by Ib Melchior
It was here, he thought. Here in the gloom and clutter and filth of a two-bit, run-down boatyard; here amid the stench of machine oil and tar and soggy rot. It was here he would finally end his quest.
Win—or lose.
Cautiously, keeping to the deepest shadows, he started into the yard, making his way from boat to boat. He looked back toward the building from which he had come. It was a two-story affair. Above the workshop a row of windows, all dark, indicated the existence of offices or rooms. The building on the side facing the yard had been freshly painted. Light blue with white trim. An outside staircase with a white handrail led to the upper story.
He was coming upon a boat, pinioned in its cradle. Broad-beamed, it was gaily painted in red, blue, and green. It had a single mast and a rust-pitted screw.
He stopped. The cradle was still wet, and so was the ground around the rails on which it stood. The boat had only recently been hauled from the harbor waters.
Warily he climbed up the A-shaped scaffolding standing next to the boat. For a moment he stood still, etching the layout of the boatyard on his mind.
Ahead of him gaped the black circular hole of the turntable with the waterfront and the marine railway with its hauling platform on the right, and the winch house on his left. Beyond the turntable pit he could make out the big crane and a few dark sheds. To his right stood the main building and, surrounding him, on the other rail spurs radiating from the pit, were other cradles, some empty, some with boats.
He took one more step up the ladder. He peered over the railing of the boat—and froze.
Lashed to the mast was a motorcycle. His Belgian motorbike. The one he had stolen at the inn, Zum Grünen Kranze. The one that had been taken from him by the Achse agents in Memmingen. His, dammit! There was no doubt. One of the damned baskets he’d been saddled with in Coburg was still tied to the back of the bike as a baggage rack!
He stared at the motorcycle. He craned to look.
Suddenly there was the sound of a door being opened, coming from the building.
At once he went rigid.
Clinging to the rickety scaffolding, he turned toward the sound.
29
IN THE DIM LIGHT he could see three figures walking down the stairs on the side of the building. A portly, elderly man whose left sleeve was pinned to the shoulder of his jacket as was the custom of amputees in Europe. Especially the war-wounded. A young man who, with obvious familiarity, cradled a submachine gun in his arms. Woody thought he recognized it as the distinctive Italian Beretta. And a woman. A woman, blond, and unmistakably pregnant, who made her way down the wooden stairs holding on to the railing, carefully peering over her swollen belly.
Eva!
Woody hardly dared breathe as he clung to the scaffolding. Even though he knew there was no way he could be seen by the people on the stairs as long as he kept still, he felt nakedly exposed, hanging on to the spindly wooden frame. He stared.
Eva. Pregnant as life. About to carry the Fuhrer’s heir to a safe haven, God knows where. And to a future which was planned to hold—what? Unleashing another Adolf Hitler on the world? Possible.
Unless she was stopped.
Now!
The three people paused at the bottom of the stairs. Eerily detached, their voices drifted across the darkened boatyard.
“The truck is parked in the shed over there,” the portly, one-armed man said. “The keys are in it.” He pointed to one of the shacks standing beyond the turntable pit at the far end of the yard. “I will go and open the gate.”
“Grazie, Signor Montesano.” It was the young man who spoke.
“Remember. Your ship leaves at midnight. From Pier 87. On the east jetty. A Portuguese merchant ship. It is called the Estrela. The captain’s name is Arnaldo Caldeira. You will give the passage money to him personally.”
“I will remember.”
“In bocca al lupo!—Good luck!”
“Thank you, Signore.”
Montesano disappeared around the building in the direction of the big iron gates. The young man turned to the woman.
“Wait here, Eva,” he said. “I will get the truck and pick you up.”
She shook her head. “No, Willi,” she said. “I do not want to stay here. Alone. I will go with you.”
He nodded. He took her arm. “I will help you,” he said. “The footing is treacherous.”
They began to walk toward the turntable pit, skirting it at the waterfront side.
