The Eye of the Storm

Book 3: A Military Romance Trilogy

by Kate Lace

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

June 1944. In the immediate aftermath of the Normandy landings, chaos reigns and lives are irrevocably disrupted. At the Ferme de la Source, an isolated farm close to the front line, Martine battles to keep her animals fed, and shelter her German boyfriend, torn between his love for Martine and fear of his SS superiors, notably Obersturmbannfuhrer Jochen Peiper. On the south coast of England, meanwhile, Colonel David Clarke is preparing his troops for the last stage of the Allied invasion, the assault on Caen. At home, in her Sussex cottage, his pretty young wife Gwen, assuages her loneliness with a friendship – but one she may learn to regret. As the battle rages, in the air and on the ground, passions are ignited and loyalties are strained. Ultimately, though, honour will prevail...

Release date: August 17, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 298

Sample

One

An Hour Before Dawn, Saturday 24 June 1944

La Ferme de la Source – Normandy

‘Take care, Liebling,’ murmured Martine as she kissed her lover goodbye gently on the lips.

Otto held Martine by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. ‘I’ll try.’ He shrugged to indicate his lack of power over the matter.

‘And think about what I said.’

Otto nodded. He’d been thinking about little else since Martine had suggested the idea of desertion. It wasn’t as if he wanted to go on fighting. He had never wanted to be part of Hitler’s machine –even as a child he’d hated being in the Hitler Youth – but, like most Germans, he’d had precious little choice. However, the danger involved in deserting was immense – no less, of course, than the danger involved in continuing to fight; but which path would offer him the best chance of survival? He wished he knew. He’d only known Martine a matter of months and he didn’t want to be cheated out of more time with her. He wanted a lifetime in her company; but what were the chances of that, given the current circumstances?

He pulled his uniform tunic on, buttoned it up; then, kissing Martine one last time, he picked up his boots and crept out of her bedroom and down the stairs. With the bedroom door open the sound of snoring reverberated from her father’s room. The old soak had rolled in drunk again last night. They’d heard him crashing around the kitchen as they lay together in bed, both praying that he wouldn’t barge into Martine’s room. Not that he ever had, nor was it likely he would, but the sickening fear that he might was always there. Jean-Paul Bracque wasn’t an aggressive man by nature, but, fuelled by calvados, the sight of the Boche in his house – in his only daughter’s bed – might be enough to move him to violence. And they all knew where the shotgun was hidden. As usual, though, after a few minutes of bashing into the kitchen table and chairs as he stumbled about looking for food or drink, or both, he’d made his unsteady way up the stairs to his bed, where he had passed out almost instantly. Once the snoring started, Martine and Otto had allowed themselves to relax and had also swiftly fallen asleep clasped in each other’s arms in the narrow little iron cot that had been Martine’s bed since childhood.

Otto was certain, given the amount of booze Martine’s father had probably shipped the previous night, that Jean-Paul wouldn’t awaken now till late, giving him ample time to slip away, and the precaution with the footwear was more than likely unnecessary – but there was no point in tempting providence. Otto reached the kitchen, picked up an overturned kitchen chair and sat on it to put his boots on. When he’d finished lacing them up, he took his cap out of his pocket, set it on his head at the correct angle and let himself out of the farmhouse into the buffeting wind and lashing rain of a summer storm. The weather was marginally better than it had been for days – dear God! the storm earlier in the week had been terrible – but it was still bad.

Martine stood at her bedroom window and looked across the yard to the figure of her lover, just visible through the rain as he went through the gate and then strode down the lane that led to the road to the airfield. Had he been stationary, his field-grey uniform would have blended into the monochrome countryside, but his movement betrayed his position. In a few seconds he would turn the corner and be gone; so she watched until he did, not wanting, in these desperate and unsafe days, to lose a second more of his presence than absolutely necessary.

