As he was finishing the drink the telephone on his desk purred. The man at the other end was so senior that the lieutenant clicked his heels and stood rigidly to attention when answering it. His end of the conversation was confined to saying “Yes” half a dozen times, and finally “At once”. And to Dr. Brancos, later that evening, he said, “The Fuehrer himself has made the decision. Your invention will go to the Eastern Front. You yourself are seconded to Army Group North with the temporary rank of major. You will be flown to Rzhev on the Volga tomorrow.”
Dr. Brancos said, “Impossible. I shall have to spend tomorrow doing some shopping.” He seemed unexcited by this dramatic turn of events.
“Shopping?”
“If I’m to be a major I shall need a uniform surely?”
“All that will be provided at Rzhev.”
All that, and a great deal more, was provided in the months that followed. Army Group North had been commanded, during the hard fighting of the previous autumn and the stalemate of that spring, by General Helmuth Busche, whose star was now so firmly in the ascendant that he was spoken of as a possible supreme commander of the Eastern Front. He was a tall, fair-haired, red-faced Saxon, nearly six and a half feet in height, and Dr. Brancos observed him from afar and learned that he was a great man; recognised as a good soldier by the hardest school of professional military opinion in the world, but managing somehow to be liked as well as admired.
The doctor himself was placed under the command of Colonel Franz Mulbach, head of the Army Communications section, and was allotted as his workshop and quarters a hut in the forest of huts which had sprung up suddenly in and around the ruins of Rzhev.
This hut, in the months that followed, became the centre of much activity, involving technicians from both the Artillery and the Signals sections of the Army. From time to time Dr. Brancos would pay visits to forward observation posts to check the accuracy of his fuses, which were now going into mass production.
“If they are to achieve maximum effect,” he said, “we must be careful not to demonstrate them too soon. When we fire them we will get them to explode at irregular heights so that they will appear to observers on the Russian side no different from the old, inefficient powder fuses. They will then take no special precautions.”
Colonel Mulbach, a jovial barrel of a man, agreed with this. He had walked over, as he sometimes did, late at night, to sit beside the stove in Dr. Brancos’ hut, smoke a cigar and talk about the war.
“As you will have seen,” he said, “from your visits to the front – you must not, incidentally, expose yourself unnecessarily; to lose you now would be a fatal blow to the Reich – we are up against a hard line of interlocked defensive positions. The Russians have had all the winter to deepen and strengthen their trenches. When our offensive starts, the neutralisation of these trenches will be the most important feature.”
“Has a date been fixed?”
“It will depend a little on the weather. This cursed Russian winter is slow to relax its grip, but the last week of April or the first week of May is spoken of, and it is then that we may expect a most important visitor.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean our Fuehrer himself. He will come in person to confer with our commanders, to lay down the general lines of strategy and to wish us good fortune. I understand that he has expressed a personal interest in the work that you are doing here. It may even be possible to introduce you to him.”
As Dr. Brancos moved his head, the red light from the stove shone on his glasses. He said, “It would be an indescribable honour.”
It was a week after this conversation, in the early evening, that Colonel Mulbach arrived to find Dr. Brancos at work on his blueprints. The colonel had brought his car and was in full uniform. He said, “I am to take you to see General Busche. He wishes to speak to you.”
“About what?” said Dr. Brancos. He seemed irritated by the interruption of his work.
“That we shall see,” said the colonel.
During the drive into the centre of Rzhev, he was more silent than usual. They dismounted at the side door of the big square seminary which formed the personal headquarters of the general, walked along an endless and echoing corridor without meeting a soul, climbed flights of stairs and traversed further passageways, their footsteps deadened now by strips of matting laid on the floor. At the end of this corridor they came to double doors which opened on to an ante-room.
Here there were two desks set at angles and positioned to guard an inner door. Cards on the desks identified the men behind them as Major Nachtigal and Captain Heimroth. The captain rose to his feet, shook hands with Colonel Mulbach, cast a critical look at Dr. Brancos’ creased and ill-fitting uniform, went over to the inner door, knocked and went inside.
