increased, and his body compensated, high on adrenaline. As he reached the rise before the promontory Bruning threw his pistol away into the dark and heard it dimly as it skidded down the cliff face. He shrieked in English and French:
“I am an Intelligence Officer! I wish to surrender!” He raised his burned hands in the air, waving his valise at the hunched figures he could make out on the rocky cliff, crouched around the tubes of their mortars.
Then he was hit from behind. Something in his back gave way and he heard a snapping sound when he tumbled to the ground with his assailant piled on top of him. My collarbone just broke, he thought calmly.
His hand desperately clutched the valise, the other fruitlessly searched for his gun on his belt, although he knew it was not there. Bruning spun face-up and was greeted by the grim visage of one of his guards, a chisel-faced blond with death in his eyes. His SS collar gleamed in the night air, and his breath came in great white plumes as he raised his fist to pound Bruning into submission. The punch struck Bruning in the neck, sending a shuddering impact through his entire body, and suddenly his throat felt completely blocked. His breath stuttered in his lungs, and he unconsciously put both hands up to cover his face.
Bruning desperately lashed out with his numb legs and connected with the guards inner thigh, causing their positions to abruptly reverse. Wheezing, Bruning now squatted over the guard, whose hand flashed to his belt in an instant, no doubt to find his dagger. Bruning, taking what little advantage he had, backed away and snatched up his valise from the ground. Behind the guard on the promontory a dozen shadows were now rushing towards their position, drawn by the noise and movement.
Bruning smiled at the guard as his breath returned in painful gasps.
The guard looked once over his shoulder, then back at Bruning and matched his smile. “We die together, traitor.”
In the guard’s hand, instead of a dagger, a potato masher grenade spit a coil of smoke from its handle. There was too much smoke and not enough time.
Bruning looked past the guard and saw the haggard face of a man, eyes wide with fear and cunning, his jaw overrun by a red scrub beard, carrying an British submachine gun, rushing towards them. His savior.
“Grenade!” Bruning shouted in English and all the shadows on the peak flattened themselves to the ground like a magic trick, leaving behind only the small shadows of the mortars. The man with the red beard threw himself off the path under cover. As the SS guard tackled Bruning, holding the grenade high in his hand, Bruning swung his arm in a wide arc, sending the valise sailing almost thirty feet through the air towards the promontory. It landed with a solid thud next to the red-bearded man. Then he and the guard collapsed on to the ground in a horrible crash.
Then, the explosion.
He was thrown some distance, or it seemed that way, and he could see the night sky lit by yellow-orange tinges of flame, tendrils of fire licking at the deep blue sky like tentacles engulfing prey. When he landed, the information came to him from far away, from the wreck that his body had become, from the place where he once had lived, but which was no longer necessary. In front of his blurred vision, the roots of a tree intertwined with the sandy dirt, overgrown by a vibrant green grass which hung heavy with frost and water.
Someone was rushing through the grass to get to him, but it all seemed so unimportant now. What was he supposed to do? Why? The questions sounded, hanging and dropping off into the ever growing silence which filled him. Bruning found he could not move, and he also found he was not surprised or scared. When he was a boy at Harburg, they would play hide and seek on the Elbe. In the forest there he would find the witch grass and curl up in it and sit still for hours while his friends searched
“I am an Intelligence Officer! I wish to surrender!” He raised his burned hands in the air, waving his valise at the hunched figures he could make out on the rocky cliff, crouched around the tubes of their mortars.
Then he was hit from behind. Something in his back gave way and he heard a snapping sound when he tumbled to the ground with his assailant piled on top of him. My collarbone just broke, he thought calmly.
His hand desperately clutched the valise, the other fruitlessly searched for his gun on his belt, although he knew it was not there. Bruning spun face-up and was greeted by the grim visage of one of his guards, a chisel-faced blond with death in his eyes. His SS collar gleamed in the night air, and his breath came in great white plumes as he raised his fist to pound Bruning into submission. The punch struck Bruning in the neck, sending a shuddering impact through his entire body, and suddenly his throat felt completely blocked. His breath stuttered in his lungs, and he unconsciously put both hands up to cover his face.
Bruning desperately lashed out with his numb legs and connected with the guards inner thigh, causing their positions to abruptly reverse. Wheezing, Bruning now squatted over the guard, whose hand flashed to his belt in an instant, no doubt to find his dagger. Bruning, taking what little advantage he had, backed away and snatched up his valise from the ground. Behind the guard on the promontory a dozen shadows were now rushing towards their position, drawn by the noise and movement.
Bruning smiled at the guard as his breath returned in painful gasps.
The guard looked once over his shoulder, then back at Bruning and matched his smile. “We die together, traitor.”
In the guard’s hand, instead of a dagger, a potato masher grenade spit a coil of smoke from its handle. There was too much smoke and not enough time.
Bruning looked past the guard and saw the haggard face of a man, eyes wide with fear and cunning, his jaw overrun by a red scrub beard, carrying an British submachine gun, rushing towards them. His savior.
“Grenade!” Bruning shouted in English and all the shadows on the peak flattened themselves to the ground like a magic trick, leaving behind only the small shadows of the mortars. The man with the red beard threw himself off the path under cover. As the SS guard tackled Bruning, holding the grenade high in his hand, Bruning swung his arm in a wide arc, sending the valise sailing almost thirty feet through the air towards the promontory. It landed with a solid thud next to the red-bearded man. Then he and the guard collapsed on to the ground in a horrible crash.
Then, the explosion.
He was thrown some distance, or it seemed that way, and he could see the night sky lit by yellow-orange tinges of flame, tendrils of fire licking at the deep blue sky like tentacles engulfing prey. When he landed, the information came to him from far away, from the wreck that his body had become, from the place where he once had lived, but which was no longer necessary. In front of his blurred vision, the roots of a tree intertwined with the sandy dirt, overgrown by a vibrant green grass which hung heavy with frost and water.
Someone was rushing through the grass to get to him, but it all seemed so unimportant now. What was he supposed to do? Why? The questions sounded, hanging and dropping off into the ever growing silence which filled him. Bruning found he could not move, and he also found he was not surprised or scared. When he was a boy at Harburg, they would play hide and seek on the Elbe. In the forest there he would find the witch grass and curl up in it and sit still for hours while his friends searched
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