Woody’s thoughts raced. He would have to act. And act now! Or it would be too late. He’d give the crippled boat works owner time to get as far away as possible. He’d wait until Eva’s companion, the man she had called Willi, was out in the open, presenting a good target. If he could incapacitate the guy, if he could grab Eva and get her aboard the truck, there was a bare chance he could barrel out of the damned place. Shit! He was writing himself into a kiddie matinee serial.
There had to be a way.
The ship! The Estrela. If he could beat them to the pier, a chance to stop them there might present itself. There were bound to be MPs on the docks. Any commotion would do. And, dammit! A commotion was something he most certainly could cause.
He shifted his weight on the scaffolding. The rung on which he stood protested with a sudden grating creak.
In the quiet of the darkened boatyard it sounded like an explosion.
Instantly the young man with the submachine gun whirled toward the noise.
And Woody.
Woody swore. He had no choice. He was committed.
“Drop your gun!” he shouted. “Put your hands on your head! You are covered!” He hoped his voice conveyed a confidence he did not feel.
The man was good. The echo of Woody’s call had not died down when he dropped to one knee and fired a burst from his submachine gun at the sound of Woody’s voice.
Woody heard the bullets slam into the hull of the boat. He was showered with multicolored splinters that bit into his face where they hit. He saw Eva throw her hands to her face. He knew she screamed, but he heard no sound.
Willi was fully alert. And furious. They had been betrayed! By whom? No matter. His eyes flew around the yard. How many were there? Only one had made himself known. One? There was still a chance to get Eva to safety. He thought he knew exactly where the ambusher was.
Tensely Woody watched the young man Eva had called Willi, squatting near the pit, almost invisible in the murky gloom, presenting an impossible target. He saw him raise his submachine gun once again. He tried to shrink into himself as he stared at Death, squatting on the stinking, oil-slimy ground of a crummy boatyard at the edge of nowhere. Stiffly he waited for the next burst from the gun. As long as he kept perfectly still the man might not see him. There was nothing else he could do. He was far outmatched in firepower.
The seconds were eternal. Any split instant he would see the fiery muzzle flares from the deadly submachine gun.
It might be the last thing he’d ever see.
Suddenly a booming voice rang out through the yard. He whipped his head toward the sound. Standing squarely in the doorway to the winch house was a big man—a Luger in his hand gleaming harshly in the faint blue light.
“Stay quite still!” he called, his voice the voice of command. “Or you are dead!”
Woody was stunned. He knew the man! It was his interrogator. His nemesis. The big German—SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz!
Willi also whirled toward the sound of the commanding voice. Sudden rage flooded him. He, too, recognized the big man. He was one of the sailors on Mario’s boat! It was he who had betrayed them! He whipped his submachine gun into position.
The bullets slammed into the big man’s body. In shock his head spun around to stare at his assailant, the man he had sworn to give his life to protect. His mouth gaped open in an expression of utter astonishment—an expression that disintegrated into a splatter of crimson as the second burst from Willi’s vengeful submachine gun struck.
&
nbsp; Heavily he fell back into the winch house. His lifeless body struck a lever before crashing to the floor, and suddenly the winch machinery rumbled to life. The heavy cables snapped taut, and with a jolt the massive hauling platform began to inch its way toward its impact mating with the turntable landing, slowly, irresistibly, inch by inch closing the gap over the pulley shaft.
Woody had jumped from the scaffolding. He stood at the edge of the boat cradle, feet slightly apart, his Walther 7.65 held in both hands extended before him. He had not the firepower of his enemy. He had to rely on accuracy. He was dimly aware of other shadowy figures moving furtively in the gloom around him, converging on him. Montesano’s men. With a conscious effort he forced himself to ignore this new menace.
He saw Willi swing his submachine gun toward him. He saw him rise up slightly to get better aim. He saw the muzzle flash as the burst was fired. He felt a lance of fire rip along his hip. He stood his ground.
Now!
