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Chapter Six

The train was moving fast, eating up the metres of track that stretched ever westwards.

Sharp eyed guards peered out at the flat countryside, knowing all to well the dangers that lurked within the fields and forests that passed by in a blur.

By this stage of the war partisan groups were proving to be almost as big a threat to the Germans as the ‘official’ Red Army. Countless lives had already been lost in this behind the scenes war. A war that was even more barbaric in its intensity than that that raged at the ‘proper’ front.

A train was blown up here, a village burned down over there. A stabbing was followed by a hanging. The cycle of violence went on, ever repeating itself as each side tried to outdo the other.

The occupants of the train huddled up together, trying to pass the time in a variety of ways. Some wrote letters, others engaged in a game of cards. But the majority sat in a stunned silence. The memories that swirled around inside of their heads were impossible to forget and haunted them as they tried to rest. Wounded men cried out in pain as their injuries were jolted by the turning of the trains wheels. Other men were crying to, but tears of joy, not pain. For the train was headed westwards and the west meant home. Home was where they would try to erase the horrors that had been an everyday occurrence for too long.

And so the wheels kept turning. Another day, another night. Time flew by, the featureless fields and plateaus a static background to the vastness of Russia.

Paul Hausser was asleep, his body limp and exhausted.

Rudi Obermaier was not asleep. His eyes were very much awake and directed upon the cards that he had just laid out with a flourish. He had placed them on the wooden floor of the train carriage, a floor that temporarily doubled up as an impromptu casino. ‘A running flush gentlemen I believe!’ He explained with an elaborate wave of his hand as he scooped up his winnings, stuffing the notes inside of his helmet.

‘You lucky arselicker Rudi! I swear that you have been blessed with the devil’s own luck!’ Huebner could not believe it as his ‘friend’ had just won his fourth hand of brag in a row. He watched with envy as a month of occupation marks disappeared from view.

‘Never mind Horst,’ Obermaier chuckled greedily, ‘perhaps you’ll win the next hand?’

‘The next hand! No, that was my last hand. Losing money to you is a habit I can do without.’ Huebner pocketed the meagre wad of money that he had left and withdrew from the contest.

‘Ah well, one down.’ Obermaier looked to the other participants in the game. ‘Another hand?’

The question hung in the air like an invitation to the slaughterhouse, but these lambs were not naive enough to accept, fearing the same fate of Huebner.

‘How about you Dieter?’

Dieter Meissner declined with a shake of his head, his blond hair caressing his forehead.

‘Hey why not?’ pressed Obermaier. ‘Scared that we’ll tell your mother that you’re gambling? She might stop your chocolate ration!’

The other Jaeger fell about laughing at Obermaier’s caustic remark.

Meissner, only seventeen, retorted. ‘No, it’s just because you’re such a bad loser when someone beats you!’

Huebner smiled at the young mans impudence. ‘I think that you have met a quicker tongue for once in your life Rudi.’

‘Perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘Anyway, no matter, it’ll take me a month to spend the money I’ve already won today.’ Obermaier counted the notes, making sure that the other Jaeger saw how much he had won.

Huebner turned away from his gloating and tried to get comfortable. He failed, for a plank of hard wood was the only seating available. ‘Curse this damn war, not even a proper seat to sit on!’ His large body twisted again as it tried to match the contours of the wood. Eventually he gave up and turned to the Jaeger sitting next to him. ‘Franz are you okay? You haven’t said a word for an hour.’

Franz Emmerich had been observing the sun setting. He ignored the question. ‘Isn’t it beautiful Horst?’

‘What is?’

‘The sun. No matter what we do down here it just carries on, rising and setting. I sometimes think it’s the only definite thing that we run our lives by.’

