The End of the Third Reich

by Nick Cook

  He ran to the driver’s side of the tractor, aware that people were sprinting for the shelters around him. He engaged the single gear of the Scheuschlepper and rammed the unconscious driver’s foot against the pedal. The machine jumped forward and headed off at speed, relieved of the weight of the plane, across the grassland that lay between the taxiing strip and the runway.

  Kruze had already discarded his coat and had one foot in the spring-loaded step on the Arado’s nose by the time the tractor was clear of the aircraft. Then he was on top of the fuselage, pulling at the pilot entry hatch. It gave with a lurch and flopped open on its hinge. He took one more look around him, spotted a Meteor sweeping low across the runway shooting a sustained burst of 20mm fire into another row of Ar 234s, and wondered how long it would be before they found his aircraft, tucked away in the shade of the hangar, while the world seemed to be exploding around him.

  Then he swung his body into the cockpit and pulled down the clear cover, locking it shut over his head.

  As he let his eyes race over the instrument panel, wondering where the hell he was going to begin, he heard the sound of shrapnel raining down from the sky on to the aircraft’s skin.

  * * * * * * * *

  Herries and Hartmann were the last to step inside the hangar. No sooner had the access hatch swung shut behind them when the shockwaves from the exploding Arado and the scream of Meteor engines buffeted the building. The Gestapo officer’s face flushed with anger.

  Then, over the noise of turbojets and cannon fire outside, he heard the wailing behind him.

  Herries was on his knees, hands clamped over his ears, his face like a death mask.

  A burst of cannon fire punctured the corrugated iron side of the hangar as if it was paper, destroying two aircraft that had been in there for maintenance. When Hartmann looked back he saw that Giesecke and the other two soldiers lay dead.

  He pulled himself to his feet and only then felt the searing pain from the hot shrapnel that had cut a swathe through his thigh. He dismissed it as he dragged Herries towards the door.

  “We must get out,” he shouted over the infernal din of aircraft exploding outside. “Your RAF pilot is not in here. We must look for him in the next hangar and to hell with those buzzards up there.”

  Herries’ arms flailed so wildly that Hartmann thought he would have to lash out to bring him under control. “Don’t you see, Hartmann? This is the attack, the diversion, that has been laid on for him. You’ve left it too late. We have to get to the shelters, or those things will destroy us all.”

  Hartmann battled to control his rage. The man that Herries called Kruze was still within reach. But where?

  He pushed Herries through the little access doorway on to the concrete apron. Buildings burnt in the distance, mechanics lay dead in front of them, cut down by 20mm fire as they ran to the shelters. One of the two Heinkels that had been left outside the hangars smouldered away, its back broken. The other by some miracle had escaped untouched, but Hartmann knew that it would present an inviting target for the RAF aircraft on their next pass.

  Across the runway, some of the bombers of the resident Kampfgeschwader blazed ferociously, their fuel tanks split by gunfire, while others were in the midst of their death throes, sending incandescent showers of exploding ammunition into the air, or launching brilliant, multicoloured fireballs up against the dawn sky as their RATO bottles blew up.

  Herries’ mind was numb with fear. The jet sound. The culmination of every nightmare that he had had over the last five years, it bathed him in sweat and left him feeling weak and sick, unable to move.

  Hartmann’s mind raced, shutting off the pain. The intruder pilot, if he was of the mettle Herries had described, would be searching out an aircraft, perhaps already be in one. Yet, wherever he looked, the bombers lay burning or wrecked. His eyes streamed from the smoke that drifted across the airfield.

  Through the chaos he watched in fascination as a little tractor, its driver slumped over the wheel, bounced over the grass beyond the furthest hangar, until it ran over a pothole and tipped on its side, two wheels spinning furiously in the air.

  His eyes traced its path back through the smoke and it was then that he spotted the mottled bomber, in the lee of the far hangar about two hundred metres away, its camouflage rendering it almost invisible against the mountains beyond.

