Order of Battle (7 page)

The street looked blocked ahead, and Werner cut across the Potsdamer Square and over to Wilhelmstrasse. Ahead he could see the ravaged, fire-blackened Chancellery buildings.

Suddenly two shots rang out in front of him. A lone man came running down the dark street, his long, field-gray army coat flapping around his ankles. Behind him two uniformed figures pressed in pursuit, their metal breast shields clanging as they ran. Military police.

Again a shot rang out, as the fleeing man ducked behind the burned-out bulk of a Wehrmacht truck. One of the MPs shouted after him.

“
Halt!”

Werner pulled up to get out of the line of fire. Deserter, he thought. Or looter. He felt sorry for the running man. He knew what would happen to him if he was caught alive.

Another shot. It clanged off the metal truck body. The man suddenly leaped from his hiding place and raced down the street. Quickly one of the MPs brought up a submachine gun and fired a burst of bullets after the fleeing man. He fell to the ground, screaming. At the same time Werner felt a sharp blow on his left arm. Surprised, he looked down. It was dark and he could see nothing. His arm felt numb. He removed his heavy leather glove and touched the spot. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

Damn! he thought savagely. Ricochet! Of all the goddamned, stinking luck!

The wound suddenly began to burn with pain. He flexed his fingers and gingerly moved the arm. It was only a flesh wound, but it hurt like hell.

Out on the street the MPs had reached the man lying in the gutter. They tried to stand him up. He screamed. Both his ankles had been broken by the submachine gun bullets. The MPs took hold of his arms and dragged him toward a lamppost standing starkly alone in the desolation. . . .

Werner dismounted. He checked his courier pouch and started on foot for the Chancellery.

The two SS men standing guard in the shelter of the shrapnel-scarred Chancellery archway barred the way. Werner stopped. He was holding his left arm to keep the pain at a minimum when he moved.

“
Papiere herzeigen!”
one of the guards demanded curtly.

“Urgent dispatch. Generalfeldmarschall Keitel,” Werner said, as he handed the SS man his orders.

The guard examined the papers by the light of a flashlight. Werner’s arm dripped a few drops of blood at his feet.

The SS man returned the papers. He motioned Werner into the darkened passage.

“
In Ordnung.”

Werner hurried on. He knew the way. He’d brought other dispatches to the Führer Bunker before. He knew the harsh, rigid security followed by the SS.

He emerged from the Chancellery ruins into the gardens and made straight for the massive windowless blockhouse with the single heavy steel door leading to the Führer Bunker deep underground. From above, black, empty holes in soot-stained walls, where the windows used to be, stared down at him and the desolate gardens below, like huge, gaping sockets robbed of their eyes. The once beautiful grounds around him were ruthlessly destroyed; bomb craters, chunks of concrete, broken columns and smashed statuary lay scattered among uprooted trees. An abandoned cement mixer squatted next to the concrete blockhouse, its bowels crusted, its usefulness long since past.

Werner’s orders were checked again at the blockhouse bunker entrance, and he started down the long, narrow flights of stairs as the steel door clanged shut behind him. His arm throbbed and ached. He supported it as best he could.

In the brightly lit concrete-walled corridor at the bottom of the steps two grim-looking SS men, armed with Schmeisser machine pistols, gruffly halted him.

It’s crazy, he thought. I guess they don’t trust anybody after that assassination business. Automatically he said:

“Urgent dispatch. Generalfeldmarschall Keitel.”

“Stay where you are,” one of the SS guards ordered curtly. He stepped up to the courier.

“Your dispatch pouch!”

Werner handed it over.

While the other guard covered him, the SS man examined the case. Werner stood patiently, holding his wounded arm. The pain was getting worse. He tried his best not to drip any blood on the floor.

The SS man turned to him. He motioned with his gun.

“Get them up!”

Werner stared at him. He started to speak in protest.

“Move!” snapped the guard.