There was a murmur of conversation, the door reopened and the captain reappeared and beckoned the visitors in. It was a comfortable room. A fire of logs was blazing in the open stove and in front of it, tall, erect and strikingly impressive in the undress uniform of the Prussian Guards Regiment, stood General Helmuth Busche.
The General waited until the door had clicked shut and then turned to Colonel Mulbach and said in German, “So! This is the little English spy who has been sent to help us kill the Fuehrer.” And then, in laboured but understandable English, “How do you do, Mr. Bairentz?”
Back in the Brancos hut, with the door safely bolted, Colonel Mulbach said, “I hope you will forgive my reticence of the last few months. It was necessary to make certain checks first.”
“I was beginning to wonder,” said Mr. Behrens, “if I was on a wild-goose chase. All we knew in London was that a plot was being hatched by a group of officers on the Eastern Front to kill Hitler and end the war by negotiation, and that they needed technical assistance. We thought that if I played my cards right I should be sent here and that the plotters would make contact with me. That’s really all I knew.”
“I must confess,” said the colonel, “that I am surprised you have penetrated as far as you have.”
“Part of it was calculation, part luck. The calculation consisted in giving away the new VT fuse. We reckoned that your scientists would arrive at it sooner or later. What we were presenting them with was eighteen months of our own research.”
“A tempting bait. And the luck?”
“We happened to have a contact in your RSHA with exactly the necessary knowledge to check my credentials. In fact, my story was carefully tailored to fit in with his. So it was pretty certain that a confrontation between us would eventually be arranged.”
“Even so,” said the colonel, “Lady Fortune must have smiled on you. You can have little idea of the thoroughness of our security machine. Everyone – certainly every official in the Reich from the village postmaster to Commanding General – has a dossier in that giant card-index of the section known as Amt IV (a) 6(a) –harmless-sounding initials for an unparalleled instrument of tyranny!
“The information typed on those cards has been collected or extorted by the Gestapo, and when you consider that normal interrogation may involve a thin steel spike being driven down the centre of your finger until it reaches the knuckle bone, you will appreciate that very few men or women are likely to withhold information.”
“No,” said Mr. Behrens. “I do see that.”
“You will appreciate also the risks which are run by those who dream of conspiring against the head of such a state. Even when those dreams are no more than thoughts whispered to oneself. General Busche is a patriot. His record is clean. When Germany has lost the war, as she will in a year or two, he could look forward to the certainty of retirement – Army Group Commanders are very rarely casualties, even on the OstFront – and an honourable old age on his estates in Prussia. Instead, so as to have the chance of shortening the war by two years with a negotiated peace, he is prepared to face ignominy and death. On the last occasion that a conspirator was detected he was hanged, yes, but not on a rope. He was hanged by a steel butcher’
s hook. It took him three hours to die. Every minute of those hours was recorded so that the Fuehrer might entertain himself that evening. A first feature film, you might say.”
“Loathsome,” said Mr. Behrens.
The colonel seemed not to hear him. He said, almost to himself, “We are coming to Gotterdammerung. The Twilight of the Gods. The time when the men of power at last realise that they too must perish, and determine to go out in a holocaust of blood and cruelty and death. When an Emperor of the Chaldeans died, five hundred slaves were killed to keep him company. Many more than five hundred Germans will perish if the Russians’ hammer from the east strikes home on the anvil of the American and British forces in the west.”
“Curiously enough,” said Mr. Behrens dryly, “we should ourselves have no actual objection to ending the war two years early. Had we ended our previous war in 1916, England would be a different country today.”
“You are right,” said the colonel. His big face, which had gone red, now cracked into a smile. “As always, the British are practical. No more heroics. Down to details. When the Fuehrer arrives, he will come in a Junkers 52 of his own flight. When he returns to his headquarters at Rastenburg, it is normal for any high priority despatches to go with him in a special satchel. This bag will contain, in a compartment, enough explosive to destroy the plane and a time fuse which must be set for one hour and must be completely reliable. Do you think you can make it for us?”
