Authors: Richard D. Handy
Nash grinned. ‘Pigeon pie… have you ever eaten pigeon pie?’
‘Oh Danny stop it!’ Emily giggled. ‘The poor thing!’
‘Sorry, force of habit… survival rations and all that… ’
‘Yuk! Is there nothing you haven’t eaten?’ Emily stared up at the window, watching the bird patter across the glass.
The pigeon suddenly evacuated a white-green splurge onto the window.
They burst out laughing, then gazed into each other’s eyes.
She drew her leg over Nash’s. The warmth of her damp groin pressed against his thigh. Her hips pulsated involuntarily; rubbing herself against his calf muscle, her breathing became shallow and erratic. She opened her mouth, searching for his, pushing herself harder against his leg.
Nash responded, and drew her closer.
She eased herself onto him, drawing in a deep breath as a wave of pleasure pulsated through her body. Her fingernails dug into his chest, stretching the stitches on the knife wound in his shoulder.
‘Ouch!’ Nash gave a playful smile.
She writhed on his waist with increasing force, breathing more deeply than before. ‘Sorry, sorry, I forgot about the wound… Danny… I… Danny!’ She pulsed wetness onto his groin. Nash responded with increasingly deep thrusts.
Emily gave a spasm and smiled, working harder, beads of sweat formed on her neck. Nash ran his hands firmly on her breasts.
‘It’s okay. Don’t worry. Let yourself go.’ He thrust deeper, squeezing her nipples, feeling the tension rise in her body.
Emily writhed with pleasure, gripping Nash’s manhood with her pelvic muscles. A flush of heat and wetness issued from her groin.
She gasped and fell forward, whispering in his ear. ‘Danny, I love you, I love you!’ She flicked her tongue on his earlobe as another spasm of delight wracked her body.
Nash felt her firmness, and warmth; unable to hold back, he thrust deeper, arching his back and almost lifting her off the bed.
Surprised by his own passion, a wave of muscle tension pulsed through his body. They came together and collapsed into each other’s arms back on the bed. Her wet breasts heaved against his chest; he ran his hand gently through her hair, taking deep breaths of her perfume.
‘Emily, I can’t stand to be without you. Stay with me forever.’
She gasped. ‘I will… I will… ’ She kissed gently onto his pectorals, slowly catching her breath. She worked up to the knife wound and placed a tender kiss over his stitches.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘No, not any more,’ Nash lied.
She buried her face against his chest, drawing a finger over the scars on his body.
She whispered as she caressed his skin. ‘So many cuts and bruises. You poor man. I will look after you… just come home safely.’
‘I’ll always be here for you Emily… always… ’ Nash kissed her forehead. She snuggled deeper into his chest.
‘Will you Danny?… ’ She ran her index finger absently over his scar. ‘I so worry, when you’re away. It’s so dangerous. I fear that one day you will not come back.’
‘I know… I know… but would you change who I am?’
She kissed his chest. ‘No, I wouldn’t change a thing.’
‘I only know soldiering. What else would I do?’
‘You’ve been in the field a long time. Perhaps it’s time to think about a less active role. You could take a desk job, be in charge, or a training job at the barracks?’
Nash chuckled. ‘Me, driving a desk?! Now, that’s something I’d like to see!’
‘Okay, not a desk then, but what about training? Daddy needs good men like you to instruct the next generation. There are younger men out there now… ’
‘Maybe one day, but not just yet.’
‘Why not just yet? It would be ideal.’
‘There’s something I need to do.’
‘Another job for Daddy?’
Nash tried to conceal his concern, but his voice wavered. ‘Yes, another job.’
‘Danny, what are you doing? It’s a dangerous mission,
really dangerous
– isn’t it?’
‘Yes it is, but what else would you have me do?’
‘Stay here with me.’
‘I wish I could,’ his arms tensed into a hug, ‘… but I am a serving soldier, and orders are orders.’
‘Let me speak to Daddy, maybe he can send someone else?’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
Nash shrugged. ‘If it’s not me, it would be somebody else anyway.’
