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  King Tiger

  Book 9 in the

  Combined Operations Series

  By

  Griff Hosker

  Published by Sword Books Ltd 2017

  Copyright © Griff Hosker First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

  Cover by Design for Writers

  To Stephen Flynn one of my most loyal readers and a gentleman who keeps me straight!

  German starting position December 1944

  Chapter 1

  Antwerp November 1944

  There were just three of us left from my unit. Three of us who were both alive and unwounded. The wounded were either in hospitals in Northern France or they had already been flown back to England. The dead lay on the island of Walcheren. There were just three of us who had survived the battle of Walcheren and Flushing intact. Sergeant Gordy Barker, Corporal John Hewitt and myself, Brevet Major Tom Harsker, were all that was left from an elite unit. We had fought non-stop since we had landed on Sword Beach in Normandy on the 6th of June. We had helped to recapture Paris and, after spearheading the assault on Antwerp, we had been in at the kill when Walcheren had finally fallen. We had paid a price. Two of our number would not enjoy the peace-should it ever come. We should have gone home but Major Foster had one last task for us. We were to pass on our knowledge to other allied soldiers. They ranged from Engineers to combat troops and from tank crew to paratroopers. I did not think that we would teach the paratroopers anything but, with the promise of leave at the end of it, I accepted the mission. I hoped that I might be home for Christmas although as that was just five weeks away I was not hopeful.

  It had taken a few days for us to get to Antwerp. The roads from Walcheren were clogged and there appeared to be little organization. That was not surprising. Everyone had moved so quickly to open the port that little thought had been given to clearing roads. When we had eventually found Major Foster’s headquarters he was in a meeting and we had had to cool our heels. We still had the Bedford lorry which we had used on our advance north. It meant we had somewhere to sleep. Accommodation was in short supply. While we waited for the Major to return with our precise orders I had Gordy and John acquire as much ammunition and equipment as they could. Although we were designated as trainers I knew that we would, in all likelihood, be close to the German lines. Others might be demob happy but I would not relax my vigilance until I was back in England and wearing civilian clothes. Dad had thought his time in action had been over in 1918 but he had found himself fighting the Communists in North Russia. I was taking no chances. If we had to fight then we would be ready.

  All Belgians were resilient but the people of Antwerp seemed more so. Life was already back to normal. The roads might be a mess and food in short supply but the Germans had gone and they wanted to begin their lives again. They took the damaged buildings and wrecked vehicles in their stride. They carried on as they had before the Germans had invaded and changed their lives. They were determined that it would not change them forever. Food was in short supply but there was no free for all when new supplies were brought in. I was impressed by them.

  I stayed with the vehicle and was relieved when Hewitt and Barker returned. They were laden. Gordy grinned, “The Combined Ops flash works a treat, sir. The Green Howards welcomed us to their holding camp like old mates. I found their Quarter Master. He was a good bloke. He comes from Richmond in North Yorkshire. Hewitt here and him chatted about the times before the war when folk went to Whitby for the day. He gave us everything we needed. We have greatcoats, blankets, new canteens, rations and we even got fresh socks and underwear! Hewitt got a good medical kit. We want for nothing!”

  “Never mind all that, Gordy, what about ammo and grenades?”

  “Yes and yes. The only ammo we couldn’t get was German stuff for your Mauser and Luger.”

  I was not worried. I had taken plenty from the dead and captured Germans. We had met enough to replenish my supplies. “Well done. Now we wait for his lordship. He is in some sort of meeting. As you two are back here I will head to Headquarters and wait for him there. The sooner we have finished this training the sooner we can get home.”

  “Aye sir, it will be good to get back to Blighty for Christmas.”

  “Don’t count any chickens just yet, Sergeant.”

  I clambered out of the back of the lorry. Hewitt proffered one of the new coats. “Here sir, do you want a greatcoat?”

  “It is just a little fresh, Hewitt. I am guessing that Headquarters will be cosy and warm. You know what the staff are like. I will be fine.”

  I strode briskly through the streets. The Headquarters building was the old town hall and we were parked just half a mile from it. I was greeted with smiles and nods as I headed there. We had liberated this town. The Belgians had fought alongside us. That made us brothers in arms. I admired their courage. They had used whatever guns they could find and were as brave as any soldier I had met. We had fought with them not far from here when we captured the German H.Q. I wondered what would have happened had the R.A.F. not managed to defeat the Germans at the battle of Britain. Would the Germans have managed to conquer England? Would we have fought as they did? I guessed we would. Britain did not take kindly to invasion. The last successful one had been nine hundred years earlier.

  The sentries snapped to attention when I arrived. I showed them my papers and was ushered inside. As I had expected they had a fire going and it was warm with a fug of cigarette smoke in every room. The duty sergeant ushered me into a comfortable apportioned and furnished room. I guessed it had been the mayor’s parlour before the war. The Germans had made it into a sort of lounge. There was the shape of a removed painting on one wall. It did not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that must have been Adolf Hitler.

  “Cup of tea sir?”

  “Yes thank you, Sergeant.”

