the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (3 page)

Howard had lost consciousness for a while and came back to life to the sound of repeated explosions from the ammunition in another burning Cromwell. It was a scene from hell, smoke everywhere, the cries of the dying, the stench of burning flesh. He could see Colonel Denning lying in the middle of the road on his back a few yards away, revolver still clutched firmly in one hand, and beyond him a Bren-gun carrier was tilted on its side against a tree, bodies spilling out, tumbled one on top of another.

Howard tried to get to his feet, started to fall and was caught as he went down. Hoover said, 'Easy, sir. I've got you.'

Howard turned in a daze and found Finebaum there also.

'You all right, Harry?'

'We lost O'Grady. Ran head-on into a Tiger up the road. Where are you hit?'

'Nothing serious. Most of the blood's Garland's. He and Anderson bought it.'

Finebaum stood, holding his M1 ready. 'Heh, this must have been a real turkey shoot.'

'I just met Death,' Howard said dully. 'A nice-looking guy in a black uniform, with a silver skull and cross-bones in his cap.'

'Is that so?' Finebaum said. 'I think maybe we had a brush with the same guy.' He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and shook his head. 'This is bad. Bad. I mean to say, the way I had it figured, this stinking war was over and here some bastards are still trying to get me.'

The 502nd SS Heavy Tank Battalion, or what was left of it, had temporary headquarters in the village of Lindorf, just off the main Salzburg Road, and the battalion commander, Standartenfuhrer Max Jager, had set up his command post in the local inn.

Karl Ritter had been lucky enough to get possession of one of the first-floor bedrooms and was sleeping, for the first time in thirty-six hours, the sleep of total exhaustion. He lay on top of the bed in full uniform, having been too tired even to remove his boots.

At three o'clock in the afternoon he came awake to a hand on his shoulder and found Hoffer bending over him. Ritter sat up instantly. 'Yes, what is it?'

'The colonel wants you, sir. They say it's urgent.'

'More work for the undertakers.' Ritter ran his hands over his fair hair and stood up. 'So - did you manage to snatch a little sleep, Erich?'

Hoffer, a thin wiry young man of twenty-seven, wore a black Panzer sidecap and a one-piece overall suit in autumn-pattern camouflage. He was an innkeeper's son from the Harz Mountains, had been with Ritter for four years and was totally devoted to him.

'A couple of hours.'

Ritter pulled on his service cap and adjusted the angle to his liking. 'You're a terrible liar, you know that, don't you, Erich? There's oil on your hands. You've been at those engines again.'

'Somebody has to,' Hoffer said. 'No more spares.'

'Not even for the SS.' Ritter smiled sardonically. 'Things really must be in a mess. Look, see if you can rustle up a little coffee and something to eat. And a glass of schnapps wouldn't come amiss. I shouldn't imagine this will take long.'

He went downstairs quickly and was directed, by an orderly, to a room at the back of the inn where he found Colonel Jager and two of the other company commanders examining a map which lay open on the table.

Jager turned and came forward, hand outstretched. 'My dear Karl, I can't tell you how delighted I am. A great, great honour, not only for you, but for the entire battalion.'

Ritter looked bewildered. 'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'But of course. How could you?' Jager picked up a signal flimsy. 'I naturally passed full details of this morning's astonishing exploit straight to division. It appears they radioed Berlin. I've just received this. Special orders, Karl, for you and Sturmscharfuhrer Hoffer. As you can see, you're to leave at once.'

Hoffer had indeed managed to obtain a little coffee - the real stuff, too - and some cold meat and black bread. He was just arranging it on the small sidetable in the bedroom when the door opened and Ritter entered.

Hoffer knew something was up at once, for he had never seen the major look so pale, a remarkable fact when one considered that he usually had no colour to him at all.

Ritter tossed his service cap on to the bed and adjusted the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves that hung at the neck of his black tunic. 'Is that coffee I smell, Erich? Real coffee? Who did you have to kill? Schnapps, too?'

'Steinhager, Major.' Hoffer picked up the stone bottle. 'Best I could do.'

'Well, then, you'd better find a couple of glasses, hadn't you. They tell me we've got something to celebrate.'

'Celebrate, sir?'

'Yes, Erich. How would you like a trip to Berlin?'

'Berlin, Major?' Hoffer looked bewildered. 'But Berlin is surrounded. It was on the radio.'