‘If you say so Franz.’ Huebner wasn’t surprised by Emmerich’s vague response. Poor Emmerich had been acting strange ever since the previous month. A month that had brought with it the deaths of his wife and two children. They had died in the heat caused by an incendiary bomb that had set fire to the Hamburg block of flats where they had lived. The bodies had finally been identified a day later, an inscribed necklace found in the remains the confirmation required. Since the tragedy Emmerich had withdrawn into himself, the only way with which he could come to terms with his sudden loss.

‘What are you going to do, when we get back to Germany?’ asked Huebner.

‘I don’t know.’ Emmerich was still watching the sun. ‘There is nothing for me in Hamburg.’

‘You can always come and stay in my humble flat. It’s not much but at least its dry.’

‘Thank you.’ Emmerich’s thin lips cracked open into a faint smile. ‘But no, I need to be alone. I would only get in your way.’

‘Nonsense. I could show you the drinking dens that I used to visit in my youth, and a few more besides!’ Huebner lived in Bremen, a short distance from Hamburg. His attitude, when confronted by a problem, was always the same - drink and then drink some more!

‘Well, we’ll see when we get to Germany.’ Emmerich let the conversation die out, pushing up the nickel framed spectacles that sat upon his nose.

‘Why are we going to Berlin anyway? The front will collapse without us!’ boasted Obermaier as he joined their conversation, his money now safely stashed away.

‘I don’t know.’ Hausser had woken at the sound of Obermaier’s raised

voice. ‘But I wouldn’t get too excited about going back to Germany.’

‘Why’s that?’ questioned Huebner. ‘At least we’ll be able to have a drink!’

Hausser grinned. ‘I hope so Horst, I really do.’ He thought back to two days earlier and his meeting with Regimental Commander, Oberstleutnant* Kroh, when he had been informed that his presence was desired in Berlin.

‘What for?’ he had asked.

Kroh had shrugged his shoulders. ‘The communiqué does not say. It just orders yourself and the remnants of your battalion to be in Berlin a week from today, signed Josef Goebbels.’

‘Goebbels! Since when was it his business to transfer troops around?’

‘I do not know, but mind your back Hausser,’ warned Kroh, ‘Goebbels is not a man to be trusted.’



*Oberstleutnant-German Paratroop rank - equivalent to Lieutenant Colonel.



And so Hausser had taken the order and departed from the front, for an uncertain future.

‘Either way, it’s got to be better than fighting in that hellhole we’ve just left behind.’ Huebner was convinced good times lay ahead and, as ever, let everyone know his opinion.

‘We all want to believe that,’ said Hausser without conviction. ‘At least you have been granted a weeks leave. I have to report to the devil himself.’

‘Perhaps Goebbels will award you the Knight’s Cross, for services rendered to the state.’ suggested Obermaier.

‘How about a few wooden crosses for those we have left behind. Most of them didn’t even get the luxury of a burial.’ Emmerich’s sombre tones brought an end to their discussion. The subject closed and the train trundled on. It passed through Russia and Poland, before it crossed the borders into Germany.



Going the opposite way, into Poland, was a small Kubelwagen jeep. It sped along the road as if driven by a madman.

‘C’mon Erdmann, drive faster. We cannot afford to be late.’ Kluge shouted at the driver, cursing the fact that he had been lumbered with such a mindless thug.

Hans Erdmann just grunted in reply, his concentration span fully taken up by the road ahead.

Kluge checked his watch, straining to see the time in the pale moonlight, 12.20am. They only had forty more minutes in which to reach their destination. ‘How much longer?’ Kluge whispered to himself.

A signpost appeared up ahead to answer Kluge’s question. ‘Ten kilometres to Lublin, we shall make it!’ Kluge relaxed, his taut features softening. ‘Slow down Erdmann, we want to arrive safely.’

‘I wish you’d make up your mind, I’m not your lackey.’ Despite his protests Erdmann did as requested and the Kubelwagen slowed down.

‘Maybe not but you will do as I say.’ Kluge was enjoying playing the role of master for once and squeezed every last drop of humility from Erdmann.

