The Doomsday Decree

by Peter MacAlan

  He dropped to the ground immediately and covered his head.

  After several long silent seconds he raised his head, just in time to see a man dart out from behind a wall some distance away, cross the trackway and vanish through a door.

  Paul’s mouth went dry. The man was wearing a khaki uniform.

  With his head raised, Paul watched the soldier work his way forward with quick, nervous dashes. He began to pray there were no SS booby traps remaining nor snipers left in the buildings or surrounding woods.

  The soldier was about twenty yards away when Paul saw the flash of chevrons on his sleeve.

  He licked his tongue over his dry lips and tried to remember his English. It had been so long.

  ‘Hey, corporal!’

  The soldier leapt through a doorway and vanished immediately.

  ‘Hey, corporal! Don’t shoot. I’m a civilian. I must speak with your commanding officer.’

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Stand up and put your hands in the air.’

  Paul thanked God that his English remained serviceable.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he yelled again.

  A moment later the corporal came forward, his rifle covering Paul, shaking his head in amazement.

  ‘No tricks, Kraut!’ he muttered.

  Paul frowned, trying to place the man’s accent. ‘American?’

  The corporal spat disgustedly.

  ‘Canadian.’

  Several more khaki-clad figures were appearing behind him now.

  ‘I wish to speak with your commanding officer,’ Paul said.

  ‘That a fact?’ There was a sneer on the corporal’s face. ‘Why?’

  ‘I am a civilian doctor and … ’

  ‘You look more like a deserter to me,’ interrupted the corporal. ‘Or maybe you are a spy? Either way, mister, we don’t have time … ’

  He was cut short by the roar of an engine as a military vehicle, a Jeep with a five-pointed star in a white circle painted on its bonnet, came churning through the mud. A pale-faced officer with a captain’s pips on his shoulders peered down from a seat next to the driver.

  ‘What’s this?’

  The corporal made a quick gesture with his right hand which passed for a salute.

  ‘Prisoner, sir. Claims to be a Kraut civilian. Maybe an infiltrator, spy or deserter.’

  Paul moved forward cautiously. ‘Please, sir … ’ he began.

  The corporal prodded him sharply with the barrel of his rifle.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you dirty Hun!’ grunted the corporal.

  The captain stared at Paul for a moment and then said, ‘Okay, corporal. I’ll take him back to field headquarters. They’ll sort things out there.’

  He motioned Paul to get into the Jeep and ostentatiously took out his pistol.

  Paul climbed in and sat in the back. In spite of his recent rest, a wave of tiredness washed over him. He hoped the nightmare was finally coming to an end.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The telephone shrilled in Brigadeführer Heiden’s office.

  An impersonal metallic voice said, ‘Berlin on the line.’ Then after a few moments came another voice: ‘The Herr Reichsleiter for Brigadeführer Heiden.’

  ‘This is Heiden,’ the Brigadeführer acknowledged. His throat was tight.

  There was a pause and then the nasal tones of Bormann snapped down the wire.

  ‘Is the fuelling process complete yet?’

  Heiden tried to control his annoyance. Didn’t Bormann remember the problem about the fuel?

  ‘No, Herr Reichsleiter. You will recall the delay in the delivery of the alcohol content of the fuel. Two of the tankers have arrived here but we are waiting the arrival of a third tanker which will make up the fuel load.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘The Führer is waiting to hear when the project is ready. He has asked me twice already today. What am I to tell him?’

  ‘Can’t you tell him the truth?’

  Heiden did not mean to snap at the Reichsleiter but it came out that way. There was a silence at the other end of the wire.

  Bormann said evenly: ‘Brigadeführer Heiden, today is Thursday the twenty-second of February. You will recall promising your Führer that the rockets will be launched on Wednesday, 28 February, less than one week from today. I shall be telling the Führer that Project Wotan will be on schedule. If it is not … then you will answer for your failure.’

  Several seconds passed before Heiden realized that Bormann had rung off.

