The End of the Third Reich

by Nick Cook

  “That’s cowardice,” Julend said, unstrapping his harness. “You could be shot for what you’re saying.”

  “Who is going to know?” Menzel looked at the two faces, gauging each for their response. Ritter stared at him like a frightened child. At least he knows what hydrogen cyanide does to you, he thought.

  Julend’s expression was twisted in hatred. “You’re going to hand us over to the enemy just because Ivan’s got a bit of mustard-gas down there.”

  “We’re not talking about mustard-gas, you idiot,” Menzel shouted angrily. “That stuff is like pure oxygen in comparison with hydrogen cyanide.”

  “Whatever it is,” Julend said, reaching for his holster, “it’s my duty to stop you. Turn the aircraft back on a heading for Altenburg, Herr Leutnant.’

  Ritter shook his head. “I’m not going back,” he said. “I’m with you, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Julend never managed to put the gun-barrel against Ritter’s temple. One shot from Menzel’s Walther and he slumped over the breeches of his twin MG 81s, a red stain spreading on the left-hand breast pocket of his uniform.

  “The Yaks got him,’ Menzel said to his terrified pilot. “And they’ll get us, unless you fly this crate like you’ve never flown before towards the Allied lines. And for the last time, get down amongst the trees.”

  “They never taught us low-level at C-Schule,” Ritter mumbled, apologetically.

  “Then look on this as a bit of post-graduate training free of charge. But don’t fuck up, Ritter, because without anyone manning those pop-guns in the back, staying low is all the protection from Ivan we’ve got left.’

  Ritter smiled hesitantly and pushed the Uhu’s nose lower, lower as they sped westwards towards Bavaria.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Kruze hauled himself off the mattress after a fitful five hours’ sleep every muscle in his body seemed to burn from his descent of the mountain at Achensee. Despite the desire to rest his aching limbs, he knew that to sink back onto the bed on the basement floor would be to invite his mind to run over the task ahead for the hundredth time since going behind the lines.

  There was nothing more to rehearse.

  He could see Schell in the next room quietly going about the task of fabricating the documents. He was grateful for the mild intrusion; it provided something to keep his mind off Oberammergau and Branodz.

  He stepped over the sleeping form of Herries and walked into the adjoining room. It was dark but for a pool of light from a lamp in the corner, where Joseph Schell worked on the papers that would get him into the airfield. The whole basement was given over to the legitimate trade of a watch-maker; but it was an easy matter turning those same tools to forgery. Perfect cover.

  The Rhodesian leant against the wall and watched the young man at work. His father appeared to have taught him well. A strange skill for one so young.

  The boy turned to him. “These are good papers,” he said, waving Herries’ ID documents in the air, the ones that had got them over the Cornelius Bridge. “In fact, they’re the best I’ve seen. SOE’s improving.” He grinned at Kruze. “Your papers have been a little more difficult; I’ve never done Rumanian stuff before. Don’t worry, they’ll still get you inside.”

  “They’d better,’ Kruze said, attempting to smile. He wondered how the young watchmaker would react if he were to tell him that Herries’ papers were good because they were real.

  “You’re going to take an aircraft, aren’t you?”

  Kruze tried not to show his surprise. “What makes you think that?”

  The boy shrugged. “First they asked me to turn you into a Rumanian, then they say you will need the service papers of a Luftwaffe major. I think -”

  “It is best not to think too much.”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled and turned back to his work.

  “Where did you learn your English?” Kruze asked, moving the conversation away from Oberammergau. The air force uniform that he had worn under his loose civilian clothes since before his last briefing suddenly seemed to constrict him.

  “London. My mother took me there when things started to go bad before the war. It is from her that I get my Jewish blood. My father is German, but too good a man ever to have sympathized with the Nazis.”

  “When did you come back?”

  “About six months ago a man came to my aunt’s house in Streatham and asked whether I would be prepared to go back into Germany. My father had been working for SOE for some years, at first supplying information on troop movements, then moving into the forgery business.” He held up one of his documents to the light and grunted his satisfaction. “But his eyesight has gone and they needed someone to do the work for him. That’s when they thought of me,” he said proudly.

