The Talisman

  About the author

  Allan D Jones finally found the time to achieve an ambition, to write a book. This is that book. He honed his skills at the University of East Anglia where he gained his BA (Hons). He was born and bred in Herefordshire and he now lives happily in Somerset with the love of his life, Amanda.

  THE Talisman

  Allan D. Jones

  The Talisman

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD PRESS

  © Copyright 2017

  Allan D. Jones

  The right of Allan D. Jones to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 784652 50 0 (Paperback)

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2017

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  CambridgeEngland

  CHAPTER 1

  Paul Klaussen stood at the first-floor window and looked down at the scene being played out in front of him. His nerve-ends were tingling, his mouth set rigid, and he was shaking all over; but he refused to look away. He had determined not to miss a detail, to record everything, in his brain every face, objectively: the perpetrators, the victims alike. There had to be a witness, and that was him; the task had fallen at his feet. Revulsion screamed inside him, begging him to look elsewhere, but he stoically hung on, his eyes darting here, then there, then over there! Below him, in this insignificant Polish village, an “Einzatsgrüppen” squad had arrived early this morning. They had swiftly taken over, banishing the conquerors, his troops, to the rear. Paul looked to his left: on a stand of trees people were hanging; men, old men, young men, boys! Some were still, long dead; others thrashed desperately, legs kicking wildly, seeking non-existent purchase, struggling for one more breath, one more moment of life.

  He shifted his gaze. Fires were ablaze in every dwelling. Screams assaulted his senses, growing ever louder, higher in pitch, urgency and intensity, forming the music to this demonic opera. The women were being dragged by the hair from their homes and hiding places, to the scrutiny of the hard-faced trio of German officers who had set up a table in the centre of the village square. Gunfire shocked his ears as firing squads disposed of the remaining fit men and boys. They were shoved in groups of ten to stand in front of a wooden barn, where the machine guns riddled their bodies and shredded the wood till it disintegrated.

  One man tried! The soldiers were unwary, over-confident, relying on the submissiveness of their victims; they held their guns loosely, got too close. He was a big man and he had snatched the Schmeisser and had his man in the dirt in a flash, his eyes wild, his face contorted in fury. Before he could bring the machine pistol to bear, the back of his head exploded!

  Paul felt a movement behind him. He whirled round, Luger in hand, but it was only Brandt. Paul turned back to the window, beckoning over his shoulder for his sergeant to approach. Brandt silently joined him. They watched the women being selected: the young and the “still attractive” had their clothes ripped off and then they were dragged into a nearby barn. Those who were finished with were hauled out of the barn by the legs and dispatched by a bullet to the head and added to the growing pile.

  Paul noted that very young, very pretty girls, none more than twelve, had been included. They too were being stripped and ripped from their mothers’ clinging grasps. The smaller children were herded to nearby trucks, along with the women deemed too ugly for rape, but fit enough to escort the little ones to the concentration camps. The lucky ones would be re-located to German families, for Nazi indoctrination or for downright slavery. The remainder would be worked till death or groomed for rape when they were old enough, then ultimately disposed of.

  Brandt spat! “Fucking SS!”

  Paul shifted his gaze and said: “Not all SS, my friend; some of our own are in that barn. Look…there! Isn’t that Mueller?”

  The man they watched, Mueller, was systematically kicking an old man to death, whilst two others of Klaussen’s company cheered him on. I’ll have their balls,” Brandt roared, and made to leave the room. Paul grabbed his arm and swung him round, fixing him with a stare. Brandt struggled to release himself, such was his fury, till Paul shook him hard.

  “Listen to me, there is nothing we can do here, do you hear?” He paused, then added: “Officially, that is. Understand me? You go down there now and you’re dead, you’re a traitor to the cause, they’ll shoot you down without a thought. Think about it; think, man!”

  Brandt held his gaze, then a slow smile spread over his face as understanding dawned on him. “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “But I’ll still have them, I’ll have their guts. The riskiest, the nastiest, the most likely to get their heads blown-off jobs, and if that don’t work, a few stray bullets should do it, or maybe a grenade.”

  Paul nodded, released him, and turned back to the window. They watched in silence as house after house became roaring infernos. Brandt’s eyes were rooted on the barn, taking note of any familiar face that entered or left. Klaussen spoke quietly, “Be careful, Oberscharführer Brandt, you would be risking your head. We live in dangerous times, and our new masters are utterly ruthless.”

  “Herr Hauptmann, it would be worth it to rid the Wehrmacht of those pigs, but don’t worry about me, I’ll be careful.”

  “Good,” Paul replied. “Now, go and check on the men who are not down there; ask if they know the whereabouts of anyone missing. We’ll be moving out within the hour.”

  Brandt stood to attention. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann, I’ll see to it immediately.”

  He saluted and made for the door, then stopped and turned. He spoke earnestly. “Herr Hauptmann, come away; you’ve seen enough, surely?”

  Paul remained at the window, and without turning, he said: “Dismissed, Oberscharführer Brandt. Do as you must. I never want to see those men in my company again, but watch your back; be careful, my friend.”

