German Army Group South/ Forward Command — October 1941
The horizon seemed endless, white on white — snow and sky — merging into a blur. Heading this far north, it was impossible to tell if it was night or day, or the position of the sun.
The summer dust and heat had given way to drastic temperature drops and mud, miles of mud. Entire columns had come to a halt in the mire, stretched beyond the reach of the supply lines. The advance was a mirage; points on the horizon never seemed to get closer.
Captain Klaus Brandt looked skyward, watching along with the other units the Luftwaffe supply drop, a week overdue. The weather had been severe, turning the diesel in the vehicles into a gel that lodged in fuel pipes, resulting in engine blocks being lifted out, stripped down and cleaned. Hot food was freezing in billet cans before it could be consumed.
The Chechen sniper who had joined up a month earlier remarked this was a pretty mild late-Autumn for this region.
Canisters fell from the sky gracefully attached to parachutes from the aircraft banking up into safer skies. Under distant Soviet strafing fire, they were retrieved and brought to the mobile hospital tents by half-starved soldiers. Hoping for food and medical supplies, they were bitterly disappointed when the canisters were prised open.
‘Christ,’ breathed Brandt — pepper, cigarettes and coffee were all they contained — all of them. He allowed a smile to crack along across his drawn features. ‘Only Kant could get his dream supply drop,’ he mused out loud.
The rest of the unit laughed. Sergeant Erik Kant was the only man Brandt had seen who hardly ate at all. Kant drank coffee of a tar consistency and chain smoked even under heavy fire. If it wasn’t for his inclination to act of his own accord, he’d be a model German soldier. Kant gave a lupine grin amid his beard as he stashed his cigarettes into his top pocket.
The canisters were broken open and the parachutes were cut up to be used as extra layers of insulation under uniforms.
A thin army private approached Brandt and saluted. ‘The General wishes to talk with you and the Sergeant, Captain, Sir.’
They made their way across a rutted field where the Engineer Corps were trying to get vehicles moving. The air was filled with men cursing and engines over-revving. Exhaust fumes rose up into the frigid air, forming gun-grey clouds. Horses and mules were strapped up to heavy trucks and supply half-tracks, and were being whipped to pull them from the mud. In the white night it made a depressing spectacle.
General Maximilian Fretter-Pico stood with his general staff in his command tent reading dispatches when the news of the supply drop reached him. ‘At least we’ll get a decent cup of coffee this week, Gentlemen,’ he said dryly.
Four months into Operation Barbarossa, the army was bogged down and his rear units were fighting a cat-and-mouse-war with partisans and the Red Army. Fretter-Pico smiled at one adjutant’s comment that ‘the front was the safest place to be at the moment.’
He instructed the one unit he could rely on, dispatching horsemen back with wagons to collect urgent supplies. They were travelling back with the light-infantry to Army Group Central. These days any re-supply trip was turning into a suicide mission but, if he was to press on, the army needed fuel, food and medicine and luck with the weather. If not, they would start slaughtering the horses for food as Napoleon had done one hundred and thirty years earlier.
Brandt and Kant entered after being cleared by the sentries. Looking up, Fretter-Pico handed Brandt a de-coded communique from Berlin. ‘Special operation, Captain,’ he intoned before Brandt could speak. ‘This order comes from the very highest level. Your unit is now the property of the Propaganda Ministry.’
Fretter-Pico wasn’t comfortable with Goebbels and Himmler cherry-picking one of his best units. Three months earlier an operation in Norway hadn’t gone to plan and Brandt and his remaining men been outcast to the Russian frontline. They must have really screwed up to be this far away from home. They were very effective soldiers.
Now Goering had put his oar in with some new airship the air force was trying out. What really bothered him was that he was being excluded by the High Command from decisions relating to combat operations in his theatre of war. The SS officer in command was Thor Schenker, Himmler’s golden boy, who swept into the tent as if on cue.
To Brandt he was the Aryan race incarnate: immaculate uniform, clean-shaven, hair cropped to a faint white sheen. Even his armband was the deepest red.
