A Quest to Get Home Bound: The Story of One Man's Battle to Return

About the Author

Charles.G.Fournel grew up in a small seaside town in Suffolk, England. He is a divorced, devoted father of two. He started writing short stories at the age of ten and since has expanded his genre to World War II. He has family connections in both the allies and axis during the war. This is the reason for his extended interest in this era. He has grown to have great respect for resistance groups who, without any military experience, took up arms for their country. Other books by Charles.G.Fournel: Rise of the Maquis.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to:

My supportive parents, Robin ‘The Amber-man’ Fournel and Astrid Fournel.

Copyright Information ©

Charles.G.Fournel 2022

The right of Charles.G.Fournel to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398411654 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398411661 (ePub e book)

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First Published 2022

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Prologue

1942

Paris, France

Along the cobblestoned streets of the French capital city, walked a French businessman dressed in a black pinstriped suit, wearing a black tie, a matching fedora hat and polished Oxford brogue shoes. The man was nervous, constantly straightening his tie. There was a Nazi soldier on every street, treating the man with disdain. Halfway down the main street, the man ducked into a secluded side street and cautiously walked down, constantly checking behind him. He turned a corner and his path was blocked by a tall slim man, wearing a dark blue coat, a grey flat cap and a black armband on his upper left arm. From his thin lips hung an unlit hand-rolled cigarette. The grip of a pistol could be seen sticking out the front of his trousers. The businessman, without a word, held out a small bundle of notes, which was the grand sum of four hundred Francs.

The second man quickly grabbed it and passed the man a brown paper bag containing a kilogram of sugar that he had pre-ordered, which he instantly hid beneath his suit jacket. The trade had been completed and the two men went off in opposite directions. This was the second European war and black-market trading was a way of life. The marketeers mostly accepted Francs or Reichsmarks; other currencies were too easily forged. On the very rare occasion they may ask for a favour in return for the trade, from certain people who could provide them with such details as truck supply rotas or warehouse itineraries, information which could be used to stock up their underground economy supplies. Any rationed or illegally obtained products could be purchased for the right price, whether it was forged ration stamps, silk shirts or even firearms. Any man wearing a black armband on his upper arm would get you anything you desired.

Chapter 1

Undisclosed Location, East Germany

Through the darkness, in the centre of Nazi-controlled Germany, in the dense mountainous terrain, a continuous tremendous roar could be heard as a torrent of water poured through a giant dam. It was a product of terrifying engineering, as this was no ordinary German controlled dam, but an undercover hydroelectric, heavy-water production plant. By passing an electric current through the churning water and then chemically combining it with the raw material, uranium, making it into plutonium, it could then be made into a weapon so powerful it would change the course of the war in the Axis’ favour. This raw material came mainly from fascist controlled Argentina, and was shipped to National Socialist Germany by the terrifying Nazi U-boats.

Once the American president Franklin Roosevelt had heard from a reliable OSS (Office of Strategic Service) agent embedded deep in Hitler’s inner circle, named Wilhelm Canaris, who was also the head of the Nazi Abwehr (the Nazi equivalent to the British military intelligence or MI5), and had reported that the German Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, had his heart set on trying this new destructive bomb on the island of Manhattan, New York. So the United States president had no choice but to send in a special Ranger unit to disrupt the Nazis’ attempt to create this potential menace.

The Ranger unit chosen for this top secret, important mission was a five-man squad, led by a seasoned sergeant with no known sense of humour, named Lee Johnson. He had proven himself as a leader whilst being a member of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion during the Spanish civil war. The Abraham Lincoln Battalion was a US voluntary military based battalion organised to help the republicans fight against the fascist coup led by General Franco, between 1936 and 1939.

After studying plans for six months before the operation, in the safety of a secret war ministry bunker on the East Coast of England, the five-man ranger unit had been dropped behind enemy lines. They had climbed a sheer cliff face and crossed the mountainous terrain to find their objective, then cutting through a mesh wire fence on a poorly lit unguarded section of the encircling wire obstacle, they had successfully entered the restricted area and were running along the top of the concrete structure. The only light they had to assist them was the light from the full moon that shone above them like a spotlight in the sky. The five balaclava-wearing men, totally dressed in black, except for a dark grey patch on their upper left arm which displayed the stars and stripes identifying them as US army.

Without the American insignia, if caught then they could all be shot as spies. They were running in a crouch across the reinforced edifice, only armed with their ultra-sharp daggers, the ‘Mark two combat knives’ or better known as the ‘Ka-Bar’, and their trusted side-arms, the M1911 revolver. The military troop fell to the floor as a low-flying seaplane flew over their heads, only rising again once the red wing lights had disappeared into the distance. At the centre of the massive construction they reached a large, heavy, circular, metallic hatch in the floor. The first sergeant, Lee Johnson, turned the large wheel on the top and with a sharp tug pulled open the hatch door, which creaked loudly, breaking the still silence, as it opened. One at a time, each man slid down the ladder into the depths of the structure, switching on their torches and scanning the inner belly of the erection.