  He lurched towards the Arado. Its nose pointed tantalizingly away from him so that he could not see whether it was manned. His leg gave way. As the pain redoubled, he turned to Herries and pressed a gun up against his temple. “You’re my crutch,” he shouted. “Get me to that bomber if it’s the last thing you do.”

  The port turbojet of the Arado burst into life with a belch of smoke from its jetpipe. Ignoring the Meteors that prowled above, Hartmann screamed at Herries to make more speed.

  * * * * * * * *

  Kruze’s hands danced over the controls as he fought to remember the start-up procedure of the German turbojet from his flights in the Me 262 back at Farnborough.

  As his feet slid on to the rudder bar pedals, his gaze rested firmly on the port RPM gauge on the right-hand side of the main control panel, which lay directly in front of him. He snatched a quick look over his left shoulder and was relieved to see that the counter was not lying. A steady stream of hot gases poured from the exhaust pipe of the port-side Junkers Jumo 004B axial turbojet as the revs crept up to 800 rpm.

  He cursed the rigmarole of the jet ignition process, but reminded himself that to short-cut would be to invite the disaster he feared most, a catastrophic turbine failure, either there and then, or worse, when - if - he got airborne.

  Thanking God that the engine ignition sequence appeared identical to that on the Messerschmitt jet fighter, he watched as the rev needle inched up to the 800 rpm mark, then the moment it passed the magic figure, his left hand darted to the throttle lever, found the button he had prayed was there beneath the knob, and pressed down on it with his thumb. Within the bowels of the Jumo, fuel squirted into the main engine until full ignition was maintained. Keeping his thumb clamped on the fuel-inject button, he dipped the low-reading rev counter again with his right index finger and groaned with dismay when he realized that the revs were only up to the 1200 mark, with possibly another thirty seconds to go before the Jumo reached the pre flight-idle rating of 2500 rpm.

  With Oberammergau’s destruction being played out beyond the Plexiglass dome, his right hand raced across the panel, pushed the starboard engine starter motor lever forward for three seconds, priming it into life, before pulling it backwards. The bang of the Riedel two-stroke ignition was instantaneous. He whispered another oath about the fragility of the turbine blades and then danced his finger back to the low-reading starboard engine rev counter, watching as it, too, nudged towards 800.

  With his left thumb aching like hell, stuck to the port fuel-inject button, he checked the corresponding gauge and gave a smile as the needle hit 2500.

  Shit! He suddenly remembered the throttles. Exerting forward pressure with his left hand, he advanced the throttle for the port engine until the lever slipped into its idling gate. He wanted to mop the sweat that trickled from his hairline into his eyes, but knew that to let his hands deviate now would be to throw him out of synch, destroy the concentration that he had to maintain.

  Satisfied that the tempo of the port engine was right, despite his delay with the throttle, his right hand clicked off the starter motor lever, then came across to the throttle gate and switched on the fuel cock. Seeing the “on” signal flash on the indicator panel, he left the switch and dipped the rev counter button once again to check on the status of the port engine. With a yell of satisfaction, he watched it hit 3000 rpm, the speed at which it could idle safely.

  Once he had both of them at 3000, he could start taxiing and get the hell out of there.

  Putting half his efforts into getting the starboard engine to the same state of readiness as his left-side powerplant, he pulled his seat straps ov
er his shoulder and managed to click the connectors home in between attending to the functions of the Jumo. He checked the low-reading rev counter once more and saw it pass 1500 just as the aircraft was buffeted from an explosion that ripped through the Ju 52 he had seen earlier, parked on the other side of the apron.

  He braced himself for the patter of the hot metal fragments that would rain down on the aircraft, wincing as he thought of the irreparable damage that would occur if just one of the pieces from the Ju 52 was sucked into the inlet of a Jumo.

  He heard the tinkle of aluminium hail on the Arado’s skin.

  A crack like a whiplash almost stopped his heart. He saw the silver trace etched across the Plexiglass. His mind was already telling him that it could not have come from the explosion that had torn the Junkers apart when the second bullet ricocheted off the canopy.