'Still possible to fly to Templehof or Gatow if you're important enough - and we are, Erich. Come on, man, fill the glasses.'

And suddenly Ritter was angry, the face paler than ever, the hand shaking as he held out a glass to the sergeant-major.

'Important, sir? Us?'

'My dear Erich, you've just been awarded the Knight's Cross, long overdue, I might add. And I am to receive the Swords, but now comes the best part. From the Fuhrer himself, Erich. Isn't it rich? Germany on the brink of total disaster and he can find a plane to fly us in specially, with Luftwaffe fighter escort, if you please.' He laughed wildly. 'The poor sod must think we've just won the war for him or something.'

3

On the morning of 26 April, two Junker 52s loaded with tank ammunition managed to land in the centre of Berlin in the vicinity of the Siegessaule on a runway hastily constructed from a road in that area.

Karl Ritter and Erich Hoffer were the only two passengers, and they clambered out of the hatch into a scene of indescribable confusion, followed by their pilot, a young Luftwaffe captain named Rosch.

There was considerable panic among the soldiers who immediately started to unload the ammunition. Hardly surprising, for Russian heavy artillery was pounding the city hard and periodically a shell whistled overhead to explode in the ruined buildings to the rear of them. The air was filled with sulphur smoke and dust and a heavy pall blanketed everything.

Rosch, Ritter and Hoffer ran to the shelter of a nearby wall and crouched. The young pilot offered them cigarettes. 'Welcome to the City of the Dead,' he said. 'Dante's new Inferno.'

'You've done this before?' Ritter asked.

'No, this is a new development. We can still get in to Templehof and Gatow by air, but it's impossible to get from there to here on the ground. The Ivans have infiltrated all over the place.' He smiled sardonically. 'Still, we'll throw them back given time, needless to say. After all, there's an army of veterans to call on. Volkssturm units, average age sixty. And a few thousand Hitler Youth at the other end, mostly around fourteen. Nothing much in between, except the Fuhrer, whom God preserve, naturally. He should be worth a few divisions, wouldn't you say?'

An uncomfortable conversation which was cut short by the sudden arrival of a field car with an SS military police driver and sergeant. The sergeant's uniform was immaculate, the feldgendarmerie gorget around his neck sparkling.

'Sturmbannfuhrer Ritter?'

'That's right.'

The sergeant's heels clicked together, his arm flashed briefly in a perfect party salute. 'General Fegelein's compliments. We're here to escort you to the Fuhrer's headquarters.'

'We'll be with you in a minute.' The sergeant doubled away and Ritter turned to Rosch. 'A strange game we play.'

'Here at the end of things, you mean?' Rosch smiled. 'At least I'm getting out. My orders are to turn round as soon as possible and take fifty wounded with me from the Charite Hospital, but you, my friend. You, I fear, will find it rather more difficult to leave Berlin.'

'My grandmother was a good Catholic. She taught me to believe in miracles.' Ritter held out his hand. 'Good luck.'

'And to you.' Rosch ducked instinctively as another of the heavy 17.5 shells screamed overhead. 'You'll need it.'

The field car turned out of the Wilhelmplatz and into Vosstrasse and the bulk of the Reich Chancellery rose before them. It was a sorry sight, battered and defaced by the bombardment, and every so often another shell screamed in to further the work of destruction. The streets were deserted, piled high with rubble so that the driver had to pick his way with care.

'Good God,' Hoffer said. 'No one could function in such a shambles. It's impossible.'

'Underneath,' the police sergeant told him. 'Thirty metres of concrete between those Russian shells and the Fuhrer's bunker. Nothing can reach him down there.'

'Nothing?' Ritter thought. 'Can it be truly possible this clown realizes what he is saying or is he as touched by madness as his masters?'

The car ramp was wrecked, but there was still room to take the field car inside. As they stopped, an SS sentry moved out of the gloom. The sergeant waved him away and turned to Ritter. 'If you will follow me, please. First, we must report to Major-General Mohnke.'

Ritter removed his leather military greatcoat and handed it to Hoffer. Underneath, the black Panzer uniform was immaculate, the decorations gleamed. He adjusted his gloves. The sergeant was considerably impressed and drew himself stiffly to attention as if aware that this was a game they shared and eager to play his part.

'If the Sturmbannfuhrer is ready?'

