SNIPPETS
Enjoy some complimentary prose with your morning coffee
Snippets from
'Heart of Wrath'
Mustard anyone?
The soldiers seeking refuge in the trenches began to panic as the dense yellow gas sunk slowly towards them, unstoppable and unforgiving. There was no escape out of the Ypres River valley that clear, crisp morning as a light breeze pushed the poison cloud faster than the men could flee. The chemicals attacked their eyes first, causing instant blindness that quickly turned the panic to terror for in the sudden darkness agonising blisters and boils erupted on their exposed skin, burning their mouths and throats without remorse. The worst though came when the men inhaled the gas, dropping their rifles so their bare, burnt hands could reach desperately for their scorching throats and as the acid etched their lungs their breathing faltered so they stumbled around like drunkards. On one of the nearby battle worn hilltops, surrounded by the dead and the dying of both sides, stood Captains Frank Chilton and William Bissett of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. These formidable men had led their respective infantry companies over the top, through the barbed wire into no man’s land and on to the German frontlines. Finally, step by bloody step, they fought their way up the slippery clay to gain the high ground of the Ypres salient from where they witnessed the massacre unfolding below. Through their field glasses, Bissett and Chilton could see the small clouds of yellow smoke materialise around the broken trench complex. Although it appeared harmless, they knew it was anything but, and as if by wizardry, the yellow clouds of sulphur mustard expanded rapidly, spreading to cover the enemy position in a strangely beautiful shimmering haze from where a few small dark forms emerged. These faceless men clambered through the manmade moonscape that had once been beautiful pastures and tranquil forests. The last of these great trees, shattered and broken by remorseless artillery barrages, stood stoically in the cratered fields as an epitaph to those that had fallen and a demonstration of mankind’s new self-destructive power. Their enemy who had the sense to don their gas masks had not the time, the strength nor the will to collect their dead or help their wounded, as it was an earnest task just saving themselves. Their retreat was hampered more by the soft, glutinous brown mud that sucked greedily at their boots, than by the sporadic British sniper fire from the hills behind them, but they combined to make every step a bat-tle of wills. Those victims with the strength to move stumbled east towards their rear lines and eventually, after falling and crawling through the mud were discovered by their comrades who had bravely come to their aid. As the remnants of the German List Regiment succumbed to the smoke Chilton watched on as a solitary figure crawled out of the dissipating poison, still lost in his blindness but now easily found by the British snipers.
Hot city nights
Neave, like most teenage boys, had few things on his mind. Cigarettes, beer, and girls. He could not believe his good fortune as all three were readily available nearly everywhere he looked. He quickly discovered that the French do a number of things better than the British and that all three of his top priorities were on that list. He wandered the tight streets, trying delicious treats from boulangeries and patisseries as he ambled onwards with the spirit of the French in his heart - liberté, egalité and fraternité. Neave followed a group of teenagers, keeping his distance but using their local knowledge to explore the old town of Calais. Out of the confines of Rue Saint-Nicolas Neave looked up at the towering spire of the Eglise Saint-Nicolas. Cafes and shops lined the bustling square as locals and tourists mingled in the afternoon market. The scene was so typically French that Neave lingered at the café-bar until well after dark. With his remaining packets of Gauloises and bottles of Kronenbourg well hidden in his trunk Neave left Calais for Paris. He was met by his mother’s cousin at the Gare du Nord, who much to his embarrassment showered him with fussy kisses on the platform. On the drive to her beautiful house at the Luxembourg Gardens Neave had to politely remind her that he was a no longer a little boy. Neave took the opportunity to visit the haunts of his favourite authors. He quickly discovered that James Joyce, Earnest Hemingway, and he were kindred spirits. Although too young to legally party in Windsor or London, he found Paris was a veritable world away, so the young traveler wandered the exhilarating streets of central Paris in search of ‘Je ne sais qoui.’ He came to an abrupt halt under the sails of the Moulin Rouge and with the innocence of youth stepped inside. As per his father’s instructions he expanded his horizons and adjusted certain items of clothing. Those offending articles were not his, were not socks, and he did not pull them up. He thought his father would be pleased that his further education was progressing so well. The next night he enjoyed a drink or three at the Ritz followed by a few more at the Hotel Lutetia where the overly friendly ladies found his innocent English charm rather delightful. He struggled to tear himself away from the free-spirited advances of the French prostitutes as he was still a virgin and wanted so desperate-ly to be able to regale tales of inuendo and passion to his friends, but he was not prepared to stoop that low. However he was quite happy to enjoy the show.
