‘Precisely - at this stage of the war.’ Simon had yet to get over the shock that his friend was in charge here, and he was still angry. ‘You said it. Do you have any real idea what’s happening outside?’
‘No. I rarely get the chance to leave the factory. Most of the staff are quartered here and sleep underground. So how is our splendid war going?’
‘I reckon we have no more than two or at the most three months left, if what I hear is true.’ Max looked at him, leaned forward in his seat and dropped his voice to a whisper.
‘The Russians are not far from Berlin, and the Americans are on the Rhine, if not already beyond. This place is going to be over-run soon. Do you want to get caught in command? I don’t think the Allies will look kindly on this sort of operation, or anybody associated with it.’
‘But what can I do?’ Hartmann grunted in exasperation. ‘I can’t just disappear on my own, not in my position. Where would I go? And what about Elke and the girls?’
‘They’ll be alright. From what I’m told, the country’s about to break up anyway, and you’ll have as much a chance as any.’
Hartmann snorted in derision. ‘Will they? Max, that’s easy for you to say, but I don’t think I can take that sort of chance with their lives. I wouldn’t put it past them to keep Elke and the house under observation, just to keep me sweet. They’re all I care about now. Besides, I’m watched much too closely. So will you be for that matter, especially whenever you visit here.’ He raised his voice. ‘By the way, I haven’t forgotten that letter confirming your appointment, after Ohlendorff was reassigned elsewhere. Who is this Schellenberg character anyway? I’ve never heard of him before. He must have some clout to get you assigned to both here and the Panzer Training School at Sondershausen. I need to-‘.
There was a knock on the door and in walked Hartmann’s secretary with a tray bearing two mugs of coffee. Despite the rather severe uniform and military hairstyle, there was no doubt that this woman was a stunner.
‘Thank you, Barbara.’ She smiled pleasantly, turned and left the room. Simon noted that Hartmann’s gaze lingered lasciviously on the shapely profile as the door closed. Hartmann winked and said, ‘see what I mean? Very pretty but just a little too willing, even if you disregard my legendary charm. I’m sure she reports secretly to Prinz Albrecht Strasse. As I was saying, who is this Schellenberg?’
‘He’s in charge of Military Intelligence. I work for him now. He arranged my transfer here to keep an eye on things.’
‘Well, Max, much as it’s good to see you again, there’s very little for you to do here. Ohlendorff took care of virtually all aspects of security. So tell me the real reason why you’re here.’
Simon paused for a moment. So far their conversation had not touched on anything too incriminating, but now they were moving onto much more dangerous ground. ‘It might be a better idea to discuss this outside,’ he said in a low voice, looking warily around the room as if the walls had ears.
‘That’s fine by me. I need some fresh air, anyway. Finish your coffee, and let’s move.’
In a few minutes both of them emerged from the main tunnel entrance, wrapped up warmly against the chill. The guards stationed at the factory entrance hurried up to salute, but Hartmann peremptorily waved them off and led the way into the trees. By now the sun was even higher in the pale sky, but the day was still blue with cold. After a few minutes Hartmann reached a small clearing in the pines.
‘I think we’ll be safe enough here. You better tell me what’s on your mind.’
Simon hesitated for a few moments. He would need Hartmann’s help if any sabotage was going to take place inside the factory. There was little else he could do but hope that his trust would not be misplaced. Another worry flashed across his brain. Was Hartmann under some form of duress he could not talk about? It would be worth finding out. Maybe Schellenberg could help?
Quickly he related all the information that Schellenberg passed on to him, watching as the shock and realization spread across his friend’s face. ‘That heavily guarded entrance at the far end of Tunnel B must be where they’re doing the work on all those secret biological weapons. I’m not surprised that entrance is strictly controlled and only open to those who really need to be there. Is there any way you can get me a pass?’
Hartmann shook his head, evidently stunned at the news. ‘No. As I said, they’re all strictly controlled. Nobody gets in there unless there’s an overwhelming requirement to do so. Ohlendorff made that an absolute priority. Maybe you might get in there because you’re the new security adviser, but probably no more than once. Any more than that and you’d most likely need authorization, almost certainly from Himmler himself.’
