by Nick Cook
“Leave that damned dog alone and move the car to the secure compound,” Giesecke ordered. “I’m taking them down over to the command post.”
“What command post?” Herries asked, pulling Giesecke round to face him. “What’s wrong with the phone in the guardroom?”
“It does not work, Herr Obersturmführer. You know how it is these days, nothing works anymore.”
“Careful Giesecke,” Herries warned.
The Obergefreiter led the way towards a long bank topped with small pines that was positioned between the guardroom and the perimeter fence. It was only when they got close to it that Kruze realized that the command post was a huge semi-submerged block-house covered with turf and vegetation to make it seem part of the landscape. Giesecke ran down a small flight of steps and tugged at an immense iron door, which opened slowly, its hinges groaning in protest. The smell of paraffin and the sweat of frightened men seeped into the night. A low-wattage bulb dangled from the ceiling near the entrance.
Giesecke ushered them inside. Bunks, stacked four-high from the floor to the concrete ceiling of the immense room, overflowed with men. Some slept with their rifles, panzerfausts and grenades held tightly to their bodies, others stared back at the intruders with eyes filled with terror at the prospect of the flight that lay before them.
“We have been ordered by the OKL to hold Oberammergau to the last man,” the Obergefreiter said. “They say it is worth the sacrifice.”
“And so it is,” Herries said, pulling himself together. “But unless you get me authorization to enter the base this minute, you, for one, will not live to see the first American soldier come down that road.”
Giesecke’s face twitched. He walked through the makeshift dormitory, stepping over the exhausted, filthy bodies that made up Oberammergau’s garrison. He entered a corridor that led off the main room of the block-house, paused by a door half-way along, knocked, listened and walked in. Herries and Kruze followed.
Kruze knew the name of the man who raised his head from the table in the middle of the room, because he had read the plate on the door. Hauptmann Udo Philipp looked up at Giesecke, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and most of the contents of the bottle by his elbow, then glanced across to Kruze and Herries. The latter’s uniform prompted him to raise an eyebrow, but nothing more. The Hauptmann’s blond hair fell forlornly over his forehead and there was at least three days’ stubble on his face. Once, Philipp had been a great man, Kruze could tell. The Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves showed above the frayed collar of his grey Luftwaffe tunic.
There was the chink of bottle on glass as Philipp took a refill from the brandy bottle. When he looked back to Giesecke, the corporal was standing rigidly to attention, his eyes focused on the crooked picture of the Führer behind the garrison commander’s back. Philipp waved a hand theatrically and Giesecke stood at ease.
“This is either an American’s idea of disguise, or the Gestapo come to get me,” Philipp laughed manically, pointing a shaking finger at Kruze. “Why else would you bring him here, Giesecke?” he asked, slurring the corporal’s name. The Rhodesian suddenly felt sticky under his two layers of clothing, but he stared back at the captain, willing Herries to take the upper hand.
“He’s a Rumanian,” Giesecke said, embarrassed at his officer’s behaviour in front of the SS. “And this is his escort, SS-Obersturmführer Herries.
“So what do they want here?”
“They say they are authorized to enter the base. I need to use your phone to obtain clearance from the station kommandant, Herr Hauptmann. We have nothing on them.”
Kruze saw Herries look rapidly from the telephone on the table to the husk of a man behind it and saw what was going through his mind. Before the Hauptmann could react, Herries made his move, pushing the corporal out of the way as he moved across the room. In one fluid move he pulled the Hauptmann out of his chair, sending the table flying, the bottle and the telephone with it. If Philipp wanted to put a call through to the base commander, he would not be using the telephone in his office any more, Kruze thought. It lay in pieces on the floor, its wires covered with broken glass and alcohol.
“I have orders to get this man, an important emissary of the Rumanian Government, on a flight to Bucharest, and from this base.” Herries grabbed the papers from Giesecke and shoved them under Philipp’s nose. “So far, I have had nothing but sloppy excuses. I take one look at you, Philipp, and I know why.”
