The End of the Third Reich

by Nick Cook

  “So I’m to be pardoned,” he said, “and by no lesser authority than the head of Military Intelligence. Couldn’t you find the bloody King?”

  Staverton took a step forward and whisked the paper away.

  “This isn’t yours quite yet.” He paused. “You’ve got to do a little job for us first.”

  “If it means getting out of here, I’ll do anything.”

  “Good.” Staverton folded his arms and looked Herries straight in the eye. “You’re going back into Germany.”

  The colour drained from Herries’ face. “Germany? Are you quite mad?”

  “We want you to put the skills you have learnt over the last three years to good use by helping us put an end to Archangel. We need to get a pilot into a Luftwaffe base in southern Germany. His German isn’t quite fluent and he’s not too familiar with the terrain. That’s where you come in.” Staverton realized he was starting to enjoy the other’s discomfort. “Your papers are valid and you’re in the SS, which should cut some ice with the guards at the airfield, and at any other obstruction you are likely to meet. So I put this scheme to the authorities here and as you see, after a little persuasion, they decided to give you the job.”

  “But a Freikorps officer - particularly a British one - is not accorded the same privileges as the regular SS within Germany. They’d no more let me into that base than they would you.”

  Staverton reached into his pocket and threw Herries another envelope. “Then you had better take a look at this.”

  Herries found himself staring at his own SS soldbuch. He opened the identity document, dog-eared and stained from years on the Eastern Front. Opposite the photograph of the Führer was his personalausweis: name, rank, number and regiment. But all references to the Freikorps had been carefully removed. He looked back to the cover again and flipped through it till he found the page with his photograph. It was his book, there was no mistaking that, but the forger who had made the deletions was a craftsman. There was no sign that a scalpel or new ink had gone near the document.

  “SOE were able to do that in a few hours,” Staverton said. “It’s perfect.”

  “Yes, it is,” Herries was forced to agree. He was now merely Obersturmführer Christian Herries, first company, third battalion, 2nd SS Panzergrenadier Regiment, Das Reich Division.

  “We’ll supply you with a uniform, obviously. You have to ensure that our man gets new papers in Munich and then into Oberammergau. Do that and you’re free. The rest is up to him.”

  “Why Munich? Why can’t the pilot have his papers forged here?” He held up his soldbuch. “They don’t come much better than this.”

  “Yours were relatively easy. His will take time. To do it here would mean two more days in London for him and I don’t need to tell you that’s just too long for us. SOE has a specialist in Munich. All he needs is the pilot’s photograph and he can finish the job that we’ve already set in motion.”

  Herries said: “You know what you can do with your proposal, don’t you? I made a deal with General Styles.”

  Staverton was unmoved. “Yes, they told me that you’d be difficult. But it’s not a proposal, Herries, it’s an ultimatum. The only choice you’ve got is between being tried for war crimes - and I don’t think you would come out of it that well - or doing this and going free. Now, I’m a very busy man, so I’ll leave you to think about it.” Staverton allowed himself a smile. “Germany, Herries, or the gallows?”

  “What about the Red Cross?” Herries’ voice cracked. “If I die, you and Styles will be war criminals.”

  Staverton shrugged and moved over to the door. “On balance,” he said, “I’d say our record on atrocities is somewhat better than yours.”

  Staverton banged on the door and called for the policeman.

  “No, wait.” Herries was on his feet. “Look, if it’s just for a few days, I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” the AVM said. “In that case, let me run over exactly what it is we want you to do. To start with, you will under no circumstances reveal your identity to the man you’ll be taking in. I don’t think he’s going to be too thrilled by the idea of teaming up with a tuppenny traitor.” He looked at his watch. “Now listen carefully, because you’ll be back inside your precious Reich by this time tomorrow night.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  With little traffic on the roads between Farnborough and London, the staff car that Fleming had commissioned to bring Kruze to the Bunker made the journey in under an hour.