“That is what I am here for,” said Mr. Behrens.
“Good. Apart from the General there are only three men fully in the conspiracy. Two of them you met this evening, Major Nachtigal and Captain Heimroth. They are reliable. They are related to the General by blood. The third is Luftwaffe Major Lecke. He was absent today checking the probable flight schedules. He, too, is trustworthy. Unfortunately none of these three men can actually place the message satchel on the Fuehrer’s plane. It would not normally be part of their duties, and to make a single abnormal move would invite immediate attention from eyes that miss nothing. However, at least we have Major Mendel.”
“And who is Major Mendel?”
“He is an SS major, my subordinate in the Signals, and has, for some months, been in treasonable communication, by wireless, with the Russians.”
“He has what?”
“It is not uncommon. Nor is it too difficult. When the SS capture Russian agents, they torture them to extract their codes and frequencies and then use them for themselves. Their excuse, of course, is that they are using these means to convey false information to the enemy. Once contact has been established, liaison can safely follow. A wireless message leaves no incriminating copy behind it.”
“And what does Major Mendel hope to gain by his treason?”
“He is not doing it for himself but on behalf of SS General Pohl who commands all SS troops in this area. General Pohl likes to have his bread buttered on both sides. If we win, he will protect himself by having Major Mendel murdered. Probably me too, since I know of it. On the other hand, if we lose and are surrounded and ordered to fight to the last – an order our Fuehrer is very fond of giving – then he can use this established line of communication to take himself over to the Russians as a welcome guest.”
“But—” said Mr. Behrens.
“You wonder how this assists us? That, too, is simple. Once Major Mendel knows that there is a chance of Hitler being killed, the SS being reduced to impotence and the regular army gaining control, he will be faced with the possibility, in this event, of my reporting him to General Busche, who would have him shot. Therefore, to save his hide he will do what I tell him. As an SS Signals Major he is exactly the person to carry a message satchel to the airfield and place it on the Fuehrer’s plane.”
“You call it Gotterdammerung,” said Mr. Behrens crossly. “For my taste it’s not grand opera at all. It’s low and vicious farce. Does no-one in this army play straight by anybody else? Does no-one trust anyone?”
Colonel Mulbach said, with a smile, “I trust you. Surely that is enough.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Behrens. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper. It’s only because I’m so damned scared.”
The work itself was not hard to organise. Mr. Behrens was able to do most of it openly in his workshop. There were technical difficulties.
“Remember,” Colonel Mulbach had said, “what you devise must be silent, and it must not be too heavy. The satchel will be carried to the plane by Major Mendel, but it will have to be handed over there to one of the crew, and he must not have his suspicions aroused.”
Mr. Behrens abandoned any idea of using a clockwork fuse. Instead he arranged two wires of identical thickness running through glass tubes into which acid was injected when the fuse was set. When the wire was finally eaten through, it released a plunger, which detonated the main charge of polar ammonite. If one failed for any reason, the other would do the job.
The whole apparatus had then to be carefully fitted into the bottom of a satchel, which was smuggled in to him by the colonel, and covered by a close-fitting sheet of coloured wood. The activating switch was underneath the handle of the bag.
During all this time, Mr. Behrens, mindful of the eyes that missed nothing, continued his normal routine of visits to the front line. It was on his return from one of these that he noticed that something odd was happening. Colonel Mulbach’s driver, Lorenz, said, “It is true. The soldiers are going out and the SS are coming in.” Mulbach confirmed this late that evening.
He said, “All three of the regular battalions which have been doing camp and headquarters duties are being sent up into the line. They are being replaced by Waffen SS. It is represented as a normal redeployment for the coming offensive.”
The two men looked at each other.
“It could be no more than that,” said Mr. Behrens.
