Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (50 page)

Night of Flames

345

Jan swallowed hard and gripped the silver-haired man’s shoulder.

“I have to go to a briefi ng now,” Sam said. “Will you meet me at the Café Brig for dinner . . . six o’clock?”

Jan nodded. “There’s just one more thing I’d like to know. What’s your name?”

Sam smiled and held out his hand. “It’s Willy. Willy Boeynants.”

The Café Brig was a noisy, rowdy place when Jan arrived. The celebrating crowd had spilled onto the street where dozens of hardy men hoisted beer glasses in the air, shouting and singing Flemish songs. Inside it was the same.

A boisterous throng of tough-looking men that Jan guessed were mostly dockworkers, and a smattering of equally tough-looking women.

He pushed his way to the bar, managed to get a beer and found a small table in the back of the room. The beer was watery, but he hardly noticed as he sat there, staring vacantly at the jubilant patrons, still trying to process the mind-numbing news.

The tragic chronology of events marched through his mind again, and he became overwhelmed with frustration. He and Anna had come so far, they had been so close . . . and now this. The staggering revelation was like a heavy weight descending on him. Anna had actually made it here, to Antwerp, and now she was . . . missing? Had she been arrested? Injured? Was she in jail somewhere in France? Or had she been sent to . . . ?

Jan took a hard swallow of his beer and almost choked. He thought about Irene, dying in a train station in Prague and Justyn, now an orphan. He had been within fi fty meters of Justyn just a few days ago and hadn’t realized it.

Even now, the boy was just a kilometer away but sealed off in Merksem, trapped under the heel of the same German bastards he’d been fi ghting for fi ve years.

He needed air. He got to his feet and pushed through the crowd. His eyes were blurry and he was dizzy. A woman yelled something as he bumped into her, but he scarcely noticed.

Outside, he stood on the quay staring at the stagnant water in the ancient dock. A string of barges were tied up alongside, laden with coal. The sky had darkened and a light drizzle fell, causing some of the crowd to disperse.

Jan knew that staying in control would take every ounce of the self- discipline 346

Douglas W. Jacobson

his military training had taught him. A rage burned within him, a rage that had been smoldering for fi ve years and was about to boil over. He took a deep breath and looked up at the cloudy sky. The rain felt good.

“Jan!”

He heard his name and turned around. It was Willy Boeynants.

“You’re not going to jump in, are you?”

“Non,”
Jan replied grimly. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Let’s get some dinner.” Boeynants put his hand on Jan’s shoulder and led the way back inside.

It turned out there was another, quieter room tucked away in the back of the café. There were only a few tables, and Boeynants obviously had the right connections. A waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine and two glasses then quickly departed.

Boeynants fi lled both glasses, then glanced around the room making eye contact and subtle acknowledgements with the other patrons.

Jan guessed they were all with the White Brigade.

Boeynants took a sip of his wine, then leaned across the table. He spoke quietly. “About an hour ago, Antoine and I attended a briefi ng with Colonel Canfi eld and a few other British and Canadian offi cers.” He paused, making sure he had Jan’s full attention. “A brigade has been assembled to attempt a crossing of the Albert Canal into Merksem.”

“When?” Jan asked, instantly focused.

“Tonight. They’ll shove off at midnight in assault boats.”

“Who do I report to?”

“Jan, listen to me . . .”

“Goddamn it, Willy,” Jan hissed. “After what you told me this afternoon, you know I’ve got to go.”

“
Oui, oui.
That’s why I’m telling you.” He took another sip of wine.

Jan sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . well, you know. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“You’ll report to a Major Duncan. Antoine has advised him of your real identity and what your purpose is in joining the mission. You’re to report to him at 2300 hours at the south end of what used to be the Yserbrug.”

Jan nodded.

“The objective of the mission is to secure a bridgehead on the Merksem Night of Flames

347

side of the canal and hold it long enough for the engineers to get a Bailey Bridge across.”

Jan looked down at the table. The Albert Canal was over fi fty meters wide.

They’d be paddling across at night—in small boats—for a frontal assault on a secured position. Who the hell thought this one up?

Boeynants said, “Jan, you don’t have to go. You could wait . . .”