The Kubelwagen drove on, angry hands at its controls.



The Ilyushin I1-2 Sturmovik droned overhead, its speed reduced by the three occupants of the cockpit. The pilot checked his bearings, peering at the console before him. ‘I’m going lower, we should be there by now.’ He looked down at the ground, searching for the agreed sign that would indicate the target area. The flaps of the Sturmovik lowered and it swooped downwards.



Kluge found the field that he had been looking for and he instructed Erdmann to stop the Kubelwagen, bouncing out of the jeep even before it had rolled to a halt. Quickly he scanned the immediate vicinity. ‘Perfect, just the right size.’

Erdmann had no time to worry about the scenery. He hauled out a couple of jerry cans from the jeep and stood next to Kluge, his bulky frame dwarfing the smaller Kluge.

‘Come on, two at the end, one on each side.’ Kluge pointed to illustrate the areas where Erdmann should go.

Erdmann moved to where he was told and unscrewed the tops of the jerry cans. He then sloshed the petrol over the thick grass that carpeted the field.

Kluge grabbed a can and did likewise, spreading the petrol over a straight line.

Soon the aroma of petroleum stained the air, foul smelling and yet sickly sweet to the nostrils of Kluge.

‘Where are they?’ Kluge peered at the heavens, hoping to spot the plane that should be up there. It was 1.05am.

‘I think I can hear something,’ mentioned Erdmann, his jerry can empty.

‘Stupid dolt, what can you hear?’ Kluge didn’t need to wait for a reply. His ears too had just pricked up at the sound of an approaching plane. ‘Quick, light the petrol.’

Erdmann fumbled within his leather overcoat before pulling out a length of rag. Lighting it, he threw it towards the trail of petrol.

It ignited with a whoosh, burning away the grass as the temperature rose.

Kluge stood near to the flames in satisfaction, his face illuminated by the golden hue. ‘There, you see?’ He pointed to the stars, his teeth bared in a demonic smile.

Erdmann followed his arm until he spotted two white parachutes floating to the ground. He pulled out a Walther P38, just in case.

‘Put it away.’ Kluge verbally slapped Erdmann across the face. ‘Do you want to be sent to a concentration camp?’

Erdmann recoiled at the idea and pocketed the Walther without reply.

They watched as the parachutes hit the ground and two shadowy figures started to detach themselves from the silk.

Kulkov gathered in his parachute and removed his flying suit. Alert eyes had already detected Voronov and he waved at him to come over.

Voronov quickly did likewise and acknowledged Kulkov with a nod of his head.

Suddenly a torch beam flashed over the field.

The two Russians lay flat on the ground, hands groping for the Nagan pistols

that they both carried.

The bearer of the torch, Kluge, came into view. He barked out in badly accented Russian. ‘Password?’

Kulkov and Voronov exchanged worried glances. ‘There is no password,’ answered Kulkov.

‘Correct, grinned Kluge, ‘welcome to Poland.’ He beckoned for them to come forward, his torch still covering their path. ‘H’mm, very nice,’ he said as he observed them close up.

Kulkov and Voronov were dressed in simple brown slacks and shirts, covered by dark green macks. They looked all the world like a couple of humble farm workers.

‘I think it would be better if I spoke German, as it is obviously more coherent than your Russian!’ suggested Kulkov, taking an instant dislike to the small man with the torch.

‘As you wish. I am Kluge. And this...’ he indicated Erdmann’s bulk, ‘is Erdmann.’

Kulkov nodded. ‘Let’s get started, for we have many kilometres to travel. Do you have transport?’

‘Yes, this way. My superior would not make you walk all the way to Berlin.’ Kluge led the party to the parked Kubelwagen.

The two Russians climbed into the back seat, unsure of the Germans sincerity.

Erdmann revved up the engine and the jeep burst into life.

Kluge turned to address his passengers. ‘Have no worries, Goebbels expects you in one piece.’

