Paul whistled softly.
‘A General named Huebner has been ordered to set up special courts to try and execute these people. If we give you documents to show that you are members of such a “flying court” then I doubt whether people will be interested in “interfering” with you, eh?’
Major Bradley smiled grimly.
‘It would take a really bloody-minded person to start throwing their weight around with such a unit.’
The languid Captain Wickham stretched himself and spoke for the first time. ‘When do we get this show on the road, colonel?’
‘Tomorrow at dusk. Monday 26 February, at 1800 hours, to be precise. You’ll be taken to a spot in the Reichswald, somewhere near where the Canadians picked you up, doctor. Then you’ll be on your own.’
The colonel glanced at each of the four men in turn and asked, ‘Any questions?’
When no one said anything he smiled. ‘The best of luck, then.’
*
Brigadeführer Arnt Heiden was in a jovial mood as he put through the call to Victor Schoerner’s office in Münster. He had every reason to be pleased. That morning the fuel truck from Bad Zwischenahn had arrived with the final load of alcohol. That meant the entire fuelling process would be complete by Saturday afternoon and the scheduled launch of the rockets could go ahead on Wednesday, 28 February. He had already telephoned the good news to Reichsleiter Bormann in Berlin.
Now he held a Gestapo report before him as he waited to be connected with Schoerner.
‘Heiden?’ Schoerner’s wheezy voice eventually echoed down the line.
‘I’ve been reading your report,’ Heiden told him. ‘Is there any further news of this man Horder.’
‘None since he eluded my men in Münster. But we will catch up with him eventually, don’t worry.’
‘My prime concern is with the safety of this site. Could it be that this subversive group — the Widerstand — might attempt to carry out an attack or sabotage operation?’
Schoerner chuckled. ‘My dear Brigadeführer. The Widerstand are a bunch of criminal lunatics. They tried to assassinate our Führer and seize power for themselves. They are a group of intellectuals, left-wing dilettanti. Most of them have been rounded up and imprisoned or executed already. I do not think you need have any fear of them. After all, you have an SS battalion to guard your project.’
‘Nevertheless, this Horder was a member and he managed to infiltrate this site. For what purpose would he do this other than to plan some sabotage?’
‘Perhaps that was his idea. But you discovered him before he could do anything. He fled, and we have eliminated his contacts. Ulrich is no more, and as you have read in our report, the main contact, the man who called himself the General, took his own life just before he could be arrested. Horder is in hiding but I am confident that we will be able to pick him up before long.’
Heiden frowned sceptically at the confidence in Schoerner’s voice. ‘You sound very certain about that.’
‘I am. In the days before Horder vanished he was seen several times in the company of a nurse from the same hospital. My men have managed to find out who she is. By coincidence, the nurse has also vanished. She has not been seen since the day we attempted to arrest Horder. Putting a simple two and two together, it would seem that Horder fled from his apartment, contacted her and together they went into hiding somewhere.’
Heiden could scarcely keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘So all you have to do now is find that “somewhere”.’
‘We think we know that already,’ Schoerner assured him. ‘The nurse is a girl named Magda Kelter. We checked her employment record at the hospital. She was born and raised on a farm in the vicinity of Xanten. The farm is still run by her sister and her husband. My guess is that the girl and Horder have fled to Xanten and are hiding out on the farm.’
Heiden was dubious. ‘I don’t think that’s likely. After all, there would be plenty of local people who would know the girl and … ’
‘Excuse me, Herr Brigadeführer. But what better than an isolated farm? The alternative would be an attempt to hide out in a strange area, in a city where papers are constantly being demanded.’
Heiden thought the matter over. ‘You might be right,’ he conceded reluctantly.
‘I am sure of it,’ replied Schoerner. ‘So sure that I am taking Horder’s former mistress, Ilse Meek, and driving to Xanten myself. This way we shall make absolutely sure of identification. I will phone you from Gestapo headquarters in Xanten as soon as we have some news.’