“I’m going,” Jan said. He understood what Boeynants was trying to tell him.

This was a high-risk mission and he’d be of no use to Justyn if he got killed.

“I’ve drawn a map for you,” Boeynants said, handing him a small, folded piece of paper. “Auguste’s house is on Beukenhofstraat. It’s marked on the map.”

Chapter 70

It was raining harder. Jan stood on the wharf along the Albert Canal watching British engineers lower the assault boats into the water. He had heard they could hold twenty men with two machine gunners in the prow. The wind had picked up, and there was a chop on the canal. The boats looked very small.

A White Brigade commander named Johann stood next to Jan, looking through the gloom across the canal. He shook his head and grunted in heavily accented English, “Fuckin’ disaster this is going to be.” He spat on the ground.

“If the goddamn Brits would have listened to us, we could have saved these bridges. Now we’re going to attack German machine guns in little boats.”

Jan looked at the husky dockworker and nodded in agreement. The wreckage of the dynamited Yserbrug was just fi fty meters away.

Johann and twelve other White Brigade soldiers familiar with Merksem were going along as guides for the British troops. Jan thought about the briefi ng they’d just had. It would be a tall order. The area of Merksem near the canal was heavily industrial, a snarl of narrow streets winding among massive brick buildings, factory yards, fences, and piles of steel and coal. They had no real maps, it was dark and raining, and the enemy was well dug in. If he had any hope of fi nding Justyn, his fi rst task would be to avoid getting killed in the fi rst hour.

Major Duncan gave the order. The British troopers and White Brigade guides lowered themselves down the quay into the boats and pushed off. There were twenty-six of them, strung out over a half-kilometer.

They were halfway across when a burst of machine-gun fi re erupted from the Merksem side of the canal. A boat capsized. Men cursed and screamed, thrashing in the cold water.

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349

Then all hell broke loose.

German machine gunners ripped the water up and down the canal. Boats sunk, men screamed, fl ailing the water, weighted down by heavy boots and packs.

From the Antwerp side, British artillery crews launched a barrage across the canal.

Jan hunkered down and paddled with every ounce of his strength.

The sergeant in command of the boat yelled, “Open Fire!” and the two submachine gunners in the prow blasted the shoreline.

A soldier on Jan’s right grunted and slumped over the side, his head dragging in the water.

Another grunt, from the back of the boat, and a soldier fell forward. The tiny craft rocked wildly, and Jan was certain it would capsize.

“Goddamn it! Stay down!” the sergeant screamed. “Paddle! Harder! We’re almost there!”

Clattering machine guns and thumping artillery shells echoed off the water in a deafening, paralyzing crescendo. The night sky blazed with fi reworks.

Jan hunched lower and dug his paddle deep in the water, his head pounding.

They jarred to a stop.

“Grappling hooks!” the sergeant yelled.

Two men stood up and tossed heavy ropes with steel hooks onto the quay.

The boat rocked and Jan bashed his head on the concrete wall. He felt a thick hand under his arm, and suddenly he was on dry land.

The sergeant screamed, “Get moving!” and they scrambled across the road.

German machine gunners fi red up and down the line. Men toppled back into the canal. Jan tripped over a fallen soldier and fell on the cobblestones. He rolled, got to his feet and lurched toward a building.

Suddenly it was quiet. The British cut off the artillery barrage, and the German machine gunners ran out of targets.

Jan looked around. He was huddled with a group of about thirty men. He recognized only a few from his boat. Major Duncan squatted a few meters away, trying to raise someone on the radio.

They were alongside some type of factory. Across the street was a high, chain-link fence. Jan knew from the map Boeynants had drawn that the main road running along the canal was the Vaartkaai. Auguste’s home on Beukenhofstraat would be less than a kilometer northeast.

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Major Duncan was off the radio and moved to the center of the group. “All right, chaps, listen up. I’ve made contact with two other units. They’re both to the east of us. We’re going to move out, single fi le, hugging the buildings.

Right, let’s go.”

It had been a long time since Jan was part of a battle group where someone else gave the orders. But he put his head down and followed.

