Butcher and Bolt Read online

  ‘Papieren?’ demanded the private, holding out his hand.

  ‘I am on official SS business and was due in Dieppe an hour ago,’ said Joe, ‘and that’s Hauptsturmfuhrer to you private.’

  The man saluted casually and waved to the lieutenant standing by the barrier.

  ‘Ja Heiliger?’ demanded the officer.

  ‘Keine papieren,’ said the private.

  The lieutenant looked at Joe.

  ‘Hauptsturmfuhrer, may I see your travel authority please?’ he said, pleasantly.

  The thumping from the boot became louder, and he could hear faint cries and shouts as well. The bugger had somehow got the gag out.

  ‘Was ist das?’ asked the private, walking towards the back of the car.

  Joe floored it. The engine screamed, the wheels spun and the car accelerated into the barrier. It held firm and for a second Joe panicked, but the engine forced the bar to scrape awkwardly up over the windshield and he was through.

  Behind him the private opened up with the machine-pistol, and Joe ducked as a salvo of machine gun fire smashed through the car, shattering the windshield. He swerved wildly and pushed the car even harder, and in a few seconds was around the corner.

  The wind was blasting through the cracked glass and he knew now that all hope of deception was gone. What about Richter? Had he survived the shots? He couldn’t do anything about that now. He looked at the map. It was seventy-odd kilometres to Saint-Valery-en-Caux, but they’d certainly send a car after him. He had to get off this road.

  Five minutes later he saw a turnoff to a town called Pissy-Poville and took it. On both sides of the road were cleared fields recently harvested of their wheat. There were no trees, nowhere to dump the car. He drove through the centre of the town, attracting curious looks from the local inhabitants and spied a road heading west called Route de l’Enfer.

  ‘The road to Hell eh?’ he said, ‘well that’s the one for me,’ and he turned left onto the dirt track.

  In the nearest roadside copse, he pulled over and inspected the boot. Miraculously it hadn’t been hit. The bullets had all been aimed high and had taken out the rear and front windshields without touching the car. Richter had worked the gag loose and was glaring up at him with hate-filled eyes.

  ‘What now, Australian?’ he gasped through swollen lips, ‘things not going to plan?’

  ‘Bugger off,’ sighed Joe wearily, and hit him on the head again with the pistol.

  ~ ~ ~

  The man was covered in the fine dust of the local dirt roads. From the filth encrusting his clothes he appeared to be some sort of itinerant farm labourer, one who’d been walking for some time without finding any work. In fact, the man had only been walking for half an hour, having parked the car in a shady spot out of sight of the road behind a railway embankment. He’d rolled around in the dust to give the impression of a long journey on foot.

  The man was croaking to himself in a vague approximation of the tune of ‘Alouette’: ‘Pavilly, Limesey, Yerville, Saint-Laurent-en-Caux, Brametot, Fontaine-le-Dun, Angiens, Gueutteville-les-Gres, Manneveille-es-Plains.’

  It had been a tense hour, driving through the villages in a car with no windshield, but few people had noticed, or if they had, had not chosen to comment. With the fuel gauge on empty he’d made his decision, and the final town on his itinerary was ahead: Saint-Valery-en-Caux. He could smell the sea, and as he breasted a rise, the English Channel spread before him, sparkling under an azure sky punctuated by puffballs of brilliant white cumulus. He gazed to the west, but of course, England was too far way to be visible.

  ‘Nearly there mate, nearly there,’ he muttered.

  It was noon by the time he made it to the Cafe Montmarch on the main street. There was only a handful of patrons, who surveyed him incuriously for a few moments before dismissing him and returning their cigarettes and coffee. He ordered a beer and sat at a table by the window, surveying the street. So far he hadn’t seen any Germans, but this was only a relatively small fishing village, so he didn’t expect a local garrison. What was there to defend? Nevertheless there were signs of occupation, the most obvious being a Swastika flag hanging limply above the steps into the town hall.

  The waiter, a portly man in his fifties with a handlebar moustache and horn-rimmed glasses brought his beer to the table.