  He hesitated, “Can I just say, sir, that it is an honour to meet someone who has the V.C. and M.C.”

  The sergeant looked to be of an age with me. He had the manner of a veteran, “We both know, Sergeant, that fruit salad is more often than not simply a matter of luck.”

  He shook his head, “I have spoken to the lads who know you sir; Major Foster’s team. I know better. You are the real McCoy. I’ll get that tea then sir. I’ll see if I can rustle up a biscuit too eh? Nice piece of shortbread.”

  By the time the tea and shortbread had been demolished Major Foster arrived. He had with him a Squadron Leader.

  “Ah, Tom, sorry to have kept you waiting. Busy arranging something for the General. This is Squadron Leader Jennings, He will be sitting in on our meeting. He and I have a great deal of planning to do. Your briefing will not take long. You don’t mind do you?”

  “Of course not sir.”

  I stood and followed them. The Squadron Leader turned, “I know your father, or rather I served under him briefly. I was at a meeting with him last month. He speaks highly of you. He is a proud father. You are the image of him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s Richard. Yes your old man is a real warhorse. He never slows down. From what I hear you are a chip off the old block.”

  “I think my grandfather was the same.”

  Major Fos
ter closed the door behind us. We took seats and the Squadron Leader took out his pipe and began to fill it. Major Foster handed me an envelope. “Here are your orders. You will be based at Liège. The idea is for you to give a talk to the units who are there. We want you to give a sort of lecture. Tell them how you survived behind enemy lines and why you are successful.”

  “Sir, that just sounds like boasting.”

  The Major smiled, “You are a Brevet Major now, Tom. You don’t need to sir me. And it is not boasting. Look, lots of the chaps seem to think the war is over. The parachute drops on the Rhine and the capture of Antwerp were hard fought but a lot of people think the war will be over by Christmas. That is a nonsense. We both know that. That is why you need to talk to them. You have credibility. You are not a staff officer with a bit of red around your hat. You have been at the sharp end.”

  The Squadron Leader had got his pipe going. “The Major is right, Tom. Jerry has new weapons in the pipe line. The rockets he has been sending over are nothing compared with the ones he is developing. Our Mossies have been trying to find them so our Lancasters can knock them out. And they have a new tank. It is an upgraded version of the Tiger. Jerry calls it a King Tiger, Königstiger. From what I can gather it is unstoppable. It has seven inches of armour in places! That is like battleship! The gun they are using is the 88 mm and we all know what that is like. It weighs 70 tons and is over 12 feet wide! That is one hell of a machine. As far as I can tell its only weakness is its fuel consumption. It is less than a mile a gallon. There is a tank destroyer called a Jagdpanther; that is almost impossible to stop. If Adolf can produce them in enough numbers we are in trouble. They also have new aircraft too. Your father told me about one which does not have a propeller and is faster than any Allied aeroplane! The Germans are close to a technological superiority. Major Foster is right. We have to end this war before they can bring these new super weapons into production.”

  “So, Tom, you will have a week of these lectures and then you are off home. The travel warrants for the three of you are in the envelope.”

  “The Rangers and the Airborne don’t need lessons off me, sir. Good God, some of the 6th Airborne spent a week or more behind the German lines after Arnhem.”

  “And they lost more of their men than you did. You have a reputation of surviving behind the enemy lines and having the fewest casualties.” He handed me a map. “Liège is your base but you will also visit a couple of other units. Some are quite close to the front. I will let you know. The weather is so awful at the moment that it is unlikely Jerry will try anything. It is another reason why we are sending you now. The front is quiet. I have no doubt that Adolf will come up with something in the New Year but for now he is busy trying to make the new weapons the Squadron Leader was talking about.” He stood. The meeting was obviously over. He shook my hand.

  I turned to the Squadron Leader, “Nice to have met you, sir. If you see my father again, tell him I was asking after him. It is some time since I saw him.”

  “Well he is based in London again so you will probably see him before I do.”

  Although it was noon I was anxious to get going. The short days meant that we would struggle to reach Liège by dark. It was over eighty miles. The roads had been badly damaged by bombing, combat and heavy tanks. In addition we would have to negotiate Brussels. That, too, had been recently liberated. I made sure that we had everything we would need. Apart from the usual weaponry Gordy and John had acquired more parachute cord and camouflage netting. The people we would be lecturing didn’t need lessons in fighting but in staying alive behind the lines. That was our expertise. I planned on making our talk as interesting as possible. The extra equipment from the Quarter Master was a bonus.

  As we headed south to the capital of Belgium I could not help smiling. Before the war dad and I would have driven along these same roads at fifty or sixty miles an hour. The journey would have been a couple of hours at most. Now we would be lucky to cover twenty miles an hour. The slow lorry, added to the congested roads and road blocks, meant that we were not in for a quick journey. The weather was turning wintry. We had not had snow yet but I knew that would come. The roads were wet and slick but with sleet and rain. Driving the lorry was a challenge and I was glad that we had three of us to share the load.

  Gordy had volunteered for the first shift. John Hewitt said, as we passed the buildings where the German sniper had held us up, “If we had had Fred Emerson he would have been more than happy to drive the whole way never mind just the first bit.”

