Operation Juggernaut

PROLOGUE

September 10, 1939 - Poland. Corporal Victor Reichels brought his BMW motorcycle to a skidding stop and kicked it into neutral. He stretched his lean, almost six-foot frame and waited. Moments later, the other four members of his patrol pulled up next to him as he removed two maps from a leather case. They were scouts for the 12th Panzergrenadier Division. Reichels had led them down the small path over an hour ago on a whim. The other men had assumed that Reichels, a former motorcycle racer, had merely wanted to joy ride around and they were right. Not that it mattered; they hadn't seen any sign of the Polish Army for days now.

Up ahead sat the reason for their abrupt halt, a few ramshackle huts, sitting quietly in the dark woods. The men were glad to stop in any case. It had been a challenge to keep up with their leader. The corporal had set a break neck pace through the woods, more suited to the racetrack than a military patrol. More than once the other men had thought that their war was going to end with a fatal wreck.

Reichels checked his maps, one German, the other taken from the body of a dead Polish officer. Neither map showed the trail or the village. He caught a glimpse of a figure in one of the doorways. The occupants were evidently hiding in their homes. He put down his kickstand and dismounted.

Corporal, we aren't going to stop here, are we? groaned Grenadier Hartman. It was bad enough that they had nearly killed themselves trying to keep up with him, now he was going to waste their time bothering a few villagers.

Maybe he thinks the Polish Army is hiding in there, muttered Whitman, who produced a packet of cigarettes from a pocket and offered them across the gas tank of his bike.

Hartman had to smile. Whitman could always be counted on to come up with a sarcastic remark. He was younger and taller than the squat Hartman but not a bad sort. The other two riders Schulman and Entleman grinned and looked hopefully at the cigarettes in Whitman's hand. Both were from Bavaria, blonde haired, blue eyed they could have passed for brothers. They hadn't been together long but Hartman thought they were a good group. Even the corporal wasn't too bad.

Put those away, Reichels spoke without turning. With a shrug, Whitman complied to the chagrin of the others.

Fix bayonets. I want a skirmish line, the corporal ordered in a hushed tone, much to Hartman's amusement. Why bother to be quiet? They must have heard the engines of their motorcycles coming from kilometres away. They might as well march a brass band in front of them. He was not foolish enough to point that out to the corporal however. Without a word he dismounted with the others and un-slung his rifle from his back. All the men were dressed identically. Long coats, goggles and the gold trim on their epaulettes marked them as members of the Kradschutzen, the elite motorcycle troopers.

Bayonets were slid from their metal sheaths and locked into place. The men worked the bolts on their rifles, seating cartridges in the chambers of their weapons. Hartman engaged the safety lever and was reassured to see the others do the same. Good. The last thing he wanted was shooting. He had seen firsthand how some of his fellow soldiers had acted, looting, raping and worse.

Let's go, Reichels commanded his own rifle at the ready. The men followed his orders immediately. They advanced towards the structures at a slow walk, their jackboots crunching dead leaves and occasionally breaking a branch with a loud crack. The five of them converged on the village in a semi-circle.

Reichels held up his hand and they came to a stop just outside the tree line a few metres from the nearest cottage. On a signal from Reichels, Schulman called out in schoolboy Polish. Come out! Right now!

There was no response. The command was repeated once, twice. Hartman started to become uneasy. Not a sound came from the forest, even the birds were silent. A gust of wind blew some dead leaves around the soldiers' jackboots.

Hartman shivered. The wind had chilled him, as if Death had rubbed his skeletal fingers across the back of his neck. Unbidden, a line from Macbeth came to him. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. He was unaware he had spoken aloud until Reichels whirled towards him with a look of fury on his face. Hartman looked away, embarrassed and tried to shrug off the feeling of dread.

Corporal, this is very strange, breathed Entleman, why the hell doesn't someone come out?

Reichels stared at the structures. They no longer saw any movement or heard a sound. The corporal stood frozen. He looked back and Hartman saw the indecision on his face. He watched as the corporal took a deep breath and forced himself to take a step forward. Then Reichels checked his weapon as if seeking reassurance in its weight and deadliness. He used his thumb to flick the safety lever off. Get them out.

None of the men moved. They were fixed in place by the strange aura of the forest. I said, get them out! his voice lashed across his men, causing them to jerk in surprise. All of them. Shoot anyone who resists!

His shouts broke their paralysis. Hartman looked at the corporal, who was now red faced, spittle flying from his lips, and was galvanized into action. Come on. Hartman said, finding his voice. The four men moved into the centre of the village weapons at the ready.

