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:
‘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.
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