  “But you’re only a kid. You can’t be a day over seventeen.’

  “I’m eighteen and a half, old enough to fight. Only what I do is more effective, I think.” He passed Kruze’s documents to him. “There, how do they look?”

  Kruze peered hard at the papers. He didn’t know whether they contained all the right information to get him into the airfield or not, but they looked authentic, right down to the weathering effect on the carnet, which made it appear as if it had been well-thumbed.

  “SOE taught you to do this?”

  “And much more besides. Now I can take apart a Sten and reassemble it blindfolded, I know about explosives, how to operate a transmitter-receiver, listen for the codes on the BBC and parachuting -”

  “Which is how you got back in.”

  “Of course. I made the jump two months ago.”

  “And in all that time you have not left the house? What if the Germans were to conduct a search?”

  “There is a hidden compartment, like the priest-hole in English mansions. One of the blessings of these old Bavarian buildings is that you can always find somewhere to hide a man if you try.” He laughed softly. “Sometimes the Nazis come to my father to have their clocks or watches mended. Little do they suspect their every word can be heard by a Jew from behind the skirting board.”

  He began to pack up his equipment. “The papers are ready,” he said. “You can give these to your friend when he wakes up. Perhaps you should get some sleep also.”

  “I’ve done all the sleeping I’m going to do.”

  “Do you think you can complete your mission, pilot?”

  “I have to. There can be no room for doubt.”

  Schell stood up and clapped him on the back. “Come, it is time for the BBC news. I have to listen in case it mentions us.”

  “Us? How do you know?”

  The boy’s face lit up. “SOE gave me a call-sign all of my own. If I hear it on the news bulletin then I know I must call London and await instructions. How do you think I prepared for your visit at such short notice?”

  Schell led the way up the narrow, darkened stairwell to the small back room, where two armchairs pointed forlornly at an empty fire-grate. He moved over to the table in the corner and turned the knob on the large radiogram. “Whatever you do,” he whispered, “stay away from the windows in the front of the house. Only my father should be seen there.”

  The valves in the back of the radio began to hum into life. “Now,” Schell said, “let’s see if Nazareth made the news today.”

  * * * * * * * *

  For the umpteenth time since his arrest, Malenkoy asked himself why. How had he got involved in this terrible mess? All he had ever done was obey orders. He drew his knees up against his chin in an attempt to ward off the bitter cold in the basement of Branodz headquarters that was now his cell.

  He heard footsteps. Then the key rattled in the lock. The door swung open and the nameless NKVD officer who had arrested him marched in.

  “You will smarten yourself and come with me,” he said.

  “Smarten myself? After half a day in this pigsty and with this round my wrists?” He held his hands up to show the rough hemp which bound his hands together. “Where is Major Shlemov? There�
�s been some mistake, you’ll see.”

  “The major is outside and it was he, Comrade, who issued the orders,” the lieutenant said with obvious pleasure. He prodded Malenkoy in the back with his revolver to get him up the stairs.

  Malenkoy blinked as they stepped outside into the dwindling sunlight. The complete shame of his incarceration hit him like a hammer blow as he took in his surroundings. A hundred pairs of eyes looked him over furtively, then went back to overseeing their work as preparation for the final battle continued around the headquarters at Branodz.

  A short time after his incarceration, left alone with his thoughts in the basement, he had been roused by the noise of anti-aircraft guns. Then he had heard the aircraft roar over the HQ. Even though his own situation could have hardly been worse, Malenkoy felt bitter disappointment when the sound of the aircraft had faded and Branodz went quiet again. Despite his efforts at Chrudim, it sounded as if the Germans had found the real focus of the assault after all.

  He looked over his shoulder at the Alpine villa, where only the day before he had proudly reported in to announce the completion of the maskirovka. From the balcony, the imposing figure of Marshal Konev looked down on him, a mixture of rage and disgust on his face. Then he turned his thick bull-neck and disappeared back into the operations room.

