Heroes

by David Hagberg

  He had gone over the operation plans a hundred times in a briefing room at Tempsford in Bedfordshire, outside of London.

  He was to be dropped in a field outside the village of Nauen, about twenty miles west of Berlin. It would be up to him to make his way into the tiny town where he would be met by one of the leaders of the Resistance who would provide him with the initial intelligence and his transportation. Schey had been spotted somewhere in Charlottenburg. It was going to make the job much easier. Charlottenburg was wide open, and it was to the west.

  Deland never stopped to ask why, if Schey had been spotted in the Berlin suburb, the one who had spotted him didn’t go in and do the job. He was afraid of the answer he would get.

  “Hey, Joe,” the pilot’s voice blared in the headset. “You about set back there, mate?” They were called the Moon Squadron out of Tempsford, and the agents they had been dropping into France and Germany and Denmark from the very beginning were all called Joe.

  Deland sat up with a start. The pilot was grinning over his shoulder at him. Deland smiled and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  “Okey-dokey then; we’re just a couple of minutes to the drop zone. You can open the gate about now.”

  Deland pulled the headset off and laid it aside, then undid his seat belt and pulled himself across to the port-aft perspex window and undid the latch. The cold, howling gale filled the cabin, and Deland reared back, flopping into his seat. He reached down and fumbled with the straps holding his parachute. When he had them secured, he picked up the headset.

  The pilot was looking at him. His voice came over the earphones.

  “On the count of three, you go. One is blinking red. Two is amber. And three is green.”

  Deland nodded.

  “Sixty seconds to target; take your position. And … good luck.”

  Deland grinned. He laid the headset down and awkwardly pulled himself back to the opening in the side of the cabin. He clipped his rip cord snap shackle to the overhead ring, pulled his collar up, then took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out slowly. The red light was blinking … “One,” he shouted.

  There was nothing outside but a cold, windy blackness. A void.

  The red light went out and the amber began blinking.

  “Two,” he shouted.

  He gripped the side of the opening, braced his feet for the proper push off, and the amber switched to green.

  “Three,” he shouted madly, and Deland pushed his way smoothly out the door, the slipstream pulling his body, the Lysander’s horizontal stabilizers and elevators flashing overhead, then a tremendous jerk as his arms seemed to be pulled out of their sockets, his back nearly dislocated.

  The roaring noise was gone, the wind diminished to a gentle breeze, and the heart-clutching fall had been reduced to an almost pleasant sway.

  To the east he could see a number of fires. There had been a bombing run over Berlin earlier tonight.

  Below was a vague, quilted pattern of blacks, very dark grays, and only slightly lighter grays. He could see a road, but no town.

  There were patrols around Berlin. He had been warned that because of the increased bombing, he would be shown little or no mercy should he fall into enemy hands. Especially dressed the way he was, with the forged Fiihrer-letter.

  But that was a moot point now. He could not turn back and simply go home. His escape lay far to the north. To the submarine.

  To Katrina in Wolgast. If she was still there. If the Gestapo had not arrested her and killed her.

  The thought of Katrina in a Gestapo cell being tortured was almost more than he could bear. He had managed, for the most part, to put the thought out of his mind all these months, but now it reared its ugly head again.

  First he had to land without hurting himself. Then he had to make it to the Nauen road without detection. Then he had to make his contact. The staff car would be hidden in a barn, just before the town, on the main road into Berlin. There was a certain twisted tree marking the dirt track. His contact would be there with his instructions. Then he had to find and kill Schey.

  And somehow make his way north, across enemy lines, between Russian troops to to the east and Allied troops to the west.

  The side of a grassy hill was suddenly coming up at him very fast. He got the impression of a broad clump of trees to the west and a road off to the north, but then he hit, willing himself to go loose, willing himself not to stiffen against the fall, willing himself to roll with the impact as he had been taught in one very brief afternoon of training.