He regarded everyone with haughty contempt, even the General. ‘Is my unit cleared to leave, General?’ His tone was aristocratic, dismissive and superior.
‘Captain Brandt’s unit is making all necessary preparations even as we speak…….’
‘Captain,’ smirked Schenker, straight-armed saluting and clicking his heels.
Kant marvelled at the sheen on Schenker’s boots. It was almost as if he’d glided above the slush and rut-tracks to get here.
‘Captain,’ Fretter-Pico returned a soldier’s salute without looking up from the reports. Schenker’s face turned deep red in fury, his jaw muscles twitching up to his temples. Brandt noted the impetuosity of Schenker’s reaction; it could create a problem in the heat of combat. He wondered how cool his head would remain under fire.
Brandt handed the communique to Schenker after he’d finished reading it. Schenker snatched it like a child. ‘Grid co-ordinates to a landing zone two miles east of the main army group,’ he read aloud.
Judging by the expression Brandt observed, Schenker had been expecting this message.
Brandt and seven of his Alpine Korps were to meet a Luftwaffe transport plane at the grid co-ordinates. Joining them was Schenker and, sitting on the far side of the General’s tent, a film cameraman from Hollywood named Regan was awaiting instructions.
Fretter-Pico handed the two men the last radio message received and decoded:
— Consignment shipped. Moscow — Tyumen — E.T.A. 00.12. / 90 pieces attached -
‘Gentlemen, the clock is ticking. Good luck.’
Brandt didn’t like the SS being involved and the presence of an American film cameraman even less. Personally dispatched by Goebbels, Regan had parachuted in two days earlier with his equipment. Once he had been cleared by the General’s security, he acted secretively and was very precious about his cameras and film. Tripods, sealed strongboxes and additional equipment had been shipped directly from Goebbels’ studios in Berlin.
They can’t get food and medical supplies to their fighting men, but can get a cameraman and equipment into deepest Russia. Brandt, shaking his head at the thought, turned to Kant. ‘Get Olga. She’s coming with us.’
Kant saluted with a smile and left the tent to find her.
Olga, the Chechen sniper, was going to be Brandt’s personal insurance policy. During a skirmish with the Russian Army a month earlier, they discovered her in a clearing about to be hanged from a tree. She had killed a local commissar and his men were dealing with her accordingly. A short fire-fight ensued and Brandt’s men had cut her down after driving off her attackers. Her kills so far were one-for-one into double figures.
Brandt instructed all units not to wear any purloined Soviet winter clothing as Olga would simply target them. Her almond-shaped brown eyes were almost Asian, her dense black hair fixed in a prim coil. Her scouting skills and ability to remain cool in a fight had made her a talisman for the unit. Added to that, she was an Amazon. Any amorous advances would be met with a mean-looking blade sheathed beneath her sleeve, a useful and effective method of communication as she didn’t speak any German. When Sergeant Kant was around, though, she would preen like a feral cat, becoming feminine and friendly. He was the only one allowed near her rifle, camouflaged for winter with white-stained cloth. It looked like a toy in Kant’s hands, but appropriate for her petite frame. Kant, as a favour, had modified her weapon to suit German ammunition.
Olga repaid him with a hot tea made of local lichen scraped from tree bark. The brew was indigestible but Kant, being Kant, loved it and requested more. Olga would ladle the concoction with an approving smile into his billet can.
The journey by armoured half-track to the landing strip through the forest was subdued, each soldier caught up with final preparations. The unit, including Olga and Regan, was kitted out with winter wear and provided with extra rations. The unit comprised two engineers — Rudy Hauptmann and Hans Bader — radio operator Herman Schultz, and Alpine Kommandos Uwe Koheller, Will Voight, and Jan Kramer. These were Brandt’s best men, battle-hardened like Kant, all experts with weapons, explosives and Arctic survival. Voight and Kramer were also equal to Olga as snipers. Brandt, Schenker and Kant sat with them at the back. Kant stared at Schenker who was trying to adjust his twin-lightning bolt insignia on his tunic. ‘Who’s the peacock?’ he muttered to Brandt.
