Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (41 page)

Night of Flames

279

Having successfully landed an assault force of this magnitude, the Allies would settle for nothing less than a complete and total German surrender. But, in his gut, Jan feared that the Germany that existed under Hitler and his Nazi thugs would never surrender until their country had been destroyed and Allied tanks rolled through the Brandenburg Gate into Berlin.

How many hundreds of thousands of soldiers and civilians would die in the meantime, he wondered. He thought of the V-2 rockets he had seen in Poland and the destruction they had caused when they crash-landed in villages and towns. If Germany held on long enough to use this weapon, the hundreds of thousands could become millions.

Jan stood in the front seat of the scout car, gripping the frame above the windshield for support. His goggles kept out most of the dust as he surveyed the men riding in trucks and marching alongside the road. Like him, many of these men had been at war and away from their families for almost fi ve years.

They deserved to survive and go home. Stefan had deserved to survive, but he didn’t. Irene and Justyn would never see him again—if
they
had survived.

And Anna . . .

The sound of a motorcycle broke his train of thought. Jan glanced down at the rider who was waving and yelling at him. He leaned over to hear and the man yelled again, asking him to stop.

Jan motioned to his driver to pull over. The motorcycle pulled up behind them, and the rider stepped up, saluted and handed him a sealed envelope. Jan ripped it open and read the brief message inside.

Return immediately to Chambois.

Report to Mr. Ortmund at the Hotel Elbe.

The message was signed by General Stanislaw Maczek, the commanding offi cer of the Polish First Armored Division.

“My instructions are to give you a ride wherever you need to go,” the rider said, wiping dirt from his goggles.

When he entered the room on the third fl oor of the Hotel Elbe, a young man with short-cropped, sandy hair and wire-rimmed spectacles sat on a straight-back chair at an ornate desk. He wore a white shirt, bow tie and striped trousers. Jan thought he looked like a bank teller.

280

Douglas W. Jacobson

The young man stood up and extended his hand. “Good afternoon, Colonel Kopernik, I am Mr. Ortmund. Good of you to come so quickly.”

Jan nodded without responding. He had been through enough meetings with British civilians that he was impatient with small talk.

The man cleared his throat, opened a small folder and withdrew an envelope, which he handed to Jan.

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of stationery bearing the letterhead of the SOE. Jan read the handwritten message.

To Colonel Jan Kopernik:

You have been transferred to the Special Operations Executive on the orders
of General Stanislaw Maczek. Please follow the instructions given to you by
Mr. Ortmund.

Sincerely,

Col. Stanley Whitehall

Goddamn it, Jan thought. Whitehall again. He dropped the paper on the desk, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one out. “Well, ‘Mr. Ortmund,’

are you going to tell me what the hell this is all about?”

The man cleared his throat again and said, “There is an airstrip just a few kilometers out of town. My instructions are to drive you there this evening where you will board an RAF plane. We have some clothes for you. You may leave your uniform with me.”

“That’s nice,” Jan said, blowing smoke in the air. “And where am I going?”

“I don’t know. We all operate on a ‘need-to-know’ basis. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, I understand.” Jan answered, sensing that he’d seen the last of his military command for awhile. He only hoped it wasn’t another trip back to Poland.

When they were airborne the copilot of the Halifax stepped back to where Jan sat and handed him a jumpsuit and a parachute pack. “It’s a short fl ight, Colonel. You’d better get ready.”

As Jan pulled the jumpsuit over the shirt and trousers that Ortmund had supplied, the copilot said, “We’ll be dropping you just outside the town of Night of Flames

281

Kapellen, northeast of Antwerp, Belgium. The drop zone is a farm fi eld—”

“Antwerp? You’re dropping me near Antwerp?”

“Yes, that’s right . . . something wrong, Colonel?”

Jan stood motionless while it sunk in. Antwerp? Could it possibly be . . . ?

He shook his head and said to the copilot. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

The copilot continued. “The drop zone is a farm fi eld, owned by a member of the Belgian Resistance. We’ll receive a signal . . .”

Jan tried to listen, but the words were coming through a fog. Anna’s image fl itted through his mind, waving at him. Her long, red hair . . .

