A Thousand Suns
Page 16
‘That’s good, Pieter.’
The tyres swiftly cleared the ground, and the plane pulled up quickly to an altitude of several hundred feet in only a few seconds. Pieter retracted the landing gear and, a minute later, at an altitude of 700 feet and an IAS of 150 mph he eased the throttle back to 2300 rpm by adjusting the propeller pitch controls.
‘Excellent. You’re a natural, Pieter,’ Max said generously. ‘Much better than my first attempt.’
Pieter sighed with relief. ‘I think I’d rather fly an H-111 than this huge bastard. She feels bloody heavy, like a Tiger tank wearing butterfly wings.’
Chapter 22
Koch
11 a.m. 18 April 1945, the port of Bergen, Norway
He watched the submarine as it gently came to rest, parallel to the concrete side of the pen and about thirty feet out. On her narrow foredeck half a dozen men waited for a rope to be tossed over to them, and aft beyond the conning tower another six men waited. Their eyes were screwed up against the brightness of the day, and the crisp morning air had them rubbing their hands and stamping their feet to keep warm.
Koch watched as the ropes were tossed across and the men grabbed hold of them and began pulling. The U-boat gently began to drift towards the concrete wall of the pen.
The crew looked unpleasantly like so many tramps, many of them sporting scruffy beards, all of them wearing uniforms that were smeared with oil and sweat stains. Koch wrinkled his nose, even from twenty feet away the faint stench of their body odour reached him; it reminded him of a stale meat pie.
‘Strange little mole-men, aren’t they, sir?’ said Feldwebel Büller, one of Captain Koch’s men.
Koch nodded silently; he was reminded of the Morlocks in H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine - pallid man-like creatures that lived below ground amidst a cavernous world of arcane Victorian technology. Actually the comparison wasn’t a bad one. The Morlocks always stayed below ground, but every now and again they would surface to kill and cannibalise one of the beautiful, peaceful surface-dwellers. In the early years of the Atlantic war, these men had most definitely been the Morlocks, striking ships with impunity, dragging them down to the ocean floor. But now? Now they were being hunted like rabbits.
‘Go easy, Büller, we’ve got to spend a week or two with these men. Let’s remember to be polite,’ said Koch.
Koch curled his lip in disgust, as the meat pie smell grew stronger. He’d endured a lot of things for his country, many hardships, discomforts and hazards. He certainly wasn’t relishing the prospect of being jammed into this U-boat with fifty of these submariners and thirty more of his own men. It was going to be an extremely unhygienic and claustrophobic few days. The misery that lay ahead of them could be best conceived by considering one simple logistical fact. Eighty men . . . one toilet.
‘Yes, sir, polite, sir.’
Koch found himself wondering if this was it . . . The Mission.
The Mission . . . the one that would make a difference, the one he’d been waiting for since signing up three years ago. He had been on perhaps a dozen important undertakings, all of them pretty dangerous. The worst had been in Greece, fighting in the hills and taking a heavily defended base camp of General Mavros’ communist guerrillas. But that, and the others, were merely skirmishes in a campaign, one of many small-scale engagements that would have no real impact on events beyond it. This one . . . this felt different.
The war was at an end, and yet he had received these orders out of the blue.
Nobody now was being sent out to attack anything. Every command decision was about retreat and entrenchment. It had been that way for months, possibly that way for over a year. Koch and his men had, of course, been out on patrols since being pulled back into Norway, and, on several occasions, there had been a few minor brushes with Norwegian partisans. But essentially since returning to Norway, they had all been watching the war slip away from the comfort of their barracks.
And now these orders.
It had to be the one. The one he’d been waiting for.
He had only been informed that he and a platoon of handpicked men would be boarding a U-boat; that he was to present himself to the vessel’s commander, and then both he and the captain would be allowed to open their sealed orders. Even then, he had been told, the U-boat captain would not be allowed to know the objective, only the location he had been ordered to take these men to.
Such secrecy.