The Hauptmann tried to shake the drowsiness from his head. “There has been no authorization from Berlin . . .”
Herries pressed the forged documents up against the man’s face. “This order has come direct from Abteilung 13, which I should not have to remind you is the special operations department of the OKL. If you were not informed about this development, then I suggest it is because they could not trust you with the information.”
“But this is a fighter-bomber station,” Philipp protested.
“I don’t care if it’s a three-ring circus,” Herries shouted. “In under an hour a Junkers transport is due to land here. Five minutes later it will leave with him on it - or you face the consequences.”
Philipp looked down at the remains of his telephone and the shards of glass surrounding it and sighed. “Take them over to flight operations,” he said to Giesecke.
“That won’t be necessary,” Herries said, trying to hide his elation. “We will find our own way. I am sure you need all the help you can get when the Americans arrive and that Giesecke, here, will be only too happy to lead the counterattack that will repel the enemy from the airfield.”
“So be it,” Philipp murmured. “Now just get out of here.”
Herries and Kruze left Giesecke staring into the dazed, drunken face of the field regiment officer. They picked their way carefully through the dormitory, trying not to hurry. They reached the reinforced door, put their weight against it and stepped out into what was left of the night.
* * * * * * * *
Udo Philipp sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette, taking the smoke down deep into his lungs to try and eradicate the pang he felt at the loss of the precious bottle. When he looked up, Giesecke was gone. The spot he had vacated was filled instead by the tall man with the steel-rimmed glasses who had been waiting since the previous evening in the room across the corridor for the staff car that was due to take him back to Berlin.
“I am sure that your car will be here at any moment, Herr Hartmann,” the Luftwaffe captain said in a voice that showed he didn’t really care about anything much any more.
“Never mind that,” the other man said. “What was the name of that SS officer in this room just now?”
Philipp went through a pretence of racking his booze-filled brains, watching the smoke of his cigarette curl lazily up towards the ceiling of his office. If it wasn’t the SS who were giving him a difficult time at Oberammergau, it was the Gestapo. Neither caused him fear any more. How could they when the Americans were so close?
“It was Herries, I think,” he said.
“As I thought,” the Gestapo man nodded, satisfied. “An unusual name, too, don’t you think? And yet I know it from somewhere. Now why should that be?”
“I can’t think, Herr Hartmann,” Philipp said.
“Herries . . . Herries,” Hartmann mused softly. “It is a name I heard recently, two days ago, when I was in Berlin.” He moved over to the table. “He is wanted for something, I am sure of it. Art theft, perhaps. No, something else. Damn it! I can’t remember. Where’s your phone? I must try to get through to Berlin.”
The Hauptmann pointed to the floor. “Broken. He did it, too, the son of a bitch. There’s another one down the corridor, though, in the stores room. Perhaps ...”
But Hartmann had already gone, stumbling across the bodies that filled every piece of available floor space in the block-house. He ignored the curses of the men whose fingers he crushed under foot, not resting until he found the store-room. It was pitifully em
pty of weapons and provisions, but it did still have a telephone on the far wall.
He had come to Bavaria on the special orders of the Reichsführer-SS to make a whistle-stop inspection of the frontline forces under Field Marshal Schörner, paying particular attention to the morale of the troops. He would
shortly convey the results to Himmler, confirming that the spirit of the troops had never been better and that the Americans would surely be repulsed. There was, after all, no point in telling him the truth.
Herries had him intrigued, though. He knew that name. For the life of him, he could not remember what offence it was the man had committed. There were so many things to take care of these days and his memory wasn’t what it used to be.
He picked up the phone and fought for a connection to Berlin. Five minutes later and he was through to the headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence wing of the SS, and asked to be put in touch with the records office, if it hadn’t been flattened by the Allied bombing.