  He banged his left elbow on a rock, his fingers going numb, and then he was tumbling end over end, the parachute dragging him down the hill, until he managed to dig in his heels, grab the straps, collapse the chute running to them, and pull the fabric in close to his chest in a huge bundle.

  There were no sounds. No sirens. No dogs barking. No troops coming.

  Deland lay on the heap of the parachute, his heart hammering, the fingers of his left hand tingling.

  He jumped up, released the parachute straps from around his chest and between his legs, and then bundled the entire thing up and raced off toward the protection of the trees below in a shallow valley.

  It was chilly here, but he was sweating by the time he made it into the woods and crouched down. He watched the crest of the hill intently for the sign of any pursuit. The road and the town were just a couple of miles on the other side. If there were troops stationed there, they could easily have spotted him coming down.

  After a few minutes, however, he pulled off his coveralls, having a hard time getting them over his uniform boots. Then he opened his pack and unfolded his entrenching tool.

  Within five minutes he had managed to scrape a hole deep enough to dump the parachute, his coveralls, the shovel, and the pack, after he had removed his black leather gloves and his SS uniform hat.

  He pushed the dirt, and then the leaves and twigs, over the hole, brushing the ground to make it seem as if it hadn’t been disturbed. Then he put on his hat, pulled on his gloves, and started around to the east of the hill, in the general direction of the highway.

  It was a moonless night and yet he still felt very exposed out here. He would be hard-pressed to explain what he was doing wandering around the countryside, Fiihrer-orders or not.

  After twenty-five minutes he had made it around the base of the hill, and below him, across a small creek, was the highway.

  He could see the fires in Berlin as several soft red glows on the horizon to the east. Of the town of Nauen he could see nothing.

  The barn was back toward the west.

  He worked his way down into the narrow draw, then about fifty yards downstream, he found a place where a half-dozen big rocks had partially blocked the gentle flow, providing an easy path across.

  On the other side he started up the cut, when he heard the sound of several trucks coming up the highway from the east.

  He was just below the level of the roadway, and he threw himself down, flattening himself against the ground. Three troop trucks went by, their engines clattering, thick black smoke coming from their exhausts. The rear cargo flaps were open, and Deland could see the troops inside. They were dressed in gray Wehrmacht uniforms, but he got the distinct impression that they were merely children. Young boys of no more than ten or twelve.

  He had heard about it. But he had not believed children were being conscripted until now.

  Up on the highway there was no sign of traffic, although from here the fires in Berlin were distinct on the horizon. He even imagined that he could smell the smoke and the plaster dust.

  He straightened up his uniform and started toward the west, his back straight, the heels of his boots digging into the asphalt, his stride long, purposeful.

  The road curved gradually around the base of the hill, then dipped down on the other side, curving sharply out of sight to the north.

  Nauen would be a mile farther beyond the curve, the twisted tree and the barn just at the curve
if the maps he had studied were correct.

  If he had felt exposed out on the field, he felt absolutely naked here. If a patrol came by, he decided, he would tell them that he had had an accident. He would use his letter to commandeer a vehicle, and from that point he’d have to play it by ear. Somehow he would make it into Berlin. Of course, without his contact his mission would have to be scrubbed. Charlottenburg was a large area. He’d never find Schey without help.

  Within another few minutes Deland had made it around the curve, and about a hundred yards farther was the twisted tree, a narrow dirt track running down toward the base of a hill.

  Deland hurried across the road and thetf down the path where he saw an old, dilapidated barn with a broken stone foundation and gaping holes in the roof.

  He stopped twenty yards away, unsnapped the flap of his holster, and drew out the Luger. He levered a round into the chamber and then started forward again.

  As he walked, he began to whistle the tune to “Little Brown Jug.” It was their recognition signal. The Resistance was there in the barn. He did not want to be shot as an SS colonel.

  Ten feet from the barn someone stepped out of the shadows to the side.

  Delan stopped, raising his Luger.