  The Bunker hadn’t wasted any time, Kruze thought, as he made his way along the maze of corridors in the Ministry that led down to the subterranean nerve centre of the EAEU.

  He knocked on the Old Man’s door and went in.

  “Sit down,” Staverton said, rolling the two words into one. Fleming was sitting beside the AVM, behind the long desk. His presence made Kruze feel uneasy.

  “How are you feeling?” Staverton asked. The Rhodesian looked distracted.

  Kruze involuntarily rubbed his arm where it had received a crack as he had rolled onto the runway to get away from the 163.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “What happened?” Fleming asked.

  Kruze said: “Well, you don’t have to worry about the 163C being used to defend any Alpine fortress. It will never fly operationally.”

  “How do you know?” Fleming asked.

  “When they removed the T-Stoff and C-Stoff tanks from the aircraft, they found that both were seriously flawed. The forward tank had only sprung a minor leak into the cockpit, but the rear one was so badly corroded that it was just about to blow apart. When they looked at the tanks a little closer, they discovered them to be made out of light steel alloy, the wrong metal. It’s a flying acid bath.”

  “They?” Staverton asked.

  “The Rostock boffins.”

  “What are the tanks meant to be made out of?”

  “Apparently aluminium is the only thing that will stand up to the T-Stoff. The German industrial belt must have been so badly flattened that the enemy doesn’t have the ability to make high-grade aluminium any more. Messerschmitt must be making 163 tanks out of steel alloy instead, hoping that they’ll stay the distance. And if that’s true, it means that the Nazis are out of new rocket fighters.”

  The trace of a smile played across Staverton’s lips. Kruze’s old confidence had not been marred by the accident. He was fit to fly.

  Kruze’s expression hardened. “I’ve got to say I’m a little mystified about why you rushed the air-test through so quickly. It should take weeks to set up something like that.”

  “We really didn’t have any choice,” the AVM said. “I regretted not being able to tell you the whole story at the time, but believe me, the role you played was vital.”

  “Role? You make it sound as if it was a stage performance.”

  “In a sense it was, laddie.”

  Kruze’s brow creased.

  “Your 163 flight was a firework display to convince Churchill’s other Cabinet advisers that using a single German jet aeroplane is the only way to penetrate almost two hundred miles of the densest troop concentrations and air defences seen in mainland Europe since the war began.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Kruze whispered. “A circus sideshow. And I risked my neck to bring that death-trap back to your boffins ...”

  Staverton appeared not to hear the anger in his voice. “And it worked. They’ve agreed to do it my way.”

  “Don’t think for a minute that your conclusions on the rocket fighter aren’t useful to us,” Fleming cut in. He wished Staverton would get straight to the point. “The Alpine Redoubt is a very real threat -”

  “But it’s as nothing to the problem we face now,” Staverton said. “The real reason you’re here tonight. The reason why I have to find a pilot to fly a German bomber two hundred miles and back through nightmare country - almost all of it Russian-controlled.”

  “I think you had better start from the beginning,” Kruze said. />
  He kept it simple. There was no need to tell the Rhodesian too much. He told Kruze about Archangel and its architect. He explained how he might be a maverick, but then again he might not, that there was no way of checking if Shaposhnikov had the backing of Stalin and the Stavka. He told him that they were on their own, American support had been vetoed, because their allies’ reaction might be wild and unpredictable. He said that it was imperative for Shaposhnikov to be removed, and that the instrument of his termination was to be a pilot, carefully chosen from the EAEU, who would fly a German aircraft at low-level through Soviet-captured territory and bomb Shaposhnikov at his HQ in Branodz, western Czechoslovakia. And finally he told him that there was no other way, because not only was it the best means of penetrating the Russian defences, it would also make Stalin believe that the assassination of his chief of the general staff at the front was a last desperate act of revenge by the Nazis. Status quo restored. No repercussions.

  “And you want me to fly the plane,” Kruze said, without emotion. “What aircraft have you got in mind?”