‘Captain Schenker; SS, here to oversee and verify the racial facts of this mission. He answers to Himmler and Goering directly,’
‘Must have run out of civilians to torture,’ replied Kant. He was lighting up a cigarette from the stub in his mouth.
Schenker looked at him as if he’d found him on the bottom of his boot. Kant held the gaze until Schenker looked away, jaw muscles dancing. Regan kept glancing over at the reinforced boxes containing his equipment bouncing up and down on the half-track's floor. His left leg twitched up and down. In fact Regan never seemed to keep still, even in conversation. Every rut in the ground the half-track found led to groaning and outbursts from him as the equipment became airborne for a few seconds.
The runway had been cleared by engineers and a camouflaged Junkers JU/52 stood waiting with skids fitted to the undercarriage. The engines were running to prevent freezing. The team quickly loaded their equipment onto the aircraft, making a special effort not to hurl Regan’s cases to ease his agony.
Once the unit was on board, the plane turned tightly on the cleared snow, accelerating. Taking off at full-throttle, the Junkers climbed steeply up into the low cloud cover, banking westward to meet the train. As in the half-track, no conversation occurred. Regan checked his equipment, all bulky solid 8mm film cameras sealed in waterproof cases. To his relief, nothing had been damaged during the trip. An hour passed and the plane began its decent, banking steeply down, almost pitching into a dive. Looking out of the window Brandt could see only dense forests and snow below. Gradually a huge pre-fabricated building appeared as if sprouted from the ground.
A temporary airstrip had been cleared and a perimeter of anti-aircraft guns towed on trailers surrounded it. Various vehicles moved around and a half-track acted as a temporary radio tower. The unit gave surprised gasps at the size of the building when they stepped out of the aircraft. It was white, the height of the surrounding forest, made of strong canvas fixed on rigid stanchions. It was held firm by ropes attached to piles driven into the ground. At the far end, the fourth wall was missing and inside, sitting low to the ground, was a fully constructed airship.
‘Jesus,’ gasped Regan.
They all stood looking at it for a moment in awe. Crews were moving along gantries and fuel trucks were filling the four engines either side. Like the tent, the airship was white, mottled in places for camouflage, and was no longer than a hundred feet bow to aft.
‘Are we still in Russia?’ asked Kant.
‘About twenty miles from the Siberian border, Gentlemen and Lady,’ said a voice.
They turned to see an Air Force Captain approaching, wrapped in a heavy flight jacket. He was tall, perma-tanned and in another life wouldn’t have looked out of place along the Cote d’Azur. To Schenker’s ire he gave a casual military salute. ‘Welcome. I’m Captain Willhem Rathenow, special flight operations. Beautiful, isn’t she, Captain Brandt?’ He turned back to look at the airship.
The moorings were pulled taut, keeping the entire ship a few feet above ground. There were no markings to indicate she was German, much to Regan’s annoyance. ‘How will the audience know it’s a Kraut airship?’ he moaned aloud. Several engineers heard the outburst and stared at him. Regan was oblivious to the glares.
‘Any problems with partisans?’ inquired Brandt. Like him, Kant and the unit were looking all around the wall of green, trying to penetrate the shadows.
‘No, we’ve only been here a day and a half. Wolves, yes, and unfortunately we lost a sentry last night to a bear. No sign of the poor fellow, but partisans, no. This country is so vast, Captain,’
They trudged into the tent. It was surprisingly warm. As if it were a tour, Captain Rathenow acted as a guide. ‘She took just over 24 hours to assemble. We shipped her in on the Junkers transports outside. The interior is like a beehive, the airframe is treated with fire retardant. The hydrogen mix is contained in small individual cells and stacked into the airframe. Then the whole assembly is bolted together section-by-section. She’s an engineering feat.’
Brandt studied it in wonder. ‘Does she have a name?’
Rathenow smiled. ‘Her name is The Isolde.’
Below the airship, just behind the bridge, was an elaborate rig of chains, pulleys and rigging. The tour ended here.