There was a click as Schoerner rang off.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was mid-afternoon on Friday when the scholarly-looking Colonel Roberts examined four men in the field grey uniforms of the Waffen-SS whose cuffs bands bore the legend Das Reich in gothic capitals. Roberts inspected them with a cynical smile.
‘We have chosento infiltrate you across the lines as members of the elite Das Reich division because it reduces the chances of your being challenged. Obviously it was out of the question to send you across in civilian clothes. Even with Gestapo identification you would be repeatedly stopped and questioned, and forged papers, no matter how expertly done, can still be spotted. The more exposure they have, the greater the chances of this happening.’
‘But why Das Reich, colonel?’ asked Paul, feeling uncomfortable in the spotless uniform.
‘Members of the Waffen-SS stand a better chance of moving without challenge,’ Roberts replied smoothly. ‘The Das Reich division is one of the most elite units in this whole elite corps. It is currently in Vienna, which makes immediate identification checking difficult. You will carry papers signed by the Das Reich commander, Gruppenführer Werner Ostendorff, assigning you to Army Group H, commanded by General Johannes Blaskowitz. In case you don’t know it, we face Army Group H across the lines. You will also carry special passes signed by Blaskowitz and dear Heinrich Himmler himself showing you to be members of a special “flying court” investigating instances of desertion or failure in duty. You are part of General Huebner’s Flying Tribunal, West. With that sort of documentation you should be left well and truly to your own devices.’
Bradley was examining the passes. ‘Does Himmler know he has signed these?’ he grinned.
Roberts said, ‘I doubt whether he could swear he had not by examining the signature.’
Paul nodded to the rank badges on the uniform. ‘Why were these ranks chosen, colonel?’ he asked.
‘A matter of convenience, Doctor Horder,’ Roberts replied. ‘You will simply go in accordance with your own ranks. Major Bradley will be a Sturmbannführer; Captain Wickham, a Hauptsturmführer. You were a lieutenant in the Wehrmacht, so you will go as an Untersturmführer. Doctor Kendall is the odd man out as regards military rank. Neither does the good doctor have a fluent knowledge of German. So he’ll be just a corporal, a Rottenführer, which means he won’t have to do much talking. Any questions on that?’
‘Suits me, old boy,’ muttered the English captain, Wickham.
Paul nodded acceptance and Roberts went on: ‘Apart from Doctor Kendall, you’ll all carry sidearms. The P08 or Luger is the standard sidearm. The officers will also carry MP38 machine pistols. Kendall, you will carry an FG42. The armourer will kit you up with these weapons in a moment and you will familiarize yourselves with them before you leave. First, however, we are going to make one addition to your uniforms to complete the authenticity of the picture.’
He turned and took a cardboard box from the table and opened it. Inside were several decorations.
‘As members of Das Reich you will stand out like sore thumbs if you are not wearing any medals or badges for gallantry,’ Roberts said.
Stuart Bradley, as the senior officer, was given the Ritterkreuz, or Knight’s Cross, to wear at his throat. Roberts pointed out that most officers still deferred to a Knight’s Cross holder, especially one with the oak leaf cluster. The Iron Cross (first class) was pinned to his left breast pocket while the ribbon
of the second class was hitched through his tunic buttonhole. He was also given the Close Combat Clasp and Wound Badge to wear. Wickham’s uniform was decorated with the Iron Cross, first and second classes, and a Panzervernichtungsgrezeichen on the right sleeve, awarded for the destruction of an enemy tank single-handed. Paul was also given a first and second class Iron Cross to wear, while Kendall wore a second class Iron Cross ribbon and some badges for various acts of gallantry. They looked an exceptional group, which was precisely the effect Roberts wanted to produce. The more they were held in awe by other German military, the less likely that they would be questioned.
