Dead eagles, p.30
Dead Eagles, page 30
The black object was a No. 69 Bakelite concussion grenade. He stuck it in the left side pocket of his cashmere overcoat with the two spare magazines for his Colt .38 Super.
“Particularly when there ain’t no Plan B.”
He gave the two girls a wink, pulled the High Standard out of his belt holster, held it behind his back, then stepped round the corner and walked straight toward the Blue Duck. His well-worn cowboy boots hardly made any noise at all in the snow.
As he approached, the Luftwaffe airmen looked up warily from their cigarettes. Apparently they did not recognize his uniform for what it was, and not taking any chances, they quickly snapped to attention and saluted. “Heil—”
Without breaking stride, Major Randal quickly shot them both two times in the head with the silenced .22-caliber pistol at point-blank range before they could even drop their salutes. The two Germans crumpled to the pavement without a sound and lay glassy-eyed on the sidewalk next to their still-glowing cigarettes. As he walked past, he pumped one more round into each of the prone Nazis for insurance.
At the door to the Blue Duck, Major Randal paused long enough to slip the High Standard pistol back into its holster, and in one smooth, well-practiced motion, he drew the Colt .38 Super from his chest holster and cocked it. He kept the Browning A-5 in his left hand, tight to his side under the coat, trigger guard forward.
Then with the big Colt automatic held straight down against his leg, he stepped through the door, pushing aside the heavy blackout curtain behind it, and on into the bar. The small room was crowded, and it was almost completely dark inside. Major Randal stepped a half pace to the right and placed his back flat against the wall to allow him time to assess the situation and give his eyes a little time to adjust.
A combat flying squadron normally consists of twelve to fifteen aircraft. Stukas, having a single pilot, translated into twelve to fifteen flying officers per squadron. Allowing for combat losses, which had been excessive for Stukas in the Battle of Britain, pilots on leave, injured, or sick, or those who had other plans for the evening, Major Randal had not unreasonably expected to find no more than six or seven highly inebriated pilots at play in the Blue Duck.
To tell the truth, he had been counting on fewer than that.
No such luck, not tonight. The place was packed tight. There appeared to be a sea of men and a number of women in the tiny room, though that was only an illusion because the pub was so small.
Unknown to SOE, the Stuka dive-bomber squadron was being pulled out of combat and rotated back to Germany to refit after heavy losses. An FW 190 squadron flying the latest model high-performance fighters had arrived to replace them. As so often happens, the intelligence information was almost, but not quite, accurate. Major Randal had arrived at the Blue Duck smack in the middle of a change-of-command celebration, with the better part of two squadrons of pilots in attendance.
In the far back of the crowded, dark room was a small stage. A blonde torch singer in a black corset, garter belt, fishnet hose, and six-inch heels, holding a black top hat in one hand and a silver-headed cane in the other, was sitting on a tall stool doing her best with a Marlene Dietrich song. A small, round spotlight illuminated the vocalist. She was coming to the end of her rendition. The singer was not giving a particularly convincing performance. Marlene Dietrich was the personification of decadent and world-weary; the blonde looked young and pretty. She could sing.
Regardless of what flag they fly for, combat pilots at play are not known for restraint and decorum. The men were not paying much attention to the performance. The disheveled and partially disrobed women scattered around the room partying with them were even more raucous, intentionally attempting to distract the pilots from the good-looking singer. One, naked except for her black patent leather high heels, was dancing on a table. The shoes, Major Randal noted from the shadows, sported little yellow and black polka-dotted bows.
The Luftwaffe pilots were doing their best to drown with alcohol the high level of stress induced by modern air combat operations flown against a resourceful and determined enemy who did not seem to understand that they were defeated. The Nazi fliers had been drinking since long before sundown. There was not a sober person in the room. These Eagles were totally smashed, just as their counterparts across the Channel in the Blind Eye were right this minute.
One group of pilots in the bar was exhilarated and more than a little relieved at surviving a highly dangerous combat tour. The other was anxious and excited at taking up frontline duty right on the very tip of the Luftwaffe’s aerial spear. As the song came to an end, the revelers cheered drunkenly.
