The Doomsday Decree

by Peter MacAlan

  He turned quickly: ‘Heinrich!’

  The bespectacled figure of Himmler, dapper in his immaculately cut black uniform, stepped forward. ‘Fuhrer?’

  ‘How do you see this situation in the east?’

  It was a direct affront to Guderian, the brilliant soldier and strategist who, in happier times for the Fuhrer, had conceived and carried out the conquest of the Low Countries and France. Guderian went white but said nothing.

  Himmler smirked. ‘Zhukov is now less than fifty miles from Berlin at Kustrin on the Oder. I think he will hold his front there for a while, trying to extend a line along the Oder and the Neisse. He will want to clear up pockets of resistance behind his lines. Therefore, so long as Breslau holds out, Zhukov will be unable to move further into the heartland of the Reich. It will give us time to consolidate.’

  Guderian looked at Himmler scornfully.

  The Führer was smiling. He turned to Guderian. ‘There you are, you are unduly pessimistic in your report. We must re-group and the Army Group, Vistala, must attack while the Russians are attempting to consolidate.’

  Guderian sighed. ‘We have not sufficient ammunition nor petrol for a counter-offensive against the Russians.’

  His words were slow and deliberate. Heiden, watching the Führer, was startled to see Hitler’s face dissolve into a quivering lump of pallid flesh. His eyes seemed about to pop out from his head and the veins stood out on his temples. He started to scream insults at Guderian, using the language of the back street gutters. Heiden could not believe what was happening.

  Then, as suddenly as the tirade began, Hitler abruptly stopped and hunched across the table, staring down at the map.

  ‘The counter-offensive will begin as soon as possible,’ he muttered. There was a silence for some minutes.

  Eventually the Führer straightened up and stared about him. ‘I have decided that Germany will withdraw from the Geneva Convention as a protest against the bombing of civilians. All prisoners-of-war will be executed. All the laws of war will be abrogated.’

  Heiden saw the chiefs-of-staff peering uncertainly at each other. Then the diminutive club-footed figure of Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister, stepped forward.

  ‘A brilliant stroke, Führer. It will make the enemy realize that we are determined to fight for our existence with all the means at our disposal.’

  Guderian’s face was like a gathering storm. ‘It will reduce us from an army to a gang of bandits,’ he snapped, ignoring the startled gasps. ‘If we start executing prisoners-of-war, so will our enemies in reprisal.’

  Hitler turned to him, his face twitching. ‘Nevertheless, all captured airmen will be shot summarily for their terror-bombing of German cities.’

  ‘It is not … not legal!’ shouted Guderian.

  ‘I have made it so!’ screamed Hitler. ‘If I make it clear that I show no consideration for prisoners, that I treat enemy prisoners without consideration for their rights, regardless of reprisals, then quite a few of our own side will think twice before they desert!’ The Fuhrer paused, recovered his temper and smiled. ‘In fact, I shall decree that any German soldier taken prisoner unwounded will have his relatives arrested and held responsible for his conduct!’

  There was an uneasy shuffling around the table.

  Suddenly Heiden found the black, baleful eyes of the Fuhrer focused on him. From a spectator of the bizarre proceedings, he was suddenly transformed into a participant.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Bormann moved forward hurriedly. ‘Brigadeführer Heiden, my Fuhrer. He comes to report on Project Wotan.’

  Hitler frowned, dredging his memory. ‘Wotan? Wotan?’ Then he burst into a smile. He limped forward and held out his left hand. ‘Welcome. You bring good news, I am sure.’

  Heiden mumbled something.

  Bormann was replying for him. ‘Yes, my Führer. Heiden reports that progress is good.’

  ‘When will the rockets be ready?’

  Heiden ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to avoid Hitler’s gaze. Having seen the terrible rage to which the Führer could descend, he chose his words carefully.

  ‘The rockets will be ready for launching on Wednesday, February twenty-eighth, my Führer.’

