The Return

THE RETURN

By

Steve Wilson

Copyright 2013 Steve Wilson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Author’s notes

Home Run

In the Bag

A Hitch

The Pitch

Disiplinaire

The New Recruit

If at first you don't succeed

The Return

The Last Gasp

The Agenda

The Reason

The Rescue

The Search

Epilogue

Glossary of Equipment and Aircraft

Acknowledgements

Author’s notes

Incidents within this story were inspired by real life events that occurred during World War Two. It is generally well known that Wehner Von Braun, the famous Nazi rocket scientist, did surrender to the Americans in 1945 and he was indeed part of the Apollo Moon program.

There were certainly two guns of the Royal Australian Artillery that held off the German 5th Panzer Division at Brallos Pass in Northern Greece. The battle to keep open the evacuation beach at Kalimata, including the Maori Battalion bayonet charge, did occur.

The POW camps mentioned in Greece, Austria and Germany did exist, as did the Holiday camp at Genshagen. These camps housed significant numbers of Australians.

Sachenhausen Concentration Camp did house many VIP prisoners, including European leaders. British Commandos held there were invariably executed on the orders of Hitler – in particular his secret Kommadobefehl – Commando Order issued after the Dieppe Raid in 1942. Three survivors of the famous Great Escape from Stalag Luft III did indeed transit through Sachenhausen.

The OSS did in fact parachute small teams (Operation Tool) deep into Germany and were the only Allied special forces agency to do so.

The enclave encompassing Lubeck, Kiel and Hamburg was one of the last Nazi strongholds of the war. Admiral Doenitz, Hitler's successor, ordered it be held to facilitate Operation Hannibal, the evacuation of vast numbers of Germans from captured territory in the East.

The Lebensborn organisation did exist. It was a Nazi program set up by the SS that provided maternity services to SS wives, unmarried mothers and orphanages. Thousands of Polish children who were considered Aryan enough were kidnapped and subjected to Germanisation.

Home Run

March 1945

The Baltic Sea

The tired old fishing boat pushed sluggishly through the choppy seas under its ancient canvas sails. The only sounds were the thump, thump, thump of the swell against the hull and the swirl of water in the stern’s wake. The paintwork had long ago faded and peeled away, the underlying timber revealing the grey colour that only comes with many years exposure to the elements. Dawn had just broken and had revealed a lead coloured sky promising neither storm nor calm.

Only one of the three men aboard, Nigel - the British Commando, was an experienced mariner, the remaining two, by necessity, his crew. Using a hand held compass they were heading north by northeast, striking out for the Swedish coast. Despite the bitter cold and sea sickness they had a schoolboy excitement about them that was as powerful as hunger or lust. After years behind Nazi wire, freedom beckoned just beyond the horizon.

One of the forlorn crew members, Harold, clutched the port gunwale for dear life and turned his ashen face skywards. He squinted, held his hand up to ward off the glare. Aircraft! he called weakly, indicating a distant flight of single engine planes headed toward Germany.

Are they German or ours? asked Tom, the rangy Australian soldier, similarly ill-disposed to the sea.

I would hope, at this stage of the bloody war, that they're ours.

One of the aircraft detached itself and banked around in their direction.

What do we do? asked Harold, a note of panic in his voice.

What any fishermen would do. Wave back, growled Nigel from the tiller.

"It's a Focke Wulf 190. Nasty piece o' work" said Harold, the RAF member of the crew and, accordingly, the subject matter expert on all things airborne.

The fighter plane screamed past fractionally higher than the mast. Its distinctive black and white crosses in stark contrast with the low visibility grey colour scheme. They briefly glimpsed the pilot's face staring at them through the cockpit glass and waved meekly at him.

Do you think he bought it? asked Tom.

Wait and see.

They stared intently at the distant aircraft, collectively willing it to keep going. The Focke Wulf banked sharply and returned in their direction, just above the wave tops. Although they were almost a mile away they could hear the pilot accelerate out of the turn, it's eighteen hundred horsepower engine pushing the fighter plane to over four hundred miles per hour.

Shit. Now what? asked Tom.

Grab the guns! replied Nigel.

