Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (47 page)

Jan dragged the soldier into a corner and removed the handgun from his holster. He checked the clip and shoved the gun into his own belt. Jan paused for Night of Flames

323

a second, looking into the boy’s wide eyes. “Lie still and you won’t get hurt,”

he said, then retrieved the wire cutters he had located the previous night and stepped over to the far corner where the telephone lines entered the building.

Leutnant Graf grabbed a rifl e from the rack at the back of the room and burst from the command center. He sprinted down the hall and charged into Jan’s offi ce. When he found it empty, he grabbed the telephone on the desk, expecting to hear the voice of the main switchboard operator.

Nothing. Silence.

“Verdammt!”
Graf roared, and raced from the offi ce, bumping into Hermann’s aide, Boettcher, in the hallway.

“The telephones have gone dead,” the aide said.

“No shit!” Graf snarled. “Get the Feldgendarmes and meet me in the utility room.
Schnell! Mach schnell!
”

Graf ran down the back staircase to the ground fl oor and then down the hallway toward the fi reproof door. As he pulled the door open he shouted at the single guard standing next to the service entrance. “Have you seen anyone go down these stairs in the last few minutes?”

“Yes, sir, a civilian. He showed his badge and—”

Before he could fi nish Graf bolted through the door and raced down the stairs to the lower level. When he saw the light coming from underneath the closed door to the utility room, Graf smiled and fl icked off the safety on the rifl e.

Down the hallway, Jan stepped out from around the corner and aimed his gun at Graf. He had reviewed his options when he heard Graf yelling at the guard upstairs and didn’t hesitate.

He pulled the trigger.

Graf slumped to the concrete fl oor, a bullet hole just above his ear.

Jan rushed over, grabbed Graf’s body by the shirt collar and dragged it into the utility room next to the terrifi ed young soldier who pissed in his pants.

Then he stuffed the handgun into his coat pocket, and retrieved Graf’s rifl e from the hallway.

The gunshot had been so loud in the confi ned area that Jan’s ears rang, but he held out a slight hope that the report had been muted by the thick steel door 324

Douglas W. Jacobson

at the top of the stairs. Jan backed into the utility room and closed the door.

He quickly examined Graf’s rifl e. It was a Karabiner K43, semi-automatic. He checked the ten-round magazine. It was full. Then he switched off the light and stepped back into the dark room to wait.

It didn’t take long.

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Voices whispered in the hallway.

He raised the rifl e and aimed at the door, his fi nger lightly caressing the trigger.

Suddenly the door burst open. The light from the hallway illuminated three fi gures, one waving a fl ashlight.

Jan fi red three shots in quick succession hitting the fi rst fi gure in the side of the head, the second in the throat and the last, and least visible, in the shoulder.

The fi rst two collapsed without a sound, save for the fl ashlight bouncing off the concrete fl oor. But the third fi gure yelped and fell backward into the hallway. His gun clattered to the ground.

Jan bolted toward the door.

The third fi gure was a Feldgendarme. Blood spurted from his left shoulder as he retrieved his weapon and lurched across the hallway toward the staircase.

Jan stepped over the two bodies lying in the doorway and chased the wounded man into the stairwell.

Staggering up the stairs, the bleeding Feldgendarme turned to fi re but stumbled. Jan shot him in the forehead.

Chapter 65

Captain Bradley couldn’t believe what he was seeing. As the tank regiment rolled through the streets of Antwerp, thousands of people fl ooded out of their homes and offi ces, cheering, singing and waving banners. They climbed on the tanks, offering champagne, wine, fl owers and candy. A young woman wrapped her arms around Bradley’s neck and smothered him with kisses.

Giant homemade fl ags, in the Belgian colors of red, yellow and black fl uttered from the windows of apartments and offi ce buildings, the fi rst time in four and a half years that any fl ag except the Nazi swastika had fl own in Antwerp.

In the midst of the mad, chaotic celebration, German snipers, crawling along the rooftops, fi red at the tanks and into the crowd. British soldiers and White Brigade Resistance fi ghters returned fi re, but dozens of civilians were killed and wounded. With bullets pinging off the steel sides of the tank, Bradley was terrifi ed, amazed and exhilarated, all at the same time.