  There was a pause while Hitler digested the information.

  ‘But that is nearly two weeks away. What is causing the delay?’

  Bormann interrupted again. ‘The delay is caused by the lack of rocket fuel, Führer. You will recall that special liquid oxygen and alcohol fuel components had to be sent from Peenemunde via Hamburg. The liquid oxygen has arrived and is now being loaded, but the alcohol is still delayed. It should be at the project site soon.’

  The Führer’s pale face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. ‘And there is no other delay? Everything will proceed as planned?’

  ‘Some of the scientists still think a test of the weapon might be advisable,’ began Heiden hesitantly.

  There was a strained silence, but Hitler was still smiling. ‘The weapons can be tested over London. That is where we shall see the results of our success,’ he said confidently.

  Goebbels grinned. ‘Excellent, Führer. But what if we sent one of the rockets to London and the other to Moscow? Could we not destroy both our enemies at a stroke?’

  Hitler looked irritable. ‘Am I the only one to know everything?’ he demanded. ‘The rockets do not have the capacity to hit Moscow or Leningrad. Is this not so, Heiden?’

  Heiden was nearly caught gaping in surprise at the Führer’s sudden lucidity and his knowledge of the technical range of the rockets. In the strange Alice in Wonderland world he was witnessing, Heiden was astonished to see that Hitler still had some grasp of reality.

  ‘Exactly so, my Führer. The fuel capacity limits the range of the rockets. They would never reach Moscow or Leningrad.’

  ‘Besides,’ Hitler continued, ‘exploding them against those cities would not cause the devastation and subsequent terror that a strike against London would incur.’

  Goebbels was almost grovelling in his apologies. ‘How can I match the most brilliant military mind of our age?’ he said deferentially.

  Hitler smiled, almost serenely, and waved his hand self-deprecatingly.

  ‘Yet, my Führer,’ Heiden said, suddenly deciding to use this good mood to press the one point made by the scientists that had been bothering him, ‘the project scientists are worried about the dangers they foresee if the rockets explode by mischance, on German soil. That is why they wish a test first.’

  ‘If the rockets explode too soon it will not matter,’ Hitler said slowly. His eyes were filming over. ‘I am being betrayed constantly, day after day, by my generals and my people. They betray my greatness. If Germany is to fall before her enemies, then it is better that the entire German people be destroyed. Wotan can either save Germany or, failing that, can destroy Germany.’

  He turned to bend once more over his war maps. After a moment Bormann moved forward and took Heiden by the arm, guiding him back to the ante-chamber. ‘You have your orders.’

  ‘But … ’

  ‘The rockets must be launched against London on February twenty-eighth. There can be no excuse for delay.’

  *

  Paul started his shift at the hospital at ten o’clock that Monday morning. At lunchtime he met Magda in the staff canteen and they shared a meal of boiled cabbage, blood sausage and black bread. She was worried when he told her that he would be going back to Dortmund that evening.

  ‘Isn’t it too much of a risk, Paul? Can’t you leave it to your friends in the Widerstand to find out about this Project Wotan now?’

  ‘I owe it to Gottfried and Anna to see this thing through, Magda,’ Paul said with a shake of his head. ‘Besides, I have a duty to the Widerstand as well.’

  He refused point blank to consider her coming with him, but promised that he would tell her anything he found out as soon as he could.

  He was in Dortmund by six-thirty that evening, parking t
he Porsche in the garage at the back of the General’s apartment block. The General greeted him at the apartment door with a smile.

  ‘Excellent. Your driver should be here fairly soon. Go straight into the bedroom, my boy, and change into the uniform we have for you.’

  An SS officer’s uniform lay on the bed.

  ‘What’s this?’ Paul frowned.

  The General smiled again, amused at Paul’s reaction.

