by Jack Higgins
The roaring became the sound of an engine and a Cromwell tank came round the bend in the road. Gestrin swung to face it, raising his rifle. A burst of machine-gun fire hurled him back into a snowdrift at the side of the road.
Gaillard lay there, aware of footsteps approaching, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, hanging on to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw to his astonishment that the officer leaning over him in a tanksuit wore a kepi.
'Oh, my God,' Gaillard said in his own language. 'Can it be true? You are French?'
'But of course, monsieur.' The officer dropped to one knee. 'My name is Dubois. Captain Henri Dubois of the 2nd French Tank Division. We are at present pushing towards Berchtesgaden. But who are you?'
'Never mind that now,' Gaillard said hoarsely. 'You know Arlberg?'
'The next village, two miles along the road from here.'
'Only two miles?' Gaillard said in wonder. 'I must have been running in circles up there.' He pulled himself up and caught hold of Dubois by the front of his uniform. 'Listen to me, my friend, and listen well for lives depend on it.'
When the half-track started across the courtyard Ritter himself was at the wheel, a dozen Finns packed in behind him. Hoffer at the machine gun. The rest followed behind on foot.
In the tower, the defenders had already retreated up the main staircase and taken up position on the first landing, except for Howard who stayed at the shattered door, peering out.
'Here they come!' he cried and started to fire his Thompson furiously.
Ritter gunned the motor, giving the halftrack everything, roaring straight up the steps, hitting those shattered doors at full speed. Howard was already half-way up the marble stairs as the doors disintegrated, the half-track smashing through, sliding to a halt, broadside on.
The defenders immediately started to pour it on from the landing, Canning and Birr firing Schmeissers between the pillars of the balustrade, Howard backing them with the Thompson.
The Finns were badly caught, three or four of them going down as they scrambled from the half-track. Hoffer took a bullet in the shoulder that knocked him over the side, and Ritter, without hesitation, stood up and grabbed the handles of the machine gun.
He started to spray the landing expertly, shattering the windows behind the rows of marble statues, an awesome figure crouched behind the gun, his face pale beneath the black cap. Howard loosed off one burst after another, even standing up on occasion, all to no effect, for it was as if the German bore a charmed life.
The landing had become a charnel house, four of the Germans hit, one of them crying out continuously. Birr had taken a bullet through the right hand, and below, in the hall, at least nine of the Finns were down.
The stench of cordite, the smoke, the cries of the dying, the rattle of the machine gun in that confined space, made it a scene from hell. Birr took another bullet, in the chest this time, and went down.
Canning pulled at Howard's sleeve, eyes wild. 'This is no good - we'd better get out of here.'
'Take Birr with you,' Howard said. 'I'll cover you.'
He rammed another clip into the Thompson, and behind him the two surviving Germans got Birr by the shoulders and dragged him along the landing. Ritter stopped firing. He looked down and found Hoffer leaning against the side of the half-track, stuffing a field dressing inside his uniform blouse.
'All right, Erich?'
Hoffer nodded, his face twisted with pain, and from up there in the smoke on the landing, Howard called, 'What's keeping you, Ritter?'
Something flared in Ritter's eyes. He picked up a Schmeisser and vaulted to the floor. He did not say a word, gave no command, simply went up the stairs into the smoke and the Finns went after him.
The curtains were on fire now, the wood panelling on the walls, smoke swirling, billowing along the landing so that it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Howard fired blindly, moving a step or two, then turned and started up the stone staircase.
He paused at the bend, slinging the Thompson over his shoulder, and took two stick grenades from his belt. He could hear voices below, stumbling steps on the stair. He tossed the two grenades down into the murk, one after the other, went round the corner and continued to climb without pause.
There was an explosion below followed by another, cries of pain. He could hardly breathe now, smoke everywhere, choking the landing outside the dining hall. He groped his way round the wall, found the entrance to the upper staircase, and started to climb to the top of the tower.