“. . . from the ground . . . torches outlining the fi eld,” the copilot was saying.

Jan blinked and stared at him. “Yeah, OK.”

“Then we’ll circle around, drop down and out you go.”

Jan zipped up the jumpsuit. His hands were trembling.

“You’ll be met by a man wearing a plaid shirt,” the copilot said. “He will address you in French by saying, ‘Do you wish to go to Antwerp?’ You are to reply by saying, ‘Yes, but I would like a warm meal fi rst.’ You got that?”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” Jan said as he secured the clasps on the parachute.

“I’m told you’ve made these jumps before.”

“Just once. I hoped it was my last.”

The copilot smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Well then, good luck, Colonel. Maybe we can hoist a pint together when this thing’s all over. You’d better sit down and get strapped in now. We’ll be catching some fl ak when we hit the coast.”

The man in the plaid shirt was the owner of the farm, and he led Jan into a cellar below the house. A tall silver-haired man was waiting for him.

When the farmer departed, leaving them alone, the man held out his hand and spoke French. “
Bonjour, monsieur.
Welcome to Belgium.”

Jan shook his hand and peeled off the jumpsuit.

“I understand you’re a military offi cer, a colonel?”

“Oui, c’est correct,”
Jan replied.

The man motioned to a table in the center of the dimly lit, earthen fl oor room and poured two glasses of red wine that had been provided by the farmer. There was a plate of cheese, sliced sausage and fresh bread. Seeing the food made Jan realize he was hungry and, with a nod of encouragement 282

Douglas W. Jacobson

from the silver-haired man, he helped himself.

“Perhaps I should give you some background on our mission,” the man said.

Jan took a sip of the homemade wine and nodded. “
Oui,
I would appreciate that.”

“I belong to an organization known as the White Brigade. From this point on, Colonel, you may refer to me as, ‘Sam.’”

Jan nodded, acknowledging the code name.

Sam continued, “We are part of the Belgian Armed Resistance. One of our responsibilities is the protection of Antwerp’s port.”

“Protection of the port?”

“
Oui.
The Germans have sent a general by the name of Stolberg to Antwerp.

His mission is to shore up their defenses and defend the port against the expected attack by the Allies. If they cannot defend the port, we believe they will try to destroy it.”

Jan tried to listen but he was still stunned by the stroke of fortune that had dropped him into Belgium, just a few kilometers from Antwerp. Was it possible that Anna was here? He took another sip of wine, forcing himself to concentrate on what the silver-haired man was saying.

“ . . . General Stolberg has received a dispatch from Berlin indicating that they are sending a demolition engineer from Berlin, a civilian by the name of Ernst Heinrich.” Sam paused and picked up the wine bottle, topping off the glasses. “Do you have any questions so far, Colonel?”

“Non,”
Jan replied. “Just waiting to hear how I fi t into all of this.”

Sam took a sip of wine and continued. “Our intelligence was able to provide us with Herr Heinrich’s travel itinerary and his description. You match his description quite well. I’m told that you speak fl uent German and that you’re trained in demolitions. You will become Ernst Heinrich, Colonel.”

Jan could barely manage to set down his wineglass without spilling it.

“What the hell are you talking about? That’s the craziest notion I’ve—”

Sam interrupted him. “Please, let me continue.”

Jan glared at him and sat back in the chair.

“I jumped ahead of myself,” Sam said. “It’s really not as crazy as it may sound. You see, General Stolberg has never met Ernst Heinrich and neither has any of his staff. Our orders are to take him off the train. You will replace him and report to General Stolberg at his headquarters in Antwerp. From that Night of Flames

283

point forward, your instructions are to fi nd out everything you can about the enemy’s plans for destruction of the port and pass the information on to our organization. I will be your contact.”

Jan stared at the silver-haired man, not knowing which of a dozen questions to ask fi rst. His previous missions had been dangerous . . . but impersonating a German demolition engineer? Becoming part of a German General’s staff in occupied territory? It was absurd. This was Whitehall’s fault. He wished he could have the fat bastard alone for fi ve minutes. This wasn’t a mission—it was a death sentence.