Rathenow knew the next question before it was asked. ‘She was able to lift a training ‘canoe’ U-Boat out of dry dock last week. We carried it twelve miles without any problems. The item we’re going to lift won’t be as heavy.’
‘Yes, but then you didn’t have every sailor and dock worker shooting at you either,’ said Brandt.
The airship’s outer skin looked flimsy. Sustained gunfire was bound to damage it. He knew the troops protecting the carriage would put up a serious fight. The only guarantee so far in this war was that the Russians would fight to the last man.
Rathenow’s confidence was unwavering. ‘We tested the prototype with small arms fire and machine guns. Nothing short of a field gun will bring it down. The bridge is bulletproof, along with the engine housings and supports. Because of the honeycomb cells, she can fly on as little as fifteen-per-cent effectiveness.’
‘How about fighter planes?’ inquired Schenker, marvelling at the ship’s perfect symmetry.
‘There won’t be any,’ said a voice behind them.
Brandt and Schenker turned to look at a tall white-haired man, resplendent in a fur-lined winter coat. With him, dressed in sable, was possibly the most beautiful woman Brandt had ever seen. He was speaking English with an American accent, the woman translating into German as he spoke.
‘We have learned that a decoy train left Moscow the same time with a staggered fighter escort. It’s like one big flag saying Lenin’s going this way! They even have idiots standing along the line cheering it on.’
Beneath her black sable hat, a few strands of auburn hair had strayed. Her eyes were steel grey and wide-set beneath tidy brows. Her mouth was a bee-stung pout, but not sulky, and her chin inclined toward stubborn. Brandt guessed Nordic or Dutch and observed her eyes taking everything in
Quiet and very intelligent, Brandt sighed inwardly — rich old men and beautiful women, nothing changes. Looking at her he almost forgot the war, imminent death, the cold and hunger. A professional soldier all his life, he had never married and, oddly at this moment, felt older than his thirty-three years. Looking at her and her steady gaze, he felt unsure of what to do next.
Eva found herself directing her translation to the German Army Captain with the steel-grey eyes.
‘Fighter planes would present a problem,’ said Rathenow, ‘but I’ve every faith in your unit, Captain Brandt — ‘
‘- Captain Schenker.’ Schenker was again in superiority mode, no doubt for the benefit of the woman. His helmet had been replaced by a jauntily tilted officer’s hat. ‘This operation is under the Waffen SS jurisdiction. I can assure you, Captain Rathenow, that my unit will perform well in eliminating the security on the train. The Reds will not have time to call for assistance,’
Kant’s reaction was subtle. He stiffened slightly, his eyes burning with hatred at Schenker below his helmet's rim. Olga sensed it too and moved alongside him. Brandt was quietly thankful he wasn’t in their sights. And knowing Kant, this was going to be Schenker’s last trip before an honourable burial in Berlin. The woman in sable’s reaction was interesting. Her attitude had shifted up a gear from cool composure to unease at the sight of the SS insignia. Maybe she’s not Nordic, possibly Eastern European or British?
‘Please, be my guests,’ said Rathenow as he encouraged them towards a small outbuilding alongside the hangar. ‘The airship will be ready to launch in two hours, so let us eat, talk and prepare our plan. We rendezvous with the train at 19:00 hours.’
The airship's crew offloaded the unit’s equipment from the Junkers and carried it onto the airship, with Regan trotting alongside yelling instructions.
They had showered for the first time in weeks in the officers' quarters. Shaving equipment was laid out along with fresh towels, uniforms and underwear. Schenker had gone first, citing seniority, and showered alone. Brandt, Hauptmann, Bader, Schultz, Koheller, Voight and Kramer looked thin as they dried themselves off.
Kant had a scar running across his chest from shrapnel received in France. In the mirrors, their eyes stared out from the hollows of their eye sockets. Without their beards, their faces lost some bulk and appeared more lined and haggard.
‘Only the Luftwaffe could get away with this, an almighty airship in the middle of Russia,’ quipped Hauptmann, slicking his thinning, wet black hair back with a comb. Turning his head he decided he didn’t like it.