Let the countdown begin
The fledgling rocket industry was an amateur affair but the will to win the race to space was almost as important as the science itself. Great minds worked on theories and formulas the general public had no chance of grasping despite the simplistic rockets of the day being nothing more than toys. There would be a time though, in the not too distant future, where these boy scientists became men and their toy rockets became machines that would change the world. But for now the moon and space travel remained a far off dream. The silent anticipation was broken by a barely audible hiss that quickly trans-formed into a whoosh as the pressure built, growing louder and louder until it de-veloped into a deep Hadean scream that intensified further as the rocket rose rapidly from the launch site. “One second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds…” Wernher von Braun barely controlled his excitement as the nine-foot liquid fuelled rocket leapt skyward. He was holding his breath, subconsciously willing the rocket to fly higher and higher. Suddenly the clear blue afternoon sky was transmuted into a fireball of reds, oranges and yellows that quickly burnt itself out to form a black and grey rolling cloud of spent rocket fuel, ejecting shrapnel as it spiralled away out of control. The explosion shook von Braun back to breath after a surprising twenty six seconds of flight. A few years of challenging work had just culminated in this impressive fireworks display. Yet as spectacular as it may have been it revealed an ugly truth. Although this rocket had reached greater heights than any rocket before it, ultimate success had been thwarted by the explosion. There was still much work to do but nonetheless a wan smile appeared on his young Aryan face as progress in this fledgling field of German science was still measured in meters and seconds not miles and hours. It was a giant leap for this young man but a small step towards von Braun’s dreams of manned space flight through the Cosmos. However, he was a realist, knowing all too well that to achieve his goals there would be many more steps, some backwards, most forwards but for now he was on trajectory. His colleagues, the fellow rocketeers from the Space Flight Society of Berlin University, craned their necks skyward as they watched the smouldering remnants fall hypnotically back to earth. It was with the same mixed emotions that they set off to collect the debris for their friend. None of the students were aware that their little experiment was under surveil-lance. A short wiry man, dressed impeccably in the field grey Wehrmacht uniform adorned with medals and ribbons, stood watching the small rabble of excited scien-tists from the shadows of a magnificent oak tree.
A day trip to Calais
Through the fires and smoke they fought using the cover to conduct harassing manoeuvres that were the only way his much smaller force could slow the 10th, Panzers. They fought a running battle house to house, sniping from hidden positions, laying anti-tank mines, erecting barricades, and throwing grenades, slowing the enemy advance whilst the city around them burnt. But through it all the Panzers kept moving forward, one house at a time, making progress along the narrow confines of the cobbled streets near the beach. During the fierce fighting the discombobulated units of the British army holding off the vastly superior enemy became one force of uncoordinated defence. Their leadership had vanished, either dead or distant, and it was now up to small roving bands to hold on as long as they could. However hard Neave and his men tried they could not hold a defensive perimeter, opting to retreat before casualties were taken. The situation went from bad to worse when Neave and his men were trapped in the rubble of a burning school by a platoon sized force of Germans. Pinned down with no way out Neave was contemplating surrender, not wanting to see his men die unnecessarily, but suddenly a fusillade of friendly fire changed his mind. As Jock MacDonald led his wee band of surviving highlanders through the rubble of Calais, he came upon a large unit of German infantry attacking a British position. MacDonald, in point position, with his trusty Browning machine gun, led his men to the right, berating the enemy with a barrage of heavy fire that cut them to ribbons from their exposed flank. A salvo of captured German stick grenades were hurled by the Scotsmen into the remaining Germans. As the grenades detonated the firing ceased and when the smoke cleared the Scots were cheered by their English comrades. The giant, wild eyed Scot and his men were warmly welcomed by the small but wiry Airey Neave and his men. The two small forces joined, making a fighting platoon of twenty-four men. They re-armed, taking weapons and ammunition from the enemy dead, and hastily improved their defensive positions amongst the rub-ble, clearing a route behind them for retreat, identifying defensive positions along the way, so when the Germans came again, they would be ready. Towards the end of the first day of fighting Neave heard a familiar noise. Faintly at first, followed by the unmistakable sounds of exploding bombs. The shrieking grew unbearably loud as a Stuka dive bomber hurtled above their position, drop-ping its payload of deadly explosives on another British unit not far from their position. MacDonald saw the ugly war bird climb up and away into the sky for another attack and warned the men, “Sir, get the men into cover. Get any blankets or wood and hide the men from the air. If one of those bombs hits us, we are all doomed! Those demons wreaked hell on our battalion. Once we left the cover of the trees north of the Ardennes those bastards were relentless. Out in the open we did our best to ward them off but like hungry vultures they never gave up. I shot two of them down with this!” MacDonald proudly showed Neave his .30 Browning machine gun.
