the Valhalla Exchange (1976) Read online

  'I-I am honoured,' Rattenhuber stammered.

  'I'm sure you are, Willi,' Bormann said dryly. 'But whether you reach Donitz or not is problematical and of no particular consequence. There are other tasks for you now of more importance.'

  Rattenhuber's face was pale. 'The Kamaradenwerk? It begins?'

  'Of course, Willi. Did I not always say it would? In my end is my beginning. I read that once somewhere. Highly appropriate.'

  There was a tremendous explosion somewhere close by, the walls of the bunker shook, a cloud of dust filtered in through the ventilator.

  Bormann glanced up, showing absolutely no sign of fear. 'There goes the Ivan artillery again. You know, in some ways it reminds me of the Twilight of the Gods. All the forces of evil are in league against them and then suddenly a new citadel arises, more beautiful than ever, and Baldur lives again.' He turned, his face grave. 'It will be so for us, Willi, for Germany. This I promise you.'

  And Rattenhuber, in spite of the noise of the shells landing without cease thirty metres above his head, the sulphurous stench, the dust which threatened to choke him, straightened his shoulders.

  'I, too, believe, Reichsleiter. Have never ceased to believe in the destiny of the German people.'

  'Good, Willi. Excellent.' Bormann took a letter from his desk and shook the dust from it. 'This is the reason it is so important you get out of Berlin and that clown Donitz has nothing to do with it.'

  At Schloss Arlberg in the main courtyard Schenck was preparing to leave. He stood beside the field car, the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the snow, and waited as Corporal Schmidt made a final check on the engine.

  'Everything all right?' Schenck asked.

  'As far as I can see, Herr Leutnant.'

  'Good man.'

  As he turned, Hesser, Canning and Birr came down the steps of the main entrance and moved across the courtyard.

  'All set, Schenck?' Hesser demanded.

  'Yes, Herr Oberst.'

  'Good. General Canning has something for you.'

  Canning held out an envelope. 'This is a letter I've written, explaining the situation here. Hand it to the first British or American officer you come to. I think it should do the trick.'

  'My thanks, General.' Schenck put the envelope in his pocket, then unfastened the service belt that carried the holstered Walther automatic pistol at his waist. He held it out to Hesser. 'Under the circumstances, I shan't be needing this.' He reached inside the field car and picked up Corporal Schmidt's Schmeisser from the rear seat. 'Or this.'

  Hesser hesitated, then took them. 'Perhaps the wiser course.'

  'I think so, sir.' Schenck nodded to Schmidt, who started the engine. The Oberleutnant drew himself together and delivered a punctilious military salute. 'Herr Oberst -gentlemen.'

  They all saluted in return, he climbed into the passenger seat and nodded. Schmidt drove away, out of the main entrance across the drawbridge and they disappeared into the first bend of the road.

  As the sound of the engine faded, Birr said, 'You know, I've just thought of something.'

  'What's that?' Canning asked.

  'That if Schenck runs into a German unit and they find that letter on him, it isn't going to do him a great deal of good.'

  'I know,' Canning said harshly. 'I thought of that when I was writing the damn thing, but at this stage of the game, he must just take his chance - like the rest of us,' he added and turned and walked back across the courtyard.

  At approximately four o'clock in the afternoon, Rattenhuber conducted Ritter and Hoffer to the bunker exit leading on to Hermann-Goringstrasse. They each had a small field pack loaded with provisions for the journey and wore camouflaged ponchos and steel helmets. They were armed with Schmeisser machine pistols and in true SS fashion carried two stick grenades in the top of each boot.

  The artillery barrage was still as relentless as ever and there was the sound of heavy fighting up near Potsdamerplatz.

  Rattenhuber put a hand on Ritter's shoulder. 'What can I say, except good luck and God go with you?'

  God? Ritter thought. Is he on my side, too? He smiled ironically, tapped Hoffer on the shoulder and moved out. As there was a burst of machine-gun fire, Rattenhuber watched them flatten themselves into the ground. A moment later they were up and running safely into the ruined buildings opposite.

  Bormann moved out of the shadows behind him. 'So, they are on their way, Willi.'