‘Alright, point taken, but will you help me?’ Simon looked at his friend searchingly, scanning for the slightest sign of hesitation, or even worse. ‘I seem to remember a speech of yours at that hospital, something about putting an end to all the madness we’ve had to go through over the last six years, something about getting even with those corrupt bastards at the top. Do you still feel the same way?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Hartmann returned his look steadily, then sighed and looked away. After a while he continued in a soft, low voice. ‘I remember what I said, though maybe a lot of it was hot air said in the heat of the moment… Perhaps there was some delayed shock from losing this leg.’ He stood silent for several minutes, gazing at the endless ranks of trees that stretched away into the distance. ‘But if I help, then the timing has got to be absolutely accurate. If you want to destroy these rockets and their lethal payload, and coincidentally save millions, then the best time would be to strike just before they’re ready to be railed out- before they leave the factory. The big question is, when will the weapons be ready, and if so will Himmler decide to use them?’
‘I don’t think we can afford to wait for him to make up his mind. You’ve got to find out and let me know.’
‘I’ll do what I can. How are you going to destroy them?’
‘I haven’t worked that one out yet,’ Simon said. ‘But I’m sure I’ll think of something.’
Near Schernberg, Thüringen area, Germany, 0715 16/3/1945
It was freezing - brass monkey weather. Steele cursed to himself. He shivered repeatedly in the early morning cold. The temperature must be well below zero, he reckoned. He was standing inside the edge of a snow-covered wood, a few yards from a minor road that led north from Schernberg towards Sondershausen. The last few hours had been spent tramping his way along paths through the forests and across open fields, generally heading east until he could get a better idea of where he was. The light broadened only gradually as the early morning sun arose, somewhere above the heavily laden clouds. The landscape was a frozen whiteout of snow that merged into the horizon, with barely discernible difference between earth and sky. The tiny villages he passed through all looked much the same, with very little sign of activity at this ungodly hour - Kleinberndten, Grossberndten, Immenrode, the signs said, but they were of little help in determining his exact position. It was only when he reached Schernberg that the road signs became a little more informative.
The night had not gone exactly as planned, and he was only just getting his bearings. The flight from Northolt in the C-47 transport was cancelled at the last moment, apparently due to irreparable engine problems. Shortly afterwards a car whisked him away to RAF Lakenheath, just inside the Suffolk border, a two hour drive from West London. There a Lancaster bomber was almost ready to go. It was due to take part in a night raid on the Rostock area earlier that night but some minor technical faults had delayed its final readiness, and the rest of the squadron had taken off hours earlier. The bombs had been unloaded and the crew was passing the time, waiting for their new payload.
So there he was, bundled up in a freezing cold recess just aft of the bomb bay, his parachute strapped on his back, waiting for take-off. The flight lieutenant behind the controls briefly welcomed him, pointing out a spot where he could stow himself
and his kitbag and not get in the way. The RAF officer looked as if he had only just left school. But the eyes told a different story. Steele had seen that look many times before - an almost robotic stare into the middle distance, fixed on some undetermined point - a look that had seen too many friends and colleagues die, too many planes shot down. The rest of the crew was much the same. They barely acknowledged him.. Perhaps they were under orders to look the other way and not take too much of an interest in their special cargo, whatever the reason for their altered mission was tonight. He sensed a degree of resentment. Perhaps they were angry and disappointed, when earlier on it looked as if they’d have a night off and not risk yet another brush with death. The end of the war was in sight, yet here they were, risking their necks yet again, on what they called ‘company business’, a relatively polite term that denoted working for the British Government. A brief conference with the navigator confirmed the altered flight plan and destination. Then with a thunderous roar the engines started sequentially and they were off.