  “I didn’t know it was going to be you,” Dannsiger said.

  Deland stepped closer, and suddenly he realized who it was.

  His hand shook as he lowered the Luger. “My God. I thought you were dead.”

  There had been a current of excitement all during Saturday, and now today as well. Binder refused to be drawn out by Canaris, but Stawitzky had stopped by for a short chat about the old days in the Abwehr. Before 1939. He was almost friendly.

  Canaris spotted Kriiger out in the corridor. He was grinning, his lips drawn back over his teeth like a rat’s.

  Lunding had been silent for most of the day, although he had signaled that there seemed to be a great deal of activity in the camp the last time he had been allowed out.

  At noon, Canaris had asked Binder if he would be allowed his exercise period, but the corporal just shook his head, left the tray of food, and got out.

  The meals came three times a day, each full and well-balanced with either meat or chicken, plenty of vegetables, and always the heavy dark bread which reminded Canaris of Bavaria.

  Mostly he had wine to drink with his meals, although for Saturday’s dinner he had been given two large steins of thick, rich beer, which he had thoroughly enjoyed.

  Something was about to happen. There was no doubt in Canaris’ mind. But what?

  For a time, gazing out his window that looked across the exercise yard and beyond the fences to the woods, he speculated that the Americans had finally advanced within striking distance and soon would be here. It would explain the activity, the fine rations, and the good treatment.

  Yet, somehow, he knew that wasn’t the case, and when Binder brought his dinner tray shortly before six, the corporal seemed especially nervous and ill at ease.

  “What is it, Corporal?” Canaris asked.

  Binder went back out into the corridor without a word. Canaris thought he was leaving, but he came back a moment later with a clean, freshly pressed white shirt. He looked very guilty and just a little frightened.

  “Why are you giving me this shirt now?” Canaris asked, rising. He was truly alarmed.

  Binder said nothing. He just held the shirt out. Canaris took it.

  “Can’t you speak to me? Can’t you tell me what is happening?”

  Binder glanced over his shoulder. He was really frightened.

  “You are to clean up after you eat your meal. Shave. Put on your clean shirt. And wear a tie.”

  “What is it?”

  “Colonel Oster is already in trial. He has confessed.”

  It was as if a gigantic hand had clamped itself around his heart.

  Canaris staggered, and sat heavily on his cot.

  “Hans? The trial?”

  “There are others, Herr Admiral. Other prisoners have been brought here. I don’t know who they are, but …”

  Canaris looked up. “Do you know the name Meitner? Hans Meitner? He was the colonel who came to visit me.”

  “No, sir. I do not know him,” Binder said. He stepped back as if to go. “Please, Herr Admiral, have your dinner and change your shirt. Your trial is … next.” He turned and left the cell.

  Dinner was a small baked chicken with Spaezle and some raw cabbage soaked in vinegar. There were two steins of beer.

  His trial! Meitner had evidently failed. There would be no defense counsel. The RSHA had finally gotten its way. They had his diaries. There was no hope!

  He pushed his tray aside and got down on the floor at the foot of his cot. He tapped for Lunding, but there was no answer, and after five minutes he gave up. His friend was either out of his cell or asleep. He would try later.

  He dragged himself back to his cot, picked at his food for a moment, but then began to eat in earnest. He had spent too many months half starving to let any opportunity to eat pass. Besides, he told himself, if there was to be a trial tonight, he would need his strength. All of his strength. They might convict him, but they were going to have a fight on their hands.

  Canaris had finished eating, had cleaned up and was dressed and waiting for them when they came a few minutes before eight.

  Binder, Kriiger, and two other SS guards all crowded into his tiny cell. All of them were respectful. Even Kriiger tried to be as considerate as possible while he placed fetters on Canaris’ ankles and handcuffs on his wrists.

  No one said a word as they led him out of his cell and down the corridor past the guardroom, his chains clattering on the floor.

  His heart was pounding very hard, and it was difficult for him to catch his breath.