Three pints and a packet of crisps
At the bar and the tables of The Five Bells an unhealthy portion of invasion gossip accompanied the pints of bitter and the tumblers of gin and tonics as the British public become increasing alarmed by the threat of an invasion, and rightly so as Hitler was planning just that. Britain as a nation was now trapped, surrounded and isolated, with only her navy to protect her and the goods required to fight back and win her freedom once more. Across the capital British intelligence had discovered that Hitler had been planning the downfall of Britain for a long time and more recently, with some inter-cepted reports, the boffins at the Naval Intelligence Division (NID) thought the time was drawing near. With northern Europe all but conquered, it was the next logical step in the establishment of the one-thousand-year Reich. Frank Chilton was one of the many that afternoon in the crowded house bar of The Five Bells. He was due to board his ship in a few days and was enjoying his predeparture ritual of a few quiet beers at the local with acquaintances seeking a similar solace. Come war or peace the brewing industry flourishes in every coun-try, protagonist or antagonist alike, as men and women partake in the drowning of sorrows or the celebration of the victory. Chilton seemed to understand that Hitler, knowing he respected and feared Great Britain in equal quantities, thinking she would be hard to defeat yet buoyed with the added confidence of the victory of Fall Gelb behind them Chilton ex-pected the Nazis were now preparing to invade England. However, the not so small matter of the Royal Navy, still the most powerful fleet on the water, which guarded her shores, prevented Germany from landing troops in England. Chilton knew it, Churchill knew it and Hitler knew it. Be that as it may the Nazi high command had created a cunning invasion plan in the form of Operation Sea Lion but Hitler wanted to sue for peace one last time before ordering the invasion. Hitler’s warped ego gave the new Prime Minister one month to sign a peace treaty and remove Britain from the conflict. Churchill was never going to come to the table and won a small victory in fooling Hitler that he might. This short window of opportunity gave Britain the advantage to prepare, as she was in no state to defend an invasion following the routing of her finest troops at Dunkirk where a large proportion of Britain’s fighting capability, in the form of men and machines still lay in the hands of the enemy. As Chilton waited at the bar for his third and final lunch time pint the barman turned up the wireless and called for hush as the radio announcer introduced Win-ston Churchill. It was just three weeks into his tenure as Prime Minister that he had to do what no prime minister had done before; forewarn the public of a planned invasion. Churchill’s speech in the House of Commons hid nothing from the desperate people at this desperate time.
A hike in the highlands
The dozen men that climbed the granite monolith were all hard, seasoned men, except one who was present to witness the punishing training his operatives would need to complete in order to be declared fit for deployment on the continent. They all though had blood on their hands and they were without exception guilty of killing. Their victims had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, fighting for the wrong side. Not far behind them, just out of earshot, climbed their pursuers, relentless and persistent bastards, they pushed their quarry upwards into the ferocious storm. Their woollen gloves and hats offered little protection as the biblical strength wind continued thrashing their sorry souls unabated, numbing the pain in their agonising fingers so that holding their rifles was physically impossible. They were in no position to fight should they be caught. As mother nature brought them to their knees their pursuers closed the gap. Those that fell were pulled to their feet. These men would never leave one of their own behind. They would all live or they would all die. They had been on the run for thirty three hours, just managing to keep ahead of the formidable men they could now see on the slope below them. In another hour they would be caught. The higher they went the more brutal the mountain became. The isolated pockets of snow and ice soon began to merge covering the rock in a mix of soft snow and hard ice, all of which was treacherous and slowed their progress. The only positive any of the British soldiers could take from it was that their pursuers were surely suffering as they were. They were wrong though. The smaller group of men, only six in number, were born and bred in the mountains and to them this was nothing new. They were well fed, well rested and had a point to prove. Their officers would not except failure. Their quarry was struggling up the third Munroe of the day. Soon they would summit and from there it would be all downhill for them in more ways than one, for a seasoned mountain man is quicker going down than going up so if they did not catch the soldiers on the summit they would surround them before they were down. Patrick Dalzel-Job covered his eyes from the blizzard. He looked around but all he saw was white. Visibility was down to a few yards. He called out but the wind stole his voice. As loud as he shouted he could barely hear it himself. Then without warning the wind stopped, the sleet and snow vanished as hole in the cloud appeared around him and the bright sun shone forth like a painting of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac. The storm abated, releasing his comrades from its vice-like grip. The silence was stunning. The British soldiers had summited and now below them a vast expanse of angry grey cloud reflected the peaceful light of the heavens above. There was no higher place to go unless the angels came down and snatched them up towards the pearly gates.