  Gordy chuckled, “I don’t know how he is around women but if he could I bet he would take a carburettor to bed with him.”

  I felt obliged to defend my mechanical genius, “He just likes engines. Dad told me about fitters in the Flying Corps who were as obsessed with engines. Dad likes tinkering with them.”

  Gordy shook his head, “Sir, with respect, I bet your dad never named one. Remember Bertha? I mean who in their right mind names a German halftrack?”

  “You may be right, Gordy.”

  “So, sir, what do we do while you are talking to these other units?”

  “Corporal Hewitt, don’t think for one moment that I am doing this alone! You two will have as big an input as I do!”

  “Really sir?”

  “Too right! You took the stripes, that means you share the responsibility. I will do the first session. You two can watch and then do something similar.”

  John Hewitt said, “You know sir, after the war, I wouldn’t mind going into teaching. This might be a good start, eh? I can see if I like it. What do I need to become a teacher, sir?”

  I knew it was different in the state sector. My schools had been private. All you needed was to know your subject and have the right accent. “I am not certain, John, but there will be courses, I dare say. They will need teachers after this war.”

  “That’s what I thought sir. I thought I could teach them some of the things I have learned.”

  Gordy laughed, “You mean like how to break someone’s neck with your hands or make a booby trap from some parachute cord and a couple of grenades?”

  “No, Sarge. The major here has taught us stuff: French and German. I mean I don’t say I am any good at them but I would never have even tried to speak languages before. I could teach the young ‘uns that it is not hard. I have picked up a bit of medicine, too, sir. There’s lots I could pass on to kids. I’d like that.”

  “What about training to be a doctor, John?”

  “Now you are taking the Mick sir! I am not clever enough by a long chalk. Before all this started I would have just expected to get a job at the steelworks or, if I was lucky, an apprenticeship at I.C.I. For me, teaching is up there at the top of the ladder. If I hadn’t met you, sir, then I wouldn’t even have thought of that.”

  I looked out of the rain spattered window. The war had changed us all and in ways that could not be predicted. The pacifists would have said it would turn us all into ruthless killers. I didn’t believe that for a moment. I had killed and would do so again but when it came to peacetime that would be put in a wardrobe along with my uniform. There were killers who would kill after the war but they already had that killer instinct in them. The S.S. and German Paratroopers sprang to mind.

  Brussels was the nightmare I expected and it took two hours to negotiate its congested and damaged streets. There was still damage following its liberation and the streets were filled with servicemen on leave. The British, Canadian and American troops took advantage of the Belgian Beer and cafés. Christmas had come early and you could not blame them. We would not reach Liège before dark. With the lighting restrictions we would be travelling with lights the size of glow worms! We reached the centre of Liège at seven o’clock at night. I could not be bothered to try to find headquarters or our billet and, as there was a small café nearby, I decided to eat there and sleep in the lorry. We were Commandos and we improvised.

  “Supper is on me tonight, lads.” I still had plenty
of Belgian coins we had taken from the dead Germans as well as some currency Major Foster had given me. We might run out but we could always get more. As Scouse Fletcher had often said, a life in the Commandos was a great preparation for a life of crime!

  We tied the tarpaulin over the back of the lorry and headed over to the café. It was still open. The owner spread his hands apologetically as we entered, “I am sorry gentlemen we have little choice left. It is late.”

  “What can you do for us?”

  “Soup, merguez and frites and I have some cheese.”

  I clapped him on the back, “My friend that is a veritable feast. And we will have a couple of bottles of wine too.”

  He beamed from ear to ear, “I am Claude and I am the owner and the chef. It will be my pleasure to serve you.” He scurried away.

  John had understood our words. He smiled for he knew it would be good fare but Gordy’s ear was not attuned yet. “What we eating then, sir?”

  “Soup, sausage and chips and bread and cheese. All washed down with a couple of bottles of wine.”

  As soon as I had said, ‘sausage’ I had grabbed Gordy’s attention. “You little beauty sir! Sausage and chips! Lovely!”

  When the merguez came Gordy frowned and then grinned as he bit, tentatively, into the sausage, “A bit spicy, like. It is like they put HP sauce and Coleman’s Mustard in them.” He chewed and swallowed and then he smiled. “This will do for me, sir!”

  It was a good evening,. After a long and exhausting drive it was good just to relax. Who knew how many more moments we might have together. Peter Crowe and Ken Shepherd had both been killed at Walcheren. We hung on to life by a thread. The war might be over tomorrow but we would make the most of such evenings for we knew not how many we had left.

  Gordy could handle his beer but the wine went to his head and Hewitt and I had to carry him back to our lorry. We did not mind. Gordy was an old fashioned soldier. If you had gone back to the battle of Hastings, or Waterloo, Blenheim, Agincourt or Rorke’s Drift you would have found a soldier identical to Gordy. They were the typical Englishman. They might, as Wellington had famously said, been the ‘ scum of the earth’ but they were belligerent, loyal and tough. I, for one, was proud to lead such men. They never knew when they were beaten and would face any odds without fear.