The Angel of Death's Abyss

By Craig R Key

While the allied nations fight back against the Third Reich in the spring of 1945, an American Army base in Poland is ambushed, leaving only five US soldiers alive. After spotting enemy reinforcements on the horizon, they find a trap door leading to an underground series of tunnels into the unknown.

The SS hot on their tail and a maze of passageways before them, the Americans must rely on an escaped Jewish girl to help them find their way to freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387866434

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The Angel of Death's Abyss

THE ANGEL OF DEATH'S ABYSS

by

Craig R Key

Edited By

Matthew Booth - Jerry Hart - Courtney Key Smith - Stephen Swaim

Copyright: 2017 / ISBN: 9781387866434

This book is a work of fiction with some elements and characters taken from historical events. In no way is it meant to make light of the millions of lives lost due to the tyranny of the Third Reich, nor is this meant to glorify the horrific actions of any Nazi war criminal. World War 2 had the highest death toll of any war in recorded history, around six-million of those deaths were from the genocide of innocent men, women, and children. Though this story is for entertainment purposes, I ask those who read it to reflect on the tragic point in time that inspired it.

Thanks to the women and men who have and continue to fight tyranny. Thanks to the ones who sacrificed themselves. And finally, thanks to the ones who show us how to persevere.

Chapter One

Corporal David Brandt of the US Army sat on a small pile of rubble on the outskirts of one of the few villages still standing within four klicks of Auschwitz. The town had been long abandoned due to the war, which made it prime real estate for the military. He and fifty-four other soldiers had a simple mission: set up base and report anything out of the ordinary. They weren't expected to see any combat in this endeavor, which was just fine for Brandt who had been one of the few to survive the attack on Normandy beach almost eight months before.

It was Spring of 1945 and while most soldiers found the weather a bit on the cold side, the Corporal was used to it having braved similar temperatures in Illinois. Brandt had just arrived a couple of hours ago and wasn't yet assigned a task, so he found himself with some free time. He decided to take the opportunity to write his sister, but couldn't think of what he could possibly tell her. It wasn't as if he could actually say what he'd been through. The things he'd witnessed. The things he'd done.

Dear Whitney, I haven't heard from you in a while, is all Brandt could write in the fifteen minutes since he started. He wondered how someone could get writer's block on a letter home. Checking in on the family was supposed to be easy, but he just couldn't get into that civilian mindset. All the Corporal knew was chaos and loss, so how his sister was doing in their sleepy hometown was the furthest thing from his mind. It wasn't that he didn't care about and miss her. That way of life just wasn't who he was anymore, and he wasn't sure if it ever would be again.

* * *

Are you sure about this, Corporal? asked the Sergeant.

I'm sure, replied Brandt, collecting his large canvas bag and walking out of the French school that the Army had turned into a bunker.

The Corporal, like many of his fellow soldiers, had been through Hell in the last several months, and his superiors were beginning to worry about his tenacity. They'd never seen a man so dedicated to his duty. When most soldiers are offered time off, they take it. But not Brandt. He refused to step away from this war until it was over.

As he headed through the base, Sergeant followed behind him saying, Look, there's no shame in needing some more time. Especially, after what happened.

Brandt stopped, turned to him, smiled, and said, This is supposed to be a simple occupy-and-report kind of mission. Probably won't see a lick of combat. And if I do, I'm happy to serve my country, sir.

Sergeant looked him up and down before nodding and responding with, Then carry on, Corporal.

With that, Sergeant took his leave and Brandt continued on his way, his smile melting into a thousand-yard-stare. The Corporal was lying. To Sergeant and himself. The fact was that Brandt was terrified. He'd almost lost his life, just like so many other soldiers had. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave his sister or his mother behind to mourn his passing. They would be devastated. But regardless of those fears, there was something deep within him telling him to fight on.

He threw his canvas bag in the back of his assigned transport truck, but before boarding, he turned to get one last look at the base. Brandt didn't get a chance to know most of the soldiers here, but he knew he was one of them and he refused to let them down. So many had already fallen, and so many were unknowingly waiting to do the same. The Corporal may have been in the latter group, but he would die before he disgraced his uniform.

After a sigh, he boarded the truck and began the long trip to Poland.

* * *

Brandt gazed out upon the Polish countryside. Among the thick trees, there were a few that were just starting to bud which looked like small flowers growing on all the bare limbs. As far as his eyes could see, there were rolling hills covered in lush green grass and scattered with patches of bright yellow forsythia all swaying gently in the wind. Even with this beautiful view, he still couldn't find the inspiration he needed to write his sister.

Corporal Brandt, called a booming southern voice.

The Corporal turned to see a Staff Sergeant approaching through the small village. He was clearly hard-boiled: wide shoulders, barrel-chested, and towered over most of the other soldiers. Despite being completely white headed, there were no other indications of his age. Then again, his hair could have changed from his experiences in the war. Whatever the reason, he wasn't a man of whom anyone would want to go toe to toe.

Sir, the Corporal greeted as he stood and saluted.

The Staff Sergeant returned the salute then put his hand out for a shake. Easy with the formalities. Don't want some Kraut getting an eyeful of who's in charge around here.

Of course, sir, Brandt said taking hold of the offered hand. Sorry, sir.

No worries. I'm Staff Sergeant Welch. You get settled in?

Yes, sir.

Good. Come with me. I'll give you the grand tour.

The Staff Sergeant turned, motioning for the Corporal to follow. Brandt grabbed his M1 Garand leaning against the pile of rubble, threw it over his shoulder, and shadowed Welch as he headed toward the village.

I doubt you'll need that, said the Staff Sergeant. Things are pretty quiet around here. Can't see this place from any of the transport roads. Krauts have no idea we're—

Welch's sentence was cut short by the sound of distant gunfire followed by the panicked shouts of men. The Corporal peered over the Staff Sergeant's shoulder to see Nazi ground troops rushing the front of the village, shooting down the surprised soldiers. It was an ambush.

Welch spun to face the assault, but before he could give any commands, he was hit twice in the chest. One round managed to exit out of his back, sending a pink mist into Brandt's face. As the Staff Sergeant's body collapsed to the tall grass below him, his blood beaded up and ran down the Corporal's cheeks. There wasn't time to let the shock of it all wear off. He had to do something, but he couldn't. For the first time since he was thrown into this war, he was frozen.

We gotta move, cried out a soldier running toward Brandt.

His uniform was labeled with the name Jones, and the patch on his shoulder showed that he was a Private First Class. The soldier grabbed the Corporal's collar and dragged him toward the village. The sounds of bullets whizzing by and ricocheting around them were overwhelming, but once Brandt caught a glimpse of a Nazi through all the gun-smoke, he snapped out of his daze. After yanking his arm out of Jones' grasp, the Corporal took aim with his rifle and fired, killing the target with one shot. The PFC next to him lifted his Thompson and took down another couple of Nazis, which got the enemy's attention. They turned toward the two Americans and began firing in their direction.

Both Brandt and Jones darted to find a safe spot from the flying bullets, spotting another one of their men waving them over to the side of a house. His name was Shulman, another PFC. As they headed his way, Shulman provided them cover fire with his sidearm until they got to his location. That's when Brandt spotted a couple more of their soldiers running across the battlefield to join them.

They need suppressive fire, he yelled.

The soldiers leaned out from both sides of the wall and concentrated their gunfire on a group of Nazis. The