Bad Company (3 page)

He found his way back up the crowded passageways and through the garden bunker, where he found Hoffer and the young SS soldier sitting under a concrete awning in the entrance, drinking the rest of the vodka while it rained relentlessly.

Hoffer stood up. “Baron?”

“We’re getting out, Karl. Believe it or not, but we’re going to get out.”

“But how, sir?”

Von Berger took him to one side. “I’ve been given a special mission by the Führer. There’s a light plane waiting. I’m not saying more, but we’re going home, we’re going to Holstein.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s true. Give me my coat and get some weapons.”

He turned and the boy said, “You’re going,
Sturmbahnführer?
”

Von Berger smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Paul Schneider.”

“Then I’ll tell you what, Paul Schneider. Instead of waiting to face death at the hands of the Russians, you can come with us, fly to the West and surrender to the Americans.”

“I can’t believe it,” the boy gasped.

“Sergeant Hoffer just said that.” He turned to Hoffer. “Get moving.”

Within forty minutes, von Berger, Hoffer and young Schneider left the Bunker, exiting into Hermann Goering Strasse. They were well armed with military packs containing extra ammunition and grenades. Each one had a Schmeisser machine pistol slung across his chest.

There were people pouring along the Tiergarten in hordes now, a terrible panic having taken over, and the fog, made worse by the smoke, swirled across the city, not even the heavy rain managing to clear it. The rumble of artillery was constant, women with children screamed, terrified.

The three men moved along the Tiergarten on the edge of the crowd, cut across by the Brandenburg Gate to Goebbels’s house. It showed evidence of damage, obviously from shell splinters, but the very large garage was intact. There was a judas gate in the main door and Hoffer opened it gently.

“Hold it,” a voice called, and a light was switched on. A small Fieseler Storch spotter plane appeared, a young Luftwaffe captain standing beside it in uniform and flying jacket. He held a Schmeisser at the ready.

Von Berger moved past Hoffer. “I’m
Sturmbahnführer
von Berger. Who are you?”

“My name is Ritter – Hans Ritter – and thank God you’re here. This is the fourth time I’ve done this run and it wasn’t fun. Could I ask where we’re going?”

“To the West, to Holstein Heath in Schwarze Platz. There’s a castle, Schloss Adler, above Neustadt. Can we make it?”

“Yes. It’s a three-hundred-mile flight and we’ll have to refuel somewhere, but I’ll tell you what,
Sturmbahnführer,
I’d rather be there than here, so let’s get the hell out of this place. Get your lads to open the doors.”

“A sound idea.”

Hoffer and Schneider opened the sliding door and Ritter climbed into the Storch and started the engine. The three men clambered in and Hoffer closed the door.

Outside, the fleeing refugees turned in astonishment, then fled to either side as the Storch bumped over rubble and glass and turned toward the Victory Column. The rain was torrential.

Ritter boosted power and roared down the avenue toward the Victory Column. People scattered, the Storch lifted and, at that moment, Russian artillery opened up, shells exploding on each side. The plane banked to starboard, narrowly missing the Victory Column, and rose up through the fog.

At two thousand feet, Ritter leveled off. “We’ll stay low until we’re well away.”

When one looked down, there was only fire and artillery bursts and drifting smoke and fog. Hoffer said, “It looks like hell on earth. I can’t believe we’re out of it.”

Von Berger got two cigarettes from his silver case, lit them and passed one back to Hoffer.

“So, you were right after all, Karl. It’s Stalingrad all over again.”

Speaking above the roaring of the engine, Ritter cried, “As I said, it’s three hundred miles to Holstein Heath, and I’m very low on fuel. I’m going to make for the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin.”

“That’s fine by me,” von Berger told him, “if you think it wise.”

“It is. We have no idea what’s going to be available to us along the way. Mind you, it all depends on the weather at Rechlin. We’ll see.”

Some time later, he descended through the torrential rain and fog and called in. “ Rechlin Tower. This is Captain Ritter, out of Berlin. Must land to refuel.”

There was a crackle of static and a voice said, “I suggest you try elsewhere, Captain. The fog’s bad here. We’re down to four hundred meters.”