“Or it could be the normal precautions which are always taken when Hitler visits his loyal troops,” said the colonel, “but if so, it is in this case being carried to an unprecedented extreme. By an order posted this morning, command of the whole headquarters area, including both airfields, has been transferred to SS General Pohl.”
“You mean that Busche has been superseded?”
“Not superseded. He remains in command of the army group, but during the period of the Fuehrer’s visit, the troops in this area are not his troops and are not under his command.”
“When is Hitler arriving?”
“According to present information he lands at Airfield South on Sunday afternoon.”
In fact, Hitler landed at Airfield North at midday on Monday. At six o’clock that evening a Berlin acquaintance reappeared. It was SS Obersturmfuehrer Mailler. He shook hands with Mr. Behrens and said, “I have orders to bring you to headquarters. A historic privilege awaits you.”
In an ante-room in the headquarters building, Mr. Behrens was subjected to a polite but extremely thorough and professional search. A small pair of folding nail-scissors was removed from him, with apologies, and he was conducted to a further room. This was crowded with high-ranking officers of the Army and Air Force, most of whom he had never seen before. They were standing about in groups talking softly.
“You must be nervous,” said Mailler.
“I’ll try not to be,” said Mr. Behrens.
Thirty minutes later a stout major opened the far door and beckoned to Mailler, who laid one hand on Mr. Behrens’ arm and propelled him forward.
A man of middle height and thick build, wearing a grey uniform jacket and black riding breeches, was standing behind a table looking down at the maps on it. There were other men in the room too, but Mr. Behrens had eyes only for one. The flat-tipped nose and porcine nostrils with the spout of black hair below them; the grey face and pouches of grey skin below the eyes; the eyes black and very small, tiny windows into the furnace inside.
The revulsion was so strong in him that Mr. Behrens felt his mouth dry up. Hitler lifted his lips in a brief smile.
“He
is speechless. No harm in that. In the Reich, deeds come before words.”
He half turned, and one of the staff officers handed him an open box. Hitler took out the small gun-metal cross, leaned forward across the table and pinned it to Mr. Behrens’ coat.
Mr. Behrens had the presence of mind to throw up his arm in a Nazi salute. The next moment he was outside in the ante-room and Mailler was shaking him by the hand.
“A remarkable privilege,” he said, “that he should pin it on you with his own hand.” The medal was slightly askew. “You must never move it.”
“It shall stay just where it is,” said Mr. Behrens fervently, “until I finally take this uniform off.”
Later he was able to examine his award more closely. It was the Dresdner Kreuz with crossed palm leaves. The inscription underneath said “For Arduous and Faithful Service in the Cause of Right and Progress.”
The convoy drove slowly out towards Airfield North. The Fuehrer’s car, flying his personal standard, lay second in line behind the leading vehicle, which was crammed with guards, and a protective screen of motor cyclists. Third in line came SS General Pohl; behind him General Busche, with his personal staff officers, Major Nachtigal and Captain Heimroth; then a second car load of SS, and a sixth car carrying Colonel Mulbach, Major Mendel and Mr. Behrens. A seventh car, full of guards, brought up the rear.
Mr. Behrens was not happy. Mulbach was sitting in front beside the SS driver and Behrens could see nothing but the colonel’s bull-neck and massive shoulders. Major Mendel was in the back, beside him. Mendel had not spoken a word since the drive started. He looked a most unreliable conspirator. He was white and sweating, breathing quickly and unable to control his hands. “Good God,” thought Mr. Behrens. “Why did we have to choose a man like this? A child could see that he’s up to no good. He’ll fall flat on his face before he gets halfway to the aeroplane.”
A thought struck him. Had Major Mendel, not trusting himself to do it unobtrusively on the airfield under the eyes of the guards, already set the fuse, and was he now afraid that some unexpected delay might keep them hanging about for an hour before take-off? It would certainly account for his nervousness.
Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens Page 2