  ‘You look like you need this,’ he said, placing the tall glass of cool amber fluid on the table. ‘Been walking for a while?

  ‘Long enough,’ said Joe, ‘any work around here?’

  ‘What sort of thing are you looking for?’ asked the waiter.

  Joe shrugged.

  ‘Labouring, farm work, deck hand, anything really,’ said Joe, ‘I’m told I’m good with my hands.’

  ‘Since the defeat all the trawlers have been short-handed,’ said the waiter, ‘the fishermen are always complaining about it. Half the men haven’t come back yet, and maybe never will.’

  Joe took a long swig of the beer. The cool liquid sliding down his parched throat was one of the sweetest sensations he’d ever experienced. The waiter looked at the half-empty glass.

  ‘I take it you can pay for another of those?’ he said, turning to the bar.

  ‘And one for yourself,’ said Joe to his back.

  The man took his time pouring two beers, the returned and took a seat at the table.

  ‘Salud,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘So, you have come from the front then?’ he asked, sipping his beer.

  ‘Not quite. I was captured at Dunkirk,’ said Joe, ‘and at the time I was wounded, so I wasn’t packed off to Germany with the rest of the regiment. When my wound healed I just walked out of the hospital one day and kept walking. Apart from the odd train ride I’ve been walking ever since.’

  ‘Where are you headed then?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Nowhere in particular,’ said Joe, ‘my family comes from Roubaix, but that’s in the northern zone and I couldn’t stay there, too many Germans. I could be rounded up at any time, it’s safer down here.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said the waiter, ‘the Nazis are collecting every boat they can get their hands on. Anything that looks like it might float across the Channel has been commandeered. Presumably they are planning to invade les Anglais. By the way, I’m Andre,’ said the man, holding out his hand.

  Joe was nonplussed for a moment, he hadn’t even thought of a name for himself. Best keep it simple he thought to himself.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he replied, ‘my name’s Joseph.’

  A customer in the corner made a gesture and Andre rose and went to the bar. Joe looked out the window and stiffened.

  A German staff car had pulled up outside the town hall. Two officers got out of the back, one in a naval uniform, the other in the field-grey of the Wehrmacht. They strolled across the street and took a table at the cafe, directly outside the window where Joe sat. He discreetly pushed his chair back and turned to face the room.

  Andre delivered two coffees to the Germans, then came back to the table.

  ‘Are these two regular patrons?’ asked Joe, gesturing through the window.

  ‘The army one is, regular as clockwork,’ said Andre, ‘two coffees at noon every day. The naval one came in for the first time yesterday afternoon. He’s the commander of the E-Boat that’s moored in the port, they’re making some repairs.’

  ‘Who should I speak to about work on the boats?’ asked Joe, whose head was starting to swim from the unaccustomed effect of the beer on an empty stomach.

  ‘Oh any of the fishermen will be happy to have you,’ said Andre. ‘Just go down to the docks and ask the first boat you see.’

  ‘Did any of them lose sons or brothers in the invasion?’ asked Joe.

  Andre looked at him speculatively, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I just thought they might appreciate having someone around who went the through the same experience,’ said Joe by way of explanation, �
��give us something in common.’

  ‘Or perhaps something to resent you for,’ thought Andre, ‘after all, you survived.’ But he said ‘Oui, there is a man called Allas whose son has not come back, he is captain of Turpsichore.’

  ‘Thank you for the beer, and the recommendation,’ said Joe, tipping his glass back.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ said Andre, ‘and just between you and me, invent a better cover story, a man who’s been walking the roads for months doesn’t have shoes in that condition.’

  Joe looked down at the brown leather boots Yvette had acquired for him in Roubaix. They were dusty, but a sheen still came through.

  Andre winked and returned to the bar.

  Joe headed down the street towards the wharf. A German E-Boat was tied up alongside the sole crane, and they were busily lowering something into place on the rear deck. A hundred yards further along he came upon Turpsichore. She was one of the older boats tied to the pier, her white paint was peeling in places and the superstructure that held the nets was rusted and bent out of shape. The whole vessel gave the impression of being covered in a layer of fish oil, and it smelt like it too. Joe stood at the top of the gangplank and called out.