Major Randal took it all in. The setup was exactly the way it had been laid out for him by Captain Lady Seaborn, except for the large number of pilots present. As he sized up the room, it was difficult not to reflect on something Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone liked to say from time to time when things were at their absolute worst: “It’s always darkest before pitch black.” Looking at all the Nazis packed in the room Major Randal concluded this must be what pitch black looked like.
The bartender asked him a question, which was most likely, “What would you like to drink?” Not speaking a single word of French, Major Randal said, “I’ll have a Black Strap.”
42
GUNFIGHT AT THE BLUE DUCK
THREE HIGHLY INTOXICATED GERMANS STANDING AT THE END of the bar turned woozily, shocked to hear English spoken in their presence. The men were the first live Stuka pilots Major John Randal had ever seen up close. He flashed back to the dive sirens screaming, the intentional terror bombing and cold-blooded strafing of civilians at Calais, and the skin on his cheekbones grew tight. He had the distinct impression of Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy standing right there next to him whispering in his ear, “Watch the front sight close, touch her off, and adios—take your time in a hurry.”
Major Randal went straight to work.
In one fluid motion, he brought the Colt .38 Super up to eye level, aligned the gold bead on the front-sight post, and began to fire. One of pilots, he noticed, was wearing the Knight’s Cross around his neck on a thick red, white, and black-striped ribbon. His first shot went straight through the Knight’s Cross choker.
“Now that’s a sore throat,” Major Randal rasped.
The three haughty blond Aryan supermen leering at him went down in a tangled pile as he continued to fire.
Sliding the A-5 up on the bar, and standing with his back to it, he gripped his Colt .38 Super in both hands and shot the two startled pilots at the table closest to him. The lithe, auburn-haired woman sitting with them let out a high-pitched scream like a panther. Terrified, she jumped up and took a bullet meant for the pilot at the table behind her. The round went straight through her unbuttoned blouse and struck the pilot behind her, knocking him out of his chair.
Pandemonium erupted, men and women screaming in panic, and the room went blurry with movement. Suddenly the lights came on full bright, which was to his advantage. The last thing people who have been drinking long hours in a dark pub want is harsh white light shining in their eyes. Now he could see his sights clearly.
Shooting the way he had trained, Major Randal was taking his time in a hurry, careful not to move out of arm’s reach of the A-5 shotgun on the bar, calling his shots. He would have preferred to be able to move around the room but was forced to stay near the bar; circumstances dictated a need to keep the Browning 12-gauge close at hand to repel boarders in the event the Nazis managed to get their act together and charge him en masse. And he needed to keep his back against something solid.
Major Randal was hitting what he was aiming at, firing rapidly but carefully picking each shot. Pilots jumped up and attempted to draw their sidearms or scrambled away like crabs to get out of the line of fire; when they moved, he shot them. Some pilots sat paralyzed; he shot them. Other pilots tried to take cover under tables; he shot them where they hid. One attempted to draw his Luger service pistol and was so frightened, intoxicated, or such a poor gun handler that he blasted himself in the stomach.
A pilot came up off the floor from behind an overturned table with a small Mauser pocket pistol blazing. Major Randal shot him in the forehead. Another pilot charged out of the latrine at the far end of the bar. As he ran, he was firing a P-38 as fast as he could pull the trigger. Major Randal shot the man twice, the bullets making little tufts to the left of the ribbons on the pilot’s chest. Major Randal realized he was seeing things in slow motion, a sensation he had experienced before.
He reloaded for the second time. The first had been so fast and automatic he barely remembered it. Two senior officers, the JU-87 and the FW-190 squadron commanders, were crouching behind an overturned table firing their small Walther PPKs over the top. He shot them both through the wooden tabletop.
A stocky pilot wearing his crumpled hat cocked back on his head, his shirtsleeves rolled up, sat at the drums slightly to the right of the blonde singer, frozen in place, holding his drumsticks in midair. Major Randal shot him off the stage.
