by Jack Higgins
'No need,' Grushetsky said. 'They won't come in before dawn, I know how they work. We'll be driving out of here long before then. In the meantime ...' He put an arm around the girl and pulled her close.
'Sorry,' Ritter said. 'But you won't be driving anywhere, I'm afraid. We need your petrol for our aircraft.'
'You what?' Grushetsky cried.
'Show him your orders,' Ritter said casually to Strasser. He glanced at the girl again, ignoring Grushetsky, then walked to the end of the room and looked at the others.
Strasser said, 'I'll read it to you. From the Leader and Chancellor of the State. Most secret. You recognize the name at the bottom of the page, I trust. Adolf Hitler.'
'Yes, well, he's in Berlin and this is here,' Grushetsky said. 'And you take that petrol from those tanks over my dead body.'
'That can be arranged.' Ritter raised his right arm casually and clicked his fingers. A window was smashed as a Schmeisser poked through, Berger's smiling face behind it. The door crashed open and Hoffer came in holding another Schmeisser.
'You see,' Ritter said to the girl whom Grushetsky had released now. 'It is still possible for the best to happen in this worst of all possible worlds. What's your name?'
'Bernstein,' she said. 'Clara Bernstein.'
He recognized her accent instantly. 'French?'
'That's what it says on my birth certificate, but to you bastards, I'm just another dirty Jew.'
In a strange way it was as if they were alone. 'What do you want me to do - say I'm sorry?' Ritter asked her in French. 'Would that help?'
'Not in the slightest.'
'Positive action then, Clara Bernstein. You and your friends go now. Out there in the darkness beyond the perimeter wire there are Russian soldiers. I suggest you turn towards them, hands high in the air, yelling like hell. I think you will find they will take you in.'
'Here, what in the hell is going on here?' Grushetsky demanded in his bad German.
Ritter rounded on him. 'Shut your mouth, damn you. Feet together when you speak to me, you understand? Attention, all of you.'
And they responded, all of them, even those far gone in drink trying to draw themselves together. The girl called to the others in German. They hesitated. She cried, 'All right, stay and die here if you want, but I'm getting out of it.'
She ran outside and the rest of the girls broke instantly and went after her. Their voices could be heard clearly as they ran across the runway to the perimeter wire.
Ritter paced up and down between the tables. 'You believe yourselves to be soldiers of the German Reich, a natural assumption in view of the uniforms you wear, but you are mistaken. Now, let me tell you what you are, in simple terms, so that you can understand.'
Grushetsky gave a roar of rage and pulled out his Luger, and Strasser, who'd been waiting for something like this to happen for the past few minutes, fired twice through the pocket of his leather coat, shattering the Ukranian's spine, killing him instantly, driving him across one of the tables.
Several men cried out and reached for weapons and Berger and Hoffer both fired at the same moment, dropping four men between them.
Ritter said to Hoffer, 'All right - collect their weapons and hold them here until we're ready to go.'
One of the Einsatzgruppen took an involuntary step forward. 'But Sturmbannfuhrer. Without weapons we shall be totally unable to defend ourselves, and the Russians -'
'Can have you,' Ritter said, and he walked outside, followed by Strasser.
Frankel walked to meet them. 'It's worked quite well. We've managed to get about fifteen gallons of aviation fuel out of the Junkers. Mixed with petrol from the trucks, it means we can give you full tanks.'
'How long?' Strasser asked. 'Before we're ready to go?'
'Five or ten minutes.'
Ritter offered the young Luftwaffe lieutenant a cigarette. 'I'm sorry we can't take you with us, you and your men. We leave you in a bad situation.'
'The moment you've gone, I'm going to go out there and ask for terms,' Frankel said. 'I can't see much point in any other course of action, not at this stage.'
'Perhaps you're right,' Ritter said. 'And I'd keep those bastards back there in the mess hall under lock and key until the Russians get here, if I were you. It might help.'
A sergeant hurried towards them and saluted. 'The Storch's all ready to go now, Herr Leutnant.'
