the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (22 page)

Suddenly, the earth shook, there was a tremendous rumbling like an underground explosion, and above the Finns the snow seemed to boil up in a great cloud.

Avalanche!
Not surprising really, fresh snow falling so late in the season. But already Gaillard was on his feet and dropping straight down the slope, taking that vertical line again, for the only way to beat an avalanche was to stay in front of it - one of the first lessons he'd learned as a boy in the Vosges.

And the trees were not too far away, some sort of protection there. He moved to the right in a wide curve that took him into their shelter within seconds. He halted, turning to glance back.

The avalanche had almost overtaken the Finns. The enormous cloud of white smoke rolled over the one in the rear, enveloped him completely, but Gestrin and the remaining man rode the very edge, managing to turn at the last minute, coming to a halt above the line of trees.

The rumble of the avalanche died away, Gestrin pushed up his goggles, searching for Gaillard whose red anorak gave him away instantly. They started down the slope at once and the Frenchman turned and pushed himself forward and through the trees, every bone aching.

From the shattered great window of the upper dining room Finebaum sniped down and across the yard at the half-track.

'What's happening, Mr Finebaum?' Claudine Chevalier, crouched on the floor, asked him.

'Whatever it is, it ain't good, ma'am. I figure it's time maybe you and me made a move upstairs.'

There was a burst of firing and more of the window shattered above their heads, spraying them with glass. Amazingly, she showed no fear.

'Whatever you say, Mr Finebaum.'

'You're something special,' Finebaum said. 'You know that?'

He took her arm and helped her towards the door, and below in the courtyard the half-track surged forward.

For Gaillard, the sight of the road below was like a shot in the arm, and he dropped towards it with renewed hope, although his pursuers were closer than ever now, Gestrin trailing his companion, a young man called Salmi.

Gaillard glanced over his shoulder, aware that this couldn't go on, that he had been existing on will-power alone for too long. There was one final suicidal chance, and he took it, dropping straight down through the trees like a bullet to the embankment at the side of the road below.

As he hit, he dug in his sticks at precisely the right moment, launching himself into space. The road flashed beneath him, he soared across, landing perfectly in soft snow on the other side, sliding broadside on in a spray of snow. At the last moment, the point of his left ski caught a branch hidden beneath the white blanket. As he crashed heavily to the ground, the ski splintered.

He lay there, winded, and Salmi soared through the air across the road, smashing straight into a pine tree with a terrible cry.

Gaillard sat up. There was no sign of Gestrin. He tore at the frozen bindings of his skis and got them off. When he rose to his feet, he was convinced for a moment that his limbs had ceased to function. He took a hesitant step forward and fell headlong over the embankment, sliding down to the road.

He picked himself up and started to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, a roaring in his ears, and Gestrin slid down the embankment about fifteen yards in front of him. He'd taken off his skis and held his rifle.

'No!' Gaillard said. 'No!'

He turned away, and Gestrin shot him in the right shoulder. Gaillard lay on his back, the roaring in his ears louder, then pushed himself up on one elbow. Gestrin stood, holding the rifle across his chest, and now he started to raise it.

The roaring became the sound of an engine and a Cromwell tank came round the bend in the road. Gestrin swung to face it, raising his rifle. A burst of machine-gun fire hurled him back into a snowdrift at the side of the road.

Gaillard lay there, aware of footsteps approaching, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, hanging on to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw to his astonishment that the officer leaning over him in a tanksuit wore a kepi.

'Oh, my God,' Gaillard said in his own language. 'Can it be true? You are French?'

'But of course, monsieur.' The officer dropped to one knee. 'My name is Dubois. Captain Henri Dubois of the 2nd French Tank Division. We are at present pushing towards Berchtesgaden. But who are you?'

'Never mind that now,' Gaillard said hoarsely. 'You know Arlberg?'

'The next village, two miles along the road from here.'

'Only two miles?' Gaillard said in wonder. 'I must have been running in circles up there.' He pulled himself up and caught hold of Dubois by the front of his uniform. 'Listen to me, my friend, and listen well for lives depend on it.'

When the half-track started across the courtyard Ritter himself was at the wheel, a dozen Finns packed in behind him. Hoffer at the machine gun. The rest followed behind on foot.

In the tower, the defenders had already retreated up the main staircase and taken up position on the first landing, except for Howard who stayed at the shattered door, peering out.

'Here they come!' he cried and started to fire his Thompson furiously.

Ritter gunned the motor, giving the halftrack everything, roaring straight up the steps, hitting those shattered doors at full speed. Howard was already half-way up the marble stairs as the doors disintegrated, the half-track smashing through, sliding to a halt, broadside on.

The defenders immediately started to pour it on from the landing, Canning and Birr firing Schmeissers between the pillars of the balustrade, Howard backing them with the Thompson.

The Finns were badly caught, three or four of them going down as they scrambled from the half-track. Hoffer took a bullet in the shoulder that knocked him over the side, and Ritter, without hesitation, stood up and grabbed the handles of the machine gun.

He started to spray the landing expertly, shattering the windows behind the rows of marble statues, an awesome figure crouched behind the gun, his face pale beneath the black cap. Howard loosed off one burst after another, even standing up on occasion, all to no effect, for it was as if the German bore a charmed life.

The landing had become a charnel house, four of the Germans hit, one of them crying out continuously. Birr had taken a bullet through the right hand, and below, in the hall, at least nine of the Finns were down.

The stench of cordite, the smoke, the cries of the dying, the rattle of the machine gun in that confined space, made it a scene from hell. Birr took another bullet, in the chest this time, and went down.

Canning pulled at Howard's sleeve, eyes wild. 'This is no good - we'd better get out of here.'