Koch smiled proudly. Perhaps this would be another Gran Sasso? He wondered if this wasn’t going to be the rescue of an important member of the Reich high command from Allied hands. He remembered reading about Skorzeny’s rescue of Mussolini from the Campo Imperatore hotel, his daring arrival by glider on the slope in front of the building, and how, with a handful of paratroops, he quickly overpowered the Duce’s guards and hustled him off the mountain in a Storch without a single shot being fired.
Koch found his young face creasing into a smile. He and his company had waited out the war for something like this. It was about time the Gebirgsjäger, the Alpine troops, had an opportunity to show what they could do, that they were an elite regiment, that they were every bit as good as the Fallschirmjäger.
The thirty men he’d selected from his company were as eager as he was to get on and do this thing, whatever it was, but he realised they were going to have one hell of a hard time coping with being boxed up inside this boat. These were lads who had spent their childhood in wide-open, natural environments, sleepy villages nestled on the side of glorious snow-capped mountains. Most of them were drawn from around Tyrol in Austria, some from Finland, even a couple of Norwegians. Two weeks in a submerged iron coffin was going to be tough on them.
The U-boat bumped against the pen wall with a dull clang and the ratings on the sub’s decks secured the lines. One of the pen workers wheeled up a gantry and pushed it out so that it rested on the deck.
Out of the foredeck hatch climbed the submarine’s captain. Koch watched him as he chatted to his men and exchanged a joke, clearly relieved to be stepping out of the cramped confines of the vessel. The men exchanged banter for a few moments before he turned away to step briskly up the gantry and onto terra firma. Koch let the man have a minute to adjust to the light, the air, the solid ground, the space, before approaching him.
‘Captain Lündstrom?’
Lündstrom turned round to face him. ‘Yes, who wants to know?’
‘Captain Koch, 3rd Company, Gebirgsjäger regiment 141. I have some orders here for you.’
Lündstrom studied the young man. He wore the Eidelweiss badge on his cap, the elite Alpine troops, the Gebirgsjäger, a respected infantry regiment. The young man had a tanned face chiselled out of muscle and bone, and a sprinkling of freckles that crossed the bridge of his nose from one cheek to another.
So young for the rank of captain.
That was something Lündstrom had noticed becoming more and more commonplace these last two years, battlefield promotions. Officers were getting younger and younger. Soon it would just be boys leading boys into the meat grinder.
The young officer was patiently holding out a sealed envelope.
Lündstrom reached out for it and noticed Koch was standing awkwardly to attention.
‘At ease, we’re both captains,’ said Lündstrom. Koch softened his stance and looked relieved.
‘Recent promotion I’m guessing, Hauptmann?’
Koch nodded. ‘Three weeks, sir.’
‘You’ll get used to not saluting other captains soon enough.’ He looked down at the envelope in his hand; it bore the stamp of the Reich Chancellor’s office.
‘This has come directly from Berlin to me?’
‘Via Kriegsmarine HQ, Bergen, yes.’ Koch produced a similar envelope. ‘I have one also. These orders came with the instruction that we’re to open them together.’
Lündstrom closed his eyes and breathed deeply. With a heavy heart he realised the envelopes could only mean one thing . . . another trip out.
‘Well, then . . . I suppose you and I had better find somewhere quiet to open these and see what lunacy has been lined up for us.’
Chapter 23
Schröder’s Men
6 a.m., 25 April 1945, an airfield south of Stuttgart
By the gathering light of dawn Major Rall watched the B-17 as it banked around and made its final approach towards the runway, just a silhouette against the pale grey skyline. The bomber’s immense wings wobbled slightly as her wheels came down. The plane steadied as she dropped the last few dozen feet and the tyres made a heavy first contact with the ground. She bounced high before making contact again. This time, the wheels stayed on the ground and gradually the weight of the bomber settled onto them and the plane was down.
‘Kleinmann won’t win any awards for that landing, sir,’ said Leutnant Höstner.
Rall was irritated by his jibe. ‘He won’t have to land her, just flying her will do.’