  Malenkoy bowed his head. Things had happened so fast in the last few hours. He had been arrested at Chrudim, shortly after he had taken Shlemov to the radio tent. No explanations, just the sudden appearance of a pair of guards wielding their Sudayevs, which they pointed at his chest, and an automaton of a lieutenant as the lynching party. The lieutenant remained impassive to his pleas on the now all too familiar road between Chrudim and Branodz, where he was finally thrown into the basement beneath Konev’s HQ and left to think about his fate.

  The moment he saw the lorry, he was left in little doubt as to what it would be.

  Two guards dropped the tailgate and ordered him to get in. So this is it, Malenkoy thought, a bullet in the base of the head, and a shallow grave somewhere in the forest.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom under the canvas awning, Malenkoy saw he was not alone. Bundled up against the cabin of the truck, he recognized the faces of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov. Nerchenko, his face bruised and swollen, groaned in obvious pain. It looked as if he, at least, had been doing some talking to the NKVD.

  The guards and the lieutenant hopped in the back and trained their Sudayevs on the four of them. Then the engine coughed into life and the truck began to move. Malenkoy’s fears were confirmed as soon as the lorry took the forest route up into the mountains. After about fifteen minutes, the driver turned off the track and drove a little way into the woods until he stopped in the middle of a clearing. The guards motioned for the small party to get out with sharp gestures of their sub-machine-guns.

  Malenkoy was suddenly no longer afraid. It was a beautiful, peaceful place and if he were to die, better here than in some stinking effluent pipe on the outskirts of Berlin. The NKVD lieutenant ushered him round the side of the lorry where he saw a large staff car. The door opened and out stepped Shlemov, his new, swaggering transport mirroring the look of triumph in his eyes. To Malenkoy’s left, Nerchenko dropped to his knees, his face in his hands.

  “Get up, Nerchenko,” Krilov hissed.

  Malenkoy felt his head swim, but he checked his swaying in time to stop himself from falling over.

  “So you thought we wouldn’t find out,” Shlemov said to them all, even giving Malenkoy a swift, disdainful glance. He strutted in front of the small, bedraggled line of men like a game-bird on a mating ritual. Shaposhnikov stared brazenly at the investigator. “Well you were wrong; we know everything. Partly because you are all amateurs.” He looked with disgust at Nerchenko.

  He nodded to the lieutenant who, in turn, snapped his fingers. Two more NKVD soldiers appeared from the cabin of the truck and went over to Nerchenko, picked him off the ground and dragged him to the far end of the clearing.

  “And partly,” the investigator continued, “because you have an informer in your midst.” He paused, revelling in their confusion.

  “Comrade Beria was tipped off about Archangel,” Shlemov continued, registering the startled look on Krilov’s face. The investigator thought back to his radio conversation with Beria that had produced the last piece of the jigsaw. The NKVD was always grateful for anonymous information. This time they had been able to act on it fast.

  “Doubtless, it was one of your ‘friends’ back in Moscow. We are still tracing them, but thanks to Nerchenko’s confession, I don’t think we should have too much trouble.

  “Comrade Stalin does not like men who show . . . initiative,” Shlemov said. “But then, your plan Archangel wasn’t just for the good of the state, was it, Comrade Marshal? What would you have done when Comrade Stalin failed to support your plan?”

  “We would have had him killed,” Krilov said.

  “Thank you, Krilov. I didn’t think you of all people would be so co-operative,” he said sarcastically. “I always find a forced confession a most unattractive procedure, most unattractive.” He let his gaze fall on Nerchenko for a moment. “So what this all amounts to is a coup d’état, even if it is one that has been hatched by amateurs. Did you ever seriously think it would work?”

  “The attack was scheduled for dawn tomorrow. Thousands of tanks, artillery, and aircraft, not to mention millions of men would have pushed Russia’s enemies off the face of this continent. Do you call that amateur?” There were tears of frustration in Krilov’s eyes.