Out, Out! One of the men called in Polish. The others took up the cry. Hartman charged into a hut pushing aside the animal skin that acted as a door with his hand. The smell of unwashed bodies struck him like a slap across the face. Three figures cringed against the far wall in the darkness. Out! He snarled, then realizing he was blocking the single exit moved aside. A gesture with the bayonet tipped weapon produced the desired effect. The three, a woman and two girls, rushed by him. Hartman glanced around in the dim light before following. He had never seen such squalor. There was not a single modern item in sight. All of the sparse furniture was wooden and hand made. The cup on the table was even carved out of wood. Debris of meals past lay strewn on the floor. These people lived like animals. He stepped outside into the sunlight.

With shouts and threats the others were clearing out the rest of the huts. The people who stood in the middle were like nobody he had ever seen before. Dirty, unkempt and wearing rough handmade clothes made from a variety of materials. They looked like tramps or escapees from a lunatic asylum. A gunshot snapped Hartman back to attention his weapon at the ready. Four people fled from the last structure followed by a pale Grenadier Whitman. Hartman forced these four to join the others, who were now cowering in the dirt before running over to Whitman. Are you all right?

Whitman nodded, his head jerking spastically. He swallowed and said, I killed him. Hartman ducked into the hut finding it much like the other. A man laid spread eagle on the dirt floor with a kitchen knife in his hand. Hartman reached down, grasped an ankle and dragged the body out into the sunlight. He left it outside the doorway where the contents of its shattered skull spilled into the dirt.

Whitman looked at the body in horror and then turned away and vomited. Hartman felt queasy himself, he had never been so close to a dead body before. The rifle round had entered over the left eye and blown out the back of the head. The insides left a gray smear leading back into the darkness of the hut. Hartman reached down and took the knife. It was rusty but sharp. It was also the first thing he had seen that was of recent manufacture. He took a breath and looked up through the trees. The sky was a deep blue. He looked down again at the body, why did we have to stop here? He asked himself bleakly. Even though he had not fired the shot he felt like an accessory to murder.

Get over there and watch the prisoners, he ordered Whitman, propelling him gently by the shoulder. Go on now. Whitman nodded miserably and headed over towards the others passing Reichels who was walking towards Hartman.

What happened? Reichels asked.

Hartman gestured at the body, He had a knife. I guess he didn't want to come out. Whitman killed him.

Reichels nodded, Serves him right. What do you make of this place? We've been through some farming communities but nothing like this.

Hartman nodded his agreement. It's like something out of the Middle Ages. Did you see these houses? No doors or windows. It looks like they were lashed together. No plumbing or stove. No glasses, cupboards or crockery. What the hell is going on?

Let's find out, suggested Reichels. Hartman followed him over to where the villagers huddled next to a pit. From the charred wood and animal bone this was obviously where they held their communal meals. Whitman, do you speak enough Polish to find out anything from these people?

Whitman shook his head. No Herr Corporal.

Reichels stared at the villagers, legs apart, rifle at port arms. What shall we do with you then? He asked them in German. The prisoners looked at him mutely, in obvious fear. Nineteen of the dirtiest, poorest looking people any of the Germans soldiers had ever seen but Reichels was relaxed, he was in complete control now.

There's nothing here, Corporal. Hartman spoke softly from his side. One of them resisted and was shot, all by the book. Let's just get out of here. He looked hopefully at Reichels.

The corporal looked at his captives, eight men ranging from the twenties to the seventies in age, six women all in their late twenties and early thirties and five children in their early teens. I suppose they aren't of any military value, he admitted. All right, we'll get out of here. You were right Hartman, next time we won't bother to stop.

Hartman grinned. Jawohl, Herr Corporal. He turned towards the rest of the men and stopped. A figure stood on the edge of the village. None of the Germans had heard him coming or seen him until now. It was as if he had erupted from the forest floor. He was huge. Hartman put his height at over two meters. The newcomer was clad in a filthy linen tunic and pants like that of the other village men. Unlike the others, who had their hair cut short, his blonde hair was long, down past his shoulders. He wore a long beard braided into a fork. He resembled pictures of Vikings Hartman had seen in books as a child. In the man's heavily muscled arms a broad, double bladed woodsman axe lay cradled like an infant. Like the knife the dead man had wielded the axe was new and sharp looking.

What is this? the newcomer asked in a deep voice. Hartman started. The question was asked in German, strangely accented German but recognizable, especially as it had been spoken slowly. The giant looked at the body lying in the dirt and dead leaves. A gust of wind made the corpse's shirt flutter. The giant's face darkened.