'Take Birr with you,' Howard said. 'I'll cover you.'

He rammed another clip into the Thompson, and behind him the two surviving Germans got Birr by the shoulders and dragged him along the landing. Ritter stopped firing. He looked down and found Hoffer leaning against the side of the half-track, stuffing a field dressing inside his uniform blouse.

'All right, Erich?'

Hoffer nodded, his face twisted with pain, and from up there in the smoke on the landing, Howard called, 'What's keeping you, Ritter?'

Something flared in Ritter's eyes. He picked up a Schmeisser and vaulted to the floor. He did not say a word, gave no command, simply went up the stairs into the smoke and the Finns went after him.

The curtains were on fire now, the wood panelling on the walls, smoke swirling, billowing along the landing so that it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Howard fired blindly, moving a step or two, then turned and started up the stone staircase.

He paused at the bend, slinging the Thompson over his shoulder, and took two stick grenades from his belt. He could hear voices below, stumbling steps on the stair. He tossed the two grenades down into the murk, one after the other, went round the corner and continued to climb without pause.

There was an explosion below followed by another, cries of pain. He could hardly breathe now, smoke everywhere, choking the landing outside the dining hall. He groped his way round the wall, found the entrance to the upper staircase, and started to climb to the top of the tower.

Had he but known it, the others had got no further than the upper landing, Birr having collapsed completely so that the two Germans had been compelled to drag him into the dining hall.

Canning crouched over him, almost overcome by smoke, waiting for the end that seemed inevitable now. He got to his feet, lurched across to the window, and smashed what glass remained in the lower half. The Germans dragged Birr across the floor, choking and coughing.

They all crouched at the window, drawing in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Canning cried, 'The table - get it over.'

They crouched behind it, waiting for the end.

On the landing at the foot of the stairs, Ritter rolled over, pushing a body away from him. There was blood on him, but not his own, and he pulled himself up and leaned against the wall. A hand reached out to steady him - Hoffer.

'Are you all right, Sturmbannfuhrer?'

'Everything in perfect working order, or so it would seem, Erich.' An old, bad joke between them, no longer funny.

A gust of wind blowing in through the shattered doorway, below, cleared the smoke from the landing. It was a butcher's shop, bodies everywhere, blood and brains sprayed across the walls.

There were perhaps a dozen Finns left alive and unwounded, crouched at the head of the stairs. Ritter glanced at his watch. It was almost 8.30.

'All right, damn you. You're still mine for another thirty minutes. Still soldiers of the Waffen-SS. Let's get it done.'

They made no move. It was not that there was fear there. Only emptiness - faces drained of all emotion, all feeling.

'It's no good,' Hoffer said. 'They've had enough.'

As smoke swirled back into place again, the Finns retreated, simply melted away.

'So?' Ritter said, and he leaned down and picked up a Schmeisser.

As he turned, Hoffer caught his arm. 'This is madness. Where are you going?'

'Why, to the top of the tower, old friend.' Ritter smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. 'We've come a long way together, but no more orders. It is over. You understand me?'

Hoffer stared at him, horror on his face. Ritter started upstairs.

When Howard lurched out of the smoke on to the roof, Finebaum almost shot him. Howard fell on his hands and knees and Finebaum crouched beside him.

'Is he all right?' Claudine Chevalier demanded.

Howard answered her, struggling for breath. 'All I need is a little air.' He looked around him. 'Where's the general?'

'No sign of him up here,' Finebaum said. 'What happened below?'

'It was bad,' Howard told him. 'The worst I've ever known.' He got up on his knees. 'I'll have to go back. See what's happened to them.'

Madame Chevalier, who had gone to the parapet to look down, cried, 'There are tanks coming. A whole column.'

Finebaum ran to join her in time to see half a dozen Cromwells, several Bren-gun carriers and trucks, moving towards the castle at full speed. The surviving Finns had just emerged from the entrance. As they started across the courtyard, the first Cromwell emerged from the tunnel and opened up with its machine gun. Two Finns went down, the rest immediately dropped their weapons and put up their hands.

Finebaum turned and found Howard leaning over the parapet beside him. 'Did you ever see a prettier sight?' Finebaum demanded. Howard gazed down blankly, eyes remote, and Finebaum shook him roughly. 'Hey, noble Captain, it's over. We survived.'

'Did we?' Howard said.

And then Claudine Chevalier cried out sharply.

Ritter stood there at the head of the stairs, smoke billowing around him. He wore no cap. There was blood on his face and the blond hair flashed pale fire in the morning light. The black Panzer uniform was covered in dust, but the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords still made a brave show at his throat.

'Captain Howard?' he called.

Finebaum turned, unslinging his M1, but Howard knocked it up. 'My affair - stay out of it.'

He was smiling, his eyes full of life again. He leaned down slowly and picked up the Thompson.

Ritter said, 'A first-rate show. My congratulations.'

Howard fired then, a long burst that ripped the Iron Cross First Class from Ritter's tunic, hurling him at the wall. The German rebounded, falling to his knees. He flung up the Schmeisser, arm extended, firing one-handed, driving Howard back against the parapet, killing him instantly. For a moment, the young German hung on to life, on his knees there in the snow, and then he fell forward on his face.

Hoffer emerged from the smoke, a Walther in his good hand, and crouched beside him. Finebaum dropped to one knee by Howard. There was a pause, then the American's M1 came up.

It was Claudine Chevalier who finished it, her voice high on the morning air. 'No!' She screamed. 'Enough! Do you hear me? Enough!'

Finebaum turned to look at her, then back to Hoffer. The German threw down his Walther and sat back on his heels, a hand on Ritter's shoulder. Finebaum, without a word, tossed his Mi out over the parapet to fall through clear air to the courtyard below.