  Brandt shook his head and left.

  Hauptmann Paul Klaussen forced himself to remain where he was. He burned with a cold rage as he watched the horror, the death, the utter despair of the terrified Poles, the grim, brutal determination on the faces of the SS. They were clearly enjoying their work; some were laughing as they butchered! It was utterly wrong! Utterly disgusting! It was one thing to go to war against one’s country’s enemies, but this, this was madness, inexcusable! He was a soldier, a good soldier. He was a man. This was wrong! He was wrong! He reached the inevitable conclusion and made a fateful decision.

  * * * *

  Klaussen was making good time. He had managed to commandeer a motorcycle and was bowling along the dusty lanes. He had left Abbeville, which the invading German Army had reached with surprising ease. There they had paused, consolidating, readying for the final assault on the retreating Allied armies.

  He had in his pocket orders he had written himself, identifying him as a replacement signals officer on his
way to the front lines. He had no wish to be caught without orders by the “Feldjäger” police, as he knew that any German soldier so caught would be summarily hanged as a deserter, which was precisely what he was!

  He had a Schmeisser machine pistol slung across his chest and a few grenades in his saddlebags, as well as more ammunition for both the machine gun and his holstered Luger. He had resolved that, should need be, he would die fighting, but he hoped to somehow cross the front lines and surrender himself to the Allies, preferably the British. He had carefully copied any useful (to the Allies) documents that he could get his hands on. These were in a bundle beneath his clothes, taped to his chest. He saw smoke rising ahead around a bend in the tree-lined road, cut the engine and rolled to a stop, and then pushed the motorcycle into the trees. Unslinging the Schmeisser and cocking it, he moved silently forward. He heard shouting voices. German voices!

  Keeping close to the trees, he cautiously looked around the bend. SS Troops, Totenkopf division! Perhaps the very ones that he had watched in Poland an age ago. They had British prisoners, about a dozen, one of whom was on the ground being brutally kicked and rifle-butted, whilst the rest of the British were helplessly held at bay by the German guns trained on them.

  An officer barked an order, and the man on the ground was hauled to his knees. The officer walked behind the man and shot him in the head, spraying an arc of blood over several yards. Another barked order and the Germans began shoving the prisoners into a line in front of a ditch. The officer walked to a nearby truck and spoke to the driver, who started the engine; then he turned to watch as the firing squad formed up. The Obergefreiter, who was to give the order, looked to the officer, who leaned back on the truck and nodded permission. The squad was called to attention; they were going to go through the whole ritual! Klaussen had known they would and had been waiting for the moment. Germans liked to do things properly, by the book; with their rifles down, they were vulnerable.

  He charged round the bend, firing as he went, spraying bullets relentlessly at the backs of the Germans. The British soldiers reacted well, flinging themselves down to the ground. He turned to the car. The officer was trying desperately to free his Luger from its holster, but an arc of bullets peppered his chest and he was thrown back against the truck. The driver stood up and threw up his arms, desperately shouting his surrender.

  Klaussen shot him.

  He turned back to the firing squad and walked closer, keeping them covered in case any of them were just wounded. Only one was still breathing; he lay on his back, blood pooling underneath him. His eyes widened as he watched Klaussen approach; he recognised the uniform! Klaussen spat at him, then fired a burst to finish him off. He turned to the British soldiers. They were in shock as they slowly got to their knees, then their feet.

  “Who is in charge here?” Paul barked. A lieutenant stepped forward, eyeing the Schmeisser warily, as Klaussen quickly reloaded.

  “Lieutenant Edward Johnson, 1st Royal Norfolk Regiment…sir?”

  Paul regarded the young lieutenant, sizing him up, then a grim smile came to his face. “Relax, lieutenant, have I saved your lives only to shoot you myself?…Hauptmann Paul Klaussen, 2nd Panzer grenadier Division…Wehrmacht.”

  He lowered the machine gun, stepped forward and extended his hand. Johnson took it warily, his eyes searching Paul’s face with suspicion. They shook hands, the men’s eyes locked on them in confusion. There was silence till a sergeant stepped forward and whispered in Johnson’s ear. “What’s going on, sir?”

  Johnson answered: “I don’t know.”

  Paul took the initiative. “Lieutenant,” he said quietly, “would you gather your men round. They need to hear what I have to say, and there isn’t much time; we need to get away from here as soon as we can.”

  Johnson nodded and the men came nearer.

  Klaussen, his eyes on Johnson, spoke.“Lieutenant, men, I have left the German army. I’m a deserter! I’m trying to get through the lines and offer my services to the British government. Your army is finished, defeated, and is even now retreating to Dunkirk to evacuate to England. So I offer my surrender to you, lieutenant; but for the moment, with your permission, I will retain my arms until we reach safety. I have detailed maps of the area and knowledge of the most likely German movements, and a tentative plan to penetrate the lines, which I hope will get us all to safety if you join me. I also propose, as the senior officer here, that you allow me to command you.”

