Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens (3 page)

“The information typed on those cards has been collected or extorted by the Gestapo, and when you consider that normal interrogation may involve a thin steel spike being driven down the centre of your finger until it reaches the knuckle bone, you will appreciate that very few men or women are likely to withhold information.”

“No,” said Mr. Behrens. “I do see that.”

“You will appreciate also the risks which are run by those who dream of conspiring against the head of such a state. Even when those dreams are no more than thoughts whispered to oneself. General Busche is a patriot. His record is clean. When Germany has lost the war, as she will in a year or two, he could look forward to the certainty of retirement – Army Group Commanders are very rarely casualties, even on the
OstFront
– and an honourable old age on his estates in Prussia. Instead, so as to have the chance of shortening the war by two years with a negotiated peace, he is prepared to face ignominy and death. On the last occasion that a conspirator was detected he was hanged, yes, but not on a rope. He was hanged by a steel butcher’s hook. It took him three hours to die. Every minute of those hours was recorded so that the Fuehrer might entertain himself that evening. A first feature film, you might say.”

“Loathsome,” said Mr. Behrens.

The colonel seemed not to hear him. He said, almost to himself, “We are coming to
Gotterdammerung.
The Twilight of the Gods. The time when the men of power at last realise that they too must perish, and determine to go out in a holocaust of blood and cruelty and death. When an Emperor of the Chaldeans died, five hundred slaves were killed to keep him company. Many more than five hundred Germans will perish if the Russians’ hammer from the east strikes home on the anvil of the American and British forces in the west.”

“Curiously enough,” said Mr. Behrens dryly, “we should ourselves have no actual objection to ending the war two years early. Had we ended our previous war in 1916, England would be a different country today.”

“You are right,” said the colonel. His big face, which had gone red, now cracked into a smile. “As always, the British are practical. No more heroics. Down to details. When the Fuehrer arrives, he will come in a Junkers 52 of his own flight. When he returns to his headquarters at Rastenburg, it is normal for any high priority despatches to go with him in a special satchel. This bag will contain, in a compartment, enough explosive to destroy the plane and a time fuse which must be set for one hour and must be completely reliable. Do you think you can make it for us?”

“That is what I am here for,” said Mr. Behrens.

“Good. Apart from the General there are only three men fully in the conspiracy. Two of them you met this evening, Major Nachtigal and Captain Heimroth. They are reliable. They are related to the General by blood. The third is Luftwaffe Major Lecke. He was absent today checking the probable flight schedules. He, too, is trustworthy. Unfortunately none of these three men can actually place the message satchel on the Fuehrer’s plane. It would not normally be part of their duties, and to make a single abnormal move would invite immediate attention from eyes that miss nothing. However, at least we have Major Mendel.”

“And who is Major Mendel?”

“He is an SS major, my subordinate in the Signals, and has, for some months, been in treasonable communication, by wireless, with the Russians.”

“He has
what?”

“It is not uncommon. Nor is it too difficult. When the SS capture Russian agents, they torture them to extract their codes and frequencies and then use them for themselves. Their excuse, of course, is that they are using these means to convey false information to the enemy. Once contact has been established, liaison can safely follow. A wireless message leaves no incriminating copy behind it.”

“And what does Major Mendel hope to gain by his treason?”

“He is not doing it for himself but on behalf of SS General Pohl who commands all SS troops in this area. General Pohl likes to have his bread buttered on both sides. If we win, he will protect himself by having Major Mendel murdered. Probably me too, since I know of it. On the other hand, if we lose and are surrounded and ordered to fight to the last – an order our Fuehrer is very fond of giving – then he can use this established line of communication to take himself over to the Russians as a welcome guest.”

“But—” said Mr. Behrens.

“You wonder how this assists us? That, too, is simple. Once Major Mendel knows that there is a chance of Hitler being killed, the SS being reduced to impotence and the regular army gaining control, he will be faced with the possibility, in this event, of my reporting him to General Busche, who would have him shot. Therefore, to save his hide he will do what I tell him. As an SS Signals Major he is exactly the person to carry a message satchel to the airfield and place it on the Fuehrer’s plane.”