‘Danny, please, then let it be somebody else!’
Nash kissed her on the forehead and stared into her beautiful blue-green eyes. ‘You know that’s not possible. I have to go… whatever the danger.’
‘Oh Danny, promise me you will consider the training job. Promise me… ’
‘Okay, when I get back… we can talk about it… ’
‘Just come back in one piece, alive and well.’ A tear rolled down her cheek.
Nash kissed away the tears and drew her closer to his chest. ‘Emily, I love you. No matter what, I promise, I will return. Then we can be together… forever.’
Nash fell silent. It was a promise he couldn’t keep – and he knew it.
N
ash thumbed the mud off his watch – six a.m. – that made the eighth patrol along the perimeter fence in the last hour. Peenemünde was well guarded. The cover from the undergrowth was a bit sparse, but so far so good. The clump of ferns was doing its job. Anyhow, it would soon be time to go, another half an hour at the most until it all kicked off.
Sinclair had been very clear; discuss the mission with no one and report directly to him, and him alone. So be it. This one was so secret that the normal chain of command was completely bypassed. Only Sinclair and the First Lord of the Admiralty knew the true purpose of the mission. This was something beyond top drawer, ultra-top secret.
He had to admit, the odds for success were fairly modest. He would need a bit of luck on this one. The only saving grace was the hired help. Sinclair had done a good job of cooking up a diversion – an assault on Peenemünde by a larger force of men; this time on the books at Whitehall with the general objective of causing mayhem and destruction. The assault team would certainly do that with demolition experts from Section D of British Intelligence and some South African Special Forces. What was it Sinclair had said? Nash smiled at the thought:
a diversion of sufficient magnitude
, to enable him to slip into the base undetected.
That was all fine and dandy, but the assault team were completely unaware of his presence. The prospect of being killed by friendly fire wasn’t uplifting; but then they
must not
know,
could not
know, the true purpose of the mission, or even of his presence. It was better that way. There was a good chance that some of the men would be injured, perhaps captured alive. There would be nothing they could give away under torture, apart from the obvious: being ordered to blow the place up.
Still, the orders were a bit cryptic: the destruction of any carbon-based device and anything that looked out of place in the workshop building. What did that mean? What did the device look like? How big was it? There wasn’t much to go on. Apparently, Churchill’s orders to SIS had used the phrase
imperative to humanity
. It was at least clear that any, and all, such devices should be utterly destroyed, along with the scientists who built them – the very knowledge of its existence wiped from the face of the earth.
The thought sent a chill down his spine. Nash buttoned up his overcoat some more to keep out the morning air. The bulky civilian clothes weren’t ideal for the job, but were completely necessary. Staying incognito in similar attire to the captive Polish and Jewish labourers at the base was all part of the plan. Blend in with the natives.
He looked at his watch again, and pushed back the ferns to get a better view of the perimeter fence. All quiet, for now. The clock was ticking, the German troops would be up and about soon. Why the hell hadn’t the fireworks started?
Rudy Temple marched smartly towards the main gate at Peenemünde. The clicking of heels resonated on the road, breaking through the quiet of the early morning air. The German uniform grated on his skin; he ignored it – the ruse had to work – they couldn’t get into the camp by force alone. But would the sentries fall for it? The oldest trick in the book: pretending to be something you’re not.
The men looked convincing enough in their German uniforms, not too neat and tidy, but that worn look of a soldier busy with the day job. This time, escorting a delivery of new workers for the camp. The ‘workers’ were the boys from Section D, and they’d outdone themselves this time, playing the role beautifully with their stinking, ragged civilian clothes. He only hoped the sentries wouldn’t notice the somewhat baggy nature of their rags; each man carried a shedload of concealed weapons and explosives. Temple tried not to grin. These likeable British guys didn’t do anything in half measures. Just in case, there was also an insurance plan. The workers pulled a couple of handcarts stacked up with shovels, picks, and other tools. Hidden underneath the tools were a couple of heavy machine guns and enough explosive to start a major firefight – after all, that’s what they were here for.
