Winter's Bullet by William Osborne Page B

you and the general in any way I can.’
    â€˜Is that so? Well, I’m sure we can arrange that. Will you be travelling with the others?’
    Krüger nodded; come hell or high water, he was getting on that plane.
    â€˜Excellent – then let us toast before you go.’ Eva walked across and poured some spirit into two small glasses. ‘To the future,’ she said.
    â€˜Zukunft,’ Krüger replied, repeating the word in German. They downed their drinks in one and he kissed her hand again.
    A most successful evening for all concerned, he thought.

CHAPTER 13
    13 January 1945
    T he crew of the bomber was already back on board and the engines were idling by the time the limousine raced across the airfield and slewed to a halt. It was still dark, around four o’clock in the morning, with a crisp breeze blowing off the sea. Krüger and Tygo climbed back up into the belly of the plane and closed off the hatch.
    Krüger picked up the microphone to the internal intercom. ‘We’re ready to depart, Oberstleutnant Baumbach.’
    The Liberator’s four engines gradually rose in pitch and the big bomber rolled forward, taxiing for take-off. Tygoand Krüger struggled back into their flying uniforms and the heavy jackets, helmets, goggles, parachutes and the rest. By the time they had sat down in their seats the plane was racing down the runway, and then it was into the air.
    Tygo craned his neck to see the city falling away to the left as the bomber swung north towards the French coast. He thought about the strange meeting he’d witnessed, and wished he spoke Spanish. He’d been surprised by Krüger’s fluency in the language. But he understood something very clearly: they were toasting the future – he knew the German word – and it was obvious that Krüger had somehow secured a very bright one for himself as a result of this meeting.
    He settled back in his seat, and snapped on his oxygen like an old pro. He was so tired that almost immediately the rocking of the plane and the drone of the engines were pulling him under like the finest mesmerist. He knew he ought to be thinking, working out what to do when he got back.
    What to do. What to do.
    A searing pain ripped Tygo awake. It felt like someone had placed a red-hot poker over his forearm. For a moment he didn’t know where he was – it was pitch black, there was a terrible banging noise and he was being pushed and pulled in his seat by some unseen force. Almost immediately he realized what was happening: the plane was under attack and he had been shot.
    He looked at his left arm, where the pain was. His thick leather flying jacket had been sliced through like a hot knife through butter. Beneath it was a neat crimson lineacross his forearm where the muscle had been sliced open, not quite down to the bone. Blood was pouring out. Beside him, a hole had been punched through the metal fuselage, and as Tygo looked, he saw a fresh series of them blossom down the side like exclamation marks.
    â€˜Night fighters! Frettchen, man that gun!’ Krüger was yelling at him, and Tygo came fully awake.
    The plane was rolling and pitching, and there was the sound of multiple machine guns being fired from the other gun positions in the plane. It was like being on a ship under attack in a wild storm. Repel all boarders!
    Tygo undid his belt and pulled himself up. He staggered forward and managed to get the Perspex window latched open. Then he swung the heavy machine gun round and shoved the barrel out into the night air. A belt of ammunition was already fed into the gun’s breech and the cocking lever pulled back. The noise from the engines and the guns was simply deafening, and Tygo hung on to the machine gun’s handles for dear life as the slipstream threatened to suck him clean out of the plane. He glanced over at Krüger, whose gun was chattering out into the darkness, blobs of tracer arcing