On and on it went, the wildly cheering crowds becoming more impenetrable the farther the tank column drove into the central city, to the point where it became diffi cult to maneuver the ponderous machines without running people over. Their progress slowed to a crawl.

Finally, two infantry platoons caught up to them and slowly pushed the throng back, clearing the streets. The tanks picked up a little speed. The fi ring from the rooftops continued, but the crowd of celebrating citizens seemed oblivious, undaunted in their jubilation. Crouched low in the open turret and yelling instructions down to his driver, Bradley was certain he would never see anything like this again.

A Jeep carrying two offi cers came up, weaving through the crowd with its 326

Douglas W. Jacobson

siren blaring. A civilian, wearing a green beret and a leather jacket with the White Brigade armband, sat in the rear. The driver waved for Bradley to follow. They came to a roundabout and Bradley, followed by three other tanks and an infantry platoon, stayed with the Jeep as it veered off to the right. The remainder of the regiment headed toward the port.

Bradley’s tank was fi rst in line behind the Jeep, moving slowly along a wide boulevard. Ahead was an expanse of grass and stately trees. His headset crackled with instructions from one of the offi cers in the Jeep. “Dead ahead is a park where the German headquarters is located. We’re going to let you pass. Take out the bunker at the entrance.”

Ducking into the turret, Bradley yelled instructions to the fi ring crew, and the Sherman’s big gun arced downward. The tank lurched as the gun fi red.

The left half of the German bunker disappeared.

The turret swiveled a few degrees, and the big gun fi red again, blasting away the rest of the bunker.

All civilians vanished, and the street ahead was empty as Bradley’s tank accelerated toward the remains of the bunker, fi ring its machine guns at the fl eeing German soldiers.

They turned left, crunching over chunks of concrete from the shattered bunker, and rambled down a broad street that traversed the western edge of the park. A hundred meters ahead Bradley spotted a large group of civilians in paramilitary dress and the now familiar armbands, fi ring into a three-story building with machine guns and grenade launchers.

Following the instructions coming over his headset, Bradley maneuvered his Sherman tank to the north end of the building while the other tank stopped at the south end. The turrets of both tanks swung toward the German headquarters.

One by one, Jan dragged the three corpses into the utility room then stepped over to the young German soldier who was twitching and sweating profusely.

Jan pressed the rifl e against the terrifi ed boy’s head. “Remember what I said before. Lie still.
Verstehen Sie?
”

The soldier nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with fear.

Jan stepped into the hallway and glanced up the staircase. The door was still closed.

Night of Flames

327

It was the only way out of the lower level, which meant it was also the only way in. Provided they weren’t going to come after him with fl amethrowers, Jan calculated he had a momentary advantage. As he crouched at the bottom of the staircase, aiming the Karabiner K43 at the door, he heard muted sounds of gunfi re and scattered explosions that he guessed were hand grenades.

Then a deafening blast shook the building.

A second blast and the steel door fl ew open, banging against the concrete wall, sagging on broken hinges.

Jan’s ears rang and his pulse raced as he looked up the staircase. The ground fl oor hallway was fi lled with smoke and dust. Shadowy fi gures raced past the open doorway, heading for the service entrance, yelling and shouting.

Smoke and dust drifted down the staircase.

Jan waited.

Gunfi re erupted and shadowy forms raced back the other direction.

The gunfi re was constant, the yelling louder, but now different—it was in English! British soldiers yelled, “Get down! On the fl oor! Down, now!”

Heavy boots pounded down the hallway, machine guns rattled. British troopers screamed at the trapped Wehrmacht soldiers, “Lie down! Now! Lie down!”

Jan crouched at the bottom of the stairs, watching and listening, considering his next move. The British had taken the building. He needed to surrender.

But how? He thought about the towel he had used to gag the young German, the white towel.

Jan stood up and turned back toward the utility room just as a voice bellowed out from the top of the stairs. “Halt! You there! Halt and drop the gun!”

Jan stopped and let go of the rifl e. It clattered to the fl oor.

“Hands up! Hands up!” the voice yelled.

Jan raised his hands.

“Now turn around, slowly, and walk up the stairs.”

Jan turned around and started up the stairs with his hands above his head.

