by Leo Kessler
Von Dodenburg let the Vulture's words die away while he did a rapid calculation. Two Fieseler Storchs – that would mean a dozen men at the most.
‘Just twelve of us!' he interrupted, 'but that would mean the end of the Wotan!'
`Yes,' the Vulture said, 'that figure would be about right - twelve key men to ensure that our old tradition is carried on in the new Group.'
`And who are you going to take?' von Dodenburg asked, his hand falling to his holster.
The gesture did not escape the Vulture. He licked his lips. Outside the Poles were falling back once again.
`Men whom I think would be the most valuable. You, for instance, my dear Major. If - '
`Yes, I, for instance,' von Dodenburg cut him short, 'if I became your creature.'
He never finished the accusation. The Creeper elbowed him to one side, his face tense with fear.
`And me, Colonel? I promise you absolute loyalty. Forget the past. I'm yours. You can trust me, sir.'
`Keep your damned Gestapo spy paws off me!' the Vulture barked. 'I want none of your kind of arse-crawling toadies with me!' He turned to von Dodenburg. 'Well, this is the last time, von Dodenburg, you've got to make your decision – are you with us or not?'
The two men faced each other tensely.
`Well?' the Vulture demanded, iron in his voice. 'Your last chance.
`I wouldn't care if refusal meant condemnation to hell,' von Dodenburg retorted contemptuously. 'I want no part of your treacherous schemes - '
`Treacherous schemes?' Schwarz interrupted.
But neither of the two men facing each other in this final confrontation paid any attention to him. Both knew that this was the parting of the ways after four long years of war together. They had come far: the capture of the great fort of Eben Emael in forty; the glorious push through France; the first day of Barbarossa in forty-one; Russia; the last great armoured push against the Ivans at Kursk in forty-three; and this. Slowly von Dodenburg began to draw his pistol.
`What are you going to do, Major?' the Vulture asked slowly.
`You are a traitor, Colonel Geier,' he replied, no rage in his heart, only the knowledge that he must carry out his duty. 'You are prepared to betray our folk-comrades for your own petty safety.'
`But, you damn young fool, von Dodenburg!' the Vulture cried exasperatedly, his eyes fixed on the pistol in the other officer's hand. 'I'm doing this for Germany ... I'm trying to save her from those men who will sacrifice her without compunction. When they go down, they will drag the rest down with them. Don't you understand - what I am trying to do is for our Homeland!'
Coldly von Dodenburg cocked his pistol, his face expressionless. The Vulture backed away. His hand fell to his belt. But before he could reach his holster, von Dodenburg had jerked up his pistol threateningly. His knuckle whitened as it slid around the trigger of the pistol and took the pressure. The Vulture's adam's apple moved back and forth as he swallowed painfully.
`Von Dodenburg!!'
Von Dodenburg began to raise his pistol. The Vulture's face seemed to shrink. His hands flew to his chin, as if he hoped to ward off the bullets with the naked flesh.
`Colonel, I'll help, if you'll take me with you.'
It was Kriecher. With a grunt of rage he flung himself at von Dodenburg. Automatically von Dodenburg pressed the trigger. The Vulture was thrown off his feet. His body smashed against the dirt wall. His eyes filled with disbelief as he looked down at the gaping wound amidst the decorations which he had sacrificed so many good men's lives to gain.
The Creeper scrambled forward and clutched the Vulture's boots.
`It was a mistake, Colonel,' he whispered, his face contorted with fear. 'You must believe me - a mistake!'
Schwarz hit the Creeper with his wooden arm. Blood gushed from his nose and ears as he fell backwards. Schwarz kicked him in the crotch. He gave a thin scream, stifled by the vomit which flooded his, throat. The next instant, Schwarz's slug smashed his skull. The Vulture looked down at the mangled face and at his boots splashed with the dead Kriecher's brains and blood. As the sounds of the Tommy mortar barrage started to be drowned by the roar of an airplane motor, Colonel Geier of the Wotan slid to the dirt floor, twitched once and lay still. The Vulture was dead.
Part Four: The Breakout
We don't want you ... Wotan does not need you. We fight on!'
Major von Dodenburg to Captain Wagner.
Nineteen
`Holy shit,' Wagner breathed in awe. 'Is the front always like this?'