Ritter nodded, the sergeant moved off briskly and they followed him down through a dark passage with concrete walls that sweated moisture in the dim light. Soldiers crouched in every available inch of space, many of them sleeping, mainly SS from the looks of things. Some glanced up with weary, lacklustre eyes that showed no surprise, even at Ritter's bandbox appearance.

When they talked, their voices were low and subdued and the main sound seemed to be the monotonous hum of the dynamos and the whirring of the electric fans in the ventilation system. Occasionally, there was the faintest of tremors as the earth shook high above them and the air was musty and unpleasant, tainted with sulphur.

Major-General Mohnke's office was as uninviting as everything else Ritter had seen on his way down through the labyrinth of passageways. Small and spartan with the usual concrete walls, too small even for the desk and chair and the half a dozen officers it contained when they arrived. Mohnke was an SS Brigadefuhrer who was now commander of the Adolf Hitler Volunteer Corps, a force of 2,000 supposedly hand-picked men who were to form the final ring of defence around the Chancellery.

He paused in full flight as the immaculate Ritter entered the room. Everyone turned, the sergeant saluted and placed Ritter's orders on the desk. Mohnke looked at them briefly, his eyes lit up and he leaned across the table, hand outstretched.

'My dear Ritter, what a pleasure to meet you.' He reached for the telephone and said to the others, 'Sturmbannfuhrer Ritter, gentlemen, hero of that incredible exploit near Innsbruck that I was telling you about.'

Most of them made appropriate noises, one or two shook hands, others reached out to touch him as if for good luck. It was a slightly unnerving experience and he was glad when Mohnke replaced the receiver and said, 'General Fegelein tells me the Fuhrer wishes to see you without delay.' His arm swung up dramatically in a full party salute. 'Your comrades of the SS are proud of you, Sturmbannfuhrer. Your victory is ours.'

'Am I mad or they, Erich?' Ritter whispered as they followed the sergeant ever deeper into the bunker.

'For God's sake, Major.' Hoffer put a hand briefly on his arm. 'If someone overhears that kind of remark ...'

'All right, I'll be good,' Ritter said soothingly. 'Lead on, Erich. I can't wait to see what happens in the next act.'

They descended now to the lower levels of the Fuhrerbunker itself. A section which, although Ritter did not know it then, housed most of the Fuhrer's personal staff as well as Goebbels and his family, Bormann and Dr Ludwig Stumpfegger, the Fuhrer's personal physician. General Fegelein had a room adjacent to Bormann's.

It was similar to Mohnke's - small with damp, concrete walls and furnished with a desk, a couple of chairs and a filing cabinet. The desk was covered with military maps which he was studying closely when the sergeant opened the door and stood to one side.

Fegelein looked up, his face serious, but when he saw Ritter, laughed excitedly and rushed round the desk to greet him. 'My dear Ritter, what an honour - for all of us. The Fuhrer can't wait, I assure you.'

Such enthusiasm was a little too much, considering that Ritter had never clapped eyes on the man before. Fegelein was a one-time commander of SS cavalry, he knew that, awarded the Knight's Cross, so he was no coward - but the handshake lacked firmness and there was sweat on the brow, particularly along the thinning hairline. This was a badly frightened man, a breed with which Ritter had become only too familiar over the past few months.

'An exaggeration, I'm sure, General.'

'And you, too, Sturmscharfuhrer.' Fegelein did not take Hoffer's hand but nodded briefly. 'A magnificent performance.'

'Indeed,' Ritter said dryly. 'He was, after all, the finger on the trigger.'

'Of course, my dear Ritter, we all acknowledge that fact. On the other hand ...'

Before he could take the conversation any further the door opened and a broad, rather squat man entered the room. He wore a nondescript uniform. His only decoration was the Order of Blood, a much-coveted Nazi medal specially struck for those who had served prison sentences for political crimes in the old Weimar Republic. He carried a sheaf of papers in one hand.

'Ah, Martin,' Fegelein said. 'Was it important? I have the Fuhrer's orders to escort this gentleman to him the instant he arrived. Sturmbannfuhrer Ritter, hero of Wednesday's incredible exploit on the Innsbruck road. Reichsleiter Bormann you of course know, Major.'

But Ritter did not, for Martin Bormann was only a name to him, as he was to most Germans - a face occasionally to be found in a group photo of party dignitaries, but nothing memorable about it. Not a Goebbels or a Himmler - once seen, never forgotten.

And yet here he was, the most powerful man in Germany, particularly now that Himmler had absconded. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, head of the Nazi Party Chancellery and Secretary to the Fuhrer.