  ‘M’sieu Allas? Hallo?’

  There was a muffled curse and a head popped out of a hatchway on the fore deck. The head wore a mangy beanie that had once been sky blue, and curls of grey hair escaped in all directions from beneath it. Above the hooked nose two black eyes stared out fiercely at Joe.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the man in annoyance.

  ‘I heard you might be looking for hands,’ called Joe.

  The man’s expression changed from annoyance to suspicion.

  ‘Why? Are you looking for work?’ he said, muttering something Joe didn’t catch entirely, but he thought sounded like ‘deserter’.

  ‘Actually,’ said Joe, looking left and right, ‘I’m looking for passage.’

  The man hauled himself out of the hatch and waved Joe over the gangplank. Closer up he was older than Joe had first thought. His face was weather-beaten and the skin on the backs of his hands was loose and veiny.

  ‘Passage to where exactly?’ he asked, climbing over a box of sodden nets and walking into the grimy deckhouse.

  ‘England,’ said Joe quietly, ‘I’m an Australian soldier, I was sent over here on a mission and I need to get back.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ The man’s expression changed to one of astonishment.

  ‘Andre at the cafe told me you’d lost a son in the war and I thought you might like a chance for some revenge on the Nazis.’

  ‘And you trust me with the truth?’ replied Allas.

  Joe leaned in close to the man and whispered.

  ‘I’ll kill you if I think you might betray me m’sieu, but I don’t have the time. I have a German officer trussed up in the boot of a car half an hour’s walk from here. Either he’s going to suffocate or his fellows will find him. My job is to bring him to England, and I’ve been trying to do it for about a month now. This is the last step in a long journey and believe me, I’m bloody tired. If I could do this myself, I would, but I know bugger-all about boats and I need your help. What was your son’s name?’

  ‘Georges,’ said the fisherman.

  ‘And what happened to him?’ asked Joe.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Allas with a shrug, ‘he could be dead, he could be in Germany, all I know is he never returned. I don’t even know where he was stationed.’

  ‘And he worked the boat with you before the war?’ asked Joe.

  The man just nodded and gazed out to where the quay ended and the open sea beckoned.

  ‘Since he was seven years old.’

  ‘Is there anywhere around here you can get close to the shore at night safely?’ asked Joe.

  ‘You are planning to bring this Nazi onto my boat at night and ask me to take you across the Channel I suppose?’ said the fisherman.

  ‘Got it in one,’ said Joe.

  ‘You realise that if we’re caught we’ll both be shot?’ said Allas.

  ‘People keep telling me that,’ said Joe, ‘but it hasn’t happened yet, so we’ve got no evidence that it’s true.’

  ‘This German, why is he so important?’ asked the man.

  ‘He commanded a unit that murdered a whole company of British soldiers in cold blood. Lined them up against a wall and machine-gunned them. I was there. My sergeant and I were the only survivors. The British want him so they can hang him as a war criminal to set an example.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the man, still staring out to sea, ‘how could you be so sure I wouldn’t just turn you over to the Germans?’

  ‘Is that what your son would’ve done?’ asked Joe.

  There was a silence broken only by the squawking of two seagulls, squabbling over the corpse of a crab.

  ‘Where is your car?’ said the man finally, by way of answer.

  ‘A mile or so north of town, behind the railway embankment,’ said Joe.

  ‘Alright. The fishing fleet goes out at midnight and returns an hour after dawn. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, but first, tell me your name.’

  ~ ~ ~

  Joe almost missed the track the Frenchman had mentioned. After walking through the fields around the north edge of town he’d crossed the railway line and found the car. He opened the boot, hauled Richter up and gave him a long draught of water from a can Francois had given him. The German groaned as the blood rushed into joints long compressed by the small boot space.

  ‘Nearly over shit-head,’ said Joe, ‘we’ll have you safe and sound in England by morning.’