They slipped through the trees surrounding the block-house and onto the road that led from the gate into the heart of the base. The Rhodesian looked at his watch. It had taken them half an hour to get through security and yet Herries, despite his bravado, seemed to have aged ten years. He wondered what it would take for the man to crack.
Kruze’s sense of familiarity with the place returned. It was something carried to him on the wind. And then he had it, the tang of aviation spirit injected into a combustion chamber and blown out through a jet engine as hot, powerful thrust.
“They’re here,” he whispered.
“Who, flyboy?”
“Not who, what. Smell the air.”
Herries raised his nose to the wind.
“That’s burnt jet fuel,” Kruze said. “It means the Arados are here -”
Before he had finished, they heard it. Almost imperceptible at first, the sound reached Herries’ ears as the cry of a creature of the forest which surrounded them. Then it became a high-pitched, endless scream. Kruze grinned at him, but saw only fear on the traitor’s face.
“Jet engine,” Kruze said, his own fears forgotten. “We’re in business.”
“That is the jet sound?” Herries asked. His face showed white against the darkness and the dryness of his mouth meant the words did not come easily.
“They’re testing their engines.”
“You sound very sure, flyboy.”
“I am. The Luftwaffe uses its Arados in ones and twos, rarely for concerted strikes as we would. Fleming’s lot have been watching this base for some time and they’ve seen the pattern. Sometimes they operate by night, but things really start to happen at dawn.” He gestured towards the runway. “That means they’re warming up for the day. Now all I need is some top-cover from those Meteors, some chaos to allow me to get onto the apron and slip into an aircraft undetected.’ He paused before adding ruefully, “And some time to sit in the cockpit and find out how the bloody thing works.”
They reached a junction in the road. At first Kruze thought that the expanse of concrete running left to right in front of him was another track leading into the base complex, but it was too wide. It had to be the taxiing strip, parallel to the main runway.
There was a sudden crunch of gears behind them and a truck lumbered out of the mist. Kruze’s instinct was to run for cover, but Herries grabbed his arm and ushered him towards a group of low buildings just visible away to their left.
“It’s too late to hide. We have to look like we know where we’re heading, like we belong here. So move this way - and don’t run.”
The lorry ground past, the driver hardly giving them a second glance.
“Where now?” Herries asked. He had to speak up to be heard over the engine noise as more Jumo turbojets tuned in across the other side of the airfield.
Kruze gestured to his civilian clothes. “I’ve got to find a place where I can get out of these and lie low till the Meteors do their stuff.” He looked up at the rapidly lightening sky to the east. “Before long I’m going to stand out like a beacon. I need to blend in with the Luftwaffe. How long do you think we’ve got before someone raises the alarm?”
“If that drunken idiot in the bunker can find another bottle, you may just get away with it. If he sobers up, has second thoughts and sends someone over to flight operations to look for us . . . well, your guess is as good as mine, flyboy. It could happen any time.”
They reached the corner of a long hut, which looked as if it could be a barracks. Kruze imagined he could hear the sound of pilots inside stirring for another day bombing the American forward positions. He pulled Herries round to the back of the building and crouched down beneath one of the windows, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper.
“It’s time for you to make your move, Herries. There’s nothing more you can do here.”
Herries’ eyes shone in the half-light. “The word,” he whispered. “Give me the code word.”
For a moment, Kruze was tempted to make Herries stew.
“ ‘Traitor’s gate’,” he said. “I don’t know why.”
Herries cocked his head, looking for signs of deception.
“That’s it. Now go!”
“Perhaps I should stay to guard my investment, after all...”
“In the forest you were king.” The Rhodesian paused to look around him. “But this is where I take over. So, run, curl up in your hiding-place and wait for -”
There was a sudden movement at the window above their heads. The black-out curtain parted and Herries saw the blurred face, heard the squeak of finger against glass as condensation was rubbed from the pane, then the curse as the bitter cold worked its way into the Arado pilot’s flesh. Herries flattened himself against the wall, frozen still, until the curtain closed and the danger was past.