Kant was shaving with a cigarette in his mouth, his tongue moving it from left to right as he worked the blade around his face. ‘The flyboys always like to think they’re gods just because their arses never touch the ground.’ The cigarette bobbed.
‘Except when they’re shot down,’ laughed Hauptmann. Hauptmann had now shaved his head, his pate gleaming and red with razor burn. He turned his head left and right in approval at the new look.
‘Showers, razors, food, booze — feels more like the last day before the firing squad, Sergeant,’ followed Schultz. His big arms patted his freshly-shaven jaw delicately. He was known by the team as ‘Der Anker’, ‘The Anchor’. Capable of lifting a man over his head, he had won several strong man competitions around Munich and caused the Quarter-Master General untold problems in finding a uniform that would fit him. He was the nearest thing Brandt had to a pack mule. Sometimes, looking back over his shoulder on a mountain ascent, all that he could see were equipment and supply cases and a pair of arms sticking out from them.
‘It will be in a few hours,’ interrupted Bader. ‘Let’s hope there’s more equipment for us other than that idiot’s cameras.’
Koheller and Voight remained quiet throughout, occasionally smiling at the banter.
‘Let’s hope our last meal has generous portions,’ remarked Kramer, towelling his craggy features. Kramer, the veteran of the unit, was the last to shave. He had fought Franco’s forces in the Spanish Civil War and had been put into Mauthausen concentration camp for it. Prison tattoos covered his chest and arms, and a prison serial number had been branded into his forearm. Brandt had saved him from the gallows, needing an experienced climber for an operation in the Pyrenees. The harder the terrain, the higher the altitude, the better Kramer performed. His entire frame was sinew and bone. Scars and weals embellished it where years of hard mountaineering had taken its toll. He seldom spoke and usually moved around like a ghost.
There was a discreet knock at the door and Olga stepped in. Amid the leers and winks, she disrobed and showered in the furthest cubicle, her knife wedged firmly between her teeth. Never once taking her eyes off the men, she worked the soap through the cable that was her hair.
‘Sergeant, your girlfriend’s a barbarian….’ said Kramer.
‘That’s my girl,’ said Kant with a grin to the mirror.
The table was laid out with exquisite silver service and crystal glasses on a tablecloth of delicate lace. Two large candelabras stood in the middle with candles lit. The company was being attended by Rathenow’s personal staff, with Rathenow himself behaving like the captain of a Mediterranean cruise ship, discussing his wines with Schenker. Regan, to his amazement, got a whiskey-sour.
Brandt and his soldiers declined alcohol, requesting strong coffee instead. They glowered at Schenker quaffing down champagne and shouting over the conversation. The food was delicious, prepared by Rathenow’s personal chef, Raul, accompanied by French wine from Rathenow’s ‘cellar’.
Olga and the translator sat side-by-side in warm army woollens and yet appearing feminine. Both had used belts to turn the bulky material into a dress of sorts.
The American, whose name was Kincaid, sat with Regan drinking whiskey and laughing. The coffee was fresh and served from silver pots. Rathenow, aware of his company, kept it coming in large mugs. Brandt and Rathenow pored over the maps once the meal was finished. The map was Russian, the train’s journey marked in red pen. There was a dried bloodstain framing a bullet hole in the top fold.
The woman, introduced as Eva, translated the map into German and answered any question that was asked. Out of her sable overcoat, she had a good figure, long legs, and a narrow waist, and couldn’t have been more than 25 years old. Brandt was aware of her long fingers tracing the route, elegant like those of a concert pianist. Kant stood back, taking it all in and watching Schenker who was too busy looking at Eva. Kincaid never seemed to be a foot from her at any stage, hovering over them, shouting questions that Eva had already answered.
Brandt called his unit over and the plan was agreed. A sequence of charges would be laid along the track at a point a mile away from their location. Small detonations leading into one large one would force the locomotive to leave the rails without over-turning. The unit would disable the troop carriages and eliminate the security detail.
Regan then discussed his camera angles and wanted to know in what available light he’d be filming in. He was ignored.
Brandt watched the staff clearing the table and looked up at Rathenow.