  In a voice made harsh and thin by thirst, Richter croaked ‘You’ll never get me there, you swine. You have no chance, do you not think they’ll be looking for me by now?’

  ‘I’m sure they are,’ replied Joe, ‘but how will they know where to look?’ He pushed him back in and closed the boot.

  Driving down the bumpy cart track with just one working headlight, Joe only realised he was on an embankment when a particularly large bump made him swerve and the car lurched sickeningly to the left, almost plunging into the marshlands below.

  After a few nervous minutes, the embankment ended in a copse of pine trees and Joe could hear waves crashing below. He opened the boot of the car. Richter glared up at him.

  Reaching in, he removed Richter’s socks and threw them into the bushes, then he dragged the German out by his feet, produced Francois’s other gift to him, a ferociously-sharp fishing knife and sliced through the rope binding Richter’s feet.

  ‘Don’t think about running anywhere,’ he said, holding the knife to Richter’s throat, ‘or making any sound. I’ve had a gutful of you and it won’t take much for me slit your throat. It won’t be the first time I’ve done that. Got it?’

  Richter nodded, still groaning with pain as the blood coursed through his ankles into his feet. Joe took the cloth from the boot and gagged the man, then, looking around, he spotted the pine tree standing alone on the edge of the cliff that Francois had mentioned.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pushing Richter towards the tree.

  The path that began beside the tree was steep and covered in loose rubble. More than once Joe nearly slipped and fell, and he had to hold Richter tight to help him balance. Eventually they made it to the bottom, where a scree of boulders led down to a small sandy beach.

  Francois was standing in the shallows beside a rowing boat that was not much bigger than bathtub.

  ‘Bloody hell, how are we going to do this?’ said Joe, eyeing the boat as it rose and fell with the waves rushing up the beach.

  ‘Lie him across the stern, then get in the bow. I will row,’ said Francois. Joe prodded Richter with the knife and the German climbed into the back of the tiny boat.

  ‘Lie down on your back,’ said Joe, menacing him with the knife.

  He clambered in and Francois pushed the boat out through the waves, then h
auled himself over the gunwale. The boat tipped alarmingly and Richter’s eyes widened with fear. With his hands tied and mouth gagged he wouldn’t last a minute in the water.

  Francois settled himself to the oars and began to pull steadily. Looking ahead, Joe could make out the dim outline of the fishing smack bobbing at anchor fifty yards out.

  ‘How will we get him onto the boat?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Just like the fish,’ grunted Francois, hauling on the oars. ‘Grab that boathook.’

  Minutes later they were heading out to sea, Richter tied up in the hold, concealed behind three empty fuel drums.

  ‘Now we head east,’ said Francois. ‘Keep your eyes open and tell me if you see anything, and hear me Australian, the first English boat we find? You’re on it.’

  He pushed the throttle forward and the little trawler gained speed.

  Down in the hold, Richter’s eyes had adapted to the darkness. The Australian had at least given him a drink, and the thirst that had tormented him all day had abated. Now, although he was tied hand and foot, he could just reach a rusted angle brace that supported the hatchway above him. Forcing himself painfully to his knees, he shuffled over to the stanchion, put his bound hands against the rusted edge of the brace, and stated to saw.

  ~ ~ ~

  On the rear deck of His Majesty’s Gunboat Sting, ensign David Vanger opened the gate to the gun platform and stepped in. The twin 20mm Oerlikon cannons sat menacingly in the centre of the circular platform, their long barrels and drum magazines gleaming in the moonlight. Spray was blowing over the deck from where the prow sliced through the swell, and he wiped his face with his sleeve reflexively as he examined the guns. Removing each magazine in turn he checked that the round that would be next into the breech was greased, free to rotate and not jammed by dirt or salt. He slid the firing bolt back and forward and checked that the extractor claw was in the correct position to remove the spent cartridges. He slid open the lock holding the guns in place and tested that they rotated 360 degrees horizontally. Unbolting the second lock he ensured that the barrels could be raised to a nearly vertical position.