Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

This had to be the end, Reinhardt realised, as he changed magazines, trying to look everywhere at once. The air was full of the stench and blast of war. Smoke gusted up around the clearing, explosions blooming orange that curled into black. ‘ Captain ,’ whispered Claussen. He held a key out in a trembling hand.

Reinhardt grabbed it, then hauled Claussen over to the kubelwagen . Straining everything he had, he managed to get the sergeant into the passenger seat, where he collapsed in on himself, his body folding around the hard edges of the car. As Reinhardt limped around to the driver’s side, a bullet clapped past his ears, then another. He saw a band of Partisans racing through the woods towards him. He leaned his elbows on the kubelwagen ’s hood and fired. Bullets struck spurts of dust and blood high on one’s shoulder; the others dropped into cover.

Reinhardt flung the MP 40 into the car and fumbled the key into the ignition. Hunched low, he floored the accelerator, spinning the kubelwagen in a tight circle and aiming it back down the track. There were stabs of flame and smoke from the forest, and the trees around him splintered and shattered as Partisans fired, bullets thudding metallically into the body of the kubelwagen .

An explosion in front of the car blinded him in a shower of dirt and earth. There was another one, right underneath, and the rear of the kubelwagen flared up into the air. It twisted around and crashed off the track with an eruption of splintered wood. Reinhardt felt a tremendous blow to his head as he was flung out across the hard ground. The car rolled onto its side, teetered as if undecided, then slumped onto its back. A wheel spun itself down, a length of ripped rubber flapping slower and slower on the car’s chassis.

Groping blindly through the pain in his head, Reinhardt’s hand closed around the Williamson and dragged it up to his mouth. Its metal shine dulled under the dusty heat of his breath, and from far away he remembered another place, hacked from the grudging earth.

Father, Father, it hurts.

FRIDAY

Reinhardt’s eyes fluttered open and he stared upward, confused by what he saw, until he realised it was the light shifting through the tracery of branches in the trees above him. His vision steadied and it all came back in a rush of memory, and with it the pain in his leg, and another in his head.

He was lying on a thick bed of grass, his knee heavily bandaged. Lifting his hand, he felt another around his head, lumped over his right ear, and he ached everywhere, his fingers throbbing heavily. Sounds began to filter in. He could hear an aircraft, somewhere, the sounds of men talking, and a steady murmur like the lap of water along its banks. Pushing himself up, he saw movement through the trees. Lines of men moving steadily through the dim light of the forest. Men dressed in uniforms from a half dozen armies, red-starred caps and blanket rolls, shouldered rifles. Partisans. Off to one side, a group of men knelt around something on the ground, their backs and shoulders all rounded and taut, and on the other side of him, he now saw, were more wounded, all Partisans, and the realisation began to sink in that he was a prisoner.

Reinhardt’s eyes shifted upward as the noise of the aircraft suddenly increased. All around, the forest went still, the marching lines of Partisans melting into cover. There was a blur across the forest’s canopy as the aircraft passed above. No one moved, and then came a ripping sound, like fabric tearing, as an artillery barrage tore overhead and somewhere, not so far away, came a long tremble of explosions. There was silence again, then a ripple of movement as the Partisans resumed their march.

One of the kneeling men stood up. He was wearing, of all things, what looked like a white sleeveless waistcoat, with thick coloured stripes around the deep V of its neck. He assumed a stern expression as he plucked a pipe from his mouth and spread his hands to either side.

‘ Wiiiide ,’ he said, and Reinhardt froze. The others laughed. Someone threw a pine cone. The man grinned, saw Reinhardt, and gestured at him with his pipe stem. The others straightened and looked around. One rose to his feet and walked over to him. He was a tall man, his face and arms deeply tanned, and his hair a wavy blond. He wore a khaki uniform with a major’s insignia on the shoulders. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up high past his elbows, and a big pistol with a lanyard in the butt was holstered on his left hip.

He was British.

He knelt on one knee next to Reinhardt, looking at him with clear hazel eyes. ‘How are you feeling?’

Reinhardt swallowed against a thick, dry mouth and nodded. ‘Thank you, I am well.’

The British officer nodded. ‘Glad to hear it, although it’s no thanks to me and my chaps.’ His German was slow, quite heavily accented. ‘Here’s the doc that put you back together.’ There was a rustle of grass, and Dr Begovic knelt on Reinhardt’s other side. ‘Understand you two know each other?’

Reinhardt let out a long sigh, then smiled. It felt right to smile, but it felt heavy, as well, like another sign that whatever journey he had been on these past few days, it was over. ‘We know each other. How are you, Doctor?’

‘I’m well, Captain.’ He smiled back. ‘You have been out for the best part of a day. Your knee is quite bad. You won’t be doing much with it for some time.’

‘Doctor, I was with someone. A sergeant, who was wounded, but I don’t see him.’

‘Your sergeant is dead, Captain. Of his wounds.’

Reinhardt looked away, his mouth tight.

‘Friend of yours, this sergeant?’ asked the British officer. Reinhardt nodded. ‘Sorry, we’ve not been properly introduced,’ he continued, extending his hand. ‘Major Brian Sanburne, Rifle Brigade.’

Reinhardt shook the proffered hand. ‘Captain Gregor Reinhardt.’

He took Reinhardt’s papers from a pocket. ‘I know. Not often a captain of the Abwehr falls into our hands,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

‘Am I your prisoner, or theirs?’ asked Reinhardt, motioning to Begovic.

‘Both, really,’ said Sanburne. ‘They found you, but they’re not sure what to do with you.’

‘There is some reluctance to take prisoners, as you might understand, Captain,’ said Begovic. Up here, in the mountains, he seemed subtly different to Reinhardt. Harder, more purposeful. Like a man in his element. ‘Prisoners slow us down, and you have not exactly been particularly caring of those of us who have fallen into your hands.’

‘Yes, well, no one’s talking about abandoning you, or having you shot,’ said Sanburne, wryly. ‘At least not yet.’

‘Captain, I personally am glad you are well, but your countrymen are making our lives very difficult. Major Sanburne has offered to take you off our hands for now, and that has been agreed to. I have many other duties to attend to, so…’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll leave the two of you alone. Perhaps later, Captain.’

‘Doctor, before you leave… Do you have news of that young man in Sarajevo?’

‘Jelic? We have him.’ Reinhardt felt a rush of relief. ‘That was clever, using that drop-off to leave a message.’

‘The days of the Shadow are over, then?’ said Reinhardt, watching Begovic carefully.

The doctor looked back at him, then grinned, a sparkle in his eyes. He nodded at Sanburne, then left, back to his wounded.

‘So, Captain… we’ve a bit of time before we have to move on. I thought we’d have a chat? Something to drink? Tea?’

‘Tea,’ said Reinhardt.