The Fall of the Father Land

by D. N. J. Greaves

  ‘Good. Tell them we’re all fine and dandy.’ Horner glanced at his watch. ‘ETD 1335. Radio contact and position check every fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Then scoot around to the company commanders, with my compliments. A and B companies will advance on a bearing of 015 degrees in echelon. We’ll follow with C company as reserve. Company D will clear out Niedersachswerfen, and then move north as our right flank guard. Companies to move out in two minutes.’

  Clarke saluted and dashed off. The rest of Horner’s HQ section, dug in nearby, rose and followed him as he began to move north. They had a few hours left before it would begin to get dark. With a bit of luck that should be enough.

  Kohnstein factory complex, 1350

  Simon wiped the sweat off his brow as he walked up the last slope to the hidden entrance at the foot of the hill. He’d had to leave the Kubelwagen about five hundred meters away - the bombing had made it impossible to get any closer. The terrain was all smashed up, as if a giant had plucked up the landscape, given it thorough shake up, and flung it down haphazardly. Hundreds of trees, most of them stripped of their branches and splintered into fragments, lay scattered all over the area. Enormous craters, each piled up one on top of another, had made the going more like an assault course than a gentle uphill stroll. But it wasn’t the exercise that had made him hot and out of breath. The road up from Niedersachswerfen had been far more dangerous.

  He’d heard the rumbling thunder of the enemy transports as he drove along the road from Nordhausen. Simon pulled over in the village to watch them as they came in from the west. In next to no time the skies were filled with a myriad of parachutes floating down, no more than a few hundred meters away. Dozens of fighters swooped and circled above them, looking for the slightest sign of enemy activity below. The houses in the village could only be temporary shelter at best. Sooner or later he would be spotted, and he desperately needed to reach the factory before he was cut off. There was no time to lose. In an instant he gunned the Kubelwagen up the road that led north. But as soon as he emerged from the cover of village, he knew that the game was up. Simon barely reached the cover of the nearest trees when death was suddenly upon him. At least four enemy fighters swept down, each one blasting away in turn along the general direction in which he was driving. Volley after volley of cannon shells slammed blindly into the trees all around him as the Kubelwagen raced away. Luckily the road had a good tarmac surface and there was no dust to give his position away, but even so it was still almost too close to call. Several times shells smashed into the road, missing him by a whisker. One of them hit the Kubelwagen somewhere behind him, but he was oblivious to the damage. In a flash he recognised the spot where the road bent around to the left, where the disguised rail tracks lay with camouflaged route up to the factory. The engine groaned as he dropped down three gears, pulled the wheel hard over to the right and flung the vehicle off the road.

  Almost immediately the engine quit without warning, but it made little difference – the massive craters and torn up ground to his front stopped him in his tracks. He jumped out and dived behind the cover of the nearest trees, just as the last fighter screamed overhead. Another burst of cannon-fire, and then the air was suddenly clean again.

  There was a strong guard under cover at the gates to the factory, watching him warily as he approached. One of them saluted him and rushed forward.

  ‘Sir – are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll live,’ he grunted. His hands were shaking, but this was no time to muck about. ‘Where’s the guard commander? I need to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘Sir, I’ll get him immediately.’ The guard dashed off. He reappeared shortly with an officer in tow – the same young blond Untersturmführer who had met him on his first visit. He barely looked nineteen. The junior officer saluted politely.

  ‘Sturmbannführer Simon. Glad to see you again, sir. What can I do for you?’

  Simon pulled the second letter out from inside his jacket. ‘Read this’.

  The SS officer scanned the letter, his eyes widening at the signature on the bottom. Suddenly he snapped to attention. ‘What are your orders, Sturmbannführer?’

  ‘I’m taking command of this facility, with immediate effect.’ The Officer gaped. ‘There’s an enemy parachute force no more than an hour or two away, almost certainly heading in this direction. I need you to get as many guards out from the factory, with as many heavy weapons that you can lay your hands on. Get them dug in well beyond the road down there.’ He pointed back, in the general direction of the main road from Nordhausen.