He fired. Three fast rounds.
He saw Willi flinch and stagger. His gun jerked up and the last burst went wild, thudding into the deck and the mast of the boat above his head.
All of a sudden there was a thunderous explosion, and flames shot from the deck of Mario’s boat high into the night air.
The motorcycle! The thought tore through Woody’s mind even as he once again took deliberate aim at his enemy. The gas tank had been hit!
Willi had felt the bullets tear into his chest. Two of them. He felt no pain, but he knew he was dead.
With terrible, haunted eyes he turned to Eva. She stood transfixed, eerily bathed in the flickering light from the burning boat, staring at the terror of a nightmare that suddenly had become reality.
And he knew.
He knew he had to carry out the Führer’s final command.
He lifted his submachine gun. He aimed it straight at the gently rounded swelling on Eva’s young body.
He pulled the trigger.
The offspring of the Führer, Adolf Hitler, his son and heir, would not be born in enemy hands.
Better not be born at all.
It had been the Führer’s final wish.
The empty gun fell from his hands. Dimly he was aware of a figure running toward him. And—all at once—lights. Blinding white lights. And the sound of motors. Rumbling and roaring. And voices. Shouting in English. In Italian. Figures. Figures of men all running toward him.
His instincts etched into his mind from time primordial shrieked to him to run. To hide. To flee. He had not the strength.
Suddenly a thunderous blast rocked the yard. Flames shot into the air like fingers of liquid fire greedily probing toward the dark sky. Dimly he realized what had happened. Burning debris from the blazing boat must have fallen to the ground and set fire to a drum or drums of oil or paint, exploding them. Already several other boats were ablaze.
The Montesano boatyard was turning into a howling, crackling inferno.
He stumbled back. The ground under him moved as the heavy hauling platform rumbled on to lock in place. He lost his footing, and tumbled down into the narrow pulley shaft. He struggled to his feet. There was barely room for him to stand. His head and shoulders were level with the ground. Dully, incomprehensibly he stared at the massive, monstrous platform, oil-smeared and work-scarred, inches from his face, inexorably closing in.
The scream of utter terror that started to explode from his throat was crushed from him, as the hauling platform, carrying the lifeless body of Eva and her child with it, labored to meet its mate, fighting the obstruction that sought to keep it from reaching its goal. A different, a sickening, crunching sound joined the steady rumble of the machinery. The mammoth beams of the platform had barely inches to go when the winch mechanism finally cut out.
Woody stood staring in heart-stopping horror down at the bullet-riddled body of the young woman sprawled obscenely on the hauling platform.
Eva. Eva Braun Hitler. The Führer’s wife.
Willi’s submachine gun burst had ripped viciously across her belly, obliterating her womb and what it had sheltered. Mercifully the flickering fire from the blazing boats and the glaring beams from the headlights and searchlights did not reveal the full horror of the abomination huddled at his feet, crimsonly oozing out over the time-gouged wood to mix with the oily black scum that covered it.
Mesmerized, he stared at the gruesome sight. He thought he could see what had been the unborn Hitler child reaching toward him with a tiny, bloody, still unformed arm. The bile rose burning in his throat. He turned away. He kept his eyes averted from the pulley shaft.
All around him flames were licking avidly at the sky. The roar of the fire was punctuated with explosions as motorboat fuel tanks and oil drums detonated in the searing heat. The conflagration, fed by the incendiary fuels, was consuming the boat works, devouring timbers, buckling metal, scorching the very air. Through the flame-washed smoke ghostly figures leaped from the blaze like tormented souls in the depths of hell itself.
He was conscious of someone putting a steadying hand, on his arm. He turned. It was his C.O. It was Major Mortimer L. Hall.
He blinked himself back from the brink of the hell that had threatened to engulf him. He looked around. All through the boat yard MPs and carabinieri were rounding up men. The crew from the boat works. Montesano. Mario.
He looked at Hall, his eyes bleak.