Ertz, the pilot nodded.
`Yes, Captain. No fancy uniforms out here - and another glass of champus, General? This is how the front swine live.'
As the little observation plane began to lose height over the embattled peak, Schellenberg's fellow plotter could see the dead bodies piled high, their limbs twisted grotesquely. Everywhere there were the charred, shattered wrecks of tanks and vehicles, trails of abandoned weapons up the mountainside, and always bodies - bodies without heads, bodies without arms, bodies without legs. The yellow Italian soil was soaked red with their blood. Wagner licked his lips.
`Do you think you can make it, Ertz?' he asked, as the plane seemed to hover over the peak, while the pilot sized up the situation. Ertz held up his gloved thumb confidently.
`Sure. I've tackled worse as pissed as ten naked niggers. come in with that peak on my tail. At least it'll keep the Tommies from shooting me up the arse and it might slow my landing speed. I'll have no tail wind, you see.' He peered at the perimeter some four hundred feet below. 'I might just be able to catch the bitch before we roll into the Tommy lines - in time for China tea, eh?'
Wagner gulped as the pilot pulled back the stick and soared upwards towards the peak. Behind them, Smiling Albert's other plane followed suit.
The big SS Captain was scared, very scared; but he knew how vital it was for the success of their plot to get the Vulture and his key - and loyal - officers out now. Adolf Hitler had been so impressed by their stand on the Peak and the tremendous propaganda success of the bombing of Monte Cassino by the Amis that he had fully approved the scheme to get the Vulture off the mountain-top. Indeed he had ordered that the Vulture should reform his Battle Group in Berlin itself. Based at Spandau with some three thousand idealistic youngsters under his command, the Vulture would play a decisive role in their seizure of power in the capital. Wagner fought back his fear. They had to get down.
The first Storch came in low to their rear. Ertz had cut the engine and was gliding in silently. The Tommies dug in behind the peak heard him only when it was too late. He was over their heads and gone before they could open fire. When they did, their tracer missed the German plane by metres.
Schulze spotted the little plane first.
`Sir,' he yelled, 'the Storch!' Von Dodenburg swung round and focused his eyes against the slanting rays of the sun. There it was - a stark black silhouette against the red ball of the sun. The rest of the traitors had arrived.
Something snapped in the young Major's brain. He was seized by a burning rage. As the little plane came closer and closer, he unslung his machine-pistol. Legs set wide apart, he fired a furious burst at the plane. The slugs were wide of the mark. But they had their effect. The Storch's motor burst into life suddenly and with an abrupt turn of speed, it zoomed up into the sky above their heads.
`Great crap on the Christmas Tree!' Wagner gasped, the sweat standing out on his brow in heavy beads. 'What the hell are they firing on us for? Can't they see the black crosses?'
Ertz breathed out a sigh of relief as he gained control of the bucking plane, caught in one of the peak's thermals. 'I always thought those stubble-hoppers were a bit thick - perhaps they're so front-happy, they don't know what side they're on!'
Wagner's brain was racing. He was damned scared. But he knew he had to go through with the mission. If he didn't, Schellenberg would have no compunction about sending him to the front - or worse.
`Listen,' he said urgently, 'go in aga
in, Ertz. Under power this time.' He opened the flap of the side window. A blast of icy air gushed in. Wagner seized one of the grenades which all the planes carried to destroy vital or secret equipment in case they had to force-land behind enemy lines, and held it out of the window in readiness.
`I'm going to clear that stupid turd out of the way - even if I have to kill the bastard.'
Ertz shrugged carelessly.
`Why not? Let's kill a few of our own stubble-hoppers and put them out of their misery. Anything for a change, eh?' He gave the little wooden plane full power and they came zooming down once more.
Von Dodenburg waited, while Schulze stared at him aghast. He had never seen the Major like this: he seemed to have gone temporarily meschugge. (1)
`Sir,' he cried, 'let's get our arses out of here smartish! The Tommies'll be zeroing in on us in a minute! Sir!'
The Major did not hear. His eyes, red with fury, were fixed on the plane roaring down at 180 km.p.h. Ertz pulled up the nose and dropped the flaps. The Storch seemed to hover momentarily in mid-air. It was Wagner's opportunity. Desperately he lobbed his grenade at the tattered, battle-worn figure standing there with the dead sprawled out extravagantly around him.