Otto disappeared from sight. She sighed, left the window and began to dress. As she pulled on her rough wool trousers and coarse cotton shirt, she heard the rumble of guns. Are they closer than yesterday? she wondered. Difficult to tell. She looked out of the window and saw the muzzle flashes off near the coast. A safe distance. A couple of days ago there had been a battle just down the road at Tilly. That had been terrifying. The shells had landed frighteningly near, the ground had shaken and the sudden, hideous explosions had made her want to curl up with her arms over her head. Then the barrage had stopped and the machine-guns had started up, but luckily it hadn’t moved their way and since then it had been relatively quiet. Her father, cowering with her in the cellar, had muttered things about ‘the Allies consolidating their positions’ and ‘engaging in flanking movements’, but Martine didn’t know whether this was old phrases from the Great War that he was regurgitating, blind speculation, or stuff he’d heard from his visits to the café in the village that might contain a shred of truth.

After the battle they’d seen refugees from Tilly fleeing, pushing handcarts, prams, bikes – anything they could lay their hands on – laden with basic possessions, frightened and not knowing when or if they would be able to return to their houses. She knew it was inevitable that the war would storm past their little corner of France like some terrible hurricane and Martine wondered if she should try to escape with her father, out of the line of fire. But she couldn’t leave the animals and she was afraid that the thought of losing the farm completely might push her father right over the edge. Besides, they had nowhere to go and they were probably as safe, or in as much danger, as they would be anywhere in this region for the foreseeable future.

Martine pulled on her boots and slipped out of her room. Time to do the milking. The cows wouldn’t wait just because there was a war on. Unlike Otto, she clumped down the wooden stairs. Now Otto was safely on his way, who cared if her father woke up? And just for once it would be nice if he did, then got out of his bed to help with the early-morning chores. But what chance of that? When her mother had been alive, and her father hadn’t spent most of his time trying to find oblivion, there had been more than enough for the three of them to do. Now she seemed to be running the whole place almost single-handedly. She ran her work-roughened hands through her hair in despair. She woke up each day still feeling tired and by the time she got back to her bed tonight she knew she’d be completely exhausted. She sighed heavily. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help anyone and surely the war couldn’t drag on for more than a few months?

She entered the kitchen and went over to the range. She riddled the ashes and pushed some kindling into it. The embers still glowed from the previous day’s carefully banked fire. In a matter of minutes the range was heating up nicely. She pushed a pan across on to the hotplate to boil up some water for coffee. Well, coffee was what she referred to it as still, but God alone knew what went into the grubby-looking grounds that she got from the grocery in the village. She cut a hunk off the end of yesterday’s baguette, split it and shoved it in the oven to toast – as tartine it would still be edible when dunked in the coffee.

Ten minutes later, Martine was in the yard. It was almost light by this time. The glow on the eastern horizon was fading from orange to gold and the sky took on the colour of oyster shell. She picked up her hazel switch from where she had left it on the mounting block, opened the gate, gave it a shove to swing it wide and then set off to the meadow and the herd.

Gare Saint-Lazare – Paris

SS-Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper paced along the platform at the Gare Saint-Lazare, waiting impatiently for news that a driver had been found for the train loaded with around twenty Panzer tanks from his battalion, plus men, kit, ammunition, rations and service vehicles. His annoyance was manifested in the slapping of his blackleather gloves against the palm of his left hand and the frown that creased his high, broad forehead; he wasn’t used to having his plans thwarted by inefficiency. Only a few days ago they had been in Belgium, resting and refitting, when the order came through that the battalion was to proceed with all haste to Normandy to provide reinforcements against the invasion. It was no small logistical feat to move an entire battalion of tanks such a distance and, until this hold-up, it had all happened with exemplary speed and competence.

But now, the first of the three trains that had been promised to take them from Paris to Caen was going nowhere for want of a driver. This was unacceptable. Peiper strode back down the platform again, anger welling up inside him. Some incompetent minion, no doubt, had failed to read the orders he had sent in advance and now precious hours were being lost. If he found out who was responsible he’d have them put against a wall and shot. This delay was tantamount to sabotage, he fumed. His battalion of Panzers might make all the difference to the battles in Normandy. If he was there, his tanks might stop and turn the tide of the enemy invasion. Peiper dwelt for a few seconds on what that might mean to him personally. He was already one of the most highly decorated soldiers in the SS. With another notable victory, his ascendancy would be unstoppable.

Winning wasn’t going to happen, though, if he didn’t get out of Saint-Lazare Station. He couldn’t throw the enemy back into the sea from here in Paris. He turned on his heel again, his eyes searching for someone on whom he could vent his rage, but apart from his own men – and none of this was their fault – he could see no one. He sighed furiously and slapped his gloves against his hand again. Where is that blasted driver? he thought. He had remonstrated with the officer in charge of troop movements. He had issued more threats.