  They turned to the right outside the front door and went down the walk alongside the main driveway. The night was cool. But it felt good to be outside. Canaris had been this way only once before, when he had first been brought here from Berlin.

  They crossed the driveway and entered what appeared to be one of the administration buildings. Otto Thorbeck, whom Canaris recognized as the SS judge based down in Nuremberg, was waiting in the entryway.

  He preceded them as Canaris was led down a short corridor and into a large room that had been set up as a courtroom.

  Seated at the bench were the camp commandant Kogl, Stawitzky, and Colonel Walter Huppenkothen, his old adversary from the Prinz-Albrecht Strasse interrogations.

  There were two recording secretaries seated to one side, along with Thorbeck who had positioned himself at the open door to a side room. Canaris just caught a glimpse of a long table filled with files and other papers. Evidence, he figured.

  He was directed to a chair facing the bench, then Binder, Kriiger, and the other two guards withdrew to the back of the room.

  Huppenkothen raised a gavel and slammed it sharply on the table. He seemed angryr and although he was looking up, his eyes refused to meet Canaris’. The others were the same. They were all frightened. This was to be a sham.

  “The Schutzstaffel Summary Court, District Headquarters, is hereby convened in the matter of Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris, charged in the first count: That since 1938 the accused has been a vital and active link in plans for a coup d‘6tat against the lawful National Socialist Government of our Fiihrer Adolph Hitler; in the second count: That the accused did conceal within the Amt Ausland/Abwehr, while he was head of that body, the said conspiracy and conspirators; in the third count: That the accused, during the winter of 1939-40, did attempt by verbal and other means to incite various German military commanders into rebellion; and in the fourth count: That the accused was privy to secret illegal negotiations on Germany’s behalf between one Josef Muller and the Catholic church, to wit, the Vatican.”

  Huppenkothen had been reading from the indictment. He looked up. “You are charged with Landesverrat, to wit, treasonable activity against the state, as well as Hochsverrat, hi
gh treason.

  How do you plead?”

  So that was all of it, Canaris thought, his mind racing. They had not charged him with the July 20th assassination attempt on the Fiihrer, nor had they said a thing about his diaries. Was there hope after all?

  “Before I plead, Herr Standartenfiihrer, I wish to raise a number of points of law,” he said. His voice was surprisingly strong, although he could not trust himself to stand yet.

  Huppenkothen sighed deeply, but nodded.

  “First, I have no defense counsel, contrary to law. Colonel Hans Meitner was my appointed …”

  “Colonel Meitner is dead. He was killed in action two days ago,” Huppenkothen snapped.

  It was as if all the air had suddenly left the room.

  Stawitzky leaned forward. “You have had ample time to provide yourself with counsel.”

  Canaris tried to order his thoughts. “I request a delay in these proceedings, to provide me time to …”

  “Denied,” Huppenkothen said.

  “On what grounds?”

  “The exigencies of war. Proceed.”

  Canaris took a deep breath. “I am a member of the Armed Forces. An SS Summary court has no jurisdiction in this matter.”

  “Superseded on the orders of the Fiihrer.”

  “Then venue belongs in Berlin, not here.”

  “Superseded!”

  Canaris sat back and shook his head. “This is a sham. If you want my help to proceed with it, you will be disappointed.”

  Stawitzky was smiling. The camp commandant, Kogl, was bored. Huppenkothen was angry and impatient.

  “How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty to all charges,” Canaris said. He looked off toward the windows. Arc lights had come on across the compound.

  There seemed to be some activity out there, but it was impossible from here to tell exactly what was going on. He kept thinking about poor Hans, whose only crime had been to befriend an accused man.

  Otto Thorbeck stepped into the side room and brought out several fat file folders which he placed before Huppenkothen and his two newly appointed associate judges. They were Oster’s files. Canaris was reasonably certain of it. It was the same material that had been used against him from the very beginning.