Snippets from
'A Just Revenge'
With no mercy
The pistol clicked on a dud round. Both men were shocked, stationary in a world of disbelief. The unarmed General turned to run inside as Verleun fumbled to eject the dead round from his pistol and recock the slide to position the next round in the chamber, but by the time he had done this the general was inside calling out hysterically to his wife. But Pillar, who had witnessed the botched assassination, sprang past his protégé, with surprising athleticism, leaping in a diving tackle he brought the General down, knocking the wind out of the old man before he got the chance to scream again. Pillar grabbed the general’s head from behind, roughly placed his hand over his victim’s mouth and nose to suffocate him just as the old women turned around the far end of the corridor to investigate the sudden commotion. Their eyes met, she looked at the assassin first who was shaking his head slowly from side to side. She was scared into silence as the rage showed in his dilated pupils, then she looked down into the eyes of her dying husband, looking on in horror as the man she loved began to struggle less and less as his lungs consumed the last available atoms of oxygen. From behind the first attacker jumped a second man, whom she had not no-ticed with the skirmish on the ground. He slowly raised his Browning 1910 pistol, took aim at the diminutive figure, who with more bravery than her husband stood her ground waiting for the inescapable.
A red herring
At his speed, being nearly half that again of the RAF bombers, he soon found himself in the midst of the spent bombers of the first wave. These were not his preferred targets as those heading towards the target, not away from it, were the most important as they were yet to wreak their own havoc on the Germans below. None the less he could not pass up the opportunity to attack a straggling Sterling bomber that had been damaged by flak. Muller noticed damage to the port wing tip and a smoking inner engine. The enemy airspeed was slow, down to roughly one hundred and fifty knots so it came as a terrifying surprise to the bomber crew when he fired a long burst from his twin twenty millimetre canons, walking the tracers to the target, where they strafed the fuselage. The tail gunner was quick to return fire. The four .303 machine guns, although no match for the twin twenty millimetre canons of the Ju88, could shred the cockpit and controls, so Muller pulled away just in time. Onwards he flew to hunt another victim, though in the flash of his own guns he did not see the shadow of a Lancaster lurking on his starboard fore quarter. Red Herring was flying ahead and to the right of the Sterling when it was attacked, having recently passed it, pressing on with four good engines. Weaver and Williams in the tail and the upper turret saw the Ju88 open fire on the flailing bomber that lurched as it was struck. The rear guns of the Sterling fired back but the upper turret remained still, probably damaged in the attack. Once the JU88 was clear of the Sterling Weaver and Williams unleashed a barrage of their own. Williams’ twin .50 Browning machine guns in the upper turret fired a tracer every four rounds, so a constant tongue of fire lashed out towards the enemy fighter. Spent shell casings littered the deck below. When Weaver’s quad .30 Browning machine guns joined in, spitting forty rounds a second at the Ju88, the Lancaster vibrated excessively, and the firing guns drowned the sound of the four roaring Rolls Royce Merlin engines.