Three desperate pilots, apparently weaponless, grabbed beer bottles by the neck, lurched to their feet, and rushed him, drunkenly stumbling over overturned chairs and tables in an attempt to gang tackle and beat him to death. Major Randal reached back, laid the Colt .38 Super on the bar, picked up the 12-gauge Browning, brought it around, and shot the three charging men down, point-blank. The last man standing was so close to the shotgun’s barrel when it discharged into his chest that his beribboned blouse caught fire and flamed briefly.
A bareheaded pilot tried to low-crawl out the door, and Major Randal shot him. Screaming incoherently, a tall blond pilot jumped to his feet and ran to the door, but then, inexplicably, he paused to claw at his overcoat. Major Randal shot him. Why had that man stopped?
Then, there was simply the sound of women screaming and the smell of cordite. Besides the screaming women, the only people left alive were the singer and the bartender, who was standing petrified next to the light switch. Had he turned the lights up to give me an edge?
From start to finish the fight could be measured in seconds.
“Are you totally insane?” the blonde on the stage screeched hysterically in English from where she was crouched in the spotlight. “You slaughtered almost two squadrons of Nazi pilots you bloody madman!”
By reflex Major Randal covered her with the Browning A-5 shotgun, both eyes open over the top of the stubby chopped-off barrel.
“I’m your contact, you idiot!” the torch singer shrieked, leaping off the stage. “Get me out of here before the rest of the murderous Nazi slime comes back!”
“Who’s coming back?”
“Two carloads of pilots drove off over an hour ago to pay one last visit to their girlfriends at Madame Meme’s bordello. We have to get out of here right now.”
Major Randal tossed her an overcoat from the rack inside the door. He noticed that a number of pistol belts were hanging on the pegs under the coats. That had been a mistake. He knocked the coats off the rack with the barrel of the A-5 then scooped off the pistol belts and slipped them over his left shoulder.
“Slow down, lady; don’t put the coat on until I tell you to. Wouldn’t do to get taken for a German out on the street; there’s a couple of trigger-happy Royal Marines out there.”
“They could not possibly be any worse than you!”
Outside, right at that moment, one of those Royal Marines detected a dim glow. The lights were the last thing she wanted to see.
“Car lights, twelve o’clock,” Royal Marine Plum-Martin announced.
“I see them,” Captain Lady Seaborn responded without turning her head. She was intently focusing on the door of the Blue Duck, both eyes open over the sights of the heavy Thompson submachine gun she was resting against the corner of the building. The muffled shooting inside the pub had ceased. She was deeply concerned. The gunfire had not seemed to go on for very long; in fact, the shooting had been over quite fast, which could mean John was in trouble.
“Wait until the car approaches really close, Pam.”
The glow grew into the cat’s-eye lights the German military favored for driving during blackout conditions. The vehicle was a field gray Mercedes sedan. When it reached the road junction, Royal Marine Plum-Martin raised her Thompson to waist level, locked it tightly into her hip, and caressed the Thompson’s curved trigger. When the car was approximately thirty feet away, she commenced fire.
The monster .45-caliber rounds—each as big around as a cigar, triggered in short, crisp bursts of three or four rounds per burst—hammered into the luxury touring machine, chewing it into a smoldering heap of junk. True to her orders, she kept firing burst after burst into the passenger compartment of the Mercedes until she had emptied the entire magazine.
While Royal Marine Plum-Martin was changing magazines, a second vehicle—a dark BMW also equipped with cat’s-eye blackout lights—materialized, swung around from behind, and pulled up next to the smoldering wreck. There was drunken singing coming from the car and then a dull, hollow “cruuunch” caused by what sounded suspiciously like a champagne bottle being dropped out the passenger window onto the cobblestone. The pilots inside clearly did not comprehend what had happened. The fog of war, compounded by many hours of hard drinking following a long day’s combat flying, had the German aviators firmly in its clutches.
“Jane!”