`Get out of the way, you crazy fool!' he yelled.
The grenade came sailing down - a deadly little black egg from the hovering bird. It exploded with a harsh cramp. Chunks of metal hissed through the air. Schulze yelped with pain as a fragment hit him in the shoulder. But von Dodenburg did not falter. The air was filled with the stink of petrol. The plane was almost on them now. He could see the two white faces behind the gleam of the perspex quite clearly. He raised his Schmeisser.
`We don't want you!' he screamed. 'Wotan does not need you - we fight on!'
The plane seemed about to crash directly into him. The roar was ear-splitting. Schulze ducked. And in that instant, von Dodenburg fired a full burst. The vicious red tracers stitched a line of deadly holes across the fuselage. They struck the perspex. It smashed at once. The two white faces disappeared behind a spider web of cracked gleaming perspex. The pilot threw up his hands in front of his face in horror.
`Holy Christ, you've shot him down!' Schulze yelled.
At two hundred kilometres an hour, the blinded plane careened over the perimeter, thick white smoke pouring from its punctured engine. Desperately Ertz tried to fight it down. The port tyre hit the rock first. It burst like an 88 shell exploding. The Storch lurched violently. Its port wing hit the ground. There was a rending sound. The Storch shimmied crazily. Ertz battled with the controls. Great clouds of dust shot up on both sides. With Wagner screaming hysterically at his side, they crashed into one of the abandoned tanks. The next instant they were crushed to death as the plane folded like a concertina.
On the perimeter the awe-struck German and Allied watchers ducked as a solitary wheel flew, still revolving, through the air. A moment later the Storch exploded and the two SS men were running wildly for the Twin Tits bunker before the Allies came out of their trance and started firing at them.
Schulze cast a curious glance at the blood-stained bodies of the Creeper and the Vulture bundled into the corner of the littered bunker. But he said nothing. Instead he turned his attention to von Dodenburg, who was now apparently recovering from the red-eyed rage which had overcome him outside.
`They've gone - the planes,' he said to Schwarz, slumped wearily at the table, heaped high with open ration cans and boxes of ammunition. 'We're on our own, Schwarz.'
‘I see,' the one-armed Captain said tonelessly. 'And now?'
`There are going to be no privileged persons in Wotan,' von Dodenburg snapped. 'We all take the same chances now. We are going to break out, Schwarz - at the earliest possible opportunity. We won't last another day here and' - he hesitated. `Germany has need of the Wotan.'
`But how are we going to do it, sir?' Schulze asked. 'The Tommies have got us by the short and curlies - that's for sure.'
Von Dodenburg swept a pile of empty cans of 'Old Man' off the rough table made of ration cases and spread out his dirty map.
‘The perimeter,' he jabbed a forefinger at the centre of the map. 'Now reduced to perhaps a hundred odd square metres. The Tommies dug in in force - here, here and here. Our last defensible position - here. The Twin Tits, some seventy metres from the thinnest section of the Tommy line.' Schulze, always quick to react, blurted it out:
`So that's the way out, sir?'
`Right in one, Schulze.'
`But it is still too strongly held for our men - lions that they are - to break through,' Schwarz objected, his face as impassive as ever, utterly unafraid. For him the breakout was not a matter of life and death. His sole concern was whether or not the breakout was militarily feasible.
`I agree. But you must agree too that the Peak section of the enemy line is the thinnest held. If we are going to get out, it must be through that section. But how?' Von Dodenburg gave them a tired smile. 'Our sole remaining ace up the sleeve - the Goliath!'
`The Goliath!' Schulze exploded joyously. 'Of course, the Goliath. I'd forgotten about that!'
Just before they had flown from Tempelhof, a special messenger had arrived from the Berlin Arsenal: a bespectacled, fat Major of Artillery.
‘The Führer’s compliments, Major,' he had announced after a sloppy exchange of salutes. 'He wishes you to have the honour of trying out first another of our nation's secret weapons.' Against the background of the old Auntie Ju's three roaring engines, he had taken the mystified SS men to the back of the Opel truck and had thrown back the flaps to reveal what looked like a Mark III tank reduced to nursery proportions.