A bullet and a noose
The horror of what her life had become was now too much to bear. Judith Pillar had suffered enough and before her life ebbed away she wanted to settle a small matter with her captors. She was not alone in her thoughts as the sentiments of vengeance were rife in the massive death camp but most were too weak or afraid to take any action against their Nazi imprisoners. But there were a few among them who had had enough, realising that their deaths were now not far off had chosen a glorious death of their own making rather than of at the whims of the sadistic Nazis. Other brave captives, knowing that if they survived the camp and the war they would never recover from the soul destroying wounds they had received while incarcerated, joined them in the secret rebellion. Judith had no desire to suffer any longer but her desire for vengeance was all encompassing as her life force faded. So each day Judith and her friend Ala collected a teaspoon of the explosive powder, hiding it in the thin seams of their pyjamas and each night they plotted their revenge, whispering in the darkness until sleep overcame them. Now late in October they had two kilograms of explosive hidden away, separated into four separate cloth bags that were designated as the ‘opening scene’ of the planned show they were putting on for their captors. They knew their work was nearly done and that freedom awaited them. It was all but impossible for the avengers to meet in public as Nazis snitches lurked in the shadows, happy to betray their kin for a scrap of bread or a pair of woollen socks to fend off starvation or frost bite for a little longer. One place the men and women could mingle was at the regular public executions where the Kapo prepared the victims for the noose. The SS were no longer wasting bullets on Jews at this stage of the war if the rope would suffice.
Le Gai Paris pas
From the high narrow windows of the third-floor apartment of the Maurice Hotel on the Rue de Rivoli the Eiffel tower stood magnificent across the Tuileries Gardens. Hans Kammler loved the view from Carl Oberg’s commandeered apartment. He thought with views like this how could anyone argue that Paris was not the greatest city on earth. He loved the exquisite food and the fine wine; he loved the bright lights and pretty dancing girls. It was one his life’s great regrets not having been posted permanently to this great city and so to make amends to himself he created every opportunity to visit on official business at the expense of the Third Reich. Even though the afternoon was cold, General Kammler, Reich Chief SS Engineer, moved towards the windows and opened them, letting the sounds of the capital wash into the opulent suite on the cool Paris air. A sudden chill ran down his spine, partly from the cold and partly from the excitement of being back in the city he loved where he could indulge in his fantasies once again, free from the judging eyes of the party faithful. His friend, whose hospitality he currently enjoyed, shared his passions and then some. Carl Oberg, the senior SS and Reich Police Officer in Paris had a literal skeleton key that unlocked anything and anyone in the French capitol. As so it was that the two powerful SS officers prepared to venture out after dark to enjoy all that Paris offered, starting with Moet & Chandon Brut Cuvee at the elegant bar Maurice. But before the fun began the men had something or rather someone to discuss. Wernher von Braun was a thorn in both their sides. Kammler’s ego had been bruised by Albert Spier’s loyalty to von Braun, promoting him above the SS engineer to oversee the V2 rockets, the Reich’s highest armaments priority. It was a slur on his career and with his inferiority complex running rampage he sought revenge. Oberg’s anger emanated from an equally galling experience with von Braun, who had once ruined his dinner, stealing his beautiful, buxom, blonde girlfriend, Johanna from his dinner table in Berlin. Although long ago Oberg had never forgotten the incident. So, with a jealous ex-lover and an arch-rival plotting his downfall von Braun’s future appeared uncertain. The conspirators needed to create a believable charge against their common foe that would destroy his reputation and steal his future.
An unlikely performance
With a smile and a wink to his audience Wernher von Braun’s long delicate fingers began to kiss the ebony and ivory keys, regaling the revellers with an-other national classic. The first bars of 'Tales from The Vienna Woods' com-posed by Johann Strauss brought a smile to his audience as the hostess plied the room with a tray of sweet but strong home-made apple Schnapps. The war was a time of stress, and no one could escape its crushing grasp. Those that fought on the front line had it worst of all but those on the home front, on either side, suffered an almost unbearable weight that burdened them more and more as the war waged on. But by now with the tide of the war had turned against the axis of evil and, despite Goebbels's mastery of his art, the German volk at home saw the first scribblings of defeat on the wall. Their suffering was worse now than it had ever been during or after The Great War, making them ponder the point of it all. Since the introduction of the Conscription Law fourteen months ago their optimism had begun, slowly at first then with mounting speed, to drain the will to fight from the now hungry volk, starved not only of the calories required to thrive but also in the faith, that was once resolute, in their Führer. As the reality of the faltering national position began to dawn on the some-what privileged scientists of the rocket programme, their previously unfaltering belief in victory now began to wobble like one of their test rockets lifting off from the test stand.