‘Captain Rathenow, I have a request. As a professional courtesy, I’d like you to put the remaining food onto the transport we arrived in and deliver it to General Fretter-Pico’s forces along with any spare medical supplies you have,’
Rathenow looked at Brandt for a long time before he spoke. ‘Isn’t the German Army able to survive in any habitat, anywhere in the world?’
Brandt didn’t break the stare. ‘Yes, but we have exceeded our expectations in our advance and have stretched the supply line. The glorious advance to Moscow would be accelerated further with Luftwaffe support.’
Brandt let the sarcasm hang before moving on; the bastard wasn’t going to help them. Anywhere else and Brandt would have hit him, and hard.
Eva watched the exchange and was drawn to Brandt’s voice and his cold-grey eyes. Not conventionally handsome, he was attractive with a quiet charisma; a natural leader. She glanced quickly up and down almost as a reflex. He was lean, not muscular but strong, with wide calloused hands and no wedding ring.
Unlike the SS officer, he was without conceit yet looked like he was capable of fighting his corner. She had to remind herself he was the enemy who, along with his friends, had half of Europe under the jackboot. As soon as this was over, and if she survived, she planned to discuss the future with Peter. In the presence of this officer she found herself forcing herself to think of him.
Peter was in Helsinki waiting for her, with a berth booked on a ship to New York. She knew the relationship was coming to a crossroads. The choice for Peter was whether to divorce Martha and start anew with her. She was going to use the voyage to discuss it. He was worried about her situation with Kincaid. She was very close to some very powerful and dangerous men. Chainbridge warned her that she could get killed if Kincaid suspected she was a spy. Women had a habit of coming to harm around him. She had been offered a cyanide tablet to use in case of being discovered, but declined, accepting instead a brooch filled with a liquid agent for inducing strokes, just in case Kincaid got rough.
The airship slipped its moorings, rising gracefully into the weak twilight, ascending to just above tree-height. Keeping this altitude, Rathenow gunned the engines, banking it smoothly away from the pre-fabricated hangar. Within minutes it was in position half a mile from its launch, lying like a shark in the shallows.
Rathenow’s crew watched for enemy aircraft from machine gun pods stuck out from the bridge area. The bridge was warm and roomy, with comfortable seats that allowed for some rest. Brandt was amazed how much a meal, a shave and a shower could change a man. Their uniforms were new also, though a little large for their bodies.
‘If you’re gonna be shown all over the world,’ said Kincaid, ‘you gotta look your best!’ He had remained behind with the stunning girl in black.
Despite his efforts at concentrating on the mission, Brandt’s thoughts kept drifting back to her. He told himself to snap out of it.
Kramer had confirmed all the equipment was sound, the ropes, harnesses and hardware new. Nothing had been left to chance. Schultz, Koheller and Kant were in position below, out beyond the forest’s edge. The explosives were placed along the rail, the timers of Swiss manufacture, water resistant and shock-proof.
Regan was leaning out through one of the doors filming, harnessed to the frame almost horizontal to the terrain below. Another camera was mounted on the bow, taking still photographs for the Propaganda Ministry in Berlin.
The half-track acting as a radio tower linked the airship to Berlin with weather details, especially wind direction. It also acted as an interceptor for any Russian communications in the area. On a secure radio band it kept constant communication to the bridge. After the airship had cleared, the hangar was broken down and loaded onto the transport planes. Within hours, apart from the half-track and the two anti-aircraft batteries hidden in the trees, it was as if the hangar had never been there.
Ten minutes had passed when Schultz’s voice crackled over the radio operator’s headset. The bridge went silent. ‘The Train’s coming.’
Brandt opened the bridge door and slid down the rope to the ground below. The hiss of bodies on ropes beside him, and the thump of equipment landing ahead of them, gave him a rush. From the airship's bridge, he had studied the distant Ural Mountains and agreed with Kramer there would be rewarding climbs there. Maybe sometime in the future the Russians would sue for peace and allow Brandt’s Alpine Korps to climb for the sheer joy of it. Maybe this mission might be the first step to ending the war.
But first they had to get Lenin.