The B-17 rumbled down the concrete strip, wheels passing smoothly over craters that had recently been filled in. Rall smiled smugly at a conceit of theirs. The strip had been repaired under the cover of dark, but large crescents of dark grey had been painted on the ground where the craters had been to fool the reconnaissance planes that flew over periodically.
The plane rumbled past Rall and Höstner and finally came to a stop at the end of the runway. It turned in a slow arc and began to taxi towards the hangar.
‘Good lad . . . let’s get her inside quickly.’ Rall scanned the sky around the airfield. There were no planes to be seen.
The bomber taxied towards the hangar, and Max nodded out of the cockpit window at the Major as they trundled by.
‘Do you think they’ll be ready in time, sir?’
‘I think they already are,’ Rall answered, dismissing the SS officer’s question impatiently.
Max steered the bomber carefully towards the open door of the hangar, and a member of the ground crew guided them into the dimly lit interior. He brought the plane to a halt.
Pieter craned his neck to look out his side window. ‘I see we have three more 109s in the family.’
Max shut off the engines and pulled himself up from his seat to look out. Lined up nose to tail and packed tightly within the limited floor space of the hangar were a number of Messerschmitt Me-109 fighter planes. Over the last few days several of them had flown in under the cover of darkness and two more had been brought in by trucks and assembled inside the hangar.
‘That gives us a grand total of seven escort planes so far, not exactly an intimidating number,’ he said to Pieter.
‘Better than four,’ Pieter replied.
‘Well, yes, I can’t fault your logic there, my friend.’
They both climbed down the ladder into the bombardier’s compartment and out through the belly hatch. Hans and Stefan followed them out.
‘I can’t believe how much room there is inside her,’ said Stefan.
‘Don’t forget that they pack ten American airmen inside a plane that size, whereas there’s only four of us,’ said Max.
Major Rall approached Max and his crew.
‘Good landing, Max.’
‘Uh . . . not really, sir. I think it’s going to take a few more attempts before I can put her down, no bounce.’
‘How are you finding her?’
‘She’s a lot less manoeuvrable than I’m used to.’
‘That’s understandable, there’s a lot more there to fly than a Heinkel or a Junkers.’
Max nodded. ‘I notice we have three more 109s.’
Rall turned round to admire the tightly packed cluster of planes. ‘Yes. They arrived only half an hour ago, flown in by the pilot who is going to lead the escort squadron, and two wingmen. Perhaps now would be a good time to affect some introductions?’
Rall turned to Höstner. ‘Go and get our new arrivals, I want Max and his boys to meet them.’ Höstner turned and headed towards the cluster of fighter planes in the corner of the hangar.
‘The flight was unchallenged?’
Max nodded. ‘We did a fifty-mile circular trip, attracted a little flak from our boys north of here, but there were no other unwanted encounters.’
‘Good. For the foreseeable future, I think the Allies are going to be too focused on Berlin to bother us too much down here.’ He smiled reassuringly.
At the sound of approaching footsteps Rall turned around to greet the fighter pilots.
The three pilots stood to attention and saluted Rall. They were still wearing their flying jackets. Rall returned the salute and then reached out a hand towards one of them.
‘Hauptman Schröder, your reputation precedes you. It’s an honour.’ Rall pumped the pilot’s hand enthusiastically. His scarred face turned crimson either from the exertion or the exhilaration.
Pieter jabbed an elbow into Max’s ribs and whispered hoarsely, ‘Why’s the Major sucking this guy’s dick so hard? He’s just a captain, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I think he’s a fighter ace. The name Schröder sounds familiar.’
Rall turned to Max and Pieter. ‘Allow me to introduce Hauptman Klaus Schröder, one of the Luftwaffe’s golden boys. He’s our highest-scoring ace. Well, I should say the highest-scoring pilot we have left.’
‘Highest-scoring ace still alive and yet to be captured, to be fair,’ Schröder added.
Rall nodded. ‘That’s true. He is also a distant relative of Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, I believe?’
