Winter Warriors

German is clever and gets moving, he can cut across the neck of the loop and be ahead of us again. Here I think. This time he will not take time to try and capture the guns. He will tear up the lines so we have to stop or be destroyed. We must move soon to have any chance of beating him.”

The three officers stared at the map. Eventually Perdue said what they were all thinking. “Even if we do, he will still be ahead of us right.” There was a murmur of agreement. “Very well, so there is no point in hurrying. We must think this over and do it right.” His words were interrupted by them being enveloped in a cloud of steam. Moe ‘s engine had come to a halt behind them.

Perdue turned around and looked at the Mikado. One side looked like a scrapyard. “How bad is it?”

“We’re done, Commander. This Mike is finished. We’ve been losing steam pressure ever since the junction and there’s no stopping it. We’re shot up too badly to go any further.”

Perdue turned to the driver of Curly’s-engine. “Can a Mike tow both guns? If we leave the carriages behind?”

The railwayman started to shake his head but was interrupted by a Navy Lieutenant. “Sir, you better see this before making any decisions.”

Perdue followed him back. When he reached Moe he could see what was coming but the Lieutenant pointed it out anyway. “Sir, see the barrel there? A 75 armor piercing round hit it. Deflected away of course, but it took a big chunk out of the metal, right down to the rifling inside. There’s three or four more just like that all down the barrel. And the breech, Sir. It got hit bad. 75s and 50s, three or four of each. Moe is really torn up, Sir.”

It was that, Perdue could see it. If anything the Lieutenant was being over-optimistic. The German gunners had made good practice on Moe and they’d done for the great gun. It was a write-off, irreparable. Behind it the carriages were in a terrible state. Riddled with bullet and shell holes, frozen streams of blood staining the sides. Moans were still coming from inside the carriages while rescuers sorted through the shattered timbers to find the last survivors. Curly had got through relatively unharmed. Moe had taken the worst the Germans could throw at her. How the train had got this far was a miracle.

“We lost over a hundred men, Sir. Many more wounded. Hardly anybody not wounded.”

“Ours or Russians?”

“Just who the hell cares?” The Lieutenant caught himself. “Sorry Sir. No disrespect meant. Some ours; some Russian, most too badly chewed up or burned to tell which. All for nothing. The gun’s gone.”

“Not for nothing Lieutenant. We got the rest of the men through and we can blow the gun up here. Get the teams together. Rig Moe for complete destruction, so there won’t even be splinters left. Use propellant bags for explosives in addition to the demolition charges. Rig the Mike and the carriages as well. Make sure they’re blown up and burned. Rest of the men, get the bodies out. Put them with the casualties from Curly. There’s a junction here; that’s why we stopped. We can resort the consists so we can get the most valuable coaches out. We need another flatcar for the ski troop’s vehicles.”

Perdue looked at the doomed gun and shook his head. He’d hoped to get them both out but the German gunners had been that bit too good. Meanwhile, there was Curly’s train to get ready and the dead to bury. At least here, by the railway, they’d be easy to find in the Spring when they could be buried properly.

“Right, men, to work. We’ve got a train to blow up.” Then Perdue went back to Boldin and Knyaz so see what they could work out by way of breaking through the next ambush. Ahead of him, Curly started moving down the line so it would be well clear when Moe was blown up.

Rue Henri Fazy, Geneva, Switzerland

“We’re being followed.” Henry McCarty made the observation casually but it wasn’t a casual matter. Normally these pick-up runs were a matter of routine, things that just went ahead without any great fuss. To actually be followed was quite unusual. It had happened before, but it had always turned out to be a matter of routine. The Abwehr or Gestapo just following three visiting Americans to see if they were up to something or were just daring tourists. It was not as if they were obviously military party; not an old man and two young women. If Henry had to make a guess, he would say the Gestapo file on them would say that he was some sort of businessmen depositing illegal business earnings in his Swiss bank account while the two women were his mistresses he had brought along for the ride. Most Europeans assumed that American businessmen were also gangsters, Henry reflected, Hollywood films had a lot to answer for.

“The black Mercedes?” Their driver had also noticed the tail. “He has been with us since the airport. What do you wish me to do with him?”

McCarty quickly thought over the options. A gun or knife battle in the middle of Geneva’s old town would attract unnecessary attention. “Lose him. But don’t do it obviously. Throwing a tail will prove we have something to hide. At the moment we could just be normal visitors.”

“Very well Sir.” The driver thought for a second and then made a hard right into the Rue des Granges. “Up ahead of us is the Hotel les Amures. It is a hotel well known for those who wish discrete lodgings for a short period. You take your two ladies in there and book a room, being careful to mention a Herr Klagenfeld when you do so. I will wait down in the street outside for you. That will excite no attention. Eventually, the persons in that car will go inside to check. A man booking in with two ladies will be remembered and the hotel staff will, with some encouragement, confirm you are upstairs. But you, Sir, and the ladies will go up to the third floor, across the fire escape to the Restaurant La Favola on the Rue Jean Calvin and down through the kitchens and out. Another car from Loki will be waiting for you there and you will be gone. As soon as I see the men going in to the Hotel, I also will be gone. There will be nobody for them to follow. Anyway, one cannot get from the Rue des Granges to the Rue Jean Calvin by car. There are many steep steps in the way.”

“That sounds good. Do it.”

Henry settled back in the seat. Beside him Igrat was frowning. “Henry, I don’t like this. Why are we being followed? It smells like somebody was expecting us to arrive. Have we got a leak?”

“We don’t.” Henry was quite certain about that. “And for the same reason we can be sure that Loki and his Orchestra don’t. But you’re right, this doesn’t smell quite right. We’ll have to play along and see what develops.”

The car stopped outside a large, square building that was as undistinguished as the rest of Geneva’s architecture. McCarty got out and opened the door for the two women, then reached inside to get a case. There were two reasons for that. Nobody went into a hotel with one woman, let alone two, without her case. Anyway, the case held his guns.

“Good afternoon ladies, gentlemen.” The hotel clerk betrayed just a slight hint of surprise and a little admiration at the plural. “May I help you?”

“We would like a room please. One on an upper floor for preference. We will be leaving in a few hours, we have a four-thirty appointment with Herr Klagenfeld. But we will be back after dinner.”

“Third floor be suitable? I thought so. Sign here please, Sir.” The clerk looked down at the register. “Ah, Mister John Smith. So many of our guests come from the family Smith. Room 335.” The clerk was not concerned with the women’s signatures, they were likely to change with every visit this American made. Anyway, the slender one looked like a demimondaine if ever the clerk had seen one.

The three took the escalator up to the third floor and walked down the long corridor. Room 335 was at the end, right next to a metal fire escape ladder. The ladder itself was shared with the building next door, accessed by a common metal platform. Henry led the way across it, then in through the door to the next building. This one had only two floors due to the slope on the hillside, so the party went down the steps into the restaurant kitchen. The staff very pointedly did not notice them as they passed the preparation tables until Igrat stopped and sniffed a pot- au-feux that was simmering gently.

“Guys, we have got to eat here tonight.” The she turned her attention to the chef who was already beginning to preen himself. “Let me guess. That was left to you by your grandmother and you have willed it to your grandchildren.”

The chef’s smile turned into a beam. “Madame, you understand perfectly. May I have your autograph?”

Igrat sniffed again, enjoying the heady aroma. “If it’s as good as it smells, you can have a lot more than my autograph.” She made for the exit, swaying her hips suggestively.