“I’m dangerously short of fuel.”

“The visibility’s getting worse all the time, believe me.”

Ritter turned to von Berger inquiringly. The Baron selected another cigarette and Hoffer lit it for him. Von Berger blew out smoke and said to Ritter, “We got out of Stalingrad and we’ve got out of Berlin. Everything else is a bonus. Let’s do it.”

“At your orders,
Sturmbahnführer.
”

The Storch descended very quickly, nothing but the fog surrounding them, and the driving rain, a gray, impenetrable world. Von Berger had no fear, too much had happened already – some strange destiny was surely at work. Even at four hundred meters, there was nothing.

He cried out to Ritter above the noise of the engine, “Go for it. What’ve we got to lose?”

Ritter nodded, a strange fixed smile on his face, took the Storch down, and suddenly at a suicidal level of three hundred meters the Luftwaffe base of Rechlin came into view: the buildings, the hangars, two runways. There was evidence of bombing and two aircraft burned at the side of the runway, an old Dornier and a JU885 night fighter. A fire crew was in the middle of dousing the flames.

Ritter made a perfect landing and taxied past the astonished fire crew to the hangars and switched off.

“Well, that was close.”

“You’re a genius, Ritter.”

“No, sir. It’s just that now and then one gets better, usually when it’s needed.”

As they got out, a field car drove up, a Luftwaffe colonel at the wheel. He got out. “Good God, it’s you, Ritter. Straight from Berlin? I can’t believe you got out. How are things?”

“You wouldn’t want to know. This is
Sturmbahnführer
Baron Max von Berger and his boys.” He turned to von Berger. “Colonel Strasser is an old friend.”

“May I inquire about your purpose, Baron?” Strasser asked.

Von Berger opened the briefcase and took out the Führer Directive, which he passed across. Strasser read it and noted the signature.

“Your credentials are impeccable, Baron. How may I assist?”

“We need refueling for an onward flight to Holstein Heath.”

“I can handle that, all right. We’ve still got plenty of fuel and you are welcome to our hospitality, but there’s no way you’re going anywhere for some time. Just look.” He waved toward the runway, the fog rolling in at ground level.

“I’ll see that you’re refueled and checked out, but there’s no guarantee of departure. You can use the officers’ mess, and in the unusual circumstances, your men may join you. I’ll drive you all there.”

“I’ll stay with the plane for the moment,” Ritter said. “Make sure everything is okay.”

Strasser got behind the wheel of the field car. Von Berger and his two men got in and they drove away.

The mess was strangely desolate, an orderly at the bar, another acting as a waiter. He brought Hoffer and Schneider stew and bread and beer, and they sat by the window and ate.

Schneider said, “I can’t believe I’m out of Berlin. It’s like a mad dream.”

“Where are you from?” Hoffer asked.

“ Hamburg.”

“Which isn’t looking too good these days. You’re better off with us.”

Behind them, in a corner by the bar, the waiter served von Berger with ham sandwiches and crusty bread and salad. Strasser came back from his office to join him.

“ Champagne,” he told the waiter and turned to von Berger with a smile. “We’re lucky. We’ve still got good booze and decent food. I don’t think that will last.”

“Well, at least it’s the Yanks and the Brits who are coming, not the Russians.”

“You can say that again.” They sampled the champagne when it came and started on the sandwiches, and Ritter joined them.

“Everything’s being taken care of, but I can’t see us getting off for a few hours. What’s going to happen to you, Strasser?”

The colonel poured him a glass of champagne.

“Gentlemen, I don’t know what your mission for the Führer is and I don’t want to know. Personally, I await the arrival of the Americans with every fiber of my being.” He toasted them. “To you, my friends. It’s been a hard war.”

There were plenty of staff rooms at headquarters, and they all helped themselves to beds. Von Berger, dozing, was awakened by Strasser at two-thirty in the morning.

“Time to go.”

Von Berger sat up. “How is the weather?”

“The fog has cleared to a certain extent, but the rain is still bad. The word is that the Russians have totally encircled Berlin. That could pose a serious threat here. Let’s hope the Yanks make it first.”