  The officer looked worried. ‘But sir, what about security inside the factory? I can’t just -‘

  ‘I don’t give a damn about what you can or can’t do Untersturmführer,’ Simon snapped. ‘This is an emergency, and this letter gives me absolute power over anybody anywhere. I could put a bullet in your head right now, and no one would ever question my right to do so. So you’d better make your mind up quickly, or it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’ He began to un-holster his pistol. The SS man swallowed nervously.

  ‘Yes sir – forgive me. I was only concerned about the prisoners and the security situation inside. We’re understaffed as it is –‘.

  ‘I’ll take responsibility for that. In the meantime, your orders are clear. Leave a minimal guard – all the rest out here – immediately.’ The Untersturmführer braced to attention, one eye still warily on Simon’s pistol. ‘Any of you have any combat experience?’ Max scanned the rest of the guards.

  ‘Yes sir.’ A tough-looking Oberscharführer stepped forward from the rest. ‘A couple of years in Russia with Das Reich.’

  ‘Good.’ Simon smiled briefly, and turned back to the officer. ‘This man will give you all the advice you need. Use him well. In the meantime, get cracking. Where’s your CO?’

  ‘In his office, sir. Shall I send someone to inform him of this latest threat?’

  ‘No. Leave that to me. I’ve got to see him about another matter - something equally urgent. You have your orders.’

  The Untersturmführer saluted again, barked out a few commands and then raced inside. The others, led by the Eastern Front veteran, began to march away towards the south. In a moment he was on his own.

  Here we go. He plunged inside.

  Rybalko sat in the corner of the fuel storage area deep in tunnel B, shivering. Although the air inside the cave was warm and close he still felt cold throughout, right down to his bones. He’d managed to wolf down some food of sorts in the morning, but the cough had come on in the last few hours and he knew that he was coming down with something he would find hard to resist in his weakened state – some sort of nasty bug. . His muscles ached all over, and he could feel a sore throat starting – a raw, burning sensation at the back of his mouth. He prayed to God – his god, not some socialist substitute but to the Orthodox faith his family had worshipped for generations. Please don’t let me get ill. The one thing that frightened him above all else was pneumonia. The most recent outbreak in the underground factory had been a month ago, or was it more than that? It was difficult to keep track of the days inside this hell-hole.

  The Germans were absolutely paranoid about health, and the last thing they wanted was an outbreak of infective disease among the emaciated workers. Not because they were concerned about the workers – no. They were far more concerned about themselves. Most of them had taken to wearing facemasks when dealing with the inmates, but that was only a start. The guards had ‘cured’ the last outbreak by taking those found suffering outside and shooting them. Typical German efficiency. But the bombing had interrupted fresh supplies of slave workers, so much so that conditions were now strangely better – very few beatings and no summary executions. Maybe the end of the war was near. Or maybe the guards were worried about what would happen to them if the factory was liberated and they were caught red-handed. He knew what the ‘specialists’ in the Red Army would do – it would take an awful long tim
e, and be extremely unpleasant. Rybalko knew that he would lose precious little sleep over that – these bastards deserved everything coming to him.

  But now the guards were nowhere to be seen. That’s why he’d risked sitting down. In the last few minutes someone or something had drawn them away, an unheard of event. The only sign of authority was a lone SS officer, wearing a field grey uniform with an unbuttoned great coat over the top. He was walking past the last batch of rockets, into the fuel storage area and almost directly at him - calmly, utterly sure of himself. Rybalko scrambled achingly to his feet. Two of his fellow workers lay on the floor beside him. They were too spent to move, but they followed the approach of the SS man with fear and dread in their sunken eyes. Anybody lying down on the job was normally shot out of hand.

