Bad Company (4 page)

Von Berger felt incredibly emotional as the plane banked, very low, Ritter searching for a suitable landing.

“There,” von Berger growled. “The meadow by the castle.”

“I see it.” Ritter turned in, slowed and made a perfect landing, rolling to a halt.

In the quiet, it was Schneider who said, “I still can’t believe it. We were in Berlin and now we’re here.”

Behind them, a few people were coming up hesitantly from the village as von Berger and the others got out of the plane. Von Berger stood holding Hitler’s briefcase, as a dozen men and a few women approached.

The leader, an aging white-headed man, almost recoiled. “My God, it’s you, Baron.”

“A surprise, Hartmann,” von Berger said. “How are you?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann removed his cap, took von Berger’s hand and kissed it. “Such terrible times.” He turned to Hoffer. “And you, Karl.”

Von Berger said, “Here we are, safe by a miracle, from Berlin. I’ll explain later, but first I must see the Baroness, and Karl, his Lotte and the girls.”

Hartmann actually broke into weeping. “God help me, Baron, the news is bad. They are in the chapel at the Schloss.”

Von Berger froze. “What do you mean?”

“Your wife and son, Baron. Lotte and her daughters and fifteen villagers are in the church awaiting burial.” He turned to Hoffer. “I am so sorry.”

Hoffer was stunned, horror on his face. Von Berger said, “Who did this thing?”

“SS.”

“I can’t believe it.”

Einsatzgruppen
were not Waffen SS, but extermination squads recruited from the jails of Germany, many of the men Ukrainians. Von Berger had heard stories, that in the last few weeks they had thrown off all restraints, started looting and killing on their own, but he had hardly believed it to be true.

He was moving in slow motion now. The dream was so bad it was unbelievable. He said to Hoffer, “You go and see to your family and I’ll see to mine.” He turned to Ritter. “You’d better be off. My deepest thanks.”

“No,” Ritter said, “I’ll stand by you. I’ll come with you, if I may.”

“That’s kind, my friend.”

They went up the steep path to the Schloss, von Berger and Ritter, followed by old Hartmann, and came to the ancient chapel. Von Berger pushed the door; it creaked open and he smelled the church smell, saw the memorials to his ancestors and the main family mausoleum, its doors standing wide. A coffin stood there, the lid half back, his wife inside, with his young son cradled in her left arm. He gazed down at her calm face, noticed the bruises.

“What happened to her?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann asked.

“Tell me,” von Berger said. “Was she violated?”

“Every woman in the village was, Baron. Then the Ukrainians got drunk and started shooting and the deaths happened.”

“How many of these bastards were there?”

“Twenty – twenty-one. They moved on to Plosen.”

Ten miles up the road through the forest.

“So, we know where they are.” Von Berger turned to Ritter.

“You can still go. I appreciate more than you know what you’ve done. As I told Strasser, things will change for all of us, and I’ll search you out.”

Ritter’s face, with the dressing on the cheek, was haggard. “I’ve no intention of going.”

“Then go down to the village with Hartmann and make sure his truck is ready to leave. I have private business here.”

Ritter and Hartmann left. Von Berger stood by the mausoleum for a while, then went to the rear, where there were two statues of saints. His hand passed inside one, it groaned and creaked open. He slipped the Führer’s briefcase inside, then closed the secret door. He leaned over, kissed his wife and son, and left.

In the village, the tenants waited and he passed amongst them, holding his hand out to be kissed, though not in arrogance; it was a tradition that had reigned in Holstein Heath for hundreds of years. These were his people, and the women who cried in despair did it because they looked to him for guidance.

Hoffer came to him, his face bleak. “Your orders, Baron?”

“We’re going to get these swine. Are you ready to leave, Hoffer?”

Before he could reply, young Schneider said, “And me, too, Baron.”

“Excellent.”

“And you can include me,” Ritter said. “I can shoot a Schmeisser with the best of them.”

As chance would have it, it was at that moment that the Americans arrived.

Not that they were much of a force. It was a single jeep and the young captain in the passenger seat wore a steel helmet and combat gear. His shoulder patch indicated an Airborne Ranger. A sergeant was at the wheel. They rolled to a halt and sat there, watchful.