  Johnson paced, then spoke. “I have your word, once we cross the British lines, that you will surrender your weapons?”

  “You do.”

  “And after that?”

  “I will be in your hands.” Paul offered his sincerest smile, but Johnson continued to pace in indecision.

  Klaussen turned from him abruptly. “Lieutenant, have your men retrieve all weapons, ammunition and supplies and get them into that vehicle. Have one man go back around that bend, where he will find my motorcycle, and have him bring it up. Be sure to collect all their helmets, as we may find them useful.”

  Johnson hesitated, and his eyes met Klaussen’s. Paul held his gaze steadily till, finally, Johnson shrugged and conceded. “Sergeant Sims, you heard the captain; carry out his orders.” He moved close to Klaussen, as the men sprang into action. “Listen,” he said quietly, “for the moment we’ll go along with you, but don’t forget: when my men are armed again, the slightest…”

  Klaussen cut him off. “The slightest what?” He towered over Johnson, nose to nose, eye to eye, his tone intimidating. “Understand me, lieutenant, I am already dead. Understand! I have deserted the glorious German army, I have stolen their secrets, and now I have killed some of them. There is no going back for me; my hope is to stay alive, alive long enough to kill yet more of them. I was in Poland at the start of this fucking war. If you think this is bad, you haven’t seen anything yet! You know nothing! What I saw would sicken your stomach. You want me to tell you? Spell it out? I’ll tell you what it did to me; it made me realise that I was on the wrong side. I was part of it, the rape, the murder of innocents, women, children, babies even!”

  He paused for breath, until his anger evaporated and his tone softened. “I gave you your lives back. You owe me! You tell me, where are you going to go? What are you going to do? Where are you going to lead them, to another firing squad?…The point is, I don’t give a shit. I’m going to die here or get to England, with or without you. Your best hope, and mine, is if we put everything aside for now, and get our asses to Dunkirk as quickly as we can. Any questions?”

  Johnson recoiled, but was saved from answering by Sergeant Sims. “All weapons gathered, sah; ready to move out, sah.” The motorcycle was brought up, and the men were already in the truck, watching the exchange between the officers.

  “Over here, lieutenant.”

  Paul walked briskly to the motorbike, reached into the pannier and retrieved his maps. He selected one, crouched and spread it on the ground. Johnson reluctantly crouched beside him. Paul lowered his voice to a whisper. “Listen to me, lieutenant, your men are frightened, tired and looking for leadership. If it’s anything to you, if you really want to know, I am half-English, half-German. I chose the wrong side! I’m going to make it right. I’m going to destroy those bastards who have led Germany to war again on a path that can only lead to hell. For you the war has just begun. For me it began years ago. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. I’ve had to bite my tongue, walk away, pretend to have seen nothing! I can’t do it anymore. I can’t ignore my conscience. Everyone who wants to remain free is going to have to make a choice. I’ve made mine.”

  He paused, his eyes imploring Johnson, who returned his gaze steadily. “Work with me, lieutenant, and we should live to fight another day, should we not? Not wait to die here or be taken. Let’s put our differences aside for a while, eh? See what happens. What have you got to lose?”

  Johnson nodded thoughtfully, then said: “OK…What’s the plan…sir?”

&
nbsp; They turned their attention to the map. Klaussen pointed out a route which would lead them to Arras, where the BEF had their field HQ. “Rommel is going to attack just here, soon. We will have to stay ahead of his advance. The British have heavily armoured tanks here; you call them Matildas. Rommel’s tanks are no match for them; his shells will bounce off their armour. So for a while there will be an impasse. Our best bet is to be here before they clash, but if not we ought to be able to find somewhere to hole up, let the battle pass. It is most likely that the British should initially gain the upper hand, for a while that is. The front lines will be shifting back and forth. With luck, and if we keep our heads, we may be able to penetrate during the shifts. Once we’re across, we go hell for leather for Dunkirk. Knowing him as I do, Rommel won’t be held up for long. He’s a wily bastard; mark my words, he’ll be in Dunkirk not very far behind us.”

  “You seem to know a lot about tanks,” Johnson murmured.

  “I do. Believe me, I do. What do you think? Any suggestions?”

  Johnson stroked his chin. “It’s hellish risky, but it’s a chance. How far do you reckon?”

  “If we keep moving through the night, we should get there in the small hours. While we have the vehicles, the men can snatch some sleep; you too, Lieutenant, you look as though you need it. Have two men plus the driver awake at all times: we may need to fight or fly at a moment’s notice.”

  “What about you?” Johnson asked.

  “I shall ride the motorcycle. Follow me at a distance of fifty yards, and watch me. If I raise my right hand, we are about to encounter friendly forces… to you, that is. In that case, I shall drop back to you and you will take command and see that I don’t get my head blown off, if you please. If I raise my left hand, we will be encountering Germans. You will then have your men put on the German helmets they have gathered, and close up to me. With my uniform and the helmets plus the failing light we should have surprise on our side. He who shoots first, eh?”