There was some movement out there in the darkness beyond the perimeter, the sound of an engine starting up. Ritter turned and shouted, 'Berger - Erich! Let's get out of here. It looks as if the Russians are starting to move in.'
He ran back towards the hangar, followed by Strasser. As they scrambled up into the cabin of the Storch, Hoffer and Berger arrived. Berger didn't even bother to strap himself in. He got the door closed and started the engines instantly so that the Storch was moving down the runway and turning into the wind in a matter of seconds.
The flames from the burning planes had died down and the field was almost totally dark now. 'If you believe in prayer, then now's the time,' Berger cried and he pushed up the engine revs and took the Storch forward.
They plunged headlong into darkness and Ritter leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, totally unafraid, consumed only by curiosity to know what it would be like. Was this it? he asked himself. Could this possibly be the final moment after all these years? And then the Storch lifted as Berger pulled back the stick and they climbed up into the darkness.
Ritter turned to find Strasser examining the bullet holes in his coat. 'My thanks, but I hardly expected to see the day when you would lay yourself on the line to defend the rights of Jews.'
'What happens to those girls back there is a matter of complete indifference to me,' Strasser told him. 'You on the other hand, are an essential part of this operation which could well fail without you. That was the only reason I shot that Slavic ape back there.'
'I should be thankful for small mercies, it would seem.'
'No more empty gestures, my dear Ritter, I beg you.'
'Empty?'
'A fair description. I should imagine the Russians will rape those girls with an enthusiasm at least equal to that of Grushetsky and his motley crew, or had you really imagined it would be different?'
Dawn was a gradual affair from about 4.30 as they flew onwards through heavy cloud -at first merely an impression of light, no more than that. Strasser and Hoffer both slept, but Berger seemed as cheerful and relaxed as ever, whistling softly between his teeth.
'You love it,' Ritter said. 'Flying, I mean?'
'More than any woman.' Berger grinned. 'Which is saying a lot. For a long time I worried about what I would do when it was all over - the war, I mean. No more flying, not for the defeated.'
'But now you don't?'
It was a statement as much as a question and caught Berger off guard. 'Plenty of places to go, when you think about it. Places where there's always work for a good pilot. South America, for instance. The Reichs -' He pulled himself up quickly. 'Herr Strasser already has a pipeline organized that should ensure that some of us live to fight another day.'
'A charming prospect,' Ritter said. 'I congratulate you.'
When he leaned back, he realized that Strasser was awake and watching through half-opened eyes. He smiled and leaned forward, a hand on Berger's shoulder.
'He likes to talk, my young friend here. A conversationalist by nature. A good thing he's such a brilliant pilot.'
Strasser was smiling genially, but his fingers were hooked into the shoulder so tightly that Berger winced with pain. 'I'll take her up now,' he shouted. 'Try and get above this shit and see what's what. We should be nearly there.'
He pulled back the stick and started to climb, but the heavy cloud showed no signs of diminishing. Finally, he levelled out. 'No good. I'll have to try it the other way. Nothing else for it. Hang on and we'll see what the state of things is downstairs.'
He pushed the column forward, taking the Storch into a shallow low
dive. The cloud became darker, more menacing, boiling around them, hail rattling against the fuselage, and Berger had to hang on to the column with all his strength. They were at 4,000 feet and still descending, Berger hanging on grimly, and Hoffer gave an involuntary cry of fear. And then at 3,000 feet they emerged into the light of day and found themselves, as Berger levelled out, drifting along the course of a wide valley, pine trees very green against the snow, the peaks of the Bavarian Alps rising on either side of them.
'Somebody on board must live right,' Berger said. 'Now have a look on the Luftwaffe area map and see if you can find Arnheim, Major.'
It was no more than a feeder station, had never been more than that. There was a single runway, two hangars. No control tower -simply a couple of single-storeyed concrete huts with tin roofs.
Snow was falling gently, but there was no wind to speak of and the Fieseler Storch came in from the north like a grey ghost, her engine barely a murmur. Her wheels touched and there were two puffs of white smoke as snow spurted beneath them.