I do love to be by the seaside
As Job slipped into the calm waters of the Wadden Sea he felt the cold-water push against his dry suit. He floated his kit in front of him as he released his commando dagger and stabbed the boat in each chamber repeatedly. As air hissed out of the boat the weight of the motor and battery pulled it under. There was no going back now - he was alone in enemy territory. He was mindful of the need to reach land as quickly as possible before the cold numbed him, so he kicked with short, powerful strokes, not breaking the surface. After a few minutes, his feet struck solid ground. He stopped as a precaution, when he heard the gentle wavelets rolling against the sandy beach at the high water mark and the fizzing as the backwash sucked the water back into the sea through the sand. There was not a particularly good landing site as the beach extended in identical open fashion for miles on either side of him. With his blackened face above the still waters, he surveyed the beach and the grassy dunes behind them that could hide enemy pill boxes. He removed his flippers and reattached them to his belt before moving on towards the beach. This part of the Dutch coast had been heavily fortified by the Nazi engi-neers in preparation for an allied invasion, an invasion that would never come, unless you counted the single commando now crouching low in the water. As a passing cloud briefly obscured the moon, offering him the relative safety of darkness, he made a dash for the dunes. The long grass quickly enveloped his black form. Silence prevailed. Job slowly shook his head to clear the water from his ears. Now he could hear the gentle swash and backwash once more. He waited a full five minutes but there was no sight nor sound of anything unnatural so when the moon came out again Job slung his dry bag over his shoulder, drew his silenced M1911 pistol from its holster and moved in land cautiously.
Snippets from
'A False Liberty'
In good company
Ian Fleming was at his least favourite place when the phone rang. He only sat at his desk when the paperwork needed doing. But gratefully he had the most excellent company of a rather strong Mr Gordon and a bubbly Mrs Schweppes to bide his time until he could get back out into the excitement of the war. He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite him, noting it was still before noon, before picking up the hand-set of the red telephone, “This is Fleming.”
Beware of the tempest
Job waited for the response which cackled through the speaker so the men around him could hear, “Target confirmed, location received, ETA, seven minutes. JR Out.” Before Job had had the chance to finish the sweet tobacco in his pipe, he heard the unmistakable throb of the aircraft. He could not see them but he and everyone within miles could hear them approach. All those except the men on the train of course who were none the wiser as its wheels clanked and clonked so loudly, they could barely hear themselves talk. JR led his flight of three Tempests east, flying three hundred feet over the flat Germanic plain where freshly ploughed fields were broken by small woodlands and isolated villages as far as the eye could see. As the planes neared the ridge where two section had seen the train, JR pulled up steeply and his wing men followed close behind, rising quickly to attack altitude. JR spotted the train easily as it snaked through the countryside. While still a minute off he made up a plan of attack that would see the two of the Tempests attack the train while the third would circle nearby as an over watch to engage any enemy fighters should any be brave or stupid enough to attack the Tempests. Circling with the low sun behind them so the glare hid them from the enemy gunners JR broke off towards the north and the second attacking Tempest went south until they reached the railway tracks where they turned south and north respectively moments before they dropped to one hundred feet above the steel rails. JR opened the throttle slowly at first but then quickly, gaining speed in the dive until he felt the plane begin to vibrate a little more than normal. He glanced at his speedometer, it hovered just above the five hundred miles per hour mark, and he smiled not just at the speed but at the rapidly approaching train that was still little more than a thin black line in the distance. From the ridge Job and his men watched the two black dots until they blurred with speed into the landscape. The train was still clearly visible and although the deep throaty sounds of the Tempests were now dull with distance the unmistakable staccato drum beats of the AA guns was clear to all. JR saw orange dots appear at the front of the train as if the driver were flashing its lights, but JR knew they signalled the start of the train’s defence mechanism. Deadly lead projectiles flew at the Tempest, but none met their mark as the depression stop on the gun allowed for an arc of fire from fifteen degrees and above. From his position, well below the firing arc, the forty millimetre rounds would never hit him. In retaliation JR depressed the little red button on his control stick. Stones and earth erupted in front of the train as the track disintegrated in the maelstrom, but JR continued to walk the impacts towards the oncoming train despite its fate already sealed. The centre and rear gunners had now joined the action, but to no avail as their guns were also designed to shoot up not across. The Tempest’s rounds smashed into the massive iron and steel locomotive with little obvious damage and then beyond into the first of the three AA guns which stopped firing immediately as the gunners exploded in a mist of blood and guts. Before his canons ran dry the rounds ripped into the roofs of the foremost troop carriages opening them up like a can of sardines. Fragments of red-hot lead and needle like splinters of wood flew in all directions. Some went harmlessly outwards, but some went inwards shredding the soldiers inside.