  He twisted in his seat and looked back over his right shoulder to see the civilian in the long overcoat, propped up by Herries, firing wildly with his automatic.

  They were fifty feet behind and to the side of the aircraft. Herries, a manic expression on his face, was holding the coat that Kruze had thrown to the ground before clambering into the Arado and pointing triumphantly to it.

  The other man pushed Herries aside, tried to take a step forward, and fell, the pistol clattering across the concrete. The last thing Kruze saw before he turned frantically back to his instruments was the angry blood stain on the civilian’s trouser leg.

  Shouting his fury at the traitor, Kruze flicked the rev counter. The needle was still too low, not yet at 2000 revs. He fought the urge to watch the scene off his starboard wing tip; there was still too much to do in the cockpit.

  2000 rpm. He pushed the right throttle to the idle detent, all his effort keeping his left thumb on the fuel-inject button just beneath the top of the lever.

  He shut down the Riedel starter and looked outside.

  The civilian had Herries by the lapels, was pulling his ear to his mouth, shouting over the turbojets. He pointed to the gun, lying six feet across the apron, then to the aircraft.

  Kruze tore his eyes away and reached over to the fuel cock, pushing the right hand one forward to the “on” position.

  The low-reading rev counter gave him 2500 rpm. His sweat-soaked thumb slipped rather than eased off the fuel-inject button.

  He looked up to see that Herries had run directly in front of him, and was now standing not six feet from the nose of the bomber. The traitor’s mouth was wide open, all sound drowned by the whine of the Jumos’ compressors as they spooled up. Kruze’s eyes remained locked on Herries, even when the traitor levelled the Walther at him and squeezed off two shots, both of which easily glanced off the armoured Plexiglass. But if Herries moved round to the side where the glass was weaker, or if he put a shot into the engine inlets . . .

  His nervous glance to the starboard engine betrayed his thoughts.

  Herries saw the look, suddenly realized why the Rhodesian just sat there with his engines running, but did not move the aircraft. He turned from the engine to Kruze, smiled and raised the Walther level with the inlet.

  Kruze could not possibly have heard the click of the empty chamber. He merely saw the look of frustration on the traitor’s face. His eyes darted from Herries to the rev-counter and back again. He saw the solution register on Herries’ face, the hand with the pistol raised in the throwing position, the careful aim for the inlet, the triumphant smile on the lips . . .

  3000 rpm.

  Bang. He shoved the throttles forward as far as they would go without causing the engines to flame out.

  Before Herries could bring his throwing arm down, he sensed the lurch of the bomber. He tried to move, but he was caught completely off balance and the Arado’s nose gave him a glancing blow to the side of the head. He fell full-length and lay frozen for an agonizing, hysterical split second as he watched the Arado’s nosewheel loom over his body.

  21000 lbs of pressure crushed the traitor’s pelvis and his testicles to pulp in the same moment. Herries screamed, the noise rising to a howl, audible even above the engines, as the wheel trundled over his chest, splintering his ribs. Every last gulp of air was squeezed from his lungs, the vocal cords rattling until the wheel flattened his face.

  Kruze felt little more than a bump as the Arado moved forward. His mind focused on the task ahead. He eased back on the throttles, making sure that the limiting jetpipe temperature of 6500 centigrade was not exceeded. He looked down to his rev-counters, saw both needles pass 6000 rpm and felt the slight change in engine tempo as the governors cut in. Now the aircraft could be handled with a little less caution.

  He looked out, dipping the brakes with toe action on the rudder bars to line the aircraft up on the main runway, thankful that the smoke from the burning aircraft on the other side of the field shielded him from the marauders above.

  He turned the aircraft onto the runway, set flaps to twenty-five degrees, scanning the instruments once more before opening up the engines to 8500 rpm. He almost stood on the brakes, felt the power of the aircraft as it strained to go, pushed the power setting up a little more, taking the revs to 8700, quickly checked fuel and burner pressure, plus the jetpipe temperature and then pulled his toes off the pedals.

