Berlin or Bust

^{CHAPTER TEN} INSURANCE

Sergeant Robert Wilkins knocked on Colonel Adams’ office door.

“Enter,” the colonel barked.

Wilkins marched into the room, came to attention, and saluted. “Reporting as directed, sir.”

“At ease, Sergeant.” Adams stood at the side of the office, where he kept a decanter of brandy. “Care to join me in a snort?”

“I wouldn’t say no to it, sir.”

Music softly played on a record player. “The White Cliffs of Dover” by Vera Lynn. The colonel poured two fingers and handed him the glass. “Have a seat.”

The sergeant dropped into a chair. “God save the King.”

The men drank.

“Are the Jerries ready for this?” Adams said.

“As ready as they can be, sir.”

“They just arrested that loathsome SS man. Wolfensohn.”

“They hold him responsible for the biological weapon, sir. If I may ask, do you intend to intervene on his behalf? Wolfensohn has been very useful to you.”

“I don’t intend to do anything at the moment,” the colonel said coldly. “The Jerries needed a sacrificial goat to clean their conscience before the operation. We need the Jerries.”

“Right, sir. That’s good thinking.”

“After the operation, I shall take another hard look.” Adams swirled his brandy. “So they’re as ready as they can be on short notice. What about our lads?”

Wilkins shrugged. “Same answer, I reckon.”

“These are perilous times, Sergeant. The whole world has gone arse over kettle. This party may be our only chance to save Europe from utter ruin. It will succeed. It must succeed.”

The sergeant took another sip, relishing the burn. “Yes, sir.”

“That being said, what odds do you give success?”

He inspected his glass. “I’d give it fairly low odds, sir.”

“Right.” The colonel sighed.

“The Germans will have the hardest go of it. They must make the drop, get over the Havel, secure the facility, and then cross the city to the airport.”

“Any changes to the plan you’d recommend to improve the odds?”

“No, sir. Given the parameters, it’s as sound as it can be.”

“So we have the best plan we can produce, but low chances of success.”

Wilkins said nothing, hoping the colonel would take this as his cue to come to the point of this meeting.

Colonel Adams stood and waved at Wilkins’ glass. “Come on, finish up, and I’ll pour you another.”

The sergeant tossed back the last of his brandy and handed over the empty glass. “Obliged, sir.”

Adams poured fresh drinks. “The Americans are going as insurance, as it were, for our paras. If our lads fail to secure the Tempelhof Airport, the Jerries will egress from the Berlin-Schönefeld Airport.”

“Correct.”

“What we’re missing is insurance on the Jerries.”

Wilkins’ stomach flipped as he accepted a fresh glass of brandy. This didn’t sound good. In fact, it sounded as if the colonel had cooked up some dangerous task for him. “Thank you, sir. What did you have in mind, exactly?”

“A second mission to secure the facility. A small team dropping directly onto Tiergarten itself.”

“Chri—! I mean, splendid idea, sir.” It was absolute rubbish.

Adams smirked, the expression accentuated by his upturned white mustache. “Chin up, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was still a rubbish idea, though. The whole area was a death trap for a para drop. There were only a few open, flat, and firm spaces in the park, each surrounded by a vast concentration of hazards. Trees, monuments, buildings, the River Spree, and the ravenous dead.

“Should this team succeed,” Adams went on, “they’ll dash to the airport and mission accomplished. If they succeed but run into trouble, the Jerries will help. If they don’t succeed, we’ll be relying on the Jerries.”

“Do the Germans know about this, sir?”

“Of course not. If they did, do you believe they’d make the maximum effort?”

“Perhaps not,” Wilkins admitted. “Though I feel like we’re using them as a decoy. Hardly a sporting way to treat a new ally, sir.”

“Allow me to get one thing clear, Sergeant. I don’t give a flying toss about the Germans.”

“Of course.” Though he remembered how Von Boeselager, a Fallschirmjäger with the 9FJR, had saved his life in the Ardennes during the Battle of the Bulge. He wondered how the man was faring in his dying country. If he ever made it home.

“They’re bloody good at war, and we need them for this operation,” Adams said. “After that, they can go hang. Nod if I’m clear on exactly where our new ally stands with Great Britain.”

“Crystal clear, sir. I have to point out something dodgy about the plan, however. It’s a precision drop. If the planes miss, our boys will be landing on roofs and alleys.”

“The Pathfinders will take care of it. If not, our lads will have to make do.”

Wilkins sat back in his chair and sipped his brandy. “Brilliant, sir.”

“It’s a shambles, Sergeant, but it’s the best we can come up with. Now listen.”

And here it comes, Wilkins thought. “Sir?”

“I want you to go along on the mission. When it comes to fighting these bastards, you know your onions better than any of our lads. Pick your own shooters. You’ll report to Lieutenant Chapman, who will lead. Like you, he speaks Kraut, which should be useful. You know Chappie?”

“He’d be my choice to lead as well, sir.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Adams. “We’re counting on you, Sergeant. Get it sorted.”

Wilkins took this as his cue to leave. He drained the last of his brandy and stood. “I’ll see to the necessary preparations then, Colonel.”

Adams was already rifling through the paperwork on his desk. “Very good, Sergeant. Good luck to you. Good night.”

Wilkins walked back out into the freezing night. So now he was the British Airborne’s resident expert on ghoul fighting.

All because he’d been lucky enough to survive two battles against them. Luck that was bound to run out at some point.

The result was another suicide mission.

Jocelyn would never forgive him, not that he had a choice in the matter, orders being orders. He pictured her smiling at him with her innocent eyes, her figure stunning even in her drab wren uniform.

In his mind’s eye, her smile faded. You want to go, don’t you, she said.

He did. He wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself. He’d known the moment he set foot in the colonel’s office he’d be getting a choice but dangerous mission. A part of him had been hoping for it.

The only way Jocelyn would ever be truly safe, the only way the United Kingdom would ever be safe, was to stop the undead the Nazis had unleashed.