‘But what am I supposed to do?’ Major Kepplinger blustered.

‘Find me a driver,’ retorted Peiper coldly.

‘I cannot produce what I do not have.’

‘Then I suggest you find a solution.’

Kepplinger was tired, overworked and disinclined to be bullied. ‘Or what?’

Peiper could barely contain his anger at this insolence. The last person who had spoken to him like that he’d shot. Admittedly it had been some nameless, insignificant Italian peasant who had refused to hand over food Peiper had requisitioned for his troops, not a German officer, but Peiper felt very tempted all the same.

‘Just find one,’ he snarled as he turned on his heel. He saw a French railwayman hurrying down the platform. Was this the driver? But no. The labourer jumped off the platform and wriggled into the space between it and the train and began greasing the axle bearings. Peiper, with nothing better to do, watched. The labourer glanced up as he moved from one flatbed to the next and met Peiper’s gaze; then he dropped his eyes and moved quickly round the back of the truck and out of sight. There was something furtive and shifty about the man’s actions. But surely no one would be foolhardy enough to tamper with the train under the eyes of a whole battalion of SS soldiers. Peiper narrowed his eyes as his instinct told him something was amiss; then he beckoned to his adjutant.

‘That man – what’s he doing?’

The adjutant looked in the direction Peiper was indicating, bent down to get a clear view under the bogeys and saw the labourer. He watched the man working for a few seconds and shrugged as he stood up again. ‘Routine maintenance, I imagine, sir.’

Peiper scratched the cleft in his chin. ‘Then why does he look guilty and nervous to me?’

‘Does he, sir?’ The adjutant bent to have another look just as Kepplinger hurried up. He abandoned his cursory investigation and straightened to hear what had to be said.

‘I have a driver. He has just arrived. He was delayed …’

But Peiper held up his hand to stop the excuses. ‘Just tell him to get the train ready to depart.’

‘I have; he is.’

‘Good. Lucky for you.’ Peiper strode down the platform, forgetting his concerns about the workman now he could at last get his battalion away on the last leg of its journey, and making a final inspection of the loading, checking everything was in order before climbing into the carriage for the officers at the rear of the train: the men travelled with their tanks.

The labourer continued to grease the bearings of the front few flatbeds before quietly slipping away, taking his tin of carborundum-laced grease with him.

The English Channel, off Arromanches-les-Bains – Normandy

David Clarke was sitting on the deck of the landing craft, huddled in his greatcoat, with an empty pipe clamped between his teeth and his eyes shut. He used his pack as a pillow to cushion his head from the hard steel of the vessel, but there was no such protection for his backside beyond a few layers of uniform, and even in the fug of half-sleep he was aware of the damp cold striking upwards into his body. June it may have been, but the weather made it seem more like March. An appalling storm had lashed the Channel for days and their crossing had come close to being postponed; then the weather had abated just enough. From the start, the long journey from Portsmouth had been punctuated by the sound of seasick soldiers spewing over the side of the ship from the narrow deck that ran along the sides of the tank well. The noise of vomiting could be heard over the persistent pulsing of the ship’s engines, the roar of the wind and the crash of the waves. David had almost succumbed too. He’d not suffered from seasickness himself before, but the sound of retching and the subsequent pervading sour smell was enough to turn the toughest of stomachs.

He was less apprehensive now than he had been for some days – this despite the fact that he and his men would be seeing battle within hours. In late May it had become apparent that his battalion was being held in reserve until after the main action of the invasion was over and he had been disappointed and angry. His men had been training for exactly this for months – years even – and why hadn’t they been chosen? he’d wanted to know. Then the first radio reports and newspaper stories had come back and later the newsreel pictures, and despite the patriotic and optimistic nature of the reports, as an experienced military man, David had been able to read between the lines and conclude that many of the initial battles for the beaches had been bloody and desperate and the fight through Normandy was worse. While he was eager and ready to see active service again, he was not of a mind to see his men, many of whom he considered his friends, cut down by the enemy; he’d seen enough of that on the beaches of Dunkirk four years earlier, and the horror of it all still encroached on his dreams on occasion. Now, though, he dozed intermittently, rocked by the movement of the ship, and let his thoughts wander to his wife Gwen and their dog Jasper.