  'Yes, Reichsleiter.'

  Bormann glanced at his watch. 'I can afford to be away from the bunker for perhaps three hours at the most. In any case, you, too, must be back by then to make your own departure on schedule. We must move fast.'

  'Yes, Reichsleiter.'

  Rattenhuber hurried away into the darkness of the vehicle ramp. A moment later, there was the sound of an engine starting and he drove out of the shadows at the wheel of a field car. There was an MG34 machine gun in the back and Bormann mounted it on the windshield swivel and got in. Rattenhuber put on a steel helmet and offered the Reichsleiter another.

  Bormann shook his head. 'If there's a bullet for me that won't save me. I haven't worn one since my field artillery days in 1918. Now, let's get moving. We haven't got time to waste.'

  Rattenhuber accelerated away, driving very fast, and they turned out of Hermann-Goringstrasse and moved in the general direction of Potsdamerplatz.

  Once past Tiergarten, Ritter and Hoffer moved fast through the blocks of apartment houses. A continuous mortar barrage fell around them, and after a while a squadron of Russian fighter bombers came in low over the rooftops, spraying everything in sight with cannon fire.

  They dodged into a doorway beside a sandbagged gun emplacement from which Hitler Youth fired light machine guns ineffectually into the sky.

  'My God,' Hoffer said in disgust. 'Children playing soldiers, and for all the good they're doing they might as well be firing Christmas toys.'

  'But willing to die, Erich,' Ritter said. 'They still believe.'

  He was examining the rough map which Rattenhuber had given him. Hoffer tugged at his sleeve. 'And us, Major. What about us? What in the hell are we doing here? What's the point?'

  'Survival, Erich,' Ritter said. 'A game we've been playing for quite some time now, you and I. We might as well see it through. Who knows? It could prove interesting.'

  'That's all it's ever been to you, isn't it?' Hoffer said. 'Some kind of black joke. That's why you can only smile with that curl to your lips.'

  'And still there when you fold my hands on my chest, Erich,' Ritter told him. 'I promise you. Now let's get moving. We've about a quarter of a mile to go.'

  They moved from street to street, from one mortar crater to the next, through the charnel house that was Berlin, passing on the way groups of terrified civilians, mostly women and children and the soldiers of the Volkssturm, mainly tired old men, most of them already walking corpses.

  Finally, they reached the East-West Avenue, saw the Victory Column in the distance. There were few people here now and for some reason the bombardment seemed to have faded and the avenue was strangely quiet and deserted.

  'Over here,' Ritter said, and darted towards the side-street opposite. The showrooms on the corner were shattered, plate glass windows gaping. The sign above the main entrance said 'Burgdorf Autos'.

  Ritter led the way along the pavement and paused outside the garage doors at the rear. They were closed. 'This is it,' he said. There was a judas gate to one side. He turned to Hoffer and grinned lightly. 'I'll lead, you cover.'

  Hoffer cocked the Schmeisser and flattened himself against the wall. Ritter tried the handle of the gate gingerly. It opened to his touch. He paused, then shoved the door open and went in fast, going down hard. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, a pause, then Hoffer fired an answering burst round the door.

  In the silence as the echoes died Ritter called, 'Friends. We're looking for Obersturmfuhrer Heini Berger.'

  It was very quiet, the garage a place of shado
ws in the evening light. A voice called softly, 'Identify yourselves.'

  'Valhalla Exchange,' Ritter called.

  He could see the Fieseler Storch now, over to one side, and then a boot scraped and a young, dark-haired SS officer in camouflage uniform moved out of the shadows. His old-style, field-service cap was tilted at a rakish angle and he carried an American Thompson sub-machine gun in one hand.

  'Nice to see you,' he said. 'For a moment there, I thought you might be a bunch of Ivans smelling out foxes.'

  Ritter nodded towards the Thompson which carried a round Ioo-drum magazine. 'They'd have been in for a nasty surprise.'

  Berger grinned lazily. 'Yes, a little item I picked up in the Ardennes. I always did like to overdo things.' He put a cigarette in his mouth and flicked a lighter made from a Russian rifle bullet.