  *

  In Berlin a short time later, Martin Bormann entered the Führer’s spacious office in the Chancellery. Hitler was slumped in his black leather upholstered chair, arms on the table, head sunk between his shoulders. He was alone. His eyes seemed to be focused through the French windows beyond his massive desk, out into the Chancellery garden. From it came the incongruous sounds of children playing. Bormann frowned and took a quick look outside. He recognized the children of Josef and Magda Goebbels. They were playing happily, oblivious to their surroundings, filling the air with shrieks of childish merriment.

  ‘Shall I … ?’ began Bormann.

  Hitler sighed. ‘Leave them be. They are the future … if the German people are to have a future.’

  The Führer hauled himself to his feet and limped over to his war map, spread on the large table to one side of the study. ‘The Russians are making rapid strides in their advance,’ he said.

  Bormann stepped forward with a frown. ‘My Führer?’

  Hitler continued to gaze at the map. ‘I think our death throes have begun, Martin.’

  Privately, Martin Bormann felt that the death throes of the Reich had begun several weeks before. The reports were that the Ruhr Valley, the industrial heartland of the Reich, was in ruins. Upper Silesia was in Soviet hands, its mines and industries cut off. Coal production was down to one fifth of its normal pre-war output, and what was being mined could not be moved because of the dislocation of transport caused by Allied bombing. The coal shortage was acute. Grand Admiral Doenitz had been complaining that his fleet was unable to move because of lack of fuel. The Minister for Armament and War Production, Albert Speer, was arguing for preferential treatment for the Reich’s power plants and armament factories, for without fuel they would also be powerless.

  Fuel dominated the Führer’s daily conferences, particularly since the loss of the Rumanian and Hungarian oil fields and the destruction of the synthetic oil plants within Germany. So great was the fuel shortage that the Luftwaffe was almost non-existent. Fighter aircraft were grounded and being systematically destroyed on their airfields by Allied attacks. Even the pride of the German army, the Panzer divisions, were unable to move for lack of fuel.

  ‘My Führer,’ Bormann said softly, I have some orders for your signature.’

  Hitler, still staring at the map, seemed not to hear him. ‘How far are the Russians from Berlin, Martin?’

  Bormann pressed his fleshy lips together. ‘There are reports of street fighting in Breslau. Zinten, in East Prussia, has been captured and the Soviets have crossed the Niesse on a broad front.’

  Hitler let out a deep sigh. ‘They are trying to persuade me to go down into the bunker for greater safety. What do you think, Martin?’

  Bormann had already taken to sleeping in the specially constructed air-raid shelter below the Chancellery several days earlier.

  ‘It would be wise.’

  ‘Then I will do so.’ Hitler nodded to himself and smiled as if had come to an important decision. ‘What was it that you wanted, Martin?’

  ‘Orders for your signature, Führer.’ He pushed the papers in front of Hitler and handed him a pen.

  ‘What of Project Wotan?’

  The question came without warning. Bormann had been hoping that Hitler might have forgotten.

  ‘Everything is on time. There is a minor matter of fuel … ’

  ‘Fuel?’ Hitler’s eyes blazed. ‘They have not
received the fuel yet?’

  ‘No, not all of it.’

  ‘Who is to blame for this?’ His voice rose threateningly.

  ‘No one, Führer,’ Bormann said pacifyingly. ‘One of the trucks transporting the alcohol fuel from Peenemunde was destroyed by Allied aircraft. There is another consignment on its way which I located at Bad Zwischenahn. It was earmarked for the V2 sites in northern Holland but I have issued instructions for it to be diverted to Wotan immediately.’

  ‘Wotan must receive that fuel at once. The rockets must be ready to strike and strike soon.’

  ‘Of course, Fuhrer.’

  ‘They will be my miracle weapon, my vengeance weapon, which will yet turn the war for our people.’

  No one knew better than Bormann that the German people had begun to lose the hope in Hitler’s promised ‘miracle weapons’ which had sustained not only the masses of the people and the soldiers but also the General Staff itself. Even Guderian, one of the most hard-headed of Hitler’s generals, had believed in these weapons — and now he was expressing doubts, though not to Hitler’s face, about the credibility of them. The V1 flying bombs and the V2 rockets were hardly making any impact on Britain; certainly they were not going to bring that nation to its knees as Göring had once promised. Most of the launching sites had now been overrun by the Allies’ advance across Europe, and in any case the weapons did comparatively little damage even when they succeeded in reaching their targets.