  But the man simply ignored them, walked past and beckoned him to follow. Suddenly, Rybalko realized with a shock that the newcomer was not wearing a facemask. Nor did he look familiar. He knew virtually all the factory senior personnel by sight, but this one was new. The officer moved to a far corner of the chamber, next to where the banks of liquid oxygen tanks were located. He had no choice but to follow. The stranger turned to him.

  ‘Where do you come from – France, Russia? Can you understand me?’ The officer’s voice was urgent, demanding.

  Rybalko nodded, amazed that he was being addressed this way. Normally communication was performed by a combination of grunts, kicks and punches. His German was reasonable. ‘From Russia, sir. Yes, I can speak German a little, but I beg you - please speak slowly.’

  His enemy smiled. ‘Good. I need you to do me a favour. If you help me you’ll be doing something that will benefit all humanity – your own people, as well as the rest of Europe – maybe even the entire world. The war will soon be over, but what I have to do must be done now. Believe me, this is no trick. Do you know what’s being produced here?’

  Rybalko nodded. ‘Long range rockets.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the worst of it. They’re going to be loaded with lethal biological weapons. The targets will be all across Europe. Even America and Moscow. I’ve got to stop them. Will you help?’

  The face was insistent, the eyes bored into him. Rybalko coughed a little. The uniform told him that this man was his enemy, but there was something else about him, an indefinable air that made him think twice. Even so, the man was still an opponent- dangerous, unpredictable, and in absolute command.

  Simon sensed the doubt.in the man’s eyes. He pulled his pistol out, reversed it and handed it to the Russian. Rybalko almost dropped it in amazement.

  ‘Ignore the SS rank. I’m a friend. The pistol is in case a guard comes. It’s fully loaded. I take it you know how to use it?’

  Rybalko nodded.

  ‘Good. There’s a silencer fitted on the end, so it’ll keep the noise down. I’ll need a few minutes. OK?

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Blow this place up. The oxygen cylinders will add to the blast. Next door is the sealed area where they’re preparing those bio-weapons that will obliterate most of Europe. Are you with me?’

  ‘I don’t understand’ Rybalko was still stunned. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That’s not important right now – maybe later. Please – will you help me?’

  ‘Yes.’ The pistol in his hand was quite real. It was beginning to make sense. But who was this man? A foreign agent? ‘But how will we get out? The explosion will kill us all.’

  Simon patted his pockets. ‘Don’t worry. The fuse will give us about an hour – more than enough time to get everybody who can move outside. Now keep watch.’ With that he turned away and walked to the nearest tank. Rybalko found he was walking over to the vault entrance, as if he was in a dream. He positioned himself just inside the doors. Every now and again he’d look back at where the German was at work. It looked as if he was moulding a wad of brown matter around the base of two oxygen tanks.

  It took Simon but a few minutes to slip the pads of plastic explosive from inside his greatcoat and attach them to the tank undersides. That was easy enough. But when he slipped out the pencil fuses from their case, he gasped in dismay. Most of them

  were cracked open and appeared to be quite useless. They must have been thrown about so much inside the Kubelwagen during that last wild ride, dodging those enemy fighters. Don’t panic, he told himself. Check them carefully. He forced himself to stay calm as he examined them one by one. Mercifully he could salvage just two of them – but each had no more than a fifteen minute delay setting. He swore to himself. The margin would be very fine – would it be enough for him to get everyone out to safety in time? There was no real choice. Carefully he slid the fuses into the plastic, made sure they had a tight fit, and then twisted the caps. All done. His watch said 1408. It was high time to get out of there, but there was the last part of his mission to complete.

  Rybalko watched him as he hurried back to where the Russian had propped himself up against the frame of the steel doors.

  ‘OK. The good news is that this place will blow up. The bad news is that we only have fifteen minutes.’ Sod’s bloody law. He smiled ruefully. ‘Not much I can do about that. Thanks for your help. Keep that gun out of sight – you may need to use it. Now get going, and take as many of your fellow workers as you can. If anyone asks what you’re doing tell them that Sturmbannführer Simon, the new camp commandant, has ordered that all camp personnel must assemble outside – now. On pain of immediate death if my orders are not obeyed.’

