The Fuhrer's Orphans by David Laws

Author:David Laws [Laws, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

Peter took a long moment to consider his response. He was reluctant to disobey Dansey’s orders, but before he could decide how to react Meyer leaned forward and peered from his window.

‘Damn! That looks like Voss creeping up the tracks. Did you have a tail?’

‘Definitely not.’

Peter listened intently. He had keen hearing but background noises made it difficult. A rattle of passing trains on the main line, a factory hooter, the clink-clink of buffer stops from a shunting yard. Between these distractions brief spells of quiet confirmed Meyer’s warning. A scrape of stones nearby, the sound of light footsteps on ballast.

Then the vehicle swayed as someone grasped the handrails ready to climb aboard.

Peter tensed and put his hand on the hilt of his knife. He knew the Fulbrough mantra: violence, extreme and lethal, was the right option for dealing with the Gestapo. But could he do this?

Another noise, this time louder, more rhythmic, more constant, someone approaching who was not trying for concealment. Peter held his breath, realising he’d heard this rhythmic sound before. It was the Caller. The little guy was straining his limbs to work a distraction. There was a sharp voice outside – no words – but clearly Voss had issued a challenge.

‘Thought I saw someone moving about in the yard.’ The Caller’s voice was near, loud and clear.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘My yard, my responsibility.’

‘Fool!’ Voss had given up whispering. ‘Get back to your post and stop interfering.’

‘So, no cause for alarm then?’

‘Go!’

‘Good, good, glad to have been of assistance to you, Herr Oberscharfuhrer.’

The rhythmic beat of the Caller’s tread gradually died away and the caboose rocked again. The door opened and a loud tapping could be heard on the bare floorboards. Voss was using a stick to poke around the interior, prodding behind the stove and inside the food cupboard.

Peter shrank back, trying to mould himself to his seat, listening to the tap-tap, still clutching the knife. It was his only weapon. He’d dumped the army issue pistol at the windmill in France. Now he recalled Fulbrough’s lessons in silent killing; where to stab. He felt the cold steel of the sharp blade. His finger touched the cruel tip. Much like the firearms advice. Shoot your target between the eyes from the closest possible range. It all sickened him and he shook his head. A knife was strictly a weapon of last resort against wild animals or a savaging dog. He’d promised himself never to use it on a human being. Not even Voss. He slipped the weapon down the side of the seat. If necessary, he’d bluff it out. His German was good enough and he began constructing an elaborate story about a private meeting between old friends.

With one last frustrated whack of his stick Voss retreated to the door. Like so many others, he hadn’t looked up, confirming Dansey’s maxim that height was always the safest place of concealment.

Peter heard Voss swear and climb down to the track, then footfalls on the ballast.

After a long silence, Meyer whispered, ‘That should have taught us both a severe lesson.

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