As each ranger hit the ground, they pulled off their dark balaclavas and slipped out their sleek blades, ready to stealthily take out anyone who could raise the alarm. Yet the place seemed eerily quiet; in fact, it seemed totally deserted. Inside, there was a taste of rusting metal in the stale air and the roaring of the constant cascade of water had become muffled. The whole area was full of complex machinery to transform the standard river water into the much desired ‘heavy water’ also known as heavy hydrogen for the higher hydrogen count than normal water. There were thin rail lines on the floor, which would be used to transport the barrels of the valuable heavy hydrogen, loading them onto hand-pushed wooden carts, leading into a secure area that was most likely a reinforced bunker of sorts, carved deeply beneath the mountain side.

Once the team leader had re-joined the squad, closing the hatch with a dull thud, without a word he pointed to each man in turn and directed them to a particular area, for them to go about planting their explosive charges.

The corporal and second-in-command of the squad, Draven Peterson, was fitting his final DMX charge to a large turbine at the far end of the room when he felt the cold barrel of a gun at the back of his head. He slowly turned with the explosive device still in his hand, to be greeted by an ape of a Nazi soldier, pointing a MP45 machine gun directly at him. He had not heard the German enter; it seemed as if he had appeared from nowhere.

Hände hoch! demanded the German thug. Being fluent in many languages, his father had run a language school in New York, the corporal understood what his assailant was requesting, so with the final explosives still in his hand he raised his hands. The soldier grabbed the block of DMX from him and then with his rifle directed the man to move. Draven had no chance to reach for his side arm without being shot himself.

The American was marched back to the ladder, where they had entered. Standing along with six or seven other goons, there in a long black water resistant overcoat and peaked cap stood a Nazi SS-Sturmbannführer (equivalent rank to a major), aiming his deadly Luger pistol at the man in front of him, who was on his knees with his hands on his head. This was one of Draven’s comrades named Richard, or Dick to his friends. The American corporal froze, seeing this horrifying display. Noticing the newly apprehended man hesitate, the Sturmbannführer gave a small, sly, crooked smile and then he focused his attention back to the captured man on his knees, a shot rang out, echoing around the room. The confined quarters amplified the sound, deafening its occupants, as the officer squeezed the trigger of his weapon and as Draven watched his friend fall to the floor. He saw red and was just about to shout profanity at the Nazi commander and attack the aggressor still holding the gun behind him, when he felt a sharp pain with a thud and fell to the hard floor as the butt of a rifle connected with his head.

The ranger squad, with their hands bound in front of them, were marched out to a Nazi transportation truck, outside, forced to carry their unconscious corporal. As the men began embarking the vehicle, there was an ear-piercing eruption, as the explosive devices the German soldiers had failed to locate, detonated. The thunderous discharge ruptured the concrete blockade and the tremendous pressure of river water pushed through and burst through the solid structure. The cascade of water rushed along the ravine with terrifying force. The arrested men stopped embarking the trucks, to watch their destructive handiwork and hid their smug smiles. Their operation had been a success, even though they had lost one of their fellow soldiers, but the results could have been a lot worse. Not only had they slowed the Germans technical advance of this new super weapon, but they knew only too well that the release of tremendous rush of water would demolish any Nazi guard post or stronghold bridges along its route. As they entered the back of the lorries, they had an overwhelming feeling of being a bit lighter, as if an extensive weight had been taken from their shoulders and a staggering sense of pride, mixed with fear for their comatose comrade.

Chapter 2

A violent jolt as the truck hit a bump in the road, awoke the American ranger corporal. He was a square jawed man with thick stubble that could even be construed as a thin beard and a short cropped brown haircut. He had been the second in command of the five-man team that had been dropped behind enemy lines, for the top secret operations. The American’s hands were bound with a pair of heavy irons, opposite him were his comrades all shackled in the same way. They were in the back of a dull, grey, Nazi lorry and at the end of the truck sat a pair of heavily armed German soldiers. Draven looked at the two rough guards and then in his fluent German, which had a slight Bavarian accent asked, still feeling a touch groggy.

Hast du bitte eine Ersatzzigarette? The two Nazis looked at each other and laughed, obviously amused by the American’s request. The younger of the pair reached into his military green top pocket and removed a packet of German cigarettes, took one from the packet and stuck it between his prisoner’s lips, before lighting it.