  He pulled the second letter from out of his inner jacket pocket. ‘Give them this. It has Himmler’s signature and stamp on it. That should be sufficient to convince anyone.’

  ‘But what about those two?’ Rybalko pointed at the two workers lying on the floor. I can’t just leave them there.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You haven’t got a choice. I doubt you’ll have enough time to everyone out. Do what you can. As for those who can’t walk, well…’ Simon’s voice trailed off. There was nothing else he could say.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘There’s one last thing left to do. See you outside.’

  The factory administration suite and office area was still manned by the time he got there, but there were far less staff present than at his last visit. A few of them glanced up at him as he passed by, but nobody dared to interrupt an officer of field rank as he made his way towards the inner sanctum. It was only when he reached the inner sanctum that trouble began. The statuesque Barbara looked up in alarm as he entered the outer office without knocking, and dashed forward to intercept him just before he reached the inner door.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sturmbannführer,’ she said in a loud voice, blocking his path and spreading her arms wide. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go in there just now. The CO is in conference and cannot be disturbed. He has some very important guests.’

  He could hear the sounds of grunting and a series of heavy thuds coming from beyond the partition door.

  ‘Sounds like a strange conference to me,’ he muttered. Simon pushed her hard and away to his right. She stumbled, catching one of her heels on the office carpet. Ignoring her, he thrust the door open. The view almost stopped him in his tracks. Hartmann was seated in front of him, slumped in his leather chair and stripped to the waist. Two thickset men in shirt sleeves were bending over him, taking it in turn. Each held a black leather truncheon, smeared in blood. Hartmann was almost unrecognizable, his face bloody and swollen. An irregular mass of heavy welts and blotches covered his chest and sides. The man was barely conscious. Simon started forward, but something froze him in his tracks. The muzzle of a pistol ground into his neck.

  ‘Well, well, well…Look what the cat’s dragged in.’

  It was his old ‘mate’ from the Liebstandarte – Egon Sammler.

  The two thugs pinned his arms back in a flash. One of them wrenched his right arm and wrist back and upwards, almost as far as his left shoulder blade. The pain was almost unbearable. Sammler sat in front of him, idly t
oying with a Luger. The pistol never strayed too far away from the centre of Simon’s chest.

  ‘So,’ Sammler began, after a long pause. A very satisfied smirk was writ large across his bloated features. ‘What a delightful, truly delightful coincidence. Here we were, trying to track down the famous Max Simon, and getting nowhere with this poor oaf Hartmann, when who should barge in the front door but the very man we were sent to look for.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘Excellent.’ He clapped his hands in glee. ‘The Reichsführer’s going to love this!’

  He leaned forward and suddenly flicked a boot in Simon’s direction. The blow caught him hard in the solar plexus. It would have bent him in two but for the tender administrations of the men on either side. Each of them held him in a vice-like grip as he fought the waves of nausea and gasped for breath. The pain and retching rolled over him like an inexorable wave. Only slowly did he start to recover.

  Sammler laughed again, relishing the pain he had inflicted. He flicked his little finger of his left hand up, and one of the thugs slammed a karate blow hard into his left kidney. A blinding sheet of pain arced up his back and into his neck. It felt like the top of his head was lifting off. Dimly he became aware of Sammler’s right hand. The finger flicked up again, and the blow that followed almost blacked him out this time. Finally they let him fall to the floor where he lay like a dead man for a few minutes, before he was dragged up by his hair and roughly slammed onto a seat. Hartmann was ignored. His friend lay in a heap behind his desk, groaning. The two Gestapo men took up flanking positions.

  Sammler leaned forward, but still well out of range. ‘That’s for starters. I have a good memory, you little shit. Remember that day in Auschwitz? You broke my nose, made me look stupid in front of my CO. Now it’s pay-back time, and you owe me.’