When he turned round, the Rhodesian was gone.
* * * * *
Herries moved back towards the gate, irritation with Kruze turning swiftly to anger. Somehow he felt cheated. The show was over for him, the curtain had come down too soon. He had wanted more, a bigger part to play, a more testing role.
As he skirted the bunker and approached the guardroom, he saw the Mercedes parked between two Kubelwagens in the compound. He peered into the car and cursed when he saw the keys missing. Then he remembered Giesecke’s order to the young private with the Alsatian. They were probably hanging on a wall in the warmth of the guardroom.
He pushed the door open, letting it swing slowly on its hinges. The private looked up, anxiety, perhaps even fear, in his eyes; the dog snarled a low warning from its place by the cast iron stove in the corner.
“Do I look like the enemy to you, boy?” The tone was relaxed, but the private sprang to his feet.
“No, sir. I mean, I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. His voice was barely broken and, to Herries, it sounded almost angelic.
“Where’s Giesecke?”
“I don’t know, sir.” A blond forelock fell across the private’s eyes; he brushed it away, self-consciously, still standing to attention.
Herries kicked the door shut and moved over to the stove, then looked slowly around him. The private’s rifle was propped up against the far wall, next to a panzerfaust. A tin mug of ersatz coffee steamed away on top of the stove, its pungent aroma filling the room. The soldier watched Herries cautiously out of the corner of his eye, his gaze darting from the sharp, aquiline features of the officer’s face, to the SS flashes on his lapel and the death’s head badge on the peak of his cap.
“Sit down,” Herries said, motioning to the chair. “Tell me, do I frighten you?”
The private’s face twisted in confusion. He did not know what it was that the officer wanted to hear.
“Or is it merely the proximity of the Americans that is making you feel uneasy?”
“They do not scare me,” the private said. It was then that Herries noticed he was shivering.
He moved from the stove and stood in front of the private. A tingling sensa
tion spread across his back and shoulders. He felt strangely excited, dominant, alive. He reached out and touched the soldier’s cheek. The boy flinched, but held his gaze.
“I need a driver,” Herries said, smiling. “I could ensure that you are many kilometres from here by the time the Americans arrive. No one here will question my order.”
The boy tried to get up, but Herries moved closer, pinning him to the chair. The dog’s lip curled in a low growl.
Herries heard the footsteps outside momentarily too late. By the time he could react, the door had already swung wide open. A tall, bespectacled man in a raincoat stood in the frame, with Giesecke and two other Field Regiment troops behind him.
Hartmann pointed his Walther P38 at Herries’ chest.
For an instant Herries was too stunned to move, but then pulled himself together. “What is this insubordination! Who are you and why the hell are you pointing that weapon at me? When I get back to Berlin -”
“You will be shot there as a deserter and a traitor,” Hartmann said, slipping from the doorway, the movement covered by the three soldiers behind him, his Walther levelled now at Herries’ head.
“There is no time for pathetic jokes,” Herries said. “I asked you for your name.”
“My name’s Hartmann, Herries,” the Gestapo investigator said, exposing a row of jagged, yellowing teeth. “Oh, how careless of me, I should really have addressed you by your full title, Obersturmführer Christian Herries, late of the Britische Freikorps.”
Herries felt the bile rising in the back of his throat, but he managed a harsh, guttural laugh. “Britische Freikorps? It sounds like a Gestapo fantasy to me. I take it you are Gestapo, Hartmann.”
“Your accent is flawless and your papers are good, Giesecke tells me, but SD records in Berlin tell a different story.” He clicked his fingers. “Obergefreiter, disarm this man and take him to the block-house.”
Hartmann took his eyes off his captive for only a moment, but it was enough for Herries to pull his automatic from his holster and point it unerringly at the spot where Hartmann’s thick, greasy eyebrows joined on his forehead.