  “Kolya, do not give him the pleasure,” Shaposhnikov said softly.

  Shlemov’s eyes lit up. “Comrade Marshal, it is so good of you to contribute to our little conversation. I was just coming to your true motives for hatching up this plan.”

  “I was doing my duty.”

  “So, you took it upon yourself to undertake this crusade, a full-scale attack on the British and the Americans as well as the fascists.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Comrade Stalin in the Kremlin has gone soft on us,” Krilov interrupted. He pronounced the word “comrade” with real disdain. “He negotiates with Roosevelt and Churchill; it is he who is the traitor to the ideals of the Revolution, not us. We would have been doing him and Russia a favour.”

  “I see,” Shlemov said. “And I suppose Churchill and Roosevelt would have just sat on their fat behinds while your hydrogen cyanide rained down on their troops in Germany. I presume you gave some thought to their reactions the moment you were to unleash what you have stored at Branodz.”

  “The chemicals were a contingency plan,” Shaposhnikov said, simply. “They were a weapon of last resort.”

  “But if we had used them,” Krilov shouted, “the Allies would have spent days arguing about a response, such are the divisions in their command structure. And by that time we would have been on our way to victory.”

  Shlemov finally lost his temper. “If you had fired just one of those shells, you would have started a chemical weapons exchange that would have turned Europe into a desert. Is that what we have fought so hard to achieve these last four years? Victory will come, but it will take time. The difference between us is that I will live to see it.”

  Shaposhnikov took a step forward. “I doubt it, Shlemov. Archangel was Russia’s last chance for a united continent. You and your kind have ruined the best opportunity we shall ever have of achieving that goal.”

  “Really,” the investigator said dismissively. He was fighting for the upper hand, but Shaposhnikov had stolen the initiative. He was tempted to play his trump card.

  “Yes, really.” Shaposhnikov was cool, full of menace, even when faced with death. “After the war, the Americans will strengthen their position in Europe, you can be sure of that. By the time they are ensconced on the continent, there will be little we can do through military action to remove them.”

  “And what do you think
the Americans and the British would have done if you ever made it to the Channel ports? Just sit there and wait for you to go away? They would have come back in force.”

  Shaposhnikov shook his head. “The stupidity of the NKVD,” he said slowly. “Just because we are not politicians do you think we had not thought the whole thing through? We had plans to negotiate a buffer zone. Our forces would have moved back to the Rhine, the Red Army remaining behind the river so long as no British and American troops ever crossed the Channel. We would have let communism take its natural course in France and the Low Countries. If the Allies behaved themselves we would have even released their POWs on a piecemeal basis to let them finish off the Japanese.”

  Malenkoy saw the logic of Archangel strike home with Shlemov, despite the investigator’s attempts to hide it.

  Across the clearing, Nerchenko’s groaning reached a crescendo. A momentary twitch of irritation appeared at the corner of the investigator’s left eye, then he cut the air with his hand, a swift final gesture.

  Malenkoy tried not to watch, but he could not tear himself away from the awful spectacle of Nerchenko stretched out on his stomach, with one soldier standing on his hands, while the other dug a foot into the small of his back. As Nerchenko wriggled in desperation, the soldier applied more pressure onto his back. Then he drew back the bolt of his Sudayev, flicked the switch to single-fire and shot Nerchenko through the back of the head.

  “Thus ended the lives of Badunov and Vorontin, also,” Shlemov said dramatically, the shot still echoing through the forest.

  Krilov lunged for the investigator, but took no more than a pace before a guard crashed a rifle butt down on his head, sending him sprawling at Shlemov’s feet.

  “Archangel would have given Russia everything she could have wanted,” Krilov muttered defiantly, as he struggled back on to his feet. “An impregnable divide between us and the capitalists, without bartering anything. But Stalin had to do worthless deals and betray us all. Comrade Shaposhnikov would have made him pay with our plan.”