  ‘You are now Hauptsturmführer Reinhold Geiber, Number 424, 362, Medical Detachment, SS Berlin Headquarters Staff. You have been sent to personally examine Herr Professor Ludwig von Knilling on the specific instructions of Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler. Berlin has been warned that the man is becoming a drunkard. In your wallet is documentation to this effect and a special pass signed by Himmler himself. Our boys in Berlin are very good at supplying this sort of thing.’

  ‘Forgeries?’ Paul examined the documents. ‘They certainly look authentic.’

  The General chuckled dryly. ‘They are authentic, lad. The Widerstand still has people in high places. People who have access to many forms of documentation so that there is no need for forgeries. We have all the genuine documentation we could want. Even the Reichsführer’s signature is genuine, though to be honest I doubt if the poor little man knows what he signed.’

  The fact that the documents were genuine made Paul feel somewhat less apprehensive.

  ‘What is the plan?’ he asked as he began to slip into the uniform.

  The General lit a pipe as he lounged against the door-jamb. ‘Very simple. Your contact will be here soon. Let’s call him Franz. Franz has been supplied with a Mercedes-Benz with the appropriate SS staff markings on it. He will drive you straight to the main gate of the project site. You will present your documentation and, hopefully, be allowed onto the site to see von Knilling. You will find out what the project is all about and then report back.’

  ‘What if I am recognized?’

  The General shrugged. ‘In that case, you will be on your own. We won’t be able to help. There is always a chance of recognition but I think it’s not likely. Not in that uniform. Besides, we have heard that the commander of the project site, the man who most likely questioned you the other night, flew to Berlin early this morning for a conference with the Führer.’

  ‘Do we know who he is, then?’

  ‘We don’t have a name as yet. There is a limit to what information we can pick up from the official orders.’

  Paul nodded. ‘And what happens if I can’t get back to you?’

  ‘Then pass the information on through Ulrich.’

  ‘The plan sounds simple,’ Paul conceded.

  ‘The best plans are always simple,’ the General smiled. ‘And they allow for flexibility. Field Marshal von Runstedt used to say that if an officer came to him with a complicated plan of attack then he was sure that the officer was incapable of formulating a successful operation against the enemy. Do you play chess?’

  ‘Not very well,’ confessed Paul.

  ‘I used to play every week in a cafe in Berlin with an old Tsarist Russian during the 1920s,’ the General continued. ‘He had, he said, been official “chess master” to Prince Avalov. He was certainly a brilliant player. I could never win a game from him until one day I discovered his secret. He played a very exact and mathematical game. If I answered his moves with the text-book replies, I would lose. So, one day I tried the experiment of doing the unorthodox. It worked. His game foundered. One must always allow for flexibility, my boy.’

  Paul stood before the bedroom mirror in the uniform and adjusted his cap.

  The General’s face broke into a broad grin.

  ‘By God, I declare that you make a fine-looking SS Hauptsturmführer. The uniform fits you very well.’

  ‘Yes, but I feel very self-conscious,’ Paul said, staring at himself in the mirror.

  ‘So you should,’ the General told him. ‘You should feel and behave as one of the elite. Everyone else is racially inferior.’

  ‘Are you sure I’ll pass?’

  The General nodded.

  ‘Let’s just run through your details again. What is your name?’

  ‘Geiber, Reinhold Geiber.’

  ‘Your rank?’

  ‘Hauptsturmführer, SS Medical Detachment.’

  ‘SS serial number?’

  ‘Four two four, three six two.’

  There was a knock on the door of the apartment. The General motioned Paul to stay put and went to the door. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘Franz,’ said a soft voice.

  The General unbolted the door and a stocky man in a heavy overcoat entered.

  ‘Everything all right, Franz?’ asked the General.

  ‘No problems, Generaloberst,’ replied the man.

  The General called for Paul to join them.

  ‘Franz, this is Hauptsturmführer Reinhold Geiber.’

  Paul found himself staring into the man’s humorous blue eyes. He held out his hand, but the stocky man ignored it and gave a Hitler salute.

  ‘Sturmscharführer Franz Schmidt,’ he introduced himself.