After they had familiarized themselves with the weapons and run through their cover story several times, with Roberts taking the role of a hostile interrogator and barking at them in German whose fluency amazed Paul, they were escorted into a covered lorry and commenced their journey to the Reichswald. It was well after dark when the lorry stopped and Roberts invited them to dismount. They were in the cobbled courtyard of a deserted farmhouse — deserted, that is, apart from a German half-track with SS military markings on it. A number of khaki-clad soldiers were tinkering with its engine and seemed to feign indifference to the band of high-ranking SS officers who suddenly appeared among them.
Roberts gathered the four men around him and glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I guess the sooner you start out the better, eh?’ he smiled briefly. ‘No need to say much. You know the plan. Get to Project Wotan and destroy those bombs and that means … that means that Kendall has to get through to the site at all costs. Without Kendall we haven’t the ghost of a chance. And without the destruction of those bombs it will be goodnight, Europe — permanently.’
They did not reply.
Roberts took a step back and saluted, a little theatrically, Paul thought. Wickham clambered up into the driver’s seat of the half-track with Kendall alongside him. Paul climbed into the back with Bradley.
A Royal Corps of Engineers corporal grinned at Wickham. ‘You know how to drive one of these, mister?’ he enquired cheerfully.
‘Dear boy,’ Wickham’s heavy Oxford accent seemed incongruous, ‘just show me the right buttons to push.’
The corporal quickly pointed out the features of the vehicle.
‘Thanks, dear boy!’ Wickham said with a wave of his hand. He started up and then threw a glance across his shoulder. ‘Hang on, gentlemen! I forgot to tell you that last time I was in old Blighty I had my licence endorsed for dangerous driving.’
With a grinding of gears and a clutch technique which made the vehicle bounce dangerously, Wickham sent the German military half-track lurching across the farmyard cobbles and out onto the dirt track which led into the darkness of the Reichswald.
‘Let’s hope the colonel has warned any Allied units in this area,’ Paul mumbled, feeling rather vulnerable.
Bradley grinned beside him. ‘At the moment, I’m more concerned with your own troops, Doctor. Any self-respecting German looking at Wickham’s driving will realize that no German can drive as badly as that!’
‘Steady on!’ grunted Wickham.
They drove on, mostly in silence, along the small wooded roadway which plunged through the heart of the Reichswald.
It was just after first light when they came to a clearing and suddenly heard the roar of a very powerful engine. Seconds later, scarcely twenty yards away, the sleek grey shape of a Tiger Tank came bursting through the underbrush, slewing round in the road ahead of them. Its machine gun menaced them.
Wickham threw all his weight on the brake. For a moment or two the vehicles stood within yards of each other, like two dogs sizing each other up before a fight. Then a hatch clanged open and a dishevelled-looking man in mud-stained battledress clambered out of the tank. He examined the markings on the half-track with a frown, then strode up to it and threw up his hand in salute.
‘Excuse me, Herr Sturmbannführer,’ he said to Bradley, ‘but what are you doing here? The Tommies are less than a mile down the road. We expect an attack before long.’
Bradley stared down at him with a scowl. ‘Dumpkopf! Do you think we don’t know? We nearly ran into their forward patrols because we were misdirected by some Wehrmacht idiots!’ He had taken in the fact that the officer was a Wehrmacht man.
The man’s face whitened and his lips compressed, but he noticed the rank badges and decorations which Bradley sported and kept silent.
‘Point us toward the road to Weeze,’ Bradley snapped.
The officer hesitated and then indicated the roadway ahead with his hand. ‘About three kilometres in that direction, Herr Sturmbannführer.’
‘Good!’ Bradley said. ‘And get your bloody tin can out of my way.’
The Wehrmacht officer ran back and clambered into his tank. It promptly backed off the road.
Wickham started his engine and the half-track rattled past the tank.
Paul smiled. ‘Your German is excellent, Major.’
Bradley turned to him with an angry frown. ‘We aren’t playing games, Horder. You’ll address me as Herr Sturmbannführer. No one gets out of character from now on, right?’
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer,’ snapped Paul.