Put the axe down, Reichels' tone brooked no argument. The villagers no longer huddled together. Instead all were on their knees, looking at the man with the axe. Hartman started to worry. Obviously the tall man was in charge. If the captives rushed them the patrol would be in trouble. Reichels realized the same thing. Grenade, he said. Hartman pulled one from his belt and unscrewed the cap on the bottom of the handle. The trigger, a string that ended with a porcelain bead fell out.

He said put the axe down! What are you, fucking deaf? asked Entleman furiously. The young grenadier strode towards the axe wielding man. Do you want to get shot? Do you want more people to die? Put the axe down!

Entleman! Stay where you are! ordered Reichels.

The young trooper ignored him and only stopped when the point of his bayonet was a scant few inches from the man's chest. I said drop it!

Hartman watched this in dismay, his rifle in one hand the grenade in the other. They had been so close to leaving! Now it looked at if there was going to be a massacre. He heard the clicks of Schulman and Whitman moving the safety on their rifles to off.

Fucking drop it! screamed Whitman a tinge of hysteria in his voice.

One of the prisoners next to him, a young man, started to rise. Whether it was to speak or attack they never found out. At the movement, Whitman whirled to his left and plunged his bayonet into the man's throat. For a second the man stayed where he was, half way up from the ground. His mouth opened as if to say something, instead he slid off the bayonet to the ground, blood pumping from his wound. Nobody moved.

Entleman turned his head towards them, his face white with shock. He looked dumbly at Reichels Corporal?

The big man's axe moved in a blur towards the distracted grenadier. The glittering blade caught him just below the lip of his helmet and continued on as if it had not met any resistance. Entleman's helmet and the top of his head flew off in a bright splash of blood. Then the young German's body dropped to the leaves like an uncorked bottle.

Reichels first shot hit the axe wielder in the chest. The man staggered, a look of surprise on his face. The corporal smoothly worked the bolt, sending the spent cartridge spinning off into the sunlight. His second shot caught him in the stomach. Schulman fired as well and a bright patch of blood appeared on the man's left sleeve. Whitman had taken the time to aim carefully, and his shot hit the man at the top of his forehead. The giant's head snapped back in a burst of blood and he dropped to the ground. Immediately, the villagers were on their feet and racing towards the fallen man. Whitman shot a woman in the back as she ran away from him.

Stop shooting! Hartman screamed as the woman collapsed to the ground without a sound. Schulman ran the short distance to Whitman and pushed his rifle down even as he aimed for another shot.

Whitman pushed Schulman away with his right arm. Fuck off! he screamed, near tears. Did you see what he did to Entleman? He choked off a sob and turned to Reichels. I say we kill all of them, his voice suddenly cold and filled with rage.

Shut up! ordered Reichels. The corporal no longer looked relaxed and in control but on the verge of panic.

Corporal. the tone of Hartman's voice was enough to snap him back to reality. He followed the other man's gaze across to the group of villagers.

The bearded giant was sitting up. One of the men handed him his bloody axe, while another picked up the dead Entleman's rifle. How could the man still be alive? Hartman had seen the corporal's two rounds strike center mass while Whitman had gotten a head shot.

It was impossible.

Yet the man was struggling to his feet without the aid of the others. The villagers were looking at the four German soldiers with eyes filled with hate. In a flash Reichels calmness returned as his training kicked in. Throw the grenade, he ordered Hartman. The other man stared at him. Throw it! he hissed.

Hartman looked at the villagers and then back at Reichels. He was a soldier, but was he prepared to throw a live grenade into a group that included women and children? Another look at the villagers gathering themselves around their leader and Hartman found that he was not the man he thought he was. He would kill every last one of them to get back home. He yanked the cord at the bottom of the handle and hurled the grenade at them.

At the same time, the bearded man leveled a finger at the Germans and commanded, Kill them! in a voice as cold as the grave.

The ragged band including the women and children surged forward, as the grenade sailed end over end towards them. It struck a teenage girl in the forehead causing her to cry out in pain. A man stopped and bent down grabbing the wooden handle. He lifted the potato-masher grenade over his head like a war club and continued his charge forward. He managed about three steps before it detonated, spraying shrapnel through the group. The man stumbled, staring at the ragged stump where his arm had been moments before. Slowly, he sank to his knees, put his head down and died still upright. Half of them were down, dead or wounded including their huge leader. Reichels and Schulman were both on one knee pouring fire into the survivors.

Hartman watched from the crouched position that he had instinctively taken after throwing the grenade as the survivors were cut down by rifle fire. Whitman produced another grenade and hurled it into their midst. It exploded just as the giant tried to push himself up from the ground again. The explosion lifted him in the air and flipped him over like a rag doll. All of them were down now.