Strasser said, 'Straight up to the hangars. I want her under cover.'
'All right.' Berger nodded.
When they were close enough, Strasser, Ritter and Hoffer all got out and opened the hangar doors between them. Berger taxied inside and cut the engine. He laughed out loud as he jumped to the ground.
'So we made it. The Victory Column to Arnheim in five and a half hours.' He helped Ritter pull the door across. 'Smell that mountain air.'
Hoffer had gone through the connecting door into the next hangar, and now he returned. 'There's a field car in there, Major,' he told Ritter. 'A basket in the back.'
'Good,' Strasser said. 'I've been expecting that.'
He led the way in and the others followed. The basket was of the picnic type. There was also a small leather suitcase with it. Strasser placed it on the bonnet of the car and opened it. Inside there was a radio transmitter and receiver of a kind Ritter had never seen before.
'Excellent,' Strasser said. 'The best in the world at the present time. Came to us by courtesy of an agent of the British Special Operations Executive.' He checked his watch. 'Five-thirty - am I right?'
'So it would appear,' Ritter said.
'Good.' Strasser rubbed his hands briskly. 'There's a nip in this mountain air. We'll have something to eat, a hot drink and then ...'
'Something to eat?' Berger said.
'But of course. What do you think is in the basket?'
Berger unstrapped it and raised the lid. Inside there were three loaves of black bread, sausages, butter, boiled eggs, two large vacuum flasks and a bottle of schnapps. Berger unscrewed the cap of one of the flasks and removed the cork. He inhaled deeply, an expression of delight appearing on his face.
'Coffee - hot coffee.' He poured a little into the cup and tasted it. 'And it's real,' he announced. 'A miracle.'
'See how good I am to you,' Strasser said.
'You certainly have a flair for organization,' Ritter told him.
'It's been said before.' Strasser glanced at his watch.
'And then?' Ritter said. 'After we've eaten? You were saying?'
Strasser smiled. 'I'm expecting another aircraft at seven o'clock. A very reliable man, so he should get here right on time.' Ritter opened the small judas gate, set in the main gate, and stepped outside, turning his face up to the snow. 'What air. It makes things feel clean again.'
Hoffer passed Ritter a cup of coffee and a piece of black bread. 'But I don't understand, Major. This other plane he's expecting. Who is it? Why won't he tell us?'
'Probably the Fuhrer himself, Erich.' Ritter smiled. 'After the events of the past couple of days, nothing would surprise me.'
It was at precisely five minutes to seven when Heini Berger, lounging against the bonnet of the field car, smoking a cigarette, straightened. 'There's a plane coming now, I hear it.'
Ritter opened the judas and stepped outside. Snow was still falling softly, the flakes brushing against his face when he looked up. The sound was still some distance away, but real enough.
He went back inside. 'He's right.'
Strasser had the suitcase open, the microphone in his hand. He adjusted the dials and said, in English, to everyone's surprise, 'Valhalla Exchange. Valhalla Exchange. Plain language. Do you receive me?'
An American voice answered with startling clarity. 'Valhalla Exchange. Odin here. Am I cleared for landing?'
'All clear. Closing down now.'
He stowed the microphone and closed the case. Ritter said, 'Are we permitted to know what that was all about?'
'Later,' Strasser said impatiently. 'For the moment, let's get these doors open. I want him under cover and out of sight the moment he's landed.'
Ritter shrugged and nodded to Hoffer, and with Berger's assistance they got the doors open. The sound of the plane, whatever it was, was very close now and they all moved outside and waited.
And then, suddenly, she was there, coming in out of the greyness at the north end of the runway, twin-engined, camouflaged and entirely familiar to at least one man there, Berger, who cried, 'God in heaven, that's an American Dakota.'
'So it would appear,' Strasser said.
'Is nothing impossible to you then?' Ritter asked.
'My dear Ritter, if I'd needed it, I could have had a Flying Fortress or an RAF Lancaster.'