Wickham was speeding along now. Here and there they could see where German field guns were dug in behind buildings or placed under camouflage. Occasionally they spotted a foot patrol resting under hedgerows or trees. Tired, staring eyes gazed emotionlessly at them as they sped by, resplendent in their uniforms. No one made any attempt to halt them until they came to the small town of Weeze.
Weeze straddled the river Niers a few kilometres south of Goch. It lay mainly on the west bank and was the next objective of the Canadian advance. It had already been reduced to a nightmare landscape of rubble and the jagged ruins of buildings. Indeed, so far as they could see, not one building remained undamaged. What made Weeze look particularly grotesque was the line of lamp posts which still stood: from each lamp post hung a body, sometimes two from the same post. As Wickham guided the half-track through the rubble-strewn street, Paul stared at them. Many of the bodies were of young boys or old men. Several were in uniform. Each body had a handwritten card pinned to it: ‘I deserted!’ or ‘I was a defeatist!’ or even ‘I did not believe in ultimate victory!’
The bodies swung desolately in the cold morning breeze on their creaking ropes.
Weeze was deserted of civilians, but uniformed troops were everywhere. ‘SS, not Wehrmacht,’ muttered Wickham as the Field Police directed the lines of tanks and other vehicles toward the pontoon bridge which now spanned the river in place of the one which had been reduced to rubble by Allied bombing.
At the bridge they were halted by the Field Police and this time their papers were demanded and scrutinized. The warrant officer in charge waved them forward toward the eastern bank of the river.
They were halfway across when the screaming sound of an aero-engine caused Bradley to cry out in alarm. ‘Everybody out!’
As one man they tumbled from the half-track and burrowed under it as far as they could.
From out of the light morning mists a solitary low-flying Spitfire came roaring along the river. Machine guns were clattering and there was a curious woof-woof! sound as cannon shells slammed into the mud of the embankment on either side. A strange metallic tattoo vibrated through the bridge structure and then a shadow raced across it. The aircraft was soaring upward now in a climbing turn.
‘That’s all we need!’ grunted Wickham. ‘To get polished off by some RAF glamour boy.’
‘Let’s get across now!’ Bradley yelled.
It was he who scrambled behind the wheel of the half-track and was already moving it forward when the others clambered in. The half-track tore across the bridge, scattering foot soldiers on it to both sides. The scream of the aircraft came again, but by then they were over and sheltering among the buildings on the far side. The Spitfire made three more passes in its attempt to destroy the bridge before climbing westward, followed by the jeers and catcal
ls of the Germans around them.
The four men resumed their former seats in the vehicle and moved onward.
There was less traffic now, and they seemed to be moving parallel to the German entrenchments which ran west to east at this point, awaiting the onslaught of the British and Canadians from the north. At intervals they came to crowded intersections, where troops and supply convoys were crossing and things seemed to be chaotic. So chaotic that no one spared the half-track a second glance. As they neared Udem, they came across a long column of men who looked more like scarecrows. Dressed in a ragtag assortment of uniforms, they were digging tank traps under the supervision of an SS escort.
‘Probably Russian POWs,’ Bradley muttered.
In the far distance, to the north, they heard the occasional rumble, as if of thunder. But they knew better than that. The Allied artillery was making a slow, remorseless progress southwards.
They passed through Udem and then on to Rees, crossing the Rhine without any difficulty.
‘Like a Sunday school outing,’ muttered Wickham, as soldiers at yet another roadblock simply looked at their markings and uniforms and waved their vehicle straight through.
Once beyond the Rhine their rate of progress was even more rapid.
‘At this rate,’ Paul said, after consulting a map, ‘we’ll be in the Grunewald about dusk and we’ll be at Project Wotan before midnight.’
‘Bloody good show!’ grunted Wickham.
Bradley merely nodded. ‘Let’s hope the rest of the mission is so easily accomplished,’ he said. He glanced at Kendall. ‘Just how do you reckon to deal with these bombs, Doc?’
Kendall shrugged. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea … not until I see how they are constructed.’
‘Let’s hope the Nazis haven’t got any surprises in store for you.’
The Doomsday Decree Page 19