Off to the starboard a huge, rippling flash momentarily banished the dark from behind his eyelids. Instantly he was alert. The flash hurt his eyes and his ears were assaulted by a series of thunderous booms as the four-inch guns on the destroyer escorting them opened up. Then other ships followed suit. For a confused second David wondered if this was a barrage preparatory to landing before he realised that such an action would be shelling friendly forces. Adrenalin catapulted his brain into assessing what was really happening. The guns were pointing upwards and away from where the French coast would have been visible had it been daylight. Obviously some marauding enemy aircraft had been spotted and was being warned off. David hoped to God the pilot wasn’t given to do-or-die heroics and took the hint.

Above Arromanches – Normandy

At 15,000 feet above David Clarke, Oberleutnant Gerhard Werner was piloting a Heinkel 177 bomber. It was tough, given the weather conditions. The gale tried to throw the aircraft around and he had to fight the control column to keep the thing on course.

A sudden gust made the plane buck and rear and Gerhard brought it back on course instinctively. He scanned his instrument panel. Flying blind like this was no easy task. It would be a simple matter to get disorientated in these conditions. His eyes flickered across the gauges. They were all reading as they should, and his instruments told him he was still flying straight and level. The cloud cleared again. Below them was the enemy’s harbour at Arromanches. His mission was to drop a huge mine in the approach to the entrance. If a ship entering or leaving set it off, it could hinder the enemy’s resupply efforts for days, even weeks. He flew on a course to cross the target as steadily as he could. He willed his bomb-aimer to hurry up and get the job done. This was no place to be hanging around. Since the invasion this area was crawling with enemy night-fighters and as for the flak …

Just as he thought the word ‘flak’, a blinding orange burst of flame lit up the sky below him and to his left. He swore under his breath. The bastards had spotted him. Almost instantly the sky was peppered with deadly pom-poms of exploding shells. Gerhard could feel the plane bucking and lurching as the shock waves from the nearer shells buffeted his fragile craft. The jolts got progressively more violent as the gunners below began to get his range. He fought with the joystick, trying to maintain level flight when all his instincts were telling him to get the hell out of there.

‘Bombs gone,’ crackled the voice of the bomb-aimer in his headphones. Werner felt the plane leap upwards as the payload, a one-tonne magnetic mine, dropped clear of the bomb bay and down towards the sea off Arromanches. Instantly, Werner pushed the stick forwards and to the left, and the Heinkel responded by dropping her starboard wing and diving steeply. He hoped that the British navy’s radar-directed guns would be slow enough in responding to his sudden change of course to give him a fighting chance of getting away.

His hopes were shattered when a salvo of six shells exploded just under his port wing. Several chunks of shrapnel tore through the flimsy fabric of the plane. Instantly a jet of flame burst out of the back of the wing. Werner knew the plane was doomed.

‘Bail out,’ he ordered his five-man crew. His bomb-aimer and his co-pilot grabbed their parachutes, kicking open the ventral crew hatch. As soon as their ’chutes were clipped in place they disappeared into the night. A few seconds later his dorsal gunner bade him farewell via the intercom. That just left his rear gunner.

‘Get out, Dieter,’ Werner yelled. There was no response. Dieter had fallen victim to another chunk of shrapnel. It had smashed through his Perspex cupola and then into his head, killing him outright.

Werner could feel that he was beginning to lose control. Without his co-pilot he didn’t have enough power in his arms to hold the plane in level flight.

‘Dieter!’ called Werner more urgently. Fear was really beginning to grip him. He felt a loyalty to his crewman and it was his duty to try to save him, but his instinct was to save himself first. ‘Go now.’

Still no response. Werner looked at the flames. Too bad for Dieter, but he’d given him as much chance as he could. Werner unclipped his harness and struggled out of his seat. As he did, the plane gave a violent lurch to starboard, throwing Werner off his feet. He grabbed instinctively at the back of the co-pilot’s seat to try to keep his balance, but he missed and fell heavily. The plane began to spiral towards the sea and the centrifugal force, although not strong, was enough to keep Werner pinned in the awkward position in which he had fallen. The spinning became more intense and more extreme as the plane plunged downwards.

