than brush under the wheels.’
General Kierzek arrived with more bad news. The co-pilot listened, his face growing longer with each word.
‘Outposts have spotted the SS detachment now less than three kilometres away,’ he told them. ‘It’s apparent the mines did not slow them as hoped. They have also rallied a small army garrison and sent them to circle around the far end of the valley. The general thinks they will reach here in about thirty minutes. His people report no artillery, but they are certain to have mortars and automatic weapons. The general suggests that unless we can take off immediately, we destroy the aircraft and go with his people.’
An argument in two languages broke out, but Memling shouted for silence. When he got it, he had the co-pilot question the general concerning the probable tactics the SS would employ. Kierzek answered impatiently at first and then with growing interest as the pattern to the Englishman’s questions emerged.
‘The general would like to know, Major, where you received your training?’
‘Royal Marine Commando,’ Memling grunted, and knelt to examine the map one of the general’s aides had produced. Kierzek knelt beside him and pointed to a road which Memling could barely see in the dim torch light. His answers now held a certain respect.
‘How much help do you think the general is willing to give?’ The co-pilot looked dubious but put the question anyway. The answer must have surprised him because he grinned and then translated. ‘He says that will depend on how long we would require to free the aircraft?’
Memling glanced at Culliford, who shrugged. ‘Judging from what they did before, twenty minutes maximum is my guess.’
‘Tell him,’ Memling ordered, but the general nodded.
‘I speak little English.’ He seemed to be thinking a moment. ‘Twenty minutes, no more. Burn airplane then. Hokay?’ Memling stared at the men surrounding him; even Captain Reynolds had wandered over to listen. ‘All right, twenty minutes it is.’ Memling ordered Culliford to organise the digging parties while the co-pilot saw to repairing the hydraulic line. He then turned to the general. ‘Can I help?’
The general laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hokay, Commando. You come see how we do.’ He stood up and began to bellow orders. As the partisans formed up into units Reynolds approached Memling and coughed apologetically.
‘Ah, Major Memling, I did receive a basic training course. I can shoot a rifle. May I go with you?’
Surprised, Memling glanced at the scientist. He was obviously frightened; his eyes darted here and there, and his hands were tightly clenched, yet he wanted to do his part. Memling nodded. ‘Get a Sten from the aircraft.’
The general bellowed orders in Polish, and the guerrillas divided into three columns and moved out. One column was to backtrack to the end of the valley and ambush the army garrison pushing up the road.
The second and third columns were organised to form a trap. A thin screen, part of the second column, would be thrown across the road a kilometre north of the aircraft. They would allow the SS unit to burst through, into a fire field laid down by the remainder of the column. Again the SS would be allowed to break through, thus providing the impression that they had breached the partisans’ defences. While their confidence was high, but before the motorised column could resume speed, they would be slowed again by trees felled across the road. The general was confident that the column’s commander, rather than wait to clear the trees, would order the lorries on to the verge to bypass the roadblock. The soft ground would slow the troop carriers and the armoured car reported with them. At that point the partisans’ single thirty-seven-millimetre anti-tank gun would fire on the armoured car while soldiers with Molotov cocktails would destroy the lorries. With the way blocked front and back, the rest could be dealt with at leisure.
It was the classic guerrilla tactic against armoured vehicles, devised by the Finns during the winter of 1939-40. Even the weapons were the same: the thirty-seven-millimetre anti-tank gun and Molotov cocktails. Memling watched doubtfully as the partisans trotted off into the darkness. The tactic was well known; it might work against the invalided troops coming up in the rear but not against the battle-hardened Waffen SS who would have perfected their anti-guerrilla techniques on the Russian front. The general must have sensed his thoughts, for he clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder.