Chapter Thirty-Six
Jaeger timed the moment for the attack from the half- track with great perception. By now the motorcyclists with their short-range barrage from the machine- pistols had the Partisans scrambling all over the slope, seeking altitude. Jaeger stood behind the powerful searchlight which had not yet been brought into play. An NCO called Olden manned the swivel-mounted machine-gun with a range far greater than that of a machine-pistol.
'Olden,' Jaeger warned, 'I think we should have them scattering like ants. Brace yourself for when I turn on the light…'
'I am ready when you are, Colonel…'
There was a bitter note in Olden's voice. Back there in the other gorge he had lost comrades he had campaigned with in the wastes of Russia. Christ, one or two even went back to France, 1940!
The half-track went on rumbling forward, its caterpillars creaking and rattling. Jaeger aimed the powerful searchlight at an extreme angle, turned as far as it would go to the right.
'I'll sweep in a slow arc from right to left,' he called out to Olden. 'Maybe bob up and down a bit.. 'Understood, Colonel.'
Olden swivelled the barrel of his gun far right. They had to work in concert to gain maximum results. He was glad the Colonel was operating the light. Jaeger was alert, ice-cold at such a moment. His night vision was exceptional…
The light came on. A beam like an anti-aircraft searchlight lit up the slope. Tiny figures scattered across the slope made the fatal mistake of turning in surprise, and were blinded by the glare. Olden's gun began to clatter.
From the half-track they saw the figures dropping. The noise of the engine, the tracks and Olden's gun drowned the screams of the Partisans caught in the open. The beam swept towards the left, paused, dropping and climbing while Olden's gun synchronized with the movement' of the beam.
High up on the slope Heljec, leading a group of men up a defile, paused. Snatching a rifle from the man behind, he told them to continue without him and climbed out of the deep notch. Releasing the safety catch, he stood and watched.
Panic. Partisans were running like thoughtless rabbits to escape the probe of the deadly beam. The first priority was to shoot out that bloody searchlight. It would not be easy. The half-track's commander was a clever bastard. He was varying the speed of the vehicle. Not only a moving target – also an erratic one.
Heljec pressed the butt of his rifle firmly into his shoulder. He aimed a score of metres ahead of the half- track's progress, waited. Take out that light and the gunner was blind. Patiently he waited as the half-track crawled up to his line of fire.
The searchlight swivelled without warning. One moment it was a beam of light searching the slope over to his left. Then it moved, jerked, stopped. Heljec was caught in the full glare of the great eye of light.
Heljec dropped. Dropped his rifle. Dropped to the ground. He was rolling as he hit the earth. He spun like a child's top with incredible speed. Hands clasped on top of his head. Forearms protecting his face. Rolling. He reached the edge of the defile, rolled over the edge, dropped six feet and hit the base with a thud.
He had just reached the edge when Olden's gun began to hammer. As he dropped out of sight slivers of rock slashed off by Olden's bullets skimmed over his head. He lay where he had fallen on his bruised shoulder, listening to the drum-fire. Waste your bloody bullets, you stupid mental deficient…'
In the gorge below, both Olden and Jaeger were convinced they had scored another hit. There had been only a fraction in time between Olden's barrage following the searchlight beam and the figure with the rifle dropping.
'Cease fire!' he ordered Olden, and doused the searchlight.
From the viewpoint of military tactics he was correct. He had fully exploited the element of surprise. He had caused heavy casualties among the Partisans. The sight of a man standing aiming a rifle warned him the surprise was gone. The half-track – with the searchlight turned on – had become a potential target.
'We've tanned their hides!' Jaeger shouted. 'Now, get to hell out of it – join up with the others in the plain.'
'Perhaps we should walk past our apartment – to confuse the men who are following us,' Roessler suggested.
His glasses were already misted up again. He was confused and depressed. A superb wireless operator, a man of stubborn courage, he was hopeless in the present situation. Unlike his wife.
'Don't be silly,' she said. 'They know exactly where we live. The thing to do is not to let them know we've rumbled them. We carry on as usual…'
'It could be very dangerous… Anna,' he observed suddenly, 'look at that stationary car. You can't see inside it…'
'Don't try. Act normal. Just walk across the street to our apartment.'
She spoke confidently but the car – parked dead opposite to their apartment block entrance – had fine- mesh, dark-coloured curtains drawn. It was impossible to see whether there was anyone inside.
'Coffee!' Roessler said once they were inside their apartment.
'I'm already making it.'
Roessler had no vices except coffee – of which he consumed litres. He walked restlessly over to the window…'
'Don't twitch those curtains!' warned Anna.
'What are we going to do? Those two men on the tram are standing in the rain with their hands in their pockets. This really is dreadful. And tonight I have to contact Woodpecker…'
'You'll feel better after coffee. We must contact Masson.'
Roessler cheered up a little at her mention of the chief of Swiss counter-espionage. Then, standing by the window, careful not to touch the curtains, he froze. Blinking, he took off his glasses, put them on again and stared down into the street. He was excited as he called out.
'Anna! Brigadier Masson is here! He has just got out of that car. He's coming over to see us..
'In broad daylight!' She appeared with the pot of coffee and cups on a tray. 'You must be wrong…'
Brigadier Roger Masson, dressed in civilian clothes, strolled over the deserted street and pressed the bell. Roessler operated the release button for the downstairs front door without even checking his identity on the speak-phone. He had the apartment door open as the Swiss came up the stairs, his normally cheerful expression grave.
'You should have made sure who it was,' he said mildly. 'I must ask you from now on to take every precaution. Things have changed – and not for the better.'
Masson was choosing his words with care. It was a delicate business, this visit to Roessler at his apartment. He had to alert him – but not alarm him.
The Swiss counter-espionage chief was nervous and sensitive – attributes he normally concealed with a cheerful manner. The fact that he was dressed in his civilian clothes didn't help, he felt more at home in uniform.
'Coffee?' suggested Anna. 'Let me take your coat and hang it up – it's damp…'
'That's very kind of you…'
As he took off the coat Masson wandered over to the window and gazed into the street. Roessler joined him; his eyes behind the glasses had a feverish look.
'I am being followed. Since several days. It was Anna who first noticed…'
'For one week,' Masson said with typical precision. 'They are my men – working round the clock in relays. It is merely a precaution for your protection.'
'Why now? Something has happened?'
'I wouldn't say the timing has any particular significance. It is simply that your work is so important – to us as well as to the Russians…'
Masson sat down in an armchair by the small table where Anna had placed his cup of coffee. Roessler joined him in a nearby chair and drank greedily from his own cup, his eyes never leaving the Swiss.
'This is 1943,' he said after consuming half the cup. 'It is now over two years since Hitler invaded Russia.