Werner raised his right arm. The two SS guards glared at him dispassionately. What the hell, he thought angrily. Do they think I’ve come to blow up the place? Do they think the damned hole in my arm hides a gun? The devil take them! Biting down the pain, he managed to lift his injured left arm. He could feel the warm blood run down his armpit inside his clothing. He looked straight ahead. He’d be damned if he’d give those SS bastards the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.

The guards searched him—roughly, thoroughly.

From the bunker area beyond, an SS captain entered the reception corridor. With a glance he took in the scene. The SS men came to attention. Werner didn’t move. The officer turned to one of the guards.

“What is it?”

“Courier with a dispatch for Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” the guard answered at once.

The SS officer glanced at Werner. Then he looked questioningly at the SS men.

“All in order, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

The officer motioned to Werner.

“Come with me.”

Werner took his hands down. His left arm felt like a balloon swollen with agony. The SS man threw the pouch to him and he hurried after the officer.

Colonel Hans Heinrich Stauffer had a throbbing headache. It had been a long day. An impossible day. And it wasn’t over yet. He looked up from the papers on his desk, as the SS captain, followed by Stabsgefreiter Stefan Werner, entered the office. He felt a twinge of distaste when he saw the SS officer. The SS were getting more officious, more impossible every day. The man had simply barged right in!

The SS captain raised his arm in the Nazi salute.

“Heil Hitler!”

Stauffer deliberately turned back to his papers. He did not return the salute. Without looking up, he said acidly:

“Come in, Captain. I did not hear you knock. What is it?”

The SS officer’s face grew tight. His voice grated as he said:

“Courier with an urgent dispatch for Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, Herr Oberst!”

Stauffer looked up. He held out his hand. Werner quickly took a large sealed envelope from his pouch; he stepped up to Stauffer and handed the document to him. He let his left arm hang at his side. The blood was again running down his wrist. He cupped his hand, trying to catch it, before it dripped on the carpeted floor.

Stauffer took the dispatch. He noticed Werner’s bleeding arm. He felt a shock of annoyance. He fixed the SS captain with a cold stare. The man must have seen it before. He must have known. And he’d done exactly nothing. Stauffer felt a surge of disgust. Brutish beasts, all of them! His voice was icy when he spoke.

“This man is wounded. He is bleeding. I presume you have noticed? I want him taken care of. At once! I’ll expect your personal report on his condition within the hour!”

Tight-lipped, the SS officer gave a curt nod.

“As the colonel wishes.”

Stauffer looked at the dispatch in his hand.

“That’s all.”

Again the SS captain gave the Nazi salute—pointedly:

“Heil Hitler!”

Stauffer ignored him. The officer turned on his heel and stalked from the office. Werner followed him quickly. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t at all relish being in the middle. But his arm did hurt like hell. . . .

Stauffer tore open the envelope. Quickly he read the message. His face clouded.

Damn! he thought bitterly. They bungled it. His headache was suddenly much worse.
He’ll be furious. . . .

Field Marshal Keitel marched stiffly up and down his office. He slapped the dispatch angrily into the open palm of his hand. His face was pinched with frustration and acrimony.

“Imbeciles! Incompetents!”

Stauffer longed for a headache powder. He tried to think where he could find one. He said:

“Herr Feldmarschall. It’s a very efficient, very reliable group. . .
.
”

Keitel whirled on him.

“Reliable! They’re lucky if the Führer doesn’t have them shot!”

“It was the same group that was responsible for the time bombs at Saint Avoid, Herr Feldmarschall, last December. . . .”

Keitel held up a hand in dismissal. Stauffer pretended not to see it. He went on:

“There were sixty-nine casualties. Many high-ranking American officers. Even more important, it forced the enemy to change his occupation procedures entirely. A whole new security system had to be worked out before they dared take over any building. It caused a great deal of confusion. The Führer ordered the group leader decorated.”

Keitel was silent. Stauffer added quietly:

“There was very little time to prepare this mission.”

“That’s no excuse!”

“It was a matter of last-minute change of plans. On the Americans’ part. Eisenhower didn’t go to Feldstein himself. He sent someone else. They could not possibly have known. . . .”