  The Arado shot down the runway like a wild mustang. Suddenly remembering the RATO bottles, he scanned the panel for the switch, found it and punched it home. There was a second kick as the rockets cut in, ramming him back into his seat.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a Meteor sweeping along the edge of the airfield, then bank tightly to try and get its guns to bear, but he knew he was already in the clear. Once in the air he could give the fighters the signal that proved it was him at the controls.

  He pulled the bomber off the runway at 225 kph and pulled in the flaps a few seconds later. Then he hit the RATO jettison button and felt the aircraft buck a little, as the rocket packs fell away from the wing-tips. He leant forward, spotted the undercarriage selector and pushed it forward, hearing the clunk of all three wheels as they locked into the belly of the aircraft.

  Suddenly he was out of the smoke and pulling up into the clear dawn sky. He checked the periscope mirror, saw a gaggle of Meteors about a mile behind him, and carefully moved the horns of his control column from right to left and back again.

  The Arado’s wings responded to his touch, waggling easily and obviously.

  The sign that would call them off.

  He settled back in his seat, felt the sweat for the first time soaking his clothes, and banked the jet bomber to the north-east.

  * * * * * * * *

  Fleming pulled up to one thousand feet and held the Meteor in a tight bank over Oberammergau, searching for signs of life below the smoke that hung like a blanket above the airfield.

  His first thought was for his fellow pilots. He had seen one of the six Meteors go down, the aircraft taking a direct hit from a 37mm Fliegerabwehrkanone mounted on a tower at the edge of the base. The fiery trail described by the fighter as it ploughed from two hundred feet into the forest beyond the runway still left a scar across his vision. He blinked again, trying to rid himself of it, but the memory stuck with him.

  His second was for Kruze. If the Rhodesian had been down there, there was no chance now of him fulfilling his mission. Before the smoke of their strafing run closed in over the airfield, Fleming had witnessed the lines of broken fighter-bombers at their dispersal points on the edge of the runway, in the lee of the woods. There were no more Arados left at Oberammergau, Staverton could have that in his report when he returned to Stabitz.

  “Wolf leader to Wolfpack,” he spoke into his mask, “break off and head for home. Breakfast time.” An empty feeling inside. Was Kruze down there, looking up at them and wondering what the hell they were playing at? More likely he was rotting in a Gestapo jail, waiting for another bout with the interrogator, or lying dead in a Munich backstreet.

  Five replies came back over his headset. Four acknowledg
ements.

  One warning. A young pilot’s voice, vibrant, excited.

  “Wolf leader, there’s one of them lifting off now, pulling up through the smoke, off your rear starboard quarter. Christ, the cheeky bastard’s waggling his wings at us. Thinks he’s got away with it. Can I take a pot at him?”

  “No! I have to be sure!”

  “Sure? Of what? It’s got bloody great black crosses on it!” Bewilderment and frustration in the young fighter pilot’s voice. Because of the change in plan there had been no need to tell them about Kruze. How could they understand what he, Fleming, was feeling now?

  Fleming strained over his shoulder for a look. The Arado was clearly visible, soaring above the pall of destruction, wings rocking gently in the early morning sunlight.

  He watched the wings a moment too long, willing the lateral motion to be the result of some terrible coincidence, a turbulent updraught from the airfield, or a gust of wind off the mountains beyond.

  The signal. As clear as day. Kruze.

  He peeled the Meteor off in the direction of the Arado, pushing the throttles to the stops. Despite the range of the German aircraft, a good two miles away from him by now, he still had a height advantage and, while the Arado was still climbing, a little extra speed.

  He dipped the transmit button. “Get back to base, Wolfpack. This one’s mine.”

  He could still catch him. Had to catch him. Branodz was only thirty minutes’ flight time away and Kruze was heading straight for it, three bombs strapped under his wings. 3000 lbs of high explosive that would rip through the Alpine headquarters of the architect of Archangel, turning it into matchwood, then plough on into the compound beyond, where the chemical weapons were stored.