Schröder smiled faintly. ‘Yes, Major.’
Max caught a glimpse of his co-pilot’s face hardening. ‘Behave yourself, Pieter,’ he whispered.
Pieter nodded reluctantly.
Rall finished with Schröder’s hand and gestured towards Max and his men. ‘This is Oberleutnant Max Kleinmann and his crew. These men will be flying the American bomber.’
Max prepared to salute the superior officer, but Schröder swiftly extended a hand. ‘Oh, you don’t want to be worrying about the rank.’ Max uncertainly reached for his hand. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Max, and I’m sure it will be a pleasure and an honour flying with you.’
Max was taken aback slightly at his enthusiastic greeting. The pilot seemed like the type of over-cheerful, confident, aristocratic fop that seemed to start in the Luftwaffe at an ill-deservedly high rank. Usually fools like that died swiftly. But this one hadn’t. With a sky so dominated by Allied fighters, that made him a good pilot. He had the refined, almost feminine, Aryan features that one would expect from his aristocratic bloodline. His brow and lashes were blond, almost white, like an albino, and framed by a fringe that flopped down like a theatre curtain over one of his eyes.
‘Hauptman,’ Max responded formally, reluctant, and too weary, to match Schröder’s jovial tone.
‘So, I’ve yet to be told by the Major here exactly what fun and games lies ahead for us, but I understand it involves this brute of a plane?’
Max nodded. ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t comment on the mission until you’ve been properly briefed by Major Rall.’
Rall stepped in. ‘Max is correct, Hauptman Schröder. I would prefer to brief you and your men first before we discuss it openly out here.’
Schröder looked at Rall. ‘Of course, my apologies for getting ahead of things there, Major.’ He turned and smiled conspiratorially at Max. ‘But I’m sure whatever it is the Major has up his sleeve will be an adventure, eh?’
Max smiled, unwilling to pass comment on the mission.
The two men finished shaking hands and Schröder offered his hand enthusiastically to Pieter.
Pieter stared silently at the extended hand a moment before reluctantly offering his. ‘
Hauptman,’ he said drily. Schröder barely registered the coolness of the gesture before Major Rall decided to step in.
‘Hauptman Schröder, and your men, come with me and I will introduce you to the other pilots who arrived last night . . . and then perhaps I think it is time for you and your new squadron to be briefed.’
Schröder and his two wingmen turned smartly and followed Rall out of the hangar into the pale light of morning.
‘What the hell was that all about, Pieter?’ asked Max.
‘I just don’t like his type. Bloody stuck-up arseholes, the lot of them.’
‘Maybe, but he’s a bloody superior officer first.’
Max could sympathise a little with him. The Luftwaffe had an appalling reputation for snobbery, preferring to pick its fighter pilots from the ranks of the aristocracy. Following the example Göring set, the Luftwaffe saw itself as the latter-day equivalent of an exclusive, members-only cavalry regiment. Pieter had joined the Luftwaffe and passed examinations that would mark him out as pilot material, but he was never going to find himself flying a fighter, not unless they ran completely out of men like Schröder.
‘Take it easy, Pieter, we’re all on the same side.’
Chapter 24
Lucian
26 April 1945, an airfield south of Stuttgart
Major Rall had billeted Max and his men in one of the vacated radio rooms. The room had once housed a nerve centre of intelligence-gathering equipment and personnel. Now it was little more than a grey painted concrete box. Several tables remained, and scuff marks and scratches on their surface hinted at the machinery that had once been there.
Rall had provided some blankets and a gas heater, which they gratefully fired up in the evenings when the cold seeped through the blankets on the hard concrete floor. The men had managed to make themselves at home in the room, spreading out their blankets around the heater on the floor. On the ground beside the heater there was a growing pile of empty food tins. The Major had certainly delivered on his promise to find adequate supplies for them. They hadn’t eaten this well in months. Max decided that it was probably time they were gathered up and chucked into one of the other empty rooms. He’d get one of his boys to do it in the morning.