The magnetic mine hit the water just beyond the newly constructed Mulberry harbour at Arromanches. However, instead of falling directly into the main shipping lane it drifted off to the east as it sank, so it lay on the bed of the Channel several hundred yards from its intended target.

The bomber carrying the last two of its crew members hit the water a few seconds later about a quarter of a mile away. It disintegrated on impact and Werner was killed instantly.

Near Arromanches – Normandy

David watched the flak bursting in the one clear patch amongst the heavy cloud cover above him, lighting up the sky like a thunderstorm. One of the fuzzy puffs of light didn’t extinguish. Then, silhouetted against the orange glow of the flak and the fire, he saw three parachutes drift seawards. He looked back at the ball of flame that had been a German aircraft. Then suddenly the fireball was quenched as it hit the water.

One less Nazi plane to worry about, thought David without feeling.

There was no point in trying to get any more sleep. He pulled a letter from Gwen from his pocket. Dear Gwen, her letters were always so alive and yet so full of trivia, things light and gossipy and such as she thought would cheer him up. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much. He valued her letters and their normality more than he could say and he treasured each and every one of them. He gripped this one tightly so a sudden gust or squall wouldn’t rip it from his grasp. He’d read it a dozen times already, but the familiarity of her words was comforting and he felt closer to her when he looked at the words she had written. He wondered if she was awake and thinking of him like he was of her.

Orchard Cottage

Gwen Clarke rolled over in the bed and looked at the clock. Instantly her state went from mildly dozy to wide awake.

‘For God’s sake, George.’

‘Wha …?’

‘Get up, George. You’ll be late.’ Gwen emphasised the urgency with a sharp jab to his ribs as she switched on the bedside lamp.

‘Ow,’ said George. He rubbed his side and glanced at his watch. ‘Darn it,’ he swore and, still massaging his ribs, he swung his feet out of bed and on to the bedside mat.

He quickly grabbed his vest and shirt. The chill morning air had already made his body come out in goosebumps. As he pulled his clothes on he flicked back the blackout curtain with one hand, just an inch, and had a look at the weather outside. It was terrible – pouring and blowing a gale – and he could hear the wind keening round the house. What an unbelievably filthy day. What is wrong with this summer? he wondered. No wonder the Limeys were always yakking on about the weather. Why couldn’t they have a climate like they did back home? At least where he came from in America the summers were hot and the winters were cold. But here …Jeez!

Morosely he began to dress. Spending the night with Gwen was wonderful, but the ride on his motorcycle back to Thorney Island in the early hours was the penance he paid: doing it in a howling gale hardly made it worth the previous night’s pleasures of the flesh. As he leaned back to pull on his trousers, Gwen pulled him off balance so that he flopped back on to the eiderdown. She leaned over him and kissed him.

‘You will be careful today, won’t you?’ she murmured, looking down at him.

‘Of course,’ answered George glibly, not meeting her eyes. He didn’t want a reminder of his own mortality. There were enough of those around the station each day. ‘You’re to come back safe to me tonight.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ George pulled himself free of her grasp and stood up. He buttoned up his flies and then donned the rest of his kit. As he shoved his feet into his flying boots there was an impatient scratching at the bedroom door. With the laces still undone, George stumbled across the room and opened it, then sat down on the edge of the bed to finish doing up his boots properly. A large, elderly spaniel trotted in, the stump of its tail wagging, and licked George’s hand.

‘See,’ said Gwen a touch petulantly, ‘it’s not just me who’ll miss you if you do something stupid. Old Jasper will be inconsolable too.’

George looked over his shoulder at Gwen. ‘Inconsolable’ wasn’t a word he would have associated with her. After all, when he’d first met her, her husband had been away months and she hadn’t been inconsolable then – far from it, as he recalled.

George finished tying his laces. ‘I’ll let Jasper out into the yard, shall I?’

‘Please.’ She still sounded sulky. ‘And give him some biscuits. Then he won’t pester me.’

George knew perfectly well that, when he’d gone, Gwen would roll over again and go back to sleep. All right for some.

George dealt with Jasper and let him out into the garden as he left the house. Leaving him sniffing round the hedge, checking for traces of intruders. . .