“Does anyone here speak English?” the captain asked.

“Of course,” the Baron said.

“Good. I’ll take your surrender. My unit is about ten miles back. I’m Captain James Kelly, on forward reconnaissance. This is Sergeant Hanson.”

“And what might you be doing here?”

“Hey, buddy.” The driver picked up a submachine gun. “Watch your mouth.”

Ritter and Hoffer and young Schneider raised their Schmeissers threateningly, and Kelly said to Hanson, “Can it.” He spoke to von Berger. “We have information that the castle would make a possible headquarters. Who are you, anyway?”

“
Sturmbahnführer
Baron Max von Berger, owner of Schloss Adler and Holstein Heath.”

Kelly shook his head. “Wait a minute. I’ve got a report that says von Berger’s in the Bunker with Hitler. One of his aides or something.”

“True as of yesterday,” von Berger said. “If you will look behind you at the meadows, you will notice the Storch in which Captain Hans Ritter here flew me and my two men out of Berlin.”

Kelly nodded. “Okay, we’ll argue about it later. You can all surrender your weapons now.”

“This is a great coup for you, Captain, but, if you don’t mind, not just yet. We’ve urgent business to take care of first.”

“And what would that be?”

Max von Berger told him.

Kelly shook his head. “That’s a terrible thing, but you four guys are going to take on twenty-one of these bastards? You could get killed and I can’t allow that to happen.”

“I see. I’m too valuable to lose?” Von Berger shook his head. “It’s been a long war, Captain. From El Alamein to Stalingrad, I’ve seen hell on earth, and for me the war is over. I don’t want to kill you, but I must kill these men. I could not live with myself otherwise. So we will leave in the old woodcutter’s truck, drive ten miles down to Plosen, and there we’ll find the Ukrainians and get the business done.” He turned to Hoffer. “You drive.”

Kelly started to say something, and then he stopped. “Ah, hell, Baron, I guess I’d do the same thing. But afterward…”

“You’re an optimist, I see. All right, let’s go.”

The road wound through dark, somber forest all the way to Plosen. When they were close, they came across a crowd of women and older men moving along either side of the road. Hoffer pulled up and recognized the village mayor.

“Hey, Frankel, what’s happening?”

“My God, it’s you, Karl. These Ukrainians, we know what they did in Neustadt. Young Meyer escaped on his motorcycle, came and gave us warning. We all left in a hurry, faded into the forest. I hear they did terrible things.”

Von Berger got out and held out his hand. “Frankel.”

The old man’s eyes widened. “Baron, this is unbelievable.” He kissed the hand. “Meyer told me about the Baroness and your son.” He turned to Hoffer. “And your Lotte?”

Kelly and Hanson came round from the jeep, and Ritter and Schneider joined them. Kelly said, “What’s happening?”

“The mayor of Plosen is just about to tell us,” von Berger said in English, then in German, “Where are they, Frankel?”

“I stayed close to observe. They came in two trucks and a
Kübelwagen.
They rampaged round the village and discovered two young women. Then they went to the inn, the White Stag. I could hear shouting, breaking glass. They’re all drunk.”

“Any guards?” Hoffer asked.

“Not that I could see.”

Von Berger patted his shoulder. “Take care of your people and I’ll take care of these animals.”

“But, Baron, there are twenty-four of them.”

“Really? I thought it was twenty-one.” He turned to Ritter, Schneider and Hoffer. “So, that’s six for each of us. Can we manage that?”

“Haven’t we always, Baron?” Hoffer opened a battle pack, took out double ammunition clips taped together and handed them to Ritter and Schneider.

Von Berger opened his black leather coat, took the Luger from his holster, checked it and put it in his right-hand pocket. “Have you a spare, Karl?”

Hoffer produced a Mauser from the battle pack and handed it over. Von Berger put it in the left-hand pocket of his coat.

“Twenty-four of these bastards and four of you. That’s odds of six to one,” Kelly said.

Von Berger smiled, grimly. “We’re Waffen SS. We’re used to it.” He clapped Schneider on the shoulder. “He’s only a boy, but he knows how to do the job. Six to one? So what? Take your camouflage blouse off, Karl.” Hoffer did so, and Kelly saw the medals, the paratrooper’s badge, a single Knight’s Cross at the throat.