Had he but known it, the others had got no further than the upper landing, Birr having collapsed completely so that the two Germans had been compelled to drag him into the dining hall.
Canning crouched over him, almost overcome by smoke, waiting for the end that seemed inevitable now. He got to his feet, lurched across to the window, and smashed what glass remained in the lower half. The Germans dragged Birr across the floor, choking and coughing.
They all crouched at the window, drawing in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Canning cried, 'The table - get it over.'
They crouched behind it, waiting for the end.
On the landing at the foot of the stairs, Ritter rolled over, pushing a body away from him. There was blood on him, but not his own, and he pulled himself up and leaned against the wall. A hand reached out to steady him - Hoffer.
'Are you all right, Sturmbannfuhrer?'
'Everything in perfect working order, or so it would seem, Erich.' An old, bad joke between them, no longer funny.
A gust of wind blowing in through the shattered doorway, below, cleared the smoke from the landing. It was a butcher's shop, bodies everywhere, blood and brains sprayed across the walls.
There were perhaps a dozen Finns left alive and unwounded, crouched at the head of the stairs. Ritter glanced at his watch. It was almost 8.30.
'All right, damn you. You're still mine for another thirty minutes. Still soldiers of the Waffen-SS. Let's get it done.'
They made no move. It was not that there was fear there. Only emptiness - faces drained of all emotion, all feeling.
'It's no good,' Hoffer said. 'They've had enough.'
As smoke swirled back into place again, the Finns retreated, simply melted away.
'So?' Ritter said, and he leaned down and picked up a Schmeisser.
As he turned, Hoffer caught his arm. 'This is madness. Where are you going?'
'Why, to the top of the tower, old friend.' Ritter smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. 'We've come a long way together, but no more orders. It is over. You understand me?'
Hoffer stared at him, horror on his face. Ritter started upstairs.
When Howard lurched out of the smoke on to the roof, Finebaum almost shot him. Howard fell on his hands and knees and Finebaum crouched beside him.
'Is he all right?' Claudine Chevalier demanded.
Howard answered her, struggling for breath. 'All I need is a little air.' He looked around him. 'Where's the general?'
'No sign of him up here,' Finebaum said. 'What happened below?'
'It was bad,' Howard told him. 'The worst I've ever known.' He got up on his knees. 'I'll have to go back. See what's happened to them.'
Madame Chevalier, who had gone to the parapet to look down, cried, 'There are tanks coming. A whole column.'
Finebaum ran to join her in time to see half a dozen Cromwells, several Bren-gun carriers and trucks, moving towards the castle at full speed. The surviving Finns had just emerged from the entrance. As they started across the courtyard, the first Cromwell emerged from the tunnel and opened up with its machine gun. Two Finns went down, the rest immediately dropped their weapons and put up their hands.
Finebaum turned and found Howard leaning over the parapet beside him. 'Did you ever see a prettier sight?' Finebaum demanded. Howard gazed down blankly, eyes remote, and Finebaum shook him roughly. 'Hey, noble Captain, it's over. We survived.'
'Did we?' Howard said.
And then Claudine Chevalier cried out s
harply.
Ritter stood there at the head of the stairs, smoke billowing around him. He wore no cap. There was blood on his face and the blond hair flashed pale fire in the morning light. The black Panzer uniform was covered in dust, but the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords still made a brave show at his throat.
'Captain Howard?' he called.
Finebaum turned, unslinging his M1, but Howard knocked it up. 'My affair - stay out of it.'
He was smiling, his eyes full of life again. He leaned down slowly and picked up the Thompson.
Ritter said, 'A first-rate show. My congratulations.'
Howard fired then, a long burst that ripped the Iron Cross First Class from Ritter's tunic, hurling him at the wall. The German rebounded, falling to his knees. He flung up the Schmeisser, arm extended, firing one-handed, driving Howard back against the parapet, killing him instantly. For a moment, the young German hung on to life, on his knees there in the snow, and then he fell forward on his face.