  Göring had also promised Hitler that a new jet-powered fighter would make his Luftwaffe invincible. The Heinkel He178 had flown as early as 1939, but not until 1944 had the scientists devised an operational jet fighter, the Messerschmidt 262. That very month Germany’s top fighter pilot, Adolf Galland, had been given command of a fighter Geswader JV 44, a special force equipped with the Me262 jet fighters to cover the Munich-Rheims area. But the fighters were too few and lacked fuel to stay in the air for any length of time. Bormann knew it was a vain hope to expect the jets to turn the tide in Germany’s air war. They would never break the Allies’ domination of the skies at this late hour. Once in the air, it was true, the Me262s were the master of any Allied fighter — but the planes rarely got off the ground. With the refineries which produced their special fuel being bombed out of existence, and the extended runways required for their longer take-off run being easily detected, the new fighters were almost worse than useless.

  Then there had been Grand Admiral Doenitz’s promise of a new electric U-Boat which would have greater capabilities than any previous submarine, keeping under the surface longer, having a greater striking range and being almost undetectable. By the middle of February 1945 only two such U-Boats, out of a promised 126 built, had actually been commissioned.

  That left Project Wotan — the ‘super bombs’.

  Well, they would see, Bormann thought. It was known that the Allies were engaged in research along the same lines but it was certainly true that German scientists had led the way in research and theory. If, indeed, the bombs could be launched within a week, then it might well be the turning of the tide.

  Bormann glanced at Hitler, now slumped once more at his desk, and withdrew quietly.

  In the distance Bormann heard the wail of an air-raid siren. Soon the Allied bombers would be over Berlin again. There was just time to ensure that the orders went off before he retreated down to the shelter of the Chancellery bunker.

  *

  It was not until late Thursday afternoon, well over twenty-four hours after he had given himself up to the Canadian troops, that Paul got any reaction to the Widerstand password. For most of that time he had been held in a ruined schoolhouse in Goch with the roar of jeeps and armoured cars, the wheezy rattle of tanks and the tramping and shouting of marching men continually assaulting his ears. The town of Goch had been turned into a strategic Allied crossing point literally overflowing with troops and vehicles. All day Wednesday he had only one short interview, with a bored-looking Canadian major who did not respond when Paul used the password the General had given him and flatly refused Paul’s request to be put in contact with a senior intelligence officer. Paul saw no one else that evening and most of Thursday except a sour-faced sergeant who brought him mugs of weak tea and some slices of bread with margarine and jam — and whose only reply to Paul’s entreaties to be seen by a senior intelligence officer was to ‘shut up’ and ‘make the best of it’, as he would ‘most likely be taken out and shot soon.’

  Finally, toward dusk on Thursday, the schoolhouse door opened and a captain of military police entered. The captain, tall and slightly arrogant-looking stood regarding Paul almost in distaste and then motioned to him as he spoke the single word, ‘Come!’

  Outside the schoolhouse a Jeep and driver were waiting. Paul was motioned into the back seat alongside the captain. The driver wrenched the Jeep away from the kerb with a roar and headed for the new pontoon bridge which had been erected across the Niers River. Paul watched wide-eyed as they drove by never-ending convoys of trucks, tanks and assorted other military vehicles, interspersed with lines of marching men, all pushing eastwards into Germany. There seemed to be no end to them. It took a couple of hours before the Jeep crossed over the Maas-Waal canal and entered the Dutch city of Nijmegen. The city had fallen to the Allies at the end of September, but they had only recently made their break to the east.

  Throughout the journey Paul had held his tongue and tried to appear as dignified and unconcerned as the swaying and bumping of the Jeep would allow. Neither did the captain and his driver exchange a single word with him. The driver seemed to know Nijmegen well; it was totally dark when they arrived, but after stopping at a couple of check points the Jeep negotiated the back streets without hesitation, arriving finally in what was apparently a quiet suburb. They came to a high-walled estate with military police guarding the entrance, and as soon as the captain’s pass was checked they were waved down a quiet tree-lined avenue which led to an old Dutch style house.