Mate, they've got twenty millimetre cannons. We've no chance, said Harold.

It might be enough to put his aim off. Got any better ideas?

They dived into the small cabin, retrieved a German Mauser rifle, MG42 machine gun and an MP40 Schmeisser sub-machine gun and lined up on the gunwale.

Start shooting as far out as you can, ordered Nigel.

Just as Nigel opened fire with the MG42, lights flashed from the wings of the fighter plane. A fraction of a second later 20mm shells exploded along the length of the boat, showering splinters, rigging and body parts in all directions. Tom collapsed to the deck, covered in debris and blood, stunned by the explosive force of the rounds. Over the ringing in his ears he heard the deafening roar of the Focke Wulf as it screamed over the stricken craft.

Tom lost track of time when he climbed slowly out if the tangled mess of sails and rigging. He looked up and saw the Sun well above the horizon. He was splattered in blood but had few injuries to justify the amount. He took in the scene before him. The boat was a wreck. The cabin, mast, deck and much of the gunwale were smashed to matchwood. Rope, wire and torn canvas lay everywhere. He could see no sign of his crew-mates except for splashes of blood and pieces of flesh amongst the wreckage. He stumbled about the horror scene clutching and pulling at sails and broken timber until he found Nigel, or at least his upper body. His skin appeared pallid white, flecked with his own blood. Sergeant Nigel Chamberlain of the British Commandos had died a soldier's death: facing the enemy, clutching a machine gun. Of Corporal Harold Brimley, RAF Bomber Command, there was no recognisable sign. Tom collapsed amongst the debris and began to sob like a child, oblivious to the rising water level in the sinking vessel.

Thuringian Forest, Germany

The next day

Private First Class Robert Thompson was manning his .30 calibre Browning machine gun in the snow covered front garden of an abandoned cottage, now housing his platoon from the tail end of the coldest winter any of them could remember. Another cold front heralded the approaching night. Although he wore several layers of clothing to warm his wiry body, wind driven snow slanted under the lip of his helmet causing him to lose feeling in his young, beardless face. He stamped his feet on the ground in a vain attempt to circulate blood to his frozen toes.

Like most of his platoon he was world weary despite his youth, courtesy of seven months of brutal warfare he'd experienced since D-Day. His platoon had just set up for the evening after another day advancing into Germany at the vanguard of General Bradley's 12th Army Group. The fighting had becoming sporadic now that the Western Front had finally collapsed. He eyed, warily, the trickle of miserable refugees making their way westwards, past his position in order to avoid the following day's fighting.

A man not much younger than him detached himself from the wretched line and walked his pushbike over to the sentry position. He approached the private with his hands up and in halting English asked, "Amerika, Ja?"

What is it? responded Thompson through chattering teeth.

I know important prisoners. Near here. Tell your master...your boss.

What prisoners? replied the American, eying him suspiciously.

Scientists. Ones who make rockets.

You don't say. Covering the youth with his rifle, the private yelled over his shoulder, Hey Sarge, fetch the lieutenant. This kraut says he knows where some important prisoners are.

Some minutes later the sergeant and first lieutenant, annoyed at being summoned from the relative warmth of the cottage, emerged and commenced interrogating the young civilian. Not convinced of his story, an interpreter was sought and they eventually established that over twenty Nazi scientists were sheltering in the nearby forest and wished to surrender to the allies rather than the Red Army. The lieutenant wrote a note guaranteeing safe passage to their position, provided none of them were armed.

Early the following morning a well-dressed, but dishevelled group of refugees emerged from the adjacent tree line and made their way toward the platoon position, now graced with the presence of the Battalion Commander and his entourage.

One of the group, a distinguished looking man in his thirties, detached himself and approached the Americans. In heavily accented but nonetheless good English he said rather imperiously, My name is Professor Wernher Von Braun. We are no threat to you. Merely scientists who wish to offer our services to the Allies.

The CO and his Executive Officer exchanged glances. There had been stories of senior Nazis shedding their uniforms and trying to pass themselves off as something other than what they were. Toss 'em in the cage, referring to the local barbed wire enclosure intended for POWs. Let Division figure out who the hell they really are, ordered the CO.

