Jack Higgins: Bad Company

“My God,” von Berger said.

“Believe me, in the years to come, America and Britain will rue this as their greatest folly. And it is all in my diary. Every day, I have dictated it to Fraülein Hesser. You may notice the trembling in my hand – an unfortunate ailment that has plagued me for some time. But I have signed each entry.”

“So what do I do with the diary, my Führer?”

“There will come a time when it will be of use to advance our cause. I do not know when – but you will, Baron. You will be its keeper. It is a holy book, Baron. I want no copies, your oath on that? Protected at all times. You may read it, if you wish. You will find the account of my dealings with Roosevelt particularly interesting.” He shook his head. “I have every belief that you will achieve this for me.”

And Baron Max von Berger, a great soldier and a brave man, but who had always despised the Nazi Party, for some reason felt incredibly moved. The young woman put the diary and documents back into the briefcase and handed it to him.

Hitler said, “So, you will leave within the next hour because of the bad weather.”

“May I take my sergeant with me?” von Berger asked.

“Of course. You can also take Fraülein Hesser.” He glanced up at her.

She said, “No, my Führer, my place, my duty, is with you.”

“So be it.” Hitler stood and held a shaking hand to von Berger. “Strange. Not even a Party member, and yet I chose you.”

Von Berger shook his hand strongly. “I accept the task. It is a matter of honor.”

“On your way. We shall not meet again.”

Sara Hesser went and opened the door. Max von Berger, the briefcase in his hand, paused and turned, and the sight of Hitler, hunched at his desk, was to haunt him for his entire life.

“My Führer.” He gave a military salute.

Hitler gave a thin smile. “Even now you cannot bring yourself to give me a Party salute. You touch your cap like a British Guards officer.”

“I’m sorry, my Führer.”

“Oh, go on. Just go.” Hitler waved his hand and Sara Hesser closed the door on the Baron.

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.