  Paul smiled. The man was right. The less they used real names the better.

  ‘You both know what to do?’ asked the General, glancing from one to the other.

  Schmidt recited his orders in military style: ‘I am to drive the Herr Hauptsturmführer to the site of Project Wotan. He is a doctor on special assignment from Berlin and that is all I know. I am instructed to drive him to the site and wait while he carries out a medical examination on one of the personnel. I am then to drive him back to Berlin.’

  The General gazed at Paul. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Any questions?’

  Paul shook his head.

  The General smiled. ‘Then there is nothing more except to wish you both luck. If all goes well you should be back here in about three hours,’

  He silently shook hands with both of them as they left the apartment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Franz Schmidt was an expert driver and the Mercedes-Benz seemed to fly along the tree-lined avenues of the forest.

  ‘We’re getting near it,’ he muttered to Paul.

  He rounded a bend and a roadblock abruptly came into view. An SS Scharführer came forward and glanced at the markings on the vehicle. His hand went up in salute.

  ‘Ausweis, bitte!’

  Assuming an indifferent expression, Paul passed over the papers. The Scharführer glanced at them and returned them with the same precise salute. Paul responded in a bored fashion as the car was waved forward. There were two similar roadblocks within the next three kilometres.

  ‘They don’t believe in half-measures,’ Paul observed. ‘This project site must have something really interesting to hide.’

  Paul realized that he must have been extremely close to the area on the previous night. It had been good fortune that he had somehow missed the series of roadblocks by using secondary trackways through the Grunewald.

  The trees thinned abruptly and they came to a fence of barbed wire edging the roadway. Watchtowers appeared every hundred yards or so along this fence. Paul could just make out, in the darkness, a second fence of barbed wire running parallel to the first about five metres inside it. Both fences were high, with rolls of barbed wire straddling the tops. Paul wondered whether it was to keep people out or in. He had once seen a prisoner-of-war camp and it had looked much the same. He could discern spotlights mounted on the tall pinewood towers and noticed that each tower seemed to contain a sentry or a three-man machine gun crew. He could see the black snouts of the guns swinging idly on their mountings. The SS clearly had gone to a lot of trouble to make the site of Project Wotan impregnable.

  Schmidt followed the line of the fence until he came upon twin towers which stood either side of the main gates. The gates remained closed until another Scharführer came forward and examined their papers, checked the Mercedes’ SS markings and made a note of them on a check pad. Then
he turned and waved at some hidden operator who caused the gates to swing open. The car was motioned forward. It could move only about five metres before coming to a halt before a second set of gates. Behind the car, the first gates swung shut. Still another SS warrant officer examined their papers. Paul was amazed at the close security.

  After they had passed through the second gate they were halted before a group of low pinewood buildings about thirty metres further on.

  From the steps of one building, lit by floodlights, a tall, immaculately uniformed Obersturmführer came towards the vehicle. He saw Paul’s rank and saluted punctiliously.

  ‘Your papers please, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  Paul handed over the papers. The examination of them was no more than cursory.

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ the officer was saying. ‘We have had no word from Berlin concerning your visit.’

  Paul scowled. ‘This is because no word was sent. Security. I am acting on the orders of the Reichsführer himself.’

  The officer clicked his heels dutifully.

  ‘Where is the commandant?’ demanded Paul.

  ‘With apologies, Herr Hauptsturmführer, he is not on the site. He was called to Berlin this morning for a special conference.’

  Paul tut-tutted as if annoyed at the news.

  ‘Who is in charge, then?’ He feigned exasperation.

  ‘I am, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘Good. I have had an appalling trip from Berlin. I am tired. My driver is tired. All I want to do is conduct the examination of von Knilling, as required by my orders, and report back as soon as possible to the Reichsführer.’

  The Obersturmführer bit his lip. ‘I suppose it is all right … ’ he began hesitantly. ‘The Herr Professor is detained in the medical block, under observation.’