`What the hell's that, Major?' Schulze had blurted out.
`Does the Führer want us to fight the rest of the war with kids' toys?'
The middle-aged Major, his fat chest decorated solely with the War Service Cross, Third Class, had been in no way offended.
`That toy, soldier,' he had answered, 'contains one ton of high explosive which can be steered to the enemy lines by remote control. One day our newest little toy might well save your life.'
Schulze realized that that day had now come.
`You mean, sir, we use it to blast a hole through the Tommies' line?'
Von Dodenburg nodded.
`Almost right. But there is one slight difference in my plan. It's this. We use the Goliath as a feint. It's got one weakness, you know - it's slow and noisy. The Tommies will hear it coming. They will be alerted. All right, so what do we do? We use it as a feint, while we slip through their line here.'
Schulze peered over his, shoulder at the map.
`Bit rough, isn't it, sir? Cliff face and all.'
`The place most likely to be weakly held!'
`Of course, of course, von Dodenburg,' Schwarz agreed. 'A capital plan. And when?'
`As soon as it grows dark. We shall withdraw the men now and form a hedgehog around this bunker. (2) This will be the starting point for our breakout.'
`And the wounded, sir?' Schulze asked.
`If they can walk and carry a rifle, they come with us.'
`And if they can't?'
`Then they stay.' He turned his gaze on the big Hamburger, his light blue eyes harder than Schulze ever remembered seeing them before. 'The Wotan cannot afford itself the luxury of pity anymore.'
Twenty
It was the sledgehammer of the shell-booms coming time and time again that brought terror to the survivors' souls. All afternoon the Tommies had been pounding the tiny bloody perimeter before the last attack. Now von Dodenburg could see that the men were just about finished. Their pits were filled with the mortally wounded and the shattered ground was, littered with their dead whom the shells did not leave in peace even after death. As for the living, he could see the flesh around their blood-scummed lips quivering. Their eyes were coated with a hot sheen, as if tears were dose and the blood had drained from their pinched faces.
But the tremendous pounding went on, while the sun defiantly refus
ed to slide beyond the mountain and grant them the blessing of darkness. Now the young men had become old. The only human sounds they uttered were cries of pain and prayers to gods they had long forgotten. The rest was a kind of animal whimpering. A corporal with both his legs shot off crawled along on the bloody stumps begging someone to shoot him. But no one had the strength any more to do so. Major von Dodenburg knew that they had reached breaking point.
`Goddammit,' he cried impotently, his fist clenched, 'for God's sake, sun - go down!'
He scrambled wildly through the tremendous bombardment to the foremost bunker, the closest to the Peak. The handful of young SS men holding it were finished. They had absorbed too many shells, seen too many torn bodies, suffered too much fear. Their faces were blank, but their twitching lips and dilated eyes revealed the extent of their breakdown. One had filled his field grey pants. The stench was overpowering, but neither he nor the others seemed to notice.
Von Dodenburg flung himself down beside Schulze. Time and time again, their helmets were showered by dirt and rock thrown up by the exploding shells. Von Dodenburg would have liked to have screamed, buried himself at the bottom of the pit, evacuated his bowels – anything to escape the unbearable strain of the bombardment. But his rigid sense of duty made him face up to the task ahead of him. He would save these shivering broken wrecks of men despite themselves.
He focused his glasses, a piece of paper shading the tops of the lenses to prevent their gleam in the setting sun from giving away his position. A hundred metres to his right was the start of the scrub covered cliff. In front of it he could make out what looked like a machine-gun pit, covered by half a dozen infantry foxholes. That had to be their point of his escape. But where would he launch his Goliath? It was armoured well enough. But a direct hit, say by a mortar bomb, would put it out of action and he couldn't risk that. He swept the area with his glasses. Then he gave a gasp of horror. A body loomed into view. It had been sliced lengthwise, leaving the corpse an uncanny half-man. But coming from the massive wound, there stretched an apparently endless length of intestine. The ghastly rope of flesh dappled by the sinking sun, lay like a marker tape just in front of the most heavily defended' part of the Tommies' front. He lowered his glasses. The Goliath attack would go in at 'Half-man's Point'.