  “An Arado 234 Blitz jet bomber,” Fleming replied. “We want you to take it from the Luftwaffe’s base at Oberammergau, outside Munich, and fly it into Czechoslovakia.”

  “You would have excellent back-up,” Staverton added, before Kruze could say anything. “Robert would be your co-ordinator, going with you into Germany until you cross their lines. Thereafter, you’d be assisted by an able German speaker, someone with great knowledge of the Nazi military. You have some German yourself, don’t you?”

  “Some,” Kruze said.

  “SOE have lined up a safe house for you in Munich, owned by the Jewish underground. You’d make your way there, lie low for a day while papers are being prepared for you and then move by night to the airfield. The shepherd, your German-speaking companion, would then get you into the base. The rest would be up to you.”

  Kruze said: “You make it sound simple.”

  “I’m not pretending it won’t be dangerous, but you will have good support every step of the way.”

  “And this shepherd. How good’s he?”

  “The best,’ Staverton said simply. “He’s English, but has infiltrated the German military before. Intelligence background.” He managed to keep his voice even. “Robert, perhaps you would care to outline the plan in a little more depth.”

  “We have to move fast,” Fleming said. “The latest intelligence is that Shaposhnikov has left Moscow for Branodz - a little earlier than we expected. It’s possible that for reasons of security he has moved the plan forward. We’re going to hit him hard before he’s even had time to get his hands dirty at his field HQ. Your attack is set for dawn in two days’ time. We just have to pray the Russians do not move before then.”

  “How do you know Shaposhnikov will be at his HQ when I go in?”

  Fleming tapped the folder on his desk which contained Shaposhnikov’s translated text. “The Archangel battle plans state that following his arrival he will monitor the radio every morning at 0630 for coded progress reports from his commanders in the field. He’s keeping one channel free for half an hour to ensure that if they’ve got anything to say to him, they can get through. The only building with a transmitter powerful enough to reach his accomplices is the HQ. So, we’ve got him, as long as you hit him between 0630 and 0700.”

  Kruze listened, knowing that Fleming had once more become the man that Penny had married. He could still detect the shadows of Fleming’s ordeal around the eyes, but the shaken, haunted man he had captured in his gun-cameras not so long ago was a rapidly fading memory.

  “But first we have to get you to Germany,” Fleming continued. “Stabitz airfield is ideal. Just been captured by our forces marching on Munich. I’ll run over all the details there until you both know Guardian Angel by heart.”

  “It sounds like I’m going whether I like it or not.”

  “Not so,” Staverton said. “You will be free to choose, but please hear us out first.”

  “You and the shepherd will then be dropped behind enemy lines by Auster the following dawn,” Fleming said. “I remain at Stabitz to co-ordinate between you and London.” It was not a part of the mission that he enjoyed dwelling upon. “You’re to make your way into Munich and contact a watchmaker named Schell, a member of the Jewish underground. He’s been alerted of your arrival -but not the purpose of your visit - by SOE. He’s arranging all the papers you will need to get through the checkpoints on the road to Oberammergau. He will shelter and feed you until nightfall when you will leave the city and make for the airfield. It’s not far.”

  “Maybe,” Kruze said. “But papers or no papers, that place is going to be swarming with troops and my German isn’t good enough to get me past the first checkpoint, let alone into Oberammergau.”

  Fleming held his hand up. “You’ve got to trust us,” he said. “You will be given papers that prove you are a Rumanian government official seeking transport out of Germany back to your country and that the shepherd, who will be masquerading as an Obersturmführer in the Waffen-SS, is your escort. The Wehrmacht is not going to brush with people like him, believe me.”

  “Why Rumanian?”

  “They’re still allies of Hitler -”

  “And there aren’t that many Germans who speak Rumanian,” Staverton said.

  Kruze lit a cigarette. “What then?”

  “Once at Oberammergau, the shepherd will get you through the gates. The rest, as they say, is up to you.”