Temple focused on the main gate.
Only fifty yards to go.
The gate looked flimsy enough, just a wooden frame with some simple wire mesh. The sentry post to the left and the machine gun nest to the right were exactly as expected from the aerial photographs. Two sentries shared a smoke in front of the gates. The machine gunners looked bored in the nest, having probably been there all night. For once, the intelligence had been right. The entrance to the camp had only modest defences; but getting in would require all the brass neck and balls his men could muster. If the game was up before they got through the gate they would all be dead: machine gunned on the open ground.
So far, so good, only a few yards to go.
Temple kept a steady pace. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he quietly clicked the safety off his machine gun. The column came to a halt.
One of his men moved forward, greeting the guards in fluent German. ‘We have a delivery of new workers for you.’ Temple’s linguistics expert handed over their papers with a smile.
‘We are not expecting any new labourers until tomorrow?’ The guard glanced at the papers and then at the trooper standing before him.
Temple’s heart missed a beat. It wasn’t just the German accent that needed to work; the papers forged by the British had to be up to the job as well. If they weren’t they would soon find out.
Temple faced towards the nearest machine gunner, sprung like a coil.
If things go noisy now this guy will die first.
Muttering and the exchange of papers went on at the sentry box.
What the hell is taking so long?
The conversation went back and forth. Temple moved his forefinger under the trigger guard – he would only get one shot at the machine gun nest before they returned fire.
Laughter erupted at the sentry box. Temple gave them a glance.
Christ!
The linguistics man was handing out cigarettes.
Come on get through the damned gate!
Suddenly, all relaxed and casual, the lead sentry waved a hand at his comrade and the entrance was duly opened. All the same, Temple kept his finger on the trigger as they marched through the gate.
The approach road continued on into the base, more or less in a straight line, but running parallel to the shore some hundred yards or so up from the beach. The buildings were clustered into three groupings along the road; the main barracks and living quarters were first, the workshop was another fifty yards down the road, and at the far end sat the main experimental station. Each cluster of buildings was surrounded by trees, so there was plenty of cover to be had.
The plan was brutally simple.
The men would march down the road and be dropped off as three separate work details; one for each cluster of buildings. It was still fairly early in the morning, and with luck, they could contain most of the German forces in the barracks. They had to – they were outnumbered by ten to one. If the German troops could break out in force it would all be over.
Temple took the first and largest team of South African Special Forces to hold the barracks. The demolition crews moved onto the workshop and the experimental station. Each four-man unit consisted of two Sappers with the explosives and the engineering know-how to maximise destruction, and two Special Forces guys armed to the teeth to lay down covering fire.
Temple held his work detail in the road outside the main barracks. He felt vulnerable in the open, but had to wait the agreed two minutes while the other teams got into position. Temple made things look busy by issuing shovels to the work detail; it also cleared the cart sporting the heavy machine gun, which was now positioned nicely in front of the main door. It would just be a matter of quickly removing the tarpaulin and then pouring hundreds of rounds per minute into the barracks. The men inside would not stand a chance. For good measure, some of the work detail moved to flank the building. Feigning a bit of gardening with the shovels, they were ready to toss grenades through the barrack windows.
Temple checked his watch. The two minutes were up. He ripped off the tarpaulin from the heavy machine gun: that was the signal to unleash hell.
He pulled back on the cocking mechanism, the first belt of large-calibre rounds clunked into place. He’d barely cocked the heavy weapon when the first explosion went off, followed closely by several more rapid explosions: the grenades were doing their work.
Dust, splintering timbers, and bloodcurdling screams issued from the barracks. Temple waited at the ready.
The barrack door swung open as a group of men, dazed and confused by the smoke, tumbled down the short wooden step onto the street.
Temple opened fire.
A hailstorm of bullets took them out instantly, and pulverised the door. He arced the weapon to the left, and then to the right, spraying rounds through the front windows; methodically trying to kill as many as possible. The advantage of surprise wouldn’t last for long.