'A great pleasure, Major.' His handshake was firm with a hint of even greater strength there if necessary.

He had a harsh, yet strangely soft voice, a broad, brutal face with Slavic cheekbones, a prominent nose. The impression was of a big man, although Ritter found he had to look down on him.

'Reichsleiter.'

'And this is your gunner, Hoffer.' Bormann turned to the sergeant-major. 'Quite a marksman, but then I sometimes think you Harz mountain men cut your teeth on a shotgun barrel.'

It was the first sign from anyone that Hoffer was more than a cypher, an acknowledgement of his existence as a human being, and it could not fail to impress Ritter, however reluctantly.

Bormann opened the door and turned to Fegelein. 'My business can wait. I'll see you downstairs anyway. I, too, have business with the Fuhrer.'

He went out and Fegelein turned to the two men. Ritter magnificent in the black uniform, Hoffer somehow complementing the show with his one-piece camouflage suit, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. It couldn't be better. Just the sort of fillip the Fuhrer needed.

Bormann's sleeping quarters were in the Party Chancellery Bunker, but his office, close to Fegelein's, was strategically situated so that he was able to keep the closest of contacts with Hitler. One door opened into the telephone exchange and general communication centre, the other to Goebbels's personal office. Nothing, therefore, could go in to the Fuhrer or out again without the Reichsleiter's knowledge, which was exactly as he had arranged the situation.

When he entered his office directly after leaving Fegelein, he found SS-Colonel Willi Rattenhuber, whose services he had utilized as an additional aide to Zander since 30 March, leaning over a map on the desk.

'Any further word on Himmler?' Bormann asked.

'Not as yet, Reichsleiter.'

'The bastard is up to something, you may depend on it, and so is Fegelein. Watch him, Willi - watch him closely.'

'Yes, Reichsleiter.'

'And there's something else I want you to do, Willi. There's a Sturmbannfuhrer named Ritter of the 502nd SS Heavy Tank Battalion on his way down now to receive the Swords from the Fuhrer. When you get a moment, I want his records - everything you can find on him.'

'Reichsleiter.'

'That's what I like about you, Willi, you never ask questions.' Bormann clapped him on the arm. 'And now, we'll go down to the garden bunker and I'll show him to you. I think you'll approve. In fact I have a happy feeling that he may serve my purpose very well indeed.'

In the garden bunker was the Fuhrer's study, a bedroom, two living rooms and a bathroom. Close by was the map room used for all high-level conferences. The hall outside served as an anteroom, and it was there that Ritter and Hoffer waited.

Bormann paused at the bottom of the steps and held Rattenhuber back in the shadows. 'He looks well, Willi, don't you agree? Quite magnificent in that pretty uniform with the medals gleaming, the pale face, the blond hair. Uncle Heini would have been proud of him: all that's fairest in the Aryan race. Not like us at all, Willi. He will undoubtedly prove a shot in the arm for the Fuhrer. And notice the slight, sardonic smile on his mouth. I tell you there's hope for this boy, Willi. A young man of parts.'

Rattenhuber said hastily, 'The Fuhrer comes now, Reichsleiter.'

Ritter, standing there at the end of a line of half a dozen young boys in the uniform of the Hitler Youth, felt curiously detached. It was rather like one of those dreams in which everything has an appearance of reality, yet events are past belief. The children on his right hand, for instance. Twelve or thirteen, here to be decorated for bravery. The boy next to him had a bandage round his forehead, under the heavy man's helmet. Blood seeped through steadily, and occasionally the child shifted his feet as if to prevent himself falling.

'Shoulders back,' Ritter said softly. 'Not long now.' And then the door opened. Hitler moved out flanked by Fegelein, Jodl, Keitel and Krebs, the new Chief of the Army General Staff.

Ritter had seen the Fuhrer on several occasions in his life. Speaking at Nuremberg rallies, Paris in 1940, on a visit to the Eastern Front in 1942. His recollection of Hitler had been of an inspired leader of men, a man of magical rhetoric whose spell could not fail to touch anyone within hearing distance.

But the man who shuffled into the anteroom now might have been a totally different person. This was a sick old man, shoulders hunched under the uniform jacket that seemed a size too large, pale, hollow-cheeked, no sparkle in the lack-lustre eyes, and when he turned to take from the box Jodl held the first Iron Cross Second Class, his hand trembled.