  Kruze smiled and let out a stream of smoke. “For a moment there you almost talked me into this thing. But do you seriously think I can walk up to a 234, conveniently bombed up and ready to go, and take off into the blue? I wouldn’t get within a hundred yards of one of their aircraft.”

  “This is no suicide mission,” Staverton said. “There will be a diversion to enable you to take your aeroplane unchallenged.”

  Fleming put his notes down. “Yes, at first light, the RAF will mount a strike against the airfield. The pilots will be told to leave the aircraft, just go for buildings and personnel. In all the confusion, you’ll be able to steal your Arado.”

  “Next stop, Branodz,” Kruze said. “As simple as that. I think I prefer next stop Waterloo Station and a train back to Farnborough. You’ve got to be mad if you think that this is actually going to work.”

  “It can if you’ll be the pilot,” Staverton said.

  Kruze banged his fist on the table. “This isn’t just about flying an aeroplane, Air Vice Marshal. It’s a fucking long way from gun-cameras and cosy post-mortems -”

  “The shepherd can take care of the rest,” Staverton said.

  “What if I say no?”

  “That will be your privilege.”

  “And a transfer to Coastal Command to wash seagull shit off Sunderlands for the rest of the war.” Kruze breathed deeply. “I read you like a book, Staverton. You extract loyalty from people around you and then spit it back in their faces when it suits you. You’re loving every minute of this, because it’s a big game, except you’ve got real lives as the pieces on the board.”

  Kruze suddenly felt as if he were poised above the eye of the storm. He was looking down at a place at the centre of the vortex where all was still, where Penny was calling his name but Fleming was answering. Chief Broyles, somewhere on the edge, was holding Billy’s hand and a long way away there was Staverton, the puppeteer, watching them and doing nothing.

  And then he knew what he must do. He must go to Germany with Fleming, who stood between him and a happiness he had tasted, but could not have. A happiness that nonetheless would give him the sense of purpose to carry this through to the end.

  Staverton was leaning forward. There was no fluctuation in his tone. “As I said, that would be your privilege. But Archangel is real and it’s going to happen unless you help us. I won’t beg you, Kruze, but I want you to think of this. When the war is over and you’re back in Rhodesia, give a thought to the poor bastards in Paris,
Marseilles and Boulogne who are having their sons and daughters raped by those savages. Some night when you get yourself blind drunk in a bar in Salisbury you might even turn to the person next to you and stagger through some story about how you could have done something about it.”

  Kruze got to his feet and picked up his heavy grey overcoat.

  “Where are you going?” Fleming asked. He gave Staverton a hostile look. Kruze had already had a bellyful that day and the old man had pushed too hard.

  Kruze paused at the door and turned to face them. “I’m going to find some air that’s fit to breathe. But I’ll get Shaposhnikov for you, even if I have to find him in hell.”

  The AVM’s face was set in granite, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked like a judge about to pass sentence. “Then be ready to leave from Farnborough by midday tomorrow. You’ll get the rest of your orders in Germany.”

  Kruze pulled up the collar of his coat, took a last look at Staverton and closed the door behind him.

  “Did you have to do that?” Fleming asked. “He would have done it anyway.”

  Staverton said: “I know that, Robert, but I want Kruze angry, really angry. The trouble with our Rhodesian friend is that whilst he’s the best technician we’ve got, where he’s going that won’t be enough. What he needs is fire in his belly if he’s going to get to Branodz. Shaposhnikov is in hell all right, and Kruze is going to have to go all the way to find him.”

  “Who is the shepherd?” Fleming asked.

  “The man who delivered us the secret of Archangel. Obersturmführer Christian Herries.”

  Fleming felt his blood run cold. “You can’t do that, for God’s sake . . .”

  “There is no one else. Herries has been granted immunity from prosecution. At least this way he’ll work for it.”

  “You have to tell Kruze. It’s the least he deserves.”

  Staverton shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I received permission to employ the traitor only as long as his true past and identity remained secret. Herries is an embarrassment to this country and there are people who would like to ensure his story never gets out - to anyone beyond these walls.”