‘I have none. But remember that we are both armed,’ replied Kulkov coldly.

Voronov emphasised the point by smiling and patting the bulge in his pocket.

Kluge momentarily lost some of his cockiness, surprised by the coolness of the Russians. He tapped Erdmann on the arm. ‘Get this heap moving.’

The Kubelwagen reversed back onto the road and it sped off - destination Berlin.



The first few hours of their journey passed off uneventfully, Poland’s population enjoying the sleep that German occupation allowed.

Suddenly they turned a bend in the road and a checkpoint emerged into view, complete with wooden barrier and two Feldgendarmerie Military Police.

Kulkov nudged a snoring Voronov in the ribs.

‘What time is it?’ Voronov rubbed his sore eyes.

‘7.10am. I think we have a problem.’

Voronov awakened fully and noticed the checkpoint, about forty metres distant.

‘Leave it to me, no talking.’ Kluge whispered a warning to the Russians as the Kubelwagen slowed, at the direct command of one of the Feldgendarmerie.

An ugly face peered into the jeep, metal breast plate dangling from its chain.

‘Papers.’

‘Certainly.’ Kluge handed over both his own and Erdmann’s ID.

The ugly face inspected them, intermittently checking their features against the ID. Finally, apparently satisfied, he gave them back.

‘And you, where are your papers?’ He directed his question towards the rear of the vehicle.

Kluge, not Kulkov, answered. ‘They are with me. I have a letter you should read.’

Kulkov’s fingers curled round his Nagan as the Feldgendarmerie accepted the cream coloured letter, its Reich seal still unbroken.

Four sets of eyes focused on him as he read and then folded the letter. ‘Please wait here.’ He walked towards the little wooden hut situated by the side of the barrier.

The other guard kept them under observation, his Schmeisser MP40 pointed lazily in their direction.

‘I don’t like this. What did the letter say?’ Voronov spoke up in his broken German, his instincts forewarning him of impending trouble.

‘Just that we are on official Reich business, signed Josef Goebbels. Relax, there is nothing to worry about.’ Kluge remained confident as the guard completed a phone call and left the hut.

They all watched nervously as he paced over to the Kubelwagen.

‘Please leave the jeep, this letter is a suspected forgery. You will be held until its authenticity can be checked.’ The guard gestured with his Schmeisser for Kluge to step out of the Kubelwagen.

‘There must be some mistake? Did you not see whose signature was on the letter?’ Kluge protested, his feet squelching on the muddy road

‘There is no mistake, you will wait here until....’ The Feldgendarmerie’s voice cut off abruptly as Erdmann fired his Walther point blank into his face. The bullet ripped open his head like a pumpkin, showering blood and brains over the unfortunate Kluge.

The other Feldgendarmerie cocked his Schmeisser and brought it round to bear on Erdmann.

Too late, for Erdmann had already loosed off two more rounds from his P38. The bullets tore through the guards breast plate and chest before knocking back his body so that it lay across the wooden pole of the barrier.

Silence returned to the road as Erdmann pocketed his pistol. Even dumb animals have their uses.

‘You idiot!’ screamed Kluge as he plucked his letter from the hands of the dead Feldgendarmerie. ‘Every patrol for miles will be put on alert after that. They were only checking the letter.’

Erdmann’s face creased in thought. ‘But they were going to hold us. We wouldn’t have got back to Berlin on time.’

Kluge was disgusted at his colleagues stupidity and logic. ‘Open the barrier and get in the jeep, we must get away from here.’

Whilst the Germans argued Kulkov and Voronov sat silently, observing the damage caused by the impulsive Erdmann.

‘I think we may have made a mistake in agreeing to this venture Oscar. These people are amateurs.’ Voronov sighed as the jeep started up again.

‘Perhaps, we will know soon enough!’ replied Kulkov.

The Kubelwagen accelerated, Erdmann’s foot hard down on the pedal as he attempted to make up for his earlier indiscretion.

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