“You will also have observed that Captain Ritter has the Knight’s Cross. It’s been a long war and it’s had a bad ending, but you must understand one thing. We intend to kill these Ukrainians, all twenty-four. Kill them.” He turned to his men. “Is this not so?”

Even Ritter got his heels together as they gave the answer:
Jawohl, Sturmbahnführer.

He ignored Kelly completely now. “Let’s go,” and they scrambled into the truck and drove away.

As the jeep followed, Hanson said, “That guy is crazy, they all are.”

Kelly nodded. “Absolutely.” He took the Colt from his holster and started to reload it as they followed the truck.

They paused in the trees and looked down at the White Stag. It was quite large and very ancient, with the village church and a graveyard behind. Kelly glanced through field glasses at the two trucks and the
Kübelwagen.
There was no sign of guards, but the noise of drunken laughter drifted up. He passed the field glasses to von Berger, who had a look. He handed them back.

“I’ll go in the front door, which will put them off balance. They are, after all, supposed to be under SS authority. I suggest the rest of you go by the graveyard.” He said to Ritter, “Karl knows it well. The bar is very large. There are two rear entrances via the kitchen and side windows.” He turned to Kelly. “One favor. I’ll borrow your jeep to drive up to the door. You two can stay here and my friends will approach on foot.”

Kelly shook his head. “No, I won’t lend you the jeep. But I will drive it.” He turned to Hanson. “Give me that Thompson. I’ll see you later – maybe.”

“Go to hell,” Hanson said. “With all due respect, sir. I’ve been fighting since D-Day. A walk through a graveyard with the SS sounds just about right.”

Kelly and von Berger waited to give them a chance to slip down through the edge of the forest and move behind the church into the graveyard. Von Berger watched for movement through the glasses.

“Now,” he said, and Kelly drove them down the hill and parked beside the other vehicles.

Von Berger led the way up the steps, pulling on his leather gloves, and Kelly followed, holding the Thompson across his chest. Von Berger eased open the door and stepped in, followed by Kelly.

The Ukrainians were scattered around the room, some sitting at tables, a number standing at the bar, a couple behind the bar serving drinks. The leader was a
Hauptsturmführer,
a brute of a man in a soiled uniform, his face dirty and unshaven. He had a young woman on each knee, their clothes torn, faces bruised, eyes swollen from weeping. One by one, the men noticed von Berger and stopped talking.

There was total silence. Von Berger stood there, his legs apart, his hands in the pockets of the black leather coat, holding it apart, displaying that magnificent uniform, the medals.

“Your name?”

“Gorsky,” the
Hauptsturmführer
said, as a kind of reflex.

“Ah. Ukrainian.”

It was the way von Berger said it that the Ukrainian didn’t like. “And who the hell are you?”

“Your superior officer,
Sturmbahnführer
Baron Max von Berger. It was my wife, Baroness von Berger, and my son, along with fifteen others, that you butchered at Schloss Adler and Neustadt.”

Men were already reaching for weapons. Kelly lifted his Thompson, and suddenly Gorsky pulled the two girls across his knees in front of him so that only half his face showed.

“So what are you going to do about it? Take them, boys,” he shouted.

Von Berger’s hand came out of his right pocket with the Luger and he shot Gorsky twice in the left side of the skull, narrowly missing the girls, who dropped to the floor as Gorsky went backward in the chair.

The carnage began, Kelly spraying the bar area. A side window crashed open and Ritter and Hanson fired through. Some of the Ukrainians turned to run and flung open the doors to the kitchen, only to find Hoffer and Schneider. There was an exchange of fire, but not for long. There were dead men everywhere, just a few still moving. Hanson had stopped a bullet in the shoulder and Schneider in his left arm.

Von Berger took the Mauser from his other pocket and tossed it to Hoffer. “Karl. Finish them.”

“For God’s sake,” Kelly said.

“It is his right.”

Hoffer found five men still alive and shot each one in the head. The girls had run for it, screaming. Ritter had opened a battle pack and was putting a field dressing on Hanson, while Schneider waited.