“So all they got were a few cans of gasoline and some obscure officers,” Keitel said caustically. “The Führer will be delighted at the way his orders were carried out!”

Stauffer said nothing.

Keitel went to the situation map on the wall. He stared at it without actually seeing it. He was deeply troubled. He had never doubted his Führer, but with profound shock he realized that he found it impossible to share his belief that the tide could be turned at this late hour and the war won from Berlin. He felt it imperative that Hitler abandon the capital and go south to the Alpine stronghold, to Obersalzberg above the village of Berchtesgaden. The fight could continue from the mountain positions there. From there defeat might be turned into victory.

He scowled in an earnest attempt to find a proper perspective. Sometimes events happened too fast for him. And without order. Above all without order. It was impossible to make anything work smoothly without order. He felt irritated. He hated to have plans changed, once they were decided upon. And everything had been arranged.

Already a week ago the Führer had sent his personal household servants to Berghof to prepare the mountain retreat for his arrival. The Führer planned to follow on the twentieth of April. On his fifty-sixth birthday. But now there were more and more indications that he might stay in Berlin and lead the defense of the city himself.

The situation was developing rapidly. Keitel frowned. He only hoped not too rapidly. Hitler’s presence in the
Alpenfestung
was imperative. His personal leadership was essential. If only the Führer would not wait too long. Everything was ready to be activated. Everything.

Keitel’s frown deepened. How could he tell the Führer of the failure? The first attempt to carry out his orders! The whole thing made him uneasy. He had a nagging suspicion that the Führer placed too great an importance on nonmilitary matters. On the advice of mystics and astrologers. On special missions like the assassination scheme. On promises of new superweapons, like those abortive experiments with nuclear chain reaction the scientists were conducting at Haigerloch. They’d actually told the Führer they could make a bomb the size of a pineapple that could wipe out an entire city! Bah! Puttering around in their caves in the Black Forest. More like black magic! And just as unmilitary and implausible. It was a disturbing suspicion to Keitel, and he did not allow it to grow beyond just that.

He felt resentful, however, at finding himself involved in the assassination plot. Not for any moral reasons. And the idea did have a certain merit.

The Führer had been obsessed with the assassination of enemy leaders, both political and military, ever since the failure of “Operation Long Jump,” that abortive assassination attempt at the Big Three meeting in Teheran in the winter of ’43. This time he felt certain failure would not be tolerated. It had become too personal a matter for the Führer. After all, he had been a target himself! At Rastenburg.

But Keitel anticipated a lot of difficulties. A lot of negative reports would have to be given Hitler. And he didn’t like that. He had enough to contend with. Anyway, it was not the kind of responsibility
he
should have to shoulder. It was the kind of thing that should be supervised by someone else.

Someone else? Of course!

He had the answer. And it could be made part of the greater plan. That was the beauty of it! He turned to Stauffer.

“Where’s Krueger?” he asked. “What is his status now?”

“At Thürenberg.” Stauffer joined Keitel at the map. Good for you, Willi! he thought with cynical amusement. I knew you’d find a way to dodge the blame!

Keitel continued. Once more he sounded like his old stiff self.

“Krueger is the one to carry out the Führer’s orders. It is to be
his
responsibility. Part of
his
overall mission. I want orders prepared at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keitel was pleased with the solution. Simple. Logical.

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s already received his orders to close down Thürenberg. Go operational. Orders from Reichsführer Himmler.”

“When?”

“Two days ago. His positions are being prepared now.”

“Where?”

Stauffer indicated the locations on the map, all in southern Bavaria.

“Here . . . here . . . here . . . Headquarters near Schönsee—here—close to his ultimate position in the
Alpenfestung.”

“
Prima!
His new orders will have top priority. He is to carry out his mission without delay. The Führer wants results!”

“
Jawohl,
Herr Feldmarschall,” Stauffer said. The old man was back in form again.

The field marshal contemplated the situation map.

“The Russians are battering the gates of Berlin. The Americans are still pressing on.” Almost to himself he added, “We
must
carry on the fight—from the Alpine Fortress. . . .”