“Off we go, then.”

The Storch waited beside Runway One, Ritter with it, Hoffer and Schneider inside. Strasser got out of the field car and handed von Berger a bag. “Sandwiches, sausages, a couple of bottles of booze. Good luck, my friend.” He shook von Berger’s hand vigorously and suddenly embraced him. “What in the hell were we all playing at? How did we get in such a mess?”

Von Berger was incredibly moved. “Keep the faith. Things will change. Our time will come. I’ll seek you out.”

Strasser was astonished. “You mean that, Baron?”

“Of course. I’ll find you, believe me. I shall repay your help this night.”

He clambered into the plane after Ritter, closed everything, and outside, Strasser put his heels together and gave him a military salute. Von Berger returned it. The plane roared down the runway and lifted into the murk.

Ritter had given von Berger earphones and a throat mike. He spoke to him now. “I’ll take it very carefully. With our low speed and the weather, it could be three and a half hours, maybe even four to Holstein Heath. Most of the time, I’ll fly at two or three thousand, maybe higher if the weather continues bad.”

“That’s fine.”

The flight was difficult with the rain and the patchy fog, sometimes clear and at others swirling relentlessly. One hour, two, the whole trip became monotonous. Von Berger had passed the food bag to Hoffer, who opened it and handed the sandwiches and sausages around. The wine was cheap stuff with a screw cap and he poured it into paper cups. Even Ritter had some and held out the cup for a second helping.

“Come on, it won’t do me any harm. I need whatever help I can get in this weather.”

Von Berger finished his food, knocked back his wine and lit a cigarette. Rain beat on the windows. It was the strangest of sensations hammering through the bad early morning weather.
What am I doing here?
he thought.
Is it a dream? I should be in Berlin.
He shook his head.
I should still be in Berlin.

And then he thought:
But I’m not. I’m on the way home to see Elsa and little Otto and Karl will see his Lotte and the two girls. It’s a miracle and it’s because of the Führer. There must be a meaning to it.

Ritter said, “It’s still a bit thick down here. I think we’ll be okay. I’m going up to four thousand.”

“Fine.”

They came out through intermittent fog. It was clear up there and clear to the horizon, a full moon touching the edge of the early morning clouds.

Suddenly, there was a roaring, and the Storch was thrown to one side in the turbulence as a plane banked away to starboard and returned to take up station on the starboard side. They could see the pilot in the cockpit, the Red Star on the fuselage.

“What have we got?” Ritter asked. “Looks like a Yak fighter, the new model with cannon. That could damage us.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, I’m really too slow for him, but that could also be an advantage. Planes that are too fast sometimes overshoot. I’ll go down and hope he’ll do something stupid.”

He banked, went down fast to three thousand meters, then banked again to port, went to two. The Yak started to fire its cannon, but too soon, because of his excessive speed, and he overshot and banked away.

He came in again, and this time punched a couple of holes in the starboard wing and splintered the window. Ritter cried out and reared back and there was blood on his face.

Ritter said, “I’m okay, it’s just a splinter. It’ll give me an interesting scar. I’m getting tired of this – I’m going down further. I’ll show this bastard how to fly.”

He went hard, all the way, and leveled at five hundred feet. The Yak came in again on his tail and Ritter dropped his flaps. The Storch seemed to stand still, and the Yak had to bank steeply to avoid hitting them and went down into the farmland. There was a mushroom of flame below and they flew on.

“I said you were a genius,” von Berger told him.

“Only some of the time.”

Von Berger turned to Hoffer. “Get the battle pack open. Find a dressing for his face. Give him a morphine ampoule, too.”

Ritter said, “Better not. I’ll tell you what, however – open that other bottle, whatever it is.”

“I thought it was wine, but it’s vodka,” Hoffer told him.

“Good. I’m always better flying on booze.”

It was perhaps five or five-thirty in the morning that they came in toward Holstein Heath, approaching at two thousand feet, the dark, mysterious forest below, the Schwarze Platz, villages dotted here and there, and then Neustadt and Schloss Adler above it on the hill.