“What the hell kept you?” he mumbled.
PART III
20 June, 1945
30
THE HEADLINES ON THE FRONT PAGE of Stars and Stripes, June 20, 1945, heralded Ike’s triumphant return to the States and the fabulous hero’s welcome, complete with ticker-tape parade up Broadway in New York City, given him the day before by four million cheering New Yorkers. It had been a reception that dwarfed the memories of those accorded Charles Lindbergh and Admiral Byrd.
The paper was lying front page up on the desk of Brigadier General Irwin Buter, Chief of Staff, XII Corps, but the four men assembled in his office at Corps HQ in Regensburg paid it no heed. They were listening attentively to the General.
Buter looked at Colonel Streeter and Major Hall. “Dick,” he said. “Mort. I want you both to place yourselves completely at the disposal of the undersecretary while he is here at Corps. Any information he wants, you give him.”
The two officers nodded their agreement at the only civilian present.
Undersecretary of State David Rosenfeld turned to Buter. “Thank you, General,” he said. “I am sure I shall have several questions that need clearing up, once I digest this—this extraordinary turn of events.” He looked at Woody. “I congratulate you, Lieutenant Ward,” he said. “On a job well done. You have indeed shown resourcefulness and courage well beyond the normal call of duty.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Woody said smartly. Why did that kind of “official” talk always sound so damned pompous, he thought. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. He still hadn’t gotten used to being called Lieutenant. The new gold bars on his shoulders still seemed to belong to some other guy. But Mort had put him in for the field commission and Buter had promptly approved it and had, in fact, made it a point to assure him that the promotion in no way would interfere with his being sent home to the States as soon as he desired. With points to spare!
Rosenfeld turned to Buter. “Just let me get this one thing straight,” he said. “This escape route. The B-B Axis, I believe Lieutenant Ward called it. All the—the stops along the route pinpointed by the lieutenant were raided, were they not?”
“That is correct, Sir,” Buter acknowledged.
“And all were found to be abandoned?”
Buter nodded. “The people manning them had all flown the respective coops,” he conceded. “Apparently alerted immediately after the raid on the Bari embarkation point. Their communication network appears to be excellent.” He looked grimly at the undersecretary. “But I do not for a second believe the Nazi escape operation has been destroyed, Sir. I am certain oth
er routes will be found—if they are not already in operation.”
Rosenfeld nodded. “I dare say you are right, General,” he agreed.
“Only at one stop on the route were the people caught with their pants—eh, caught unaware,” Major Hall interjected. “At an inn in the Italian town of Merano. It seems that the escape route agent who operated the stop, the innkeeper, Bazzano, was laboring under the impression of some sort of false security.”
Woody grinned to himself. Pimple-face Pietro had saved his own hide—and put his uncle’s ass in a sling.
“The main question remaining,” Rosenfeld frowned, “is how to handle the whole sensitive situation with Eva Braun Hitler. We know now why the Nazis wanted the world to think she had died in the Bunker in Berlin, and the Russians undoubtedly are perpetuating the myth because they cannot get themselves to admit that they bungled in the first place. Of course, that’s par for the course.” He looked at Buter. “From what we know now, it seems certain, however, that Hitler himself did indeed die by his own hand. And was subsequently cremated.”
Buter nodded. “I agree.”
Rosenfeld sighed. “I shall prepare my report, General. Make my recommendations. I should appreciate your comments when I have done so. And, of course,” he added soberly, “everything said here and done here must remain top secret.”
“Of course.”
“It seems to me, Sir . . . Woody ventured. “It seems to me that the best thing to do is just to leave well enough alone. Let everyone think Eva died in the Bunker.” He looked from one to the other of the officers in the room. “She and Adolf are just as dead.”
Rosenfeld stared at him. A slow smile of amusement crinkled his face. “Young man,” he said, “I think you have the answer. We just—keep our mouths shut!” He nodded to himself. “That, I think, is exactly what I shall recommend to the President.”