“Cover the Blue Duck,” Captain Lady Seaborn replied in a cool, poised, professional tone as she spun to her left, bringing the Thompson down off the corner where she had been resting it. She tucked the hard wood stock of the weapon into her hip the way she had been coached and commenced firing.
The windscreen spider-webbed from the impact of the big bullets, then it shattered completely. Steam shot up from the BMW’s radiator. All jocularity inside the car’s passenger compartment immediately ceased. The Thompson submachine gun hammered away in short bursts for what seemed like a terribly long time before finally running dry.
“Here comes John,” Royal Marine Plum-Martin called out tersely. “You are never going to believe what he is bringing with him.”
As he went out the door of the Blue Duck, Major Randal called back to the bartender, “If I were you, I’d hit the deck.”
Clearing the building, Major Randal pulled the pin on the concussion grenade and tossed it back inside the bar underhanded, hoping to discourage anyone who might have been playing possum from getting up and trying to be a hero. Then he turned and headed for the dock. The torch singer, lugging the heavy overcoat, was struggling hard to keep up. She was having tough going on the cobblestones in the spike heels.
The two cut straight across the street, ignoring the two shot-up vehicles. Behind them came a short ugly “Whuuump” followed by the tinkling sound of windowpanes disintegrating.
The blackout curtains blew out of the Blue Duck’s broken windows and dangled down outside. No one would be coming out of that bar for some time. And, if they did, their ears were sure to be ringing and they were going to be highly disoriented.
“Slow down, let me take these lousy heels off,” the Marlene Dietrich impersonator complained loudly as she hobbled along at high speed.
“Hurry up, lady,” Major Randal said. “We’ve got a boat to catch!”
As they came past Captain Lady Seaborn and Royal Marine Plum-Martin, Major Randal observed, “That’ll teach ’em to bomb your favorite jewelry store.”
Both of the Royal Marines shot him an exaggerated dirty look and then swung in behind, walking backward and opening fire on the parked vehicles in front of the Blue Duck to cover their withdrawal. This time they each held the trigger down, running their magazines to hose the entire area. The two .45-caliber Thompson submachine guns working in tandem produced an awesome amount of firepower. One of the automobiles caught fire from a spark caused by a ricochet off the cobblestone street, igniting a trail of gasoline that spilled out of the vehicle’s bullet-perforated gas tank. Eventually the running flame spread to the nearly full tank. The car blew up as they went around the corner to the dock. The loud explosion echoed through the village.
The four pounded down the dock to where Brandy was waiting, gunning the engines in the Chris-Craft. As instructed, she was watching the Rolex, counting the minutes.
“Whoa, John,” she shouted gaily when she looked up and saw the protesting woman in her corset and garter belt he was dragging along with him. “Leave it to you to take the time during a gun battle to strip-search the women.”
“Get the hell out of Dodge, Brandy!” Major John Randal ordered through gritted teeth as they all piled haphazardly into the speedboat.
Giving Brandy Seaborn an order like that was dangerous. The Chris-Craft surged forward so hard it snapped everyone’s head back. Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn and Royal Marine Pamala Plum-Martin were both laughing hysterically as the speedboat roared out into the Channel.
No one on board could actually believe they were still alive.
“What are you two laughing at?” the outraged singer demanded as she struggled into the liberated Luftwaffe pilot’s overcoat. “I happen to be your contact—not some piece of fluff.”
“Fooled us,” Royal Marine Plum-Martin quipped. “Anyway, we are laughing at John, not you.”
“He’s a barrel of fun, all right. The lunatic killed practically everyone in the whole village, including the mayor’s wife. I thought for a minute he was going to murder me,” she raged. “What could this maniac serial killer possibly have done tonight you might think is even remotely funny?”
“John has a reputation for saying ‘Let’s get the hell out of Dodge’ at the end of every mission, like cinema cowboys in the flicks,” Captain Lady Seaborn explained, still laughing. “Everyone wants to be able to claim they were there and heard him say it. We just did.”
“My lucky night,” the singer snapped tetchily. “You people are sick!”