Jan stood up and paced around the cellar. “How do you know that neither the general or any of his staff have ever met this Heinrich?”

“I have a source in the Department of the Interior,” Sam replied. “He has seen all the messages and he—”

“Is he certain of it?” Jan demanded, cutting him off.

Sam was silent for a moment then folded his hands on the table. “
Non,
not certain. Nothing is certain, Colonel, you know that. We have what we believe is good information. It comes from a reliable source, a source that I know personally and would trust with my life.”

“But it’s not your life on the line here, is it?” As soon as he said it, Jan wished he hadn’t. He sensed that this man was not a manipulator like Whitehall. He was like the AK operatives he had known in Poland. He was like Slomak, a patriot, whose country has been occupied by the enemy for years. Jan took a deep breath. “I’m sorry—”

Sam held up his hand. “It’s all right, Colonel. This is all being dropped on you very quickly.
C’est correct,
it
is
your life on the line. We’ll do our best to protect you, but beyond that I’m afraid . . .”

His voice trailed off and the two men fell silent.

Jan sat down and fi nished his wine. “Well, let’s get on with it. What’s the rest of the plan?”

Sam nodded. “We weren’t given your name, Colonel, or any information about you—and we’re not allowed to ask. From this moment, until your mission is completed, you are ‘Ernst Heinrich.’ Is that understood?”

“
Oui, oui, bien sûr.
I understand the routine pretty well by now,” Jan replied.

Chapter 57

Ernst Heinrich was not at all pleased with his orders. Though a civilian, he had frequent contact with offi cers in the Wehrmacht and was acutely aware of the situation. Contrary to the propaganda being fed its citizens, Heinrich knew that Germany’s armies were in retreat and the Allies were pursuing them into Belgium.

He couldn’t imagine a greater military target at this point in time than the port of Antwerp, and he’d be stuck in the middle of it. In reality, though, he knew it probably didn’t matter. With the Russians bearing down on Germany from the east and the Americans and British from the west, his chances of surviving this madness appeared bleak.

In the fading light of dusk, Heinrich looked out the train window at the fl at terrain, crisscrossed by narrow canals, and wondered if they were in Belgium yet. He had been to Belgium several times over the years—to Antwerp, in fact—and had always enjoyed himself. The food and wines were fi rst rate, the service in the cafés was excellent, and the people had always been friendly and hospitable. That was before the war, of course. He guessed things would be different now.

The car he was in was only about half full, and most of the other passengers appeared to be businessmen, speaking primarily Dutch or French. Three Wehrmacht soldiers had boarded the train in Amsterdam and were sitting two rows behind him, but other than that Heinrich had seen few military personnel. He knew that practically all available men had been sent to the western front months ago. He yawned and leaned back in the seat. He had been on the train since the early hours of the morning, and he was tired.

Night of Flames

285

Bang!

The car lurched, and Heinrich’s head cracked into the window.

Another
Bang!

The car lurched in the opposite direction, and Heinrich was thrown from his seat, landing face down in the aisle.

With its steel wheels screeching against the rails, the car jumped the track and pitched forward, bouncing hard to a halt.

A hand gripped the back of Heinrich’s coat and jerked him up. He stumbled forward into a tangle of other passengers, but the hand pulled him backward, up the steep incline of the aisle, toward the rear door. A voice shouted,
“Raus!

Jetzt!”

Heinrich turned his head and saw that the hand belonged to one of the Wehrmacht soldiers. The other two soldiers were ahead, pushing people out of the way, clearing a path to the door, shouting, “
Raus! Raus!”

The soldier gripping his coat yelled at him, “Which is your bag?” motioning at a jumbled pile of suitcases.

Heinrich stared at him, not comprehending.

“Your bag,
verdammt!
Your bag! Which one’s yours?”

Heinrich pointed it out.

The soldier grabbed it and shoved him forward. When they got to the open door, two of the soldiers had already jumped to the ground. The one who had gripped Heinrich’s coat yelled at him to jump and pushed him out the door.

He hit the ground, tumbled over on his side and started sliding down the steep embankment, but one of the soldiers grabbed his wrist and hauled him to his feet.