“You call it
Gotterdammerung,”
said Mr. Behrens crossly. “For my taste it’s not grand opera at all. It’s low and vicious farce. Does no-one in this army play straight by anybody else? Does no-one trust anyone?”

Colonel Mulbach said, with a smile, “I trust you. Surely that is enough.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Behrens. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper. It’s only because I’m so damned scared.”

The work itself was not hard to organise. Mr. Behrens was able to do most of it openly in his workshop. There were technical difficulties.

“Remember,” Colonel Mulbach had said, “what you devise must be silent, and it must not be too heavy. The satchel will be carried to the plane by Major Mendel, but it will have to be handed over there to one of the crew, and he must not have his suspicions aroused.”

Mr. Behrens abandoned any idea of using a clockwork fuse. Instead he arranged two wires of identical thickness running through glass tubes into which acid was injected when the fuse was set. When the wire was finally eaten through, it released a plunger, which detonated the main charge of polar ammonite. If one failed for any reason, the other would do the job.

The whole apparatus had then to be carefully fitted into the bottom of a satchel, which was smuggled in to him by the colonel, and covered by a close-fitting sheet of coloured wood. The activating switch was underneath the handle of the bag.

During all this time, Mr. Behrens, mindful of the eyes that missed nothing, continued his normal routine of visits to the front line. It was on his return from one of these that he noticed that something odd was happening. Colonel Mulbach’s driver, Lorenz, said, “It is true. The soldiers are going out and the SS are coming in.” Mulbach confirmed this late that evening.

He said, “All three of the regular battalions which have been doing camp and headquarters duties are being sent up into the line. They are being replaced by
Waffen SS
. It is represented as a normal redeployment for the coming offensive.”

The two men looked at each other.

“It
could
be no more than that,” said Mr. Behrens.

“Or it could be the normal precautions which are always taken when Hitler visits his loyal troops,” said the colonel, “but if so, it is in this case being carried to an unprecedented extreme. By an order posted this morning, command of the whole headquarters area, including both airfields, has been transferred to SS General Pohl.”

“You mean that Busche has been superseded?”

“Not superseded. He remains in command of the army group, but during the period of the Fuehrer’s visit, the troops in this area are not his troops and are not under his command.”

“When is Hitler arriving?”

“According to present information he lands at Airfield South on Sunday afternoon.”

In fact, Hitler landed at Airfield North at midday on Monday. At six o’clock that evening a Berlin acquaintance reappeared. It was SS
Obersturmfuehrer
Mailler. He shook hands with Mr. Behrens and said, “I have orders to bring you to headquarters. A historic privilege awaits you.”

In an ante-room in the headquarters building, Mr. Behrens was subjected to a polite but extremely thorough and professional search. A small pair of folding nail-scissors was removed from him, with apologies, and he was conducted to a further room. This was crowded with high-ranking officers of the Army and Air Force, most of whom he had never seen before. They were standing about in groups talking softly.

“You must be nervous,” said Mailler.

“I’ll try not to be,” said Mr. Behrens.

Thirty minutes later a stout major opened the far door and beckoned to Mailler, who laid one hand on Mr. Behrens’ arm and propelled him forward.

A man of middle height and thick build, wearing a grey uniform jacket and black riding breeches, was standing behind a table looking down at the maps on it. There were other men in the room too, but Mr. Behrens had eyes only for one. The flat-tipped nose and porcine nostrils with the spout of black hair below them; the grey face and pouches of grey skin below the eyes; the eyes black and very small, tiny windows into the furnace inside.

The revulsion was so strong in him that Mr. Behrens felt his mouth dry up. Hitler lifted his lips in a brief smile.

“He is speechless. No harm in that. In the Reich, deeds come before words.”

He half turned, and one of the staff officers handed him an open box. Hitler took out the small gun-metal cross, leaned forward across the table and pinned it to Mr. Behrens’ coat.

Mr. Behrens had the presence of mind to throw up his arm in a Nazi salute. The next moment he was outside in the ante-room and Mailler was shaking him by the hand.