Hoffer emerged from the smoke, a Walther in his good hand, and crouched beside him. Finebaum dropped to one knee by Howard. There was a pause, then the American's M1 came up.
It was Claudine Chevalier who finished it, her voice high on the morning air. 'No!' She screamed. 'Enough! Do you hear me? Enough!'
Finebaum turned to look at her, then back to Hoffer. The German threw down his Walther and sat back on his heels, a hand on Ritter's shoulder. Finebaum, without a word, tossed his Mi out over the parapet to fall through clear air to the courtyard below.
It was on the steps outside the main entrance that Canning met Henri Dubois for the first time. The Frenchman, a pistol in one hand, saluted. 'My respects, mon General. My one regret is that we couldn't get here sooner.'
'That you got here at all is one small miracle, son.'
'We must thank Monsieur Gaillard for that.'
'Paul?' Canning caught him by the arm. 'You've seen him?'
'He escaped from the village this morning and skied across the mountains, hotly pursued by some of these Finnish gentlemen. It was only by the mercy of God that he came across us when he did. He is in the ambulance now, at the rear of the column.'
'Thanks.' Canning started down the steps and paused. 'There was a man called Strasser in the village. He was in charge of this whole damn business. He had Madame Claire de Beauville with him. Did you get them?'
'We came straight through without stopping, mon General. Naturally Schloss Arlberg was our main objective, but if this man Strasser is there, we'll find him.'
'I wouldn't count on it.'
He found Gaillard on a stretcher in the ambulance at the rear of the column as Dubois had indicated. The little Frenchman lay there, a grey army blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes closed, apparently sleeping. A medical orderly sat beside him.
'How is he?' Canning demanded in French.
'He is fine, Hamilton. Never better.' Gaillard's eyes fluttered open. He smiled.
'You did a great job.'
'And the others - they are safe?'
'Claudine is fine. Justin got knocked about a bit, but he'll be all right. I'm afraid the rest makes quite a casualty report. Max is dead and Captain Howard - most of the Finns. Ritter himself. It was quite a shooting match up there.'
'And Strasser?'
'We'll get him - and Claire. Only a question of time now.'
Gaillard's face was twisted with pain, and yet concern showed through. 'Don't leave it, Hamilton. He is capable of anything that one. What he did to that girl was a terrible thing.'
'I know,' Canning said soothingly. 'You get some sleep now. I'll see you later.'
He jumped down from the ambulance and stood there, thinking of Strasser, wanting only to get his hands on his throat. And then there was Claire. Suddenly, he knew that she was by far the most important consideration now.
There was an empty jeep standing nearby. Without the slightest hesitation, he jumped behind the wheel, gunned the motor and drove out through the tunnel and across the drawbridge.
When he braked to a halt outside the Golden Eagle, the square was silent and deserted, everyone staying out of the way. There was an M1 in the rear seat of the jeep. He checked that it was loaded, then jumped out and kicked open the front door.
'Strasser, where are you, you bastard?'
It was very quiet in the bar - too quiet. He saw the bullet holes in the wall, the blood on the floor and the hair lifted on the back of his head. A stair creaked behind him. He turned and found Meyer standing there.
'Where is he?'
'Gone, Herr General. After the Finns left to hunt Herr Gaillard, he moved their field car to the rear courtyard where it was out of sight. When the French soldiers with the tanks came half an hour ago, they passed straight through without stopping. Herr Strasser drove away shortly afterwards in the field car.
'And Madame de Beauville - he took her with him?'
Meyer's face was grey, his voice the merest whisper, when he said, 'No, Herr General. She is still here.'
He stumbled along the hall, opened his office door and stood back. She lay on the floor, covered by a blanket. Canning stood there, staring down, disbelief on his face. He dropped to one knee and pulled back the cover. Her face was unmarked and so pale as to be almost transparent, wiped clean of all pain, all deceit. A child asleep at last.
He covered her again very gently and when he turned to Meyer, his face was terrible to see. 'Do you know where he went?'