  'What about Herr Strasser?' Ritter said, looking around.

  'Oh, he isn't due for a while yet.' Berger sat down on a packing case, putting the Thompson on the floor. 'No rush - we're not due out of here until midnight.'

  'I see.' Ritter sat down beside him and Hoffer wandered over to the Storch. 'This man Strasser - you know him?'

  Berger hesitated perceptibly. 'Don't you?'

  'Never met him in my life before.'

  'Neither have I. I'm just the bloody bus driver on this show.'

  Ritter nodded towards the Storch. 'We're not going to make the Bavarian Alps in one hop in that.'

  'No, we're scheduled to put down halfway at an airstrip in the Thuringian Forest, west of Plauen. Always supposing it's still in our hands.'

  'And if it isn't?'

  'An interesting thought.'

  'You think we'll make it? Out of Berlin, I mean?'

  'I don't see why not. Hannah Reitsch made it with Greim, didn't she?'

  'Not in total darkness, which it will be when we take off.'

  'Yes, I was aware of that fact,' Berger said. 'On the other hand, it does mean that the Russians won't be expecting us. They aren't likely to have any fighters up. No need now they've taken Templehof and Gatow. With any kind of luck, we could be away before they know what's happening.'

  'But you would still have to take off along the avenue in the dark,' Ritter said. 'And the Victory Column ...'

  'I know. Very large and very solid. Still, I expect I'll manage to think of something.' There were a couple of old sacks on the floor and he lay down on them, cradling the Thompson in his arms. 'I think I'll get a little shut-eye. Something tells me I'm going to need it. If you wouldn't mind watching the front door and give me a push when Strasser comes.'

  He pulled the peak of his service cap over his eyes. Ritter smiled slightly and turned to Hoffer, who looked bewildered. 'What's going on, Major? What's he playing at?'

  'He's sleeping, Erich. Very sensible under the circumstances. Now, do you want to take the first watch or shall I?'

  It was towards evening when Oberleutnant Schenck and Schmidt drove into the village of Graz on the road to Innsbruck. It was completely deserted, not a soul in sight. They had travelled a distance of approximately forty miles since leaving Arlberg, had lost nearly three hours on the way due to a fault in the field car's fuel system. It had taken Schmidt that length of time to diagnose what was wrong and put it right.

  They hadn't seen a single soldier, of either side, and there had also been a total absence of refugees on the road. But that made sense. Typical peasants, these mountain people. They would stick with their land, whatever happened. No running away for them. Nowhere to go.

  A curtain moved at a ground-floor window of a house opposite. Schenck got out of the field car, crossed the street and knocked at the door. There was no response so he kicked impatiently. 'Come on, for God's sake!' he called. 'I'm Austrian like you. I'm not here to cause trouble.'

  After a while, the bolts were drawn and the door opened. An old, white-haired man with a bristling white moustache stood there, a young woman cowering behind him holding a baby.

  'Herr Leutnant,' he said civilly enough.

  'Where is everybody?'

  'They stay inside.'

  'Waiting for the Americans to come?'

  'Or the British or the French.' He managed a smile. 'As long as it isn't the Russians.'

  'Are there any German units left in this area?'

  'No - there were some Panzers but they pulled out two days ago.'

  'And the other side? Have you seen anything of them?' The old man hesitated and Schenck said, 'Come on. It's important.'

  'This morning I visited my son's farm just to see if everything was all right. He's away in the army and his wife here is staying with me. It's three miles down the road from here. There were English troops camped in the meadow and using the farm buildings, so I came away.'

  'What kind of troops? Tanks - infantry?'

  The old man shook his head. 'They'd put up a great many tents, large tents, and there were ambulances coming in and out all the time. All their vehicles carried the red cross.'

  'Good.' Schenck felt a surge of excitement. 'I won't bother you any more.'

  He hurried back to the field car and climbed in. 'Three miles down the road, Schmidt. A British Army field hospital from the sound of it.'

  It's going to work, he thought. It's going to be all right. It couldn't be better. Schmidt accelerated out of the square, bouncing over the cobbles, between the old medieval houses that leaned out, almost touching each other so that there was only room for one vehicle along the narrow street.