  A lieutenant stepped smartly from the front steps and saluted.

  The captain climbed out of the Jeep. ‘One Boche delivered for Colonel Roberts,’ he said.

  The lieutenant accepted a piece of paper proffered by the captain, glanced at it and saluted again.

  ‘Aussteigen!’ he snapped at Paul.

  Paul shrugged and swung his legs out of the Jeep.

  ‘Komm mit!’

  No word nor action was wasted.

  Paul followed the lieutenant into the house, across an ornate marble hall and along a darkened corridor. The officer unlocked a door and motioned for Paul to go through.

  ‘Warten!’ he snapped as he closed the door.

  Paul realized he was in a small room with a single bed in it and nothing else. He turned impatiently.

  ‘I’ve waited long enough!’ he yelled in annoyance. ‘Don’t you people realize this is urgent?’

  But already the lieutenant’s echoing footsteps were receding down the corridor.

  Paul glanced round the room and sighed. There was nothing to do but wait.

  It was dawn the next morning before anyone came near him. Then the door burst open and a corporal thrust a tin mug of tea and some bread at him and was gone before Paul had time to wake properly and frame a question. Finally, two hours later, the door opened again and the bland-faced lieutenant came in.

  ‘Komm mit!’

  Paul sighed and hauled himself from the bed. Once more he was led down a corridor, this time to a door on which the officer knocked respectfully. He opened it and motioned Paul to go through with a jerk of his head.

  Inside was a small room dimly lit by a small, closed window. It contained a plain wooden table, two hard chairs and a threadbare rug. Above the table hung an unshaded light bulb, dangling from the centre of a cracked, grey stuccoed ceiling. The atmosphere was one of stuffiness, a mixture of damp plaster and the resinous smell of ageing timber. A British army officer, a colonel according to his rank badges, sat on the far side of the table, a f
older and jotting pad before him. He was a lean-looking man with iron-grey hair and the appearance of a university professor more than an army officer. His scrutiny of Paul was a keen one and missed nothing. He gestured for Paul to be seated and pushed a packet of cigarettes across the table. Paul automatically took one and the colonel leant across and lit it for him.

  ‘So, Herr Doctor?’

  The colonel fastened his gaze directly on Paul. He might have been a family doctor, Paul found himself reflecting in amusement. Distant in manner yet keenly observant of his subject.

  When Paul made no reply, the colonel said: ‘You appear to be what is called a “line runner”. Now that the front lines are more or less static we are finding that many people are crossing no-man’s land to give themselves up to the first Allied outpost they encounter. Naturally, such traffic cannot be ignored. We get all sorts. Deserters, troops wishing to surrender. Civilian refugees. Infiltrators, that is spies and saboteurs. Perhaps you would be so good as to explain the purpose of your attempt to cross into our lines?’

  The officer spoke fluent German. Paul noticed that he had hardly a trace of accent, and yet somehow he retained an essentially English quality. If the man had been dressed in a German uniform he would not have appeared to be anything other than an Englishman in costume.

  ‘I have made my position clear, Herr Oberst,’ Paul replied. ‘I have told the Canadian officer — I am of the Widerstand. I have given the password and I need to see someone in authority about a matter of gravest urgency.’

  The colonel pursed his lips and smiled. ‘Tell me about it first.’

  Paul suppressed a surge of frustration.

  He knew that the colonel was being logical. After all, spies, informers, deserters and all manner of questionable characters were obviously crossing the lines every day. Why should he be treated any differently just because he claimed Widerstand membership?’

  He tried to conceal his impatience and began to outline the situation. He was astonished when the colonel began to ask some probing questions which concerned his past life and not Project Wotan. He was asked about his connections with the Widerstand, why he had joined, his political beliefs and many other points which he thought were totally irrelevant. It was not until the colonel had apparently satisfied himself on Paul’s personal background that he asked for details about Project Wotan, silently taking notes most of the time Paul was speaking.