The Dakota landed, snow rising in a cloud around her as she rolled forward, turning in towards them as Strasser waved his arms, and then she was close enough for them to see the pilot in the cockpit, the American Air Force insignia plain against the green and brown camouflage.
The plane taxied into the hangar; for a moment, the din was colossal, and then suddenly the engines cut. 'Right, get these doors closed,' Strasser ordered.
As they turned from the task, the hatch was opened and the pilot appeared. He had a dark saturnine face and appeared to be in his early thirties. He was wearing a side-cap with an SS death's-head badge and a flying jacket. He removed the jacket and caused something of a sensation.
He wore a beautifully tailored uniform of field-grey. Under the eagle on his left sleeve was a Stars and Stripes shield and the cuff-title on his left wrist carried the legend 'George Washington Legion' in Gothic lettering. His decorations included the Iron Cross, Second and First Class, and he wore the Winter War Ribbon. When he spoke, his German was excellent, but with a definite American accent.
'So, you made it?' he said to Strasser. 'Amazing, but then, I should have learned to believe you by now.'
'Good to see you.' Strasser shook hands, then turned to the others. 'Gentlemen - allow me to introduce Hauptsturmfuhrer Earl Jackson. This is Heini Berger who got us out of Berlin in the Storch.'
'Captain.' Berger shook hands. 'It gave me something of a shock when I saw you dropping down out of the sky, I can tell you.'
'And Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Ritter.'
Jackson held out his hand, but Ritter ignored him and turned to Strasser. 'And now we talk, I think.'
'My dear Ritter,' Strasser began.
'Now!' Ritter said sharply and he opened the connecting door and went into the next hangar.
'All right,' Strasser said. 'What is it now?'
'This American, Jackson - who is he? I want to know.'
'Come now, Ritter, the Waffen-SS has recruited men from almost every nation possible, you know that. Everything from Frenchmen to Turks. There's even an English contingent, the Britisches Freikorps. There have been, admittedly, only a handful of Americans in the George Washington Legion. Ex-prisoners of war, recruited by prospects of unlimited liquor and women. Jackson is a different specimen, believe me. He flew for the Finns against the Russians in their first war, stayed on in their air force and got caught up in their second bout with the Russians when they joined our side. When the Finns sued for peace last year, he transferred to us.'
'A traitor is a traitor, however you wrap it up.'
'A point of view, but not objective enough, my friend. All I see
is a superb pilot; a brave and resourceful man with a highly specialized background which makes him peculiarly suitable for my purposes. May I also add, that as his own people would most certainly hang him if ever they succeed in getting their hands on him, he has no other choice but to serve my cause. It is his only chance of life. Now, have you anything else to say?'
'I think you've made your point,' Ritter said.
Strasser opened the door and led the way back into the other hangar. He made no reference to what had happened, simply took a map from his pocket and unfolded it across the bonnet of the field car. They all crowded round.
'Here is Arnheim. Arlberg eight or nine miles south of here. Ten miles to the west, there's a farm marked on the edge of the forest. That's where the Finns are.'
'Do we all go?' Ritter asked.
'No, Hauptsturmfuhrer Berger can stay with the planes.'
'And me?' Jackson said.
'No, you might well be useful in other ways. You come with us.' The American didn't look too pleased, but there was obviously nothing he could do about it. Strasser added, 'And from now on, as what might be termed the military part of the operation starts, Sturmbannfuhrer Ritter will be in sole command.'
'You mean I have a totally free hand?' Ritter said.
'Well, a little advice now and then never hurt anyone, did it?' Strasser smiled. 'Still, no point in crossing over bridges until we come to them, Major. Let's get these Finnish barbarians sorted out first.'
9
At the field hospital, Mullholland had had a hard night. Eleven wounded from a skirmish near Innsbruck had been brought in at ten o'clock. He and his team had worked steadily through the night on cases of varying seriousness.
His final patient, a young lieutenant, had two machine-gun bullets in the left lung. Mullholland had used every trick in his now considerable repertoire for more than two hours. The boy had died at 7 a.m. after suffering a massive haemorrhage.