  They came round a corner and entered another smaller square and found a British Army field ambulance bearing down on them. Schmidt spun the wheel desperately, skidded on the light powdering of snow. For a single frozen moment in time, Schenck was aware of the sergeant in the leather jerkin, the young private in tin hat sitting beside him and then they collided with the ambulance's front offside wheel and bounced to one side, mounting the low parapet of the fountain in the centre of the square and turning over.

  Schmidt had been thrown clear and started to get up. Schenck, who was still inside the field car, saw the young private in the tin hat jump out of the ambulance, a Sten gun in his hand. He fired a short burst that drove Schmidt back across the parapet into the fountain.

  Schenck managed to get to his feet and waved his arms. 'No!' he shouted. 'No!'

  The boy fired again, the bullets ricocheting from the cobbles. Schenck felt a violent blow in his right shoulder and arm and was thrown back against the field car.

  He was aware of voices - raised voices. The sergeant was swinging the boy round and wrenching the Sten gun away from him. A moment later, he was kneeling over Schenck.

  Schenck's mouth worked desperately as he felt himself slipping away. He managed to get the letter from his pocket, held it up in one bloodstained hand. 'Your commanding officer - take me to him,' he said hoarsely in English. 'A matter of life and death,' and then he fainted.

  Major Roger Mullholland of 173rd Field Hospital had been operating since eight o'clock that morning. A long day by any standards and a succession of cases any one of which would have been a candidate for major surgery under the finest hospital conditions. All he had were tents and field equipment. He did his best, as did the men under his command, as he'd been doing his best for weeks now, but it wasn't enough.

  He turned from his last case, which had necessitated the amputation of a young field gunner's legs below the knees, and found Schenck laid out on the next operating table, still in his army greatcoat.

  'Who the hell is this?'

  His sergeant-major, a burly Glaswegian named Grant, said, 'Some Jerry officer driving through Graz in a field car. They collided with one of the ambulances. There was a shoot-out, sir.'

  'How bad is he?'

  'Two rounds in the shoulder. Another in the upper arm. He asked to be taken to the CO. Kept brandishing this in his hand.'

  He held up the bloodstained letter. Mullholland said, 'All right, get him ready. Come one, come all.'

  He opened the env
elope, took out the letter and started to read. A moment later he said, 'Dear God Almighty, as if I didn't have enough to take care of.'

  7

  At a stage in the war when it had become apparent to him that Germany was almost certain to lose, Karl Adolf Eichmann, head of the Jewish Office of the Gestapo, ordered a shelter to be constructed according to the most stringent specifications, under his headquarters at 116 Kurfurstenstrasse. It had its own generating plant and ventilating system and was self-sufficient in every respect.

  The entire project was carried out under conditions of total secrecy, but in the Third Reich nothing was secret from Martin Bormann for long. On making the happy discovery and needing a discreet establishment for purposes of his own, he had announced his intention of moving in, and Eichmann, too terrified to argue, agreed, putting up with the inconvenience of the arrangement until March when he'd decided to make a run for it.

  When Bormann and Rattenhuber arrived the place seemed deserted. The front door hung crazily on its hinges, the windows gaped and the roof had been extensively damaged by shelling. Rattenhuber drove along the alley at one side, wheels crunching over broken glass, and pulled into the courtyard at the rear of the building.

  For the moment the artillery bombardment had faded and most of the shooting that was taking place was some little way off. Bormann got out and walked down a sloping concrete ramp to a couple of grey-painted, steel doors. He hammered with the toe of his boot. A grille was opened. The man who peered through had SS decals on his steel helmet. Bormann didn't say a word. The grille slammed shut and a moment later the doors opened electronically.

  Rattenhuber drove down the ramp, pausing for Bormann to get back in, and they entered a dark tunnel, passing two SS guards, and finally came to a halt in a brightly lit concrete garage.

  There were two more SS guards and a young, hard-faced Haupsturmfuhrer. Like his men, he wore a sleeve-band on his left arm that carried the legend 'RFSS'. Reichsfuhrer der SS. The cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff, a device of Bormann's to deter the curious.