It was a foggy morning in Suffolk County, the Atlantic clad in a deep white mantle.
Voices drifted here and there, a child boarding the school bus, an elderly woman visiting the grocery store down her street, and a lonely fisherman searching for fish despite the weather and time of day.
He rowed slowly, stroke after stroke. A small lantern hung at the front of the wooden boat, likely inherited from his father who had inherited it from his own father.
The man's grey, scruffy beard was already soaked with moisture from the fog. Yet he remained stubborn, rowing and rowing, searching for the perfect spot.
Then his boat suddenly shook, bumping against something hard. The fisherman, nearly thrown overboard by the sudden collision, stood up, looking confused. He grabbed his paddle and pushed it forward, the tip once again striking something solid. He lifted it and let it fall.
The loud clang of metal echoed across the normally silent water.
The fisherman scratched his head and brought the lantern close to the solid object before him.
"Is this..." he muttered in a hoarse American accent.
Before he could finish, a bullet flew through the fog, piercing the air and striking the man in the head.
The fog cleared slightly, revealing a large black metal silhouette with a lookout on top. Four figures stood there.
"I brought us a transport. At least we don't have to swim," Heydrich said, climbing down from the lookout tower. Werner and Paul followed closely.
The man reached the wooden boat, the small lantern casting light on the surroundings.
Paul, Werner, and Heydrich were now clad in new clothes, obtained by the Gestapo specifically for this mission. All three wore what could be called typical American outfits, a checkered shirt and jeans.
"These are tight as hell," Heydrich said, pulling at his jeans. Then kicking the old man into the water.
"You will survive," Werner said, stepping onto the boat, pushing Heydrich forward.
The other Gestapo members followed, dressed similarly. As they stepped onto the small boat, it swung from side to side, straining the old wood to its limit.
They rowed rhythmically, slowly but surely, covering ground. After about fifteen minutes of rowing, the group finally saw shore in the distance.
"From this moment on, only English," Paul said in a perfect American accent, looking over the group.
Each of them nodded, mentally preparing.
When their boat hit the sandy shore, they moved quickly, grabbing a rope left behind by the fisherman. They tied it to a nearby tree and hid the boat with bits of sand and greenery.
Three Gestapo members remained on constant lookout, gripping the guns hidden in their pockets.
When they finished, the boat lay almost invisible. Branches covered its wooden frame, and half of the hull was buried in sand, hiding it from any casual glance.
Paul motioned for two Gestapo men nearby to come closer.
"You two will head into the city," Paul began, pointing into the distance. "About two kilometers in that direction. Get supplies and gather intel. Be careful. If someone becomes suspicious, avoid them. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," the two answered in unison, their English revealing the faintest trace of a German accent.
"And do not speak too loudly, or they will hear it," Paul added, already turning back to Heydrich and Werner.
"Those two will bring new supplies to the U-boat. The rest of us need to find transportation. A car or something," Paul said, crossing his arms.
Werner nodded. "We could ambush someone and take a car."
"Or we go into town and steal one," Heydrich said, giving Werner a disdainful glance.
Paul considered the options for a moment. "We walk along the road and try to flag one down. If that fails, we steal one."
Both men nodded in agreement.
Paul clasped his hands once, and all eyes immediately focused on him.
"We move," Paul said, his voice echoing through the misty woods.
The Gestapo men gathered quickly before spreading out again as they reached the road.
Paul, Werner, and Heydrich walked in plain sight along the right side of the asphalt. One man moved about fifty meters ahead of them, another fifty behind. Across the road, two more men kept the same formation, using the cover of the woods to remain unseen.
The wet grass clung to their shoes, soaking them with each step, when a distant sound reached their ears.
Paul, Heydrich and Werner immediately relaxed their posture, leaning on the wooden sticks Heydrich had gathered earlier, posing as weary travelers.
The car grew larger and larger, its brakes squeaking for a moment before the engine roared again, carrying it straight past the group.
"Hey!" Werner shouted, raising his stick, to no avail.
"Well, that was nice. I do like Americans," Heydrich said, shaking his head.
"Perhaps they saw your face while driving by, Heydrich," Werner replied, laughing.
Even Paul let out a small chuckle.
They continued onward until they reached a crossroads.
The sign ahead read:
Bridgehampton, 2 miles.
"Miles?" Heydrich asked, annoyed.
"Three kilometers, Heydrich," Werner answered.
"These Americans," Heydrich muttered, continuing forward.
After some time, the sound of another car echoed along the empty road.
"Come on, look friendly," Paul said, waving toward the approaching vehicle.
To their surprise, the car slowed and came to a stop.
An old Chevrolet, as Paul noted, while stepping toward the driver's window.
"Good day..." He paused for a moment. "Sir."
"Good day, Sir. Do you and your companions need a ride?" the man asked, a friendly smile on his face.
"Well, yes, we do." Paul answered, slightly taken aback when he noticed the golden star pinned to the man's chest. He saw Heydrich reaching for his pistol and nudged him sharply with his elbow, giving him a stern look.
"Officer, we are indeed dependent on a ride. That would be very kind of you. But I have to ask, have you noticed that your rear tire is quite flat?" Paul said, trying his best to find the right tone and accent.
The officer raised an eyebrow before opening his door with a loud sigh.
"Again. This is the third time this year," he mumbled, walking toward the back.
"Which one?" he asked, inspecting the left tire.
"Oh, the other one," Werner said, pointing.
The officer walked around the truck and knelt down.
Paul gave Heydrich a brief glance, then pulled his pistol from his pocket.
"Is this really flat?" the officer murmured, leaning closer.
"You guys..." he began, before stopping abruptly. He wobbled, then collapsed backwards onto the hard asphalt.
Paul lowered the pistol, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. A smear of blood clung to the grip.
"Better to knock him out than kill him," Paul said, pointing to the shiny star on the man's shirt. "They would search for him and start asking questions. We cannot afford that." He motioned to the other two to help him.
Together they lifted the unconscious man into the trunk and closed it.
"Come on out," Heydrich called.
The four Gestapo men emerged quickly from the trees and bushes, assembling in tight formation.
"So, how are we all supposed to fit inside that small car?" Heydrich asked, raising an eyebrow.
A moment later the car began to roll forward, Heydrich's face turning red as if he were holding his breath.
Somehow the group managed to squeeze themselves inside, barely managing to shut the doors.
With the heavy load the speed dropped accordingly. The old Chevrolet crawled forward, its engine groaning under the strain as it slowly but steadily puttered toward Bridgehampton, the first town the group would pass through on their journey.
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