To the protestations of the prisoners, GIs descended upon them, turned out their pockets and relieved them of their watches and other expensive accoutrements before herding them to the rear at gunpoint

The Baltic Sea

His Majesty's Submarine Trespasser

Lieutenant Timothy Ross, the Trespasser's oncoming duty officer, stood in the centre of the complex mass of hydraulic pipes, gauges, hand wheels and assorted brass fittings that made up the submarine's cramped control room. He had long ago learnt to live with the pungent smell of hydraulic fluid and body odour of the seven other men working in a space no larger than a child's bedroom. Their orders were to observe the Kreigsmarine mission to evacuate thousands of cutoff German soldiers and refugees from Prussia and occupied Poland before the Red Army arrived.

Up periscope! ordered the Lieutenant. The search periscope, one of two, swished into position hydraulically. He grasped the knurled handles, folded them down and spun around as quickly as possible in order to reduce the tell-tale signature of the periscope breaking the water's surface. He suddenly stopped and quickly turned back in the opposite direction, adjusting the rotating collars on the handles for magnification and azimuth. Possible shipwreck survivors, four hundred yards. Fetch the Skipper.

Summoned from his cabin, the captain was a weary former trawler skipper whose lined face betrayed the stress of years of underwater warfare. He looked through the periscope for a good minute. He observed a floating mass of wreckage in the poor light caste by the overcast sky. Although ships were, in normal circumstances, obliged to rescue shipwreck survivors, they were still at war. The captain had to consider the safety of his crew, after having survived almost five years of conflict. The Baltic had been a German lake for most of the war and although there was only weeks left to go, the Kreigsmarine still posed a significant danger. The command Action stations echoed throughout the boat.

Chief, the captain called to the Bosun's Mate. Have a party ready with small arms to man the conning tower. Mr Tomkins, he addressed one of his junior officers. Have a boarding party standing by.

The Trespasser surfaced a hundred yards from the floating wreck of the fishing boat. Lookouts with binoculars scrambled to all corners of the conning tower and declared the surrounding seas and skies clear. Other sailors manned the railing with rifles and anti-aircraft machine-guns, whilst others unclamped and loaded the four inch deck gun. The novelty of fresh air was swiftly curtailed by the freezing Baltic conditions that chilled their lungs with each painful breath. The frozen steel railing they gripped, like some reverse electric current, seemed to want to drain the very life from them.

I can only see one survivor sir, remarked one of the lookouts, vapour escaping his mouth as though he was smoking a cigar. Can't tell if he's alive or not.

The Captain called down to the foredeck. Mr Tompkins, go and investigate.

The young Sub-Lieutenant and a small party made their way toward the wreck of the fishing boat in an inflatable black rubber raft. He and two ratings, weapons drawn, scrambled over the half sunken wreckage searching for survivors and found a barely conscious crew member cradling a German machine-gun.

"Hande hoch! War's over for you Jerry," stated Tomkins, his pistol levelled at his captive.

Bugger off you Pommy bastard! came the weak reply.

One week later

Versailles, France

Supreme HQ Allied Expeditionary Force

Herman Johnson, a Deputy Secretary from the US State Department and Dr Errol Haskins, the US Government's Chief Scientist were ushered into one of the luxurious suites of the Trianon Palace Hotel that served as SHAEF accommodation. Accompanying them was a colonel who was assigned to take care of the German scientists who, after their bona fides had been established, were now given VIP treatment. Seated at a table finishing a sumptuous breakfast was Wernher Von Braun and two of his colleagues. The Americans had made him an offer the day prior: come and work for us and you'll avoid any war crimes unpleasantness.

After two days of intense interrogations by Dr Haskins and a battery of scientists and weapons experts, Von Braun discovered that they were years behind the Nazis. They could barely hide their excitement about his work. Perhaps they shared his passion for future space exploration. It made a pleasant change from working with those oafs from the Wehrmacht and SS who only realised the full potential of his research when it was too late.

Good morning gentlemen, said Johnson cordially. Has Colonel Dwyer been looking after you?

Indeed he has Mr Johnson.

So Wernher, have you considered our offer?