“A remarkable privilege,” he said, “that he should pin it on you with his own hand.” The medal was slightly askew. “You must never move it.”

“It shall stay just where it is,” said Mr. Behrens fervently, “until I finally take this uniform off.”

Later he was able to examine his award more closely. It was the
Dresdner Kreuz
with crossed palm leaves. The inscription underneath said “For Arduous and Faithful Service in the Cause of Right and Progress.”

The convoy drove slowly out towards Airfield North. The Fuehrer’s car, flying his personal standard, lay second in line behind the leading vehicle, which was crammed with guards, and a protective screen of motor cyclists. Third in line came SS General Pohl; behind him General Busche, with his personal staff officers, Major Nachtigal and Captain Heimroth; then a second car load of SS, and a sixth car carrying Colonel Mulbach, Major Mendel and Mr. Behrens. A seventh car, full of guards, brought up the rear.

Mr. Behrens was not happy. Mulbach was sitting in front beside the SS driver and Behrens could see nothing but the colonel’s bull-neck and massive shoulders. Major Mendel was in the back, beside him. Mendel had not spoken a word since the drive started. He looked a most unreliable conspirator. He was white and sweating, breathing quickly and unable to control his hands. “Good God,” thought Mr. Behrens. “Why did we have to choose a man like this? A child could see that he’s up to no good. He’ll fall flat on his face before he gets halfway to the aeroplane.”

A thought struck him. Had Major Mendel, not trusting himself to do it unobtrusively on the airfield under the eyes of the guards, already set the fuse, and was he now afraid that some unexpected delay might keep them hanging about for an hour before take-off? It would certainly account for his nervousness.

Mr. Behrens bent his head to look at the satchel which stood on the floor between them. It was then that the full shock hit him. It
was not the satchel he had prepared.

It was very like it but it was not the same. He had worked on it too long to be deceived. The stitching was different and the colour was a shade lighter.

As he thought wildly, turning over various permutations of treachery in his mind, the car swung to the right, over a dry ditch and on to the perimeter of the airfield.

The driver jammed on his brakes so hard that the car behind them nearly ran into them. He shouted something and pointed out of the car window, as a pandemonium of noise erupted.

Six Russian fighter planes, coming low out of the sun, dived at the convoy, their cannons blazing.

Mr. Behrens jerked the nearside door open and rolled into the ditch. The driver landed on top of him. Round the airstrip, after a moment of paralysed silence, the German anti-aircraft guns opened up, but they were firing into an empty sky. The six planes, hedgehopping, had swung right with the precision of well-trained chorus girls and disappeared in the direction of their own lines.

In thirty seconds it was all over. As the firing died away, Mr. Behrens cautiously raised his head.

Most of the occupants of the rear three cars had reached the ditch. The people in the front four cars, having nowhere to go, had either jumped out on the far side of the cars and lain flat, or had simply stayed put. Most of the actual casualties had occurred in the thick lines of black-shirted troops surrounding the perimeter, and field ambulances were already on the move.

Colonel Mulbach was standing beside their car. He pointed. Whatever Major Mendel’s troubles had been, they were over. He was sprawled across the back seat. A bullet had gone through the back of his skull. The satchel was still on the floor of the car. The Major’s blood was dripping on to it from a pool which had formed on the edge of the seat.

Mr. Behrens took the satchel, feeling as he did so for the catch under the handle. His guess had been wrong. His fingers found the catch, and it was not yet set.

Footsteps approached the car. Mr. Behrens looked up and saw an SS colonel, unknown to him, approaching. The colonel took a quick disinterested look at Major Mendel, took the satchel, swung on his heel and walked back towards the head of the convoy where interest seemed to be centring round the front two cars. Mr. Behrens followed cautiously.

Every instinct told him that something had gone badly wrong and that he ought to keep clear. It was professional pride alone which took him forward.

A dozen Russian bullets had whipped through the back of Hitler’s car, apparently without hitting anyone. The car itself was empty. Of Hitler there was no sign at all.