Twenty-four hours later it was still raining, and they were pinned down among the maze of factory buildings along the Vaartkaai. The Germans had snipers on top of buildings and hidden in trenches. They had machine gunners positioned at strategic intersections, and panzer units clanked through the narrow streets, picking off British platoons trying to penetrate inland.

Jan looked around at the young British soldiers huddled nearby. They were no different from the Polish soldiers he had commanded at the Bzura River and in the Kampinos Forest. He knew exactly what they were thinking. It was obvious the mission was a failure, and the only thoughts going through the young troopers’ minds were whether or not they’d get out alive.

“Colonel?” The voice came from behind him. It was a British corporal.

“Major Duncan would like a word with you, sir.”

Keeping low, Jan followed the corporal, sloshing through puddles of oily water, along the side of a brick building with shot-out windows. Ahead, Jan spotted a group of offi cers and the White Brigade commander, Johann, gathered around a radioman.

Major Duncan looked up as Jan approached and stepped over to meet him.

He spoke quickly. “We’ll be withdrawing back across the canal at 0300. The artillery barrage from the Antwerp side will begin at 0245.”

Jan glanced at his watch. Less than an hour.

“We’re still trying to round up all of our units,” Duncan said, his eyes acknowledging the diffi cult tactical situation. “Do you know where you’re headed, sir?”

“Yes. The street is called Beukenhofstraat. It’s northeast of here, on the other side of the Bredabaan. I’m sure I can fi nd my way. I’ll stay here until your boats are launched, then—”

“Sir,” Duncan interrupted, “if you don’t mind, I have a plan to assist you.”

“Major, I cannot allow any of your men to be put at risk on my behalf.”

Night of Flames

351

“I understand, sir. Please, hear me out.”

Jan nodded. “Go ahead.”

“One of our PIAT squads managed to cross the Bredabaan. They got tangled up with a panzer unit and disabled one of the bloody bastards. Then they ran out of ammo. In trying to withdraw they’ve apparently gotten lost. We’ve made radio contact and it sounds like they’re off in the direction you want to go. I’m dispatching Johann to lead a patrol to fi nd them. I suggest you go with them. At least you’ll have some fi repower for support between here and the Bredabaan.”

The Bredabaan was Merksem’s main business street, a wide boulevard, lined with retail stores, offi ce buildings and churches. The tramline from Antwerp ran down the center, now littered with idle tramcars. A few autos and trucks, abandoned by their owners when the fi ghting erupted, were parked helter-skelter in the street. Except for patrolling German tanks and armored cars, the normally teeming thoroughfare was deserted.

Crouched in a dark alcove between two buildings, Jan peeked around the corner, looking left and right. The shelling over the last two days had shattered most of the windows along the street. In the middle of the boulevard was a crater at least ten meters in diameter and a wrecked tramcar lying on its side.

He spotted a large church that Boeynants had identifi ed on his map as Snit Bartholomeus. It was a landmark for him. Beukenhofstraat was three streets to the east. But fi rst he had to get across the Bredabaan.

Jan considered the church. The bell tower provided an ideal location for snipers or machine gunners who would have a clear line of fi re up and down the entire length of the street. He checked his watch. It was 0230. The artillery barrage from Antwerp would begin in fi fteen minutes. He retreated into the shadows and pulled a metal fl ask from his pocket that Johann had pressed into his hand as they parted. He unscrewed the lid and took a sip. The Irish whis-key burned all the way down with a welcome warmth.

At exactly 0245 it started. At fi rst dull, thumping noises, like distant fi reworks then, seconds later, thunderous explosions that shook the ground, shattering what few windows were left along the Bredabaan.

Jan knew the primary targets were the buildings along the canal and perhaps the fi rst street or two inland. He should be out of range but he had been 352

Douglas W. Jacobson

through enough artillery bombardments to know about stray shells. He crawled to the edge of the alcove, glanced left and right and bolted into the street.

He crossed the fi rst cobblestone lanes and was almost across the tram tracks when machine-gun fi re burst from the church tower. Jan veered to the left then to the right. The shells passed over his head. It was dark and raining. He was dressed in black trousers, a black wool sweater and a dark green beret. To the gunner in the tower he was just a fast moving shadow.