Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

Buller and Scholn shuffled off across the ground, wordlessly tapping the shoulders of those men they wanted as they moved down the line. There was little deliberation in their selection; all of the men here were handpicked from Koch’s company, all of them good men. He watched as both men gathered their squads in little clusters away from the edge of the orchard and briefly relayed the objectives to them. Koch summoned the men still lying in the ditch, and they gathered around him.

‘Lads, this should be easy. We’re taking the canteen. I see about thirty men there. None of them is carrying a weapon.’ He looked up at the queue of men under the canteen awning waiting tiredly in line for their breakfast. ‘Fuck it, some of them aren’t even fully dressed!’

The men laughed under their breath.

‘We go in, quietly, no shots if you can help it. Once we’ve got them all, we’ll take them to the hangar. Any questions?’

None of his squad could think of any, and they all shook their heads in silence.

‘Right, on my command, we’re all moving out.’

Koch looked up at his two other squad leaders; they were finished with their briefings and looking at him for the signal.

Here we go.

He nodded, and instantly they were off their knees en masse and sprinting through the long, wet grass of the orchard, out from under the small, squat apple trees and across the shorter grass of the airfield. As they ran the only sound was the grass-softened rustle of boots on the ground and the metallic chatter of buckles and ammo.

Buller and his men veered to the right, towards the guard hut and barricade. Scholn bore left, towards the hangar. Koch and his men continued forward, towards the canteen tent, now only a hundred yards away. Most of the Americans there having breakfast seemed half asleep, and it appeared like none of them had spotted anything yet.

My God, can’t they see us?

They were now only thirty feet away and a few of the men sitting down to eat, looked up and seemed to notice the approaching Germans. The initial response didn’t seem to be alarm, it looked like curiosity; he could imagine them lazily wondering, ‘Who are these guys? Some of ours… practising manoeuvres or something?’

Koch sprinted the last few yards and ducked as he entered underneath the awning, MP-40 raised to his shoulder and pointed at the Americans, now it seemed, finally aware that something was amiss.

‘Down! Now!’ Koch shouted using his limited knowledge of English and gesturing towards the ground with the barrel of his gun. The rest of Koch’s squad fanned out around the men in the canteen.

‘Andreas, get those over here in the middle of the floor,’ he called out.

One of his squad approached the men still standing in line, still holding mess trays, motionless and all staring uncomprehendingly at Koch and his men. He pulled them away from the steaming urns and shoved them towards the middle of the canteen.

‘Down!’ he hissed.

They finally seemed to wake up and comprehend the situation that had suddenly altered their day. A few moments later they were all lying compliantly on the floor, Koch’s men hastily shaking them down for any concealed weapons.

So far so good.

In the meantime, Scholn and his men crossed two hundred yards of open field towards the hangar. It was a relatively small structure, only large enough to house a single transport plane. Outside, parked facing away from the building, were the three DC3s and beside them the fuel truck. As he jogged, he pointed at four of his men and indicated the planes and the fuel truck, they peeled off towards them, weapons at the ready. One of them climbed swiftly into the truck and had it immediately rolling across the field towards the grass landing strip. The other three began checking the planes for anyone hiding inside.

Scholn led the rest of them over towards the hangar and they came to a halt outside the sliding corrugated doors. Scholn took a few seconds to catch his breath.

‘Ernst, Dieter, stay here and guard this doorway,’ he whispered between ragged gasps. He took the other three men of his squad with him inside the hangar. They fanned out and quickly circled the plane but found no one.

Scholn nodded at one of his men. ‘Jan, check inside.’

The soldier slung his MP-40 over one shoulder and pulled himself up inside the cargo hold of the plane. Scholn heard a muffled shout of surprise and a moment later a solitary mechanic emerged from the plane with his hands in the air; behind him Jan emerged intently studying a deck of playing cards. He jogged over to Scholn and showed him the deck.

‘Nice… very nice,’ he nodded appreciatively. The women on this deck weren’t just topless. He cast a glance at the American mechanic, who looked as embarrassed as he was frightened. ‘I presume he was playing solitaire?’

Jan grinned.

Scholn looked down at the deck. ‘When we’re done today, I think I’ll have another look through these.’ He passed the deck back to Jan, who pocketed them quickly.

‘Shit,’ said Buller as he studied the men twenty yards away, outside the guard hut. There were two of them that he could see, both had rifles slung over their shoulders. There might possibly be a third inside the hut; one of the men seemed to be having a conversation with someone inside. He turned to face his squad, all of them kneeling with him behind a stack of crates and awaiting instructions.

It looked like they were going to have to go in shooting. Buller wasn’t so much concerned about any bullets that might whistle towards them, but if the guards weren’t taken totally by surprise there was a chance one of them might slip away out of the front entrance and down the dirt track into town.

He cast a glance over his shoulder towards the hangar. He could see several men walking with raised arms away from the parked-up DC3s towards the building, escorted by another, which even at this distance could clearly be seen to be holding a gun. He turned to check out Koch’s progress and saw men being pulled unceremoniously to the floor at gunpoint. If either of the guards were to turn towards them, they would see something was wrong.

‘Buller?’ prompted one of his men. ‘What do we do?’

Whatever it is, it’s got to be quick.

Buller turned back to study the guards just in time to see one of them pace casually along the length of the barricade and turn round to pace back. He saw the guard look up from his feet tiredly towards the hangar and stop. The guard cocked his head, and then they heard him call out to the other one.

Fuck it, decision’s made for me.

‘Let’s get ’em!’ Buller rose from behind the stack of crates and fired a volley from the hip as he ran. His men emerged behind him, quickly spreading out and racing towards the two guards who now were beginning to sluggishly react to the alarming sight of ten German soldiers only a few dozen yards away and rapidly approaching them. One of them was swifter than the others in coming to his senses and swung his rifle down, firing in rapid succession four unaimed shots towards them. All of them missed wildly, thudding harmlessly into the wet ground. The other guard seemed to have woken up now and dived for cover behind a small sandbag bunker beside the barricade. The first guard dropped to his knee and prepared to fire some aimed shots this time. Buller found himself feeling a fleeting instant of sympathy for the guard as he aimed his sub-machine gun at the young man. It seemed like he’d been the only American on the airfield with his wits about him. He squeezed off half a dozen rounds in a short burst. Three puffs of crimson appeared in front of his chest and the young American was pushed backwards off his feet. Buller’s men covered the ground quickly and no more than three or four seconds later they were vaulting over the sandbag bunker. The other guard instantly dropped his weapon and threw his arms up quickly.