The parting of the black & white sea
The torrent washed over the smouldering land like one of the great plagues from the Old Testament. The flood of migrants, emancipated from their torturous existence by the fall of the Third Reich included the weakened form of Mozes Pillar who, like millions of others were desperate to get home, desperate to discover the fate of their loved ones, desperate to discover some good news that they could cradle and nurture, desperate to rebuild and restart their lives. Ever since hearing the emphatic news that his brother Joop was alive and well having survived the war, and now in a recently liberated Holland, Moses was keen to return home. Two weeks ago he had discarded his striped pyjamas and donned some civilian rags that had been provided by his rescuer, Commander Patrick Dalzel-Job. They were not much of an improvement in quality as the previous owner had worn the material wafer thin but they helped to dispel his incarcerated mindset and soon, in his new outfit the reality of liberty finally dawned on him. Since Job introduced Pillar to Brigadier General Doyle O. Hickey of the Third Armoured Division on April 11 Mozes had been essential to the investigation of the Mittelwerk complex and Mittelbau-Dora concentration camp. In recognition of his help Hickey had taken Mo-ses under his wing, who in return for his assistance was given preferential treatment and quickly regained much of his vigour thanks to the American medical orderlies and field rations. Having served Hickey for as long as he thought necessary he asked the General for permission to return home.
Just the four us
After a short but poignant pause MacDonald asked Job a sincere question that at first seemed rhetorical, “You’ll never guess how many of my unit made it back to Blighty?” Job pondered the question, “I have no idea my friend? How many made it home with you?” The eyes of the big man then glazed over as tears welled and then ran down his cheeks, “Four! There were just four of us who returned home!” Job pointed a space to pull over under the shade of some large oak trees as he suggested, “Lets park up for while Jock.” As McDonald pulled the Jeep to a stop Job repeated that number, “Four. Four of your men made it back home, just four?” MacDonald wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his Khaki tunic before the twenty-four-year-old pulled himself together. “Aye Skipper. Four men out of six hundred and sixty eight survived the Ardennes and the retreat north to Dunkirk. I was the last man on the last boat off that beach that awful day. By the time I left the beach was washed red with the blood of our men!”
The last launch party
The six guards at the door snapped to attention as he approached, in unison they clacked their heels together whilst shooting their right arms out and up in a perfectly choreographed Hitler salute. Von Braun was impressed by the show but if it was meant to intimidate him they had failed. It took more than that to ruffle the feathers of one of the Reich’s most favoured sons. The two nearest the double doors each dropped their salutes and reached for the doors as the handsome young man dressed in a tailored, impeccably cut black tuxedo strode towards the doors which opened in front of him, and the outpouring hubbub of a jovial soiree invited him in. The party was in full swing. High ranking figures milled about while the civilian staff, all dressed in contrasting crisp white uniforms including a white napkin draped perfectly over left forearms strode purposefully from guest to guest, offered fine French Champagne to the all-male entourage. General Hans Kammler had, of course noticed von Braun’s arrival and a wry smile formed on his thin narrow lips.
Reunited at last
The three girls rushed him and if it was not for their support Moses would have collapsed under their weight. Ululations of joy pierced the quiet streetscape and tears of utter joy washed all their cheeks as they reunited with their elder brother. The commotion of Moses’s unexpected return brought people out on to the street to investigate but none of the siblings noticed. Finally the small huddle broke and the silence was broken by Bloeme who said, “I’ll go and run the bath.” They all smiled and Betje added, “I’m not sure if we have enough soap!” They all laughed as they headed inside helping their overwhelmed brother but Joop knew the horrors Moses had suffered were so deeply ingrained in his memory that no amount of cleansing would ever rid them from him. The world for people like the Pillars was tumultuous in the post liberation days. Europe was starving and grieving hankering for mor-sels and hoping for resolution. The surviving Pillars considered them-selves fortunate in ways having only lost both parents and a sister to the Nazi Reich. They were fortunate to have a brother return from bowels of hell. Their home still stood, their street was as it was when the Nazis invaded and their city was nearly whole.