cherry.’ Amid the laughter, Gertrude was hauled off him and he gasped the air around him.
An army radio barked into life on the kitchen table. For a radius of two miles, Metzger’s forces were attacking local German farms. Somewhere in the distance a farm was being torched, the horizon beginning to glow from the blaze. Schenker rose unsteadily to his feet, smelling like a butcher’s block.
Metzger was covered in blood, his men also. They had a sweaty high coming off them; they were all panting like hounds. Schenker retched onto the floor and onto his highly polished boots.
Metzger looked at him in disdain. ‘Christ, Schenker, pull yourself together.’
He picked up Schenker’s Luger and handed it to one of the younger men. The soldier looked at it in puzzlement until Metzger, reaching down, picked up the carving knife on the floor and plunged it to the hilt into the soldier’s chest. Pulling the stunned man closer onto the blade, he twisted it repeatedly, then threw the soldier onto the floor. The rest of the men stood stunned.
Metzger turned to them. ‘He will receive a funeral you could only dream of. He will join the great fallen German soldiers who are about the shed their life’s blood for the Reich. Remember him well, gentlemen. He is a hero.’
He then pulled documentation from his tunic, drenched in blood, and checked the photograph on it. Satisfied that it matched the man he had just stabbed, he placed the documents into the dying soldier’s tunic.
They headed out into the courtyard.
Metzger turned to Schenker. ‘Torch the outbuildings, leave the farmhouse standing.’ Schenker, recovering his composure, saluted straight-armed. Metzger spoke slowly, ‘Leave the farmhouse standing.’ Metzger prayed this idiot wouldn’t be drafted to his units when the battles proper started.
The following morning, the local constabulary made their way between the ravaged farms. Lowe’s farm was the worst the district investigator had ever had to deal with. His men were traumatised and stood in huddles in the courtyard smoking and whispering.
The dogs had had their throats cut and had been eviscerated with some kind of large knife. Their entrails were strewn around the yard. The farmer’s body had been dumped in the well; he was like a rag doll as they hoisted him up onto the ground. The outer buildings had been burnt down, the livestock slaughtered with automatic weapons. Spent casings lay scattered everywhere.
The girls loft though was nothing like anything they had ever seen. The pathologist arrived with his team from Berlin, then the Gestapo, police and representatives of the Führer, followed by the press. Cars began to block up the roadway, interfering with the investigation.
Then officials from the Propaganda Ministry arrived.
Whatever evidence was around was now utterly contaminated as film cameras were set up and mounted, and Gestapo operatives took photographs.
The investigator saluted the Gestapo plain clothes officers smartly. It was an honour to have these men come all the way from Berlin. He led the two men into the kitchen. Tables and chairs lay overturned and there, in the middle of the room, the immense bulk of Gertrude lay. Beside her lay a man with a carving knife buried up to its hilt in his chest. The man was wearing a Polish Officer’s uniform. Documentation showed he was Polish Army.
‘ Looks like the old bird got one,’ said the investigator, lighting up a cigarette. It killed the smell, but only just.
The Gestapo men looked around, taking everything in. Two SS stepped in and stood alongside them, summoning the investigator over. He stood, slightly stooped, fidgeting with his hat, clearly out of his depth.
‘ Thank you for your assistance and prompt request for us. We will handle this awful incident from here on. Please submit all your findings directly to me,’
The investigator was handed a card listing the address as Himmler’s headquarters in Berlin. They saluted and the
An army radio barked into life on the kitchen table. For a radius of two miles, Metzger’s forces were attacking local German farms. Somewhere in the distance a farm was being torched, the horizon beginning to glow from the blaze. Schenker rose unsteadily to his feet, smelling like a butcher’s block.
Metzger was covered in blood, his men also. They had a sweaty high coming off them; they were all panting like hounds. Schenker retched onto the floor and onto his highly polished boots.
Metzger looked at him in disdain. ‘Christ, Schenker, pull yourself together.’
He picked up Schenker’s Luger and handed it to one of the younger men. The soldier looked at it in puzzlement until Metzger, reaching down, picked up the carving knife on the floor and plunged it to the hilt into the soldier’s chest. Pulling the stunned man closer onto the blade, he twisted it repeatedly, then threw the soldier onto the floor. The rest of the men stood stunned.
Metzger turned to them. ‘He will receive a funeral you could only dream of. He will join the great fallen German soldiers who are about the shed their life’s blood for the Reich. Remember him well, gentlemen. He is a hero.’
He then pulled documentation from his tunic, drenched in blood, and checked the photograph on it. Satisfied that it matched the man he had just stabbed, he placed the documents into the dying soldier’s tunic.
They headed out into the courtyard.
Metzger turned to Schenker. ‘Torch the outbuildings, leave the farmhouse standing.’ Schenker, recovering his composure, saluted straight-armed. Metzger spoke slowly, ‘Leave the farmhouse standing.’ Metzger prayed this idiot wouldn’t be drafted to his units when the battles proper started.
The following morning, the local constabulary made their way between the ravaged farms. Lowe’s farm was the worst the district investigator had ever had to deal with. His men were traumatised and stood in huddles in the courtyard smoking and whispering.
The dogs had had their throats cut and had been eviscerated with some kind of large knife. Their entrails were strewn around the yard. The farmer’s body had been dumped in the well; he was like a rag doll as they hoisted him up onto the ground. The outer buildings had been burnt down, the livestock slaughtered with automatic weapons. Spent casings lay scattered everywhere.
The girls loft though was nothing like anything they had ever seen. The pathologist arrived with his team from Berlin, then the Gestapo, police and representatives of the Führer, followed by the press. Cars began to block up the roadway, interfering with the investigation.
Then officials from the Propaganda Ministry arrived.
Whatever evidence was around was now utterly contaminated as film cameras were set up and mounted, and Gestapo operatives took photographs.
The investigator saluted the Gestapo plain clothes officers smartly. It was an honour to have these men come all the way from Berlin. He led the two men into the kitchen. Tables and chairs lay overturned and there, in the middle of the room, the immense bulk of Gertrude lay. Beside her lay a man with a carving knife buried up to its hilt in his chest. The man was wearing a Polish Officer’s uniform. Documentation showed he was Polish Army.
‘ Looks like the old bird got one,’ said the investigator, lighting up a cigarette. It killed the smell, but only just.
The Gestapo men looked around, taking everything in. Two SS stepped in and stood alongside them, summoning the investigator over. He stood, slightly stooped, fidgeting with his hat, clearly out of his depth.
‘ Thank you for your assistance and prompt request for us. We will handle this awful incident from here on. Please submit all your findings directly to me,’
The investigator was handed a card listing the address as Himmler’s headquarters in Berlin. They saluted and the
Similar Books