Hartman's ears rang with the noise of rifle fire. He shook his head and stood up. One of the women sat up and looked around in a daze. Whitman blew the back of her head off from twelve paces away.

Cease fire! screamed Reichels. He strode over to Whitman and for a moment he looked like he would strike the other man. He took a deep breath and repeated, quietly, Cease fire. Clear?

Clear, Corporal. Whitman replied sullenly.

Hartman turned his attention towards the dead and wounded that littered the forest floor. Some of the bodies had been horribly mutilated by grenade blasts, others might have been mistaken for sleepers if not for the red stains splashed across their clothes. Five of the villagers were still alive, but badly wounded. One of them, a young woman, looked at him, her wan face framed by dirty brown hair. Pale eyes, wide with shock, seemed to bore into Hartman's head. Her mouth moved soundlessly as she clutched a wound in her abdomen. He could not hold her gaze and his eyes broke away. Hartman. The corporal waited a moment and then repeated himself more forcefully Hartman!

Corporal? Hartman jogged over to his side.

The wounded, have the others see what can be done for them. He kept on walking not even waiting for Hartman's reply. He threaded his way through the bodies both living and dead until he came to the one he was looking for. The giant had suffered terrible wounds to his legs and abdomen, yet the man was not dead. His chest moved rhythmically up and down in time with his ragged breath.

Hartman joined the corporal moments later and stood staring down at the giant. He felt light headed as if he had been drinking. Why wouldn't the bastard die? In a flash of anger Hartman kicked the man's head. The feeling faded and he suddenly felt tired and empty.

Reichels took his last grenade from his belt and held it in his hands. What if we just put this next to his head and set it off? he asked quietly, almost to himself.

Corporal?

Go find the rest of the unit. Bring back reinforcements and a medic. We've got everything under control here. Reichels ordered.

Corporal, Hartman hesitated. He wanted to go, to get away from the smell of cordite and blood, to drown out the cries of the wounded with the roar of his motorcycle. Still, there was only one sensible thing to do. We both know you are the best rider among us. I will take charge.

Reichels opened his mouth to argue but then abruptly closed it and stood. He handed the grenade to Hartman. He's not dead. Reichels said. Hartman nodded. If it looks like he's regaining consciousness, use the grenade. He looked into the other man's eyes.

I understand. Hartman said evenly.

Reichels slung his rifle and walked back to his motorcycle. He kicked the bike to life and without a word or a backward glance, he roared off down the trail.

Hartman listened to the bike fade into the distance, the engine howling as Reichels revved through the gears. Hartman sat down, grenade in hand and began to wait, praying all the time that the blonde giant would not stir.

DANZIG, POLAND

The fortress was old and near the sea. Dampness always seemed to be in the air and on the walls especially down in the lower levels. Dr. Alfred Reinhardt walked down the dimly lit stone corridor at a shuffling gait. Whatever purpose the Polish government had used the fort for was not known to him, but it was obvious what the original builders had intended. It was a dungeon, and now part of the local Gestapo headquarters.

Dr. Reinhardt was a Waffen-SS surgeon with a background in Anthropology who was attached to an SS unit that was being reorganized near Danzig. So when the strange giant had been brought in, Reinhardt had been one of the first physicians called in to examine him. The man had been fascinating certainly. Half a dozen experiments and tests were performed on him including some extremely invasive ones performed by another young SS doctor named Mengele.

The results had been interesting. The man's bloodstream contained high levels of adrenaline and endorphins, which explained his tolerance of physical pain and his incredible strength and energy. Furthermore, his bones were thicker than a normal man's, his legs had survived a grenade blast virtually undamaged and a piece of shrapnel that should have pierced his skull had merely knocked him unconscious. The man was in the best physical condition of anyone Reinhardt had ever seen. There was also evidence of abnormal cell regeneration and he suspected that the man might be older than he appeared.

Physical characteristics aside the man was odd. Linguists had identified the language he spoke as medieval German. The words he used were anachronisms. He addressed Reinhardt as 'warlock' the first time they spoke. Reinhardt shook his head in wonderment as he remembered the event.

Five two man teams of Gestapo interrogators had also seen the man. Though Reinhardt was not privy to the information gleaned from those interviews, he had overheard one of the Gestapo men denounce the prisoner as a lunatic. The doctor was not sure that 'lunatic' was an accurate term to describe the prisoner. He reached the massive steel door that separated the wing where the man was kept from the rest of the prison. Stationed outside the door