Very tempting sir, he replied coolly as he wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. I do, however, have one condition.

You're not in a position to negotiate Wernher.

Oh, I think I am, he retorted with a barely disguised smirk. Dr Haskins and his colleagues were positively salivating over the morsels of information I fed them. You need me far more than I need you.

Johnson paused. Von Braun had called their bluff. He held knowledge that would give the U.S. an enormous edge over the Soviets who were likely to be a massive threat after the war. OK. So what do you want?

Guarantee the safety of my family. I do not wish my wife and children to fall into Soviet hands.

Why didn't ask about this before now?

I did not have any negotiating power. Now I do.

Where are they?

Lubeck, at my wife's mother's house.

Where the hell's Lubeck?

Royal Navy Submarine Base

Harwich, UK

Major Darren Callaghan of the Australian Military Mission stood at the end of the gangplank as matelots from the HMS Trespasser filed past him. A veteran of campaigns in North Africa and Syria, he had remained behind when the Australian Army returned home to face the Japanese threat. He had secured a plum posting to Australia House, something his ever expanding waistline testified to. He was tasked with liaising with the British Army and to prepare for the eventual return of thousands of Australian POWs. But today he was waiting to meet an Australian Army Sergeant who had made an amazing escape from captivity.

Are you lookin’ for me sir?

Callaghan turned to see a tall, gaunt, dishevelled man at his side wearing second-hand navy dungarees and a filthy woollen jumper. The first thing he noticed were deep blue eyes contrasting with jet black, unruly hair curling from under a moth eaten beanie. His face looked thinner than it once must have had been, emphasised by his long straight nose and a week's stubble. The corners of his mouth were turned up slightly, not mocking, just the hint of a smile that had long ago vanished. Are you Sergeant Mueller?

Yes sir.

You look like you've been to hell and back, said the major, vigorously shaking Tom's enormous, calloused hand. Although the grip was light, he sensed there may have been a time that Tom could have easily crushed his fingers. Major Darren Callaghan. Good to meet you. C'mon, let's get you down to London and clean you up.

Tom was bundled into a car and whisked to a London bound train.

I've checked your records Sergeant. Captured in Greece in Forty One, sent to POW camps in Austria and Germany. The Red Cross lost track of you in forty three after you escaped. And now, out of the blue, you turn up near dead in the Baltic Sea. Bloody amazing. Have you had breakfast? I reckon you could do with a feed.

I'll be right sir. The Navy boys've looked after me for the last week.

By the way, we've cabled your next-of kin to let them know you're still alive. You'll get the opportunity to send a telegram yourself later today. Now, you'll have to spend a couple of days with MI9, the agency charged with assisting POWs escape from Europe. They'll have you medically examined and they're keen to hear your account of your escape. Once they're done with you, we'll put you up at one of our RAAF squadrons in Norfolk until transport back to Aussie can be arranged.

If it's all the same to you Sir, can I stick around until the Germans surrender?

The major stared at him in disbelief. Surely after five years away from home you must want to get back? You'll be entitled to immediate discharge and you'll have, what, four years of back pay.

Tom paused. I just want to see Hitler finished off.

The major, perplexed, replied, I'll look into it.

When they emerged from Marylebone Station Tom was struck by the almost cosmopolitan atmosphere of the Londoners. With the War practically over, they had a spring in their step, were well dressed and were getting on with their lives. Tom caught a whiff of perfume from a passing woman. He was transported back to a time before the war, before the camps, before the misery and death. The major, in his smart service dress uniform, was not out of place, many passers-by, however, stared at the shabby hobo at his side.

The major led him across the street to the Great Central Hotel, a magnificent palace-like building which took up the entire city block. Union Jacks flew either side of the imposing clock tower that chimed the top of the hour. Tom felt like an intruder as he crossed the foyer's polished parquet floor, past the mahogany concierge desk, grand staircase and into one of the ornate wooden panelled lifts. Like a small child on his first outing to the city he gingerly stepped inside. He promptly grasped the cool brass hand railing as the lift propelled them upward.

Everything alright Sergeant?

Yeah, fine. I haven't been in one of these for years.

They entered a suite of rooms converted to offices