The noise was deafening, even with earplugs. The cold was even worse. Steele was wearing a parachute smock and trousers over his uniform, as well as gloves, boots and an SS field service cap, but he was still chilled to the bone. The mission brief, and all the necessary contact information and plan of action, were clear in his mind. He was not particularly tired, but as an old pro he was used to getting his head down at the slightest opportunity. After all, you never knew when the next suitable occasion for sleep might arise, so make the most of any slack time immediately. Eventually, despite the noise and the cold, he managed to drift off…
He was rudely awakened by a hand pummelling his shoulder. It was one of the gunners. Suddenly the Lancaster pitched to the right, followed immediately by a burst of machine gun fire from up near the main cockpit.
‘Enemy night-fighter below us!’ Someone shouted urgently. The gunner ran off towards the front of the aircraft. At that moment there was an ugly tearing and spitting sound as a burst of heavy cannon-fire crashed through the right wing and into the central fuselage. There was an instant scream, followed by a roaring sound. Steele quickly staggered to his feet, braced himself as the Lancaster lurched to the left, and then slowly righted himself. He was about to go forward and try to find out exactly where they were, but the navigator beat him to it. He had staggered back to where Steele lay. He was clutching his right shoulder. Blood was welling through his fingers.
‘Quick!’ He gasped, his face screwed up in pain. ‘We’re over the area, a little west of where you needed to go but-‘.
Another long burst of machine gun fire roared out, interrupting them.
‘What about-‘Steele never finished the sentence.
‘No time for that,’ the man shouted desperately. ‘We’ve lost an engine, maybe two, and any moment now that night-fighter will come back on another pass. Jump!’
The bomb-bay doors were opening, the increased roar and turbulence buffeting and filling the Lancaster with a wall of sound. Steele simply turned around, braced himself for a moment, then jumped down through the open bay into the swirling darkness below, his kit bag following him. An instant later he pulled the ripcord and was suddenly jerked upwards as the parachute deployed. He caught a last glimpse of the stricken bomber as it flew away, a mass of flame engulfing the right wing. A dark shadow zoomed around him as he fell. Another angry burst of cannon fire shot up towards the Lancaster, the tracer flashing in the night sky, and then they were gone.
Steele glanced below. Clouds were looming up fast. Through a rent in the canopy he saw the terrain beneath him- a mixture of heavily forested, undulating ground and open fields, all shrouded in white. Nothing was instantly recognizable. A minute or two later he made an unremarkable landing at the edge of a wood, the deep snow cushioning the impact. It took but a few minutes to hide his parachute and smock, and rescue his greatcoat from the kit bag. The map, printed on the inside of his silk scarf, would be next to useless until he could orientate himself. He took a compass bearing, and determined the most promising axis of advance.
That was some time ago. He looked at his watch - it was just after a quarter past seven. It had taken him nearly three hours of slipping and sliding to reach his present location. There was as yet little activity in the villages and farms he had passed by. The heavy snowfall had seen to that. Bloody typical. The Crabs got the weather forecast wrong again, and so much for the optimistic assessment that all the Luftwaffe night-fighter boys would be elsewhere. He hoped the bomber crew had managed to make their way home, but the odds were heavily against it.
The steady thump of an approaching horse and cart along the snow-covered road broke into his thoughts. One of the local farmers was off into town, no doubt having risen much earlier and sorted out the daily chores on his smallholding. A few sacks were loaded in the back. The farmer was old, in his sixties, Steele guessed, his weathered features unshaven, an unlit pipe clamped firmly between his teeth. A heavy overcoat, not dissimilar to what the rank and file wore for warmth in the winter, was draped over his shoulders.
‘Morning,’ he grunted, eyeing him cautiously, as the horse and cart reached the spot where Steele stood. ‘Need a lift? I’m off to Sondershausen.’
‘Yes. Thanks, grandfather.’ Steele smiled easily. A lift would be very useful. ‘That’s where I need to get to.’
‘Well, throw your kitbag in the back.’ The farmer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’ll be safe enough there. I’m taking a few sacks of turnips and apples to market – see what I can get for them. Not much food around here at the moment.’ He settled in his seat as Steele threw his kitbag into the rear and climbed up beside him. A brief shake of the reins, and they were off.