Teilt es, said the soldier, ordering him to share the requested cigarette. Draven took a couple of deep drags on his newly acquired tobacco product, he could not deny that the Germans made the best smoking tobacco. He closed his eyes as he felt the nicotine run through his body, he passed the cigarette to the youngest of his three comrades, Julian, who was sitting beside him.

We were worried about you, whispered Julian. You took that rifle butt to the head quite hard.

I’m okay kid, I got worse beatings from my old man, replied the rough man shaking his head to wake himself.

Where’s Dick? asked the young ranger in a quiet whisper, as not to attract the attention of the aggressive looking guards, looking to his fellow rangers, around the back of the transportation truck, as he passed the cigarette on to another comrade.

He bought it, said the sergeant, Lee Johnson, dryly who was also not known for his sensitive side and no one dared call him by his Christian name.

Where do you think they are taking us? asked the third man, in a strong Irish accent, passing on the cigarette. He was a lean Irish man and was the most agile of the troop. His name was Sean, but had the nickname of Mic to his brothers in arms.

No idea, the Sergeant replied. Ask them, Draven.

Wohin gehen wir? Draven asked, requesting their destination from the Germans, but received no reply, so he persisted asking louder. Wohin gehen wir?

Halt Deine klappe! Du Schweinhunde! shouted the older of the two Germans savagely.

Well, what’d he say? Asked Sean who, like many of his fellow soldiers, did not understand a word of German. Draven laughed, he had no idea how to translate the German insult of Schweinhunde, which literary translated as ‘pig-dog’.

He told me to shut my trap, replied Draven, deciding to only translate half of it. The transport truck then came to an abrupt halt. The flaps at the rear of the truck were flung open and in looked a pair of German policemen, wearing their faded blue/grey uniforms, the two officers both had matching thin pencil moustaches and looked like a duo comedy act. Seeing the Nazi soldiers, they gave them a fascist salute. Draven looked past the law men and could see a German jeep armed with a large fifty calibre machine gun, that was mounted on the back, aiming directly at the rear of the lorry. This brief encounter told Draven two vital things, firstly they were still in Germany, secondly that there would be no chance to escape, even if they could overpower the two guards, who were watching them like hawks and if they jumped from the back, they would be instantly mown down by the powerful weapon.

As quickly as the vehicle had stopped, it restarted again and continued on its journey.

They proceeded along a tarmac road and then turned a tight right onto a dirt road, kicking up dust as they travelled through a thick fern forest. Every bump could be felt through the lorry’s hard wooden benches and it finally came to an immediate stop, which was a relief to all the occupants. The engine cut off, which ceased its low continuous rumble. The four captured detainees sat stock still, not a sound could be heard outside, except for the creaking of the trees as they bent in the wind, but not a bird or beast made a sound. Once again the rear flaps were flung open, but this time the occupants were greeted by at least a dozen Nazi soldiers, wearing their dark green uniforms and steel coal scuttle ‘Stahlhelm’ helmets, all aiming the favourite weapons of the Axis power, the MP41 machine gun at the four prisoners of war.

The two guarding soldiers rose to their feet, dragged the men one by one and quite literary chucked them out of the back of the Nazi transportation vehicle onto the dusty, hard, dry, gravelly ground. Draven, his body sore, pulled himself off the floor and dusted the dry dirt from his clothing. Looking up he was surprised to see in front of him a single storey log cabin, beside a thick dense forest, that ran along their right hand side, as far as the eye could see. The scene to their left, looked totally different and it quite literally took the American rangers, breath away. The structures before them was surrounded by a double mesh fence, between eight or nine feet tall concrete straining posts, with a barbed wire hang-over, men in American, British and Dutch uniforms could be seen inside the fence. There were approximately two to three hundred ‘bunk houses’, situated inside. Before the wooden bunk houses was a tall flag pole flying a blood red flag, with a black and white cross, much like the ‘Balkan Cross’ used on Nazi vehicles. With a swastika in the centre of the cross and the Eisernes Kreuz (the symbol of the German army also known as the Iron Cross) in the top left hand corner of the flag. Every thirty feet along the fence there were wooden guard watch towers, manned by armed soldiers who watched the camp with eagle like eyes.

They could hear the signal shots of a small calibre hunting rifle, from deep in the surrounding pine forest.

Wo ist Oberster Führer Becker? asked the same officer who had previously arrested them, at the hydro-electric plant. He had been following the transport in the armed jeep and was now asking for the location of the camp’s superior officer. A SS Grüppenführer approached the man and they spoke together in hushed voices. Draven looked around, observing each of the camp guards. This was no ordinary prisoner of war camp, this camp was being run by the Schutzstaffel (SS), not normal Nazi soldiers. After the few brief words between the two soldiers the four American Rangers were led into the log cabin, in front of them. The shackled men lined up along the wall and waited to receive instructions