A British soldier stood in the doorway, pointing a submachine gun at him, backing away as he reached the top of the stairs.

A second British soldier appeared. “Whatcha’ got here, Tommy?”

The fi rst soldier kept the submachine gun pointed at Jan. “I don’t know.

Looks like a Kraut in a suit. He understands English, though, and he was 328

Douglas W. Jacobson

carrying a rifl e.” He jabbed Jan in the ribs with the gun barrel. “Lie down!”

Jan looked down the smoke-fi lled hallway, littered with massive chunks of broken concrete and shattered wood. Sunlight poured through a gaping hole in the outside wall. At least twenty German soldiers were lying on their stomachs with their hands behind their heads. British troopers moved among them, removing their weapons. Another dozen Germans lay sprawled in pools of their own blood.

Jan remained standing. “I’m with the White Brigade. You are to take me to Antoine.”

The soldier jabbed him with the gun barrel again. “On the fl oor, asshole!”

Jan pushed the gun away and shouted at the startled soldier, hoping to attract the attention of an offi cer. “I said I’m with the White Brigade, you dumb shit! There are four dead Germans down in the lower level and another one bound and gagged! Go take a look!”

“What the hell’s he talking about?” the second soldier asked.

“Damned if I know. Nip down and check it out.”

“Are you daft? I’m not going—”

A British offi cer approached the group. “What’s going on here, Private?”

“We found this man hiding at the bottom of the stairs, sir. He says he’s with the White Brigade.”

“Right, and I’m the bloody Prime Minister,” the offi cer snapped. He stepped in front of Jan and glared at him. From his insignia, Jan could tell he was a lieutenant, which was unfortunate. He probably wasn’t senior enough to make a decision.

“I’m with the White Brigade and—”

The offi cer cut him off. “Shut your mouth. Wilson, get over here and search him.”

The second soldier stepped over to Jan and patted him down, instantly discovering the handgun. He removed it and handed it to the offi cer. Then he reached into the breast pocket of Jan’s suit coat and removed the black identifi cation folder.

Goddamn it, Jan cursed to himself. Everything had happened so fast, he had completely forgotten about the ID badge.

The soldier handed it to the lieutenant who opened it, then looked at Jan with contempt. “So, Ernst Heinrich, now the Belgians are letting Nazis join the Resistance?”

Night of Flames

329

“You don’t understand; that’s just a cover. I’m—”

The lieutenant pointed the handgun at Jan’s head. “You can bloody well get down on the fl oor right now—or I’ll kill you with your own fucking gun!”

Jan stared into the lieutenant’s eyes. The British offi cer was almost a foot shorter and much younger, no more than twenty-fi ve. His cheek was twitching.

Jan stepped closer to him and shoved his face within a few centimeters of the young lieutenant’s. He spoke just above a whisper. “Listen to me, Lieutenant, before you do something stupid. I’m an undercover agent with the White Brigade. There are four dead Germans down in that utility room, and they didn’t die of heart attacks. Now, before you get yourself court-martialed, send someone down to check it out.”

The lieutenant blinked. He took a step back and said, “Wilson, check it out.”

Two minutes went by, and neither Jan nor the British lieutenant took their eyes off each other.

Wilson ran back up the stairs and blurted out, “There are four dead Krauts down there, sir. Three of ’em shot right through their bloody heads. There’s another one all tied up, scared shitless.”

Jan said, “Take me to Antoine. Now.”

“Who the fuck is Antoine?” the lieutenant yelled. His face was red.

“He’s the leader of the White Brigade,” Jan explained, painfully aware that he was talking very boldly about a man he had never met. “He’s probably outside right now with the tanks that shot the hell out of this building.”

The lieutenant glared at him, then stepped back and pointed toward the front of the building. “Get moving and keep your hands in the air.”

With the British lieutenant and the two soldiers walking right behind him, Jan stepped out of the heavily damaged building into the bright midday sunshine.

“Over there,” the lieutenant said and shoved Jan in the direction of two of-fi cers and a man in a leather jacket and green beret, standing in front of a Jeep and a Sherman tank. Several British soldiers and a group of civilians wearing odd uniforms, helmets and armbands milled about nearby.