The old man was curious at first. How had Steele got there, and where was he off to? Where was he posted, and how was the war going? Steele had a cover story ready. It rolled off his tongue easily. He had just been discharged from hospital, and was visiting his family for two days leave. Now he needed to get to the new SS Armoured Warfare School in Sondershausen. He’d managed to get a lift in a farm truck up to here. The School was only a few kilometres away but he was still recovering from his wounds and the doctors had told him that any long distance walking was out of the question for now.
The farmer seemed to be reasonably satisfied with that.
‘I couldn’t help but notice the cuff on your sleeve’. He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed at Steele’s left arm. ‘Totenkopf, eh?’ When did you join them?’
‘The year before last. Spent most of the time on the Eastern front.’ The cuff with the Gothic script in white embroidery was clearly visible, identifying him as a member of one of the most battle hardened divisions in the German army, and with probably the most fearsome reputation. But Steele needed to be careful. He was determined to not give away too much detail. It would be easy enough to spin out a yarn, but you just never knew how much trouble you could get yourself into, especially if the opposition was alert and informed. A little knowledge could be quite dangerous.
‘So you weren’t at Demyansk, then?’
‘No. That was before my time.’ Best not to give too much away.
The farmer shrugged. ‘Sorry to enquire. The reason I ask is that my eldest son was in your division. Went to Russia in ’41. They brought him back in the summer of ’42. He’d lost a leg to a mine. But that was not all he lost…’ The old man’s voice thickened, as if he was struggling for words. ‘He wasn’t the same man anymore. For the last two years he’s sat in his room, virtually every day, barely moving, just staring at the wall. God knows what else happened to him there. He never talks about it. And he can’t bear winter any more. The snow drives him mad…’ The old man slumped on his seat. Steele could clearly see that the man was close to tears.
Poor old bastard. Steele had heard plenty of horror stories throughout his clandestine travels inside the Reich. The Eastern front was nothing if not a nightmare. But this sort of story was nothing unusual. At l
east the man had his son back. There were so many other families who were far less fortunate.
‘I’m sorry, old man,’ Steele commiserated. The farmer grunted, cleared his throat, and made a show of adjusting the reins. The rest of the journey passed in silence. They had passed through the wooded Hainleite hills, and the town soon hove into view. The Panzer school was clearly visible off to the left – a new concrete monstrosity on the edge of the town, markedly different to the other, older buildings that lay nearby. The farmer stopped just outside the gated entrance. Steele climbed into the back, hefted his kitbag off the cart and stepped down onto the road.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ The farmer nodded brusquely, shook the reins and moved off.
Steele picked up his kitbag, slung it on his right shoulder and walked up to the sentry checkpoint on duty at the main gate. The guard saluted as soon as he approached, examined Steele’s documents and checked his name against what appeared to be a list on his clipboard.
‘One moment sir. Please wait here.’ The guard turned and moved off towards the guardhouse. The three other guards eyed him watchfully, calmly waiting the unfolding of events, their weapons close by. None of them spoke a word.
Steele did his best to look unconcerned. He was an old hand at moving around Germany. His forged paperwork was in perfect order and had never failed him, even under the closest of scrutiny. This time his documents identified him as SS Untersturmführer Karl Akkermann, transferred from the 3rd SS Panzer Division ‘Totenkopf’ for specialist armoured warfare training, courtesy of RSHA. The SS uniform was enough to open most doors and sail through routine paperwork and documentation checks. Even the Gestapo rarely bothered him, seeing that he wore the uniform of the Führer’s Praetorian Guard. But something was bothering him, a vague sense of unease. Something felt different this time. Menzies had assured him that his German contact had arranged his arrival at the armoured warfare school, and there would be no problems. Steele, in his latest disguise, would be expected. Maybe it was his imagination, but perhaps the guards were trying just a little bit too much to look casual and bored. And what exactly was the other guard checking?
The Fall of the Father Land Page 13