'I overheard them speak of it several times, Herr General. There is an abandoned airstrip at Arnheim about ten miles from here. I understand there is an aeroplane waiting.'
'How do I get there?'
'Follow the main road to the top of the hill east of the village. A quarter of a mile on there is a turning to the left which will take you all the way to Arnheim.'
The door banged. A moment later, the engine of the jeep roared into life. Meyer stood there in the quiet, listening to the sound dwindle into the distance.
At Arnheim it was snowing again as the Dakota taxied out of the hangar. Strasser, standing behind Berger in the cockpit, said, 'Any problems with the weather?'
'Nothing to worry about. Dirty enough to be entirely to our advantage, that's all.'
'Good. I'll get out now and see to the Storch. I don't want to leave that kind of evidence lying around. You turn into position for takeoff and I'll join you in a few moments.'
Berger grinned. 'Spain next stop, Reichsleiter.'
Strasser dropped out of the hatch, skirted the port wing and ran towards the entrance to the hangar as the Dakota moved away. He took a stick grenade from his pocket and tossed it through the entrance, ducking to one side. It exploded beneath the Storch, which started to burn fiercely.
He turned away, aware of the Dakota turning in a circle out there at the end of the runway, and then a jeep swung through the entrance from the road and braked to a halt about thirty yards away.
Canning was aware of the Dakota turning into the wind out there, thought for one dreadful moment that he was too late, and then the shock of the Storch's tank exploding turned his eyes to the hangar. He saw Strasser in front, crouching as he pulled a Walther from his pocket.
Canning grabbed for the M1, fired three or four shots, then it jammed. He threw it away from him and ducked as Strasser stood up, firing at him coolly, two rounds punching holes through the windshield.
Canning slammed the stick into gear, revving so furiously that his wheels spun in the snow and the jeep shot forward. Strasser continued to fire, dodging to one side only at the very last minute, and Canning slammed his boot on the brake, sending the jeep into a broadside skid.
He jumped for the German while the vehicle was still in motion and they went over in a tangle of arms and legs. For a moment, Canning had his hands on his throat and started to squeeze, and then Strasser swung the Walther with all his force, slamming it against the side of the general's head.
Canning rolled over in agony, almost losing conscious
ness, aware of Strasser scrambling to his feet, backing away, the Walther pointing. Canning got to his knees and Strasser took careful aim.
'Goodbye, General,' he said and pulled the trigger.
There was an empty click. He threw the Walther at Canning's head, turned and ran along the runway towards the Dakota.
Canning went after him, forcing himself into a shambling trot, but it was hopeless, of course. Things kept fading, going out of focus, then back again. The one thing he did see clearly, and it was all that mattered, was Strasser scrambling up through the hatch. The Dakota's engine note deepened, and then it was roaring along the runway.
Canning slumped down on to his knees and knelt there in the snow, watching it flee into the grey morning like a departing spirit.
16
It was almost dawn in La Huerta when Canning finished talking. Rain still tapped against the window of the bar, more gently now, but when I got up and looked out the square was quiet and deserted.
Canning threw another log on the fire. 'Well, Mr O'Hagan - what do you think?'
'Such a waste,' I said. 'Of good men.'
'I know. They were all that. Not Strasser, of course. He was the devil walking, but Jack Howard, Ritter, Sorsa and those Finns ...'
'But why?' I asked. 'Why did they persist in going through with it? Why didn't they simply tell Strasser or Bormann or whoever to go to hell?'
'Well, Sorsa and his Finns are possibly the easiest to understand. As he said, they were fighting for wages. They'd taken the gold, if you like to look at it that way, pledged their word and stuck to it - until the final carnage, anyway.'
'And Ritter?'
'He was like a man in deep water, swept along by the current, able to go only one way. He and Jack Howard were a lot alike - opposite sides of the same coin. At the end of things, I believe now that they'd both had enough. After what they'd been through, the things they'd done for their separate countries, the future held nothing. Didn't exist, if you like.'
